“I have no reason to believe you,” Katrina replied, moderating her haughty tone but slightly. “The book is missing. You were the last to handle it, and are thus the only possible suspect. Such behavior cannot be tolerated.”
She paused briefly, assuming her best managerial demeanor before going on. “I must send you back to the kitchen,” she said. “It would seem that is all you are fit for. I will let Olga Stephanovna see to your punishment. If within twenty-four hours you decide to make amends for your deed and return the book with a full apology, I might consider taking you back. But if the book is not returned, I will have no choice but to inform my parents, and they will no doubt have you dismissed from the household altogether and returned to the country where you belong. Even in the kitchen, dishonesty and lying cannot be tolerated. Now that I think of it, the first time I laid eyes on you it was in the midst of an act of disobedience. Perhaps I will speak to my father and ask him to have you whipped.”
Anna could take no more. Without thinking, she brushed past Katrina and fled from the room, not even pausing to ask her mistress’s permission.
40
Katrina had little appetite for dinner that evening.
She could not get the image of the stricken maid out of her mind. She kept telling herself that it was the foolish girl’s own fault for her dishonesty. But with each repetition of the empty charge, it became harder and harder for Katrina to deny in her truest heart that the girl was probably telling the truth. The young princess still had a conscience. And however unpleasant its voice, she yet possessed ears capable of hearing it.
At the same time, however, Katrina also possessed a will—one which was all too inexperienced at lying down and surrendering its arms. Pride thus forced her to cling to her accusation, spoiling the supper. She would no doubt have been in for many more such ruined meals had her father not called her to his study immediately following dinner.
Prince Fedorcenko despised rumors. He made it a point never to heed the inevitable gossip that was bound to circulate throughout such a large and diverse household as his. But there had been talk about his daughter lately—especially concerning her behavior during the last week. He found he could not easily discount the charges that she was growing more reckless, more headstrong, more domineering with the staff. He had watched her carefully this evening at dinner, and even though he knew nothing of the incident with Anna, the prince had determined in his own mind that it was time to take the thing in hand himself. Given her behavior and moodiness over the last several months, he knew the time had come for action—strong, decisive, fatherly action—and soon. A visit by the housekeeper, Mrs. Remington, shortly before supper had sealed his resolve, and he determined not to wait for even another day to pass before he dealt with his precocious daughter.
Instead of taking up his usual position behind his desk as if he were master and she a servant, he motioned her toward the divan. She sat down, and he took up an adjacent chair facing her. The prince was far more comfortable in the role of a stern disciplinarian, for he was a military man fully accustomed to wielding authority among his subordinates. Such a tactic had always worked on his older son, although it had sowed discord in their relationship, as the prince himself was becoming aware. He had believed it successful on his daughter as well in her younger years.
As Katrina had grown, however, Fedorcenko tried to exercise a gentler and more human touch in dealing with her. The mistakes he made with Sergei had taught him a little, and Katrina reaped the benefits of a gradual softening of their father’s former stiff unapproachability. Especially now that she was a girl poised on the brink of womanhood, Fedorcenko realized that a gentle hand was required.
As they settled themselves in their seats, the prince took a brief moment to study his blossoming daughter.
There could be no doubt that she was more woman than little girl. Yet he knew—not without a pang of intrepidation, even for one as strong as he—that she was no mild and pliable effeminate like his wife, Natalia. Within Katrina lay a core of steel, disguised by feminine curves and frills. He was proud of his daughter, proud of her wit, her intelligence, her emerging beauty; proud, too, of the very things he feared—her determination, her strength. She would make a general to give a tsar pride!
Yet she would never be a general, because she was a woman. Strength and fortitude and plucky resolve, however to be admired in a man, were not attributes sought after among ladies of Russian society. Her looks and keen mind and perspicacity, assets though they were to a personality, could also prove liabilities in this world where most men felt women were best kept under glass. Men would pamper them and admire them and make love to them and show them off at balls and parties and international soirees—but never give them credit for having minds of their own. And although he was sure that such outdated attitudes could not endure forever, even in Russia, Fedorcenko had himself married a woman who fit that antiquated mold to perfection.
Viktor thought no less of Natalia that she was no philosopher. He loved her and would not have been able to live without her. At the same time, he would not force his daughter into a mold she did not fit. But if she were no Natalia, what kind of woman was Katrina growing up to be?
“Katrina,” he opened benignly, “I hear that you have been quite busy of late. Something to do with your room, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Papa. I’ve redecorated the whole thing! It’s not altogether finished, but it is coming along nicely—at least Mother has given her approval.”
“I shall come and see it soon.”
“I would like that very much, Papa.”
There followed a brief pause.
Fedorcenko was not comfortable with small talk. He would have much preferred thrusting directly to the point. But in this instance, subtly must be used.
“You took on quite a responsibility,” continued the prince.
“I’m not a girl anymore, Papa.”
“Indeed, that much is obvious to any young man with eyes in his head!” laughed Fedorcenko.
