He took one of her hands in his and saw it covered with blisters and scrapes and small cuts.
“Why, Anna,” he exclaimed in dismay, “you have been working hard . . . too hard!” He brought the hand to his lips and kissed it. “Dear, Anna, what have these poor hands been doing?”
“My father is ill—surely the princess told you that,” Anna replied.
“Yes, but that cannot account for rough, bleeding hands on the woman I love.”
“He was struggling to harvest the rye and wheat before the storm comes,” said Anna, “but he could not do it. He collapsed in the field last evening.”
“Oh, Anna, I am sorry. Is he . . . ?”
“He is in bed now, but very ill. And the grain still must be brought in. My family must have it or starve.”
“Surely you exaggerate the severity.”
“We are peasants, Sergei. The winter is long and bitter. Without food, peasants like us do starve. Every winter many go hungry, and many die.”
Sergei sighed and looked away, sharply aware of his aristocratic ignorance.
“And as long as there is strength in this body of mine,” Anna went on, “I must do all I can to make sure my own father and mother and brother and sisters are not among them.”
“So you have been out trying to harvest the grain by yourself?” Sergei said in astonished admiration.
“You mustn’t forget—I am a peasant of strong stock, if I indeed have my mother and father’s blood in my veins. And I am a Russian besides! We are a strong people, we Russians for whom Mother Earth is our life.”
“You are amazing, Anna. It makes me proud of you!”
Anna’s face fell with an embarrassed sigh. “To tell you the truth, in spite of my brave words, I’m afraid I have been a hopeless failure.”
“I doubt if I believe that!”
“It is true. My papa, weak as he is, was able to cut ten times more grain than I could. I am afraid all my blisters and aching muscles will not prevent most of the crop from being lost.”
Sergei glanced over his shoulder at the sky, then turned thoughtful for a moment.
“Are you the only one?” he asked, glancing around him.
“My mother and one of my sisters have been working with me, but they are back at the cottage just now.”
“Well, then, Anna,” he said, marching off quickly down the path. She stood watching him in astonishment.
Sergei stopped and glanced back. “Come, Anna,” he said, “where is this grain that must be cut?”
“But . . . I don’t understand . . . do you mean—”
“I mean that if there are only two of us, and if those clouds are moving this way as I think they are, then every minute counts.”
“But, Sergei, I could never ask you—”
“Because I am a pampered, city-bred prince, does that mean I am too proud to swing a sickle?”
“Oh, Sergei!” Anna laughed. “But I fear we will not do much against the uncut grain with only a sickle. Do you think you could manage the scythe?”
“How much different can it be than swinging a sword? And I have done that to good effect.”
“I know I am hardly able to lift it, let alone swing it accurately through the dried stalks.”
“You can show me what to do?”
“I think so.”
“Then I will learn to wield it, if it takes me the rest of the day! Come, Anna . . . we can talk more later. There is work to be done!”
46
When Sophia returned to the field with a jar of water and a plate of brown bread, she was shocked by the incredible progress that had been made. Even more surprising was the fact that a complete stranger was swinging the huge scythe through her husband’s field like an expert reaper.
Anna had shown Sergei how to balance the scythe in his hands, how to bring it upward and high to the right, and then swing it down and through the stalks just above the ground. His first attempt landed the blade in the dirt, and his second slashed through the heads of grain themselves nearly a meter off the ground, an effort which doubled Anna over with laughter.
But the young prince stumbled back to his balance, attempting the difficult swing a third, then a fourth time. Gradually he discovered the weight and balance of the strange tool, and attacked the standing grain with the same courage he had demonstrated when wielding his sword on the battlefield of Plevna. It was a great relief to Anna’s hands and muscles not to be swinging the sickle, but before long she found herself lagging behind in gathering and binding the stalks as they fell faster and faster beneath Sergei’s blade. As she followed his swishing circular pattern across the field, her heart sang with a quiet song of joy. Never had a Ruth felt such a devotion of love to her helper and protector. And on Sergei’s part, never had a Boaz so sacredly given himself with all the strength he possessed to care for this kinswoman whom he loved. Their roles were reversed from the Biblical model—the stranger Boaz felled the grain for the father of his Ruth, in whose field he had come from a distant land to labor. But the love in the hearts of this man and this woman was no less full than that of their ancient Hebrew counterparts.
As her mother approached, Anna left her place and walked toward her. Sophia could not possibly have guessed the reason for the smile her daughter wore.
Anna called to Sergei, who willingly laid down the scythe and came toward the two women. The introduction of the stranger did little to alleviate the mother’s perplexity. But there was no time to question the unlikely fact that a St. Petersburg prince was standing in the middle of their field, sweat pouring down his face, dust covering his trousers and tunic, swinging her husband’s scythe! They took only a brief pause for the water and bread Sophia had brought, and then began the work again. Sergei had to urge himself to a faster pace, for behind him came both Ruth and Naomi, gathering, binding, and stacking the sheaves!
“How is Papa?” asked Anna as she and Sophia scooped the neatly fallen stalks in their expert hands.
