18

 

Domitri refused to leave Charie at her home even though she believed it unnecessary, and after notifying the Marin servants, he escorted her to Olar, rousing the man and his servants from bed as the time was well past midnight.

Olar praised Domitri for bringing Charie to him and suggested he stay as well, given the lateness of the hour.

Domitri demurred and after asking Charie once more if she was all right—he’d already asked her the same a dozen times or more—he kissed her on the top of her head and bade them both goodnight. Though it was very late, he had one more stop to make before he returned to his home.

The hotel Morroc was one of the finest in Paris with its mosque-like towers and Moorish décor. Charie told him Markham Fitzhugh had resided there during his stay in Paris. Given Charie’s certainty she’d seen Fitzhugh in the mysterious carriage, Domitri wanted to visit the man. There were questions he needed to ask. And he didn’t care if he interrupted the man’s sleep, if he happened to be abed, which Domitri doubted.

The drowsy eyed front-desk clerk managed to drag himself from his stool and pull out the guest registry. Yes, he knew of Markham Fitzhugh, but couldn’t recall seeing him about lately. The records indicated that Fitzhugh had checked out over a week earlier, bound for Frankfurt.

Domitri knew Fitzhugh planned to join Matilda in the city where her new play was set to open the first of March. He’d visited Charie a few days earlier announcing his imminent departure. What was Fitzhugh up to?

There were no answers forthcoming, so resigning himself to disappointment, Domitri headed home, his body now suffering the effects of his wild leap from the crashing hack.

Sleep was elusive, but he was up, dressed, and walking to the small protestant church that Matilda and Charie attended early the next morning. He was a little stiff and his shin was bruised, but other than that, he was none the worse for the previous night’s experience. There was no doubt someone had intentionally spooked the horse in the hopes of injuring the occupants of the cab. Or, which possibility he feared the most, one of the occupants—Charie. He still believed Anapol Chervenkof had been behind the stage accident. But if not, the real culprit was still determined to hurt Charie. Why, Domitri couldn’t begin to guess.

Petrov assisted Charie from Olar’s carriage when Domitri reached the chapel, Olar alighting behind her.

He immediately went to Charie, who looked lovely in a gown of brilliant amethyst. She seemed unaffected by the previous night’s drama and gave him a warm smile as he took her hands.

“How did you sleep?”

“Not well. I was so worried about you even though Papa assured me you could take care of yourself.”

“I didn’t sleep well either, not because of an injury,” he quickly assured her, “but because I kept sorting all the pieces to this puzzle in my head. I’d like to talk to you and Olar after services. Something about this situation doesn’t make any sense.”

“Of course we’ll talk. We can all go to Papa’s. He doesn’t want me to return to the townhouse just yet. I’ll say something to him.”

A feminine voice called out a greeting, and looking to his side, Domitri recognized Mira and her beau, Pierre Gouneau, approaching.

Once they’d joined the group. they filtered into the church and found a pew together.

Domitri managed to seat himself beside Charie and discreetly took her hand in his while savoring her lovely smile.

 

****

 

“You’re right, this doesn’t make sense,” Olar agreed as Jules placed a bowl of steaming white bean and celery soup before him, the first course of their lunch now being served, following Olar’s blessing.

Charie watched her father run his spoon through the liquid in an effort to cool it before tasting it just as she often did.

He’d invited Domitri, Mira, and Pierre to join them for luncheon after church and now they sat at the long table in the beautiful dining room, its walls covered with fifteenth century Flemish tapestries.

Charie noticed how Mira’s wide eyes roamed the room as though she couldn’t believe where she was.

Domitri remained quiet while the soup was served, apparently lost in his own reflections of last night’s near disaster. “I wish that you had found Fitzhugh.”

“The hotel records indicate he left for Frankfurt more than a week ago,” Domitri said. “And he stopped to see Charie before—supposedly—leaving.”

“I know it was Fitz. I wish there was a way for us to contact Maman quickly.”

“It’s a shame Bréguet’s new telegraph doesn’t reach Germany. As slow as communication currently is, it would be quicker for us to send a message by carrier pigeon.” Domitri’s lips curved upward in grim humor. “And at the moment it would be nearly impossible for any of us to travel to Frankfurt.”

“I can,” Pierre said.

Charie was glad to see that the young man was gaining weight and wearing clothes without patches and holes.

Olar had spread the word among those in his circle that Pierre was quite talented, and already the young man had received several commissions in addition to Olar’s.

Charie wondered how she would ever find the time to sit for her unfinished portrait now that rehearsals for Esther had begun.

