Читать книгу The Brigadier's Daughter - Catherine March - Страница 7

Despite retiring in the early hours of morning, Reid was awake and up at his usual time, his routine dictated by a lifetime of military discipline. He had declined his uncle’s invitation to stay with him and had taken a room in the Officer’s Mess of the Royal Fusiliers, conveniently situated for the town and stables behind the barracks near the Tower of London. At nine o’clock precisely his batman came in with his shaving gear and a bowl of hot water. Reid shrugged on a robe and dutifully sat down to be shaved, facing the light of a long sash window.

Through the open curtains of thick, dark green brocade, he could see a square of blue sky. He would take a ride in Hyde Park before luncheon; it would help to clear his mind. He was not a man who usually brooded, or had any difficulty in life that required mental wrestling, but on this bright December morning his thoughts were indeed a little disordered, and that irked him.

All was not going according to plan. The intention was that he would acquire a wife, take her with him to St Petersburg, and settle down to enjoy his career. But here was the rub—choosing a suitable woman was not as easy as he, or Uncle Percy, had thought it would be. In the past he had felt no inclination to acquire anything as permanent as a wife, and, though he was not a man who felt the constant need for a woman, he had enjoyed the occasional yet discreet liaison. Always with a woman who was very beautiful, not very intelligent and yet one who understood that she could expect nothing more than his presence in her bed. When the attraction had been satisfied, and one or the other of them had moved on, there had been no great dilemma or drama, as neither had expected any form of commitment. Ah, Reid mused as he rinsed his face clean in the hot water and stroked his fingers over his smooth jaw, perhaps it was the noose of commitment that he could feel tightening around his neck that bothered him this morning.

He went to his dressing room and selected a tweed riding jacket and fawn breeches, a cream shirt and matching cravat, pondering that perhaps it was more than that. Perhaps it was the memory that lingered in his mind of dancing a waltz with a certain Miss Packard. She had been so unlike any woman he had ever met before. Graceful—yes, she had been light as a feather dancing in his arms. Intelligent—undoubtedly, her knowledge of Russia, of languages and music and goodness knew what else had been most apparent, and yet she had not been a bore at all, interspersing her conversation with humorous, wry little snippets and that delightful, husky, almost shy laugh. Yet in appearance she was not the sort he would normally lust after—indeed not! He admonished himself, for Miss Packard was far too respectable to be his mistress! On the other hand, one does not choose a wife according to the standards of a mistress. She might not be blonde and buxom, but there was a certain charm about her dark-haired and creamy-skinned femininity that appealed to him. She was certainly intelligent and well read; he could envisage many a cosy evening together and the conversation would be neither boring nor stilted. She was petite, though, which in itself he found quite attractive and he entertained himself with delicious thoughts of carrying her up the stairs to bed, or sitting before the fire and letting her curl up on his lap, a prelude to making love.

However, Uncle Percy had mentioned the importance of producing an heir and he wondered if her small slim frame would be, er, adequate. He frowned, hesitating even within the privacy of his thoughts to dwell on Miss Packard’s nether regions. Well, one just wouldn’t breed a Suffolk Punch with a delicate little Arabian filly, now would one? It would not do. No, definitely not, he told himself firmly, it would not do at all.

He would be better off if he looked to the other Miss Packard, the blonde one, who appeared to be everything that he desired in a wife—confident, vivacious, and her figure was certainly admirable. Evidently a strong young woman, her speech and manners a little too loud perhaps, a little wilful…selfish, even? He hadn’t yet enjoyed a particularly entertaining conversation with her, and she was frequently looking over her shoulder at that damned Westfaling whippersnapper. His enthusiasm began to wane as he dwelled on the attributes of one sister, and then the other, but even as he made his way downstairs, enjoyed a hearty breakfast, and then to the stables, mounted his bay gelding and rode off in the direction of Hyde Park, he could not come to any satisfactory conclusion about either of them.

‘Sasha, wake up!’

From beneath a pile of bedcovers Sasha groaned, and shrugged off the hand shaking her shoulder. She burrowed deeper into the bed, in a vain attempt to escape a persistent Georgia.

‘Oh, go away, Georgia, leave me alone!’ she muttered from beneath her pillow, her heavy and aching eyes trying to sink back into the bliss of sleep.