“He is awake and breathing easier,” replied her mother. “But it was all I could do to keep him in bed.”
“Perhaps we should go tell him that he has nothing more to be anxious about.”
“I will return shortly,” said Sophia. “But there are only four or five more hours of daylight. And with the prince mowing so well, we must gather all we can.”
About thirty minutes later, Anna heard an exclamation from the lips of her mother. She looked up to see her father heading toward them, leading Lukiv across the stubble of the field from the cottage, pulling the old wooden cart that had borne him unconscious the night before.
Dropping the grain she had just gathered in her arms, Anna ran toward him.
“Papa!” she cried.
“What is this?” he said, staring at Sergei, who had not yet seen the older man’s arrival and continued to swing the scythe in large swaths.
“We are not alone, as you can see, Papa,” said Anna. “You must rest and let us finish the work.”
“God be praised!” said Yevno. “Help has come!” His face was pale, and beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead merely from the exertion of the walk.
“Yes, Papa—help has come.”
“Yevno Pavlovich,” scolded Sophia in the same tone she used with her errant offspring, “you promised to stay inside with the children.”
“And I have only broken one tiny part of the promise, wife!” He nodded his head back in the direction of the cart, a sheepish grin spreading across his lips. The three children now stood where they had been crouched inside the cart, each with happy smiles on their faces. “I am well enough at least to load the grain and carry it inside.”
“We will load it, Papa,” said Anna. “It will be enough if you and Lukiv haul it back to the barn.”
“Ah, you make a tired old man feel useless,” he sighed. “But who is this stranger who has come from heaven in answer to our prayers?”
Anna ran off in Sergei’s direction. He was so absorbed in his la
bor she had to shout as she approached to keep her legs from being cut off from beneath her. He stopped and smiled wearily, wiping a sleeve across his sweating brow. He laid down the scythe, and at Anna’s side strode toward the little gathering, breathing heavily.
“Papa,” said Anna, with pride in her voice, “this is the brother of my mistress, Prince Sergei Viktorovich Fedorcenko.”
Yevno opened his mouth, as if to make some ordinary expression of greeting. Then he stopped abruptly as the import of Anna’s words struck him like a thunderbolt.
“Prince . . . ?” was all he could utter in astonishment.
“Yes, sir,” replied Sergei. “I am the son of your daughter’s employer.” He made a deep bow. “I am honored to meet you at last, Yevno Pavlovich.” His tone before the humble peasant was as respectful as though he had been addressing the tsar.
“The honor is entirely mine, to be sure, Your Excellency!” said Yevno, partially recovering his tongue. He bowed also, bending so low that his hands nearly touched the ground. But as he attempted to rise, light-headedness suddenly overcame him. He staggered slightly, nearly toppling to the ground. Sergei jumped forward, caught his arm to steady him, then pulled him upright once more.
“I am more in debt than merely for your help with my grain, Your Excellency,” gasped Yevno, catching his breath.
“Please, sir,” said Sergei, “I neither expect nor deserve such deference. I am merely a friend of your daughter’s. And as such, I hope you will do me the honor of considering me yours as well.”
“You do me a great honor. I do not have words to reply, Your Excellency,” said Yevno again. “You call me ‘sir’ and work in my fields—you are surely the most unusual prince of Russia I have ever heard of! How shall I ever be able to repay you?”
“There will be no talk of repayment,” said Sergei. “Please say only that I am welcome in your home—as a friend.”
“My humble cottage is yours, and all that is in it,” said Yevno, having no idea how deeply his words went into both the prince’s and his daughter’s heart.
Sergei smiled at the humble peasant man he hoped might one day be his father-in-law. But if the man’s heart were as weak as his pale complexion indicated, now was not the time to add to his shock with such a request.
After another few minutes, Sergei reminded them again of the impending change in weather. They all glanced toward the northern skies, and then with one accord took to the fields again.
No one tried to dissuade Yevno from doing his part. They all sensed that for him to lie in bed while a prince brought in his grain would probably have killed him as surely as the exertion of leading Lukiv slowly back and forth between byre and field.
Sophia did manage to get him back to bed shortly after sunset. Anna and Sergei remained in the fields under the light of the moon until after midnight.
One more day the weather held. One more day the young prince and the young peasant maid labored on behalf of the ailing father, from the rising of the sun until only the moon shone pale over Katyk.
On the morning of the second day after Sergei’s arrival, several hours before dawn, the rains came at last from out of the north.
47
Katrina’s melancholy over Anna’s absence struck deeper than she had anticipated, deeper than she should feel over a mere maid.
Even the usually oblivious Princess Natalia noted how dispirited her daughter appeared.
“Would you like to come to the opera with your father and me this evening, dear?” her mother asked Katrina on the morning of the third day following Anna’s departure.
“I don’t really feel like it, Mother. I think I shall read a while and retire early.”
Sergei’s sudden appearance provided the tonic to bring Katrina out of her doldrums. But no one anticipated his equally sudden departure. The atmosphere on the estate grew tempestuous and emotional as a result, but at least his brief visit had injected his sister with something of her old vitality.
