Flight to Verechenko

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  Contents

  Margaret Pemberton

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Margaret Pemberton

  Flight to Verechenko

  Margaret Pemberton is the bestselling author of over thirty novels in many different genres, some of which are contemporary in setting and some historical.

  She has served as Chairman of the Romantic Novelists’ Association and has three times served as a committee member of the Crime Writers’ Association. Born in Bradford, she is married to a Londoner, has five children and two dogs and lives in Whitstable, Kent. Apart from writing, her passions are tango, travel, English history and the English countryside.

  Dedication

  To my eldest daughter,

  Amanda Elizabeth,

  with love.

  Chapter One

  The two girls strolled through the immaculately kept gardens of Lord and Lady Davencourt’s town house. It was early February and though a few snowdrops braved the crisp, cold air, the carefully tended lawns were silvered with frost. The girls dug their hands deep into the warmth of their fur muffs, their ankle-length coats skimming the damp grass as they headed towards the terrace and the impatiently waiting figure of a child.

  ‘Do hurry,’ Rebecca Oversley said, stamping small, booted feet impatiently, ‘I’m freezing, and Miss Cartwright is being mean and won’t let me play with the dogs.’

  Caroline Oversley sighed. At nineteen she had little patience with her younger sister. ‘Please go inside, Becky. You’ll catch a chill out here.’

  With bad grace, Rebecca flounced from the terrace.

  Caroline watched until she had disappeared through the French windows and into the warmth of the drawing-room before saying, ‘Wretched child. Everything I say she repeats to Mama.’

  Catherine Davencourt was sympathetic. Mrs Oversley had a lot in common with Lady Davencourt. Both were domineering and intolerant and petty tyrants where their children were concerned. She felt a wave of relief at the thought that soon she would no longer be answerable to her step-mother for her every action. In three weeks’ time she would be Robert’s wife. A warm glow suffused her slender body. Robert, Marquis of Clare: the dearest, kindest person she had ever met. She loved him with all her heart.

  ‘Miss Cartwright leaves for Russia in two weeks,’ Caroline said as they reached the foot of the terrace steps. ‘ Mama thinks she is too lenient and that Becky needs a stricter governess.’

  Catherine’s eyes widened. ‘But Becky is devoted to Miss Cartwright.’

  Caroline withdrew a gloved hand from her muff and traced a pattern in the light scattering of snow that lay on an ornamental stone jardinière.

  ‘That makes no difference to Mama. She regards Miss Cartwright as too young and has engaged a veritable ogre to keep poor Becky in check. Thank goodness I am at least free from governesses.’ She sighed. ‘Poor Miss Cartwright. I’m sure she hasn’t the slightest desire to go to Russia, but when Mama heard that Countess Vishnetskaya was looking for an English governess, she immediately suggested her.’

  ‘But Miss Cartwright is so quiet: positively shy. I can’t imagine that she would dare go all the way by herself,’ Catherine protested.

  ‘She hasn’t much choice,’ Caroline said practically. ‘The salary Countess Vishnetskaya is paying her is far higher than any she could hope to earn in England.’

  Catherine was intrigued. ‘Russia,’ she repeated wonderingly. ‘I’ve never even met anyone who has been there. Aren’t there bears and wolves, and forests that stretch for thousands of miles?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ Caroline replied, brushing the snow from the tips of her gloves, and changing the subject to one of more interest. ‘Will Dominic be attending the wedding?’

  An unhappy frown puckered Catherine’s brow. ‘No. The Duke will not allow it.’

  ‘His own son? But that’s ridiculous. Does he mean never to see him again?’

  Catherine nodded. ‘Robert has tried to make him change his mind, but he says Dominic disgraced the family and he won’t hear of him returning.’

  ‘What nonsense,’ Caroline said spiritedly. ‘It would take more than an outraged husband to disgrace the Harlands. Dominic was only twenty, after all. It was a case of wild oats and nothing more.

  Someone ought to tell your future father-in-law that it’s 1914, and not the middle ages.’

