Katrina gave the dog a stiff smile. She almost wished she were a dumb beast and could ignore her mother’s infernal pandering.
As if unconsciously trying to curry favor, she wandered toward where the dog lay, reached out, and gave it a distracted pat or two. How could she bring up the subject without her mother noticing? A frontal assault would never do. The Princess Natalia was not brilliant, but she did have to be handled with subtlety. Not all of Katrina’s strength and cunning had come to her through her father. Katrina sighed lazily, then sat down and reclined on the settee next to Ming Li.
After gazing at her fingernails for a minute or two, she spoke in an offhanded manner.
“My dress arrived for the tsar’s New Year’s cotillion.” This approach was perfectly suited to her mother.
“Did it, dear?” replied Princess Natalia. “And do you like it?”
The dress was infantile, at best, and the color—a sick shade of mingled lavender and blue—made her look as pale and washed out as . . . as that servant girl in the garden. But now was no time to express such opinions. Katrina’s objective was bigger game.
“Simply beautiful!” she lied masterfully. “It is a pity I won’t be able to show off the color under the light of the chandeliers.”
“I am certain they will be lit before your bedtime, Katrina.”
“You know what I mean.”
“We’ve discussed this before, dear. Not until you are sixteen.”
“Elizabeth Cerni will no doubt stay for the ball. She is two months younger than I.”
“The Cernis are scandalously liberal with their children. I hate to say this, my dear, but Elizabeth is a brash young thing, and—well, she is not highly thought of. I doubt she will make a good marriage. You will thank your father and me one day for our severity.”
Katrina would never have gone so far as to call her parents severe, least of all her mother. But she gave a pained sigh regardless, striking the pose of the martyr.
“I suppose you are right, Mother. But it is so very hard now. Sixteen is so far away.”
“Only a few short months, Katrina,” replied her mother, powdering her nose. “Nina, will you brush out my hair now? I must make myself presentable for the midday meal.”
Nina came immediately to the task. To her such a request was no chore, but an honor. To attend her mistress’s needs was her reason for existence. Katrina watched enviously. She could see a look of pleasure in Nina’s eye. How passionately she wanted someone to serve her like that! Not a fat old grandmotherly somebody to coo over her and baby her. But someone to serve her! With resolution she steered the conversation back where she wanted it to go.
“Shall I have a party, Mother?” she asked.
“What?”
“A party for my sixteenth birthday?”
“Of course, Katrina, dear.”
“Will there be presents?”
“What a thing to ask! You always receive presents.”
“I mean something special. Sixteen is almost full-grown, you know, Mother.”
“What is it you want?” The princess twisted her head around to better view her daughter, who suddenly sounded rather different than usual. Nina moved, a lock of hair still in her hand, to accommodate. She gave an imperceptible sour look at the young mistress.
Katrina shrugged. “I don’t know . . . I was thinking that I might like—oh, never mind. It is too much to ask. I’m sure I am not old enough, anyway.”
“What, dear?”
“Forget I even mentioned it. I’ll be happy with whatever you get me,” said Katrina, rising from the settee and sauntering slowly toward the door.
“Tell me what it is, Katrina,” said her mother. “I insist that you tell me.”
“Well . . . maybe it’s silly,” she paused, feigning embarrassment.
“You can never tell what is possible, dear,” said Natalia sincerely.
“I was just thinking how I so envy what you get to have—I mean with Nina here.”
“I really don’t understand, dear.” The mother’s brow creased in bewilderment. “Do you want Nina for your birthday?”
“Dear me, no!” Katrina clasped her hands together as if aghast at such a suggestion. “I would never want to take Nina from you. I know how much she means to you. You’ve been together for such a long time. How long has it been, Mother?”
“Goodness, you came to me when I was fifteen, wasn’t it, Nina?”
“Yes, Madam,” replied the woman, pleased to be addressed in such familiar fashion by her mistress. “I remember how proud I was to be placed in such a position, since I was not much older myself.”
