by Carola Dunn
“Let me go! You have a wife and child to think of.”
“I thank you, John, and I expected nothing less of you. But this mission requires fluent Russian. I must do it myself. Ah, there are Teresa and Rebecca. I asked them to meet us here. Will you give Rebecca your arm and follow while I explain the situation to Teresa?”
To the couple strolling behind, it soon became obvious that though no voices were raised the Graylins were in the middle of a serious altercation. John gave Rebecca a brief explanation of what was afoot and then, exchanging glances of complicity, they moved closer to eavesdrop.
“You shall not leave me behind!” hissed Teresa. “Nothing could be better calculated to raise suspicion.”
“It will be given out that I go only to Moscow, to visit our consul there. No one will miss me when I slip away.”
“I shall. How do you mean to explain why you are not taking your wife to see the glories of the old capital?”
“You have a point,” Andrew admitted unwillingly. “But once I leave Moscow I shall be travelling fast and light.”
“Are you saying that I am incapable of travelling fast and light? You know better.”
“Indeed I do, my dear. You must see though that it is out of the question to take Peri, even if Annie were not growing larger daily.”
“She is big, isn’t she?” Teresa was momentarily diverted. “I wonder if she will have twins? No, I see that we cannot take Chiquita, but after all it is not like leaving her in a distant country. I shall have no qualms whatever about entrusting her to Rebecca, and John will be here to take care of them.”
Rebecca flushed with pleasure at the compliment, but John thought she looked a little anxious. He smiled at her reassuringly. He was pleased himself that Teresa at last considered him dependable enough to be left in charge.
“As you will,” Andrew was saying resignedly. “It will take a week or two to obtain the necessary papers for travel to Moscow, so...”
John slowed his steps, drawing Rebecca back out of earshot. They paused, as if admiring a mansion on the opposite embankment of the grey-green, sluggish Fontanka.
“It’s my belief,” he said, laughing, “that Andrew has got exactly what he wanted. He knows very well how to handle my cousin.”
“He wanted Teresa to go with him?”
“I’d lay a monkey on it. If he had simply proposed such a scheme, she would have insisted on taking Esperanza. As it is, she feels she has won half the battle so she is generously prepared to give in on the other half. Of course, it all depends on whether you are willing to accept responsibility for Esperanza and the household.”
That thought seemed to have dawned on the Graylins, for at that moment they turned back.
“Rebecca!” Teresa held out both her hands. Beneath the azure ostrich plumes bobbing on her extravagant bonnet, her lively face was half mischievous, half pleading. “I have such a big favour to ask of you. John must have explained the situation. I want to go with Andrew. Will you look after Chiquita for me?”
Rebecca took her hands. To John’s surprise, the anxiety had vanished from her eyes and she looked proud and self-confident. How she had changed since the day he met her!
“I am honoured that you trust me,” she said. “Of course I will do it. How long do you expect to be gone?”
They walked slowly back along the canal, clarifying details that could not be freely discussed where they might be overheard. Just before they reached the bridge where Teresa’s carriage was waiting, John recognized the slightly mincing walk of a gentleman coming towards them.
“Solovyov!” he warned.
Rebecca clutched his arm, but she said in a determinedly bright voice, “Do you go to the ballet tonight, Cousin?”
When the count reached them they were discussing the relative merits of opera and ballet. He bowed, smiling, but his eyes were cold.
“Good day, mesdames, messieurs,” he greeted them. “Is family party? I may join? To stroll by Fontanka is priyatno—pleasant—in hot weather, is it not?”
“Very pleasant, but I fear we cannot ask you to join us,” said Teresa with a convincing assumption of regret. “Sir Andrew escaped only briefly from his duties and is about to return to the embassy, while Miss Nuthall and I have shopping to do. Good day, Count.” She shepherded Rebecca towards their carriage.
Andrew consulted his watch, tut-tutted, nodded to Solovyov, and went to hand the ladies into their brichka. The count frowned as he looked after them.
