Katerina's Secret (5 page)

‘Who is Colonel Brecht?' said Mrs Rosamund Knight. She was forty and owned an hourglass figure of Edwardian majesty, full-bosomed and wasp-waisted. She was handsome and she was well preserved. Her husband, killed in the war, had left her comfortably off. A healthy, normal woman, she felt her bed very empty and incomplete at times, but she was not a woman to decline into apathy or self-pity. She made the most of things. She had begun to winter at the Corniche four years ago, and she and Edward knew each other well. They also liked each other. Childless, she had only her garden to provide her with a major interest, and that, when she was abroad, was efficiently taken care of by an ex-soldier who frankly would have preferred her to leave it to him all
the year round. Rosamund resolutely refused to be intimidated, and throughout the spring and summer fought a running battle with the veteran of Flanders. It was a battle in which craft and subtlety were exercised by both sides, and in which most skirmishes were won by Rosamund, for to craft and subtlety she added a dash of feminine ingenuity. She was already succeeding in making Colonel Brecht pursue paths of retreat.

‘He seems a decent enough fellow,' said Edward.

‘Of whom are we talking now?' asked Rosamund.

‘The same gentleman. The one to whom you've just given a queenly nod.'

‘That was Colonel Brecht?' Rosamund looked surprised. ‘Do you know, I thought I'd seen him before somewhere, but I can't recall knowing his name. Is he staying here?'

‘He's been here several days, I believe,' said Edward, ‘and certainly he was at dinner last night and breakfast this morning.'

‘Really? One wonders,' said Rosamund, ‘why Madame Michel takes in German guests. The Germans are responsible for the disastrous state of Europe. I'm amazed that any of them can visit France without being
conscience-stricken at the devastation caused by their plundering armies.'

‘Tut tut,' said Edward.

‘Tut tut? Not at all.'

‘Come now, Rosamund, the war is over and done with.'

‘The consequences are still with us, Edward.'

‘And with Germany too.'

‘You're very charitable, you dear man,' said Rosamund. ‘I'm rather unforgiving, I suppose.'

‘It's understandable,' said Edward. ‘Sit down, won't you, and I'll ask Madame Michel to serve us some tea.'

‘How nice.' Rosamund looked pleased. She folded her parasol and sank flowingly into a chair. ‘That's one of the miracles of this charming French establishment, the serving of highly creditable tea. Are you sure I'm not disturbing you? You've brought your work with you as usual, haven't you?'

‘Yes, but it can wait until I'm more in the mood for it. I'm in no mood at all at the moment. Tranquillity has enervated me.'

‘Then I'll impose on your kindness for a while,' said Rosamund, ‘but will go as soon as my chattering begins to pain you.'

Edward went to order the tea. On his return
he caught sight of the gardener. It was not old Pierre, who had worked for Madame Michel for years. It was a man with a sun-browned face and a large untidy moustache. It was, without doubt, the running man over whose head a shot had been fired.

They were drinking tea with lemon, the countess and her friend Celeste, at the table on the terrace. The blue sea was a shimmering expanse of sunlit ripples, and the air at three thirty in the afternoon was dry and balmy.

The countess was entertaining Celeste with an anecdote concerning the children of the illustrious family her father had served. It was one of many similar anecdotes, and featured a trip in a sailing boat during a holiday at the family's mansion close to a Black Sea resort on the Bulgarian coast. The countess called it a dacha, which Celeste thought was what the Russians called their country or seaside houses. Oh, the Bulgarians too, the countess had said.

The little boy, Nikolai, had of course insisted on taking charge of one and all, including the Bulgarian sailor deputed to be responsible.

‘One could never resist Nikolai, however,' smiled the countess. ‘We girls solemnly assured
him that his sailor cap alone was a masterful headpiece of authority, signifying his command and compelling our instant obedience to his orders. He gave only one order, as it happened, and that was more of a warning than an order. “Sit down, you girls, or you'll fall overboard.” I begged him not to keep repeating it, saying I was sure repetition would cause us tremulous girls to do exactly that, to fall overboard and disappear into the dread seas. We turned about after a while and came sailing merrily along adjacent to the beach, from where Mama and Papa waved to us.'

