by Eliza Lloyd
“You know him, he cannot miss such an occasion. He mistakenly believes he is twenty again when he displays his prowess upon the ice.” He turned his glacial gaze upon Katrina. “And you, my beauty, how are you? Your radiance shines as the Northern Lights.”
Katrina presented her hand, and Stephan held her fingertips before placing a feather-light kiss upon her covered knuckles. “Be careful, flatterer.”
He bestowed a devilish smile, and yes, he was a handsome charmer. “Or what? Will you call upon Baba Yaga to carry me away to the forest?”
Baba Yaga. The legendary witch, out to thwart the desires of one’s heart. And not only that, but any achievement one set their sights upon. The fickle Baba Yaga. Who knew why she rewarded some and punished others?
“Fie! Fie! Would it do any good? I fear you would only return, more wicked than ever.”
He pressed a hand to his chest. “You wound me.”
Katrina shivered a little and glanced about the clearing. The lights cast eerie shadows against the naked tree branches and revealed a few stragglers still arriving to the festival. There in the dark, she could see a lone man, his great coat sweeping about his legs, hesitant to approach the growing crowds. She understood. Skating required confidence and skill, plus the ability to chat endlessly about the most mundane things. Perhaps it was worse than being trapped at an indoor ball.
The servant took up a second pair of skates, but Stephan plucked them away. He knelt in front of Katrina and gripped her shod foot, fastening each of the skates securely.
“Your father is much the same, Stephan. Words flowing from his tongue like a mountain spring. Your mother, poor woman, had to watch as he spread his enchantments to any ear who would listen. Scoundrels all.” Raisa admonished. Her smiled belied her words. She was as much as a flirt as Stephan. Perhaps it was a family trait.
Katrina was a bit jealous of their easy play. In England, she’d always felt different, and consequently, she’d been very reserved with her acquaintances. Maybe that is why she’d failed to reveal her true feelings to Mark.
“Mother was immune to Father’s words,” Stephan said.
“As am I to yours,” Katrina added. “You should practice on someone with a warm heart.” She tested her steps, stomping her skates against the snow-covered ground. “Are you ready, Aunt?”
“You two go on ahead. I see Count Pushkin coming my way.”
“A wealthy man is exactly what you need.”
“Who gives a fig about wealth? He is eight years younger than I am.” Aunt Raisa winked.
Laughter still on their lips, Katrina allowed Stephan to lead her toward the pond, and with ginger steps and shaky limbs, began the first turn about the ice. Already numerous skate lines marred the smooth glaze.
Her ankles wobbled a bit, and she was thankful for the support of her flirty cousin, but by the second turn, she felt confident. Unfortunately, Stephan wasn’t about to lose his grip. The light tug of her hand was met with a gentle squeeze, keeping her firmly at his side.
They were silent, listening to the happy chatter around them and the swoosh and kish-kish of blades flashing by them. He held her hands. His right arm behind her back, clutching her right hand, also folded behind her. Their left hands were lightly entwined. The whole effect was one of complete intimacy. And for some reason, tonight she didn’t mind, even considering all of today’s negative musings.
“I know this isn’t the place to ask, Katrina, but I would—”
She turned a panicked gaze to see he looked back, his brows raised and a one-sided smile upon his face. “You’re right. This isn’t the place.”
“You don’t know what I was going to ask.”
“I have an idea.”
“Oh?”
“I am not staying in Russia past this spring.”
“As you’ve said on numerous occasions,” he said, with a dose of frustration. “I don’t necessarily believe you.”
Swoosh. Kish-kish.
She forced a tight-lipped smile.
“I do have much to offer a woman such as yourself, family connections notwithstanding. It seems inconceivable that my proposal would be rejected out of hand. I can do so much for you.”
“Stephan, I have sons.”
“We can spend winters in Spain. Summers on the Black Sea. I would spare no expense. My connections to the tsar are consequential. If you required it, I could have a position of some importance, which could also benefit your sons. I would be a good father to them.”