  ‘The outraged husband did try to kill Dominic,’ Catherine said, glancing over her shoulder to make sure there was no one within earshot. ‘ It wasn’t just a case of harsh words.’

  ‘The man was an exhibitionist. Fancy choosing Ascot to make a display of himself like that. I always thought Dominic behaved with great courage in disarming him. It can’t be much joy facing a lunatic with a gun, especially so near the Royal Box …’ She giggled. ‘I wish I’d been there. It must have been enormous fun.’

  ‘Not if the gun had gone off,’ Catherine said chidingly to her empty-headed friend.

  ‘Not then,’ Caroline conceded. ‘But as it didn’t, I really can’t see why he had to leave the country. Has Robert asked that Dominic be allowed to return?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s no use. His father is quite adamant. He says that from now on he has only one son.’ She paused. The Duke had forbidden Dominic’s name to be mentioned, and consequently she knew very little of the man she would soon be related to by marriage. ‘Have you ever met Dominic, Caroline?’ she asked curiously.

  Caroline raised sleek eyebrows in surprise. ‘Of course. Haven’t you?’

  ‘No. I was only fourteen when it happened and he’s lived on the Continent ever since. I believe he’s in Paris now. I’ve often wondered what he’s like. Mama says that he is a dissolute womaniser and that I’m not to mention his name.’

  ‘Dominic Harland was the handsomest man in London,’ Caroline said, her violet-blue eyes taking on a dreamy expression. ‘He was so tall and dark. Not a bit like his father or Robert. His manners were perfect, yet underneath you felt that he didn’t care about anyone or anything. That if he had wanted you he would have …’ She gave a delicious shiver.

  ‘Would have what?’ Catherine asked innocently.

  The glazed look faded from Caroline’s eyes and she laughed, patting her friend affectionately on the cheek. ‘When you say things like that, my pet, then I really do know I’m two years older than you.’ She shivered again, despite the fur shoulder cape that surmounted her coat. ‘So, there will be no Dominic at the wedding?’

  ‘No. You’ll have to content yourself with Bertie Pollingham.’

  ‘Nobody could content themselves with Bertie,’ Caroline said feelingly. ‘He hasn’t a chin.’ She sighed. Without Dominic the wedding was going to be tediously dull. The Duchess was sweet but pious; the Duke was a pompous bore. As for Catherine’s parents … Caroline suppressed a shudder. It was her opinion that Catherine would have found herself marrying Robert whether she had wanted to or not. It was no
secret that death duties had financially crippled Lord Davencourt and Robert was heir to one of the richest dukedoms in England. The bride’s mother would certainly shed no tears on the great day. She began to walk across the terrace towards the French windows.

  ‘I must be going, Catherine. The Clarendons are coming for lunch.’

  They stepped into the warmth of the drawing-room and immediately Rebecca leapt to her feet. ‘At last! You’ve been simply ages, Caro. I thought you were never coming.’

  Behind Rebecca a slim, dark-haired girl rose to her feet.

  ‘Caroline tells me you are going to Russia in a few week’s time,’ Catherine said as Eleanor Cartwright acknowledged her presence.

  ‘Yes, your ladyship.’

  ‘I quite envy you. Think of all the exciting things you’ll see. Cossacks, and gypsies, and horse-drawn sleighs.’

  Eleanor Cartwright forced a smile. She had no desire to see any of the things Catherine had mentioned. Hers was not an adventurous spirit.

  ‘I’m sure I shall find it all most interesting, your ladyship,’ she said politely.

  Rebecca pulled impatiently at her sleeve. Caroline kissed Catherine affectionately on the cheek. A footman opened exquisitely carved doors and Catherine’s guests departed.

  A maid relieved her of her coat, removed her boots and slid soft kid shoes on to her chilled feet.