“Is that a compliment, Papa?” smiled Katrina.
“It certainly is. You are a beautiful young lady!”
“Thank you, Papa. Coming from you, I think I can believe those words.”
“You will hear them from the lips of many others, I have no doubt.”
Katrina fought back a rising flush on her cheeks. The thought of Dmitri, not embarrassment from her father’s words, filled her soft face with emotion.
“Are you growing up quickly, Katrina, or have I simply been asleep these many months?”
“I don’t know, Papa.”
“There will come a time, my dear, when you will wish your childhood had lasted a bit longer, and that you had not stored it away so suddenly in crates and boxes.”
Katrina had been wondering if this conversation had been called for a purpose beyond a simple tete-a-tete between father and daughter. Now it was clear. But oddly, words of defensiveness did not rise up against her father’s comment. Perhaps her guilt feelings were too far from the surface, or perhaps she felt she had vindicated herself in going to retrieve the dolls.
“You spoke to Mother?” she asked softly.
“Yes.”
“I realized she was right,” said Katrina, with a hint of pride in her tone, “and I went to get three of my favorite dolls. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone’s feelings, especially Mama’s.” Even as she said the words, the incident with Anna surged back into Katrina’s mind, and with it the realization that she had not restored the dolls to her room at all, but that they still sat in the storeroom where she had left them. Her father noted the change that passed across her face as she recalled the heated incident.
“I see that you are sincere, Katrina,” he said, “and that is good. I do not think your mother was hurt once you and she talked.” He paused and rubbed his hands together thoughtfully, even a bit nervously. He leaned ever so slightly forward, catching his daughter’s bright eyes directly in his intent gaze.
“But I suspect there is more to it, am I correct?”
Katrina winced involuntarily. “Just something that came up with my maid,” she answered.
“The young girl from the kitchen?”
Katrina nodded.
“Tell me about it,” her father asked.
“Oh, it was nothing, really,” she replied, trying to shrug the incident off lightly.
But it didn’t work, not with her father. Katrina could tell by the look in his eyes that he knew she was keeping something back. It was probably that caginess when it came to observing people that kept him so in touch with the household goings-on, even when he was away so much of the time.
He continued to stare at her with his penetrating eyes. Finally Katrina took a resigned breath and said, “She took one of the books I had packed away. She could have had it for the asking, but who knows how these peasants’ minds work? I discovered it when I went to the storeroom for the dolls. I’m afraid I became rather angry, Father.”
“You’re certain she took it?”
“She’s the only one who could have.”
“Why is that?”
“She showed great interest in it while we were packing the books away.”
“What did you say when you became angry with her?”
“I gave her twenty-four hours to produce the book, and said if she didn’t she would be dismissed from the household.”
“Over a book you had discarded?”
“I hadn’t exactly discarded it—but stealing is stealing, isn’t it, no matter how trivial the item?”
“Has the girl given you cause to think she is in the habit of stealing?”
“No,” hesitated Katrina. “But I do know that she once sneaked into the Promenade Garden . . . though I don’t suppose you could say she actually took anything or did any harm by it.”
“Why did it make you so upset, if it wasn’t a book you cared about?”
“I did care about the book,” replied Katrina, then let out a heavy sigh. “Oh, Papa, I don’t know what to think! Maybe I acted so harshly because I was disappointed. I had chosen her myself—she seemed so simple and gentle. I had such high hopes. Now I wish I’d just given her the book in the first place, or maybe one of those volumes of fairytales she was looking at.”
“You regret your actions now?” asked the prince.
“I wish I could take it back, I suppose. But I said what I said, so there’s no way I can take it back. And besides all that, Papa, the book is missing.”
Katrina sagged in her chair. She let out another sigh, accompanied with a dejected, self-deprecating look.
Prince Fedorcekno, on the other hand, could not help feeling a sense of relief at his daughter’s dismay. For her very questioning indicated that she was capable of searching her own soul and taking an honest look at her motives when necessary. Those were surely vital components of the maturity she so desperately wanted. Perhaps even in this unpleasant incident she might make strides forward.
Instead of responding immediately, the prince rose and strode slowly over to his desk, then returned to his daughter. She glanced up without much interest, then suddenly her eyes widened and she shot up straight in her chair.
“Papa! The Bible! You found it. But where?”
“Katrina, I had the book all along,” said Fedorcenko. “I took it from the storeroom late this afternoon. When your mother told me about the dolls, I thought I ought to have a look for myself at what, in your zeal, you might crate away never to be seen again. Fathers possess sentimentalities as well as children and women, you know. It is not only your mother who rues this rapid and sudden passage of yours into womanhood.”
He seated himself once more, then ran a hand fondly along the edge of the book. “This Bible is unique, you know. One does not encounter many copies of the sacred Scriptures with such exquisite illustrations. I went to great pains to purchase it for you. I remember how filled with wonder your little eyes were when you first saw it. You had me read from it to you many times over. Do you remember, Katrina?”