“There are many young women with respectable families to whom you might attach yourself. And surely you want your own children.”
“Of course, and you’ve proven your worth in that regard.”
“My worth? As a brood mare?”
“My dearest.”
She found an opportunity and slid to a stop at the edge of the ice. “Thank you, but I shouldn’t monopolize your time this evening. Not when there are so many looking for husbands.”
“I meant no insult.”
“None taken.”
“Yet you are angry.”
“I am angry because you will not listen to me. Now, if you will excuse me, I wish to find another partner who will not badger me so.”
She pushed off, sliding toward a large group of revelers, but Stephan wouldn’t give up his pursuit and skated up next to her.
The sense of displacement occurred at the same time Stephan’s eyes bulged. He reached for her arm, but she flailed to keep her balance.
Time slowed as cold crept up her body. She careened against the others. Screams pierced the night air. She glanced down, toward the source of the cold, to see the crack in the ice. Water gushed up through a widening ravine, soaking her feet and legs. The skirts of her dress had turned dark and heavy, dragging like a lead weight.
Another lurch and the ice gave way completely. The fall was long and seemed to last forever. There was no one to grab hold of; they were jostling against each other, each hoping their neighbor could help. There was no help. They were all descending into the same dark hell.
They plunged into the ice-cold water together. She gulped some air and clenched her eyes shut.
How deep was the pond? Would her feet ever touch the cold, silty bottom? The bodies writhed next to hers, gripping and tearing at her. She clawed for purchase, her arms waving, striving to get to the surface.
She grabbed as she was being grabbed. Was it someone trying to help her? Or someone desperate to save themselves, and her body was the only thing to hang on to?
Stephan? Where was he? He would not leave her to die by drowning. He wouldn’t. Not unless he was thrashing beneath the ice, attempting to save his own life.
The black depths trapped her; her clothes sprang tighter than ropes about her body, weighing her down. She must have air. Just a bit. Anything to fill the painful emptiness burning in her lungs.
She could swim. She had learned to swim as a child on the beaches of southern England. She kicked her legs, only to feel the freeze work further into her body, her veins.
There! Solid footing. She pushed hard upward, feeling the sting of movement pass through her. She kicked, weakly. Ineffectively, it seemed.
Somehow, she breached the surface and sucked in a lungful of life-saving air. She had no time to scream for help, no time to open her eyes before she was pulled back under. How did she know that? This time the water covering her face was a wash of warmth.
It wasn’t true, though. There were no happy memories to ease her into death. She had to search for the names of her sons: Ivan. Claud. Sergei. A peaceful swell filled her heart. She might die, but her sons would live.
She wanted only one thing: one last breath.
And the warm touch of her lover. Mark. Mark knew how to bring her to life. To bring her warmth and contentment.
The bitter cold surrounded her and no longer felt so shocking. She embraced it and a hint of warm spread from her middle outward.
Then she felt death. Sharp pain spiked through her head, and
the roots of her hair screamed. A dagger-like agony tore through her arm, the same one she’d wounded weeks ago.
And that was all she remembered.
Chapter Twelve
Mark really had only two choices—live without the woman he loved or do something about it.
Once the decision was made, once he stepped out his front door and began the journey to St. Petersburg, he’d carried on with singular purpose. Katrina must know how he felt, and it could not wait until she returned to London.
The sad part was he’d been oblivious to her attempts to suggest they might have more together. All was clear in hindsight. She’d been the obvious and perfect woman for him. From the first.
After the swing accident, she had been able to put him aside. He didn’t blame her; there was certainly more risk for her than him. If he made his feelings clear; if he did it before she had a chance to forget him completely…
He’d arrived a few days ago, familiarizing himself with the city and its people. He made open inquiries about the Angersteins and more subtle ones about Katrina Klee.