‘Sasha, you must get up.’ Georgia marched over to the window and thrust back the curtains, flooding the room with bright sunshine. ‘I promised Felix that I would meet him in the park. Do get dressed, I’ve persuaded one of the grooms to be ready and waiting at ten o’clock.’

‘Ten o’clock!’ Sasha sat up then, turning to look at the clock ticking gently in its gilt case on the mantel above the fireplace, and then at her fully dressed sister. ‘Are you mad, Georgia, or just totally insensitive to other people? It’s the crack of dawn and I’m exhausted from last night.’

‘Rubbish! It’s almost nine and you’ve had plenty of sleep. Here, darling, put on your lovely blue riding habit and I’ll ring for Polly to bring you some tea and toast.’

Emerging from the dressing room with her arms full of Sasha’s riding habit, she laid it down on the bed and then crossed the room to pull the bell-rope.

Sasha yawned and stretched, seeing that there was no help for it but to get up. And now that she was awake, and her thoughts returned to the memory of Captain Bowen, she was far too restless to go back to sleep. She glanced out of the window at the clear blue sky, and mused that a ride in the park seemed just the thing. The snow had stopped and was beginning to thaw, and though later it would be slushy out, for now it would be crisp but not too cold or treacherous. She dressed and enjoyed a cup of fragrant Earl Grey and a slice of toast with butter and marmalade, ignoring Georgia as she nagged and badgered in the background. At last she was dressed, and stood before her mirror to place her top hat on, pulling down the spotted black netting over her face, and slipped her fingers into kid gloves.

‘At last!’ cried Georgia, springing to her feet and ushering her sister downstairs and out to the stables, glancing now and then over her shoulder.

Sasha became suspicious. ‘Papa does know we are going out? He gave his permission?’

‘Oh, yes, of course.’ Georgia waved her hand airily, and beamed at the young groom waiting for them, holding two big, dappled-grey hunters by their bridles. ‘Good morning, Farrell.’

‘Mornin’, miss.’ The young Irish lad tugged at the peak of his cloth cap and then led the two horses over to the mounting block.

The Brigadier had trained his daughters to ride long before they could read or write, and the two girls jumped aboard and settled themselves side-saddle, waited while Farrell mounted his hack, and then the trio set off for Hyde Park, Georgia setting the pace at a smart trot.

Though the day was crisp and bright, there were not many people abroad at this early hour, and some families had left the city to spend the Christmas holidays on their estates. The limbs of the trees etched bare and stark along the wide avenue that Georgia led them down, and Sasha called out to her sister to slow down, but she was ignored. As they came to a long open stretch Georgia urged her horse into a canter, her skirts and veil flying on the wind as the hunter obliged.

Sasha sighed with vexation, giving the command to her own mount to canter, taking a firm hold of the reins and her riding crop, leaning slightly forwards as they rode after Georgia. She glanced back over her shoulder, to make sure that Farrell still followed; though he lagged behind on his ancient hack, he kept them within sight. By the time she had caught up with Georgia, her errant sister had dismounted and was happily engaged in building a snowman with Felix Westfaling. Sasha drew rein, breathing hard, her horse snorting and pawing the ground, and she gazed at Georgia with exasperation.

‘Your skirts are getting all wet,’ she called out, ‘and where’s your hat?’

Georgia laughed, her face glowing in the cold air and beautiful against the virgin white background of the snow, ‘Come and help us, Sasha!’

Felix straightened up from patting lumps of snow into the shape of an arm, scooped up a ball of snow in the palm of his hand, and tossed it in Sasha’s direction. ‘Good morning, Sash, do join us, got to get this finished before it starts to melt.’

Her horse leapt and shied to one side as the snowball splashed on the path, but Sasha kept her seat and replied, ‘No, I will not. Georgia, please, do put your hat on and mount up.’

Her sister laughed, whirling away as she and Felix pelted each other with snowballs. With a sigh Sasha glanced at Farrell as he sidled up. He merely shrugged and grinned while she looked in both directions to see if they had been observed. There was no one about, except a lone horseman in the distance. What harm would it do? And it did look like such fun. She handed her reins to Farrell and jumped down, her boots crunching through the thick, powdery snow as she walked over to the snowman.

‘I say, Sasha, how would you like a toboggan race? A whole bunch of us are meeting over at Birch Hill this afternoon.’ Felix was wise to the fact that if he could persuade one sister, then the other would follow.

