Falling Stars

by Anita Mills

  “I expect.”

  “One would think you were not the least excited,” Claire retorted. “As though you are not surprised that Count Volsky came up to scratch.”

  “Perhaps I am still stunned. And I have no very great expectation that a few dresses from even the best modiste can make me what I am not, Claire.” Having reached her chamber door, Katherine stopped. “Besides, it is so new that I am afraid I shall waken and discover I have but dreamed everything.”

  “I vow I can scarce stand nor walk anymore,” Clarissa complained, sinking against the padded carriage seat.

  Beside her, her mother appeared dazed. “I cannot credit it,” she murmured more to herself than anyone. “My Kate. I never thought—” Collecting herself, she straightened in her seat. “Well, Count Volsky is most generous.”

  “Pah, it is nothing, I assure you.”

  Kate stared out the window as the coach rolled away from the curb. Nothing? Despite the sinking feeling that Alexei must surely complain of the extravagance, she felt like a fairy princess. Nothing? When all the things they’d ordered came, she would have everything. She was not even sure she could remember it all.

  The day had become a dizzy whirl of Madame Cecile’s, other assorted mantua makers, milliners, a hosier’s, and a corset maker. Kate had been measured and remeasured more times than she could count while her mama and Claire had eagerly perused the fashion plates in the Lady’s Magazine and La Belle Assemblee with Alexei’s sister. The only brangle had come when Lady Winstead had suggested that the gowns should be of light muslin or lawn, to which the Russian woman had haughtily replied that silks and satins would serve Katherine better in her role as Countess Volsky.

  And silks there were, ranging from tissues to the heavy twilled bombazines. Carriage dresses, walking dresses, evening dresses, ball gowns, riding habits. It made one’s mind dizzy to think of all of them. And the colors—Madame Malenkov had been adamant about that—there had to be colors. Pomona greens, willows, warm, deep peaches, and nearly everything else imaginable—except white or yellow. The lone concession had been a pearl-colored silk to be cut into a short-sleeved, square-necked gown trimmed with tiny glass beads and pearls. That would be Katherine’s wedding dress. And to offset the lack of warmth in the hue, madame had chosen a ring of peach-colored silk roses to hold the nearly floor-length silk scarf on the bride’s head.

  Leaning back, Kate closed her eyes and tried to assimilate what was happening to her. She had to be dreaming. Plain girls did not get offers from wealthy and dashingly handsome gentlemen. Plain girls with merely respectable fortunes did not go to Cecile’s. She was going to wake up in Monk’s End and find none of this had happened, she was quite certain.

  “I am disappointed that nothing can be delivered before the weekend—and not all of it until we are returned to London,” she heard Galena say. Then, “Does she perhaps have a colored underchemise—something elegant?” To which, Lady Winstead replied she’d not expended greatly for that which was not to be seen. The Russian woman sighed expressively before saying, “Then I shall have to have one of mine cut down when I return to the hotel. I have an excellent maid who can do it.”

  “Madame—”

  “Mais non. It does not matter, for I have many. But alas, we are not of the same complexion, Ekaterina and myself.” There was a brief silence, followed by decision. “I shall send a rose one, I think. And my silver net jacquette to wear over it. Yes, I think so, for we are provided tickets to the opera for tonight. The Catalani sings in Idomeneo, I believe.”

  “Madame, I scarce think an unmarried female like Katherine—” Her mother’s protest died, possibly of a look from the Russian.

  “She must now show to Lexy’s advantage, Madame Winstead,” Galena answered her. “You may put your white muslins on the other one, if you wish, but I shall dress Ekaterina to suit my brother.”

  “But it is not proper,” Clarissa demurred, finding her voice.

  Somehow the thought of appearing in underwear with naught but something of net over it was rather daunting, and for once she was inclined to agree with Claire. “Madame—Galena, that is,” Katherine amended hastily, “I don’t think I should be comfortable in your undershift.”

  “Nonsense,” the other woman said dismissively. “You would have the world see that you are flesh and blood.”

  Her hands possessed Kate’s in Kate’s lap. “While yet you are here, Galena will make you the fashion.”

