Someone in the house was a leading Nihilist, the organiser behind people like the Dmitris. Someone who was using the Antonov residence as illegal headquarters for an outlawed movement.
The person in question was most likely to be a superior servant. One of the valets, perhaps, who would have the incentive and the free time to print those treasonable placards in the seclusion of the cellar tucked away in the unused wing of the house. Someone educated but underprivileged and filled with a passionate desire for reform.
But if the Dmitris could be exiled to Siberia for attempting to post illegal placards, how much more serious would be the punishment for the author and printer of those placards? Or—for the employer who had all unknowingly harboured him, and whose house had been used for illegal activities?
In this unjust and vindictive society the innocent were all too likely to be punished with the guilty. Much as Caroline sympathised with the unknown Nihilist’s cause, she did not feel that she could keep her discovery a secret from Sacha.
The Nihilist had not been using Michael’s secret cupboard as a means of entering the cellar, so there had to be another entrance somewhere. Holding the branch of candles aloft, Caroline began to explore.
The cellar must have been constructed in an earlier, turbulent age for the purpose of hiding fugitives, for it opened up into several other, maze-like chambers, each leading to a blind end. But at last she stumbled upon one branch of the maze with a flight of stairs at the end of it.
At the head of the stairs, a door opened easily on what were obviously regularly-oiled hinges. But then it met an obstruction, and even when Caroline pushed at it with her full weight it refused to open farther. She was forced to squeeze through the opening, a task which was hampered by her voluminous skirts but which would have been easy enough for a man.
The obstruction, she saw, was a large and solidly constructed wardrobe which effectively hid the presence of the door from view. The room in which she found herself had been used to store unwanted furniture and bric-a-brac. It was anonymous, tucked away in the unused wing of the house, and could be used by any of the servants without arousing the slightest suspicion.
A footfall in the corridor outside made her heart hammer in her chest. Some instinctive reflex prompted her to snuff out the candles which she still held in her hand, and push them out of sight beneath a four-poster bed.
The door opened, and Grigori stood on the threshold. ‘Why, Caroline!’ he exclaimed with astonishment. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’
It didn’t occur to her to ask the same question of him. Instead, she heard herself stammering, ‘I—was exploring the house. I’m afraid I lost my way, and then—well, I became interested in these old pieces of furniture...’ Now why hadn’t she told the truth? Was it because he was looking at her without a trace of suspicion in his eyes?
‘Yes, some of the pieces date back to the sixteenth century,’ she heard him agree. He glanced at her, and smiled with tender amusement. ‘My dear Caroline, you have a streak of dust across your face, and there are cobwebs in your hair. You’d better let me escort you back to your room.’
She allowed him to take her arm, and matched her steps to his, and made the appropriate responses to his small talk. But her mind was racing.
There had been nothing at all which could possibly have taken Grigori to that room containing unwanted furniture. No explanation fitted—unless he had been on his way to the underground cellar with its printing press.
Grigori was the Nihilist, and he would almost certainly be hanged if his connection with those treasonable placards were to become known. The Czar would have no mercy on a member of the aristocracy who had betrayed his trust.
Until now Caroline had had every intention of telling Sacha about her discovery, and allowing him to resolve the matter as he saw fit. But that had been when she still thought of the Nihilist as a faceless and unknown servant. The fact that he was Grigori changed everything, for it would present Sacha with a hideous dilemma. Should he denounce his cousin, or betray his Czar—and incidentally become an accessory to treason—by keeping silent?
With all her heart Caroline wished that she had never explored the secret of that hidden door which led to the cellar.
CHAPTER
SIX
All the while she was dressing for dinner, Caroline struggled with the problem of what to do for the best. How could she tell Sacha what she had discovered, and place him in a position of divided loyalty? How would he live with himself if he exposed Grigori’s treachery? On the other hand, if he kept silent, how could he continue to serve as an officer of the Guards, attached to the Czar’s personal bodyguard?
