*
Arkady shook a few drops from the silver bottle of hair dressing his mother, the Dowager Countess, had given him before he left Russia.
He held the drops in his palm for a moment and let the exotic scent of spices and green limes fill his nose.
He was filled with a sudden longing for his home.
The ice would be melting now on the river and the snow disappearing from the roof of his Palace in a gurgling torrent of melting water.
He should be there now. If it was not for this ball tonight that the King and Queen had so kindly decided to honour him with, he would have left already and would be on board ship looking out over a wild tossing seascape.
He had been down to the beach again many times, on the brand new bicycle His Majesty had so thoughtfully provided for his use and gazed out over the white-topped waves in the direction of Russia, so many miles beyond.
But what had become of the ethereal tousle-haired angel on the little white horse?
It was not that he needed the ragged coat back – the gardener’s boy had been given a fine new tweed to replace it, but Arkady had felt sure that the beautiful angel would return it.
And he wanted to speak to her again, hear her soft voice and marvel once more at how skilfully she could ride her spirited horse.
But there it was.
Perhaps, after all, she was just a weird vision, an enchanted but tantalising figment of his imagination.
There would be a crowd of pretty girls tonight to distract him and he could flirt with them to his heart’s content, knowing that in a few days he would be gone and would never have to see any of them again.
He rubbed his palms together and then smoothed the scented lotion through his dark hair.
He was ready, down to the last detail, to make his appearance in the ballroom.
*
“So how do I look?” Lady Fairfax anxiously patted her elegant coiffure with her gloved hand, as they stood in the elegant cloakroom at Sandringham. “I am afraid that we have come much too early, there are hardly any other guests – ”
“You are perfect,” Chiara reassured her, admiring her Mama’s neat figure, swathed in a shimmering gown of turquoise silk.
“No, Darling – you are perfect!” Lady Fairfax said, with a little sigh. “You are just at that age, so young and yet so grown up and that white gown is utterly divine. Do you have your ball card?”
Chiara nodded.
The card, with the list of all the dances and blank spaces beside them for those who wished to partner her to write their names in, was safely tucked at her waist.
She smoothed down the soft skirt of the dress that Elizabeth had so kindly given her. She could feel already how it would swirl around her when she danced.
A stately footman approached them as they left the cloakroom. He bowed politely and conducted them to the ballroom.
Chiara caught her breath in surprise as they walked into the brightly-lit almost empty space.
The walls were decorated with intricate flowerlike patterns made up of dazzling displays of muskets, spears and swords. It was a most unusual effect.
Queen Alexandra was at the door, welcoming her guests with Regal charm and the soft light from the many candelabra glinted on her jewelled tiara.
“Lady Fairfax, how well you are looking. And how delightful that you should be one of the first to arrive,” she said in her deep mellow voice. “But who is this? It cannot be your little daughter!”
Lady Fairfax blushed.
“It is, ma’am. I can scarcely believe it myself.”
Chiara’s Mama was interrupted by the arrival of the King, his plump hand resting upon the shoulder of a tall dashing man with dark hair.
“Lady Fairfax,” the King began. “May I introduce our Guest of Honour this evening? He is staying with us to sample the many delights of life in the English countryside. Count Arkady Dimitrov.”
The man bowed, his loose dark hair falling forward over his forehead.
Then, when he had straightened up, his eyes looked piercingly into Chiara’s.
“Enchanté,” he said and the sound of his voice sent shock waves through her whole body.
She now gazed at his handsome face, at his sharp cheekbones and long curving eyebrows.
Everything about this man was immaculate from the thin gold braid that trimmed his evening coat to the faint scent of lime and spice that seemed to waft from his black hair.
And his manners and deportment were aristocratic in the extreme.
It could not be him – and yet she was quite sure that this was the ruffian who had accosted her on the beach.
Chiara’s mother was squeezing her arm to remind her of her manners.
She pulled herself together and made a low curtsey, murmuring the appropriate words of greeting.
There was then a flurry of activity as more guests arrived and somehow Chiara found herself walking away from the door, her hand upon the Count’s arm.
He was silent, looking sideways at her with his dark eyes, as he led her to a gilt sofa at the side of the ballroom.
Above their heads, soft music was playing from the Musician’s Gallery and now their Majesties were stepping into the middle of the ballroom, circling the floor in a slow waltz to a little ripple of applause.
“It is you,” the Count murmured and Chiara felt as if she had been waiting all her life to hear him speak those words in his deep extraordinary voice. “You are not a real angel, after all, just a young girl who goes to balls!”
He raised one of his long eyebrows, waiting for her to answer him, but she could only nod her head.
She felt shy and stupid and clumsy.
He shifted position, moving so that he was face to face with her and now she found herself with one hand on his shoulder and the other clasped in his hand.
“Well – since I am the Guest of Honour,” Arkady said, “I had better take the floor for the first dance and I think you must join me.”
“Oh!” Chiara gave a little cry of surprise as he spun her around, drawing her into the sensual rhythm of the waltz.
Her feet knew the steps of the waltz to perfection.
