19

 

As Domitri gazed down at Markham Fitzhugh, his face a mass of reddened blotches and purple bruises making him nearly unrecognizable, he didn’t know if he was sorrowed or disgusted. Fury kept him silent as Olar calmly questioned the man.

The Englishman had already confessed he’d been drawn into the Russian arms scheme after meeting Chervenkof during that time when the man courted Matilda. Jealousy had driven Fitzhugh to reveal Chervenkof’s criminal side to Matilda, earning the Russian’s disfavor.

But the two men put aside their personal rivalry when they discovered a mutual need and greed. Now Fitzhugh’s involvement had led to a beating so severe, if he survived he’d most likely be crippled for life. Fitz coughed.

Olar helped him sip water and waited for the liquid to ease his throat.

“Why has Charice been targeted, Markham?”

With his eyes swollen shut, Fitz turned his head towards the sound of Olar’s voice. “The money.” Fitz rasped.

“Charie has no money. Her earnings are held in trust until she reaches twenty-three years of age or she marries.”

That was news to Domitri, not that the knowledge made any difference in his desire to marry her. Those funds belonged to her.

“The insurance I obtained.” Fitz coughed again but it subsided quickly.

Olar persisted. “What insurance?”

“With Lloyd’s…of London…on Charice—in the event—” He faltered and began to cough.

Olar helped him drink from the glass once more. “In the event of what?” Olar resumed his questioning.

“Couldn’t—couldn’t dance.”

Horror spread through Domitri as the enormity of Markham’s words registered.

“Chervenkof had you do this?”

“No. I did so some time ago. Wanted to make sure I’d have something to fall back on if Matilda released me from her employ.”

Even if it meant crippling Charie? What sort of man had Markham hid behind his polished façade? Domitri wondered.

“I told Chervenkof what I’d done in a moment of drunken bravado. Then, just before Giselle opened, he informed me he needed funds immediately and that now would be,” he paused to draw a labored breath, “a good time for an accident to occur. It was either help him or he’d ‘help’ Matilda discover what I’d done.”

Domitri’s blood chilled, and he clenched his fists to keep from adding to the man’s physical misery. He was instantly contrite and silently prayed for forgiveness for the uncharitable thought.

Markham had already suffered enough because of his greed.

“So when the fire didn’t injure Charie,” Domitri spoke, “you arranged other accidents. You had something to do with the incident in St. Petersburg at Christmas and most recently, spooking the cabby’s horse. What did Chervenkof promise you?”

“Not Chervenkof.” Fitz attempted to open one eye, but had no success. “Altby—he’s behind everything.”

“Altby?” Olar and Domitri spoke in unison.

“I thought he worked for Chervenkof,” Domitri said.

Markham moved his head back and forth in an attempt to convey no. “His name…is Nikitin—Ivan. He runs the organization—Chervenkof was merely his public mouthpiece. It’s Nikitin who needs the money. He was here earlier, and then slipped away when the nurse brought you in. He’s going to ki—ki…” Another fit of coughing racked Markham’s body and blood bubbled out upon his lips.

Olar compassionately wiped it away.

“Kill Charice.” Markham went limp as though he’d fainted.

Domitri turned and ran from the ward even though Olar called out to him to wait.

When he entered the corridor, Charie was nowhere to be seen. Taking the central stairs with a series of leaps, he prayed he’d find her on the lower level. A frenzied search earned him strange looks, but no Charice. Rushing outside, there was still no sign of her. Running past startled hospital staff and visitors, he halted at the rear of the unwelcoming facility just as he glimpsed a short, squat man pushing a woman into a coach about fifty feet from where he stood.

The man turned at that moment. Ernest Altby. Altby yelled to the driver to go and the coach lurched forward.

Domitri knew Charie was with Altby. His heart pounding painfully, he looked around for a way to follow. With no time to waste, he ran towards Olar’s carriage.

Petrov was talking to the horses from his seat as though conversing with humans.

“Get down!” Petrov glanced up and seeing Domitri’s expression, jumped to the ground. Domitri took his place within seconds, urging the horses to a gallop.

As the carriage barreled forward, Domitri saw Altby’s coach on a long, narrow lane that led away from the hospital and, fortunately, wasn’t far ahead. He didn’t know what he was doing—he could only pray God would help him reach Charie in time.

