Count Antonov's Heir

by Christina Laffeaty

  The crack of laughter with which Sacha interrupted his aunt was raw and bitterly mocking. ‘We are brother and sister, remember? We don’t require a chaperon. And since it’s by no means certain that Katya will be free to go to the ball, we can’t wait for her and Grigori. You spend the evening playing cards, Aunt Natalia. If tongues are to wag tonight it won’t be because Caroline and I arrived at the Czar’s ball unchaperoned.’

  Aunt Maria decided to enter the conversation at this point, as usual at a tangent. ‘The emeralds would be most inappropriate now.’

  Caroline understood. She was no longer worthy of the beautiful emeralds which had betrayed her so cruelly. They would be safely stored away to await the next Antonov bride.

  ‘The child shall borrow my pearls,’ Aunt Maria went on, and left the room to fetch them.

  Caroline had the numb, unreal feeling of a sleepwalker as Aunt Maria’s pearls were arranged in her hair and around her throat. She didn’t trouble to turn to one of the ornate mirrors in the room. It didn’t matter any longer how she looked.

  In the carriage on their way to the Winter Palace, neither she nor Sacha spoke for a while. They sat as far away from one another as possible, and Caroline stared bleakly out of the window.

  When the silence became oppressive she cast about her for a safe topic with which to break it. ‘I gained the impression that social life was very formal in Russia. And yet if Grigori and Katya are to attend the Imperial Ball, it will presumably be without invitations—?’

  ‘Katya has special status,’ Sacha replied, his constrained tone matching her own. ‘Unless the Czar were giving one of his small, intimate parties, she would always be welcomed at his functions. And that welcome would extend to whoever was escorting her.’

  ‘Why does she have special status?’

  ‘Because she is the Princess Vezenski. Her husband is related to the Imperial family through the Czarina.’

  ‘So she has a husband,’ Caroline commented. ‘Will he also be at the ball?’

  ‘No.’ Sacha hesitated. ‘He has spent the past six years under restraint, attended by guards, and he will remain like that until he dies. He is dangerously and incurably insane. But that is Katya’s private tragedy, and no one speaks of it.’

  Caroline lapsed into silence once more. Her own private tragedy preoccupied her mind, so that she couldn’t spare more than a fleeting, pitying thought for the unknown Katya.

  How was the evening to be endured? How, for that matter, was tomorrow to be endured, and all the tomorrows which would follow it?

  The carriage was slowing down. In the squares adjoining the Winter Palace, Caroline saw, there were iron pavilions resembling great bandstands, and here fires had been lit, sending sparks into the wintry sky, the flames casting a dancing orange reflection on the surrounding snow.

  As they halted, she realised that the fires served the purpose of keeping warm the coachmen and sledge-drivers of the guests attending the Czar’s ball. From the size of the fires it was evident that the poor wretches huddling around them were resigned to waiting most of the night to convey their masters and mistresses home.

  As Caroline entered the Winter Palace with Sacha she was, momentarily, struck breathless by the splendour surrounding her. Light from crystal chandeliers sparkled upon the malachite pillars and lit up the great and magnificent staircase which led to the ballroom. This same staircase was lined with the Czar’s bodyguards in their peacock uniforms.

  At the foot of the staircase, Sacha checked for a moment. ‘Caroline, it is necessary to warn you. As we enter the ballroom you will be presented to the Czar and to members of his family. They will show no surprise or curiosity or disapproval when they learn that you are my sister, for it is part of the social code in Russia that all emotion is concealed at formal occasions. Only if the Czar comes to our table later, shall we know whether or not you have been accepted into Court circles.’

  ‘I hardly care,’ she said indifferently.

  ‘I do.’ He took her arm. ‘Come, let us go up.’ When they entered the ballroom Caroline, in spite of her heavy-hearted wretchedness and her indifference to the approval of Russian society, would not have been human if she had failed to catch her breath in sheer enchantment.

  In contrast with the snow outside, the huge room presented a spectacle of tropical splendour, in a setting straight from the pages of a fairy tale. Something like a hundred palm trees in huge tubs had been arranged inside the immense room, leaving the centre of the floor clear for dancing. Around each palm tree supper tables had been laid with gold plate, and exotic hothouse flowers abounded everywhere.