‘I would not like it at all,’ Sasha replied tartly, surveying the round ball he was rolling together to make the snowman’s head, and then she gasped as a cold wet lump of snow hit her on the shoulder. ‘Georgia!’

With cries threatening revenge, she leaned down and made her own ammunition, and the three of them were soon lobbing snowballs, ducking and rolling in the snow amidst shrieks of laughter.

‘Good morning, Miss Packard.’

A deep, masculine, familiar voice echoed from behind her. They froze, Georgia and Sasha both turning to stare wideeyed at the horseman who had halted nearby. Sasha’s already flushed face deepened in colour as she recognised Captain Bowen. She dropped the half-made snowball in her hands, straightened her jacket and looked up to reply, ‘Good morning, Captain Bowen.’

‘Marvellous day.’ He waved his riding crop about at the park in general.

‘Yes, it is.’

From the corner of her eye she spied Felix and Georgia slinking behind the bulk of the snowman, leaving her to deal with the Captain on her own. Like Georgia, she had removed her hat and veil, and her cravat flapped all askew.

‘That’s a fine-looking snowman—need any help?’

‘Um, er—’ She heard a snort of suppressed giggles as her accomplices ducked. But, undeterred, the Captain had swung down from his horse and was striding towards them. Her heart sank. She must look a sight, she feared, brushing with the back of her hand at the escaped and messy tendrils of hair curling about her face, and the smudge of snow on her nose.

‘Miss Packard,’ he greeted Georgia as belatedly, and unavoidably, she straightened. ‘And young Felix, is it not?’

‘How do you do, sir?’ Felix flushed and brushed at his coat. ‘We were just—’

‘Just about to go,’ Sasha interjected, reaching to pick up her hat and pass Georgia her own.

‘Don’t rush away on my account. Please.’

Captain Bowen turned to look at Sasha, and she was struck again by the blueness of his eyes and how very good looking he was, his sun-bleached hair gleaming gold in the winter sunshine. She could not help but glance at his mouth, the welldisciplined line of the upper lip complimented by the slightly fuller lower, curving into an attractive smile. His shoulders seemed very broad and masculine, and his legs in beige jodhpurs left her in no doubt that he was a well-made man.

Georgia was not one to let her natural effervescence be dampened and, undeterred by the new arrival on the scene, she and Felix resumed their building of the snowman.

‘We need some twigs for his hands,’ Georgia said, looking about.

‘There’s a hawthorn bush over there,’ Captain Bowen pointed out.

Being the nearest to it, Sasha set off and trudged through the drifts of snow to a nearby flower bed, reaching out to grasp a twig and snap it off. But it was resistant to her efforts and she struggled, leaning forwards and tugging with both hands, trying to avoid the adjacent prickly holly bush, and then she gave a little cry as her feet slipped and she lost her balance. She teetered, but before she fell two hands fastened on her waist and pulled her back against the solid bulk of a very male and warm body.

‘Steady on, Miss Packard.’ Captain Bowen laughed. ‘Can’t have you falling into the holly and getting scratched now, can we?’

Sasha blushed, but it was hardly noticeable as her face was already so flushed from the cold and the exertions of the snowball fights.

‘Try that one over there,’ called Georgia with subtle cunning, as she directed her sister and Captain Bowen further away. ‘We need some big pieces and that bush is too small.’

‘Oh, Georgia! We really should be going,’ objected Sasha.

‘Go on!’ her sister urged, casting a glance at Felix. ‘And find two pebbles for his eyes.’

With a sigh and an apologetic glance up at Captain Bowen, Sasha turned and walked away, round the corner of the flower bed, her eyes searching for anything suitable. As soon as they were out of sight, Felix and Georgia fell into each other’s arms, the groom holding the horses discreetly looking in the other direction.

‘Here we are, this will do. Captain Bowen—’ Sasha turned to him ‘—would you be so kind? I can’t quite reach.’

‘Of course.’

He reached up and effortlessly snapped off two long twigs, while Sasha knelt and picked out some small dark stones from the flower bed. She tried to think of some polite conversation to say to him, but nothing came to mind.

‘Your father has kindly invited me to dinner on Christmas Eve.’ Captain Bowen took the initiative and spoke first.

‘Oh.’

‘I wondered if you might have any suggestions for a gift I might bring for your parents?’

‘Um,’ Sasha mused, nerves paralysing her thoughts. ‘Well, I’m sure anything will do.’ She glanced anxiously over her shoulder. ‘We really must get back.’ She did not like to mention the fact that she feared what Georgia might be getting up to in her absence and, taking her skirts in both hands, turned about and began to march back to the snowman.

