The Russians Collection

by Michael Phillips

  It was a moot question now.

  That brat grandchild of his would have clear claim. Thus Cyril had to change tactics. There were still other ways to get what he wanted; he’d just have to be more creative. He was already setting into motion a particularly cunning scheme. But it would take time and some substantial bribes to pull it off. It involved doctoring the tax records on the St. Petersburg estate—that’s where the bribes came in—and some consummate playacting on his part. But he was getting tired of waiting for that loony Viktor to drop dead. And, with the girl now entering the picture, Cyril knew that he must act soon, or give it up.

  And he was in no position to give up easily on that prize. A series of bad investments and years of living well beyond his means had left his finances in a sorry state. If he didn’t do something soon, it would be his holdings they’d be auctioning for back taxes. However, he knew very well that more than abject need or even avarice was motivating his lust after Viktor’s property. It would be a kind of justice to bring the haughty, arrogant prince to his knees. Watching his family destroyed and Viktor’s sanity disintegrate was not enough. That great St. Petersburg palace so coveted by Cyril had been decreed to the Fedorcenko clan by Alexander I, and was too prominent a reminder of Cyril’s losses to be allowed to stand inviolate.

  Alexander I had given the palace to the Fedorcenko clan via one of his trusted ministers, Prince Sergei Fedorcenko. Viktor’s son was this man’s namesake. This Prince Sergei had two sons, Alexander, named after the tsar, and Vladimir. Alexander was the eldest and favored son, so when old Sergei died, the best of the holdings were willed to Alexander, including the St. Petersburg palace, and the Crimean estate, and some substantial business ventures.

  Vladimir inherited the estate in the Katyk area. True, he also received some paltry business investments, which were nearly wiped out by the emancipation of the serfs just a year after Cyril came into his inheritance from his mother, Vladimir’s daughter.

  Perhaps Cyril should have blamed Tsar Alexander II, who had liberated the serfs, for his financial woes. He did that, too, like the many other serf-holding land owners who had been made nearly bankrupt by the emancipation. But he had been taught from infancy that the real problems in the family went back to his great-grandsire Sergei, who favored one son over the other. The second son, Vladimir, fumed over this inequity his entire life and passed his animosity on to his daughter, who married Count Karl Vlasenko. She, in turn, passed the anger down to her children, Cyril and her two daughters.

  What Cyril had never learned—or chose to ignore—about his grandfather Vladimir, was that he was a drunk and a fool who squandered his, in fact, sizable inheritance on vodka, women, gambling, and foolish get-rich-quick schemes. His daughter made a poor marriage to a man who was worse off financially than she. Cyril was fortunate to get as much as he did.

  But he had heard too often in his youth: “That St. Petersburg palace by rights should be ours.” Or, “Alexander Fedorcenko, his son Mikhail, and his son, Viktor, have acquired their fortune by tramping on our backs!”

  And he had promised his mother on her deathbed that he would one day be master of the Fedorcenko palace.

  He desperately wanted that estate, even if he got nothing else, and even if he had to turn right around and sell if for the substantial cash it would put in his pocket. In fact, he wasn’t sure which would be the more satisfying scenario: His owning the estate and living in it, while the Fedorcenkos looked on; or, getting possession and selling it, as if he didn’t care a whit about it, to strangers, perhaps even to foreigners. Either way, he’d have the intense satisfaction of watching Viktor lose everything. And for that reason, perhaps it was fortuitous that the girl had come along, forcing Cyril to act while Viktor lived.

  There was no question in his mind as to whether he’d attend the girl’s coming-out party. He would use the opportunity to full effect by playing the affectionate “uncle,” placing himself fully at her disposal. No one would ever guess that behind her back he was plotting to rob her blind.

  42

  Sarah Remington loved the winter season in the Crimea best. She supposed that over the years she had become nearly as reclusive as her employer, but she liked the quiet solitude of the sea when all the summer visitors were gone.

  A mild climate graced the Crimea all year, but in winter more inclement weather cast the sea in a moody light, making it seem more fickle and restless than in the balmy, emerald days of spring and summer.