“Baron Bauerhausen has asked me to do a portrait of his mother as a gift to her on her birthday. As Mademoiselle Marin will be limited in the time she can spend with me over the next few months, I could travel to Frankfurt and begin the painting of the dowager baroness. Of course, my primary objective would be to update Madame Marin as to the happenings here and discover Monsieur Fitzhugh’s whereabouts.”

“That might not be a bad idea,” Olar said as he stroked his bearded chin. ”I would send Yuri with you, and he could bring back the information while you remain to complete your commission. Yet, if Matilda can vouch for Fitzhugh’s presence, that leaves us with nothing. Chervenkof couldn’t be behind this latest accident even if he had something to do with the water on the stage. At present, he is still residing in a St. Petersburg prison.”

“Until we receive word from Pierre, we have to be careful,” Domitri pointed out. “I would suggest that Charie remain with you, Olar.”

“As should you. We don’t know the target of last night’s incident,” Olar reminded Domitri.

“That’s out of the question. I have my afternoon and Saturday classes. I am also tutoring two of my worst former students who happen to be my two best dancers. And I wouldn’t want to leave Muzette alone.”

“Domitri, you don’t need the money. You are being paid handsomely to dance the role of Ahasuerus.” There was no mistaking Olar’s bad humor.

“That’s not the issue. I enjoy instructing. And one day I will teach dance to make a living just as my parents do now. I can’t perform forever.”

“I’m sure you have a few good years left,” Mira piped up brightly, believing she’d just complimented Domitri. His scowl wiped the smile off her face. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No, Mira, you said nothing wrong,” Charie assured her friend, trying hard not to smile. “But Papa, I don’t want to be forced from my home. Aren’t we overreacting?”

“Charie, how could we be overreacting to the fact we were both nearly crushed?” Domitri exploded. “I agree with Olar.”

“And I insist that both of you should remain under my roof until such time we can resolve this matter. It’s not as if I don’t have the room. Neither event was an accident. And I want to keep an eye on you both. Have Muzette come here, Domitri, if you are uncomfortable leaving her alone. Renska will welcome the company.”

Charie silently wondered how a woman who spoke only Russian and a woman who spoke only French could possibly provide one another company, but she kept her thoughts to herself.

Olar was determined.

Which meant Charie and Domitri had no choice in the matter. After luncheon they were sent off together in the Stanislov coach to visit their respective residences to pick up whatever personal items and clothing they would need and to make arrangements with their servants.

As night fell, Charie and Domitri returned to Olar’s home with both Muzette and Brigetta.

Madame Orenska took Charie and Brigetta to a guest suite larger and more spacious than her room at the townhouse.

Domitri was installed in a guestroom just a few doors down from hers, and Muzette would be using a spare room in the servants’ wing.

Given the elaborateness of the accommodations, Charie decided she shouldn’t complain and simply enjoy the opportunity to spend more time with her father. As for being under the same roof as Domitri, it was impossible to repress a tiny thrill of excitement. God knew how much she loved Domitri and perhaps her elation was only a natural reaction.

As Charie settled in the large poster bed, bordering on sleep, a terrifying memory resurfaced. She was surrounded by marble and granite crypts, cloaked in snow and ice. Sophia’s name was engraved on one, the top covered with frozen lilies. And Charie was not alone. Ernest Altby was there—threatening; warning.

Sitting up, she drew a deep, ragged breath to steady her nerves. She hadn’t come up with the money Altby demanded. Had the accident been arranged by Chervenkof’s man to frighten her into compliance? What would Altby do next to make sure she produced the funds? Would he release the damaging information he’d promised to spread? But it was Fitz she’d seen in the carriage. She was sure of it. And Fitz wouldn’t try to hurt the daughter of his employer. Or would he?

Charie hadn’t considered the fact Fitz might in some way be connected to Chervenkof and Anapol. If that was so, what did Fitz have to gain?

No answers came to mind, so she lay there replaying all the events, unable to put them in order. She couldn’t tell anyone about Altby’s threats, not yet. His implications were demeaning and tawdry. But if she didn’t do something soon, the resulting scandal might force her and her mother to retire sooner than they’d planned. Neither of them would ever be able to hold their heads high.

 

****

 

Pierre left the next morning with Yuri, bound for Frankfurt and Matilda.

Charie prayed for their safe arrival and hoped whatever Pierre discovered from her mother would shed some light on the mystery unfolding in Paris. Consequently, she was distracted during rehearsal, earning a severe rebuke from Rubenevski and puzzled frowns from Domitri. Resolving to put her mind to her practice, she forced out all thoughts of the carriage accident and managed to finish the day with a nod of satisfaction from Rubenevski.

