by Lisa Kleypas
Tasia reached her room and shut the door with a bang. She had run up three flights of stairs without stopping. Gasping for breath, she held her hand over a cramp in her side and leaned against the wall. She shouldn't have rushed out of the library, but if she had stayed, there was a good chance she would have burst into self-pitying tears. Talking about Russia had caused homesickness to well up inside her. She wanted to see her mother. She was desperate for familiar people and places. She wanted to hear her own language again, to have someone call her by her real name—
“Tasia.”
Her heart stopped. She looked around the empty room, startled. Had someone whispered her name? Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a flicker in the armoire mirror. All at once she was filled with fright. She wanted to run in panic, but some terrible force compelled her to take a step forward, and then another, while her staring eyes remained fixed on the mirror.
“Tasia,” she heard again, and she reeled in horror. She covered her mouth with her hand, gripping hard to stifle a scream.
Prince Mikhail Angelovsky stared back at her from the mirror, his eyes dark holes in his blood-smeared face. His bluish lips parted in a leering grin. “Murderess.”
Tasia was riveted by the ghastly sight. There was a strange buzzing in her ears. This wasn't real…It was only a vision, something born of imagination and guilt. She closed her eyes briefly to make it go away, but when she opened them again, the image was still there. She lowered her hand and spoke through numb lips. “Misha,” she faltered, “I didn't mean to kill you—”
“It's on your hands.”
Trembling, Tasia looked down and saw that her hands were drenched with blood. A choked cry escaped her. She clenched her fists and shut her eyes. “Leave me alone,” she sobbed. “I won't listen. Leave me alone.” She was too frightened to pray, to run, to do anything but stand there petrified. Slowly the humming noise faded from her ears. She opened her eyes again, staring at her hands. They were clean and white. The mirror was empty. Somehow she made her way to the bed and sat down, not bothering to blot the fresh tear streaks on her cheeks.
It took a long time to calm herself. When the terror faded, she had no strength left. Lying back on the bed, she stared up at the blurry, shadowed ceiling and used her sleeve to wipe her eyes. It didn't matter that she had no memory of killing Misha. The guilt weighed more heavily on her each day. She supposed there would be other visions, and probably nightmares. Her conscience wouldn't let her forget or ignore what she had done. The murder would always be with her. Her stomach seemed to flip over, and she groaned in quiet misery. “Stop it,” she told herself fiercely. She couldn't torment herself with thoughts of Mikhail Angelovsky, or she would go insane.
The first day of May was clear and bright. The last bitter trace of winter had left the air, replaced by the verdant scent of springtime. Sprawled on the carpeted floor of an upstairs sitting room, Emma twirled her red hair into wild ringlets. She seemed appalled by her governess's matter-of-fact explanation of the menstrual cycle.
“Disgusting,” Emma muttered. “Why is everything such a bother for women? Bloody rags, stomach cramps, counting the days each month…why don't men have to go through some of this?”
Tasia smiled. “They have their own burdens, I imagine. And it's not disgusting, Emma. It's the way God created us. In return for all the ‘bother,’ as you put it, we are blessed with the ability to give birth.”
“And what a lark that is,” Emma said sourly. “I can hardly wait to be blessed with labor pains.”
“Someday you'll want your own children, and you won't mind all that.”
A thoughtful frown appeared on Emma's face. “Once I begin my monthly bleeding, it means I'm old enough to have a baby?”
“Yes, if you share a bed with a man.”
“Just sharing a bed will do it?”
“It's more complicated than that. You'll learn the rest later.”
“I'd rather learn everything now, Miss Billings. I'm capable of imagining some pretty dreadful things.”
“What happens between a man and woman in bed isn't dreadful. I've been told it can be quite pleasant.”
“It must be,” Emma said speculatively. “Or else those women wouldn't invite Papa into their beds.” Her eyes widened with dismay. “Oh, Miss Billings, you don't think he's given babies to any of them do you?”
Tasia's face turned hot. “I don't think it is likely. There are ways to prevent babies from happening, if one is careful.”
“Careful about what?”
As Tasia thought of various ways to sidestep the question, they were interrupted by a housemaid's appearance at the door. It was Molly, a buxom, dark-haired girl with a toothy smile. “Miss Emma,” she said, “the master sent me to tell you that Lord and Lady Pendleton have arrived. He says for you to come downstairs at once.”