  One day the sky would be iron gray, the water of the sea undulating in severe shades of gray, waves capped in a foamy white. Then, within a breath of time, a pale blue would infiltrate the heavens and the waters of the Black Sea would grow as still and reflective as polished glass. But whatever the mood or season, tall cliffs always presided over all, austere and dark, protective as a fortress.

  The Fedorcenko estate was tucked in nicely between cliff and sea. The house overlooked the sea, and a steep, winding footpath led to a private beach. The main properties of the estate, however, sloped down into a green little valley where a vineyard and several orchards were planted. It was well hidden and lent itself nicely to the reclusive life.

  Viktor had lived here for the past sixteen years and, except for the excursion to Moscow, had laid eyes on no one save for servants and occasional workmen. His son and daughter-in-law had come twice, but it was questionable if he had really seen them.

  On the whole, though, he led a life of contentment—quiet strolls on the beach, picnics by the sea or in lush glades in the valley, sitting on the veranda in pleasant conversation, sketching the picturesque countryside.

  Sarah enjoyed most the quiet walks when she and Viktor would wander over the estate, sometimes talking about day-to-day happenings, never anything of deeper consequence—though sometimes they might discuss a bit of general philosophy. If they forgot and turned to more personal subjects, Sarah had learned how to do so while shielding and protecting the prince. But he liked Sarah to talk about herself, and she told him stories of her childhood in England. So, oddly, they came to be very close, even if theirs was a cautious and protective relationship.

  Sarah found that she actually liked this Viktor Fedorcenko almost as much, and in some ways more, than she had the old stern and stoic prince. She was, in fact, quite afraid that she loved him.

  He was a gentler, more sensitive man now, even if he had to repress so much of the past in order to protect that sensitive nature. As the years passed he began to forget who he had once been, and accept who he had become. He was more at ease with himself and with the world around him. The new Prince Viktor would not be embarrassed to weep over a dying sea gull, or to laugh with glee at one of those ridiculous jokes his valet, Peter, was fond of. Only this new man could set pen and ink to paper with the exquisite, impassioned detail that his drawings revealed.

  If only . . .

  Sarah sighed and turned from where she had been gazing down on the sea, now a frothy blue as a stiff breeze stirred the water.

  What good was it to hope for that wounded part of Viktor’s mind and heart to be healed? She had prayed daily for such a miracle, but for some reason, God had not seen fit to answer her. Yet she had to admit that part of her was afraid of that very healing she had so faithfully prayed for all these years. What if healing brought back the old proud, obdurate, taciturn man? Yes, she had respected, even admired the Viktor of eighteen years ago, but even then she had known that deeper qualities were there. Who could have guessed that it would take the complete crushing of that man, even of his sanity, to bring his more sensitive qualities to the surface?

  Would his sensitivity have to be sacrificed to regain his sanity? She wasn’t certain if she was ready to find out. Life was idyllic now, even if it wasn’t quite complete. But of one thing she was certain: Viktor Fedorcenko would never be able to return her love until his mind was fully restored.

  Sounds of commotion in the house distracted Sarah from her pensive mood. She returned to the h
ouse.

  Peter, Viktor’s valet, and the parlor maid, Ella, were standing in the foyer with the butler. All were in animated conversation that stopped when they saw Sarah enter.

  “Mrs. Remington,” said Peter, curbing his excitement with the formality of his station, “there are letters from the city.”

  Sarah did not have to ask what city he meant; it could only be St. Petersburg. Mail from the capital was a rare enough occurrence here to cause some excitement, but more than one letter on the same day was absolutely unheard of.

  “Thank you, Peter.” Sarah took the leather pouch that contained the mail. The others looked on expectantly. “I’m certain it is just correspondence from the prince’s accountant.” But even she did not fully believe that. There was no reason for the man to send two letters. She knew the servants had a right to know if there was some tragedy in the family—after all, they had been loyal employees of the family for years, many having served in St. Petersburg. They knew that she previewed all correspondence before it reached the prince, yet she was loathe to open the prince’s mail in front of them. She felt it her duty to maintain a certain level of decorum.

