Strange Are the Ways

by Strange Are the Ways (retail) (epub)

  ‘What’s wrong with being married, my dear, is just about everything. The idea of handing oneself over lock, stock and barrel to some – man –’ Katya pulled a mockingly ferocious face ‘– who, quite absurdly, will take it upon himself to lecture you, order your affairs, make sure you behave yourself for the rest of your life – it’s abominable! What’s wrong with marriage? You might as well ask what’s wrong with prison!’

  ‘But I thought you liked men?’

  ‘I do. Oh, I do. In their place.’ Katya slanted a small, wicked glance over her shoulder. ‘I’ve come to the conclusion that our smart and sneaky Anna had it right all along, you know. Marry a man old enough to be your grandfather, and rich – then the one thing you can guarantee is he’ll pop off and leave you a free and wealthy widow. What bliss!’

  Rita’s pretty laughter pealed again, delightedly scandalized. ‘Katya!’

  ‘But a young man? God, no! Noisy, bossy, opinionated folk are young men.’

  ‘Your father doesn’t approve of your plan to marry a rich old man?’ Rita picked a petal from the flower she still carried and dropped it over the edge of the balcony, watching as it fluttered brightly through the still air to the ground.

  ‘I’m afraid not.’ For a moment the shadow of real gloom showed in her cousin’s face. ‘I told you. He wants a grandson. Two. Three or four if possible. He’s absolutely fixed upon the notion. What a perfectly terrible idea! And there’s worse!’

  ‘There can’t be.’

  ‘Oh, yes there can. He’s actually found someone!’

  That caught the younger girl’s attention. She turned, her laughter dying. ‘You mean – someone he wants you to marry?’

  ‘Exactly. Can you imagine? I’ve refused of course. The idea’s monstrous.’ Katya leaned back, drew on her cigarette, blew smoke into the air.

  ‘And – that’s why your father is annoyed with you?’

  ‘It is.’

  Margarita cast mildly caustic eyes to the room behind them. ‘He can’t be too angry. It hasn’t stopped him giving you a most splendid party for your birthday.’

  ‘Ah, but that’s all part of it, you see. This beastly man is going to be at this blessed affair tomorrow. We’re supposed to –’ Katya shrugged ‘– get to know each other.’

  Her cousin was watching her, bright-eyed and interested. ‘Who is he? What’s he like?’

  Katya stubbed out her cigarette. ‘It’s immaterial, Margarita, my pet. I plan to make myself so utterly objectionable that he’ll refuse even to consider me as a future wife, money or no money.’

  ‘He’s marrying you for your money?’ The words were openly astonished.

  Katya smiled again, that singularly wicked smile that Rita, having observed its effect on several young men, spent much time emulating in front of her mirror. ‘You aren’t listening, Rita. He’s not going to marry me at all. I’ve quite made up my mind.’

  ‘Before you’ve ever met him?’ Rita was doubtful.

  ‘Oh, I’ve met him. Once or twice, in Finland. His sister’s married to Turnakov, the industrialist – he’s a friend of Mischischa’s. She isn’t bad, actually.’

  Margarita waited. Katya said nothing more. Exasperatedly Margarita gave in and asked, ‘Well? What’s he like?’

  ‘Turnakov?’ Katya asked, innocently. ‘Oh, he’s just the kind of person I was talking about – a very great catch – old, and rich, one foot in the grave almost – but I told you, he’s already married.’

  ‘No! The other one! The one your father wants – oh, Katya, don’t be so trying! What’s his name? What’s he like? Why does your father want you to marry him?’

  ‘His name is Johannes Lavola. Everyone calls him –’ she paused, spoke the next word with flawless disdain ‘– Jussi. He’s Finnish, for God’s sake!’ She lifted unbelieving eyes to heaven at the very thought. ‘Finnish! He’s tall. Fairish. Not very good-looking. And most assuredly not very well off.’

  ‘But – why would your father – ?’

  Katya shrugged. ‘He’s a Count. Or something.’

  ‘A Count?’ The word was hushed. ‘A real one?’