“I’m off to find a beefsteak,” said John. “Care to join me, Count?”
“Ah, you Englishmen, always you must eat bifsteks. Come, I show you best in St Petersburg.”
Swallowing a sigh, John went with him.
Chapter 13
It was the end of August before Andrew managed to gather together the requisite permits, internal passports, authorisation for post-horses and letters to the military governor of Moscow, all signed and sealed by the officials of several departments in three ministries.
Teresa had been chafing at the bit for a fortnight. The very day after Andrew came home and spread the papers triumphantly on the table before her, they were off. Rebecca stood on the front steps with Esperanza, John, and the weeping Annie, waving as Rowson drove the creaking tarantass down the street. Teresa blew a kiss as they turned the corner, and they were gone.
Rebecca had a hollow feeling inside. She had been sure she could cope, but faced with the reality her assurance wavered as she suddenly thought of a dozen things that could go wrong.
Esperanza gave her no time to brood. Her agitation at the departure of her parents showed itself in a flurry of boisterous excitement. Pulling away from Rebecca’s hand, she danced down the steps and began to climb the ornate iron railing separating the house from the street.
“Look at me, Uncle John. I can go right to the top!”
“Be careful, Esperanza, you will hurt yourself.” Rebecca hurried after her.
“Don’t call me that, I’m Chiquita. I can jump from here.”
“No you can’t,” said John. “Even I could not jump from there. Come down, shrimp.”
“Call me Chiquita!” she insisted, and launched herself at Rebecca shouting, “Catch me, Aunt Beckie!”
Taken by surprise Rebecca managed to break her fall, but she sprawled on the ground and a wail went up. Heart in mouth, Rebecca stooped over her—scraped hands and knees and a rip in her pretty new dress.
She picked her up, hugged her, and carried her sobbing into the house.
“Silly cuckoo,” she said lovingly. “You should have listened to Uncle John. Let’s wash your hurts and put a plaster on. I expect Annie can mend your dress.”
“To be sure, Miss Beckie.” Annie dried the child’s eyes on her apron. “I’ll fetch some warm water from the kitchen, and the ointment from my lady’s medicine chest.” She bustled out, leaving Rebecca to coax a smile from Esperanza.
Rebecca was glad when Annie returned. She was glad also when John decided to spend the rest of the day with them. He kept Chiquita amused during the painful business of washing her grazes, then carried her up to the nursery, and read to her.
“What a pity,” Gayo commiserated.
After nuncheon John drove them to the Summer Garden. They met Kolya walking there with his married sister. Rebecca did not know her well as she lived in Moscow, but she had two small children with her and Chiquita quickly made friends with them. Princess Zoya was as sociable as her younger sisters. Rebecca soon felt at ease with her and thoroughly enjoyed the afternoon. On parting they made plans for the children to play together another day.
John stayed to nursery tea before going off to an evening engagement. He had left the embassy’s bachelor quarters and taken a room in a house nearby, far enough for propriety, near enough to be of use. Rebecca was relieved to have him within reach, but after a successful first day in charge she was once more confident of her ability to manage.
In the absence of her chaperone, she found
her social life considerably curtailed. She did not mind; it was good to have time again for reading and Annie proved an excellent companion. Intelligent and practical, the African girl was full of stories about her travels with the Graylins. Esperanza adored her, and soon settled down.
Rebecca often spent the evenings with Annie, reading and sewing. Together they perused the latest sensation on the St Petersburg literary scene, a fairytale in verse called Ruslan and Ludmila. Annie was particularly interested in it because the author, Aleksandr Pushkin, was the great-grandson of an African prince who had somehow become godson to Peter the Great.
When Rebecca mentioned this to John, he claimed acquaintance with the poet. “He’s a minor official in the Foreign Office, but I doubt he spent even as much time there as I do in the embassy. A dissipated libertine,” he added with a grin, “and I speak as one who knows.”
“His poetry is charming. I suppose it would not be proper for you to invite him here. Annie would so love to see him.”