Unfortunately, she was not to know that beneath the snow someone had left a croquet iron; it was against this that her booted foot caught, tripping her up, and she fell headlong and face down into the snow.

‘Miss Packard!’ Captain Bowen hurried to her side and knelt down as she raised herself up, spluttering and gasping. ‘Are you all right?’

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Sasha brushed off the cold wetness clinging to her face, ignored the offer of his helping hand and rose to her feet. ‘I am perfectly all right, thank you.’ Stiffly, she walked on, and called out in a tone much like her father when he would countenance no objection, ‘Georgia, we must be on our way.’

Her sister, having achieved her objective and realising that she had gone as close to the boundaries of propriety as she dared, made no protest, and quietly picked up her hat and set it upon her head as she walked to her horse. Sasha followed suit and, while Farrell assisted Georgia to mount, Captain Bowen offered his linked hands to Sasha and boosted her up into the saddle. Once the two Packard girls were mounted, he turned to young Felix and gave him a calculating glance before leaping up into the saddle of his own horse.

‘I take it you are on foot, Westfaling.’

‘Indeed I am.’ Felix stared back at him, with a slightly belligerent set to his mouth, elbows akimbo.

‘Well, then, I will escort the ladies home.’

‘There’s no need!’ Sasha exclaimed. ‘We have Farrell.’

‘Of course I must, Miss Packard. I would be failing in my duty as a gentleman if I did not.’

Georgia was having none of this, and with a wink for Felix, she dug her heels in and her horse leapt into a canter towards the park gates, her glance at Captain Bowen clearly challenging with a catch-me-if-you-can bravado. Sasha followed after her. It was obvious to him that both the Misses Packard were excellent horsewomen and he set his own horse into a gallop as he went after them, the groom Farrell struggling to urge his lazy hack into a trot and lagging far behind.

‘Georgia!’ Sasha called, the drumming hoofbeats of their horses smothering her voice.

Her sister thundered on, and only lessened pace as they neared the park gates and she was forced to slow her horse to a trot as they clattered onto the hard surface of the paved road.

‘Wait,’ Sasha told her sister firmly. ‘Captain Bowen will think it extremely rude if we do not let him escort us. I am sure he thinks I am a complete ninny as it is.’

‘Oh, don’t be so silly, Sasha darling,’ scoffed Georgia. ‘Besides, does it really matter what Captain Bowen thinks?’

‘Yes!’ retorted Sasha. ‘Yes, actually, it does!’

Georgia was somewhat taken aback by her gentle sister’s vehemence, and she glanced back at the fast-approaching Captain Bowen with a thoughtful light in her bold blue eyes. ‘Very well, Sasha, we will let him escort us home, and even invite him in for a nice cup of hot chocolate.’

‘Oh, but—’

Georgia looked at her with raised brows, her head tilted slightly to one side. ‘What, changed your mind? Come now, you can’t be blowing hot and then cold in the space of a few seconds.’

‘I am not blowing hot! Really, Georgia, you try my patience, you are the most exasperating—’ Sasha bit her tongue as Captain Bowen approached, and the girls drew their horses level on either side of him, making a picturesque tableau that drew admiring glances, the two elegantly attired young women on their dappled-grey hunters riding alongside the handsome gentleman astride his big, gleaming bay.

A few moments later they turned into the stable mews near Roseberry Street, and dismounted. Captain Bowen accepted Georgia’s invitation and spent a pleasant half-hour in the drawing room enjoying a cup of hot chocolate and the company of ladies, a novel situation for one who had spent years in the rough company of his soldiers in the wilds of the North-West Frontier.

Lady Packard had descended downstairs and was settled on a sofa in the drawing room, near the long window overlooking the gardens to the rear of the house, where she could gaze out and enjoy the warmth of the winter sunshine. A tartan rug covered her legs; she was pale and a little breathless, yet she smiled at Captain Bowen and he soon fell under the spell of her charm and beauty.

‘My husband tells me you are posted to St Petersburg,’ Olga purred in her sultry, heavily accented voice. ‘It is my home town, you know, I was born and raised there.’

‘Indeed, ma’am?’ Captain Bowen sat attentively on the edge of his seat, setting the cup of hot chocolate in its saucer as he answered her. ‘And you are quite correct, I am due to sail at the end of April, weather permitting.’