  ‘No. A Finnish one.’ Dismissively Katya dropped her cigarette to the floor, crushed it with her foot. ‘But that’s the problem, you see. Mischischa wants this fictional grandson of his to have a title, even if it is only a Finnish one. He also wants closer ties with Turnakov, family ties. It’s all very complicated and if you ask me rather greedy; Mischa already has far too much money for his own good, and I told him so – but he won’t listen; he wants grandsons, he wants the title and he wants to tie Turnakov to him; so I’m to be sacrificed on the cold stone altar of marriage.’ She smiled, very sweetly. ‘Except that I won’t be.’ She moved back through the doors into the busy ballroom.

  Margarita followed. ‘But – what are you going to do about it? How can you stop it?’

  Katya pulled a long fair curl across her mouth, nibbled at it. ‘Watch me,’ she said, and all trace of laughter had left the blue eyes. Then, ‘Now, let’s get out of this shambles, it’s worse than a circus ring! Come and have some tea. I forgot to tell you, I’ve had a letter from Anna –’

  Margarita dodged across the dance floor behind her, missing a skating polisher by inches. ‘We had one a couple of weeks ago. From Vienna. Guy paid for her to study under some famous teacher for the summer – I’ve forgotten his name –’

  ‘She’s back in England now.’ Katya led the way into a small but extremely elegant parlour, reached for the bell pull. Her face was suddenly pensive. ‘It’s interesting, isn’t it? I mean, Anna of all people! Well, she seems remarkably happy, I must say.’

  Margarita settled herself decoratively into a chair. ‘You’re surprised?’

  ‘Yes. I think I am. Didn’t it all ever strike you –?’ She stopped.

  ‘What?’

  ‘– as a little – well, odd? Anna and Guy – it was all very sudden?’

  Margarita shrugged, disinterestedly. ‘Guy’s not young; once he made up his mind I suppose he reasoned that he didn’t have much time to lose. And Anna – well, I suppose she must have seen her chance to get out and took it.’ She rolled expressive eyes. ‘Just give me such an opportunity; you won’t see my heels!’

  * * *

  Anna was indeed happy; and her cousin Katya was not the only person to be surprised that it should be so. Anna sometimes wondered herself at the twist of fate that had brought her to Guy and to a life richer and fuller than she had dreamed could be possible. It had been hard at first – harder than she had ever conceded, to herself or to Guy. The world to which she had so precipitately fled had been an intimidating place to start with. She had been desperately homesick, and the wound of the brutal break with Andrei had been a longer and more painful time in the healing than she had allowed herself to admit or to show. But of course always there had been Guy; with patience and, she later realized, love, Guy had been her guide and her protector; he had neither hurried nor tried to dominate her. He had introduced her to his world, and his world had welcomed her; the world of the artist, the writer, the musician. She could not fail to have been seduced by it; more extraordinary had been the slow but sure awakening of her deeper feelings for Guy himself. For his generosity, his kindness, his understanding, she could not help but love him as a friend; as time had moved on and the memory of Petersburg and of Andrei had begun to dim, she had come, to the delighted surprise of them both, to love him wholeheartedly as a man. Now, three years after the wedding the unlikely union had become a joy and a pleasure to them both. And if still, sometimes, a ghost stood between them, a phantom that neither would admit to seeing, and if Anna rarely if ever played the music of the Russian composers that Andrei had taught her to love, it in no way diminished their pleasure in each other.

  ‘It’s Katya’s birthday.’ She stood at the window of the small flat in Westminster that Guy used for his trips to the capital, looking out across the busy river. ‘Tomorrow. Her twenty- first.’

&n
bsp; Guy lifted his head, looking at her. Tall, slim and graceful, she was dressed in the colours in which he most loved to see her, soft greens and blues, the narrow tunic skirt tapering to her ankles, matching jacket fitted to her small waist, the shirt-like collar turned up to frame her sharp-boned face. Her hair was the colour of the first of the autumn leaves that moved in the breeze outside the window. No longer a child, no longer the gauche, artless, defiant Anna who had faced him in Andrei’s work room, this was a woman of confidence and of style. His wife. The thought still had the power, sometimes, to startle. ‘Are you missing St Petersburg?’ he asked after a moment, with that quick intuition that could be so very disconcerting. ‘Would you like to go back – for a visit, perhaps?’

