7.4

“He’s an Englishman.

Need I say more?”

Some understanding dawned as Natasha considered the other’s flushed cheeks.

“Then Anna has forbidden him to visit you.”

Synnovea nodded mutely and desperately scoured her thoughts in search of another subject upon which they could comfortably converse.

She almost relaxed as she recalled the reason she had wanted to see her friend in the first place.

“Dear Natasha, please forgive me for being so bold, but Anna’s cook has a sister who, though ailing now, will be needing work when she improves.

Do you have some kind of position she can fill?”

Natasha wasted no moment in asking, “Can she cook?”

A vague shrug accompanied Synnovea’s reply.

“I fear I know very little about Danika’s capabilities, other than the fact that she’s in need, but I can certainly ask Elisaveta what her experiences have been.”

“If she can cook, send her around when she’s well,”

Natasha suggested.

“My old cook died since you last visited me, and I need to find a replacement ere I lose my wits trying to teach the scullery maid how to boil water.

You know, with all the guests I have, the meals can be something of a disaster without a proper cook on hand.”

“The woman has a child at her side,”

Synnovea cautioned her friend.

“A daughter of three.”

Natasha smiled at the idea.

“’Twould be delightful to hear the laughter of a young child around the house.

Sometimes I get so lonesome in that huge place, in spite of all the company I have.

The house needs a little sparkle to brighten its dark mood.

And if you’re kept from my side, dear Synnovea, then I must find another little girl to cher ish.”

Her lengthy sigh hinted of a nostalgic mood.

“I wish I could’ve had children of my own.

As you know, I outlived three husbands, but none of them could get me with a child, as much as I wanted one.

I’ve long despaired of my barren state.”

Synnovea reached out a hand to rest it with genuine affection upon the elder’s.

“I shall always think of you as a woman I’ve loved nearly as dearly as my own mother, Natasha.”

Bright tears blurred the woman’s dark eyes as she looked upon the other with great fondness.

“And you, my dear, beautiful Synnovea, are the daughter I never had, but desperately wanted so very much.”

Several days elapsed after Synnovea’s initial meeting with Natasha before she was again allowed to venture beyond the boundaries of the Taraslov manse.

Having heeded the colonel’s advice for her ankle, she had suffered no longer than a pair of days.

At present, the house was in the process of being prepared for Ivan’s reception, and it was in this endeavor that Anna sent her out to purchase food in the marketplace of Kitaigorod.

She had given Synnovea strict orders on what to get, where to buy it, and how much to pay.

Anything above that cost would have to come from her own pocket.

The princess seemed to stress that fact and advised Synnovea to be prudent.

In addition, she warned Synnovea not to dawdle or there would be penalties.

Stenka halted the coach in Red Square near the markets of Kitaigorod, and Synnovea walked with Ali and Jozef the rest of the way to search out the requested items.

For the outing, Synnovea wore her peasant attire, not wishing to lend the impression that she had wealth.

If her affluence was doubted, the merchants would be more inclined to settle for less.

Synnovea marked the time when she began, taking Anna’s threat seriously.

She shopped efficiently, accepting the suggestions and wisdom that both Ali and Jozef of fered.

Each time their baskets were filled, the footman rushed back to the carriage to unload them while the two women continued browsing through the ryady , searching for the best vegetables and fowl.

At last the purchases were concluded, and Synnovea and Ali were returning to the coach amid the squawking and honking of the outraged hens and geese, which Jozef had confined in a pair of crates.

Upon rounding a corner, they came in sight of a company of mounted soldiers, dressed out in resplendent regalia, who were approaching from the opposite end of the thoroughfare.

Synnovea’s heart began thumping night out of her chest as she espied Colonel Rycroft at the fore of the troop.

The stallion he rode was a dark liver chestnut, more beautiful than any she had previously seen.

She distinctly recalled that he had said he had paid for his mounts to be shipped from England, and could only assume that this steed had accompanied his arrival in Russia.

The sight of the man spiffed and polished in a handsome uniform was so stirring that she felt inclined to pause and stare in admiration, except that Ali, intent upon catching his eye, did a sprightly scamper around an approaching coach and began to wave her arm and shout his name in an eager quest to gain his attention.

“Colonel Rycroft! Yoo-hoo! Colonel Rycroft!”

“Ali! Stop that!”

Synnovea gasped, abashed at the undignified conduct of her servant.