Should she not, instead, warn Grigori that she had stumbled upon his secret printing press, and persuade him to remove it from the house? But reflection showed Caroline that there were several problems attendant on such a course of action. Even if Grigori agreed, removing the printing press might present more of a risk than leaving it where it was. Smuggling it into the cellar, piece by piece, over a considerable period must have been dangerous enough. Smuggling it out again, and trying to get rid of it unobtrusively, would be even more fraught with hazard.
Besides, it was doubtful if a dedicated Nihilist, who had already risked so much for the cause in which he believed, would easily be deterred. Grigori was far more likely to argue his convictions with Caroline and in the end, make her his unwilling co-conspirator simply by virtue of the secret which they both shared.
Perhaps, she thought, it would be better to do or say nothing; to wash the whole thing from her memory and pretend it had never happened. It was not at all likely that anyone else would stumble accidentally upon the cellar and what it contained. The members of the family took the house completely for granted and would not be interested in exploring the unused wing, and the servants were too busy with their daily chores to expend what free time they had on anything but their own affairs. And Michael, the only other inquisitive member of the household apart from Caroline herself, was quite content with his secret hiding place and wouldn’t dream that other secrets lay beyond it.
‘When in doubt, do nothing,’ her mother had always counselled. For perhaps the first time in her life Caroline could see the wisdom of that advice. After all, if she spoke out—either to Sacha or to Grigori—it would cause untold problems and complications, while if she remained silent nothing would change. Hadn’t she wished fervently that she’d never stumbled upon the printing press? Well, the next best thing was to wipe it from her mind completely—
Even if Caroline hadn’t consciously come to that decision, the events which took place less than a week later—and their repercussions—would have erased the matter from her thoughts.
She had dressed in one of the gowns which Sacha had had made for her, and Lydia had come in to arrange her hair. Afterwards, the maid appraised her handiwork critically.
‘Yes, that is well enough. Now, mademoiselle, if you have chosen the jewellery you wish to wear tonight—’
Caroline shrugged. ‘I don’t possess any, unless you count the hair-brooch which belonged to my mother.’
‘A hair-brooch! No, no! That would not answer the purpose at all!’
The matter seemed unimportant to Caroline. After all, she was not attending a Court function this time, but a private dinner party given by the Antonovs. But the maid looked so concerned that she said, ‘Perhaps Aunt Maria would lend me her pearls again.’
‘She is wearing the pearls herself tonight.’ The maid seemed to have a sudden inspiration. ‘Please wait here, mademoiselle. I shall not be long.’
Resignedly, Caroline sat down to wait. It seemed to her that a great deal of fuss was being made over little, and she did not relish the prospect of once again having to wear pieces of over-ornate and ponderous jewellery borrowed from one of the aunts.
It was not Lydia who returned to her room, but Sacha, looking splendid and somewhat forbiddingly formal in his uniform slashed with orders and deco
rations. He carried an ivory jewel-case.
‘Lydia came to see me,’ he said. ‘I quite agree with her that you cannot go on borrowing jewellery from the aunts. It was remiss of me not to think of it before.’
‘I don’t want you to think of jewellery at all,’ Caroline began.
‘Yes, I rather expected you to take that attitude,’ he interrupted her, his smile grim. ‘And that is why I have come myself, instead of sending Lydia.’ He opened the jewel-case, and took from it a necklace of filigree silver and sapphires.
Caroline backed away. ‘I don’t want it, Sacha! Since you hadn’t thought of jewellery for me, I can only suppose that it was meant as a gift for Katya, so give it to her!’
‘It was not meant for Katya. I bought it as a wedding gift to my wife.’
‘Your wife! That is even worse!’ Her voice was muffled with emotion. ‘I did not expect such insensitivity from you, Sacha. Even if you had no love for your wife, that jewellery should be put away for Michael to inherit one day!’