  “I do not want to appear fast. Alexei might think—”

  “Alexei is a man, Ekaterina. And your bosom is good, so we must show a bit of it, I think. Yes, most definitely.”

  Unconvinced, Kate held her tongue, not daring to dispute with Alexei’s sister. Then she heard again his words. Galena could make you pretty, Ekaterina. And she wanted desperately to believe them. Desperately. For how else could she expect to hold him once he’d wed her?

  Alexei’s sister squeezed her fingers. “Trust me, ma petite, for I know what I am about.” Sitting back, she addressed the others. “And you are invited also, of course. That Maria, she is so very kind, n’est-ce pas’? We shall sit with the Seftons in their box.”

  Lady Winstead, who could scarce consider herself in the fashionable Sefton circle, nearly choked. “It is a signal honor,” she managed finally.

  But Clarissa was not so certain. Somehow the thought of fading into the background, even in the Sefton’s box at King’s Theatre, did not appeal to her at all. “But, Mama—the Fevershams—we are promised to the Fevershams,” she recalled plaintively.

  “Hush. We shall send a card ‘round. I daresay they will quite understand.”

  Galena nodded. “Exactly. There is to be a party of us—Marshal Sherkov and his so charming wife, and Alexei’s aide, Maxim Boganin. And one of the Prussian princes—I forget which—and cher Bellamy, of course. You are perhaps acquainted with him, no?”

  “Lord Townsend?”

  “Is there another Bellamy, do you think?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “I did not think there could be,” the Russian woman murmured. “So very engaging, would you not say?”

  “When he wishes to be,” Katherine responded before Clarissa could be cast into transports. “But if you are promised to the Fevershams, perhaps you ought to go there, Claire.”

  The younger girl favored her with a look that bordered on dislike. “Well, I should not for the world refuse to appear with you and your betrothed, Kate,” she declared. “Besides, I am sure we can go to the Fevershams’ anytime, don’t you think, Mama?”

  “Precisely.” Looking very much like the cat who’d just swallowed cream, Lady Winstead assured Katherine, “Madame Malenkov’s chemise will be just fine, I am sure. But if you wish, you may borrow my Canton crepe shawl, dearest.” To Galena, she asked, “And will Lord and Lady Sefton be in attendance also?”

  “But of course! It is their box, after all.”

  “Well, I did not know-”

  “You must not worry. Lady Sefton said she believes she knows you, and that is all that matters, n‘est-ce pas?” Glancing out the carriage window, Galena caught sight of a clock above a shop. “But we must hurry if I am to get the chemise altered and to you.” Rapping on the ceiling, she called to the driver above, “Vite! Vite! We are out of the time!”

  It was not until they were set down at home and Galena had gone on that Lady Winstead dared to admit her awe. “The Seftons’ box! I vow I am in alt, my dears!” Then, following Kate up the stairs, she added, “I know not how or why it has happened, my love, but we are to move in the first circles!”

  Left behind, Claire felt hot tears of envy scald her eyes. As they threatened to spill over, she ripped up at Dawes. “Well, why are you watching me?” she demanded angrily. “Am I the only sane person in this place?” Tearing at the ribbons that anchored her fetching gypsy hat, she pulled it loose, then flung it to the floor. Kicking it with a dainty kid slipper, she muttered, “I shall be well rid of her, any
way. I hope she goes to Russia and disappears.”

  For the first time in her life, Katherine basked in the glow of being envied. As she sat in the Seftons’ box, she was acutely aware of the admiring glances cast at Alexei Volsky, and she could scarce wait for the Gazette to announce he was hers. As her borrowed opera glass took in a number of gentlemen whose glasses were trained on her, she was also uncomfortably aware that, fashionable or not, she was nearly naked in Galena’s rose satin shift and the silver tissue jacquette.

  Then she saw her brother. He sat in a box across the pit and one level below the Seftons’, and beside him was an exceedingly lovely female Katherine did not know. She was unquestionably his latest Fashionable Impure. But at least he was a bachelor, unlike many who flaunted mistresses. Then another, utterly awful thought occurred to her; one that did not bear thinking. She scarce knew Alexei—what if he should be the sort to have bits of fluff? She glanced sideways at him, and noticed he wasn’t paying any attention to the beautiful women who openly admired him. He was turned around, talking to Galena.