“Drat!” Emma exclaimed, rushing to the window overlooking the front drive. “There they are, getting out of the carriage.” She turned to Tasia and rolled her eyes. “Every year they insist on coming to watch the Maypole dance with Papa and me. Lady Pendleton says it's so entertaining to watch the ‘rustics’ celebrate. The crotchety old snob.”
Tasia joined her at the window, gazing at the plump, middle-aged woman swathed in brocade. Lady Pendleton wore an imperious frown. “She does look rather haughty,” she admitted.
“You'll have to go to the village with us, Miss Billings. I'll drop dead from boredom if you don't.”
“It wouldn't be fitting, Emma.” The last thing Tasia wanted was to take part in a noisy village festival. It was improper for a governess, who was supposed to maintain her dignity at all times, to be seen in such a setting. Besides, the thought of being in a large gathering made her nervous. The memory of the bloodthirsty crowd at her trial, the sea of accusing faces inside and outside the courtroom, was still too vivid in her mind. “I'm going to stay here,” she said firmly.
Emma and Molly protested at the same time.
“But Papa gave all the servants time off to go down to the village.”
“It's bad luck not to take part in May Day,” Molly exclaimed. “You have to welcome summer with the rest of us. They've done it this way for a thousand years!”
Tasia smiled. “I'm certain summer will arrive whether I welcome it or not.”
The housemaid shook her head impatiently. “You have to come tonight, at least. That's the most important part of it all.”
“What happens tonight?”
Molly seemed to be stunned by her ignorance. “The Maypole dance, o' course! And then two men dress in a horse suit and go through houses in the village. People join hands and follow the horse in a long line. It's good luck to have the parade pass through your house.”
“Why a horse?” Tasia asked, entertained by the notion. “Why not a dog or a goat?”
“It's supposed to be a horse,” Molly replied, looking offended. “It's always been a horse.”
Emma began to giggle. “Wait until Papa hears. Miss Billings wants our May Day horse to be changed to a goat!” The sound of her laughter drifted down the hall as she left to join her father and the Pendletons.
“Emma, don't tell him that,” Tasia called, but the child made no response. Sighing, Tasia looked back at Molly. “I'm not taking part in any springtime celebrations. If I recall correctly, it's nothing more than a pagan rite—worshipping Druids and fairies, and such things.”
“Don't you believe in fairies, Miss Billings?” Molly asked innocently. “You should. You're just the sort they like to carry off.” She left with a snicker, while Tasia frowned after her.
The Stokehursts spent the afternoon observing the Maypole dance with the Pendletons. Most of the servants didn't show up for the cold dinner Mrs. Plunkett had prepared. They were all busy adorning themselves for the night's revelry. Tasia was certain that the springtime celebration was only an excuse to drink and cavort through the village. She wanted no part of it. Closing herself in her room, she settled by the open
window and listened to the sound of drumbeats and chants floating up from the village. The night air was crisp with the scent of frost. She stared outside, imagining that the forest was filled with fairies, and that the flickering light of torches was the glow of their wings.
“Miss Billings!” The door to her room burst open. Three girls poured inside without waiting for an invitation. Bewildered, Tasia stared at Molly, Hannah, and Betsy. They were dressed identically, in white blouses, beribboned and flowered wreaths, and colored skirts. “Miss Billings,” Molly said merrily, “we've come to take you to the village with us.”
Tasia smothered a groan and shook her head. “Thank you, but I have nothing to wear. I'll stay here. Have a wonderful time, all of you.”
“We brought some clothes.” A collection of blouses and skirts dropped to her bed in a bright heap.
Hannah, a small, blond kitchen maid, smiled at her shyly. “Some of it's ours, and some of it's Miss Emma's. Keep what you like—they're all old things. Try the red skirt first, Miss Billings.”
“I'm not going,” Tasia said firmly.
The girls began to bully and coax her. “Miss Billings, you must. It's likely the only fun you'll have all year—”
“It's dark outside. No one will know it's you.”
“Everyone is going. You can't stay here all by yourself!”
