“It must have a bandage!” answered Andrei quickly. “And lie still, and maybe take one of Grandmama’s potions.”
“But how do you give medicine to a bird?” Sergei asked.
Yevno chuckled under his breath but folded his arms across his chest and said nothing. If he had enjoyed and doted upon his own children, he was simply ecstatic over his grandchildren. He also enjoyed watching his children interact with the little ones, and in sixteen years he had come to think of Sergei—even more than his two other sons-in-law—as his own son. Sergei might have come of noble stock with refinement and education to match, but they had the most important things in common—a faith in God and wisdom that sprang from practical simplicity and common sense.
Sergei’s question momentarily daunted young Andrei, who clamped his mouth shut and scowled. He didn’t like not having all the answers.
“Papa, how do you give medicine to a bird?” Yuri, the curious one, always had more questions than answers.
“I think, Yuri—and Andrei—that a bird might not need our potions,” Sergei replied. “I think God has given creatures a special ability to tend their own wounds. If you give it a safe place to rest, it will mend on its own. You might speed things up a bit by putting a splint on its wing, though. I will show you how tonight.”
The boys thanked their father; then a perplexed frown crossed Yuri’s brow.
“Do you think the bird is safe enough now?” he asked.
“We better go check!” exclaimed Andrei, who jumped to his feet at once and was halfway down the path before Yuri had fully considered all the ramifications of his question.
But not wanting to be left out, he too leaped to his feet. “Goodbye, Mama, Papa, Grandpapa, Uncle Ilya . . .” he said as politely as his haste would permit before he bounded after his brother.
The adults watched affectionately as the children disappeared from view. Then Ilya sighed.
“Sergei, you are a good father,” he said. “I hope I can do as well.”
“Have no fear, Ilya!” said Sergei encouragingly. “If I can do it, anyone can. My friend Misha gave me some good advice once that I will pass on to you. I confided in him my own fears at the prospect of raising a child. He said he was the last person to give any advice in that area since he had never had children. But then he said something I thought quite wise. He said, ‘I suppose children can’t be that much different from horses—they need to know who is in charge, but they want a lump of sugar now and then, too.’”
“Unfortunately,” lamented Ilya, “I know as much about horses as I do about children!”
Yevno howled with laughter; then he laid a gentle hand on his youngest son’s shoulder and said earnestly, “You have a heart full of love, Ilyushka. I know you will be a good father.”
Ilya smiled as if he believed these encouraging words and did not still feel a quaking down inside. He was glad when Yevno said it was time to get back to work. He’d rather reap every field in Russia than think about the terrifying prospects of fatherhood. Yevno joined him, but Sergei lingered a moment longer with Anna.
“It is not hard to be a good father when you have good children,” he said, taking Anna’s hand in his as if he were thanking her. “And a good partner in parenthood.”
“Thank you, Sergei,” Anna replied. “We do indeed have good children, don’t we?” Then, almost without thinking, her brow creased.
“What is it, Anna?”
“I do sometimes worry about Mariana.”
“She is a dear and beautiful child.”
“Hardly a child any longer. She just turned seventeen.” Anna rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “Mama has already been suggesting we engage a matchmaker for her. But I don’t know. We always thought that when she came of age we would tell her everything about her family. But when is the proper age?”
“At least she knows we are not her blood parents,” said Sergei. “And we have told her much about her mother, even if we have avoided all the details about our nobility. Does she need to know more? She is happy here. Do you think she would be as happy in the Fedorcenko household with my father, a sick and bitter old man? Or with her father, wherever he is?” He uttered this last comment regarding Mariana’s father and his own one-time best friend with an edge of repressed ire in his tone. He could never fully forgive Dmitri for his selfish irresponsibility.