  “Come along, Ella, Gregory,” said Peter, in deference to Sarah’s delicate position, “we have work to do. And I for one can wait for bad news.”

  As he nudged the others along, Sarah turned and went into the study. She slowly, deliberately, and somewhat reluctantly opened the envelopes.

  Viktor had been out supervising the pruning of the rose garden. When he returned to the house, his peasant-style tunic and trousers were sweaty and a bit muddy from trooping about the garden that had received a good soaking from yesterday’s rain. He came in the back way, through the kitchen, where he slipped off his gloves and mud-caked boots, leaving them in the pantry for Peter to clean later. Then he washed up at a basin provided by the cook, put on a pair of soft lapti, and padded on into the house.

  He was heading for his room and a nice hot bath when Sarah waylaid him in the corridor outside the study.

  “Good afternoon, Prince Viktor,” she said as he paused.

  “Ah, Sarah! What a job we have this year in the garden. It’s going to take two or three days to finish. I am glad we sent that new gardener packing and Ahmed is back with us. He may be a Tartar and all, but he knows his roses.”

  “That is true. How I anticipate spring when they begin to bloom.”

  “It almost makes me want to use something besides ink and charcoal for my drawing. You know, something with a bit of color in it.”

  “I have seen pastels combined with ink in a most effective way, sir.”

  “Really? Might be worth a try this spring, eh?”

  She only smiled in response. He wouldn’t do it, of course. He had never been able to bring himself to add color to his work.

  “Prince Viktor, we’ve had correspondence from St. Petersburg today.”

  “Is that so? Sarah, you look grim. It’s not bad news, is it?”

  Since Sarah always screened the mail, he did not question her awareness of the contents of the letters. And it didn’t occur to him that there was more than one letter, for Sarah had kept that information purposefully vague. She wasn’t yet sure if she would inform the prince about one of the letters. She had no choice about the other.

  “Why don’t we go into the study?” she said.

  Once seated in the comfortable room with its smell of leather and ink and old books, Sarah opened one of the letters.

  “This is from Jacob Woyinsky,” she said.

  “Hmm . . . Is it already time for his monthly report?” Woyinsky was Viktor’s accountant, who had been handling his affairs since the last man had disappeared, along with a sizable chunk of Viktor’s money.

  “I am afraid he has received notification of an upcoming governmental tax audit of your holdings, sir,” said Sarah heavily, studying Viktor intently for his reaction.

  “I don’t like the thought of that, but then who does?”

  Sarah wasn’t surprised that Viktor had no interest in reading the letter. His way of protecting himself was to leave all matters pertaining to the outside world to her. She kept him apprised as necessary, but he showed little interest otherwise.

  “We should have nothing to worry about,” Sarah responded.

  “Then, why so grim, Sarah? We’ve always been honest and aboveboard about everything.”

  “I suppose it’s just that natural aversion to the government poking about one’s affairs.”

  “The stuff that bureaucracies are made of. Is there anything else?”

  Sarah shrugged and sighed. “Only that as he was gathering together some records for the tax people, he noticed that the vouchers for the last three years of tax payments were missing. He is usually so careful about such details that he is certain they will turn up.”

  “Of course they will. And if not, even those nincompoops in the Internal Revenue Department should have records of the payments.”

  “You’re right.” Sarah could not repress a sheepish smile. “I shouldn’t get so nervous about taxes. This isn’t the Dark Ages, where a man can be sent to an almshouse for such things.”

  “Well, anything can happen in Russia, especially if it relates to the Dark Ages, but I am a valued citizen of this country and surely that ought to stand for something!”

