by Carola Dunn
“Kolya!” Rebecca gasped.
The fortune-teller spoke sharply from the top of the steps. Only one word was comprehensible—”Volkov.” The Gypsy flashed a sullen glance at his queen. For a moment it was touch and go, then he shrugged. The knives disappeared and he faded into the shadows between the caravans.
Rebecca ran to John, reaching the safe circle of his arm just as Prince Nikolai clapped him on the shoulder with a laugh.
“Well, John, we both know uses of having influential father, nyet? Who is your fair charmer?”
“No one you know.” John sounded on edge. Glad that the light was behind her, Rebecca bowed her head and pulled the hood tighter. “I must take her home now. My thanks, Kolya. I shall see you tomorrow.”
“Think nothing of it, old fellow,” said the prince genially. “Do svidanya.”
“Until tomorrow.”
* * * *
John drove in silence for some way. Clouds hid the moon and the poor quarters they traversed were ill-lit. Her mind whirling with the events and emotions of the past few hours, Rebecca was glad of the time to compose herself.
“I'm sorry your evening was spoiled. I ought not to have taken you there.”
John’s voice was still strained, and Rebecca found that her nerves were not yet settled.
“It was not spoiled. I would not have missed the dancers for the world. But I was so frightened for you.”
“I don’t mind admitting I was in a bit of a quake myself,” he said wryly.
“How fortunate that Prince Nikolai was there!”
“Yes, and how fortunate that he did not recognize you.” Though John suspected that Kolya had guessed the name of his companion, he knew his friend would never betray her. On the other hand, it was just as well if Rebecca did not repose too much trust in the Russian.
He took her home, paid off the carriage, and after assuring himself that she was recovering from the shock, he went for a walk. He needed to think.
The streets were still, though high above a wind scattered ragged clouds across the sky, now hiding now revealing the moon. The glassy waters of the Fontanka reflected the white circle briefly, then plunged into darkness, then gleamed again. John leaned against the balustrade. Ideas and images raced through his mind, some clear and some obscure.
He should not have taken Rebecca to the Gypsy camp. It was no place for a respectable female, though he had not suspected how dangerous it could be. It had been a delight to see her face as she watched the dancers, yet he had had to steer her away from the dancing bear, remembering how its trainer had whipped and prodded it into performing on his last visit. She was oversensitive to violence. Not that he enjoyed seeing animals mistreated; he had never frequented cockfights or bull-baiting at home, but he had not actively disapproved. He had never really considered such matters until he met her.
He liked to think he would have gone to the rescue of the Gypsy girl even if Rebecca had not been there.
It was growing chilly standing still. He wandered on, passing a noisy tavern without the least desire to go in. Looking back, his life seemed one long vista of taverns and gaming houses and rowdy companions.
He could not blame his dissatisfaction on the Russians. Even in London, he realized, he had been searching for something more. One by one his friends had moved on. Some had ended in the sponging house, or fled to the Continent, but others had married, taken their seats in the House of Lords, retired to the country to tend their acres, or otherwise converted to a life of sober discretion. New faces had always replaced them, and a few of the old lingered still. Bev, for instance, showed no sign of repentance and could always be counted on for a lark. Of course, that was about all one could count on him for.
And that, thought John in dismay, was exactly what his Grace had said of Bev. Oh lord, was he in danger of turning into the sedate, serious person his father wanted him to be?
Alarmed, he went into the next tavern he passed and ordered a bumper of brandy. It was a shabby place, patronized by labourers and minor clerks, who fell silent when he entered and stared to see a gentleman among them. None spoke French, let alone English.
John drank his brandy and went home to bed, thoroughly blue-devilled. Even his room depressed him though it was a pleasant place, spacious and well-heated. He was not used to living alone, with only a servant. In London most of his friends had hired bachelor apartments, whether they could afford them or not, but despite his profligate habits, he had always stayed in his parents’ house.
To his astonishment and horror, he was forced to admit that he missed his family.
Chapter 14
It was past noon when John was awakened by the arrival of Kolya.