Sergei’s appearance also ushered in thoughts of a less pleasant nature. She had been so distracted for several days that she had hardly even remembered the dilemma she was certain to face sooner or later. Suddenly her thoughts turned to Basil, and a sickening sense of foreboding began to come over her.
Had he returned from Moscow? His inevitable visit would come soon. What should she tell him? She had still not come up with a comfortable way to inform him of her change of heart toward him. A number of stories and excuses had come to mind, ranging from the unlikely tale that she had decided to join a convent, to the more morbid concoction that her mother was ill and she must give up thoughts of marriage in order to care for her.
But Basil was no fool. Whatever else Katrina did not know about him, of that much she was certain. There would be no pulling the wool over his eyes. Probably only one thing would do in the end, and that was the truth—a somewhat watered-down version of it, at any rate.
She was worrying about nothing, Katrina tried to tell herself. He would accept the news in a gentlemanly fashion. She still only half-believed all the gossip she had heard about him, anyway.
Her attempts to put her mind at ease met with only partial success, and when the doctor’s son was unexpectedly announced the following afternoon, Katrina found herself in a sudden dither. She could escape it no longer. The unpleasant task must be done.
As she walked down to the parlor where he was waiting, she was struck with the brilliant idea that her news might go down better in the tranquil surroundings of the garden, with the peaceful serenity of the autumn afternoon to soften the blow. Basil agreed with her suggestion and followed her outside.
Katrina continued deep into the garden. When she finally stopped, Basil immediately approached and took her in his arms. She squirmed free, then retreated several paces.
“Please, Basil,” she said, “I have something to say first.”
“Something other than how much you missed me?” he rejoined, with as close to a smile as Basil Anickin’s lips ever revealed. He still had not apprehended his impending doom.
“Yes, Basil. I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to marry you after all,” Katrina blurted out. The words were past her lips before she had a chance even to consider how to say what she knew she had to.
The color drained from Anickin’s cheeks as he stood staring at her in mute disbelief.
“I can’t believe I heard what I think you said,” he said finally.
“You heard it, Basil. That’s exactly what I said—I can’t marry you.”
“What? But I don’t . . . why, Katrina? What has come over you?”
“I have my reasons, Basil.”
Again he stared at her in dumb silence.
When he spoke again, his voice had a cold, strangled quality. “You can’t do this to me, Katrina,” he said.
She turned away and walked a few paces along the path, then spun back to face him, doing her best to act cheery and nonchalant about the whole thing. Basil had not moved a muscle, and still stood like a statue.
“Oh, Basil,” said Katrina lightly, “I don’t want to hurt you. And you have every right to hate me for my stupid behavior. But really, it would hurt you far more if I did marry you while loving another man. You would not want that, now would you?”
“Another man?” he repeated numbly.
“You would not want me to try to keep it secret, would you? I’m only trying to do what is best for you.”
Something began to change in the man standing before Katrina. She hardly took notice at first, but gradually what had initially been wounded shock took on a hard, steely edge. And as he spoke, his voice sounded like a tightened coil ready to spring.
“The best for me?” he said with icy sarcasm. “You toy with a man, and then delude yourself into thinking you can spit in his face and call it ‘for his best’? Don’t tell me about hurt and pain, Katrina. You are just like all the rest. What do you care? I am only an ant to crush beneath your aristocratic heel! Chattel for your n
oble whims!”
“It isn’t that way at all. Oh, Basil, don’t make it harder than it needs to be! I didn’t intend for it to happen this way.”
“Well, don’t think you will get away with it so easily.” With a sudden motion, he stepped forward, grabbed her arms in his hands, and jerked her toward him.
“Basil . . . please! You’re hurting me!”
“I will not give you up, Katrina,” he said, gripping her arms all the more tightly. “Do you hear?”
“You . . . you can’t force me to marry you,” she said, shuddering as if for the first time aware of her peril.
“Can’t I?” he seethed. “We shall see, Princess . . . we shall see!”
Katrina winced in pain, but bit down the scream that tried to rise to her lips.
“Basil, please . . . let me go,” she said, whimpering.
“I can make you do whatever I will. I can . . . and I shall!” As proof of his words, he forced her backward against the trunk of a large tree, then pressed his body close to hers, covering her face and neck with unsought kisses. His touch was taut and cold, as only burning hatred can be.
For one rare moment in her young life, Katrina knew what powerlessness felt like. The sheer force of Basil’s dominating physical strength overwhelmed her.
“Basil . . . please!” she heard herself saying in a strange voice of desperation. “My father is in the house,” she lied. “If I scream, you will regret—”
But her threat was immediately cut off by a muscular hand clamped over her mouth.
“I shall have you, Katrina—one way or another!” he said with a quiet, savage resolve. “And if this secret lover of yours, whoever he is, does marry you in the end, he will be getting nothing but the harlot you are!”
He pressed closer, his breath pouring over her in searing hot bursts as she squirmed and struggled against his strength.
Oh, God! she cried silently, maybe I deserve this for the way I have behaved. But please, God . . . please help me!
The Russians Collection Page 67