Anna had similar feelings, although she made a point of speaking highly to Mariana not only of her real mother but of her father also. It was best that way. But Anna could not dwell long on the subject of Count Dmitri Remizov without resentment. When he had fled the scene after the birth of his daughter and the death of his wife, he had promised to help in the support of his child. Anna resented not so much that he had never once made good on this promise of financial help, but much more that he had disappeared without even an occasional letter to inquire after his daughter’s health or to leave them an address so they could keep him informed. Anna had never been overly fond of Dmitri, but because Katrina had loved him, she had tried to overlook his faults—drinking and gambling and neglecting his wife, to name a few. But to abandon his child in this way—that was hard to forgive!
Still, Anna had always had some misgivings about not telling Mariana the entire truth of her ancestry, although Sergei had steadfastly maintained the wisdom of this decision. The question of Mariana’s safety could not be minimized, especially in those early years. Basil Anickin, the crazed lawyer whose love Katrina had spurned and who had tried to kill Katrina and Dmitri, had never been apprehended. His hatred of Katrina and Dmitri had seethed for two years before his last awful attempt on Katrina’s life, just before Mariana’s birth. Someone at the time had wisely said that with a man like that, time is not a healer but rather a medium in which wounds only fester and grow. Now with so many years of peace under the proverbial bridge, no one felt the intensity of this threat any longer. Yet it still remained a cloud, if a tiny one, on the horizon.
More to the point was whether returning to society would really be better for Mariana. Sometimes Anna thought of the life Mariana could have had—the palaces, the fine clothes, servants, ample food . . . the life of a Russian aristocrat, which she was. Anna thought of the grandmother, Dmitri’s mother, who believed Mariana was dead. Was it right to keep her from her granddaughter? But Anna remembered how adamant Katrina had been on her deathbed that Mariana not go to that self-absorbed, arrogant woman.
As for Viktor, Anna had hoped that seeing his grandchild might act as a healing balm to his ravaged mind. But when Mariana had been five years old they had made the trip to the Crimea, at no small financial sacrifice, only to be met with disappointment. Viktor had accepted the child as Katrina’s daughter but then raged that his own neglectful daughter had not come herself to visit. Unable to hear his dear sister denigrated so, Sergei had unthinkingly revealed the fact of her death. Viktor seemingly ignored this news completely, but that night went on a drunken binge that lasted two days.
Anna and Sergei had no doubt then that their loyalties must lie with Mariana and her best interests, that it was not fair to a mere child to upset her life in the blind and unlikely hope of doing good to an old man. That decision must lie with Mariana when she was old enough to make it. Yet this assurance did not keep an occasional pang of confusion from hounding Anna at times.
Anna shrugged with uncertainty. “I just don’t know, Sergei. One day she may want to know.”
“Then that day is soon enough.”
“But what if she hates us for keeping the whole truth from her?”
“Our Mariana?” Sergei exclaimed as if the idea were inconceivable. “Surely you must know her better than that.”
Anna smiled. “Of course you are right.”
“And you doubted it?” He frowned with mock affront. “Remember, I am the expert father, your brother Ilya said so!” Then he burst out laughing, though mostly at himself.
Anna gave his hand a tender squeeze as she joined in his amusement. Without sa
ying a word—her eyes said it all—she reaffirmed the truth of Ilya’s statement. God had blessed her beyond anything she could have hoped for. How could she doubt that her Father in heaven would not also provide her with wisdom in dealing with Mariana? Katrina’s daughter was also in God’s hands and had been since—and before—that sad day of her birth. He would not forget her now, nor her adoptive parents.
14
About a versta away, to the south of the Burenin rye field where the little stream bisected a grassy meadow, a young couple, knee deep in the water, were engaged in a lively game of chase that appeared to involve more splashing than running. Their laughter rang like music through the warm summer air. She had her skirts scooped up in one arm while trying with the free hand to give him a good drenching. He was giving far more than he was receiving; his trousers were rolled up to his knees, and both his hands were available for use.
“Stephan, it is not fair! I can’t get my dress wet!” cried the girl, trying hard to sound cross but hardly succeeding because of the laughter that lurked in her emerald eyes and turned up the corners of her mouth.