From earliest childhood her Mama had taught her and she was grateful that the dancing master at school had drilled her, as all she could focus on was the man whose hand rested so lightly on the middle of her back.
She had never danced a waltz like this before, so swift, so light and with so many turns and twists.
Around and around the Count led her, flying faster and faster across the ballroom floor, spinning her until her skirts swirled out like flower petals and her head was full of a jumble of candlelight and the glow of his dark eyes.
Her heart was racing and her whole body sang with joy. To dance like this was the most wonderful thing she had ever experienced.
It was almost exactly the same feeling as the wild exhilaration of galloping along the beach – but no, it was even better than that, for there was music. And there was – him.
As she thought it, the tempo of the waltz began to slow. The first dance was coming to an end.
The Count released her and bowed low at the exact spot by the gilt sofa, where they had begun to dance.
More guests were coming into the ballroom and Chiara was becoming uncomfortably aware, now that she was standing still, that most of them were looking at her.
“You are upset. What is wrong?” the Count asked, and then he gave a little shrug. “Ah! I suppose I should have reserved you by writing my name in your little card.”
“No, not at all – it doesn’t matter!” Chiara said quickly.
“That is the way it is done,” the Count was saying now, his eyes looking into hers. “I apologise.”
“No – it was wonderful!”
Chiara wanted more than anything to dance with him again. She wanted to give him her ball card and have him write his name, Count Arkady Dimitrov, beside every waltz, polka and redowa printed there.
His eyes
brightened and he smiled at her.
“Perhaps you have flown in, after all, from the sky! I can see now that you are the same angel I saw swooping along the sands – ”
“Darling!” Chiara’s mother was now approaching, closely followed by Lord Darley, who had just entered the ballroom. “Our friends have arrived – you must come and say ‘hello’.”
Lady Fairfax’s cheeks were positively glowing with excitement. All her earlier nervousness had vanished, now that Lord Darley was at her side.
Chiara was desperately torn.
She could not bear to leave the Count, as it felt to her as if he was the only person in the ballroom.
Lady Fairfax noticed her daughter’s hesitation.
“Do forgive me, Count Dimitrov,” she said, with a quick curtsey. “So gracious of you to honour Chiara with the first dance.”
He inclined his head politely, but before he could speak, their Majesties were at hand, inviting him to meet Lord and Lady Duckett and their visitor, Lord Darley.
Suddenly Chiara’s left hand was caught in a strong grasp that pulled her away from the party and towards the gilt sofa.
Mervyn Hunter had arrived and he then pressed her gloved fingers to his lips.
“Too long!” he murmured.
She felt suddenly faint and the rosettes of weapons that were pinned to the walls of the ballroom seemed to spin and whirl.
“I should be very angry with you for giving the first waltz to that Russian Count,” he said in a low voice, his breath tickling her ear. “But it was such a rare pleasure to watch you dance. You are utterly lovely this evening.”
“You are too kind,” Chiara managed to say, though her lips felt stiff and numb.
“Now – to business! Is that your ball card I see peeping out from your pretty blue sash?”
Chiara flinched as Mervyn Hunter took the card, his fingers brushing her waist. He seemed to have no manners at all, as now he was examining it and surely this was not correct behaviour for a gentleman.
“I have struck lucky! You are still free for every dance,” he crowed. “Lady Chiara, let me take them all!”
“No! You will not!”
The words sprang from out of Chiara’s mouth with a vehemence she could not control. She must remember where she was.
She took a deep breath and began again,
“Mr. Hunter, if you would be so kind as to return my card to me, I shall be happy to fill in your name as my partner. But – I cannot give every dance to you. That would be very rude to all the other gentlemen who wish to dance with me.”
To her surprise, he burst out laughing.
“I stand corrected, Lady Chiara!” he chuckled. “I am so glad that I have you to remind me how to behave or I might make a fool of myself in this august company.”
He winked at her and his eyes darted to where the King and Queen were speaking to Lord and Lady Duckett.
Chiara looked at them too and she could see that the Count was there, watching her. She could not read the expression in his eyes, but she wished that Mervyn Hunter was not standing so close to her, holding her ball card in one hand and her fingers in the other.
Then the Queen beckoned to a group of young girls to join them and, as they thronged around the Count, curtseying and clutching their ball cards, he turned away from Chiara.
Mervyn Hunter was now busy insisting that at least every other dance should be his.
“I shall not give you a moment’s peace until it is written in your card,” he muttered.
Other gentlemen then came flocking over to Chiara, praising her skill as a dancer and begging to partner her.
She could not refuse them and before long her card was completely full and she knew that there was no chance that she would be able to fly across the ballroom with the Count again.
But at least she would now have some respite from Mervyn Hunter’s attentions. He was not a good dancer in spite of his long legs, as his movements were too stilted and more than once she felt his boot crunch against her foot.
And his hands were too heavy and leaden as they steered her around the floor.
Waltzing with the Count, they had spun around as if they were one being, but with Mervyn Hunter she felt as if she was a parcel being tossed about by a delivery boy.