  Halfway around the horseshoe, Lady Oxford sat with her complaisant husband. If all the rumors attending that lady were true, he must surely be a saint, for he could scarce help knowing that few of his children were actually his own.

  “We have much opera in Russia,” Alexei said suddenly.

  “I should like to hear of it—Russia, I mean.”

  A slow smile warmed his blue eyes. “You will see for yourself, Ekaterina. And I will take you to the opera in St. Petersburg.”

  She fell silent at that, thinking how far away she was going, wondering if she would ever feel at home there. It did not matter, she told herself fiercely. She would have Alexei and Galena.

  Apparently, her thoughts were rather transparent, for he leaned closer. “You will learn—you will learn.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Nonetheless, she found herself looking away. And out of the corner of her eye, she saw Madame Sherkov pass Bell Townsend a note. For all the differences, some things were the same. Apparently, everywhere there were women ready to stray for him.

  From behind, Galena leaned forward to pat Katherine’s shoulder. “Everything is fine, cherie,” she murmured.

  “I don’t know-”

  “Of course it is. You leave everything to Galena, and you will have St. Petersburg at your feet—before we go to Domnya.”

  “Domnya?”

  “Our estate near Voronez on the Don. It is our principal residence, and there are seven thousand serfs on the land there,” Galena said proudly. “You will like it. The house is big and built on the Western design by an Italian favorite of Catherine the Great, so it is not old.”

  “I am afraid I shall not know how to go on,” Katherine admitted.

  The Russian woman smoothed the silver tissue over her shoulders, then patted her soothingly again. “I know everything seems difficult now, Ekaterina, but you must not worry. Galena will take care of you.”

  “You are cold, daragayal” Alexei asked her.

  Daragaya. She did not even know what it meant. She would have to ask Galena later. “No—not at all.”

  “So solemn,” he chided, teasing her. “I give you the long face?”

  “I was merely thinking how strange it will be to me.”

  The curtains were going up, and a hush fell over the crowd as the candles were doused quickly. Katherine strained for a glimpse of the Catalani, but the first singers were men. The music was beautiful, romantic. As Katherine closed her eyes, she felt Alexei’s fingers brush her arm, then rest there. It was going to be all right.

  When the Catalani came onstage, she sang with the voice of an angel. Katherine listened, so raptly attentive that she was disappointed when the curtains rang down for intermission. But Alexei rose, stretching, saying that he saw one of the Prussian princes there also, and he believed he would pay a call to the box.

  “You may come with me, if you wish,” he told Katherine.

  “You go on, Lexy,” Galena told him. “Ekaterina will wish to hold court for the gossips, I think.”

  The Russian woman proved right, for no sooner than he had left, several girls, all properly chaperoned by their mothers, came to the Seftons’ box. It was obvious they came from curiosity, for there were numerous politely phrased but nonetheless probing questions directed her way. Galena fended them off for her, hinting that perhaps they would learn more by reading the papers.

  Oddly, Lord Townsend had not left the Seftons’ box, but had instead chosen to linger half-hidden by the hangings. On this night, the premier buck of the ton seemed strangely withdrawn and disinclined to much society. Finally, as the music began to play softly again and Alexei reclaimed his chair, the viscount rose and touched Galena’s arm.

  “Madame, a word when you are available.”

  “Ah, cher Bellamy, you have but to ask. But of course.”

  The curtains were ascending once more, and the great house was darkening as Townsend and Galena stepped out into the corridor. Their low voices were drowned in the music. It was not until the Catalani had sung for several minutes that they returned. As his sister slipped back into her seat, Alexei turned around.

  “Fychom dyela?”

  “Nothing is the matter. If you do not mind it, he means to accompany Ekaterina and me to Russia. I told him you would be grateful.”

  He appeared displeased, then said something undistinguishable in Russian. Galena laughed lightly. “Ah, Lexy, you are worried too much. I know enough to be careful of him. Besides, Ekaterina and I will welcome the escort. Is that not so?” she asked Kate.