“It’s too late to worry about that!” shouted Stephan, giving another mighty shove at the water.
“That does it!” she shouted. Dropping her skirt, she swept her hand at the water, but in her enthusiasm missed the surface by an inch. Her hand spun around in the air instead. The force of the spin took her off guard, knocking her feet out from under her and sending her flying, seat first, to the bottom of the stream. She let out a shocked squeal, but, followed as it was by uncontrollable giggles, Stephan could not tell if she was laughing or crying.
His gaiety faded instantly. “Mariana, are you all right?” He bent over her, holding out his hand to assist her.
The girl took the proffered hand, feigning helplessness. She began to pull herself up; then with a sudden jerk which took him off guard, she yanked Stephan down beside her, water splashing a great torrent over them.
“Why you—!” he sputtered, but his recriminations were drowned out by her peals of laughter.
They lay there for some time with the water lapping over them, laughing like children. Both, however, would have disputed vehemently with anyone who would have labeled them so. They were, in fact, on that precarious precipice between adolescence and adulthood when the difference was hard to distinguish.
At eighteen, Stephan was at the acceptable marriage age for boys. It was conceivable that in a year’s time he could be married and a father. His mother was, in fact, making subtle overtures toward several families with suitable daughters. She was anxious to have another woman in the house to help with the labor—and who could blame the poor matushka, with seven sons all younger than Stephan! But, unlike most of the village boys who were resigned to marriage and farming the paltry family plot, Stephan had different ideas about his prospects. Actually, with seven brothers among whom to divide the already minuscule plot, his papa was not too adamant about holding him to the land. If Stephan wanted to go to the city, perhaps that was best and God’s will after all. What the papa was not thrilled about was his son’s dangerously radical ideas. Let him go to the city; but did he have to go to the university, which must surely be the devil’s spawning ground?
Stephan Alexandrovich Kaminski, however, was determined to make something more of himself than a peasant farmer. And, at six foot three, with well-formed muscles from years of labor in the fields, he did indeed appear up to such a lofty task. Although his sturdy nose, slightly crooked from a break as a child, seemed to act as a fortification around his softer features, his hay-colored hair, intense brown eyes, and the soft curve of his jaw hinted at the sensitive nature that lurked beneath the self-willed strength.
In a moment, Stephan leaped to his feet and held out his hand once more, in complete trust, to Mariana.
“Come on,” he said, laughter still lingering about his words, “let’s get that dress of yours dry so you don’t get into trouble.”
Mariana gave him her hand, and he took it, even though mischief still twinkled from her eyes. Dripping, they waddled to the shore.
“So, Stephan Alexandrovich, how do you propose that I dry my dress?” Mariana asked playfully.
“You could take it off and hang it in the wind,” he replied with a deadpan expression.
“Ha! Ha! You can only wish!”
“Or, we can sit in the warm sun.”
She smiled. “I like that idea better.” They plopped down on the grass where a broad swath of light brightened the ground. Then she frowned. “I don’t think it’ll be fast enough. I should have already been at my Aunt Vera’s.”
“Your parents will forgive you.”
“Not if they knew I was with you.”
“What?” He scowled, making his bulwark of a nose seem more formidable than ever. “I thought they liked me.”
“They may have another opinion if they hear how you have led me astray.”
“Ha! This was your idea as much as mine. In fact, the moment you saw me you began to lure me out here.”
“Oh, you conceited boy!”
Stephan rolled over on his side toward her. “Well, regardless, I am glad we met on the road.” He leaned closer to her, but she quickly scooted away.
“Stephan Alexandrovich!”
“Are you telling me you don’t want to kiss me?”