  Catherine sat reflectively by the fire, her mind once more on Robert. They were going to be happy together: joyously, deliriously happy. A soft smile curved her lips as she contemplated the idyllic future that stretched before her. It vanished abruptly as her stepmother entered the room, saying tartly,

  ‘Has Caroline Oversley gone?’

  ‘Yes, Mama.’

  Lady Davencourt’s lips tightened. Catherine’s manner towards her was always beyond reproach, yet beneath the unfailing politeness, Lady Davencourt knew that Catherine disliked her—as she disliked Catherine. She disliked her startling green eyes with their long, lustrous lashes: she disliked the thick, titian hair that glinted gold beneath the light of the chandeliers and turned heads in the most crowded of rooms: she disliked her most of all because she was a living reminder of the first Lady Davencourt—a French-born beauty who still held pride of place in her husband’s heart.

  ‘I hope when you become Duchess that you will do something about the heating at Geddings. I nearly froze at dinner last night.’

  ‘I shan’t be Duchess for years, Mama,’ Catherine said coolly.

  ‘Nonsense. The Duke is ill. Everyone knows it’s only a matter of time. I shall be surprised if he survives the wedding,’ her step-mother said callously.

  ‘You sound as if you want him to die.’

  ‘Of course I don’t,’ Lady Davencourt lied. ‘But one must face facts. Geddings is in need of a woman’s touch. Robert’s mother is far too wrapped up in her charities to be aware of her surroundings. And it isn’t only Geddings. There’s the Irish estate. I shudder to think what the furnishings are like there. The London house is passable, but that’s only because Robert spends so much time in it. And the villa in Italy will need a complete overhaul.’

  Catherine, who had heard it all before, excused herself and slipped quietly from the room. Her step-mother’s voice floated after her. ‘As for the kitchens: they’ll need completely modernising …’

  She ran up the balustraded staircase and closed her bedroom door with a sigh of relief. She sank down on the bed, folding her arms behind her head. On the dressing-table Robert’s photograph smiled at her, and on the wall behind hung a full-length portrait of her grandmother. The artist had depicted her as the Goddess Diana, clothing her in a wisp of chiffon and a tantalising smile. The likeness was unmistakable. Catherine had inherited the same full-blown beauty that had made Gianetta Dubois the rage of London in the eighteen-sixties and a favourite of the Prince of Wales. Even when he had become king, Gianetta had remained a favourite, her gay wit and high spirits a constant amusement to him. And Edward VII liked to be amused.

  Gianetta did not amuse her son-in-law’s second wife. On the rare occasions when the latter had been included in the same house party as the king, his eyes slid over her as if she were non-existent although she could trace her lineage back to the Conqueror himself. When first her husband and then the King had died, Gianetta had retired to Paris and no one had been happier to see her go than Lady Davencourt. Even at that distance Gianetta managed to haunt her. Catherine’s wedding was one instance. Gianetta would not be able to attend, owing to a riding accident.

  ‘A riding accident!’ Lady Davencourt had shrieked. ‘A riding accident! Good God, the woman is seventy if she’s a day!’

  With his usual cowardice her husband had refrained from telling her that Gianetta’s companion had been a young man of excessive good looks, somewhere in his middle twenties. What Gianetta did was her own affair, as long as she did it at a suitable distance from his wife. Lord Davencourt shared none of Gianetta’s zest for life. He liked a quiet existence. A thing his present marriage made well nigh impossible.

  Robert had promised her a long visit to her grandmother after their Italian honeymoon. Catherine’s smile of happiness deepened. She rose from the bed and opened the drawer which held her gossamer-light négligée and silken lingerie. She was going to make Robert happy: happier than even he anticipated.

  Two days later, as her landau joined in a procession through the park, Catherine caught a glimpse of Eleanor Cartwright sitting on one of the park benches. Her hand was raised to her face and it looked to Catherine as if she was crying.

  ‘Stop, Ben!’ she called to the coachman who had been in the Davencourt employ for generations.

  ‘Hold ee on, Miss.’

