Falling Stars

by Anita Mills

  “Uh—yes.” She half turned to look up at him and smiled ruefully. “I was merely woolgathering.”

  “Woolgathering? In here?”

  “An expression, Lexy. Daydreaming.” As his brow furrowed, she explained further. “Thinking of you, I’m afraid—and of all I will need to know before I am truly mistress of Domnya.”

  He came to stand behind her, putting his hands on her shoulders. “Ekaterina, it pleases me that you would learn, but you must not think you have to know everything. You will always have Galena to help you.”

  “Always? Always is a very long time—what if someday she should find someone and wish to marry?”

  His hands tightened perceptibly. “You need not worry—Lena does not leave Domnya.”

  “But if—”

  “She does not leave Domnya,” he repeated definitely. “It is her home.” Abruptly, he released her shoulders and stepped back. “Come—die food is getting cold.”

  The carriage wheels bounced over the rough road, jostling Katherine, but Alexei did not seem to notice. Instead, he stared out the window at the countryside, saying nothing, as though he were lost in his own thoughts. Then he spoke suddenly, startling her.

  “I do not like it that Townsend goes with you to St. Petersburg, Ekaterina.”

  “Because of Galena?”

  “Yes. And because of Gregori Sherkov.”

  She started to remind him that she’d tried to warn him, but didn’t. “She will not be alone—I will be there. Besides, he says he does not intend to dangle after anyone,” she recalled.

  “Do you believe him?”

  “No,” she admitted truthfully. “It seems as though scandal follows him everywhere.”

  He leaned across the seat to possess her hands as his eyes met hers. “In Russia, Galena will take care of you, Ekaterina. I would have you do the same for her on the voyage. Promise me you will watch him for me.”

  “All right.”

  “And you must not tell Lena.” He let go and sat back.

  “Why do you not speak of this to Galena?”

  “Galena is—” He paused, seeking his words carefully, then went on, “Galena believes she can meddle in the affairs of others, and that there will be no price to pay. Sometimes she believes herself more clever than those around her.”

  He fell silent, and his face was distant for a time, making her feel as though she were already alone. In two days he would be on the way to Vienna, and she did not know how she could stand it. Finally, she turned her thoughts forward to Domnya. “What are they like? The rest of your family, I mean.”

  He shrugged. “They are a family—what is there to say? Galena will—”

  “But I want you to tell me. I want you to tell me about everything—about the Volskys—Domnya—Russia.” She looked down at her lap. “I would see it all from your eyes, Lexy.”

  “Everything?” A black eyebrow rose. “Ekaterina, we have not the time to tell everything.”

  “Alexei, I will know nothing.”

  Sighing, he relented. “We can begin, I suppose. There are not that many Volskys, Ekaterina. There is Galena, who is the eldest, then myself, followed by two brothers and two sisters. You will meet them, but you do not need to concern yourself with whether they like you or not. Viktor is still in school in Moscow, and therefore he is still dependent on my goodwill, so he will not trouble you. Anya is married to Prince Golachev and lives a great distance from Domnya, and Tatiana lives most of the year at a boarding school in Novgorod noted for its discipline.”

  “And the other brother? You have left out one, I think,” she murmured.

  “And Paul.” He sighed again, this time heavily, then looked away. “Nothing will please Paul, I am afraid.”

  “Why?”

  “Where do I begin? In my country, a firstborn son can be set aside. We boyars have long resisted your way of inheritance, you see. And Paul—Paul believes he was—and is—the more deserving son. It is a bitter disappointment to him that our father gave him Omborosloe rather than Domnya. And it was I who wished him to have that even. Papa would have seen him in the army.”

  She nodded. “And he is jealous of you.”

  “Yes. And it does not help that Olga Vladimovna prefers Domnya also.”

  “Olga?”

  “His wife. She is Prince Narransky’s younger daughter, and the Narranskys have always intrigued—for centuries they have plotted to advance themselves. She is too much like her family, I am afraid.” Settling his shoulders as though he had unloaded an oppressive thought, he forced a smile that did not warm his eyes. “What else would you know, Ekaterina?”

