Valerie's Russia

by Sara Judge

  ‘Petya – is she here?’

  There was the sound of wheels in the hallway and Tassya arrived, her chair pushed by a maid-servant. Crouched low, Tassya’s face was rosy with excitement beneath a mass of dark brown curls.

  ‘Tassya, dearest sister, meet my very good friend, Valerie Marsh from England,’ said Pyotr, as Valerie stepped forward to greet the girl.

  To her astonishment, strong little arms were flung around her neck as Tassya reached up to hug her.

  ‘I am so pleased to meet you, Miss Marsh. Please excuse my poor English. I try very hard to speak like you,’ said Pyotr’s sister.

  Her eyes were blue, like her brother’s, fringed with very dark lashes, and her hair was caught back at the sides but allow ed to bounce in curls across her wide forehead.

  Tassya looked younger than her 16 years, but her eyes were bright and intelligent and her English remarkably good.

  ‘I am glad to meet you, Tassya, and please call me Valerie. I hope we’ll become good companions during my short stay here.’

  ‘I know we will,’ said Tassya, ‘and you must tell me all about England so I can picture it in my mind.’

  When Valerie and Pyotr took their places at the table, Tassya was wheeled up to sit between them.

  ‘Mother will be joining us soon,’ she said, ‘but she has some work in the study to finish, so please do not wait.’

  Feodor moved around the table, handing out the plates of brioches and buns, cutting the cake, then filling the cups of tea from the samovar. It was a relief to drink from delicate china cups after the long glasses at Alexander Palace, and Valerie ate and drank with relish. She felt agreeably comfortable in the company of Pyotr and his sister. Like being at home again, only warmer and cosier than the vicarage in Putney.

  Countess Irina Silakov sat in her study with the desk strewn with papers, but her hands were still as she gazed blankly before her. She was unable to concentrate on anything other than the foreigner now in their midst.

  How dare this girl come to Russia and steal her son’s attention when he should be proposing marriage to Sophia Lukaev.

  Sophia loved Pyotr, her parents liked him and, being so wealthy, would be sure to give their only child a magnificent dowry.

  Ever since her husband had died, Irina had worked. She had forced herself to go to the big fair in Zlatopol to buy horses and oxen, and had become adept at trading and not being cheated.

  Irina prided herself on her cattle, and had four pure-bred Swiss cows that had just begun breeding successfully. From the poorer stock she had managed to sell several calves to local peasants, who were at last becoming interested in the skills of agriculture.

  The countess snorted to herself. She could remember the time when only the nobility could read and write, and enjoy literature and culture. But now even the moujiks were improving themselves.

  They were growing beet in a more extensive way, improving the quality of their cattle, and even learning not to throw manure into the ditches but spread it on their fields instead.

  However she, Countess Irina Silakov, remained in dire need of money. The barns, the enclosures, even the water troughs, needed repairing.

  And what, thought Irina fiercely, could this English girl give her son apart from her lust-filled body?

  The countess knew her Pyotr, knew from the look in his dancing eyes, from the tone of his deep voice, that this girl interested him far more than Sophia. But would she be content as his mistress? Or was she after his title? Irina knew the English were very fond of their lords and ladies, but that mistresses were frowned upon.

  Bleakly she wondered how she could force herself to be polite to the intruder. Yet she dared not anger Pyotr and had promised to treat his guest with courtesy.

  Slowly she rose to her feet. She could work no more this evening. There was too much confusion and bitterness churning in her mind. Now she must go and meet the unwanted guest.

  As soon as Countess Irina entered the room and saw Valerie Marsh, she knew why Pyotr was attracted to her. The English girl was small and slender with brown hair held back in a soft bun, and with hands as white as her neck, which rose from the lace collar of her blue silk gown.

  Everything about the girl reminded Irina of gentle, feminine meekness, and as she strode forward to grasp the little hand in her own hard, calloused one, she wanted to curse aloud.

  How could Pyotr be such a fool as to show interest in this daughter of an English clergyman? What good would such a female be if ever he came back to run Mavara? It was inconceivable to imagine Valerie Marsh with a gun in her hands, with reins between her soft white fingers, or with the blood of an animal all over her skirts.