More than once she had caught the Count watching her, especially when there was a break in the music and ice cream and other refreshments were brought in.
Mervyn Hunter left her side for a moment to fetch a plate of delicacies for her. And, for a moment, the Count, who was talking to Lord Duckett, looked as if he might come and speak to her again.
But Mervyn Hunter was swiftly back at her side.
“Grapes! At this time of year?” he said. “What a world of elegance and luxury I have stepped into. I could become accustomed to such extravagance, I think – with very little difficulty.”
He winked at Chiara and she smelt whisky on his breath. He must have had a quick drink while he was away from her.
The Count turned back to Lord Duckett, his arching brows pulled together in a frown.
The night seemed to go on forever, as Chiara was propelled around the ballroom floor by Mervyn Hunter and innumerable other gentlemen, whose names she could not remember.
Her feet were sore from being trodden on and her head ached.
Midnight passed and still they danced on.
Then the King called for breakfast to be brought in.
Mervyn Hunter, who by now reeked most strongly of whisky, went in search of sausages and eggs and then Chiara’s mother came up, her pretty cheeks flushed red.
“Well, my darling. Your very first ball! You have outshone all the other girls. I hope that you have enjoyed yourself.”
Lady Fairfax’s eyes were brighter than Chiara had ever seen them.
“Thank you, Mama. I have had a very nice time,” she said. She could not help looking over Lady Fairfax’s shoulder to try and catch sight of the Count, but he was nowhere to be seen.
“Oh, my darling, I know that I should perhaps wait to tell you this, but I simply don’t think I can!”
Lady Fairfax was whispering, her face very close to Chiara’s.
“Lord Darley, my dear sweet Tom – has asked me to be his wife!”
“Mama!” Chiara choked.
“Yes! I am so happy, darling. I thought, when I lost your Papa that I should never feel joy again, but oh, now I think I must be the happiest woman in the world!”
“But – ”
Chiara shook her head in disbelief.
“I know it must seem very sudden to you, darling. But we love each other so much.”
“That’s wonderful, Mama. Congratulations!” she managed to say.
At the side of the ballroom beneath a vast display of muskets, she could see Lord Darley, sitting on one of the small gilt sofas.
He really was a very handsome man with his dark curly hair and fresh complexion. As so often, there was a wide smile on his face.
Mama could not wish for a more good-humoured husband, Chiara reflected.
But her heart sank as she could see Mervyn Hunter sitting beside him, his long legs stretched out and his thin mouth stretched in a drunken lop-sided smile of his own.
Something about that smile then struck fear into her heart and the ballroom seemed unbearably hot and stuffy, especially now that breakfast had been brought in and the smell of fried sausages filled the air.
“I am very happy for you, Mama,” Chiara said and squeezed Lady Fairfax’s hand. “I am sure that Lord Darley will be a very good husband. It really is very hot in here, would you like to step outside for a little air?”
She had to get out of the ballroom at all costs.
“Oh no, my darling, I must go back to Tom. Come and have some breakfast with us.”
Lady Fairfax was already heading back towards the sofa and it was easy for Chiara to slip away and go out into the cold freshness of the garden.
She was now astonished to see the sk
y beginning to lighten and turn grey in the East.
It was morning and she had been up all through the night dancing.
‘I should be happy,’ she said to herself. ‘I have had my first ball and for every dance there was someone who wanted to be my partner and I have received nothing but compliments on my dress and my appearance, yet my heart feels so tired and heavy.’
She walked along the side of the house, looking for a quiet spot and breathed in the fresh cold air, trying to forget the sight of Mervyn Hunter lolling on the sofa next to the man who was going to be her stepfather.
The morning sky now began to change from grey to pink and then suddenly Chiara’s whole body thrilled with excitement as she heard a strangely familiar noise coming from above the steep roofs of Sandringham House.
Swans flying!
The same wild swish of wings she had heard when she walked out over the Fens at Ely. This was much louder and there must be many more birds passing overhead.
She looked up and saw a large flock of white swans speeding past her, their long necks outstretched and their feathers turning pink by the dawn light. They were flying towards the sea.
There was a rustle of movement beside her and a footstep crunched on the gravel. Her heart skipped a beat.
A dark shape was approaching.
Mervyn Hunter had followed her!
“They are flying home,” a deep voice spoke from close by her shoulder.
It was the Count.
Now she caught the intoxicating aura of lime and spices that had enveloped her as they danced and warmth flooded over her skin.
“What – do you mean?” she asked.
“They know spring is coming and the ice is melting on the Steppes.” His low voice was resonating through her whole body. “They are now returning to their home and to mine. Mother Russia.”
“But, I thought they lived here.”
Chiara recalled the family of swans she had seen at Ely.
“Some do. But these great flocks are wild swans from the far North,” he told her. “When warmth comes back to the earth, they return there. As I must soon.”
“Oh!” Chiara felt a sharp pain in her heart. “Do – you have to go?”
He shifted beside her and she heard him take a long breath and waited for him to speak.
A Flight To Heaven Page 8