Katrina had made an impression on those who claimed to know her. The White English Rose, they’d said. Mark thought it pleasantly humorous since Katrina was so sure she was still Russian to the bone. She’d acclimated well to the social norms and proper etiquette required of an English noble woman. Would her heritage reclaim her soul now that she was in her homeland?
He’d penned a note to her this morning, trying to explain, requesting an audience, but he’d heard nothing back. He wasn’t necessarily alarmed by this. She was probably shocked. Probably examining how she felt about his abrupt, unannounced visit.
He wouldn’t blame her for any feelings she might have. He’d had time to come to terms with his sentiments on the long journey by sea, trapped in his cabin with nothing but thoughts of Katrina to keep him company.
Before he proposed marriage, though, he must see for himself.
Did Katrina belong in Russia or was she destined to return, firmly attached to sons and home, and hopefully, with an English lord for a husband? He’d learned enough to know what she was doing and when—she was an Angerstein, after all.
He left the warmth of his lodgings and tromped down unfamiliar streets toward the skating festival.
The evening was clear and cold, the northern stars bright against the backdrop of the darkened city while the celebrated pond was bustling with the city’s hardiest citizens. At the far side of the bean-shaped area, a stone bridge connected the two sides at the middle.
Mark’s greatcoat was insufficient for providing warmth whilst he stood alone amongst the trees. Had he a pair of skates, he could be on the ice, thoroughly warmed from the activity and the joy of chasing Katrina around the frozen slabs of the pond.
If she wasn’t being escorted by a handsome Cossack with arms as flexible as an octopus.
There she was, looking radiant but rubicund. His gaze followed her easy pace around the ice. Held securely by her partner, Katrina skated with practiced ease.
Every day he woke with an enthusiasm that died by sunset—by suffocation, by denial, by lack of hope. It was a slow, miserable dying to which only Katrina could bring new life. Seeing her with another man only confirmed what was plainly before him.
Living without her was a painful alternative to his real hope.
He was not going to proclaim an undying love, though his heart bounced a bit irregularly when he thought of her.
Such claims seemed too convenient. He could have made that declaration at any time over the length of their liaison. I love you.
Was it too simple to say I want to spend every day of my life with you?
The truth was simple like that.
An unfamiliar sound disrupted the festivities.
The quaint scene below changed quickly and he was moving before he fully understood what was happening. The shouts in Russian reached his ears. While he didn’t comprehend the words, he knew the content. Help! Hurry!
The second crack sounded like a loud whip and panicked screams followed. The group seemed to hang in mid-air before they moved with one scary lunge.
“Katrina!” he yelled. Sliding, arms flapping, he hurried forward. He reached the edge of the pond.
He grabbed the arms of two children who were working their way toward the catastrophe. “Stay off the ice,” he yelled. They cowered at his words but understood and turned back to the safety of the shore.
The sight in front of him left him breathless. Heads and bodies bobbing then disappearing in the water. First confusion, then action. He worried that those trying to help would make things worse. That the rescuers would need to be rescued.
The ice was dangerous, but he proceeded across, as did many others. He waved them away. “Go back.” They wanted to help, as he did. Already several men were laying on the ice, legs spread, arms reaching into the cold water. Others stood behind them, securing them so they didn’t fall in also.
Scarves were unwound. Ropes appeared and were slung across the dark precipice with unnerving accuracy.
Horses, carriages and snow sleds were coming near the pond edge. The yelling continued until it felt like his hearing had gone bad.
Another group cowered nearby. He stopped to herd them toward the shore. “Please get off the ice!” he yelled. “It’s not safe!”
He felt useless amongst the muddle, but finally tore off his coat and lunged toward the gaping black hole. Someone had been plucked from the water, coughing and choking, water streaming from her person. Mark wrapped his coat about her. Chills shook her so hard, they passed right through Mark too.
He hoisted her up and carried her toward the shore and the waiting help. Another wrapped her in a blanket and Mark returned for another body.