  The silence maybe lasted just a shade too long. Anna, her back still to him, did not move. He watched her, quietly, waiting. Saw the sudden sharp, negative movement of her head. ‘No.’ She turned. She was smiling a little, her face serene, though he fancied that a shadow lay somewhere in her eyes. ‘No. Not yet. Soon, perhaps. But not yet.’ Her English was clear, slightly but not unattractively accented. She came to him, stood beside him, her narrow hand upon his shoulder. ‘Is your business in London nearly finished? Could we go back to Sussex? The garden at Sythings is so beautiful at this time of the year.’

  He smiled, nodded. ‘We’ll go tomorrow.’

  She touched his cheek with her finger. ‘Home,’ she said. ‘We’ll go home.’

  * * *

  Katya’s coming-of-age ball was nothing if not ostentatious. More than two hundred people packed into the Bourlov apartment to take advantage of Mischa’s lavish hospitality. The evening began at seven, decorously enough, with tea and cakes. Maids moved through the glittering, chattering throng with trays of cups and small sweet cakes. A serious card game was already in progress in the large parlour, the stakes high, the protagonists – two dowagers, a crusty General and a member of the German Diplomatic Corps – old and shrewd enemies, the game undoubtedly set to last into the small hours. Tea finished, and with more guests arriving by the minute, tables containing vast dishes of fish and meat, pâtés, hams and cheeses, the inevitable caviar, vodka, liqueurs and champagne were wheeled into the ballroom. A string quartet – the best available in Petersburg, naturally – played upon the stage, fighting a losing battle to be heard over the hubbub of talk and laughter. Bejewelled fingers fluttered, bare shoulders gleamed in the light, diadems and coronets glittered upon elaborately-coiffed hair and peacock shades of silk, satin and shimmering velvet, reflected in the tall, gilded mirrors, turned the ballroom into a kaleidoscope of shifting light and colour. Katya was everywhere, vivid in sapphire-blue silk, her bright face the centre of any group she joined, her laughter ringing clear and gay. This was her evening, she intended no one to be in any doubt of that; and she was going to enjoy every single second of it.

  Margarita stuck to her cousin like a burr. Where Katya was, there was Rita, arm in arm, laughing with her, basking in reflected glory. She had wheedled a new dress from her father for the occasion and, with shrewd and new-found subtlety, had had the wit to opt, over Varya’s pained objections, for dove white, artfully simple, with a rose-pink sash. In the hothouse opulence of the ballroom the dress stood out like a splash of pale innocence against a swathe of scarlet sin. She looked young, fresh and enchantingly pretty, and she knew it. She wore pink and white flowers in the mass of her hair, pinned high upon her head, and upon the bodice of her dress; lacking decent jewellery she had decided, again to her mother’s consternation, not to wear any at all. The effect was striking; calculatedly so. Margarita knew exactly what she wanted; tonight was the night she intended to take the first steps towards getting it.

  ‘Rita, my dear, how very lovely you look!’ Her uncle kissed her soundly upon both cheeks, put his arm about his daughter’s trim waist.

  Katya leaned back from him, laughing up into his face. ‘You look remarkably handsome yourself, Mischischa darling. Quite the best-looking man in the whole room! I insist you start the dancing with me! I’ve kept the first dance free for you.’ She laughed, mischievously, knowing he would not be able to refuse her. To grant any young man the first dance on this most special of occasions would be to give him a public advantage over his fellows, something she had no intention in the world of doing.

  Her father, knowing perfectly well what she did, laughed. ‘How can I refuse? But –’ his arm tightened a little as she made to slip from him ‘– only on condition that you come and make yourself extremely pleasant to my friend Turnakov and his young wife. They’re over there by the window. Come.’ He caught her hand and began to weave between the tables, acknowledging greetings, stopping for the odd polite word, never relinquishing his firm grip upon his daughter’s hand. Perforce, the rebellious Katya followed, and quite shamelessly so did Margarita.