  Then Sacha said something to a richly uniformed man at the door, and the latter announced in ringing tones, ‘Count Alexander Nikolaieovich Antonov and his half-sister, the Miss Caroline Kearley!’

  Apart from a very slight pause in the hum of conversation in the room, no one reacted to the unexpected announcement. Sacha led Caroline towards a dais where the Czar and his family were waiting to receive guests, and introduced her formally.

  As he had predicted, the Czar, a handsome man in his early sixties, showed no emotion whatsoever. He acknowledged Caroline with grave, polite formality and expressed the hope that she would enjoy the ball.

  ‘The Princess Vezenski will be arriving later with my cousin, Your Imperial Majesty,’ Sacha told him. ‘I would appreciate it if they could be directed to join our table.’

  ‘Very well, Count Antonov.’

  The introductions over, Sacha and Caroline were shown to one of the tables by a manservant, and offered champagne and caviar. Several of Sacha’s friends and acquaintances acknowledged him from a distance, but no one approached to be introduced to Caroline. They were waiting to take their cue from the Czar.

  As they sat there, surrounded by all that splendour, Caroline thought that she had never felt more wretched and vulnerable before in her life. She longed only for the ordeal to be over, so that she could go to bed and shed the tears which she was damming up inside herself.

  ‘We must make conversation,’ Sacha told her in a low voice. ‘We must appear to be natural and at ease together. Please make an effort, Caroline.’

  ‘I’ll—try.’ She blinked rapidly. ‘The palace is quite magnificent. I doubt whether our Queen Victoria would be able to match it for splendour.’

  ‘On the other hand,’ he said drily, ‘I doubt whether your queen’s servants keep cows on the top floor of her palace to provide the kitchens with milk.’

  ‘Is that really what happens here?’

  He nodded. ‘Russia is a land of contrasts, and the Winter Palace is no exception. There are the splendid state rooms, and also the garrets in which the servants live cheek by jowl with the cows.’

  Caroline fell silent. Unfair and iniquitous as the system might be, it was the system. At one end of the scale there was magnificence and formal pomp and privilege; at the other there was degradation. And if Sacha were toppled from his position of privilege there would be nothing for him but degradation. So, no matter what the cost to herself, he must go on believing that she was his sister.

  She was racking her brains for another safe topic of conversation when the uniformed man at the door announced loudly, ‘The Princess Vezenski and Captain Grigori Antonov!’

  Grigori looked more spectacularly handsome than ever in his Guards uniform, but it was his companion who claimed Caroline’s attention. Katya was perhaps five years older than Caroline herself, and hauntingly beautiful, with slanting dark eyes in a heart-shaped face and rich black hair. But what struck one even more forcibly than her beauty was the sweetness of her expression, and the warmth of her smile.

  She clasped Caroline’s hands, and said, ‘Poor child, Grigori has told me everything. I came at once, to do what I can in this dilemma.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Caroline murmured, and then, remembering, added, ‘Thank you, too, for lending me your gown.’

  ‘It becomes you far better than it ever did me.’ Katya turned
to Sacha. ‘I’m glad you sent for me, Alexander. You know that I will always be of assistance to you if I can.’

  ‘You are a good friend, Katya—’ He broke off.

  The Czar had begun to move slowly about the room, stopping at some of the tables to chat to his guests. And now he was moving in the direction of their table, and the whole room was, literally, holding its breath to see whether he would stop and acknowledge the girl who was not, after all, Sacha’s bride-to-be but the illegitimate daughter of the runaway Countess Euphemia Antonov.

  A soft sigh swept through the room as he stopped by their table. Following the lead of the others, Caroline rose to her feet. The Czar smiled at her, and then gave Sacha a quizzical look.

  ‘Well, Antonov, what was your reason for fooling all of St Petersburg?’