  “Domnya must be quite beautiful.”

  “It is the greatest of the Volsky estates,” he declared proudly. “Not the prettiest, I suppose, but the greatest. Most of my serfs belong there. And the palace itself was given my grandfather by the Empress Ekaterina.” He paused, and his smile broadened. “For his services. She was always generous to her lovers, and there were many of them. In this case, the estate was near Moscow rather than St. Petersburg—quite obviously a parting gift, for it took him away from her. But he did not complain. She was getting old and was not nearly so attractive to him as his own wife.”

  “The palace,” she echoed hollowly, scarce having heard the rest.

  He nodded. “Not nearly so large as the Sheremetievs’, of course, but quite respectable. There are one hundred and seventeen or twenty-nine rooms, depending on how they are counted—not including the guest houses.”

  “Alexei! You jest, of course!”

  “You think you wed a poor count, Ekaterina?” he asked softly. “Your sons, daragaya, will be heir to much. And your daughters can marry into the best families in all of Russia.”

  “Well, I did not think you poor, of course, for Harry said the settlements were generous, but—”

  “I am a generous man.”

  She fell silent at that. Trying to assimilate what he’d told her, she could only think of the enormity of his house. He’d not only made her a countess, but she would be a rich woman in Russia, she would be mistress to more than she could begin to comprehend. And he’d chosen her.

  “Something is the matter?”

  “No, of course not,” she answered slowly. “But if your family can marry princesses, it is a wonder that you chose a mere English baron’s sister.”

  “The mind does not always rule the heart,” he murmured.

  His words sent her spirits soaring. As improbable, as impossible as it seemed, he’d truly wanted her. Indeed, he’d all but said he loved her.

  “You are disappointed, Ekaterina?”

  “Oh, Lexy—no!” Her mouth twisted as she fought the urge to cry from her happiness. “I think I must surely be the most fortunate of females!”

  “I hope you will always believe that,” he responded soberly. “I hope we will make you happy at Domnya.”

  October 22, 1814

  The salt air was bitterly cold as Katherine walked the Marskoy Zvyizda’s deck. The Sea Star, as Galena had explained the name, was old, dating back to the early years of Catherine the Great’s reign, and the sails were heavily patched, showing splotches of white and gray against the dingy, yellowed canvas. But when Townsend had preferred to wait at Helsinki for another, somewhat better ship, Galena would not hear of it. Alexei was already in St. Petersburg, she said, and he would expect them.

  Crossing her arms against her fur-trimmed pelisse, Katherine stared into the churning gray water below. “It is going to storm,” the captain had warned them, “and this time of year, the Baltic can be treacherous because it is so shallow.” It looked as though he was right—already heavy, whitecapped waves rolled in the distance, and the sky was a mass of thick, ominous clouds. A lone tern swooped in the distance, then was gone, leaving the ship in seeming isolation, one exceedingly small island of wood and canvas bobbing on an increasingly turbulent sea.

  It was all of a piece, Katherine reflected wearily, for she’d been abed, una
ble to eat, for most of the journey. Galena had said that it would not be long ere the awful sickness passed, that it did not usually last much beyond the fourth month. That gave her perhaps another three or four weeks, and Katherine did not know if she could stand it. She breathed deeply of the raw air, hoping it could somehow stay the queasiness that threatened again. She knew if she went below, it would only be a matter of minutes before she had her head over the basin. Only air and a lack of food seemed to help.

  “I’d begun to think you had died.”

  Still holding the rail, she half turned to face Bellamy Townsend. “What an awful thing to say,” she muttered hostilely.

  The wind ruffled his blond hair, making him look younger, and his gray eyes reflected the sky. “Well,” he murmured, “it was either that or the conclusion that you had taken me in such dislike, you had given up eating to avoid me.”

  “I was ill—surely Galena told you that.”