‘Your mama and papa?' asked Celeste,

‘Oh, mine and theirs too, my sweet. Disaster struck, naturally.'

‘I know,' smiled Celeste, ‘all you girls stood up to wave back and you all fell into the sea.'

‘No. Nikolai did.' The countess laughed, her face alight at the memory. ‘The sailor fished him out quite quickly. He streamed water over everyone, and we shrieked. Natasha, the youngest, told the sailor to throw him back. But Nikolai, taking his ducking very well, made the coolest comment. “Who pushed me?” he said.'

Celeste sat back and laughed, and the
countess regarded her appreciative young audience with delight.

‘Oh, madame, that's so funny.'

‘For days we went around asking the same question of the heavens. “Who pushed Nikolai?” And Natasha would cry, “He wasn't pushed, he fell from grace.” You are laughing, Celeste? Yes, it was very funny.'

‘There's always much to laugh about or to interest one,' said Celeste. ‘A gentleman who was a German officer during the war is staying with us for the first time. He's been with us a week. There's also an English lady. Like Mama, she was widowed by the war. She and the German officer, Colonel Brecht, are so polite and distant with each other that I'm full of quivers, for I'm sure one or the other will depart from our doors in a sudden rush of disdain. But then – oh, it is very piquant, madame – they cast many glances at each other.'

‘Furtively?' said the countess.

‘Oh, furtively beyond question, madame. Do you think that means they're secretly taken with each other?'

‘We must hope so, Celeste, indeed we must. There's no joy in life for the observer unless he or she can see romance lurking.'

‘People are so interesting,' said Celeste, and slipped in a casual rider. ‘Monsieur Somers is as interesting as anyone. He arrived yesterday, and as usual is staying until April.'

‘I think you've mentioned the gentleman before, yes?' said the countess.

‘He's the Englishman who was gassed in the war,' said Celeste, and could not hold back what she really wanted to impart. ‘He's immensely impressed.'

‘I'm sure he is, my sweet. You're a delightful girl, and now that you've left school may count yourself a young lady. Let me see, I think you said he was almost old enough to be your father. Almost is the important word. Celeste, I think you're in love.'

‘Oh no, madame, it's you he was impressed with,' said Celeste.

The countess's fine eyes opened wide.

‘Me, child? He's impressed with me?'

‘Immensely.'

The countess laughed.

‘I'm enchanted, naturally, to know this,' she said, ‘but must confess I can't think how I impressed him, for I've never met the gentleman.'

‘But you have, madame,' said Celeste, ‘you met each other yesterday, and he recognized you.'

‘Recognized me?' The countess sat straight up, her grey eyes startled, her face registering shock. Her voice vibrating, she said, ‘Recognized me? What are you saying, dear child?'

‘I was telling him about you after he arrived yesterday,' said Celeste, wondering why Madame was actually agitated, ‘and he said oh, yes, he had met you only half an hour before. He recognized my description of you.'

The countess let out a long sigh and her taut body relaxed. Interest of a very feminine kind gladly took the place of shock.

‘He was wearing a tweed suit and cap, Celeste? He's a little thin, with brown eyes?'

‘Yes, madame,' said Celeste. Her elegant friend had requested her not to call her Countess, just madame. One usually only called a married lady madame, but mademoiselle would not quite have suited the countess.

‘So he's Edward Somers, your most cherished winter guest, and the one you sigh about, my sweet?'

‘Oh, I only sigh because he has no wife to care for him.' Celeste by now had matched Edward and the countess, and whether a wife with a weak heart could look after a husband with infirm lungs did not seem too important.

‘Celeste,' smiled the countess, ‘he did not
to me look like a man who is going to fall into disuse and die of self-neglect. Quite the reverse. You know, people who feel sorry for themselves look sorry for themselves. Monsieur Somers did not seem at all in need of care or pity.'

‘No, madame,' said Celeste, ‘but it's a shame he—'

‘My sweet,' said the countess gently, ‘you must take care or you'll go through life shouldering the worries of everyone you like, and your shoulders will bend under the burden and your bones will crack, one by one. You must avoid the pain that will give you.' She paused, took up her glass of tea in its silver container and sipped it. ‘Tell me, why was he immensely impressed with me? Was it to do with my unsurpassable beauty?'