To Tasia's surprise, Mrs. Knaggs appeared at the doorway with an armload of flowers. The housekeeper's face was stern. “What is this I hear about Miss Billings going down to the village?”
Tasia was relieved that she finally had an ally. “Mrs. Knaggs, they are insisting that I accompany them, and you know how imprudent the idea is.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Knaggs said, and broke out into an unexpected smile. “And if you don't go with them tonight, Miss Billings, I shall be very displeased. When you're an old woman like me, you can stay inside and watch through the window. For now you belong at the Maypole dance.”
“But…but…” Tasia stuttered, “I don't believe in pagan rituals.” Like all Russians, she had been brought up with a complex mixture of religion and superstition. It was proper to respect nature and all its powerful forces, but God was displeased by the worship of idols. Tree worshipping and any other May Day customs were definitely not acceptable.
“Don't do it because you believe in it,” Molly said, laughing. “Do it for luck. For fun. Haven't you ever done something just for fun?”
Tasia longed to stay hidden in the privacy of her room. She tried a few different objections, but her excuses were batted away. “All right,” she said reluctantly. “But I won't enjoy it.”
The girls giggled and chattered, holding up articles of clothing while she undressed. “The red skirt,” Hannah insisted, while Molly argued for the blue.
“She doesn't even need a corset,” Betsy said, staring enviously at Tasia's slender, linen-clad form.
Molly helped to pull a drawstring blouse over Tasia's head. “Her titties aren't much bigger than Emma's,” she said with a friendly laugh. “But don't worry, Miss Billings. A few more weeks of Mrs. Plunkett's puddings, an' you'll have a shape like mine.”
“I don't think so,” Tasia said doubtfully, glancing at Molly's ample bosom. She submitted, resigned to her fate, as they pulled the pins from her hair. The women exclaimed in admiration as her shining black hair fell to her hips.
“Oh, how pretty.” Hannah sighed. “I wish mine looked like that.” She went to the mirror and frowned at her own gold curls, tugging as if it might make them longer.
They plaited Tasia's hair with ribbons and flowers, and let it hang in a thick rope down her back. Standing back, the girls viewed the results with satisfaction.
“You're a lovely thing,” Mrs. Knaggs said. “Every lad from the village will be trying to steal a kiss from you!”
“What?” Tasia asked in dismay, while the girls pulled her out of the room.
“It's a village custom,” Molly said. “Sometimes the lads rush up and steal a kiss for luck. No harm in it.”
“What if I don't want to be kissed?”
“You can run away, I s' pose…but there's no need. If he's an ugly sort, it'll be over quick enough, and if he's a likely lad, you won't want to run!”
It was dark outside, a canopy of clouds covering the stars. The village was illuminated by torches and by lamps set in cottage windows. Drumbeats became louder and louder as they approached the green, tangling in a mixture of rhythms.
As Tasia had expected, wine played an important role in the celebration. Men and women were drinking from bottles and flasks, slaking their thirst between rounds of enthusiastic dancing. Linking hands, they circled the flower-wrapped Maypole and sang pagan songs about trees, the earth, and the moon. The sense of freedom and fun reminded Tasia of the Russian peasants' love of voila, the occasional chance to make mischief and have one's way, drink and break things, and be wild.
“Come on!” Molly cried, grabbing one of Tasia's hands, while Betsy took the other. They plunged into the circle and became part of it, singing an ancient ballad about a magic oak forest. “You don't have to sing, Miss Billings. Just make noise and keep your feet moving!”
That was easy enough. Tasia kept pace with the others, repeating the chants she heard, until the drumbeat was echoed by her own pounding heart. The circle broke as everyone paused to gulp more wine. Molly handed her a soggy wineskin. Awkwardly Tasia drank a stream of sweet red liquor. When the dance resumed, a handsome blond boy took Tasia's left hand. He smiled and joined in the song, crowing as loudly as the others.
Perhaps it was the wine, or the foolishness of the dance, but Tasia began to enjoy herself. All the women darted in the center of the circle, taking the wreaths from their hair and waving them high in the air. The scent of flowers mingled with sweat and wine, giving the air a peculiar earthy-sweet smell. Tasia circled the Maypole until the world reeled around her, the torch flames dancing like fireflies.