Katrina nodded humbly. A tug pulled at her heart as she recalled those times when she was a child, those very special times alone with her father, he in the large upholstered chair and she snuggled in his lap.
“Oh, Papa,” she said in a quiet voice, her lovely green eyes showing unshed tears. “I am so sorry.”
The prince rose and moved to the divan next to his daughter. He placed his arm around her. “It is hard to be a child, my dear,” he said gently. “But sometimes it is even more difficult to grow up. Yet we must not fear either. You will make mistakes, but you will still be loved. And by them you will always grow.”
She buried her face in his shoulder, and at last wept a few tears remaining from the childhood she was trying so hard to leave. Fedorcenko handed her his handkerchief. She dried her eyes, blew her nose, and took a deep steadying breath.
“Now what, Papa?” she said.
“What do you think, Katrina?”
“Return Anna to her position?”
“And . . . ?”
“And—what? I don’t know.”
“Don’t you think an apology is in order?”
“But she is only a servant—”
The prince’s sharp look stopped her cold. “Politics and revolutionaries and the rights of serfs aside, Katrina, the girl has feelings just as you do. If you have wronged her, you can hardly let the matter drop.”
Katrina’s pride kept her from replying, though she hung her head and slowly nodded.
Fedorcenko said no more. His daughter had much to learn. And though he could have let himself be disappointed because such things did not come naturally to her, he also could not deny his own responsibility in the matter. How often had he followed the dictates of his own advice when it came to differences with his son? Katrina’s reluctance to apologize merely mirrored his own.
For all his magnanimous advice, she was after all his daughter.
41
Katrina left her father that evening with a great deal to think about.
The fifteen-year-old girl would not change overnight. But perhaps in the mere admission of wrongdoing she had set her foot upon the path to the most lasting kind of inner change—change far deeper than anything she would achieve by low-cut gowns, feminine wiles, or a redecorated apartment. Remaining on the road to maturity would be the most difficult part of the task. Hundreds take a few steps along that way for every one who makes a lifetime of progress. And it would be all the more precarious with the many diversions and temptations a young woman in Katrina’s position was bound to encounter.
Yet she had made a brave beginning, and for the moment was headed right. In a more literal sense, she was now headed down to the Fedorcenko estate kitchens. She shrank from the very thought of having to humble herself in front of anyone, but perhaps in front of a servant it might be easier than before the gawking eyes of her peers. Easy or not, she knew she had to face her maid and reinstate her. Her father was right about one thing—it had been wrong to accuse her so hastily. And now to make amends, she had to go to Anna personally, not merely send for her.
Princess Katrina Fedorcenko seldom ventured to this quarter of the house, and she received curious stares from passing servants along the way. She found Anna at the chopping block slicing several large cabbages. It had taken Olga Stephanovna no time at all to load Anna down with her former duties, an undertaking which provided the Iron Mistress a great deal of morbid satisfaction. Since the day Anna had been taken from her domain into the Fedorcenko home, Olga had resented the girl’s good fortune, and now took particular delight in exacting her own form of revenge on one who should have been content with her station in the first place.
For the first time in her life, at least in front of a servant, Katrina did not know what she was going to say. It did not help that Anna stared speechless as the princess approached.
“Anna, I wish to speak to you,” said Katrina.
Still Anna stared, po
ised somewhere between confusion and abject fear.
“Is there somewhere they will let you go?”
At last Anna seemed to come to herself. She glanced nervously around. Work among the other servants nearby had slowed with Katrina’s appearance. All eyes were on the two young girls.
Anna glanced questioningly toward Polya, who had heard everything. Polya nodded toward the door.
“No one is in the vegetable pantry, Princess,” said Polya, and added to Anna, “If Olga should wonder about you, I will tell her Princess Fedorcenko requested you to accompany her. Go ahead, Anna.”
Anna turned and walked toward a door deeper into the kitchen. Katrina followed, winding through awestruck servants who pretended to go about their work but were watching every step the princess took. It was not the sort of place where Katrina was used to being. Cooking implements, pans, bowls, and huge mixing pots sat about; half a butchered hog lay on one large wood chopping table, where a burly man was sawing it into chunks. The air was filled with smells and sensations completely new to Katrina. She shuddered and followed Anna into the pantry. Because there was no place to sit in the crowded pantry, both girls remained standing.
“I want you to come back to the main house, Anna,” said Katrina.
“I . . . I don’t understand, Princess,” replied Anna, at last finding her voice, though timidly.
“I found the Bible. I’m sorry I accused you, and I want you to come back,” said Katrina. Despite her repentant resolve, the words still came out of her mouth in her usual demanding fashion. Even the expression of apology, which was altogether unnatural to her, had a stiff, almost formal ring to it. The changes she was beginning to feel in certain corners of her heart would take time to work themselves into her demeanor.
“I will do whatever you say, Princess,” said Anna, trying not to show the relief she felt, nor the surge of joy that went along with it.
The Russians Collection Page 26