  ‘Yuri Alexeievich! Welcome! And Elisabet.’ Mischa bowed over the hand of a tall blonde girl dressed in deep red velvet. Rubies picked up the same vibrant colour at ears and throat, and her fair hair was simply dressed. Her face, whilst by no means beautiful, was strong and clear-boned.

  Her smile was warm, her blue eyes cool. ‘Mischa. What an extremely grand party.’ The appraising eyes moved to Katya, assessing her; the smile was apparently unaffected and genuine, though still those cool, intelligent eyes weighed and measured, oddly severe. ‘Katya, you look lovely, as always.’ The steady blue eyes moved to Margarita, questioning.

  ‘Margarita Victorovna, my niece,’ Mischa said. ‘Rita, this is Yuri Alexeievich Turnakov and his wife Elisabet.’

  Margarita smiled dazzlingly, and was rewarded by a twinkle in the older man’s eyes as he bent over her small hand. There was a brief, slightly awkward silence. Elisabet made no attempt to acknowledge the introduction. Around them the talk and the laughter rose and fell like the sound of waves beating upon a sanded shore. ‘I’m afraid,’ Elisabet said, calmly, ‘that my brother Jussi hasn’t arrived yet.’ She smiled at Katya, frank and unapologetic. ‘I can’t think what’s happened to him. He’ll be here directly, I’m sure.’ There was a small, sharp edge to her voice that boded ill for the missing brother. Her Russian was smooth, only slightly accented.

  Katya had disengaged her hand from her father’s. Her smile matched the other girl’s for brightness, and for wariness. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, and waved an airy hand at the gathered guests, ‘we really aren’t missing him. It’s been so nice to meet you again, thank you so much for coming – I’m sorry, there really are so many people that I should –’ and she was gone, slipping into the throng like a fish into water. Margarita cast a single look at her uncle and followed; Katya was her touchstone, her talisman for the evening; she must not lose her.

  Mischa turned a look of quick and exasperated enquiry upon Elisabet.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘He should be here. I can’t think where he is.’

  Beside her, her husband laughed, and raised experienced eyes to heaven.

  * * *

  ‘Such a pity that Lenka couldn’t come.’ Zhenia Petrovna Bourlova linked arms with her sister and guided her towards the card game. They stood for a moment, watching.

  Varya managed a faint, becoming blush. ‘She’s – indisposed.’

  Neither Zhenia’s look nor the faint snort that accompanied it could have been described as ladylike. ‘Pregnant again, you mean! Honestly, Varya, how you could have allowed her to marry that – that rat of a man!’

  ‘Zhenia, please!’ Varya was very much on her dignity. ‘Pavel Petrovich is our son-in-law.’

  ‘He’s a rat,’ Zhenia said, calmly. ‘And as for poor Lenka being with child again – how many times is this?’

  Varya nibbled her lip. ‘Since Tonia – three I think, all ending in –’ she cleared her throat ‘– that is, ending in unfortunate circumstances. This is the fourth.’

  ‘Do you see anything of her?’

  Varya, suddenly apparently absorbed in what was happening at the card table, shook her head vaguel
y. ‘Not much.’ She allowed a small silence to develop. ‘She was always a difficult child,’ she said, plaintively.

  Zhenia took quick breath to speak, held it, exhaled it slowly. Even a sister could go only so far. ‘And Dmitri? He and his little Natalia are to marry?’

  Varya nodded. Another disappointment. That her only son, so soft, always so very manageable, should have taken this one stand against her was a sore point. Not that she had anything against young Natalia – unless one counted her looks, her lack of vigour, her personality. She sighed.

  Zhenia smiled. ‘Made in heaven, that one,’ she said. ‘Be thankful. They love each other – well, goodness, they’ve been like Siamese twins ever since they met – oh yes, think yourself lucky, Varya. They’ll be happy, those two, together.’

  Varya said nothing.

  ‘And your little Margarita – you have your hands full there!’ The words were indulgent. ‘Such a pretty child.’ Zhenia slanted a not unaffectionate look at her younger sister. ‘Very like her mother. How well I remember you at that age.’

  That pleased Varya, as Zhenia had known it would. She glanced into a mirror that hung upon the far wall of the room, noted in the soft glow of the candles how her eyes still gleamed, her golden hair shone, with not a trace of grey.