Her face fell.
“Do you have a grievance with your nanny?” he asked. He was seated behind the desk in his study.
“No, Father,” Katrina replied.
“She says you wish to dismiss her.”
Katrina hid her annoyance that the old woman would go directly to the master to register a complaint.
“I tried to explain to her,” said Katrina, “that I felt that now that I am older, and she is accustomed to being nanny to children, that she might prefer a different situation. Mother agreed that such a plan might be best.”
“I spoke to your mother. She says you want a servant of your own, perhaps nearer your age, and that you feel you are too old to be looked after by a nanny.”
“Of course, if Niania leaves, I will need another personal attendant.”
“Directness, Katrina!”
“Father, I didn’t want to bother you with such a minor, insignificant problem, but they all treat me like such a child, an infant! Niania’s the most horrible of the lot, and I can’t stand it another day. I’m nearly sixteen, almost a woman!”
Katrina’s outburst registered upon the prince, and he sat thinking. Directness he had asked for, and he could perfectly understand his daughter’s complaint now that she had registered it clearly. He sometimes felt the same way when dealing with the tsar, as if he were being treated like a ten-year-old.
“I am sorry if I hurt Niania’s feelings,” Katrina added. Her tone had softened, and sounded sincere enough.
The prince eyed his daughter carefully. She was a crafty young thing, he knew that much. He loved her for it, of course. Had she been his adversary, he might have feared her.
“Yes, you went about this in the wrong way. Had you been forthright and direct, much trouble might have been avoided.”
“I see that now, Father,” she said humbly.
“You should have come to me. I would have listened. You should know by now that you can trust me to be fair.”
“Yes, I know, Father.”
Fedorcenko eyed her curiously, wondering how fully to believe her sincere tone. For the moment he was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt.
“Your complaint, however, is a valid one,” he went on.
Katrina did her best to hide her pleasure that her father was going to take her side.
“So you think I may have a handmaid to replace Niania?” she said, though not too eagerly.
“Only when, and if, an appropriate position can be found for her . . . and if a suitable girl can be found.”
This was the one obstacle Katrina had feared in putting the task in her parents’ hands. It could take them years to find someone they would deem “suitable.” Patience, also, did not happen to be one of Katrina’s virtues.
Her father had gone on and was now talking about his spring visit to Paris.
“Father,” she interrupted, “do just let me speak with Mrs. Remington about it. She might have an idea. If not, you may find me a nice girl to bring back with you from Paris.”
The prince was in no mood to argue the matter further. He had gotten to the bottom of it to his own satisfaction. What mischief could it possibly do for Katrina to talk to the housekeeper? What ideas Mrs. Remington might have he hadn’t a notion. But he sent his daughter happily off with a nod and a wave of the hand regardless.
He had to get on with the affairs before him without further household distractions.
19
Cyril Vlasenko slammed his fist down on the solid oak desk at which he was sitting.
“Fools!” he said quietly to himself through clenched teeth. He had asked for a complete report, and they brought him this! He picked up the single sheet of paper again, glanced at it briefly, then tossed it aside. How could he get anything done in this God-forsaken outpost when they sent him nothing but incompetents?
He rose, pushed away his chair, and walked toward the window of the small office. His boots echoed on the hard wood floor, reminding him how alone he was here. All his life he had worked hard and aspired for something better for himself than his father had achieved. Yet with the emancipation of the serfs, he had been stripped of any remaining notion of power, and no more doors had opened upward for him. He was stuck here, probably until the day he died, in this miserable town, in this miserable office.
When he walked the streets, to be sure, the peasants trembled, and well they might. He was the chief of the state police for the entire region. He wielded plenty of power over them! But who were they, these peasants who feared him? They were nothing . . . nothing! They mattered not a straw in the events of magnitude in which the world spun.
St. Petersburg . . . so close! If only his father had been wealthy enough . . . a few more bribes . . . a favor done to one of Nicholas’s generals rather than the mere captain whose life his father had saved . . . if only . . . if only!
His life had been filled with the bitterness of being so close to the halls of real power, yet so distant. He had never even met the tsar! Who was he? Nothing but one of thousands of low-level officials in the gigantic Russian bureaucratic machine. His realm might be a mere three hundred versts away from the Winter Palace itself, but it may as well have been two thousand! The barren countryside between Luga and Pskov could have been Siberia, for all the difference such proximity to the capital mattered to his sorry and failed life!
Yes, that was the question—who was he? Who was Cyril Vlasenko, but a cur, a meaningless nobody, no better off than the miserable peasants who scratched the hard ground out there? He had served his country and his tsar faithfully. And for what? For this! This hole of an office, whose staff he had to drag out of the local tavern and fill with strong tea before they could even listen to his instructions. He had to work and share bribes with a fat magistrate who was hopelessly lenient on the peasants and who lied to him about his receipts. And to have to do it all in this . . . this ridiculous place the tsar didn’t even know existed!
He sighed and turned back to face his desk. Money . . . wealth . . . they provided the keys to unlock the doors of power in St. Petersburg. They said this was a new and modern age—the age of free serfs and railroads and enlightened ideas. Bah! Modern age or no, he knew that money still greased the cogs that ran the world. For the right price, he could be transferred to St. Petersburg next week; for a high enough price even perhaps into the court of Alexander himself.