‘Have you been there before?’

‘No, ma’am, I have not had the pleasure.’

‘Do you speak Russian?’

‘Unfortunately I do not, but the Brigadier has offered to tutor me. I do manage to get by in French, though.’

‘Russian is a difficult language, not one that can be learned in a hurry.’ Lady Packard frowned, absently stroking her slender white fingers over the tartan of her rug, several ornate and expensive rings glinting. ‘I am a little puzzled, then, my dear Captain, as to why you should be sent, having no experience.’

‘Oh, Mama,’ protested Sasha gently, who sat on the far side of the room near the fireplace, where the light from the front window fell behind her, her figure a silhouette, ‘what an embarrassing question.’

Her mother laughed. ‘Sasha dear, I am sure Captain Bowen is made of sterner stuff.’

‘Indeed. I am flattered by your interest,’ he replied politely, glancing over at Sasha, and then to Georgia, seated to her mother’s right and as close to Captain Bowen as she could contrive, flashing her brilliant sapphire eyes at him. ‘I believe it may be my experience in Afghanistan that is the chief reason why I have been posted to St Petersburg. The Russians have long been conniving to get a foothold there.’

‘And why would they do that?’ Sasha asked, intrigued.

He turned slightly to face her, his eyes roaming over her shadowed face as he tried to discern her expression. ‘Because, Miss Packard, Afghanistan is close to India, indeed, a crossroads between Europe and Asia, and the routes from one country to the other are much valued, either for trade or war.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Sasha looked away.

‘And do tell us,’ Georgia gasped in a breathy voice as she leaned towards him, ‘what Mrs Bowen thinks of her imminent removal to such a distant land?’

‘Um…’ He cleared his throat and looked at his cup. ‘Er, there is no Mrs Bowen. I am a bachelor.’

‘Oh, pardon me!’

‘It’s not a disease, darling.’ Her mother laughed. ‘I do believe you are to join us for dinner on Christmas Eve, Captain Bowen.’

He nodded. ‘Thank you, I am looking forward to it.’

‘Are you?’ Georgia asked, leaning towards him, her eyes soft and moist, inviting, holding his gaze for a moment almost too long beyond the limits of propriety, then her lashes swept down, and she looked away. ‘I do so love Christmas, don’t you, Captain Bowen? It’s a wonderful time of year, all the presents and the tree and the food, and then even better still is New Year. I do so enjoy a good New Year’s Eve party, with all the hugging and kissing under the mistletoe.’

‘Georgia,’ her mother admonished, in a soft voice, laced with mischievous laughter very similar to the sound purring from her daughter’s throat.

‘Indeed.’ Captain Bowen quickly finished his cup of chocolate and set it on a small table, rising to his feet. With a small bow towards Lady Packard, he bade her farewell and gave his thanks.

When he had left and the door closed behind him, Sasha leapt to her feet, exclaiming, ‘Oh, Georgia, I am so ashamed of you!’

Her sister looked up with a wide-eyed gasp. ‘Goodness, Sash, what on earth have I done?’

With a swish of her skirts Sasha hurried to the door, retorting over her shoulder, ‘Oh, you know very well! You were like a cat with a mouse! You are going to toy with him, just like all the others.’

‘Rubbish! Why would I?’ snorted Georgia with a little toss of her head.

‘To make Felix jealous! And just because you are so beautiful, you can!’

‘Of course not, darling Sasha.’ Georgia smiled, casting a wary, sidelong glance to her frowning mama. ‘Anyway, what do you mean? What others?’

‘Hamish?’

‘Oh, he had red hair and was a terrible bore!’

‘I liked him!’

‘He was no good for you.’

‘Robert.’

‘He was French!’ Georgia waved her hand in a dismissive gesture.

Sasha rarely lost her temper, but now she made a strangled noise in her throat, her fists clenched. ‘Sometimes, Georgia, I absolutely loathe you!’

The drawing-room door banged on her retreat and they could hear her feet pounding as she ran up the stairs. Lady Packard clucked her tongue and gave her daughter Georgia a look that was both a little amused and chastising. Georgia merely shrugged, with raised brows and a demure smile playing on her shapely lips.