It was an eerie silence. The screams had died down. There were still shouts, but the night and the tragedy seemed to dull his senses. Men mouthed instructions he did not understand. The flailing bodies seemed to gyrate in a slow, macabre dance.
One by one bodies were dragged to safety—some half frozen, out of their minds. Others unmoving. Limp and weak with the effort to swim. Their frozen arms and legs unable to support the weight of the body.
Where was Katrina? Had she been plucked from the cold depths already?
He had come with his high-minded determination, and yet he had not been able to save her. Please, dear God, let someone have found her and pulled her to safety. Let her live.
Let her live.
Just as the carriages and sleds had arrived, they disappeared into the cold night. He shivered, his coat missing and his clothes wet and weighty. He stood alone on the ice; a few stragglers remained on the shore.
His breath, pumping from his lungs, formed a frosty halo around his head. He didn’t move, he couldn’t move, until an elderly woman met him with a blanket and uttered some kind words as she threw it around his shoulders. He grabbed the woolen covering and gripped the edges, trying to keep out the cold. He knew enough to say thank you.
A deep shudder passed through him. He forced his legs to carry him back to his lodgings, the trip a forgettable misery. This one awful night was a deep and dark contrast to the halcyon days at the house at Henley-on-Thames and their encounters at his private home.
No one had died. There was that. His heart had nearly given out, though, watching her flail, then disappear. He understood what it was to be a ghost. To watch such a calamitous event and to be unable to do anything of real value.
He could not lift his arm or remove his shirt until he stood close to the fire for a few minutes. The servant who’d brought in the tub and water stared wide-eyed at his condition.
If the need to be with Katrina was strong before, the shock of near death made it imperative.
By the time he had warmed himself with a hot bath and a change of clothes, Mark’s decision was clear. If Katrina was anywhere, it would be at her aunt’s home. This was confirmed when he arrived; two other carriages were out front and the house was li
t with candles.
He stepped from the carriage, shivering as the night air blew in harsh, quick bursts. He wasn’t sure that he had entirely thawed yet. Snow still covered the steps up, but it had been snowing off and on since Mark arrived. It was going to take a winter in Spain for him to recover from this hell on earth.
“I am here to see Baroness Katrina Klee,” he said when the door opened. Inside, he could see the bustle of servants carrying water buckets and blankets and hurrying from kitchen to servants’ stairs down a short hall.
The servant shrugged, but gestured for Mark to follow. Whether the servant understood or not was another matter. He was led to an empty sitting room. Would it be the height of rudeness to follow the servants to whichever room they were dispatched?
“Katrina Klee,” Mark said again.
The servant wagged a fat, chastising finger at Mark, then said something in Russian. Instead of obeying, Mark followed him to the door, for which Mark earned a stern glance. The servant instructed Mark further, but was interrupted by a woman who Mark hoped was Katrina’s aunt. When she turned her gaze to him, he saw a resemblance to Katrina.
“Sir? You are here to see Katrina?” She spoke with a superior air like that of royalty.
“If I may? Is she well? I was at the fesitival. I saw what happened,” he explained quickly.
“You know Katrina?”
“Yes. From England.” Hell, how did he explain his indecision, his skulking, his appearance late at night. “I’m sorry. I am Mark Turnbow, the Earl of Compton. Is she well?” he finished.
“Raisa Angerstein,” she said. He took her hand and executed a short bow. “Come with me. I am sure she will want to see you.” So, had Katrina mentioned him to her family?
“Is…was anyone mortally wounded?” He’d been confident no one had died at the pond, but perhaps…
Such a scramble of people and chaos, he wasn’t sure if anyone would know until the light of day tomorrow.
“From what I could tell, and what we have heard in the past hour, all were saved.”
“Good. That is good.” The steps they climbed seemed less steep, but the exertion and the excitement had his heart beating an enthusiastic cadence.