  Even as she said it, she felt a pang of guilt, for she knew she’d failed to keep her promise to Alexei. Whenever Galena had come down, she’d tried to bolster Katherine’s sagging spirits with everything Bell said or did.

  He leaned on the rail beside her. “Actually, she did, but I’ve missed your tart tongue. Sea travel is deuced boring, you know.”

  “Yes, it is,” she agreed readily enough.

  He squinted at her, then nodded. “You do look as though you have lost weight rather than gained it. And you had none to spare in the first place.”

  She was tired and out of sorts. “Since she has told you nearly everything else, it surprises me she has not explained I am increasing,” she muttered.

  “Actually, she did. She seems quite pleased for you.”

  “Inordinately so.”

  “And you are not?”

  “I am getting used to the notion.”

  “Blue-deviled?”

  “No,” she lied. “Why would you think that?”

  “It shows.”

  For a moment, she looked at him, then returned her attention to the sea below. “Galena is very kind, but I have missed Alexei,” she admitted, sighing. “Despite the fact I am increasing, it is still difficult to think of myself as a married lady when I have scarce seen my husband. She bit her lower lip, then shook her head. “Very soon, I shall be all ugly and misshapen, you know, and he will scarce be able to remember me as I was.”

  “Well, I have never had a wife,” he answered, “but if I cared enough to get myself leg-shackled, I don’t think it would bother me.”

  “You don’t think, but you do not know.” She pushed away from the rail. “And you probably have already sired a dozen.”

  “None that anyone’s laid at my doorstep.”

  “How fortunate for you that so many of your conquests have complaisant husbands. Except Longford—and Hopewell, of course.”

  “Diana’s brat wasn’t mine, and Fanny is lying.”

  “And yet you are running—you ran then, and you run now, Bell. Papa was always used to say that fewer people doubt when you stay to face the consequences of what you have done.”

  “Is this a lecture? If so, I don’t need one.”

  “Papa would have said it was cowardice to run.”

  She was a queer little creature, usually shy in company, but in the years he’d known her, always ready to rip up at him. Ever since that encounter with her governess, he’d been in and out of her black books, usually out.

  “Do you ever really care about anyone?” she asked him finally.

  “Occasionally—but not often,” he admitted.

  “People say you are like Byron. I think they are possibly right.”

  That brought a lift to his brow. “Perhaps with females, but I have never consorted with men. Harry and I are friends only, I assure you.”

  “I did not mean any such thing, and well you know it,” she retorted. “I was merely likening Fanny Hopewell to Caro Lamb.”

  “Well, you are wrong, in any event.”

  “You use foolish females, Bell—you use them.”

  “And they use me.”

  “Well, it is disgusting. How can a man wish to seduce so many women? It is as though the intimacy he seeks is about as meaningful as a handshake.”

  His expression remained blandly amiable, but his jaw tightened. “Is this tirade because I kissed you, Kate? If so, you are wide of the mark. I have never—I repeat, never—had the least interest in you.”

  “Of course not! But I would that you left Galena alone! There—I have said it! Now, if you will pardon me—”

  “I told you-”

  “Despite what you said that night after the opera, I think you are seeking to entertain yourself until you are reunited with Sofia Sherkova,” she said tartly. “Marshal Sherkov’s wife, to be precise.”

  “Now that, my dear Lady Volsky, is none of your affair.”

  “Alexei will not like the attention you are giving Galena, my lord.”

  “We are friends merely.”

  “Friendship between a man like yourself and any female is remarked. Neither Alexei nor I would see Galena’s reputation harmed.”

  “Acquit me. I have done nothing to you or to Madame Malenkov to warrant this.” He bit off each word precisely. “If I have been pleasant to you, Kate, let me assure you the notion was Harry’s. I promised him I would see you safely to St. Petersburg.” With that, he pushed off from the rail. “Good day, Lady Volsky.”

  She felt chastened. No matter what he did, for her own sake, she ought to learn to be civil. And for all that Alexei would protect her, Galena was a widow who ought to know a seasoned rake when she saw one.

  “Wait!”

  He half swung around. “I don’t think so.”