In the next few days Captain Bowen was a frequent visitor to Roseberry Street, yet the girls saw little of him, as he spent long hours with the Brigadier in the library, engaged in intensive Russian lessons. Until the day before Christmas Eve, when the Brigadier summoned his daughters to assist him, a not unusual occurrence if he had more than one student. He directed Sasha to sit with Colonel Bellamy and converse with him in French, and Captain Bowen he assigned to Georgia. The two sisters, impeccably dressed in long-sleeved, crêpe de Chine tartan dresses, bustled and bowed, sat down at opposite ends of the room and not for the first time the Brigadier noticed that his eldest two daughters were not on speaking terms. He frowned, hands behind his back as he contemplated Sasha for a moment, and then Georgia, yet he had no idea what ailed them. He returned his grim attention to young Lieutenant Liptrott, whose inability to grasp the basics of either French or Russian would most likely get him killed in some far and foreign land.

Colonel Bellamy, a portly man well into his sixties, sprouting a thick white beard and a monocle from one eye, did not hold much truck with a snippet of a girl trying to educate him on the niceties of the French language. Sasha, too, was not greatly concerned with her charge, her eyes wandering across the room to where Georgia sat with Captain Bowen. They laughed a lot, and Georgia was leaning towards him, touching his arm with her fingers, tossing her blonde head in a most coquettish, annoying manner, Sasha thought. And here she was lumbered with Colonel Bellamy, who clearly would rather be somewhere else, the Officer’s Mess, presumably.

‘How are we getting on?’ The Brigadier stopped by their desk, hands behind his back as he made his enquiry.

‘Listen here, old chap—’ the Colonel began to remonstrate about his youthful tutor, but he was cut off mid-sentence by the Brigadier.

‘Sasha, I wonder if I might have a word?’

‘Of course, Papa.’ She rose from her seat, with obvious haste and relief.

‘Won’t be a moment, Colonel.’

‘But listen here—’ exclaimed the Colonel and then muttered, ‘Oh, damn and blast!’ What was the point? he fumed inwardly. He might have the advantage of age over Packard, but he was damn well outranked by him!

In a quiet corner of the library, between the heavy curtains and a potted palm, the Brigadier confronted his daughter in his usual direct manner.

‘What on earth is going on between you and Georgia?’ he asked in a soft voice, his bright blue eyes catching her firmly in their spotlight.

‘Nothing, Papa.’ Sasha turned her face away and stared out of the window, her eyebrows raised a little defiantly.

‘Oh, come now.’ Her father was not convinced by this nonchalant denial. ‘Something’s afoot, you are not speaking a word to each other.’

‘I have no idea what you mean.’

‘Sasha, tell me at once what is going on!’

‘There’s nothing going on, Papa.’

‘Is it because of that young Felix Westfaling?’

Sasha turned to look at him then, with her dark, soulful eyes so like her mother’s, and assured him truthfully, ‘No, Papa, it is nothing to do with Felix.’

‘Aha! I knew it, there is something afoot.’

‘Papa, I really must get back to Colonel Bellamy, he looks fit to burst like a Christmas cracker, and liable to pounce on poor Lieutenant Liptrott at any moment.’

Her father turned then, and with a sigh hurried off to rescue the young cavalryman from a nasty verbal volley. The Brigadier realised that nothing more could be achieved on this afternoon when thoughts were wandering to the Christmas festivities and goodness knew what else. He dismissed the class, with a stern reminder to practise their vocabulary and to return in the New Year. As the three gentleman left, the Brigadier called out, ‘Georgia, wait a moment, if you please. Close the door behind you, Sasha.’

Sasha did as her father asked and turned to find Captain Bowen hovering, and he fell into step with her as they walked to the front of the house. He spoke a few faltering words of farewell in Russian, and she turned, with a smile, answering him in the same language. In the hallway, as Lodge handed him his coat and hat, Captain Bowen bowed to Sasha.

‘Your Russian is much better than your sister’s.’

‘Thank you, kind sir.’ She smiled, her hands clasped as she waited for him to depart, but he seemed in no hurry to go. He was quite tall; she had to tilt her head back to look up at him, and the late afternoon sun beaming in through the glass fanlight above the front door gilded his blond hair and shone a light in his dark blue eyes. He was certainly a most handsome man, she sighed inwardly, watching as he shrugged on his coat over broad shoulders.

‘I shall see you all tomorrow evening, then.’

‘Oh?’ Sasha frowned, puzzled.

‘Christmas Eve,’ he reminded her.