She folded her slim arms in front of her and studied him tenderly. Oh, yes, she did want to kiss him—very much. But out here alone in the isolated meadow, in their wet clothes, it just did not seem right. She had kissed Stephan once before, two months ago on her seventeenth birthday. He had given her a garland of the first summer flowers to wear in her hair, and in her impulsive joy she had flung her arms around him and kissed him right on the lips. The whole family had been there, and it was all very innocent. But at that moment, she knew the friendship that had existed since infancy had matured into something more. Stephan had sensed it too, and later that evening they had exchanged words of love. It was the best birthday gift she had received.
She could not deny that she cared for Stephan Alexandrovich, and she was certain he cared for her, too. Yet what was love in these matters? Her parents might understand, but they had both lived in the city and knew of modern ways. What of her grandparents? They were of the old world; Grandpapa was still head of the family, and Grandmama was already talking of engaging the services of a neighbor to act as matchmaker. Would it shock them too much if she told them that she had decided on the man she intended to marry? As good-hearted as they were, Mariana was sure they would not be pleased.
Ah, but for Stephan she would tell them just that . . . only she must wait until the proper time. And maybe—it was possible!—the matchmaker would save her the trouble. She and Stephan seemed a good match, even from a practical view. Stephan’s mother, however, was hoping for someone with money like the grocer’s daughter in Akulin, not to mention the fact that she had often stated that she had her eye on the priest’s daughter for one of her sons. Almost all of Mariana’s prayers these past two months had been directed toward her and Stephan’s future together.
She sighed and wiggled to her feet. “I think I’d better go,” she said reluctantly.
“All dripping wet?”
“Better to get in trouble for that than for something worse.”
He reached up for her hand, his eyes looking out over the rampart of his nose with reproach. “I would not, Mariana! Not unless . . .” But he shook away the enticing thought. “No, no! I would not!”
“I know that, Stephan.” She grasped his hand and dropped to her knees beside him. “You are strong and honorable. But maybe I am not . . .”
He chuckled at this. As if a girl could lead him astray! Yet, studying Mariana’s lovely countenance, he did have cause to wonder. She could have a dozen better matches than he, especially if her family were not so poor. Beauty was hardly the deciding factor in the complex ritual of matchmaking. If it were, every eligible man within a ten-village
radius, and beyond, would be clamoring for Mariana’s hand. How it happened that this sweet prize might be his, he did not know, but it was a sure boost to his male pride.
What was even more peculiar was that for the first thirteen or fourteen years of her life, they had played together as children, and he had not taken much note of the features that had within the last year blossomed into such heart-wrenching beauty. Her emerald green eyes could dance and laugh with such delight; her pure, clear skin seemed so smooth that Stephan had to use great restraint not to reach out and touch it. And her wavy amber tresses framed it all and had the look of a length of satin he had once seen in Pskov.
Sometimes he thought she was too pretty to be a simple peasant girl. He pictured her dancing on the stage of the Imperial ballet, which he had heard about at the gymnasium in Pskov. Her lithe, fluid movements furthered the notion, although Mariana had no such aspirations. She was content with her peasant life. And that unfortunately proved to be a great dissension between them.
For Stephan dreamed of the wide world. He had managed to get into the gymnasium in Pskov by working day and night to earn the spare money. He had excelled in his studies and received high recommendations to attend the university. He dreamed of a career in law, because, he said, all the greatest reformers were lawyers. But when he had gone as far as he could in the Pskov school, just that June, he met with a mighty obstacle. The university was too far, too expensive, well beyond the means of a peasant boy with seven younger brothers.
Still he was determined. He continued to work at every extra job he could find. This morning’s frivolous excursion was a rare departure from his frantic schedule. He would go to the university in St. Petersburg if it took years. He would see the big city, the world, and mostly, he would be part of the changes he knew must one day come to Russia.
Mariana, on the other hand, had no such desires. She could stay in Katyk forever and never complain. She had listened to her parents’ tales of the outside world, the wonders of the city, even the decadent (in Stephan’s opinion, at least) palace of the tsar. She had received a good education from her mother and father, but none of it seemed to stir that longing discontent that so characterized Stephan.
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