 

****

 

“Ivan Nikitin?” Charie repeated, uncertain she’d heard correctly. What did he mean by saying Chervenkof worked for him? Was he joking?

Altby didn’t answer right away, his attention focused outside the window. But then he turned and gave her an unpleasant smile.

“I am Russian by birth—granted I was brought to American when I was two years of age. But by the age of ten, I was an orphan living in the squalor and filth of the New York City you never see. By twelve, I had killed a man for the coins in his pocket. At ten and five, I was the leader of a gang composed of the most fearless men that lawlessly roamed the city. The more fear we instilled, the greater grew our power.

“Though I was the leader, the one with the ideas, the plans, and the means of execution, I had inherited my sire’s lack of height and consequently, lacked the physical presence of a man who invoked admiration and loyalty. Instead, I invoked ridicule and contempt.

“I needed someone to play the part of the leader, yet follow my instructions. That someone was Anapol Chervenkof—Nap Rheyev—recently arrived from Russia, filled with impossible dreams of using American money to fund a revolution and become wealthy in the process. He exuded charm and confidence and was exactly the man I needed.

“Things went very well—I remained in the background, posing as Chervenkof’s aide while I accumulated my fortune. Chervenkof was most successful at courting wealthy women, convincing them to part with huge portions of their bank assets. He grew greedy and decided he wanted a larger share of the earnings.

“Unknown to me, he secretly struck out on his own, arranging deals with his old Russian friends who were ready to arm themselves and their compatriots for one of the numerous ‘revolutions’ that were forever plotted but rarely implemented. I could have told Chervenkof it wouldn’t work.” Altby—Nikitin—fell silent.

Charie was frightfully aware of how fast the coach was moving along the snowy road. The driver had the horses at a reckless gallop, and she was bounced with bruising force even though she grasped an overhead strap to steady herself. She feared her teeth might be shaken loose. “I suppose you were angered when you discovered Chervenkof had gone into business for himself,” Charie managed through teeth that rattled.

“Naturally. By this time, Matilda was his target—famous, beautiful, and rich, not to mention the mother of an incredibly promising ballerina with enormous earning potential. And it didn’t hurt that her father was one of the richest men in all of Russia.”

“How did Chervenkof discover that Olar Stanislov was my father?”

“He overheard a discussion between your mother and Markham Fitzhugh, who was involved in a bit of financial creativity himself. He wanted to insure his lavish lifestyle continued in the event Matilda Marin reached a point where she no longer required his services. He was worried she would marry Chervenkof or, even worse, return to her former husband, Stanislov, and would no longer need an agent to handle her affairs.

“So, without your mother’s knowledge, Fitzhugh took out an insurance policy on you through the Society of Lloyd’s at London’s Royal Exchange that would pay him should you become unable to perform.”

A fierce chill swept Charie, and she bit down so hard on her lower lip, she tasted blood.

How could Fitz have done such a thing? Charming, sophisticated Fitz?

Altby—Nikitin—was telling her that Fitz, without compunction, would have hurt her in some way to obtain the insurance money if the need had arisen, setting him up nicely for the remainder of his life. With startling, horrifying clarity, Charie realized it was Fitz who’d sloshed the water on the stage. But there were still so many pieces that didn’t quite fit.

“What does Fitz have to do with Chervenkof’s dealings with the Russians? My mother hasn’t released him from employment. What does he have to gain?”

“Chervenkof was displeased when Fitzhugh dredged up enough of his wrong doings to turn Matilda against him. Because of Fitzhugh’s nosing about, your mother severed the relationship with Chervenkof. He’d spent the sum delivered to him by the Russians intended for me, and hoped your mother would provide enough money to replace the funds I expected. And the Russians still awaited the delivery of their guns. Chervenkof went into hiding when he was unable to deliver my money and produce the promised weapons. When Fitzhugh bragged to Chervenkof about the insurance he’d obtained on you, Chervenkof used the information to blackmail Fitzhugh.

“Not one to overlook mismanagement of my funds, I set out to find Chervenkof. When I finally located him last summer, I made it very clear who was in charge. I took care of his angry clients, and then considered what you and your mother could add to the pot. Knowing who your father was, aware of the insurance, and certain your mother would do just about anything to keep you safe, the makings of a very lucrative exchange had been placed in my hands.”

“But my accident at the theatre, and the faked kidnapping in St. Petersburg…the carriage mishap just a few nights ago—”

Altby chuckled, which angered her. In that moment she decided that being angry was better than weeping in fear.