That’s what was so annoying about this report. He knew there was dirt to be had on his cousin. He could feel it—he could taste it! He had paid good money for it to be unearthed, but the incompetents had discovered nothing.
Viktor Fedorcenko. The man’s very name turned Cyril’s stomach! Born to wealth . . . friend of the tsar . . . man of power and reputation! With a tenth of his money, Cyril could leave this pit of desolation forever. But what was most galling of all was that Viktor had never needed his money! He had grown up with Alexander. Everything in his life had fallen together in just the right way, while he, Cyril, had to watch from the outside—with neither wealth nor prestige nor power. Where was the justice in it? Were they not both descended from the same noble stalk from many years back?
Viktor may have been close to Tsar Alexander. But Cyril knew the fickleness of their leader. One hint of suspicious leanings or friendships on the part of his cousin, and Cyril knew the tsar would turn on him as if they had never known each other. And once he possessed the information that would give rise to such a rumor, he would be able to make Viktor do anything for him. Viktor would help even his hated country cousin to save his own skin!
But he had to be sure of his information. Otherwise Viktor could well turn it back and use it against him. It had to be something to make that high-stepping, proud aristocrat squirm and sweat! Something about one of his other friends, some financial impropriety . . . a rumor linking Viktor with revolutionaries! But it was impossible; Viktor may have been occasionally a bit too moderate, but he was a loyal Russian despite how much Cyril hated him.
&nb
sp; Vlasenko sat down again in his chair, his anger calmed for the moment. He had thought about trying to plant someone in the Fedorcenko household, but no such opportunity had yet presented itself. He had to get inside those St. Petersburg walls somehow!
20
For three weeks silence and fear reigned over the kitchen, two of Olga Stephanovna’s most effective tools to subdue those under her.
Olga said little. Polya’s tired red eyes, swollen face, and left arm—which hung limp and nearly useless at her side for ten days—communicated more than a hundred threats. No one wanted to be next to be jerked from the room before watching eyes, later to be beaten in private. Olga was a powerful woman; even the men feared her closed and experienced fist. To resist her or defend against her blows would result in instant dismissal—or worse. Last year a large servant, an apprentice cook, had dared catch Olga’s forearm before it struck a brutal blow on the side of the head of one of his more timid fellow workers. In spite of the cook’s courageous intervention, the timid little fellow had been beaten after all—no doubt twice as severely. The cook was never seen again after that day. Some of the servants said he had been whipped senseless by the knout, wielded by one of Olga’s henchmen who worked in the prince’s stables, and then thrown into the Neva. True or not, the memory and the rumors proved of inestimable value in helping Olga maintain order in her domain. Polya’s tear-reddened eyes and silent pain aided Olga’s cause. No one dared speak to Polya, or lift so much as a finger to help her.
Anna had her own private reminders toward diligence, in the form of the two sore ears Olga had soundly boxed. She spoke scarcely a word for days. Every night, she lay down in exhaustion on her bed, thinking of her father and mother and her favorite willow tree, and quietly cried herself to sleep. She dared not let herself think of home throughout the long day, for fear her hands would unconsciously slacken in the midst of a daydream. She did not want to be jolted out of some reverie by Olga’s commanding voice, or by a slap of a hand across the jaw.
The servants were fed tolerably well, Anna supposed, and were allowed a cold bath once a week. Yet daily the work became more toilsome. Her arms and shoulders and back ached. They were awakened hours before sunrise, and often did not see their rooms again until eight or nine o’clock at night. Neither her mind nor her body were used to such a rigorous routine.
Anna carried another secret reason to avoid raising Olga’s ire. She lived in constant dread that the all-knowing, all-seeing kitchen mistress would one day, without warning, scar her back and beat her face. What Polya had done was nothing to the insolence of Anna’s trespass in the garden! And Olga would inevitably find out; it was only a matter of time. Olga seemed to have eyes and ears everywhere, and Anna had heard mutterings about “Olga’s spies.” Somehow Olga would catch wind of it. For all Anna knew, the girl Kat might be one of Olga’s spies!
Anna had not seen the Iron Mistress approach, and the stern words fell over the hushed kitchen as out of a nightmare: “Come with me.” Too terrified to utter a peep, Anna dropped the pan she was holding, not even pausing to dry her hands or remove the filthy apron around her waist. With trembling step, fighting back the tears, Anna followed Olga out. Every eye in the place followed them, but no one moved a muscle or dared make a sound. Silent prayers from several of the women and even more angry curses from a few of the men went up against the heartless mistress on Anna’s behalf. When the door closed behind the two women, collective sighs and mutterings spread about, though mostly the sounds were of frantically increased labor. Everyone wondered who might be next.
“I do not know what you have done, Anna Yevnovna,” said the kitchen supervisor the moment they were out into the hallway. Anna’s fear in being alone with the woman mounted to terror. At the words what you have done, her heart failed her altogether. She opened her mouth to speak—she knew she had to make a clean breast of it and admit that she had gone into the garden by accident. But her parched throat and trembling tongue could not make a sound.