Much later that evening, long after her father’s household had retired for the evening, Charie donned her dressing gown and ventured downstairs to Olar’s library. Finding a volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets, she opened it and began to read, hoping that she would grow sleepy.

“Can’t sleep?” Looking up with a slight start, she saw Domitri lounging by the open door, still clad in breeches, boots, and a white shirt open at the throat. She tried hard not to stare overlong at that exposed portion of his chest.

“No. I wish Yuri would return with word from Maman about Fitz.”

“Don’t let this worry you.” Domitri entered the room with its towering cases of books, world maps, and globes and seemed perfectly suited to the surroundings. She’d never stopped to consider how well-educated and knowledgeable he was.

“You’re much safer here.”

“I suppose so.” Charie gave him a rueful smile. “I have two bodyguards—I should be very safe indeed.”

“Olar is understandably concerned with your welfare, Charie. There is no doubt the man loves you.”

“And I, him. What’s so amazing is that I loved him like a father before I found out he was. Perhaps, somehow, I always sensed a deeper connection between us.”

“I saw that connection, but being the blind idiot I am, I wasn’t able to grasp the obvious. Just as I’ve struggled with the obvious since the first day we met.”

“What do you mean?” Her words came out breathlessly, the book in her lap now forgotten.

Domitri knelt by the chair in which she sat and took her hand. “I am in love with you, Charice Marin. And I wish, very much, for you to become my wife. Before you give me an answer, you should know that I admire and cherish you because you are you; not because you are Sophia Stanislovna’s sister. I ask God to allow me the privilege of loving you, protecting you, and making a home with you. I wish to dance with you, in spirit, soul, and body until that moment I draw my dying breath, and then my greatest hope is that we will do the same when we are united in Heaven. I can’t offer you wealth or luxury, but I can offer comfort and security and a love deeper than the wells of eternity.”

Silence slipped around them as his words floated upon the chilly air, but inwardly, Charie burned with the fire of a love the likes of which she’d never thought to experience. What should she say—what could she say? She should say what her heart was telling her.

But what if the scandal changed Domitri’s feelings? He’d endured such pain and loss when Sophia died. His first marriage had fallen apart long before the train accident claimed Sophia’s life. Could she subject him to the ridicule and speculation when the details of her mother’s unorthodox conduct became public—the questions—the secretiveness of her birth—the absence of a father? What if Chervenkof twisted the facts of his relationship with her mother, presenting her mother as an immoral, unprincipled woman?

“I,” she swallowed painfully, “I can’t give you an answer.”

Domitri tightened his hold on her hand. “What’s in your heart, Charie?”

“Love,” she gasped. “I do love you. But things are so uncertain.”

“They don’t have to be.” He was insistent, wearing away her resistance.

Her gaze fixed on his, those green eyes urging her to confess it all and cast her worries on his broad, muscled shoulders…her traitorous heart was about to lead her where she knew she shouldn’t be. “Not now. I can’t do this now. Don’t press me, Domitri. I don’t want to anger you—”

“I’m not angry.” His tone was surprisingly gentle, his eyes conveying the love he’d just professed.

Charie felt horrible. How could he be so compassionate, so understanding? She didn’t deserve his love.

“I can wait. I will wait until you’re ready to share your love. If your heart leads you elsewhere, I won’t be happy, but I’ll accept your decision.”

“You are amazing,” Charie whispered as she raised her other hand, and then traced his scar with her fingertips. “Patient and giving. And loving.”

Domitri grasped her fingers, and then kissed each one, slowly and softly.

Charie nearly choked on the sob his touch evoked.

Releasing her, he stood, smiled, and then walked away.

She wanted to stop him, to call him back, but she couldn’t. Dropping her face in her hands, she allowed the tears to fall freely.

 

****

 

“Someone didn’t sleep well last night,” Olar observed on the ride to the theatre the next morning.

Domitri shifted his gaze to Charie, who sat beside Olar, her eyes shadowed and troubled. If only she would open up to him.

Charie straightened in her seat and pasted on a smile.

Domitri shrugged. “I passed a fairly good night.” Not exactly the truth, but he’d made peace with himself, determined to wait as long as necessary. Until God clearly showed him there could be no future with Charie. “What of you, Olar?”

“I slept very well, thank you,” he replied, his gaze moving from Charie to Domitri as though silently probing for what wasn’t being said, “knowing that the two of you were beneath my roof. And by the way, I know that both of you were in the library for a while.”

Charie’s face paled, and Domitri felt as though he’d swallowed a rock, his collar suddenly too tight.

“Papa, Domitri and I were just talking.”

“Is there anything you’d like to share?” Domitri looked at Charie and she shook her head slightly.

“Not…yet.”

“Why the hesitancy?”