“You were born to it, Nina. Your mother served mine. It was only fitting that you should continue on. And you have served me admirably in your own right. You are quite indispensable to me.”
“Thank you, Madam.”
Princess Natalia began to finger through her jewelry box, her mind now absorbed with which brooch to wear to luncheon. Her daughter’s birthday was forgotten for the moment. Frustrated, Katrina searched through her brain for some way to pick up the thread of conversation again. It would never do to press her mother. Yet time was wasting. She didn’t want to spend the entire day at this task.
“That’s just what I mean, Mother,” she said.
“About what, dear?”
Katrina gritted her teeth and spoke her next words patiently, as if she were speaking to a child. “Just what we were saying about Nina. Why, the two of you are more like friends than servant and mistress.”
“What an amusing thought!” tittered the princess. Nina reddened.
“And that’s exactly what I meant,” Katrina went on eagerly. “I would like to have someone like that—but, I suppose it is too much to hope for.”
“Oh, so that’s what you want for your birthday!” Dawning light shone in Natalia’s eyes.
“Oh, Mother, do you really think I could? How wonderful of you!”
Katrina wrapped her arms around her mother’s neck and kissed her cheek, while Nina looked on disapprovingly. She was a wise old servant woman whom the years had taught a few things about human nature. She did not like to see her mistress manipulated so adroitly and unsuspectingly.
Katrina’s mother, for her part, found great pleasure in having made her daughter so happy, however unwitting her actions. She was still more than half oblivious to the fact that Katrina had taken her words as a firm decision.
“I’m so excited!” Katrina exclaimed. “When may I begin looking?”
“Looking?”
“Yes, Mother. Oh, whom shall I choose?”
“But—but, Katrina,” said her mother, gathering her scattered wits and grasping a little of what her daughter was intending, “what about poor Niania? She will be heartbroken if we replace her with someone else to watch over you.”
“I will miss her, of course.” Katrina turned pensive for a moment. “But she is a nanny, you know, Mother. I’m sure she would be more content caring for children as she has always done. I’ll be sixteen, old enough to attend a ball. It occurs to me that Niania shall feel quite useless watching a grown lady.”
“Oh, my . . . I never considered that,” reflected the princess with alarm. “Yes, of course. Being a nanny is all Niania knows. How wise of you to think of that.”
Katrina smiled innocently.
“We will have to make certain to find her a suitable position.”
“Of course, of course,” said Katrina, with half-hearted enthusiasm. “When may I begin, Mother?”
“Begin what, dear?”
“Finding my new servant girl.”
“There is no hurry, dear. We have three months.” She picked up a diamond brooch and held it up to her throat, admiring the effect in the tall mirror in front of her. Katrina feared she had lost her mother again, when the princess added, “I have a marvelous idea. Your father will be going to Paris in the spring. He can choose a nice French bonne for you. They are so refined and well trained. And havi
ng a Parisian girl here would improve your French marvelously.”
Katrina dared not leave such an important task in the hands of her father. He’d no doubt come back with a nun—or worse!
“Oh, Mother, I would much prefer a Russian girl—someone like Nina.”
“Begging your pardon, Miss,” interrupted the servant with a mingling of smugness and unvoiced indignation, “but I am Lithuanian, not Russian.”
“Russian, Lithuanian, Polish—they’re all the same now, aren’t they?” Katrina shot a glare at Nina. Who did she think she was, to contradict her and interfere with her plans!
Princess Natalia laid one of her hands weakly against her forehead. “Dear me,” she sighed. “I am all at once so fatigued. I can’t imagine what it is.”
She still had no hint that she had been ground through the mill of her daughter’s stratagems.
“I have tired you, Mother. I am so sorry.” Katrina planted another peck on her mother’s cheek, then turned and made a hasty retreat. She could neither push too hard nor remain for any further discussion on the matter. Things were just where she wanted them, and there they must remain.
