The Russians Collection

by Michael Phillips

  He knew he could not.

  Was he doomed here forever then, or at least until his term of service was complete? To a man not yet twenty-five and separated from the woman of his heart, the two seemed identical. Anything could happen—and he feared would—if he was forced to remain here much longer.

  And what of Anna’s God? He had done nothing but ignore his and Anna’s prayers.

  Not that Sergei had the heart to pray lately. God seemed about as interested in him as his own father had been, loving him—if such it could be called—from a cool distance, unwilling to reach out a rescuing hand when he needed it most.

  Why waste his breath praying?

  He had little luck with father figures. If he was to make it out of this place, it would be by his own initiative. Somehow, in some way, he’d manage to overcome the oafs like Rustaveli, the incomprehensible, inhumane orders, the stifling heat, and most of all the ever-lurking insanity that would certainly defeat him if ill chance forced him to remain here much longer.

  He would get away. He would be with Anna again. And until then he would not stop dreaming of the day when once again he would lay eyes on the lovely, peaceful, smiling face of the servant girl he loved.

  17

  Anna stood back to admire the shimmering Christmas tree.

  When the candles were lit tonight, it would rival even the trees of the Imperial Court. How her mistress had managed it on the shrunken finances of her new household, Anna could not imagine. But she was glad Princess Katrina had done so, even if they had to trim back someplace else.

  The year had been a difficult one. It was time for a festive celebration. The fear and oppression fostered by all the unrest and rebellion was gradually lifting from the city. Residents breathed a little easier and ventured out of their homes with a renewed air of security. That alone gave reason to celebrate.

  Misha had told her recently that many ministers and governmental officials were dispensing with their Cossack guards. Anna was glad that the streets of St. Petersburg were safe once more, although Anna could not avoid conflicting feelings over the cause for the change. Governor-general Melikov’s relentless crackdown on subversive and revolutionary elements within the city had resulted in many arrests. She could not help worrying about Paul. The news had it that Melikov was primarily after ringleaders rather than rank-and-file followers. But where Paul might fit into the underground hierarchy, she hadn’t an idea. All she could do was pray daily that he would escape the government’s ever-spreading net long enough to come to his senses.

  In spite of her concerns about her brother, the peace and relative tranquility of the city were certainly welcome. It went far to dispel the gloomy atmosphere settling upon Anna’s personal world.

  For herself, she could and would survive Sergei’s absence with tolerable equanimity. She was, after all, more accustomed to his absence than his presence. The change to the new environment of the Remizov household had been more jarring to the daily ups and downs of her life than Sergei’s reassignment.

  But the occasional letters, which reached her via Misha’s hand, were not encouraging. When writing to her, Sergei did his best to put a brave and stoic face on it. But she could tell he was miserable. And not just from their separation, but from the horrible conditions at his new outpost.

  Most frustrating of all was her helplessness. All she could do for him was remind him every time she wrote that her prayers were with him.

  Katrina’s melancholy, so much closer at hand, was more pressing to Anna at the moment. The physician gave his assurance that the princess’s moods were nothing more than a natural consequence of her condition. For the most part, Anna supposed he was right. But she knew it went deeper than that.

  She could not blame it all on Dmitri. On the other hand, she knew that a change in his present behavior would go far to lift Katrina’s spirits. He had continued for months to spend more and more time away from the estate on so-called army business. It was obvious to all that the epithet was no more than a thinly masked way of saying he was out carousing with friends who happened to wear the Russian army uniform. Anna sensed, however, that his unseemly conduct did not mirror whatever was troubling his expertly veiled mind.

  He had arrived home very late one night, as had become his habit, early in the month. The princess had long since abandoned the hope of waiting up for him, and had retired. Anna had not been able to sleep, and had finally risen and was on her way to the kitchen to prepare some tea for herself. Crossing the entryway, she heard a fumbling with the latch on the front door. Knowing it to be Dmitri, she quickened her step to avoid an encounter.

  But it was too late. The door opened the next moment.

  “Anna . . . Anna,” she heard behind her. “Is a maid’s work never done?” His tone was slurred, the content of his business that night all too apparent.

  “No, Your Excellency,” replied Anna, turning to face him. “I just could not sleep.”

  “Well, I am glad it was you I ran into and not . . . someone else.” He swayed unsteadily on his feet. “People do talk, you know.”

  He leaned clumsily toward her and gave her a conspiratorial wink. “You can keep a secret, though, can you not, Anna?” he said.

  “Yes, Your Excellency.”

  He laughed. “Except in life-or-death situations, eh, Anna?”

  “I—I don’t understand.”

  “You told Katrina’s secret about me, to save her from the clutches of that maniac, remember?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “You saved her life and you brought us together. We have you alone to thank for our marital bliss. A regular cupid, you are!” His tone, harsh and caustic, gave a sarcastic twist to his words.

  “Your Excellency, let me get a footman to help you up the stairs.”

  “Shame on you, Anna! I’m steady as a rock.”

  As if to prove his boast, Dmitri lifted a foot and held out an arm in an effort to demonstrate his balance. He reeled backward, toppling over.