  Even as he spoke Sarah saw mirrored in the depths of his eyes that awful mental struggle between the various “Viktors” that so often warred within him. Sarah knew better than anyone that sometimes he did have to fight to hang on to his fantasy world, the world where the best parts of his shattered life still existed. But deep inside Viktor Fedorcenko was a man who desperately wanted to have the courage to face reality. His drunkenness usually came when the battle raged at its worst. And sometimes Sarah wondered what would happen if he were locked up and kept from liquor at those times, forced to see the battle to its inevitable conclusion. Perhaps he would snap altogether. It was a risk she had thus far been unwilling to take. Yet that was her great struggle in life. Maybe someday she would have the courage to let it take its natural course. But she supposed her love was not yet strong enough for such a risk.

  Because he had found a way to fit this problem into his fantasy world, his struggle relaxed. “Confound it, Sarah, I will not be cowed by a bunch of bureaucrats!”

  “You have no reason to be, Prince Viktor.”

  “Now, Sarah, you must try to take all this with a grain of salt.” He reached out and laid his hand on hers with an affectionate smile. “Jacob just misfiled some papers, that’s all. He’ll find them and that will be that.”

  Neither Viktor nor Sarah wanted to think what might happen if the payments had not been properly recorded in the tax office and Viktor had to repay them. It could mean thousands of rubles which he simply did not have readily available.

  Sarah looked down with some regret as he removed his hand. But more than the loss of his touch disturbed her. Jacob Woyinsky’s letter was too serious, even if he attempted to downplay the possible impact of the audit. If there hadn’t been some real concern, he wouldn’t have written the letter at all. He was a capable and efficient man who should have no reason to fear the government. After the disaster of the dishonest accountant, Jacob had worked with a cool head and a practical efficiency to bring order and solvency to the Fedorcenko finances. Before Jacob had come along, they had been on the verge of losing the St. Petersburg property, which was already mortgaged to the limit. When Viktor had learned of the situation, he had nearly gone to pieces. Before he went on a drunken binge that had lasted for three days, he told Sarah they must not lose the estate, that he would do anything to keep it. She had contacted Jacob, a college chum of her late husband’s who after graduating from Oxford had returned to his native Russia to live.

  Property in Poland that Natalia had inherited from her family had to be sold at a loss, along with most of the investments, to pay the creditors. But Woyinsky had saved the St. Petersburg house and one or two i
nvestments as a source of income. Thus, Viktor lived comfortably and the small staff of servants were paid. He could never hope to live in the opulent style of the years before Natalia’s death. But Viktor’s needs were far less than they once had been; as long as he had his art supplies, and liquor when he needed it, he made no complaints.

  “Yes . . . yes, of course,” said Sarah. She disliked it when every word had to be measured and weighed before it was spoken.

  “Then, as you British say, chin up, old girl. Even if we do owe the government some money, we should have no problem paying it. I spent twenty thousand rubles on Katrina’s wedding, if you remember. We are not exactly paupers.”

  Sarah opened her mouth, then closed it again quickly. She suddenly realized what she had suspected, but had never quite been certain about—that Viktor had allowed himself to forget about that terrible financial disaster. How could she tell him that they could no more come up with twenty thousand rubles today than they could . . . have dinner with Natalia that evening.

  Sarah hesitated. Then, to gauge Viktor’s reaction, she said, “Mr. Woyinsky was wondering if you might wish to be present in St. Petersburg for the audit.”

  “I prefer not, Sarah. I—I . . . who will finish pruning the roses?” Another brief moment of struggle flitted across his countenance; then it passed and he gave a casual shrug. “I don’t want to be gone when Natalia returns.”

  Sarah said no more, but let Viktor go to his bath. She had been fairly certain he wouldn’t want to go to St. Petersburg and felt no inclination to press him further. But the exchange did help her decide what to do regarding the other letter. She would withhold it from him. It was an invitation to his granddaughter’s coming-out party. Why it had been sent at all, she did not know. But one thing was certain, Sergei and Anna could not have had anything to do with it. Sergei had written several months ago to tell her that Mariana’s father had come for her and she was living in St. Petersburg with him. It seemed in rather poor taste to send the invitation, but no doubt Count Remizov had meant well. She would have to give him the benefit of the doubt, anyway.