Besides, there were a million things to do. She had to take steps to get Niania satisfactorily relocated. Her mother would never be able to carry such a thing to completion—at least not soon enough to suit Katrina. That would undoubtedly involve her father. He knew plenty of people; someone was sure to need a nanny. And she could honestly tell him that her mother’s permission for the change had been given.
The key was to act quickly and get the new girl installed, before the opportunity was somehow lost. Once she had her own personal servant, they would never renege on the promise she had extracted from her befuddled mother. If it happened before her birthday in the spring . . . well, how could she help it if a perfectly suitable servant girl happened along? One couldn’t let such an opportunity slip by.
And Katrina Viktorovna Fedorcenko was one to take full advantage of the moment.
17
Three days later, Olga Stephanovna returned to the kitchen.
The holiday atmosphere, though moderated by the ever-present press of duty, had persisted among the staff. Things ran splendidly with Polya at the helm.
Polya’s only misfortune, however, was that Olga returned in the middle of the third day, about midway through the afternoon. Cleanup from the day’s early meals was still in progress, while most of the staff involved themselves in making everything ready for that evening’s supper and tea. Two of the women, just returned from market, were in the process of unloading the cart, which carried a wild pig and some choice venison to be frozen. Several of the women had begun preparing some of the few available fresh vegetables for the next day, and a couple of the strongest men lugged sacks of wheat and rice from the cart to the storage pantry. One of the market-women had just told of an incident they had witnessed in the city. A would-be intellectual and rabble-rouser had stood on a crate shouting meaningless slogans to the crowd, who were paying more attention to the new supply of greens just arrived from the south than to him. At length the police arrived to haul him away, when one of the market-men’s dogs flew through the middle of the gathering, his master giving chase. The dog brushed the crate just as two or three officials had arrived. The spindly-legged, underfed student toppled backward off the crate. The dog’s master arrived, attempting in vain to lay hold of the beast, and in the confusion following, the young firebrand made good his escape through the crowd on his hands and knees. One of the policemen wound up sprawled in the gutter of the street, with the mangy dog and two or three heads of brown lettuce in his lap.
The story had grown considerably in the telling, and the resulting laughter that filled the kitchen had risen to its peak, when suddenly the animated narrator looked toward the door. There stood Olga, framed by the doorposts, glaring at the proceedings with the profoundest of wrath. Silence descended instantly, with the exception of a trailing thread of laughter from one who did not immediately see the evil that had befallen them.
She waited until every eye had found her, and every face grown white. “So, this is how I find my kitchen when left in idle hands!” she seethed, her voice not loud, but restrained and filled with portents of doom.
“Laughter . . . foolish trifling, while pots from the morning pile high, while food from the market is scattered about, while precious meat spoils waiting for the ice!”
She paused. Not a sound could be heard. Every person present knew the power this woman held, not only to bring misery to their existence, but to shape the course of their very lives. At a single word from her lips, the entire kitchen staff would be dismissed and new servants brought in from elsewhere in St. Petersburg. And as odious as they sometimes found labor under Olga’s heavy hand, they knew they could never hope for better, and likely would only find far worse.
Anna stood trembling toward the back of the kitchen, her right arm extended nearly to the elbow in dirty water. Olga’s entry had arrested her in the midst of scrubbing a huge black iron pot used earlier to boil potatoes. She feared moving a muscle, yet it took all the strength her left hand possessed to steady the pot and keep it from clanging against those next to it.
“We shall see how you sluggards can work after your merrymaking!” Olga went on, her voice gaining volume as the blood of passion rose in her cheeks. She started forward into the kitchen, those close by backing up to give her a wide berth. “Within an hour, when I return from my quarters, I will see every speck in this kitchen spotless as when I left it, the food from market processed and iced, and the cabbage, carrots, and potatoes for tomorrow’s elk stew prepared and ready. If all is not as I say, I will be off to Mrs. Remington without further delay! And you know she has three dozen experienced kitchen servants waiting for such a position as you seem to think so little of! Now, Polya,” she added, turning to the woman who had not so much as breathed since Olga’s appearance, “you come with me!”