“Get up, lazyhead. We shall miss first race.”
“Lazybones. Sleepyhead. Race?” John rubbed his eyes. He had had a restless night with disturbing dreams.
“Today is day of horse-races at Tsarskoye Selo. You remember, I am to ride in fourth race. So get up your sleepy bones and come.”
John quickly recovered his spirits in the lively atmosphere of the race track. It was largely a military event, with officers riding rather than the trained jockeys he was used to. Many of his acquaintances were there, several of them taking part, and the Tsar had honoured the occasion with his presence. The betting was enthusiastic for the honour of the various regiments was at stake.
With no axe to grind, John laid his wagers on the horses and riders that looked best to him. He won a considerable amount on the first three races, and put his winnings on Kolya in the fourth. The prince led the field from the start and came in two lengths ahead of his nearest rival. Again John bet everything on the next race, and again he was lucky.
“Not lucky, astute,” said Kolya, grinning, and bore him off to celebrate.
It was a riotous celebration. They started with Champagne and the inevitable zakuski in the quarters of one of Kolya’s fellow-officers at the nearby military camp. When two more members of the Preobrazhenski regiment won their races, the party spread to the officers’ mess, and then throughout the camp, growing noisier as it expanded.
Kolya invited John and several others to dine at a restaurant in St Petersburg. The sun was setting as the boisterous group drove into the city. There was much uproarious laughter when they found that the prince, in anticipation of his victory, had already reserved a room and ordered a banquet. Turtle soup, asparagus, veal, game and sturgeon were washed down by oceans of wine, and more oceans of vodka followed for the toasts. The floor was littered with smashed glasses by the time there was a general move to adjourn to a gambling hell.
John found himself walking across a bridge with Kolya at his side, some way behind the others. He was pleasantly tipsy, and when Kolya started singing the ballad of Styenka Razin he joined in with Annie Laurie. After a couple of discordant verses, they somehow ended on the same note.
“Splendid,” said Kolya. The word appealed to him and he repeated, “Splendid, splendid, splendid. England is a splendid country.”
“Annie Laurie’s Scottish,” John objected.
“No, no, my dear fellow, Annie is an African. But what I mean to say is that it is all thanks to England that I won the race today. Was it today?”
“Think so. Don’t quite follow you, though. In Russia, not England, wasn’t it?”
“It was in England that I learned to judge horses and to ride like an Englishman.”
“Yes, England has the bes’ horses and riders in Europe. In the world. In the universe. You speak ex...ex...splendid English when you’re topheavy, Kolya.”
“It is my English soul speaking. England has not only the best horses but the best gentlemen.” He put his arm round John’s shoulders and said solemnly, “I model myself on the English gentleman. You are my model, John.”
“No!” Shocked, John stopped and stared at his friend. “Not me. Bad model. Very very very bad model. Best choose someone else, old fellow. Choose Andrew or Tom or even his Grace. Dozens of ‘em to choose fr
om.” He waved his arms and nearly overbalanced.
“Come and have some brandy,” Kolya suggested pacifically, pulling on his sleeve, and they caught up with the others as they entered the gaming house.
That night John forgot his rule about mixing drinking and gambling. His luck was in, and the pile of rouleaux and vowels grew before him whether he played faro or boston or whist. In an effort to change their luck, his companions dragged him off to another hell, but he went on winning. They moved again. Somewhere along the way he lost sight of Kolya and found himself singing Annie Laurie again, in a demented counterpoint to a chorus of melancholy Russian soldiers. There was a girl on his knee, and another leaning on his shoulder.
* * * *
When he woke the next morning, he was in a small white-washed room. Just enough sunlight fought its way through the grimy windowpanes to set hammers pounding in his head, and there was a foul taste in his mouth.
He ventured to move slightly, and a straw mattress rustled beneath him. The sheets were none too clean.
A rickety table and two chairs stood against the far wall, on which hung an icon. The only other furniture in the room was a chest, made of cheap deal but lovingly carved by inexpert hands. The door of the room was ajar and his greatcoat hung from a nail behind it.