‘Of course.’ She felt her cheeks heat with a pink blush, and wondered why she always made the impression, with this man, of being a ninny.

‘Goodbye, Miss Packard.’

‘Goodbye, Captain Bowen.’

He bowed and walked to the door, and then turned back and called out in Russian, ‘Until tomorrow.’

She smiled and nodded. ‘Da.’ Her heart was aflutter, hardly daring to believe that a man like Captain Bowen would even look at her. Not when Georgia was about.

Christmas was always a special occasion in the Packard home, and that afternoon on the Eve the four sisters spent a happy few hours decorating a magnificent tree in the hallway, despite the frosty relations between Sasha and Georgia, who, beneath their father’s watchful, frowning gaze, made the pretence that all was well between them. The house smelled pleasantly of pine, roasting turkey and plum pudding, and great boughs of holly and ivy were strewn in garlands about the walls and stairs and over the mantel of the fireplace. The girls had decorated oranges with cloves and ribbons to make fragrant pomanders, and hung them all about the drawing room and hallway. Presents had been wrapped and placed under the tree and by four o’clock they had hurried to their rooms to dress for the evening’s festivities.

When Sasha came downstairs, wearing an emerald-green, off-the-shoulder evening gown and her hair swept elegantly up, she went into the drawing room and checked that all was ready for their guests. A great silver punchbowl with mulled red wine steamed gently by the dancing flames of the fireplace, and a table covered with a snowy white cloth was being stacked by one of the maids with plates of fresh-baked mince pies, and small silver dishes of dried figs, nuts and pink Turkish delight.

The Brigadier carried his wife downstairs and settled her on the chaise longue near the fire, with a rug over her lap. If it was up to him he was quite content to spend the evening with just himself and the girls. Yet he knew how Olga loved company and so he had invited a dozen friends to dinner, including Avery Westfaling, to whom he was distantly related, although he had little liking for his wife and offspring. Lady Westfaling had a doubtful pedigree and he considered her to be a loose woman, and her son certainly seemed to have inherited her less attractive traits, being fickle and vain. Why, the boy would squander his inheritance before he was thirty and no daughter of his was going to get involved with a fellow like that!

The guests began to arrive, bearing gifts, the sisters taking turns to receive these and place them under the Christmas tree in the hallway. The drawing room was warm and noisy with the gathering, the hubbub of chattering voices interspersed with laughter. Olga was surrounded by her favourite friends, who remarked on how well she looked and would she soon be out in the park taking the air? The Brigadier and Sasha hovered nearby, anxious that she not be overexerted by the evening. When Lodge came in to announce that dinner was served, Olga refused to be carried, insisting that she could manage to walk the few steps down the corridor to the dining room.

The long table was beautifully set, with a white tablecloth, silver candelabra, sparkling cut-crystal wine glasses, and a splendid centrepiece of winter fruit, berries and flowers. Olga had deliberated long and carefully over the seating, and she had placed herself and the Brigadier at either end, with Sasha sat next to Felix, Georgia next to Captain Bowen, Philippa beside the son of a Scottish friend, and Victoria, still very young, between Percy and another friend she knew well. They were eighteen sitting down, and Olga looked down the table as she sat at one end, her gaze pausing on each of her daughters, a proud glow adding to her satisfaction.

Sasha was disgruntled about the dinner partner she had been placed with, but she enjoyed herself far more than expected. Felix was in a good mood and she could not help but laugh at his jokes and silly conversation; really, he was such a featherbrain that it was no wonder he and Georgia were so drawn to each other. Like two peas in a pod, they were. She glanced down the table at Georgia as she sat next to Captain Bowen. She thought her sister seemed a little pensive, and she wondered what her father had said to Georgia in the library yesterday. Glancing down the table as she finished her salmon pâté, she noticed that Georgia was listening attentively to Captain Bowen, but was not her usual bright and bubbly self. Sasha felt a pang, and made up her mind to bury the hatchet and make amends with Georgia as soon as possible. Why, there was no man on earth worthy of coming between sisters!

After dinner they returned to the drawing room, where Sasha sat down at the piano and played Christmas carols, the guests gathering around and singing in good voice, liberally loosened by the fine wines enjoyed over dinner. They played charades, enjoyed coffee and mince pies, and then those who were willing to accompany the family to midnight mass donned their coats. They were a mere few, the Westfalings, except for the son, and most others, declining and departing for their warms beds at home. So it was only Felix, Uncle Percy, Captain Bowen and two fellow officers who accompanied the Brigadier and his two eldest daughters to church, while the officers’ wives and the two younger girls stayed behind to keep Olga company.