  Anna stepped quickly forward. She could hardly have kept him from crashing to the floor, but grabbing her shoulder with one hand and bracing the other against the nearby wall, he managed to keep himself upright. Steadying himself, he kept a firm grasp on Anna’s shoulder. Then he turned, pressed closer, and attempted to focus his bleary-eyed gaze upon her. Anna’s heart thudded uncomfortably within her. Surely the count would not forget common decency in his drunken state!

  “You know, Anna,” he said, his voice almost earnest, “you are a devilishly pretty girl.”

  He took her chin in his hand and studied her as if for the first time. “Very beautiful indeed . . . I can see why Sergei fell in love with you.”

  Anna gaped in stunned silence. Perhaps it should not have been so surprising that Sergei had told his best friend. After all, she had confided in Misha. But for it to come out now, like this, so unexpectedly! She was so taken aback that she could force no response.

  Dmitri grinned. There was no maliciousness in the smile, but rather an almost brotherly sympathy.

  “I am sorry,” he said sincerely. “I didn’t mean to . . . well, I see I have embarrassed you. . . . I won’t say another word. I don’t know what came over me.” He let go of her shoulder and fell back against the wall. Then the grin faded, and with it his inebriated joviality. He let out a deep breath. “You must think me a drunken sot—a fool.”

  “Please, Your Excellency,” Anna insisted, “let me call a footman.”

  “You are a good girl, Anna. You really are. You will always watch over the both of us.”

  “I will do what I can, Your Excellency.”

  “Katrina is fortunate to have you. You’ll always take care of her for me, won’t you?”

  “Of course, Your Excellency.”

  “I am sure she did better in choosing a maid than she did a husband.”

  “That is not true, Your Excellency.”

  “Do you dare call your master a liar?” he said, raising one eyebrow. “A
h, but it is true,” he sighed. “Sad but true, as they say. I did so want to make her happy, but . . .”

  He paused and shook his head. “You know,” he went on after a moment, “I once boxed a bear. I really did. For a meager twenty-ruble wager, I climbed into that cage and boxed the hairy creature. I felt not an ounce of trepidation, either. Nor did the fact that I was more than half drunk have anything to do with it. I once rode two stallions together at full trot for half a vesta. And I tottered on the ledge of a third-story window in dead of winter and swallowed a bottle of rum. I—”

  He stopped, shaking his head once more. “Anna . . . do you want to know the truth? I have never been afraid of anything in my life, until now . . .”

  “Your Excellency—”

  “Anna, I am quite drunk. Would you . . . would you point me in the direction of the stairs? I will be able to make it from there.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Anna did as he had requested, watching him tensely as he made his shaky way to the top of the long flight.

  But she found herself unable to relax even when he had reached the top safely. As she continued on her way to the kitchen, she found no small consternation still bubbling about inside her. Except for her talk with him about Basil Anickin prior to the wedding, she had never had any further personal contact with the husband of her mistress. Why had he now suddenly revealed such an intimate and vulnerable side of himself? And why to her? She was no confidante. What could it do but cause additional tension in the household?

  It set her mind greatly at ease when she encountered the count the following morning. He made no intimation whatever about the previous night’s interlude. The look on his face gave not the slightest hint that he even remembered it. He had probably been too drunk to remember.

  She knew Katrina was utterly unaware of her husband’s insecurities. Any of his acquaintances would have insisted that Count Dmitri Remizov possessed not an insecure bone in his body. The trouble was, very few people ever truly knew him.

  Anna found herself wishing for Sergei’s presence all over again, though for different reasons. He would be capable of helping his sister understand her husband better.

  But he was a thousand miles away. It was probably no accident that Dmitri had chosen only a timid maid to receive a brief glimpse of his innermost self. The secret of his vulnerability was safe in the heart where also dwelt the love of his best friend.

  18

  Katrina had determined to make this Christmas gathering memorable. She had invited about a dozen guests, including her parents. Two days before Christmas, it was not exactly a gala affair, but as much as she felt she could handle, considering her condition. She became tired so easily, but that would not stop her from marking this very special occasion—her and Dmitri’s first Christmas as husband and wife.

  She supposed she had gone a bit overboard on the tree and garlands and the new gold candlesticks. But Christmas was no time to pinch kopecks. Anyway, she brought enough of her own money into the sparse Remizov coffers to allow herself some pleasurable spending.

  The princess came downstairs promptly at 7:30 to begin receiving guests. Anna had done marvels with Katrina’s costume this evening. Her hair had been swept to one side in a cascade of ringlets with a strand of baby pearls woven in for effect. She wore a gown of emerald velvet that drew out the color of her eyes so vividly that they seemed cut from the same fabric. The dress had been designed especially for her, with its pearl-trimmed hem and delicately scooped neckline. The designer had quite a task trying to contrive a dress around four months of pregnancy. The problem was not the princess’s size nearly so much as her self-consciousness. She hardly showed the effects at this point, yet she complained of feeling bloated. She rejected half his ideas as worsening the way she looked.