  The beautiful Lukaev would also be of little use on the practical side but then she would not need to work. All Sophia would have to do would be spend money lavishly whenever it was needed.

  ‘I am pleased to meet you, Miss Marsh,’ said the countess, speaking stiffly in English as she took the chair next to her son. ‘I hope you will not be bored at Mavara. Pyotr must spend much time with me, and Tassya will probably irritate you with her continual questions.’

  She looked across at Valerie with eyes so dark they were almost black, and the girl realized that, despite her words, Pyotr’s mother did not welcome her.

  ‘I have explained to Valerie that you and I have much to do, Mother,’ Pyotr said, smiling at the visitor and delighting in the faint blush, which stained her velvet-like skin. ‘But she says she will be quite content to talk to Tassya and learn how we live out here on the estate.’

  He knew which room had been made ready for her and, once the others were in bed – they all retired early at Mavara – he intended spending time with his Varinka and teaching her things far removed from the problems of the day-to-day life here.

  ‘I am going to take Valerie all round our home tomorrow,’ said Tassya, ‘then we’ll go into Kamenka. May we, Mother?’

  ‘Whatever for?’ The countess stared at her daughter, a frown creasing her brow. Her greying hair was scraped back into a tight bun and neither her wrinkled skin, nor worn black dress, looked in any way aristocratic.

  ‘We do not need anything from the shops this month, Tassya,’ she went on, ‘and every kopeck must be accounted for.’

  ‘I will give her some money,’ said Pyotr. ‘Then she can buy herself a little gift, and perhaps Valerie would like a souvenir from her first visit to the Ukraine?’

  Valerie remained silent, uncertain how to reply, as she saw the countess clamp her lips tightly together then hold out her cup for Feodor to fill.

  But Tassya was clapping her hands in glee.

  ‘Thank you, dear brother! It will be lovely having money to spend and I want Valerie to see our village in daylight.’

  ‘It is not St Petersburg,’ said Pyotr.

  How he wished he could go with the girls and spoil them for a while. But he had to remain with his mother and endeavour to reassure her about the future.

  ‘I shall enjoy seeing everything,’ said Valerie, ‘because it is all so new and different. And I won’t be bored,’ she added, glancing across at the countess.

  But Irina was helping herself to a brioche and did not look up.

  Valerie had been given a bedroom next to Tassya’s on the ground floor, which was spartan in its furnishings and very cold. But the iron bed had plenty of woollen blankets on it, and Dashka brought her a bowl of hot water and a towel before she retired.

  As she lay there, enjoying the feeling of warmth that was beginning to permeate her body, the door was quietly opened.

  ‘Are you awake, Varinka?’

  Lifting her head from the pillow and staring across at the lamplight that filled the room with its golden glow, Valerie saw Pyotr standing, a lamp held high in his right hand.

  ‘May I come in?’

  It was the last thing she wanted when she was so vulnerable in his presence, but she could scarcely shout out or cause a commotion in the quiet house.

 
‘Come in quickly,’ she whispered, propping herself up on one elbow and pushing back her loose, unbound hair with the other hand. ‘And close the door.’

  Pyotr grinned, shutting the door gently behind him then padding across towards her bed. He was wearing a loose wool jacket over his pale blue peasant-type blouse, and his feet were bare beneath his baggy trousers.

  ‘My feet are cold,’ he said, standing close to her bed and placing the lamp on the table beside her. ‘May I sit with you, Little England, and warm them beneath your covers?’

  With her heart beginning to pound she nodded, then struggled to an upright position and reached for her shawl.

  ‘But keep your voice down – I don’t want Tassya hearing us.’

  Pyotr knew his sister would not interrupt them, but his mother was another matter. The countess often roamed around at night if she could not sleep, or if she felt like checking on the servants’ nocturnal activities. But as both she and Pyotr slept upstairs, he had made sure there was no light beneath her door before venturing down.

  ‘I have never seen you looking so like a little girl,’ he said, sitting beside her with his back against the pillow and sliding his cold feet under the blankets. ‘So young – and so fresh and innocent, my Varinka.’