“Fitzhugh was behind the first event—although he thought he could stage the accident, file the claim for the insurance, and then disappear before Chervenkof could find him. But as you know, that didn’t work, and I threatened to reveal his duplicity unless he helped me. You can imagine how agreeable he became when faced with the prospect of his own demise.

“He failed again in St. Petersburg—not entirely his fault, and was warned not to make another mistake. But he did—the carriage didn’t tip over and cripple you as intended, so I had no alternative but to mete out the punishment Fitzhugh, by now, so richly deserved. Hence, his residence in the hospital. With Chervenkof rotting in a St. Petersburg prison, I’m going to handle matters—I’ve already sent another missive to the count demanding money for your release. Only this time, after I receive the money, I won’t be handing you over to anyone.

“I’m going to kill you because you have made what should have been easy very difficult. I have unhappy Russians who are decidedly distrustful. I don’t plan to suffer the same fate as Fitzhugh.”

Charie could scarcely believe what she was hearing. “You’re going to kill me because your minions couldn’t carry out your orders? Are you serious?”

“Of course I am. I saw you dance in Giselle—you are indeed a marvel. It’s very sad that your star will dim as quickly as your sister’s did. The count will be inconsolable with grief.”

The racing coach tilted precariously as it careened around a bend in the road on two wheels.

“He should slow down,” Charie insisted aloud. She was almost glad that Altby was visibly shaken. “If he keeps up this pace, he’ll kill us both before you get your chance to kill me. And you’ll never get your money.”

Altby poked his head out his window and to her horror, he aimed his pistol out of it. “Your misguided lover has decided to follow us. You can thank him if we tip over.” He took aim, and frantic that he would harm Domitri, Charie grabbed Altby’s arm and jerked with all her might.

Hurling vile curses, Altby shoved her.

Charie fell hard against the squabs, hitting her head on the edge of the opposite window. Pain darted behind her eyes as she struggled to sit upright, and then tried to grab Altby once more. Before she could grasp his coat sleeve, the door nearest Altby crashed open.

Domitri swung within, like a trapeze artist she had once seen in a circus. Using his booted feet, he forced Altby against the opposite door.

Charie pulled herself into a tight ball in an attempt to keep out of the way. But Altby still had his pistol, and she knew he would use it.

The coach rocked dangerously, the driver increasing the breakneck pace.

Charie knew they would crash. It hardly mattered that Domitri had come to her rescue if they both perished, and she feverishly repeated the Lord’s Prayer.

 

****

 

Domitri’s fist shot out, catching Altby hard in the jaw.

Altby’s head snapped back, and blood spurted from the corner of the man’s lips, inflaming his already uncontrollable fury. Roaring, he swung at Domitri.

A scream ripped from Charie’s throat, terrified that Altby’s punch would send Domitri out the opening. Suddenly, the coach lurched oddly, the wheels on the left side leaving the ground.

Domitri grabbed her arm and hauled her against him, wrapping his other arm about her waist.

No longer hindered by Domitri’s grip, Altby aimed the pistol at them both.

But to Charie’s shock, Domitri—one arm still tight around her—used his other arm and grasped the doorframe with his free hand. Hauling them out of the coach, Domitri held on to the shattered door, and then used his legs to catapult them away from the coach. They hit an area of deep snow and tumbled several feet through what felt like tufted grass, rolling to a stop in an icy stream.

A terrifying shriek rent the air followed by a horrendous crash and suddenly, everything was quiet and still.

Charie pushed herself up, soaking wet and teeth chattering from cold and fright.

Domitri was already moving towards her. Taking hold of her arms, he pulled her up, enfolding her.

Charie sobbed brokenly as she clutched his torn coat, burying her face into his chest. Domitri held her so tightly, she wondered if her ribs were crushed but it hardly mattered. God had brought them through this terrible ordeal, and no one would ever separate them again. No mortal one.

“I have to see what happened, my love.” His hoarse whisper brushed her ear. “There’s a possibility someone is hurt and needs help. You must stay here. Will you be all right if I leave you?”

Charie managed a nod, but no words would pass through her frozen lips.

Releasing her, he made his way up the snowy bank, and then moved out of her range of vision.

Charie paced, rubbing her arms for warmth, sending up thanks to God for protecting them during such a ghastly ordeal.