Suddenly the silence in the room was shattered by a loud metallic clatter, followed by the sound of splashing water on the wood floor.
At Olga’s foreboding command to her friend, Anna’s fear had overcome her strength. The huge pot gave way out of her small, slippery hand, knocking against those beside it, spilling its contents, and finally crashing to the floor.
All eyes turned in the direction of the sound. All but two contained pity. But the only two that mattered boiled over in rage.
Olga strode forward with an angry stride. “So, young Burenin!” she cried. “I see the ineptitude of your fellows has infected you worst of all!” She threw aside the offending pot as if it weighed no more than a feather, and stopped before Anna, where she rose towering before the quavering girl. “It is perhaps time I took upon myself your further instruction! It is clear you do not—”
Her threats were interrupted by a timid yet clear voice behind her.
“Anna has done everything required of her, Olga. Please, this is her first position—there is no need to punish her further.”
Olga spun around, incredulous at being spoken to so presumptuously.
The voice was Polya’s.
The kitchen mistress stared at her underling in silence. She then turned quickly back around and with her fleshy hand delivered two stinging blows to Anna’s ears.
Without another word she strode from the kitchen, grabbing Polya’s forearm viciously as she walked past, half-dragging the poor girl behind her.
Through tear-filled eyes Anna watched as Olga strode to the doorway, stopped, half-turned and shouted back at them, “One hour!” Then Olga disappeared.
There was no supper for any of them that evening. It was past eleven when Anna and the two other servants who shared the room wearily climbed the stairs to their beds that night. Polya was not there.
Polya made no appearance in the kitchen the next day, nor the following. Anna’s fear went back and forth between anxiety over her friend and dread lest Olga somehow discover her trespass in the garden.
None of the other servants expected to see Polya’s face again.
On the second night after Olga’s fateful return, when Anna entered her room, Polya lay asleep on her bed. Red welts stood out on her shoulders, and large splotches of blue under her eyes.
Anna wept, and sleep was many hours in coming.
18
Katrina Viktornovna Fedorcenko was not exactly afraid of her father—circumspect, perhaps, but not technically fearful.
Many were afraid of the prince. With his imposing height and his distinguished military bearing, the man’s very appearance inspired a certain awe. He had earned the Order of St. Andrew for valor during the Crimean War. He rarely wore his decorations on his uniform now that he served the tsar in affairs of state rather than the military, but his past honors were well known and contributed to his reputation.
Katrina was too much like her father to be afraid of him; that similarity kept her wary. She knew she could never control him as she did her mother and almost everyone else. The prince’s stern stoicism deepened his bond with Katrina. They were kindred spirits, and each seemed to sense it. Yet those same qualities of temperament had driven the prince away from his son, whom, as the boy grew older, the prince understood less and less.
“I understand you want to send your niania away,” said the prince as soon as his daughter entered his study.
Katrina had expected the summons and had prepared herself.
“Mother and I were talking about the changes that are bound to come after my sixteenth birthday,” she began, “and Mother thought—”
“Katrina!” His voice was sharp. He looked at her through dark eyes that, had they not betrayed fatherly love, would have been fearsome indeed. “Daughter,” his voice moderated slightly, “I have taught you directness—I expect it now. And honesty.”
The man was handsome, his black hair streaked with plentiful quantities of gray, giving him the look of venerable wisdom. A neatly trimmed beard covered his square jaw, now firmly set awaiting his daughter’s reply. Though Katrina knew she was the apple of his eye, the respectful awe she felt in his presence was not unlike a kind of fear. Although she occasionally tried—as she had just now—to fool him, she was never surprised when he saw through her childish deceptions.
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