  ‘I had no intention of fooling anyone, sir,’ Sacha replied. ‘Rumour had, I fear, distorted fact. I merely told a few of my friends that I was expecting a young lady from England to join my family, and they leapt to the conclusion that there was some romantic attachment. The truth was that I suspected her to be my sister, but I could not be certain until the older members of my family had met her.’

  The Czar exchanged a few more words with their party, and then strolled towards another table. Katya beamed at Caroline. ‘There! You have been accepted into society, my dear.’ Reading Caroline’s expression correctly, she added in a low voice, ‘I know it does not seem much consolation to you, but at least it will make your position easier.’

  Waiters were appearing at the tables, carrying exotic dishes which they served on the gold plate. Caroline ate without tasting or identifying anything, wishing only that the evening would come to an end. But it had hardly started yet.

  An orchestra began to play a dance tune, and the Czar opened the ball with the wife of the Czarevitch. Other couples took the floor, and Grigori rose, bowing to Caroline.

  ‘Would you give me the pleasure?’

  Instinctively, Sacha made a gesture of opposition, but Katya laid a restraining hand on his arm. ‘There is nothing more natural than that your sister should dance with your cousin, Alexander.’

  ‘You’re right,’ he acknowledged. ‘Well, Katya, shall we dance too?’

  The four of them left the table together, but were soon separated by the movements of the dance. Caroline asked, making conversation, ‘Why is the Czarina not present at the ball, Grigori?’

  ‘She is fanatically religious. Small wonder that the Czar turned to a girl almost thirty years younger than himself.’ Grigori’s arm tightened imperceptibly about Caroline’s waist. ‘I am not surprised that he acknowledged you. He is still susceptible to beautiful females.’

  She had never felt less receptive to compliments. She smiled perfunctorily, and said, ‘I imagine that I have Katya to thank. Her kindness to me, in view of her special status at Court, obviously influenced the Czar.’ Grigori’s eyebrows rose. ‘Katya has no particular influence with the Czar. She certainly helped, but in an indirect way. She lent total credibility to the story Alexander told the Czar.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Caroline asked, puzzled.

  Grigori was looking uncomfortable. ‘I don’t think I ought to tell you—’

  ‘Please! What could it matter? What could anything matter after what has already happened tonight?’

  ‘Well,’ he began reluctantly, ‘Katya and Alexander have been lovers for years. The association came to an abrupt end after he met you in England. That was why everyone assumed that he had found an English bride. But, by her joining the two of you tonight in public, everyone will accept that it had been no more than a lovers’ rift, and that it had nothing to do with you. I suppose,’ he added, ‘they will now continue as before.’

  No! Caroline screamed silently. Her gaze searched the room, picking out Sacha and Katya dancing together, and anguish and bitter revolt tore through her.

  She tried to hate Katya, but it was impossible. What other discarded mistress would have been generous enough to lend a ball gown to her ex-lover’s fiancée, as Katya had done? And she had been totally sincere tonight in her expression of sympathy to Caroline. She was an extraordinary woman, Katya, and yet—

  I cannot bear the thought of them together, Caroline raged wordlessly.

  But from the way in which he was dancing with Katya, his face half-buried against her hair, it was already obvious that he meant to take what comfort she offered him. And—the commonsense part of Caroline’s mind demanded—who could blame him for that? He had, somehow, to stamp out what he imagined to be a guilty love for a girl who was tied to him by blood. What better way than in the warmth and generosity of Katya’s embraces?

  It was useless, all the same, to call on common sense. I cannot endure it, the thought hammered like a tortured refrain through Caroline’s mind.

  The night became a strange and frantic blur to her. Since the Czar’s official acknowledgement of her, every young man wanted his name added to her ball programme. She was scarcely off the dance floor all evening, and she found herself laughing and talking a great deal. It was almost as if she were intoxicated with misery and with the need to blot from her mind the thought of Sacha and Katya.

  Once, when through some mistake two young men claimed her for the same dance Sacha himself rose, looking grimly at her. ‘I think, Caroline, matters would best be resolved by my dancing with you.’

  ‘Oh no,’ she laughed at him, only just succeeding in keeping a note of hysteria at bay. ‘How very boring to dance with one’s own brother!’

