Sacha’s hand came up with the speed of lightning, and dealt Caroline a stinging blow across her cheek. All the pent-up grief and wretchedness inside her erupted, and she began to cry with hopeless, racking sobs.
Sacha hesitated for a moment, and then pulled her into his arms, drawing her head down on to his shoulder and muttering, ‘I’m sorry. Oh God, Caroline, I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have goaded me. You should have known that I have a breaking point too Don’t cry. Please.’
Then he became silent, and just went on holding her until she had conquered her sobs. She pulled wearily away from him, and said, ‘Let me go home, Sacha.’
‘I can’t.’ There was sufficient daylight washing into the carriage now for her to see his face. It looked gaunt, with lines of pain etched about his mouth.
‘I can’t let you go,’ he said again, disjointedly. ‘Not all that way, halfway across the world—not knowing—always wondering—’
Caroline rubbed a hand across her forehead. ‘So what am I to do, Sacha? What future is there for me, here in Russia? Am I to fritter my youth away at parties and balls, and end up as another of your spinster dependants, like Aunt Maria? Or shall I play my cards with careful calculation, in the hope that Grigori might ask—’
Sacha interrupted her with a violent movement. ‘Grigori!' he said through clenched teeth. ‘I would see him dead before I’d allow any relationship between the two of you!’
CHAPTER
FOUR
Caroline understood, intuitively, the reasons behind Sacha’s violent reaction at the mention of Grigori’s name. There must always have been rivalry between the two cousins, whether conscious or unconscious, and for Sacha to watch an intimate relationship developing between herself and Grigori—and under his own roof at that—would be unbearable.
‘I only mentioned Grigori,’ she explained wearily, ‘because he alone of all the men I met tonight would hardly make me a proposition which was not honourable. Who else would have me, except as a mistress? I’m illegitimate; I have no money or background—’
‘You do have a background,’ he pointed out, his voice bleak now, the violence expended. ‘Society and the Czar have acknowledged you as my sister. You are the kin of the Antonovs, and it goes without saying that I shall provide you with a dowry suitable to the family status. Don’t delude yourself, Caroline. There’ll be no shortage of men offering you marriage.’
‘In that case I’ll take the first man who asks me!’ she promised wildly.
‘You’ll do no such thing.’ His tone was flat. ‘I am the head of the family, and you will not be able to marry without my consent and approval.’
She knew then, as certainly as if she had gazed into a crystal ball, that Sacha would never allow any other man to have her. He would stifle his true motives under a mass of self-delusion, of course. He would find fault with every prospective suitor, telling himself that he was acting in her best interests. And she would be trapped for the rest of her life in a wilderness of lonely longing, tormented by Sacha’s nearness, never knowing fulfilment, marking off each barren year until she finally died an embittered spinster.
I have to get away, she thought with anguish. Somehow I must force Sacha to let me return to England...
As she lay in bed later, her mind fretted ceaselessly and unavailingly at the dilemma. Back in England, she could change her name and lose herself in the slums of London, so that Sacha would never be able to trace her again. Life would be harsh and ugly and quite meaningless, but at least she would not be torn apart daily on an emotional rack. Since Sacha would never willingly let her go, and she could hardly run away in a strange country in which she was penniless; she would have to look for other weapons with which to manoeuvre him into setting her free.
A possible weapon presented itself to her in the morning. She had risen and gone downstairs without any expectation of meeting anyone other than servants, but both Aunt Natalia and Aunt Maria were in the drawing-room, sipping cups of chocolate.
‘Good morning,’ Caroline said wanly. ‘I thought it was the custom for ladies to remain abed until the afternoon.’
‘Well, dear,’ Aunt Natalia explained, ‘at our age we need less sleep. But you—after keeping such late hours last night—what brings you downstairs so early?’
Caroline shrugged. ‘The habit of a lifetime, I suppose.’
‘A habit that will soon be broken,’ Aunt Maria put in. She regarded Caroline with warm approval. ‘I confess, dear child, that I was apprehensive about your future last night. But it appears that you carried off the—well, the bizarre situation—with style, for an avalanche of invitations has been arriving for you. I daresay it will be some time before you have a quiet evening at home.’