“You have been summoned by the head housekeeper,” Olga went on. Anna tried to stop her quivering knees, but failed. Olga paused, her eyes narrowing as she cast a menacing look into Anna’s face. “I do not like things going on behind my back,” she said severely. “You will be sorry for this when you return, especially if I feel repercussions from your deeds. What befell that idler Polya will be mild in comparison, Anna, if you have done anything to put me in a bad light with my employers.”
Anna could hardly mistake her meaning, nor could she stop the tears falling down her face.
“Stop that crying, you foolish girl,” commanded Olga, “or I’ll swat your ears and give you something to cry about! Now come with me!”
Anna followed, and Olga led her around several corners and through a large corridor she had never seen before. They were on their way to the main house, although Anna didn’t realize it. All she could think of as she stumbled along trying to keep up with Olga’s gigantic steps were the words she’d just heard: Your deeds . . . I do not know what you have done . . . summoned by the head housekeeper . . . if you have done anything. . . . The most horrifying thought of all was that the head housekeeper was probably worse than Olga herself! And now she was going to thrash Anna for the garden incident. That other servant girl had said, “I go anywhere I like.” That’s it! thought Anna. She must be the daughter of the head housekeeper. That’s why she has such freedom on the estate. And now that girl’s mother is going to beat me more severely than even Olga could!
They continued through many passageways, occasionally passing an open door through which Anna saw glimpses of unimaginable splendors, and meeting here and there other servants about their business. Some spoke curtly to Olga; others merely nodded; a few ignored them altogether. The women were all dressed in fine, trim, dark blue frocks, covered with crisply starched white aprons. They passed two or three men, all decked out in black trousers and cutaway coats trimmed with gold braid. Polya was right—the servants here were in a class of their own.
At length Olga paused before a closed door and knocked twice. A voice from inside bid them enter. Olga opened the door and led the way into a small office. A desk, several chairs, cabinets, stacks of ledgers and baskets of papers created a generally productive, if cluttered, look. Two women whom Anna had never seen before sat—one at the desk, the other adjacent to it.
The older of the two spoke first. She appeared to be in her mid to late fifties, with gray hair pulled to the back of her head in a soft bun. Fine wrinkles surrounded her pale blue eyes, becoming especially pronounced at the corners. She was trim and, even though she was seated, Anna could tell she must be quite tall. Her gray dress, much nicer than the plain gray worn by most of the kitchen staff, drained her skin of all its natural glow. The colorless lips of her mouth curved into a small smile that, though it lacked enthusiasm and essential warmth, contained a certain element of sincerity which Anna took as a hopeful sign from this woman of obvious importance.
“Ah, Olga Stephanovna,” said the woman in a soft, formal tone, “thank you, but you did not have to bring the girl yourself.”
“I feared she might become lost otherwise,” replied Olga, a note of deference in her voice that Anna would not have thought possible.
The woman glanced at Anna and, as if what she saw verified Olga’s explanation, added, “Ah, yes . . . well, you may leave us now.”
Olga hesitated momentarily. She had desperately hoped to be included in the proceedings, if only to increase her power over Anna, and her chagrin at being so quickly dismissed was evident. She threw Anna an evil glance and quietly exited.
When Olga was gone, the woman turned her attention to Anna.
“I am Sarah Remington,” she said. Even through her terror, which had increased upon Olga’s departure, Anna had enough of her wits left to be surprised by the foreign-sounding name. Had she been more experienced, she might already have noted the woman’s thickly accented, though perfectly adequate, Russian.
&n
bsp; Mrs. Remington added, as if a mere formality, “And with me is Nina Chomsky, personal maid to the Princess Natalia.”
She paused. “You may sit down, Anna.” Her cool, almost lifeless tone took on a momentary inflection of tenderness with the words, accompanied with the gesture of her hand toward a chair.
Anna stared straight forward in reply, still trembling. She suddenly became aware of her frayed dress, smudged white apron, and hands still moist with dirty kitchen water. How could she sit as if an equal to such important persons? Paralyzed, Anna didn’t move.
“Come, come, child,” said Mrs. Remington impatiently, “this may take some time.”
Some time! Were they both going to beat her then send her back to Olga Stephanovna for more?
Fighting back tears once more, Anna did as the lady had instructed, sitting down on the edge of the chair, her back stiff.
“I have called you here at the young princess’s request,” the head housekeeper went on. A slight emphasis seemed to indicate her personal disapproval. “It seems she is in need of a servant, a personal maid, as it were. And because—well, regardless of her reasons, she wishes a girl of her own age. You came to her attention some weeks ago, it appears, and she—the young princess—feels you would be suitable for the position.”
Anna’s mouth fell open. She was not going to be disciplined for walking in the garden? It must be a mistake! How could they think she possibly was qualified to act as maid to a princess! Her tears were instantly dry, but her throat remained parched, and no sound rose to her lips. She continued to stare in dumbfounded silence.
“Have you no comment to make, Anna?” said Mrs. Remington.
The Russians Collection Page 13