John had no idea how he had got there.
He sat up with a groan and swung his legs off the bed. At that moment a plump, cheerful-looking girl with an untidy yellow pigtail thumped the door open and set down a hissing samovar on the table. She turned to regard him.
“Vy prospalsa, dusha moya?”
Had he slept it off? John pretended not to understand, alert though his head was pounding. Why had she called him “darling?” He groaned again. He remembered nothing but the implications were obvious.
“Chai?” she offered, pouring a glass of tea.
He took it gratefully, refusing the lump of coarse beet sugar that went with it. The hot liquid revived him somewhat, though when he stood up he felt a bit shaky. Taking his top coat from the nail he hunted through the inside pocket.
There was a gold three-rouble chernovetz, two Imperials, worth ten roubles apiece, and a handful of silver. In one of the other pockets he found a twenty-five rouble note. He had a vague memory of winning large sums last night. Had he gambled it all away again, or had he been robbed?
He looked at the girl. Her expression was enquiring, not in the least guilty. He put the Imperials and the note on the table, patted her cheek, and departed.
The narrow staircase stank of cabbage soup. By the time John reached the courtyard he was feeling decidedly nauseated. Fortunately a drozhky driver was just setting out to look for passengers. His suspicion vanished when John tossed him a silver rouble and he drove him home.
At least, John had intended to go home. The drozhky pulled up in front of the Graylins’ house, and he realized he must have given the wrong address. It was too complicated to explain, so he gave the man another rouble, and stumbled up the steps to knock on the front door. Rebecca would give him something to ease the pain in his head and the queasiness in his stomach.
The Russian servant who opened the door started back in dismay before recognizing him. “Milord! Shto vy...”
“Who is it, Vanya?” Rebecca stepped into the hail. “John! Heavens above, what have you been doing? You look as if you have been dragged backwards through a bush, at the very least. Come in and sit down.”
Suddenly aware that he had slept in his clothes, lost his hat, and neither combed his hair nor shaved, John hung back.
“I’d better not.” Unwisely he shook his head. He winced.
Rebecca seized his hand and tugged him after her into the drawing-room. “Sit down,” she insisted. “What is the matter?”
“Kolya won a horse-race yesterday,” he explained sheepishly. “We were celebrating last night.”
Her expression changed from concern to indulgence. “Ah, then I can guess what ails you. Wait here a moment.”
She went out, to return a few minutes later with a glass of aromatic tea. He sniffed it suspiciously.
“It is one of Teresa’s herbs. Annie has learned all about them and she says this is what you need. Drink it up and you will soon feel more the thing.”
He obeyed, feeling like a small boy who had hurt himself being naughty. She was treating him just as she had treated Esperanza when she fell from the railing.
The tea helped, but the departing discomfort left room for his anger and disgust with his own behaviour. He did not want Rebecca’s amused tolerance; he wanted her to see him as strong, capable, worthy of her respect. He thought he had had that respect, but now he had lost it. It would have to be earned again.
His dejected musing was interrupted by the servant.
“It is Knyaz Nikolai Mikhailovich Volkov, barynya. Are you at home?”
John made a quick gesture of denial, but Rebecca smiled and nodded. “Yes, show him in, Vanya. Perhaps he too is in need of some herbal tea.”
Kolya was immaculate in a fresh uniform, smoothly shaven, at worst a trifle paler than usual. He kissed Rebecca’s hand, then tossed a package of papers and a clinking leather pouch on the small table beside John.
“I came to return these to you.” He shook his head in mock reproach, grinning, as he took in his friend’s condition. “You had devil’s own luck last night—begging your pardon, Rebecca Ivanovna.”
John picked up the papers. “Then I did win! I was not sure whether I had dreamed it or been robbed.”
“In that case, is good thing that I kept them for you. You have won fortune, my dear fellow. Among those papers you will find vowel for Count Kirsanin’s dacha at Peterhof. As I remember, his bath-house is exceptional. I suggest we go and inspect your property—Russian bath will make you new man.”
“Yes, do go,” Rebecca urged. “I daresay fresh air and exercise will help.”