‘And that reminds me—’ Aunt Natalia began. She rose, and moved towards a small inlaid bureau. ‘I have some of the latest French fashion designs from which you must make a choice, Caroline. The seamstress will be arriving today to measure you for gowns and to show you samples of materials. As soon as you have breakfasted we must plan your wardrobe.’
About to shrug resignedly, Caroline suddenly realised the possible implications of a total refusal to cooperate. ‘No,’ she said in a quiet voice.
‘What on earth do you mean, child?’ Aunt Natalia demanded.
‘I mean that I do not want a wardrobe.’
Aunt Natalia twisted her hands together. ‘Caroline, be sensible! You cannot possibly go through the season in St Petersburg with only one rather outmoded muslin gown! It will have to do for this evening, I’m afraid—Did I tell you that you are to join us for dinner with the Gromekos? My maid Lydia could no doubt refurbish it a little with the addition of some lace at the bodice, but you cannot possibly wear it more than once. So be a sensible girl and let us leaf through these fashion engravings ’
‘Aunt Natalia,’ Caroline interrupted evenly, ‘I refuse to have new clothes made for me.’
‘But, my dear, I’ve explained to you! You must have suitable clothes if you are to accept all those invitations ’
‘That is precisely the point. I shall not be accepting invitations.’
‘But—but why?’ Aunt Natalia stared at her, nonplussed. ‘You must have conducted yourself with distinction last night ’
‘I hated every moment of last night,’ Caroline said quietly.
Aunt Natalia’s cheeks turned pink, and she lowered her lashes in that way of hers which made her appear secretive, but which was a mask for some deep emotion. She glanced at Aunt Maria, and began to speak haltingly, pitching her voice an octave lower.
‘I am not insensitive to the fact that—that you were dealt a blow last night which—which must seem like the end of the world at the moment. But—marriage is not—not always the most desirable state for a female, you know. If you could look at things from that viewpoint—?’
Before Caroline could respond, Aunt Maria spoke fiercely. Obviously she could hear well enough when she made an effort to do so. ‘Natalia Ivanova, if you are implying that Alexander is cast in the same mould as your husband and my brother Viktor, then I take issue with you! Indeed, there have often been times when I have found it difficult to believe that Alexander is an Antonov at all!’
Caroline stiffened. This was too close to the truth for comfort.
‘But that is not the point,’ Aunt Maria continued. ‘What cannot be altered must be endured, and nothing can alter the fact that Caroline and Alexander shared the same mother.’ She frowned. ‘I suppose there really is no doubt at all that Euphemia was your mother, my dear?’ she addressed Caroline.
Fully aware of the irony of the question, Caroline shook her head.
‘No, I did not seriously suppose that there could be,’ Aunt Maria said, and then became practical. ‘In my experience, dear, there is nothing so comforting when one is unhappy as the planning of new clothes. And Natalia is quite right—one could not possibly exist in St Petersburg without an adequate wardrobe.’
Caroline thought fleetingly of
the ragged beggars, both male and female, who had shared the warmth of the bonfires outside the Winter Palace with the coachmen. Their definition of existence in St Petersburg obviously differed widely from Aunt Maria’s.
The voices of the two aunts, as they continued to argue and cajole her into looking at the fashion engravings, began to echo and reverberate in her head. She was searching desperately for some excuse to escape from them when the door burst open and young Michael, Sacha’s son, almost fell into the room.
‘Good heavens, child!’ Aunt Natalia exclaimed. ‘What is this? And did you ask Nurse Varna’s permission to leave the nursery?’
He shook his head at the question, but his gaze was fixed upon Caroline’s face. ‘Nurse Varna says you are not to be my Mamasha after all,’ he stated, his expression willing her to contradict him.
‘No, dear.’ Caroline tried to smile. ‘I’m your aunt instead. Isn’t that nice?’
‘I already have aunts.’ His mouth puckered at the corners. ‘It was a Mamasha I wanted.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Caroline said inadequately, feeling the prickling of tears behind her own eyes.