“Impossible. He was transferred from St Petersburg to the south before the poem was published. A sort of internal exile. It seems to be quite common here. The Tsar even exiles people to Moscow, or to their country estates.”
“Why was Pushkin exiled?”
“His excesses are legend, and he is something of a radical, too, I collect.”
“You have a great deal in common, then,” Rebecca suggested teasingly.
“No, we have not!” John was revolted. “I never wrote a line of verse in my life! Now, are you ready to go? I hope your cloak is warm enough and Chiquita is well-wrapped. It is decidedly chilly outside.”
They spent a splendid afternoon in the Summer Garden, trying to catch the leaves as they drifted down from the trees, and running through the rustling russet heaps of those already fallen.
“I have not had so much fun in a long time!” Rebecca exclaimed as John lifted Chiquita up to the carriage seat beside her.
“I fear you have been very dull since Teresa left,” said John, leaning across to pick a yellow birch leaf from her hair. He presented it to her, frowning in thought. “There are so few entertainments to which it is proper for me to escort you alone.”
“I do not mean to complain. I like the peace and quiet, and besides, Princess Zoya has been prodigious kind in inviting me to go with her to parties now and then.”
“She is gone back to Moscow though.” He gave his three horses the office to start.
“Will she see Mama and Papa?” Chiquita demanded, a trifle tearfully. “Will Misha and Natasha see my Mama and Papa?”
Rebecca devoted her attention to soothing her, but she noticed that John remained thoughtful as he drove them home.
Chiquita ran above-stairs to tell Annie how many leaves she had caught. John helped Rebecca take off her cloak and followed her into the drawing room.
“I have an idea,” he announced, warming his hands at the Russian stove built into one corner of the room.
“Heavens, is that all? I quite thought you were trying to hatch an egg.”
“Like a broody hen, was I? Well, I have hatched out a famous notion. You will like it excessively, I wager.”
“Do you mean to tell me what it is?”
He considered. “No, it shall be a surprise. Only be ready, and warmly dressed—your cloak would be best, I daresay; the hood will conceal your face—tomorrow at eight.”
“John, tell me what I am preparing for!”
“No, only don’t dress too fine. You’ll enjoy it, I’ll go bail. I was there last week.”
Not another word could she pry from him, even when she was in the hired troika being driven to the unknown destination. She had dressed with a feeling of excited anticipation, ignoring Annie’s words of warning.
“I misdoubt his lordship’ll lead you into mischief, Miss Beckie. A mort of trouble he caused my Miss Teresa.”
Rebecca tossed caution to the winds. Had John not rescued her from the briars more than once? He would not land her in a scrape, she was sure. She leant back against the carriage seat, admiring the still beauty of moonlight on the waters of the Neva—and John’s skill with the reins.
The first clue she had was the distant, haunting strains of Gypsy music. As the wild fiddling grew louder, she saw by the light of flickering rush torches a circle of caravans with swarms of people milling about them. Colourful uniforms mingled with the Romanies’ bright-hued garb in a kaleidoscope of animation.
“Exotic, ain’t it?” John pulled up at the end of a row of carriages. “The Gypsies in England are a poor lot compared to these. There is more room for nomads in Russia. This tribe camps here for the winter, but in the summer they have the freedom of the steppes.” He gave the reins to the groom, thrust his whip into the capacious pocket of his overcoat, and helped Rebecca down.
“Can I have my fortune told?”
“Of course. I thought that would amuse you so I have a purseful of silver for crossing palms. Let us go and watch the dancing first, though.”
As he escorted her towards the bonfire at the centre of the camp, careful to protect her from the crush, she kept her hood close about her face. Though a number of the Russian officers had females on their arms, she suspected that they were not of the first respectability.
Not for the world would she have been so poor-spirited as to spoil John’s treat in the interests of propriety. Clinging to his arm, she smiled up at him.