A shot rang out in the cold air, and forgetting all about Domitri’s request that she remain by the stream, Charie managed the arduous climb up the embankment in spite of sodden skirts and petticoats.

After reaching the road, she broke into a run, the biting cold making her lungs ache. Reaching the scene of the accident, she covered her mouth with her gloved hands.

Altby’s coach looked worse than the cab had the other night after it tipped over.

The horses had broken free before the crash for they were nowhere to be seen and had most likely galloped down the road. The driver was propped against a tree, his left leg twisted at an odd angle, the man in obvious pain.

There was no sign of Domitri. Her heart thumped erratically. “Domitri! Domitri!”

Had Altby survived the crash and shot Domitri?

No, no, I mustn’t even consider that. Looking about, she had no idea where to search. Then she saw them, Domitri carrying Altby over his shoulder as though he was a very large sack of potatoes. Hurrying forward, Charie halted a few paces away as he dropped Altby on the ground, the man unconscious, bearing a multitude of cuts and bruises, but still breathing.

“I heard a shot.” Her words came out breathlessly.

“Fortunately, Altby’s aim isn’t very good.”

Charie almost smiled at his attempt at humor.

“I chased him into the forest before he stumbled and I could catch him.”

“I can’t believe either man survived the wreck. What do we do now?”

“Wait. I’m sure Olar isn’t far behind. Are you hurt?”

“Just a bump on my head. And you?”

“That dratted bullet wound in my shoulder is aching, but other than that, I’m well. Fitzhugh was working with Chervenkof and Altby.”

“I know. The most unbelievable part is that Altby was behind everything.”

“Fitzhugh told most of the story when Olar and I spoke to him in the hospital. As soon as he let it slip that Altby had just visited him before our arrival, I knew you were in danger. I looked for you and realized you were no longer in the hospital. Then I saw Altby shoving you into a coach.”

“Thank God you followed, but Domitri, how did you follow?” He gave her a tired grin.

“I ‘borrowed’ Olar’s coach. I’m sure the horses had enough sense to stop once I hopped off.”

“What you did was dangerous, risky, and reckless, and,” here she paused to draw a breath, “so very brave.” Flinging herself against him, she hugged him as though she would never let him go.

Domitri hugged her just as fiercely.

When the shrill neighs of approaching horses reached her ears, Charie turned her head, relieved to see her father and six Paris gendarmes.

Petrov, now reinstated as driver, guided the previously abandoned Stanislov coach at a rapid pace. Releasing a deep sigh, she sagged against Domitri. Could it be the nightmare was finally at an end?

“Domitri, I must tell you the real reason I declined your marriage proposal.” Pushing back tumbled curls and snarled tresses, Domitri smiled down at her.

“Not now, Charie. There’s plenty of time for explanations.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, and she shut her eyes, drawing strength from his arms, feeling safe and protected.

 

****

 

Domitri found the serenity of the small church most welcome given the tumult of the past several days, and he was glad to find the doors open. As he settled in a pew near the front, his eyes rested on the lovely stained glass window depicting Jesus delivering the Sermon on the Mount. The pieces of glass were so intricately and realistically arranged, Domitri almost imagined he could reach out and touch his Savior. And though he couldn’t in the literal sense of the word, he could do so through his heart and mind. And they were both sorely troubled.

Shutting his eyes, he allowed himself to recall that harrowing day when Altby abducted Charie. Having heard Fitzhugh’s confession at the hospital and Charie filling in the missing pieces with what Altby told her, Domitri could only shake his head in wonder and amazement.

What a miracle God had enabled him to bring Charie safely through the near catastrophe, and Domitri had offered up his heartfelt thanks and praise. But as he’d held her in those moments before Olar’s arrival, he realized he would have lost all will to go on had something happened to her—that allowing her to move forward without him would be better for them both. He’d thought his world irreparably shattered when Sophia died.

To be separated from Charie would leave him but a sad shell of a man—a man who could be of no use to anyone and certainly not to God. If he caved in to his desires and earthly needs, he would marry Charie, ill-prepared to meet the realities of life. Sadly, death often intruded upon happy ever after.

Dropping to his knees, he clasped his hands and rested his forehead upon them. Searching his heart, he struggled for the words—for a way to express his fears and longings and why he was afraid to embrace love.