Aunt Natalia was wearing her secretive mask again, hiding her feelings. ‘Michael,’ she said, ‘I think you ought to return to the nursery now.’
‘I’ll take him,’ Caroline spoke quickly, and offered her hand to the child. His small fingers curled inside hers.
‘Perhaps,’ he suggested as they left the room together, ‘you could be my Pretend Mamasha?’ His eyes were watching for her reaction, wide and wistful.
‘No,’ Caroline said, too harshly, and then softened her refusal by adding, ‘Pretend things are not really any good, Michael.’
‘They’re better than nothing,’ he pointed out. ‘I don’t know any other little boys in St Petersburg, so I have two Pretend Friends. They always let me choose the games we play.’
Poor lonely little mite, Caroline thought with compassion. He needs not only a mother, but brothers and sisters—
‘If you were my Pretend Mamasha,’ he persisted, ‘you could do the things real Mamashas do. You could tell me stories and kiss my knee better when it hurts. At Ivaskara, in the country, I have a real friend and he has a Mamasha. When he falls down and hurts his knee she always kisses it better.’
‘Your nurse—’ Caroline began in desperation.
‘She won’t kiss things better,’ he interrupted. ‘She says she has enough to do without nonsense like that. Only it isn’t nonsense, because when my friend’s Mamasha kisses his knee better it always works. So—would you be my Pretend Mamasha?’
Oh God, Caroline thought, I must not allow myself to become emotionally involved with Sacha’s son...
And then, ignoring her own good advice, she heard herself say, ‘Very well, Michael. I’ll be your Pretend Mamasha—while I’m in this country, which probably won’t be for very long.’
He disregarded her qualification, and gave her a glowing smile. ‘Thank you! What shall I call you?’
‘I don’t know ... It had better be our secret, so perhaps you should just call me Caroline.’ It would never do for Sacha, or anyone else, to discover that she had allowed herself to become a mother substitute to Michael.
‘No, Caroline doesn’t sound right,’ the child objected. ‘What is your patronymic, please? Mine is Alexandrevich.’
‘We don’t have patronymics as such in England, Michael. But my second name is Mary—’
‘Marisha!’ he exclaimed. ‘That will be my name for you. It’s a little bit like Mamasha, isn’t it, but no one will guess.’ He clung tightly to her hand. ‘I like having secrets with you, Marisha. Would you like me to show you a secret hiding place?’
‘Secret hiding place?’
He nodded. ‘I hide my treasures there. Nurse Varna doesn’t understand about them being treasures; she calls them rubbish, and wants to throw them on the fire. Come, Marisha, I’ll show you!’ He began to tug at her hand.
‘No, Michael, I undertook to restore you to the nursery, and I must do so. I’ll see your hiding place later.’
In the nursery, Nurse Varna was looking grim-faced and implacable. ‘You are a very bad boy, Michael,’ she said. ‘Not only did you disappear without a word to me, but you did so just as your breakfast was about to be served. You will now do without a meal until it is time for lunch.’
‘Oh, surely not!’ Caroline began in his defence. ‘There were special reasons—’
Nurse Varna quelled her with a look. ‘I do not wish to be disrespectful, mademoiselle, but the boy is in my care, and I must deal with him as I see fit.’
It was not difficult to understand why Michael so desperately wanted a mother substitute. Nurse Varna was no doubt efficient and utterly trustworthy, but she possessed not a scrap of maternal tenderness.
‘Don’t worry, Marisha,’ Michael whispered. ‘I am not so very hungry—’
The nurse had heard him. ‘You must address Mademoiselle Kearley as Aunt, Michael,’ she said repressively.
‘I gave him permission to call me Marisha,’ Caroline put in.
‘It is an English title, perhaps?’
‘No.’
‘It is not a name or a title.’ Nurse Varna looked irritated and baffled. ‘It has no meaning at all.’
‘It is, nevertheless, what we have agreed he should call me.’ As she spoke Caroline caught Michael’s eye in a glance of shared, secret intimacy and he gave a little wriggle of happiness. She smiled at him before she turned away, but her heart was heavy. She was storing up only further anguish for herself by forming emotional bonds with Sacha’s child.