  Her small body was covered with a white flannel nightdress, very thick and totally unrevealing. Over this was slung a pink woolly shawl.

  Valerie’s shiny brown hair hung below her shoulders, silky smooth to his touch as he gave her a hug.

  ‘You smell like an apple,’ he said, nuzzling against her hair.

  He wanted to kiss her cheeks and the tip of her nose, to cover her open breathless mouth with his own. Her lips were as red and luscious as the Crimean apples with which they decorated the tree at Christmas time.

  But he must be patient. He dared not frighten his Varinka with sudden passion when he could tell, by the beating of her heart beneath the heavy flannel, that she was fearful and excited both at once.

  ‘Why did you come here?’ She was willing her body not to tremble. ‘It was a foolish act, Pyotr. Say what you have to say and then go. I couldn’t bear it if your mother found us like this.’

  ‘Mother will not come,’ said Pyotr, raising his hand and stroking back some of the curls that were tumbling across her brow. ‘She is sound asleep upstairs.’

  ‘Then what do you want to say to me?’

  ‘I want to tell you that I love you and wish to continue with the joy we shared on our sleigh-ride through St Petersburg.’

  He pressed his face against her hair again, nibbling at its satiny texture. But Valerie jerked away.

  ‘I do not know what you mean by the word love, Pyotr Silakov,’ she said. ‘For me love means one man, forever, and no lying or cheating.’

  ‘For me, also!’ His dark eyebrows were raised in astonishment. ‘That is what love is all about – one to one and complete honesty.’

  ‘Then how do you explain Sophia Lukaev?’

  ‘I have told you, Valerie, that she is unimportant. I do not love her but I do love you. Let me show you how much.’

  He pulled her towards him placing both his hands around her face, lowering his own until their lips met. But he did not linger, kissing her but fleetingly before lifting his head and looking down at her again. His eyes were fierce in the lamplight as his thumbs caressed her cheeks.

  ‘Come now, tell me what you have seen and heard about the Lukaev and me?’

  ‘I have heard nothing,’ she said, her limbs turning to water at his touch, ‘but I am sure she loves you.’

  ‘Maybe,’ he said, laughing down at her, ‘maybe she finds me as attractive as I find you, Little England.’

  Then he kissed her again and this time his mouth stayed on hers, as firm and demanding, as in St Petersburg.

  Valerie’s resolve broke. She wanted to show, and share, the love she felt for this devastating man. With a moan of acceptance she lifted her arms and folded them around Pyotr’s neck, as her shawl slipped to the floor.

  Very gently Pyotr lowered one hand and began stroking her arching back, gathering up the folds of her nightgown and pulling the material up and up until his hands found warm flesh beneath.

  Gasping, Valerie rubbed her body against his hand wanting him to touch her, fondle her, all over. Then her lips were on his ear and she was biting at the lobe before thrusting her tongue into the opening, making him cry out in delight.

  When Pyotr reached to draw the nightgown up to her shoulders, she allowed him to tug it free then fling it away.

  ‘I promised you,’ he said. ‘I promised we would share our love with nothing in the way.’ His lips travelled down her throat, across one small perfect breast, then he ran his tongue over the hard little nipple, making her catch her breath in ecstasy. ‘So small, so pure,’ he said, fondling her other breast and bringing it, too, to a button-like erection.

  ‘You too!’ Perspiration was slithering down Valerie’s body making everything hot and wet. ‘Take your clothes off, Petya – I want to feel your body next to mine!’

  Smiling, he raised himself to a kneeling position and pulled off his jacket, then his shirt. But at that moment came a tapping on the door and they both froze. There was not a sound in the chamber apart from the insistent tapping.

  Then Valerie found her voice. ‘Who is it?’ she croaked, as Pyotr rolled to one side and was on his feet in one deft, soundless motion. Valerie’s throat was so dry she almost choked. ‘Who is there?’

  ‘It is Dunya,’ came the voice of Tassya’s maid-servant. ‘My mistress heard you crying, bárishna, and says if it is bad dreams she also cannot sleep. Please to come.’