  Bell Townsend going to Russia? For a moment, Katherine was too surprised to answer.

  Galena smiled smugly. “You see, Lexy? You have not the need for jealousy, I think.”

  “You meddle too much, Lena,” Alexei muttered, turning his attention again to the stage.

  Finally, the last encore was given, and the curtain rang down. As the pits emptied, someone outside took up the chant, “Alexander! Alexander! Alexander!”

  “He is not even here,” Alexei muttered, “and now we shall be set upon.” He turned to grasp Galena’s arm, pulling her back. “Do not go that way—they are coming!”

  But he was already too late, for those in the pits turned back, driven by the crowd that waited outside. Panicked, people fled, pushing and shoving for other doors. Kate tried to hold onto her betrothed’s other arm, but she could not.

  “Lexy! Lexy! Where are you?” she shouted, unable to see any of her party. Panicked, she tried to turn back, but it was impossible. She was suffocating in a mass of bodies.

  “Kate! Kate Winstead!” She could not see who called her, but she felt someone pull her, dragging her through the pushing crowd.

  “Air!” she gasped. “Please—someone—”

  It was no use. She held on tightly, clinging to the hand as though it were salvation, stumbling, reeling, twisting. Buckles and buttons raked her as she struggled between the mass of bodies. She thought her arm must surely separate from its shoulder. She felt Galena’s tissue jacquette tear just before she finally emerged into air.

  Apparently, they were in back of the theater. As her rescuer released her hand, she grasped at a lamppost and caught her breath. When she looked up, she realized it was Bellamy Townsend.

  “My-my thanks,” she stammered out. “What happened?”

  “Someone mistook a prince for the czar. Are you all right?”

  “Yes, but Alexei—”

  “I couldn’t reach him.”

  His hat was missing, his coat pulled off one shoulder, and he looked more like a boy just come from a mill than like a buck of the ton. “If Brummell could see you now—” she began. Then she looked down, and her words died on her lips. “Oh, my!”

  He started to take off his coat, then cursed loudly. It looked as though the footpads had discovered them, for three men circled expectantly, much like crows over carrion.

  “Ooo—’e’s a
swell! Well, me fine buck—yer purse or yer gizzard,” a dirty fellow demanded.

  “Oooh, Billy—lookee!” A drunken accomplice lunged, tearing the rest of the tissue jacquette from Katherine. On the other side, someone caught at the shoulder of her chemise. Terrified, she struck at him.

  He chortled gleefully. “We got us a gentry mort!”

  Hoping to distract at least one of them, Bell threw his purse into the street, then barreled into a man who held her, butting him down. “Run, Kate—for God’s sake, run!” he shouted at her.

  “Oww, guv’nor!” the fellow howled. “Get ’im, Jack!”

  One of the others swung, and Katherine saw Bell Townsend fall. She knew she could not leave him. Grabbing her slipper, she turned back to beat on the man. “Please—someone help!” she screamed. The big fellow turned on her, advancing. “Billy don’t like fer no mort ter—”

  Townsend jumped on him from behind, riding him, clawing at his face, trying to get his eyes. When the other one caught his arm, Bell yelled again at Kate, “Don’t be a fool—run!” Instead, she kicked hard, catching the man between his legs, and he rolled to the ground, his knees drawn up to his body. At almost the same time, Bell found his own mark.

  “Owwww! Ye’ve blinded me, ye bloody arse!” The thief shook Townsend off as his hands went to his face. “Me eyes! Ye’ve put out me lights!”

  “Come on, Kate!” Bell shouted urgently. “Now!”

  Once again, he caught her hand and ran, dragging her after him. It wasn’t until they had covered several blocks and turned the corner onto a dark street that he stopped. Out of breath, he leaned against a wall. Finally, he managed to gasp out, “Why didn’t you run the first time? You could have escaped.”

  Shaking, she closed her eyes and held onto the same wall. “He would have robbed you.”

  They stood there for several minutes before either spoke again. Finally, he said, “I’ve had my pockets slit before.”

  “I was afraid they’d slit your throat,” she admitted breathlessly. “Besides, I didn’t know where to go.”