Ali promptly obeyed, but realized to her great delight that she had already gained the officer’s attention.

An amused grin twitched at the corners of Tyrone’s lips as he honored the servant with a casual salute.

Then he lifted his head and swept his gaze over the crowd beyond her, searching for the one whose face and form now filled many of his waking moments and all of his lusting dreams.

Thought shaded by a polished helm, his blue eyes glinted with a light of their own as he located amid several crates the profusely blushing and thoroughly mortified countess.

Synnovea desperately yearned for a large crevice to open up in the earth beneath her feet and swallow her up.

The hole failed to appear, and she was forced to stand and submit to the colonel’s sweeping inspection as he rode near.

Stiltedly she responded in kind when he gave her a nod of greeting.

It was absolutely impossible for her to ignore the fact that the wayward grin was decidedly more pronounced and that people all around her had turned to stare.

Heads came together like melons rolling into a steeply sloped ravine, and had it not been for the loud honking and cackling of fowl, she might have heard a kindred noise from a cluster of women who stood nearby.

Unbeknownst to Synnovea, the serenely smiling Natasha Andreyevna stood at the outer perimeter of the commotion, digesting the event and the comments of her princely companion with great relish.

Her escort just happened to be an administrator in the tsar’s courts and was keenly knowledgeable about the current happenings within the palace.

The fact that the Englishman was at the heart of the rumors circulating throughout the Kremlin certainly intrigued her, and she was not above suggesting that Prince Zherkof introduce her to the one who had so completely captured the tsar’s attention.

“Ali McCabe!”

Synnovea moaned in misery when she realized they had attracted the curiosity of a vast number of shoppers in the marketplace.

“You have made me rue the day my mother hired you!”

Stenka and Jozef choked back their laughter and deliberately devoted themselves to loading the purchases into the coach as the Irish woman wiped away a giggle behind the back of a scrawny hand.

Feigning the innocence of a saint, Ali met the accusing stare of her mistress and shrugged her thin shoulders in confusion.

“But what did I do?”

“Everything worthy of damnation!”

Synnovea groaned and lifted a hand in plaintive appeal to the sky.

“Oh, for a plain, simple maidservant who knows when to keep her silence! ”

Lowering a sinister glare upon the woman, she addressed Ali with a chiding finger once more in evidence.

“You have caused me tremendous distress this day, Ali! Do you not ken how imperative it is that I avoid the attentions of Colonel Rycroft? But what do you do but hail him from afar at the top of your lungs like some tavern wench! And to the glee of every long-winded gossip within range of hearing! Do you understand what you’ve done to me? This is sure to get back to Anna’s ears ere we even arrive home.

Believe me, I’ll never hear the last of it!”

“Hmph!”

Ali folded her thin arms petulantly.

“As if me own dear self ne’er swaddled yer backside from the day ye were born an’ I’ve no wits in me poor noggin ta know what ye be needin’! Ye carp ’bout me manners when it’s yerself ye should be lookin’ ta! Tyrone is a right fine gentleman, e’en if I say so meself! An’ if ye had eyes in yer fine head, me pretty darlin’, ye’d be a-thinkin’ so, too!”

“Tyrone, is it? And, pray tell, who lent ye permission ta be usin’ his Christian name?”

Synnovea mimicked sassily.

“Are ye so in league wit’ the man that ye’re now his copemate? Tyrone, indeed!”

“’Tis a right fine Irish name, it is!”

Ali argued.

“A proud name, ta be sure!”

“Colonel Rycroft is an Englishman!”

Synnovea stated obstinately.

“Knighted on English soil! He is not an Irishman!”

“Oh, ’tis the good Sir Tyrone, is it? Well, I’ll wager me skirts his ma were a proper colleen ta win a man’s heart.”

Synnovea threw up her hands in disgust.

“I’ve neither the patience nor the time to argue with a woman of your temerity, Ali McCabe.

We must return to the Taraslovs before their servants are sent out to bring us back.”

“Aren’t ye a wee bit curious ’bout where the colonel might be takin’ his men bedecked in all o’ their finery?”

Ali asked, hoping to incite some interest.

“Couldn’t we follow a ways just ta see?”

“Never!”

Synnovea served quick death to the notion.

She wasn’t about to allow the colonel the privilege of thinking she was chasing after him.

Why, the very idea of lending him encouragement made her quake.

He had proven himself quite tenacious as it was.

She could only wonder how assertive he’d become with a little encouragement.