  ‘Exactly!’ Grigori applauded, and neatly claimed her himself. ‘A cousin is quite a different matter, however!’

  Without any protest, she allowed him to pull her into his arms and hold her close as the orchestra played a waltz.

  ‘I’m beginning to feel,’ Grigori said against her cheek, ‘that Alexander’s loss may well become my gain.’

  She smiled, and said lightly—‘Fortunately for you, Grigori, I can recognise flirtatious banter. A more naive girl might have taken that as a proposal of marriage, and then where would you have been? Uncle Viktor would hardly approve of his only son marrying a penniless girl of dubious birth.’

  To her surprise, Grigori said stiffly, ‘Yes, it was flirtatious banter, but many a serious courtship has started in that way. And you insult me, Caroline, by implying that I would ever allow myself to be influenced by my father’s outmoded prejudices, or that I would care about a dowry from my bride.’

  She felt both humbled and ashamed. There was clearly more to Grigori than just good looks and charming manners. The Czar might have acknowledged her, but she already knew enough of Russian society to be quite certain that none of the new admirers she had gained tonight would ever give her a thought as a possible bride. But Grigori was different.

  She said quietly, ‘I’m sorry. Tonight has been a strain. Do you think we could possibly slip away and go home?’

  ‘No, Caroline. I called you my cousin, but you are not really that. It would harm your reputation if you did not leave in the conventional way, with Alexander.’

  She didn’t press the matter. It wasn’t because she cared about her reputation, but because something had suddenly occurred to her: if she persuaded Grigori to take her home she would be tormented for the rest of the night with the thought of Sacha and Katya together.

  It seemed that Sacha, too, had had enough of the ball, for when they returned to their table he rose and said, ‘Caroline, I think it is time for us to leave.’

  She nodded. Katya invited her to call the following afternoon, and Caroline found herself accepting. They took a formal leave of the Czar, who brushed Caroline’s hand with his lips, and said, ‘You were indeed an asset to my ball, Miss Kearley. I shall look forward to your gracing many more of them in the future.’

  Outside, the sky was pearl-grey with the beginning of early winter dawn. The coachmen and sledge-drivers were slumped wearily around the fires and a few ragged beggars had appeared and were warmi
ng themselves by the flames too.

  When Sacha and Caroline were seated inside their carriage, and the coachman had whipped up the horses, she said in a muffled voice, ‘I want to go home, Sacha.’

  ‘You surprise me,’ he returned frostily. ‘You gave every appearance of wishing to remain at the ball until the bitter end.’

  ‘I mean that I want to go home to England. I have no money for my fare, but if you would lend it to me, I would repay you as soon as—’

  He caught her wrist in a hard grip. ‘You will remain here, Caroline! You belong to—’ He stopped, and carefully rephrased the sentence. ‘You are my responsibility. My flesh and blood. Your place is here, under my protection.’

  ‘It is not!’ She tried to wrench her arm free, but his fingers bit into her flesh. ‘I’m British. I don’t want, or need, your protection. I want to go home.’

  ‘To fend for yourself, trying to stave off poverty?’ His voice was cruel and biting. ‘Or did your social success tonight go to your head, so that you imagine you might make a grand marriage? I know you rather better than it is given to most brothers to know their sisters, and if you think I would allow you out of my sight, where your—your passionate nature—would lead you astray.’

  ‘How dare you!’ she cried, her voice out of control. ‘You, of all people, judging me! Do you think I don’t know that you and Katya have been lovers for years?’

  ‘What of it?’ he returned coldly. ‘Did you imagine that I had lived the life of a monk since my wife died? And as for Katya—her dilemma is one of the cruellest any young woman can find herself in.’

  Not entirely, Caroline thought wildly. What about my dilemma? I would gladly exchange places with Katya if I could...

  ‘She is a warm, good, and unselfish woman,’ Sacha went on. ‘And it is my very great fortune that she offers me her continuing support and devotion. She wants to be your friend, too—’

  ‘My friend?’ Caroline cried, lashing out with reckless and uncaring cruelty. ‘You talk about protecting me from my own passionate nature, and expect me to make a friend of your—your trollop?’