He caught hold of Caroline’s wrist. He did not look directly at her, but at some spot beyond her, and the hollows of his cheeks were more accentuated than ever.
‘It was not bought for Michael’s mother,’ he said tonelessly. ‘It was bought for another wedding, another wife.’
Pain washed into his eyes, and he lowered his lashes, masking his expression. Just for a moment Caroline found herself locked in a strange, telepathic communion with him. She knew, as certainly as if he had told her, that he had planned to arrange the necklace about his bride’s throat himself, that he had woven a fantasy of lifting the hair from the nape of her neck and allowing his mouth to wander down its hollow before fastening the clasp...
With a sudden violent gesture he hurled the necklace on the bed. ‘Wife—sister—whatever ... It was bought for you, so keep the wretched thing and wear it!’
After he had slammed the bedroom door behind him she picked up the necklace, its colour breaking into variegated prisms as she studied it through her tears. It was beautiful, but it represented the bitter embers of a lovely dream. With unsteady fingers she arranged it about her throat. She would wear it, not as adornment, but as a badge of hopelessness and loss, to remind herself that Sacha was for ever unattainable.
Later, when Caroline joined the others downstairs, she discovered why both he and Lydia had deemed it so important that she should wear jewellery. Even for a private dinner party, society’s formality did not relax. Not only were the aunts garlanded and crested with diamonds, emeralds and pearls, but Uncle Viktor and Grigori vied with each other and with Sacha in the brilliance of their uniforms.
And as the guests began to arrive they, too, were equally splendidly adorned. With rigid ceremony, the ladies curtsied to their hostess; the gentlemen bowed deeply. Footmen hovered with silver salvers containing drinks in crystal goblets.
Another footman entered, and said something to Aunt Natalia. She fluttered her fan, looking anxiously about her, and then smiled and continued making polite conversation.
Time seemed to drag. Caroline glanced at the mantel clock, and realised that it was almost half-past eight. Dinner should have been announced at eight. What could have gone wrong, and why was Aunt Natalia looking so strained?
Another footman entered, and again spoke to the hostess. This time she nodded, her expression even more tense and anxious, and approached an elderly guest, offering him her arm. It was the signal that they were to go in to dinner.
Grigori escorted Caroline into the dining-room. ‘Mother is frantic,’ he confided under his breath. ‘Katya has not arrived, and there has been no message. Most unlike her. Katya is normally the soul of politeness.’
Sacha, who should have taken in Katya, entered the dining-room alone. At that moment it seemed to Caroline that there was something symbolic about his solitariness as everyone else filed in, complete with partner, and sat down. The empty space beside Sacha was eloquent and obtrusive, yet no one relaxed formality enough to comment on it.
The first courses were just being removed from the table when a commotion sounded outside the dining room door. It flew open, and Katya half-fell into the room. Her hair was disordered, her face was deathly pale, and there was blood on her ermine cloak.
At any social gathering her dramatic appearance would have been sensational; in that stiffly formal atmosphere it was galvanising. No one seemed to know how to react until Sacha sent his chair flying, and hurried towards Katya. She made a moaning sound before she collapsed in his arms in a deep faint.
A servant was despatched to fetch a doctor. Sacha carried Katya into the drawing-room and laid her down on a sofa; Aunt Natalia rubbed her hands while someone hovered over her with a generous half-tumblerful of cognac to offer her when she regained consciousness.
She opened her eyes, looked dazed for a moment and then began to weep. Sacha placed his arm about her, holding her. The doctor arrived and asked for the room to be cleared, and all but Sacha returned to the dining room, to make a pretence at continuing the meal. But everyone was clearly agog to know what had happened.
At last Sacha returned alone to the dining-room, and addressed them gravely.
‘A shocking tragedy has occurred. As you all know, the Prince Vezenski has been dangerously insane for years, and kept under restraint. But tonight he succeeded in overpowering his guards and breaking out of the part of the house where he was being held. He procured a hunting knife, with which he armed himself, and with which he subjected the Princess to more than half an hour of terror.