Charie squirmed and averted her eyes, pretending to look out the window.

“The two of us have confessed a fondness for one another.” Domitri spoke, eliminating the need for Charie to answer.

Olar’s brows shot up. “I see.” Olar feigned a gravity his eyes belied. “I’ll have to be patient.”

So will I, Domitri added.

Having reached the theatre, they were stunned and dismayed to see several gendarmes outside guarding the door.

Domitri was out of the coach first, Charie and Olar directly behind him.

The guards barred his entrance.

“No one is allowed inside,” the officer informed him curtly.

“I am supposed to be here for rehearsal.”

“An investigation is being conducted, and no one is to go in.”

“What sort of investigation?” Olar demanded, having now come up beside Domitri. “I am Count Olar Stanislov and my ballet company, under the direction of François Robert, rehearses and performs in this theatre. Now, I ask that you permit me to enter, along with my daughter and Monsieur Auberchon.”

Charie trembled.

Reaching for her gloved hand, Domitri squeezed it reassuringly.

“Then you’re the one we’ve sent some of our men to find—please go in. The captain has questions for you.”

“Tell me what has happened?” Olar requested in such a way the officer immediately answered.

“A man was found by Monsieur Nicolai Rubenevski behind the stage, severely beaten and near death. Even now we can’t be sure he will survive although he has been taken to the public hospital.”

“Have you identified the man?” Domitri asked tersely while tightening his hold on Charie’s hand.

“He was able to give us his name before he lost consciousness—he is Anglais—an Englishman. The name is Fitzhugh, Monsieur Markham Fitzhugh.”

 

****

 

Charie was certain this nightmarish day would never end as she restlessly paced the somber, dark halls of the forbidding public hospital, silently praying that she never become so ill or hurt so badly she had to be taken here.

Nurses walked up and down the halls, their expressions mirroring the grimness and joylessness of their profession. Surely, a hospital didn’t have to be like this—why couldn’t there be sunshine and smiles even if those within the walls were ill? Just being in a pleasant environment could help one to heal. She thought of the children’s hospital, and though it was old and in need of many repairs, the kind, compassionate nuns made all the difference.

But at the moment, Charie was cold and despondent, having been left alone when Olar and Domitri were admitted to the ward where Fitz had been placed. A nurse informed them that Fitz had regained consciousness. The two men refused to take her with them, telling her it was not a place for her to be.

But she had questions to ask the man—specifically why would Fitz want to hurt her and Domitri? Matilda had always depended upon Fitz to handle all the irritating, time consuming details of her career so that she could devote herself to rehearsals and performances. He’d always been professional, courteous, and most congenial. What changed him?

She knew now she could no longer delay telling her father and Domitri of her encounter with Altby in Novgorod. The man would never give her peace until he’d either frightened or blackmailed her into meeting his demands. Charie found herself wringing her hands. Oh Lord, I’m so afraid.

Having walked to the furthest end of the long, gray corridor, Charie noticed a stairway that led to the lower floors. She was about to turn around when she froze in terror.

Emerging from the shadows was Ernest Altby, looking hale and hearty and far too pleased with himself. Immediately she lifted her skirts in preparation of running from the man, but he was surprisingly quick. Grabbing her arm, he thrust her against the cold wall. Placing his hand over her mouth, he pressed the barrel of a pistol against her cheek, speaking roughly into her ear.

“If you thought I wasn’t serious the last time we spoke, you made a mistake. This time I am going to finish what I planned. And if you scream, I’ll simply finish it more swiftly than I intended.” With strength she never would have imagined he possessed, he wrapped his arm about her waist and hauled her towards the stairs, her heart hammering while she weighed the consequences of attempting escape. He would kill her if given provocation, so she remained silent, praying that someone would see them downstairs.

Such was not to be for the stairs ended at what appeared to be a servants’ entrance, deserted at that moment, when he pulled her through the door.

She struggled when she saw the waiting coach, but hearing the unmistakable cocking of the pistol, she ceased her efforts and walked unsteadily towards the conveyance.

Opening the door, Altby shoved her within, yelled something to the driver in Russian, and then quickly followed, slamming the door. The coach immediately rolled down the snow-covered lane.

Righting herself, Charie looked at Altby, his bulk filling the small space opposite where she sat.

He still gripped his pistol.

“Why are you doing this?” Charie fought the tears that wanted to spill. “Why would you risk your life and your freedom for Anapol Chervenkof?” To her amazement, Altby laughed.

“Poor, ignorant child. I don’t work for Chervenkof. He works for me. He has failed to accomplish his task. Now, it’s up to me to take care of things. I am the one you should fear. Allow me to introduce myself—Ivan Nikitin, at your service.”