“Oh, Lord, I’m lost and confused. I thank you for protecting Charie and for allowing me to bring her to safety. Yet, I fear that pursuing the dreams of my heart could only cause more pain. I’m not sure I could survive losing Charie. Even though You have revealed through the resurrection of Your Son that death is not the end, how could I remain on this earth without Charie? I may die before her, but there is always the possibility…I want to be free of this doubt.

“I know that I should simply turn things over to You and allow You to guide my steps. Wouldn’t it be better for me to end things now with Charie, and make it through life alone? You’ve given me back the ballet. Surely, that should be enough. Oh Lord, help me—allow me a glimpse of hope.”

He fell silent as he struggled to contain his tears, an occurrence that always left him unsettled. Hearing footsteps, he looked up, recognizing the reverend. The man smiled at him as he came to his feet.

“I’ve seen you with Mademoiselle Marin on Sundays,” the man said in French. “You are the danseur, Domitri Auberchon, are you not?”

“I am. The door was open, and I came in to pray. I hope that was all right.”

“The house of God is open to all. I did not mean to eavesdrop, but you were speaking aloud to our Father, and I couldn’t help but hear. I surely do not have all the answers, but I have one question to ask. Is it not better to spend a day with one beloved than spend a lifetime unhappy? Is that not what our Lord wishes for each of us? That is a question you must answer for yourself. Rest assured, my son, you have God’s love and grace. We’ve done nothing to deserve it, but it is there for us without fail.”

Tears clouded Domitri’s vision. He wasn’t convinced that marrying Charie was the right thing, but he knew denying what was in his heart was the wrong thing.

“Go in peace,” the man offered, and then continued towards the altar.

Domitri drew a deep breath, aware that his load had already lightened.

 

****

 

“Maman!” Charie cried excitedly, jumping from her chair and flinging herself into the arms of the woman who now stood at the door of her dressing room.

“My dear, dear, Charie,” Matilda murmured, tightening her hold. “You are well and safe. I thank the Lord above for protecting you and for giving you two very brave men to watch over you.”

“You know, Maman?” Charie asked uncertainly as she pulled back and met her mother’s tearful gaze. “About Fitz and Chervenkof and Altby?”

“I know everything, Charie. And I am so saddened that Fitz died. When Pierre and Yuri arrived with their bizarre story, I refused to remain in Frankfurt wondering what was happening here. Ludwig worked things out so that I could leave. Yuri, Lizbet, and I took the first train we could and arrived in Paris about two hours ago.

“At the townhouse. Madame Jeaneau informed me that you’d been staying with Olar. When I reached Olar’s, I was told that the two of you had already left for the theatre. I found Olar with Monsieur Rubenevski, and, well—I know more than I want to and all I can say is praise God you are well and safe.” The two hugged again.

As they separated, Charie brushed at her eyes.

“You are all right, aren’t you?” Her mother’s eyes were filled with love and concern.

“I wasn’t injured, Maman, but Domitri—” Her voice faded as she recalled the past few days since the coach overturned. A disturbing distance had slipped between her and Domitri, something she couldn’t quite define, as though he was keeping her at arm’s length. They hadn’t had so much as five minutes alone, and he and Muzette had returned to their home now that Altby and Chervenkof were no longer a threat. Had he somehow learned of Altby’s accusations, altering his feelings for her?

“The two of you haven’t worked things out? What are you waiting for?” A note of exasperation heightened her mother’s voice.

“Weren’t you the one who thought Ludwig would make a more suitable husband?” Charie gently teased, her tears now evaporated.

“I was wrong. Besides, it appears Ludwig is now enamored with the daughter of a Prussian nobleman—a beautiful, but quiet girl who is most devoted to her family and to her faith. You did make a difference in Ludwig’s life. His priorities have changed.”

“I hope he finds happiness. You’re the one who made me see him in a different light. But Domitri—it’s almost as though he now fears what he feels for me. I truly believed he was over Sophia.”

“Perhaps his fear is in losing you, which he nearly did. Sometimes it’s harder to love and risk losing that love than to deny love and never face that possibility.”

“If he would just talk to me—”

“Charie,” Mira called out and popped into the dressing room, “they are ready to—Madame Marin! You are here—this is wonderful. You will stay until opening night?”

“I plan to. Charie, we’ll talk later. I don’t want to delay you. I’ll be sitting with Olar.” She kissed Charie’s cheek then swept past Mira.

Mira looked questioningly at Charie. “Is everything all right?”

“I hope so,” Charie managed and gave her friend a tremulous smile.