‘She reasoned with him as best she could,’ Sacha continued. ‘She had succeeded in calming him when, unfortunately, his guards burst in. They had recovered from his attack on them, and they not unnaturally leapt to the conclusion that the Princess’s life was in danger. They rushed at the Prince, and as they struggled to overpower him the Prince lost his balance and fell upon the hunting knife. The wound was fatal.’
The guests were far too correct to do more than murmur their shock and sympathy. But the dinner party broke up shortly after that, and as the last guest departed Sacha addressed Aunt Natalia.
‘Katya has not been injured, but she is deeply distressed. The doctor has promised to prescribe some laudanum, and as I don’t consider it wise for her to return home I’ve asked one of the maids to prepare a guest-room.’
His aunt nodded. ‘I shall go to her, and see if she needs anything before retiring.’
‘Dear, dear me,’ Aunt Maria was muttering. ‘Vezenski dead! What a dreadful affair...’
‘Yes, isn’t it,’ Uncle Viktor agreed slyly. ‘But what a merciful release for Katya, on the other hand. Now I wonder—will the Czarina accept that the whole business was an accident?’
‘What do you mean?’ Sacha asked sharply.
Uncle Viktor shrugged. ‘Merely, dear boy, that Vezenski was related to the Czarina, and grieving relatives can be unreasonable. And presumably one has only the word of Katya herself, and of the guards, that it was an accident.’
Sacha stared hard at his uncle, then turned on his heel and left the room.
Uncle Viktor’s cruel insinuation that Katya might be suspected by the Imperial family of having conspired with the guards to bring about the death of her husband, proved quite unfounded. Indeed, the Czar extended her his full sympathy, and because of the family connection, decreed that her husband should be buried with Imperial pomp and ceremony. The body was removed to the Mortuary Chapel of the Winter Palace, so that his family, his friends and servants could pay their last respects. Chanting priests kept vigil around the catafalque.
The funeral was a sombrely splendid affair, rich with pageantry. Caroline, who had never met the Prince, had had no intention of attending, but to her surprise Katya had particularly asked her to go.
Katya was still staying with the Antonovs, and on the day of the funeral had left her bed for the first time since the tragedy. She looked pale and wraith-like in her black widow’s weeds.
‘
Why do you wish me to go?’ Caroline had asked.
‘I don’t know. Perhaps because I sense a strength in you which I don’t possess myself. I should be grateful if you would travel with me in the chief mourners’ carriage.’
Tears had filled Katya’s eyes. ‘Poor Stanislaus, I never loved him, you know. When we first married his jealous rages frightened me, and to tell the truth it was a relief when he had to be confined by guards. I am haunted now by my relief, and by the sad waste of it all. He had so much—wealth, noble blood, good looks—And then, as if to mock him, the gods added the worm of madness.’
Life could be very cruel, Caroline thought as the black-plumed horses high-stepped their way to the Fortress Cathedral where Prince Vezenski was to be buried. What else could one call the sad existence of the dead young man but a cruel and pointless joke?
It was not until a week later that Caroline was to be brought face to face with another and more personal facet of life’s unexpected cruelties. Katya was still a guest of the Antonovs, for her own home held too many distressing associations still for her to return to it. And a week after the funeral the Czar commanded a private audience with her.
Katya returned to the Antonov home afterwards, looking dazed with shock. ‘The Czar has issued a Ukase,’ she began faintly.
‘What is that?’ Caroline asked, when Katya did not continue.
‘An Imperial edict, an arbitrary order,’ Sacha explained shortly. He was staring at Katya. ‘Please go on.’
She looked away from him. ‘Because of my late husband’s connection with the Imperial family, the Czar has intervened personally in my affairs. Stanislaus left no heir—not even a distant male relative—and in order that the title shall not die with him, the Czar has decided to confer it on—on my new husband.’
Count Antonov's Heir Page 9