  The two horses immediately behind them reared up and there was the sound of feminine squeals. Catherine did not wait to apologise. She jumped from the still-rocking landau and weaved her way through the mass of strolling couples to where Eleanor Cartwright sat, her eyes overly bright, a crumpled handkerchief in her hand.

  ‘Miss Cartwright. Can I help you? You seem distressed.’

  Eleanor raised a startled face. ‘It’s nothing, your ladyship, just a slight cold.’ She smiled bravely, but the corners of her mouth trembled.

  Catherine sat down beside her. ‘I don’t think I believe you, Miss Cartwright,’ she said gently. ‘You’re crying.’

  A tear slid down Eleanor Cartwright’s pale face as she shook her head in denial.

  Catherine regarded the governess with concerned eyes. She had always liked the quiet, rather shy girl who had been engaged only a few short months ago by Mrs Oversley. It had never occurred to her to wonder if she was happy in the Oversley household. Now she was to go to Russia and all because Mrs Oversley no longer required her services. Catherine shivered in the cold, clear air. To her, Russia was a land of fairytale and romance. Perhaps it held no such magic for Eleanor Cartwright.

  ‘Are you crying because you are leaving the Oversleys?’ she asked kindly.

  Eleanor took a steadying breath. ‘It would be wrong of me to burden you with my troubles, your ladyship.’

  Catherine covered the governess’s gloved hand with her own. ‘Nonsense. I wish to know. Are you unhappy at the thought of travelling to Russia?’

  Eleanor Cartwright turned her head, the misery in her eyes her answer.

  ‘There is no need for you to go,’ Catherine protested. ‘You could easily obtain another post in London.’

  Eleanor shook her head, saying quietly, ‘Mrs Oversley herself arranged my appointment with Countess Vishnetskaya. The Countess is English born and a friend of Mrs Oversley’s.’

  ‘You must tell Mrs Oversley you have no desire to take up a post so far away from England,’ Catherine said firmly.

  Eleanor Cartwright gave a small smile. She liked Catherine but knew she would never be able to understand the difficulties a girl in her own position faced.

  ‘I have already done that, your ladyship.’

  ‘Then you
r troubles are behind you,’ Catherine said with a comforting smile.

  Eleanor shook her dark head with its neat bun of plaited hair. ‘Mrs Oversley was exceedingly angry at my ingratitude. She refuses to give me a reference so that I may be able to obtain another post, and truth to tell, I have no desire to do so.’ She hesitated, and a faint flush mounted her cheeks. ‘I … I intend to marry.’

  Catherine gasped and then clapped her hands in delight. ‘But that is marvellous news, Miss Cartwright. Who is he? And why have we not heard of him before?’

  Eleanor gave a tremulous laugh. ‘It is not the sort of information that Mrs Oversley would have appreciated me imparting to her children.’

  ‘Well, you can impart it to me,’ Catherine said roundly, perceiving for the first time how difficult life as a governess must be if it held so many petty restrictions.

  ‘It is a gentleman I have known for many years. A clergyman …’

  ‘And do you love him?’ Catherine asked directly.

  The blush on the pale cheeks deepened. ‘With all my heart.’

  ‘Then you should be radiantly happy and not indulging in tears,’ Catherine chided.

  The glow in Eleanor Cartwright’s eyes died. ‘ I am happy. Only Algernon does not receive his curacy for another month and …’

  ‘A month is nothing,’ Catherine said. ‘Now dry your eyes and ride with me a little and tell me where you will live and how you both met and …’ She faltered, seeing for the first time the carpet bag at Eleanor’s feet. ‘Why ever are you carrying that with you in the park? It looks must cumbersome.’

  Eleanor Cartwright looked as if she wished the ground would open and swallow her. Catherine continued to stare: first at Eleanor and then at the bulging bag at her feet. Slowly comprehension dawned.

  ‘Has Mrs Oversley asked you to leave?’ she asked incredulously. ‘Now? Before you can marry?’

  Eleanor Cartwright’s agonised silence was her answer. Catherine’s eyes flashed with anger.