The violin’s tune ended with a flourish as they reached the clearing by the fire. A handsome girl in flamboyant scarlet and yellow, gold-sashed, completed her final gyration with a low curtsy, her dark head held proudly. A cheer went up and coins showered at her feet. Two small boys scrambled to collect this largesse while the girl herself moved with lithe dignity into the shadows. Rebecca saw the glint of silver braid and guessed that a hussar waited for her.
Tambourine and cymbalon joined the fiddle for the next dance. A couple ran out into the clearing. Rebecca watched entranced as they swayed and swirled and leapt with impossible agility and astonishing stamina. She was breathless by the time the man caught his partner in a final dramatic pose.
“Like it?” John’s grin told her he knew the answer. She realized he had been watching her face more than the dancers. “They make the waltz look positively staid, do they not?”
“It was…it was...I cannot find the words. Will they dance again?”
A couple of Guards officers were arguing with the musicians, who had laid down their instruments.
“Later, I expect. Come, let us find the Gypsy queen and have your fortune told.”
They were directed to a large caravan set somewhat apart from the rest. A torch flared above the open door. John went up the steps and exchanged words in his mangled French with someone inside, then beckoned to Rebecca.
An old woman, her hair covered by a white kerchief, sat at a table before a black curtain embroidered in gold thread with strange symbols. A similar cloth covered the table, on which rested a crystal globe, a pack of cards, and an oil lamp. The dark eyes that appraised Rebecca from head to toe were unexpectedly keen, and the voice that bade her be seated was commanding.
She obeyed, and John gave the Gypsy a few coins.
“Now you will leave, milord,” the woman said in heavily accented English.
Startled, he shook his head. “No. I don’t know how you guessed who I am, but I will not leave the lady.”
She scrutinized him, her gaze piercing, then nodded. “You do well to take care of her. You may stay. Now, barynya,” she switched to Russian, “give me your hand.”
Her fingers were knotted with rheumatism but her clasp was firm. Rebecca was disappointed when the fortune she told was the usual rigmarole about a tall, dark, handsome stranger, great peril, a long voyage, and true love waiting at the end. John was the stranger of course, and the fact that she was a foreigner made the long journey an obvious deduction. Sooner or later most people met with some sort of danger, and as for true love...
&n
bsp; She stole a glance at John. He was flipping through the Tarot deck, apparently unheeding, though she could not be sure if he was just pretending not to understand Russian. She suppressed a sigh.
As for true love, John was not the marrying sort and she must put such farfetched notions out of her mind. She thanked the fortune-teller and declined an offer to seek further revelations in the crystal.
“Milord!” said the Gypsy sharply, “the cards are now attuned to you. I will read them.”
Rebecca nearly giggled when John dropped the pack as if they burned him.
“No, thanks! I don’t go in for such taradiddles, begging your pardon, ma’am. Are you finished, Rebecca? Let’s be off, then.”
The torchlight outside seemed bright after the mysterious dimness in the caravan. The violin was playing again, soaring above a rhythmic clapping from the crowd.
“Let’s go and see what they are doing now,” John suggested eagerly, his hand on Rebecca’s arm to steady her on the rickety steps.
As she stepped to the ground, the dancing-girl in red and yellow dashed across in front of them. A short, wiry Gypsy chased after her, slashing at her with a willow switch. Rebecca cried out as the girl stumbled and fell. The man was upon her, his arm swinging in vicious blows about her bare shoulders. She crouched there, protecting her head with her arms, no sound escaping her lips.
With a muttered oath John strode towards them. He pulled his whip from his pocket and raised it to strike, then he glanced back at Rebecca and seemed to falter. The Gypsy looked up. In one agile bound he was facing John in a fighter’s crouch.
A knife glinted in each hand.
The two men circled warily. John was a head taller than his opponent, who was within easy reach of his whip, but the whip was no protection against the deadly danger of a thrown knife. Afraid of distracting him, Rebecca did not dare stir even when the girl brushed past her and fled up the steps.
She heard urgent voices in the caravan behind her. She was about to go up and beg the old woman to intervene when a tall, well-known figure strolled into view and stood arms akimbo regarding the combatants.