  “Please—I ought to beg your pardon.”

  “Ought to?” His eyebrow lifted. “Can this be half an apology, Kate?”

  “Yes.” She wet her wind-dried lips with her tongue, then looked at the deck. “I have no right to censure you, my lord—none at all. Aside from Galena, nothing you have ever done is any of my concern.”

  “Not even your Miss Beckwood?”

  “I don’t know. She was very foolish, wasn’t she? And so very lonely—I expect she threw herself at your head.” She raised her eyes to his. “But you trespassed on my father’s welcome, you know. You were a guest in his house, and that seems almost as wrong as the other.”

  “I sense your apology disappearing,” he chided.

  “At least I tried to say it. I cannot help it that I do not approve of the way you live your life. It is possible to like a person, and yet despise what he does, isn’t it?”

  His anger gone, he returned to the rail. “I suppose the truth is painful sometimes. And I owe you an apology also—I should not have kissed you in London. It was boorish of me, I’m afraid.”

  “I had quite forgotten that,” she lied.

  “Now I truly am wounded,” he murmured, smiling. “You know, you are an odd sort of female—a sparrow with lion’s teeth, so to speak.”

  “I am sorry. I usually am only like this to Harry.”

  “No wonder he left home.”

  “Harry left because of Mama, if you would have the truth. She got a maggot in her brain that he ought to offer for Miss Pinkston, and they quarreled half a year over it.”

  His brow creased for a moment. “Miss Pinkston. I don’t-”

  “It was an age ago—years, in fact.”

  “Oh—that Miss Pinkston.”

  “I collect you recall her.”

  “Horse-faced with bags full of money.”

  She bristled. “Why is it that supposed gentlemen always must describe a female by her looks? You could have said ‘the wealthy Miss Pinkston,’ you know.”

  “Why is it supposed ladies always describe a man by his money?” he countered. “Because,” he answered himself, “a man is a fortune hunter for mentioning it, while a woman is forgiven the same greed, thank you.”

  “Well, anyway, Harry has repaired his fo
rtune another way.”

  “And he’s been deuced lucky at it.”

  “You would think after Papa—” She stopped, unable to finish her thought. “That is, you would think he would know luck to be rather fickle, wouldn’t you?”

  “It has been to me.”

  “You?” she scoffed. “You have everything, and you did not have to make the least push to gain any of it.”

  “But it couldn’t buy me what I wanted,” he said bitterly. Once again, he left the rail. “I think I shall go down—and I’d advise the same for you. According to Captain Ryshuskin, it is going to storm—and by the feel of that wind, it may even sleet.”

  Sighing, she turned her thoughts to Alexei. His last letter had said he would be at St. Petersburg waiting for her, that once she had been presented formally, they would go to Moscow, where the metropolitan there would recognize his marriage to her. But she would have to nominally embrace the Orthodox faith. Like the czarinas, Empress Elisaveta Alekseevna, who had been Princess Louisa of Baden—or the Dowager Empress Maria Feodorovna, who had been Princess Sophia Dorothea of Wurttembuig—she would have to take a Russian name.

  It was silly of her, she supposed, but she did not wish to deny everything from her childhood. Indeed, but the whole matter seemed rather silly, particularly since she had been born not a royal princess, but merely plain Miss Winstead of Monk’s End.

  In this case, Galena had supported her brother. There must be no impediment to the legitimacy of the child Katherine carried, she insisted. It was as though both of them had centered all their dynastic ambitions in her, and to be worthy, she must become as Russian as they were. No, that was not entirely true, Katherine conceded—what counted was that she must appear to become Russian before the church and state. At home, they said, she could be anything she wished. In fact, Galena said she did not have to learn the language if she did not want to.

  “Russian,” Galena had declared, “is much more difficult than the English to understand. And so many of us speak French, anyway.”

  “Lady Volsky!” someone shouted. When she turned around, a man pointed downward, calling out, “Vneess! Vneess! Bistryeye!” As she did not move, he caught her arm, looking up. “Boorya!”