She broke outside the group of dancers and tried to catch her breath. The damp folds of her blouse clung to her, and she pulled at it repeatedly. In spite of the night's coolness, she was flushed and hot, exhilarated. Someone handed her a bottle, and she took a swallow of wine. “Thank you,” she said, wiping a stray drop from the corner of her mouth. As she looked up, she realized the blond boy had given it to her. He took back the bottle and kissed her cheek before she had time to react.
“For luck,” he said, and grinned as he turned back to the Maypole.
Tasia blinked in surprise, raising her hand to her cheek.
“The horse is 'ere!” a man shouted, and the crowd gave an enthusiastic roar.
“The horse, the horse!”
Tasia dissolved into laughter as she saw two lads in a ragged brown horse costume, one of them manfully wielding the great painted mask that served as its face. The horse's neck was encircled with a wreath of flowers, and a skirt swung around the legs beneath. A few showy kicks, and then the beast turned toward the village center, lumbering forward. The crowd followed him, clasping hands to form a long chain. Tasia was caught up in the line as they wound through the village like a giant serpent. The line passed through the first cottage, while the doors were held wide open for them. Rush mats had been spread on the floor to absorb the mud from hundreds of feet.
Emerging from the back of the cottage, Tasia let herself be pulled along. People paused at the side of the street to let the dancers pass, clapping in time to the ancient songs. A group of men stood by the buildings of the corn exchange, some of them openly fondling their female companions. An unseen obstruction caused the parade to slow. The dancers stomped their feet and sang as they waited.
Hearing catcalls, Tasia glanced at the boisterous men nearby. She was stunned to see Lord Stokehurst standing with them, his white teeth flashing as he grinned at their antics. What was he doing here? Tasia's muscles tensed as she prepared to run away before he could see her. But it was too late…In that instant he turned and looked straight at her. His smile fade
d, and his throat rippled with a forceful swallow. His lips parted with a surprise that seemed to equal her own.
He was very disheveled, his vest open and his shirt unbuttoned at the throat. With the torch light casting golden gleams on his dark hair, he was the living image of a bogadyr, the hero of an old Russian tale. His blue eyes held hers, direct and devilish, as if he were contemplating something indecent.
The line began to move again, but Tasia's feet were leaden. All she could seem to do was stand there in a trance. The man behind her protested. “Come, lass, either pick up yer feet or step to the side!”
“I'm sorry,” she said, hopping out of the way. Immediately her place in line vanished.
Before she could run away, Lord Stokehurst appeared in front of her. His fingers manacled her wrist, closing until her pulse throbbed hard against the pad of his thumb. “Come with me,” he said. Bemused, Tasia followed with no thought of pulling back.
There were whistles from the group of men, and cheers from the dancers as the line glided toward the next house. All sound was muffled by Tasia's frantic heartbeat. Stokehurst's legs covered the ground in long strides, forcing her to match his pace with a hasty trot. He was angry, and with just cause. She shouldn't have made an exhibition of herself. She should have conducted herself with dignity, and stayed at the mansion. Now Stokehurst would tear her to shreds with a few words, and perhaps dismiss her on the spot.
He pulled her away from the well-lit houses, into a grove at the edge of the village green. Stopping in the shadow of a large tree, he released her wrist.
Tasia looked up at him, barely able to see his shadow-crossed face. “I shouldn't have been dancing,” she said meekly.
“Why not? Tonight I gave everyone leave to do as they liked.”
Her chagrin turned to surprise. “You aren't angry?”
He stepped closer, ignoring the question. “You look like a Gypsy, with your hair like that.”
The remark, so unexpectedly personal, filled Tasia with confusion. Something about Stokehurst was very different from usual; some customary restraint had been removed. There was a new menace in his soft voice and his deliberate movements…Suddenly she realized she was being hunted. She retreated in ever-deepening alarm, stumbling on a thick tree root. His hand closed over her shoulder to steady her. Even after she had found her balance, he didn't let go. The heat of his palm sank through her blouse. Stokehurst raised his other arm, and the tip of the steel hook dug into the tree bark, close to her ear. She was trapped. Exquisitely aware of the solid weight of his body, she shrank backward until the tree trunk was solid against her spine.