In the corridor at the foot of the stairs she almost collided with Sacha himself. He took hold of her shoulder to steady her, and then dropped his hand quickly. He gave her an unsmiling look.
‘What is this nonsense I hear from the aunts about your refusing to have a wardrobe made up for you?’
‘It is not nonsense.’
‘I assure you that it is. Evidently you have not deigned to look at the invitations which arrived for you this morning, but one of them bears the Imperial crest. And you cannot accept an invitation from the Czar without having an appropriate gown.’
‘I do not intend to accept invitations,’ Caroline said quietly, ‘from the Czar or anyone else.’
Sacha’s mouth tightened. ‘Don’t be misled by the Czar’s courteous and charming manner of last night. An invitation from him amounts to an Imperial command. One does not snub a divine autocrat without far-reaching consequences.’
‘I’m British,’ she began, ‘and not subject to—’
‘You fool, you are in Russia!’ Sacha interrupted tersely. ‘Your behaviour would affect all of us.’
‘The remedy lies in your own hands.’ Caroline’s voice was as steady as she could make it. ‘Send me home to England, Sacha, where I couldn’t offend your Czar and make trouble for your family.’
He gave her a tormented look. ‘So that’s your motive. Blackmail ... I will not submit to blackmail, Caroline! Somehow or other I’ll see to it that you accept the Czar’s invitation.’
Later, during lunch, the rest of his family added the weight of their own arguments to his. Caroline had refused even to read the invitation bearing the Imperial crest, and Sacha did so himself.
‘You are requested to join a party of the Czar and his court at the opera tomorrow night,’ he announced levelly. ‘There will be sufficient time for a suitable gown to be made.’
Caroline shook her head. ‘No.’
‘My dear child,’ Aunt Natalia said in a distracted voice, ‘you don’t understand. You must go.’
‘Perhaps we could say that she’s ill,’ Aunt Maria suggested hopefully.
‘I could scarcely be ill indefinitely,’ Caroline pointed out. ‘I shall accept no invitations, now or in the future, from anyone.’
‘Really, my dear,’ Uncle Viktor said, an undisguisedly cruel edge to his voice, ‘it’s hardly fair to punish all of us just because you are
not the future Countess Antonov after all, but merely an illegitimate half-sister.’
‘I don’t wish to punish anyone—’ she began.
‘Maybe not, but if you insult the Czar the entire family will share in your punishment.’
Caroline remained resolute. The worst the Czar could do, after all, would be to exclude all the Antonovs from Court circles. And then Sacha would be forced to send her back to England, after which the Czar would relent towards the rest of the family.
Grigori had taken little part in the argument, but after the meal, when everyone had repaired to the drawing-room, he drew his chair close to Caroline’s and said in a low, serious voice, ‘There is more to your behaviour than mere petty waywardness. Why are you taking this attitude, Caroline?’
Her voice was thick with tears which she forced herself not to shed. ‘Because I wish to be sent home to England. Perhaps—perhaps the Czar will order me to be deported.’
‘You would welcome that? You would wish to be herded like an animal in the steerage quarters of a ship, and treated as a felon?’
Even that, she thought desolately, would be preferable to the purgatory of being treated as a sister to Sacha, and perhaps having to face before long the unspeakable pain of seeing him marry someone else. Aloud, she said, ‘If that is the only means open to me of returning to England, then I would endure it.’
‘What calls you back so strongly, Caroline?’ he asked gently. ‘You are homesick, perhaps?’
She could only shake her head. It was strange that Grigori, who was otherwise so sensitive, could have failed to understand the agony of her situation. But perhaps she had acted her part of gaiety too well last night. Perhaps she had convinced him that she had come to terms with the fact that Sacha was her brother.
‘In that case,’ she heard Grigori say, ‘you must dislike Russia very much. Aunt Maria told us that you were greatly shocked when you first learnt how wretchedly the peasants live.’ He gave her a long, intent look, and added very quietly, ‘I should just like you to know, Caroline, that not everyone of our class accepts the inequalities of Russian society with complacency.’
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