The Church of St Ann was not far, and they walked in muffled silence, well wrapped up in coats, scarves, hats and gloves. The church bells of St Ann’s clanged with dull resonance amidst a fine flurry of snow drifting through the darkness, blanketing the night. The double doors stood open, welcoming the faithful, a golden light spilling out on the street. The vicar’s wife was handing out hymn books as they entered, and then they followed the Brigadier to the front of the church, and Sasha found herself standing between her father and Captain Bowen, the former frowning and twisting about to see where Georgia had got to. She was in a pew several rows to the rear, near the door, standing with Felix with as angelic a look upon her face as the alabaster figurine of Mary in the Nativity scene to one side of the altar. Sasha sensed her father’s wrath rise rapidly, and she put a soothing hand on his sleeve. But with Captain Bowen standing so close, they neither of them could utter a censorious word.

The organ creaked and groaned into the first hymn, and Sasha fumbled to find the page. She was a little short-sighted and peered at the board hanging on one pillar, the numbers slightly blurred.

‘Number fifty-two,’ Captain Bowen whispered in her ear, leaning down.

She flashed a smile of thanks and then found the page and began to sing. Beside her she noticed that the Captain had a very pleasant baritone voice, and not too loud, unlike her father, who consistently embarrassed his daughters as he bellowed out hymns, tone deaf and oblivious to that fact. She noticed, too, that her father was not the only one glancing over his shoulder at Georgia, and it irked her that Captain Bowen should be so easily smitten by her sister’s shallow charms. She began to rapidly revise her intentions about making up with Georgia, but relented as the vicar’s sermon rattled on about Christmas being a time for forgiveness and new beginnings.

After the service, the congregation exchanged greetings and well wishes.

‘Happy Christmas.’ Captain Bowen leaned down and kissed Sasha on the cheek.

She thought how nice he smelled, how warm his face felt against her own as his lips quickly brushed her cheek, the hint of bronze stubble on his jaw a rough and yet not unpleasant sensation. Then she turned to her father and hugged him, wishing him happy Christmas too, and she followed him as they filed out of the church. Georgia was waiting on the steps for them, but Felix had melted away into the night. The Brigadier said nothing, merely accepted Georgia’s wishes, her voice and her eyes apprehensive, and then the party trudged through the thick snow back to the house.

Though the hour was late, they gathered in the drawing room for welcome cups of hot chocolate, the men lacing theirs with brandy. With fewer guests, and those being close friends and family, there was a more relaxed air. Victoria sat in her slippers in front of the hearth, at the foot of her mother’s sofa, and Uncle Percy loosened his bow tie as he sat back in an armchair. Feigning a snooze, he watched his nephew, and the delightful Georgia, and the equally charming, though entirely different, Sasha. At last the party came to an end, the Brigadier hinting that his wife was very tired and wishing them all a very happy Christmas Day as he waved the guests goodbye from the front door.

Reid and his uncle settled in their seats as their carriage took off, the light and warmth of Roseberry Street a loss they both felt as they plunged into the dark streets.

‘Do stay the night, Reid, no sense in continuing across London to your mess rooms. Besides, you would only need to come back again in a few hours for lunch.’

Reid laughed, and nodded his agreement. ‘Very well, Uncle, as you wish.’

After a few moments’ silence Uncle Percy said, ‘Charming people, the Packards. Did you enjoy yourself?’

‘They are, indeed, and, yes, I enjoyed a very pleasant evening.’

‘Superb meal.’

Reid nodded, and glanced sideways. ‘Is there something on your mind, Uncle?’

‘Indeed.’ He hesitated for a brief moment. ‘Charming girls, Georgia and Sasha.’

‘They are.’

‘Made up your mind yet which one of ‘em you want?’

Laughing, Reid shook his head. ‘I don’t believe I have.’

Uncle Percy made a grunting noise. ‘I noticed young Felix Westfaling sniffing around Georgia. I’d pop the question to her fairly soon, before the rascal snaps her up.’

‘He’d have to get past the Brigadier first, and somehow I don’t think Westfaling is up to the job.’

His uncle made another throaty rumble of disapproval. ‘Well, time is marching on, dear boy, time is marching on.’