‘Yes.'

‘Celeste, I was joking.'

‘I know, but all the same, Edward said you were the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.'

The countess put her tea down and her lashes fell to hide her eyes.

‘That was a rather hasty judgement, wasn't it?' she said.

‘Oh, I don't think so,' said Celeste. ‘I don't
think he would make hasty judgements of that kind. It's the first time I've ever heard him speak like that about any lady. He's more inclined to say ladies are dear creatures, without whom men would find life very dull, though rather more peaceful—'

‘Oh, the wretch!' But the countess laughed. ‘There, now you've intrigued me very much. You've made him sound the kind of man who would provoke conversation quite stimulating. But I must ask you, is he given to exaggerations? I can't believe I can possibly be the most beautiful woman he's ever seen.'

‘Well, that's what he said,' smiled Celeste, ‘and he was most definite.'

‘Heavens,' said the countess lightly, ‘we can only assume he's seen very few. He hasn't, for instance, seen the daughters of the family I've spoken about so much. Now there were young ladies truly beautiful – Irina, Louisa, Nadia and Natasha. Perhaps Natasha didn't quite have the classical beauty of her sisters, but she made up for this by being an incorrigible show-off.'

‘I suppose you have photographs of them, madame?' said Celeste.

The countess examined the glittering reflection of the sun on the rippling sea. She
appeared to find it dazzling, for she shaded her eyes with her hand.

‘No, I've no photographs, Celeste.'

‘Oh, it doesn't matter,' said Celeste, ‘for I think my friend Edward has made up his mind that you stand alone.'

‘Ah, he has now become Edward and not Monsieur Somers?'

‘It's because we're old friends. Madame, is it possible you'd allow me to bring him next time I visit you? I'm sure he'd be very happy to meet you formally.'

‘No, dear child.' The countess looked rueful. ‘No, I can't receive people.' She turned her eyes on the sea again to hide the longing, the longing to have friends, to enjoy company. She was basically an extrovert, loving light and colour and conversation. ‘I'm sorry, Celeste. Oh, I couldn't do without your visits, I look forward to them so much. But I must do without visits from others.'

Celeste found it difficult to understand why a woman who seemed to have so much vitality could have a heart so weak that she was unable to receive more than one visitor a fortnight.

‘I'll say nothing to him, madame. I haven't mentioned I would ask you.'

‘You're very sweet, Celeste.'

Celeste bumped into Edward when she returned to the hotel. Her entrance into the garden coincided with his retirement from it, a portfolio under his arm. His eyes brightened. He had a warm affection for the French girl, who gave him a great deal of care and attention, all of which he frankly enjoyed.

‘A happy visit, Celeste?' he said.

‘Oh, yes. She's always so sweet to me. M'sieur, what a shame she has a weak heart. It prevents her receiving and entertaining. I'm sure she would like to fill her villa with people sometimes.'

‘She looked radiant with health to me, but I suppose that doesn't necessarily mean she's as vital as Diana.'

‘Diana? Who is Diana?' Celeste was sure she wouldn't like her, whoever she was.

‘The Roman goddess, the huntress.'

‘I am astonished, m'sieur, that you can compare Madame the Countess with a marble statue.'

‘A hideous blunder, Celeste, but one can't always be brilliant.'

‘Oh, we all have our uninspired moments,' said Celeste. ‘I have to tell you that at the end of my visit Madame asked me to give you her
compliments. She also ventured to suggest your judgement is a little faulty.'

‘Really? Enlighten me, my angel. What faulty judgement have I made?'

‘Well, she's sure you're quite mistaken in thinking her as beautiful as you said.'

Edward shook his head at her.

‘Oh, you terrible infant,' he said, ‘you shouldn't pass on remarks of a highly personal nature. Think of the red face of embarrassment.'

‘But no woman would be embarrassed at hearing a man has been deeply affected by her beauty,' said Celeste. ‘Her sensitive soul would be touched.'

‘What about my sensitive soul and my embarrassment? And what do you mean, deeply affected? Now what are you imagining, you imp of the heavens?'