John grimaced, but had to agree that powerful remedies were called for. He heaved himself to his feet, apologised to Rebecca for having visited her in such a state, and made his way carefully towards the door.
“I bring him back to you tomorrow right as trivet,” Kolya promised Rebecca. “Was grand celebration.”
Rebecca had been a little shocked to see John in such a disreputable condition. At the same time, she could only be glad that he was sufficiently at ease with her to turn to her for comfort. It was odd that the gallant gentleman who had supported her and given her confidence in herself should ever be in need of her aid. She wished she had been able to do more for him.
She went above-stairs to the nursery, where she had a difficult time explaining to Esperanza why Uncle John had not gone up to play with her.
“Prince Nikolai came to take him to Peterhof,” she said. “He was in a hurry and one must not keep a prince waiting. They will return tomorrow and I expect Uncle John will come to see you then.”
“Cochon,” observed Gayo reproachfully.
Esperanza giggled. “That means pig in French. He’s not s’posed to say that.”
At last they settled to lessons. It was peaceful in the sunny room. The parrot was muttering to himself over a dish of sunflower seeds. Annie sat by the window sewing and Esperanza was drawing a flower with coloured chalks to illustrate the letter F. Rebecca had a book open on the table before her, but she was still thinking of John when a hurried step was heard mounting the stair.
Had he come back? It did not sound like his tread, yet nor was it the stolid gait of the Russian servants.
Annie dropped her sewing and struggled to lift her heavy body out of the chair. “That’s...” she began, when Rowson burst through the door.
“Miss Beckie! Annie! You’re all safe then? Where’s his lordship?” As he spoke, Rowson enfolded his wife in his arms and planted a hearty kiss on her brown cheek. Dressed in a Russian peasant smock, sheepskin jacket, and felt boots, he looked travel-worn, weary and agitated.
“Rowson! Where’s my Mama and Papa?” Esperanza aba
ndoned her chalks and flung herself at him. He caught her with one arm and gave her a quick hug, the other arm still about Annie’s swollen waist.
“That’s what I’ve to talk to Miss Beckie about, missy.” He sent a glance of appeal to Rebecca.
“Go down to the kitchen, Chiquita, and tell Cook I said you can have a sladki pirozhok.”
Esperanza pouted. “I don’t want cake, I want my Mama and Papa.”
Rowson dropped to his knees and put his hands on her shoulders. “Be good, missy. Sir Andrew and my lady bain’t with me right now, but they’s jist fine, I promise.”
She looked at him seriously, then turned to Rebecca. “An apple tart?” she bargained.
“Yes, scamp, you can have an apple tart. Off with you, now.” Rebecca clenched her fists in her lap, hoping her apprehension was hidden from the child.
Rowson closed the door behind Esperanza. “Ifn you don’t mind Miss Beckie, I’ll sit down. It’s a long way I’ve come, and fast.”
“Of course, Rowson.” She was amazed at how calm her voice sounded. “Now tell us what has brought you back alone.”
“Annie, love, come sit aside me.” He helped her to the table, seated her and dropped onto the chair next to her. She clung to his hand. “I think we’re safe here, but I’ll talk soft and careful-like. You know what Sir Andrew was up to, don’t you, miss?”
Rebecca nodded. “Yes, roughly. They are all right, are they not? You promised Chiquita.”
“Aye, miss, they was all right when I left, and safe and sound by now I don’t doubt. But there’s no denying the Russians guessed what’s up and was after us. Sir Andrew decided ‘twas best to head for the Turkish border. Not far away from it, we wasn’t. Only summun had to warn his lordship, being as how he’s in the same business. No one takes note on a servant, so I bin riding day and night for more days than I c’n count.”
“Lord John has gone to Peterhof with Prince Nikolai. I have no idea how to reach him.” Rebecca stood up and wandered restlessly to the window. “What should I do? If you have brought us the news already, I daresay it has reached the Russians here. No one knows where John is now, but he will be arrested as soon as he comes back to St Petersburg. Oh lord, what shall I do?”