  Anna had done everything in her power—through both persuasion and patience—to make sure that it would turn out perfect. And since Anna did not lie, Katrina was inclined to accept her word, although more than once she swore she would adopt the old practice of women confining themselves from public eye during such a time. She could not have been more joyful about the coming baby. But she would be glad when she could stop worrying about her waistline and again enjoy the opportunity of trying out some of the exquisite new Paris fashions.

  Princess Katrina reached the final step just as the parlor clock struck the half hour. The guests would be arriving at any minute. There was one person, however, who should have made his appearance long ago. She stopped a passing footman.

  “Alexander, has Count Remizov returned yet?”

  “Not that I know of, Your Highness.”

  “Would you please check the coach house, and perhaps the study also. He may have come in while no one was about.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  She swept past the servant and into the parlor where she would receive her guests and where the zakuska would be served before dinner.

  It should have been easy to maintain her Christmas cheer amid such a festive atmosphere. The tree glittered, the candles sparkled against the delicately tinted crystal ornaments. Bouquets of red roses and holly and chrysanthemums adorned every nook and corner, making the room look like the greenhouse where the flowers had been obtained in the dead of winter. The lovely fragrances, the warmth of the crackling fire in the hearth, the glow of all the candles—surely such an atmosphere would lend to this evening.

  But Katrina felt little contentment. She knew it was foolish to think mere Christmas decorations could bring it. With each passing minute, her carefully honed determination dissolved a little more. Dmitri should have been home hours ago! Even one hour ago would have indicated he cared perhaps a little. He knew how special this evening was to Katrina, and all the effort she had put into it. Yet here he was late—if he chose to appear at all!

  No doubt he preferred to spend his Christmas with his maudlin cronies! It wouldn’t surprise her—

  No, she would not pursue that line, thought Katrina, breaking off her silently rising temper. She refused to allow Dmitri’s behavior to spoil her evening. Perhaps she might be so gracious as not even to get angry at him.

  He deserved her full wrath, of course. Of that there could be no doubt. Should he walk in the door at this very moment, it would have been rude and grossly inconsiderate to cut his arrival so close. But perhaps she could give him that one Christmas gift, undeserving though it be—to control her anger. At least one of them ought to be mature and caring toward the other! No, she positively would not let her anger rise to the surface. She did not want to ruin this Christmas.

  She calmed herself and was breathing more easily when a few minutes later the footman announced the first guests at the parlor door.

  “Prince Viktor Fedorcenko and Princess Natalia Vasilyovna!” intoned the servant in a grandiose voice fit for the Winter Palace.

  Katrina rose and embraced her parents warmly. True, only a day had passed since she had seen them last. But lately they were becoming more dear to her than she would have ever thought possible. She could not help cringing, however, when her father’s first words called attention to the very fact she was trying so hard to ignore.

  “Your husband is, ah . . . not with you this evening, my dear?” he said in a tone of concern.

  “He has been detained on some military business or other,” she replied airily. “He’ll be along directly.”

  She hated herself for lying and making excuses for Dmitri. But she hated her husband nearly as much for placing her in the position of having to do so. In years past she might also have been annoyed at her father for asking the question. He knew both military protocol and Dmitri Remizov well enough to recognize the facade without benefit of Katrina’s explanation. But he held his tongue and said no more.

  Her father did not look particularly good this evening. His eyes seemed tired, and his cheeks a little hollow and drawn. Had he lost weight? Christmas was no time for that. But now that she thought of it, his uniform did seem to fit loose
r than usual.

  She had no more time to reflect. Almost immediately the other guests began to arrive. After a few more awkward references to the absence of the head of the household, the party celebrating the nativity began to flow along more gaily. Besides the beauty of her face, Katrina had inherited from her mother a natural ability to entertain. She found it the most comfortable thing in the world to float easily from guest to guest. She knew all the right things to say, the proper moments to laugh, how much to laugh, when to look concerned, and, in short, all the ways and means to make people feel at ease and welcome and able to enjoy themselves.

  The most awkward interchange of the evening did not concern Dmitri at all, but rather Katrina’s brother and father. The conversation had turned, as was not surprising, to the current political climate and Russia’s military involvement in various parts of the eastern world. Some unkind remarks had been brought up that Great Britain’s Disraeli had recently made concerning Russia’s activities in Central Asia.

  “The British Prime Minister is ever worried about his precious India,” offered one of the guests in response.

  “As if we would want the place, really!” added another.

  “I visited Bombay once,” commented one of the ladies, “and I wouldn’t have it on a wager. A poverty-stricken, backward, smelly, horrid place!”

  “Well, my dear,” said her husband patiently, “what you must understand is that the tsar and his advisors do not make decisions on the basis of the appeal of the place to visiting Russian noblewomen. It is all a matter of geography, not wealth versus poverty.”

  “I still hate the place!” rejoined his wife.

  “It does have some strategic importance, however,” the husband went on, “whether you grasp the reasons for it or not.”

  “Nevertheless,” put in one of the other men, “I might find myself siding with your wife on this, Count. We don’t need India, certain strategic value, notwithstanding.”

  “Some would argue,” said Viktor dryly, “that we don’t need Central Asia either. But we are fighting for it as if it were the Crimea itself.”