  Recovering from her panic, Valerie looked at Pyotr.

  ‘Go to her,’ he mouthed.

  ‘I’ll come,’ called Valerie. ‘Tell her I’ll come.’

  Once her nightgown was back on and her air smoothed away from her radiant face, Pyotr kissed her briefly before placing the shawl about her shoulders.

  ‘I shall leave after you have gone next door,’ he said. ‘Give Tassya all the time and sympathy she deserves, and we will have our joy another time, my heart.’

  Valerie nodded before opening the door and going to join Pyotr’s sister.

  Chapter Six

  The following morning having breakfast at the big round table with Tassya, Valerie was relieved to find both Pyotr and his mother missing. They had eaten earlier and were already out on the estate.

  But an attentive Feodor served the two girls freshly baked bread, utter, and apcot jam. ‘All made here,’ announced Tassya happily. There were also more cups of excellent tea from the bubbling samovar.

  ‘It was so lovely when you came to my room last night,’ she went on, ‘and I am glad it was not a night-horse for you.’

  ‘Nightmare,’ said Valerie.

  ‘I beg your pardon – nightmare. I have terrible dreams, filled with these mares and now it is nice knowing you are close to me.’

  Valerie had spent almost an hour with Pyotr’s sister the night before, thinking more than once that it must have been God’s Will. He had saved her from Pyotr’s compelling love-making and had also given her the chance to get to know Tassya better.

  Pyotr said he loved her but did he mean lasting love? It was true that he was not engaged to Sophia, but there had been no words of marriage to Valerie, either, despite his ardent vows of affection.

  If she were to give in to his demands, what then? Would he marry her? Would she become a countess and remain in Russia forever? Or would he tire of her once he had possessed her body and leave her heartbroken and alone?

  Don’t give in to him, she told herself grimly as she gazed across at Tassya’s pretty face without really seeing it. Do not allow him to make love to you until his ring is on your finger. God had helped her last night, but she could not expect the Almighty to aid her every time she needed moral support.

  She would have to exert her own self-discipline and keep a distance between herself and Py
otr, which was what she had intended doing when she first came down to Mavara.

  If only she didn’t love him. If only she didn’t love him with a passion she hadn’t known she possessed. Perhaps it was Russia. Perhaps it was this exotic, fascinating, glorious land in which she now dwelt. Valerie could not believe she would ever have been swept off her feet, almost drowning in an ecstasy of emotion, in the arms of some cleric in rain-sodden Putney.

  But Pyotr Silakov, with his arrogance, self-confidence, and beauty, was a typical son of this vibrant land and his intense masculine vitality overwhelmed her.

  ‘Valerie, I think you are far away,’ said Tassya. ‘You do not hear what I say to you.’

  ‘Forgive me.’ Valerie blinked, putting down her cup with a clatter. ‘I am sorry, Tassya. I was thinking about Russia, and Mavara, and everything I have seen here. It is all so different and wonderful – my mind is reeling from the thrill of it all.’

  ‘Reeling?’ Tassya did not know that word.

  ‘As if I have had too much vodka,’ said Valerie, swaying from side to side on her chair, ‘or like a ship on the high seas.’

  She laughed, aware of how absurd she must look, but Feodor’s face remained expressionless and Tassya nodded gravely.

  ‘I do like you, Valerie Marsh, and wish you could stay for a longer time. I want you as my friend and do not wish you to go away so soon.’

  ‘I must return to my duties with Grand Duchess Olga,’ said Valerie. ‘But I would love to come and visit again, if your mother agrees? Perhaps I could come in the summer?’

  She was unsure what the Imperial family would be doing when they returned from the Crimea after Easter. But the Empress was so sympathetic about Tassya, she might allow Valerie to come down again later in the year.

  There was still the matter of Grigorii Rasputin to be sorted out. Valerie hadn’t mentioned the holy man last night. Tassya had wanted to talk about her riding accident, and how she missed her adored horses, and how she hated being so dependent on other people.

  Then Tassya had asked about England, and about Valerie’s life at the vicarage, and by the time she had finished talking both girls were tired and ready for sleep.