Flight From the Eagle

by Dinah Dean

  He read the whole letter through again from the beginning and then added another page of instructions to his sister and his lawyers concerning the provisions he wanted made for the Countess plus various business matters concerning his estates. He ended with a promise that he would resign from the army as soon as he heard that Bonaparte was back across the Niemen.

  When it was finished, the letter made quite a bulky little package which he sealed and addressed carefully, wondering when he would get a chance to send it. Probably not until they reached Kaluga and then he hoped it would be necessary to rewrite the part about Countess Barova.

  He paused in his thoughts and framed the words carefully, savouring them and their implications, for perhaps by then he would know what chance he had of marrying her. How extraordinarily right and satisfactory the phrase was! 'Marrying her,' he thought again.

  He'd thought about marrying before, even once or twice in connection with an actual, possible, particular woman but it was now obvious to him why he had never gone beyond the idea. What a lot of time he'd wasted! He sighed, stowing the letter away in his wallet and stared absent-mindedly out of the window.

  'I wondered when you were going to notice,' Kusminsky's voice broke into his thoughts. He looked blank for a moment and then realized what the surgeon meant. The rain had stopped and a watery sun was struggling through the clouds which were breaking up rapidly, with blue sky appearing in great patches even as he looked.

  He got up and went to the window, feeling the sun gaining in strength and warming his face. The stone flags of the terrace below were beginning to steam and men were popping out like rabbits from their burrows, from the house and the barns, shouting cheerfully to each other and savouring the returning warmth.

  'They'll all be complaining of the heat again in a minute,' said Kusminsky sourly. 'You'll see. It'll be as hot and dusty and miserable as ever by this time tomorrow!' He went out, banging the door behind him and rattling down the stairs.

  Orlov turned to the Countess. 'Shall we take a turn in the garden?' he enquired politely and offered her his arm. She rose, gave him a slight curtsey and went with him down to the formal garden. They strolled about in a civilized manner on the gravel walks, avoiding the puddles and enjoying the Fresh smell of wet soil and the sharply sweet scent of the roses.

  In the middle of the geometric arrangement of flower-beds, there was a raised platform of white marble surmounted by a sundial and surrounded by a low clipped hedge of lavender, broken only by a couple of steps up to the platform. After they had walked round the limited area of the garden, they gravitated towards this centre and stood looking at the sundial, which was now able to perform its proper function. Orlov prosaically checked his watch by it and found it to be wrong.

  ‘I’ve always had a great desire to own a sundial,' the Countess said, tracing the engraving on the bronze dial with one linger. 'Not something useful and portable like a watch, you understand, but something large and quite impracticable during the greater part of the year. I'm afraid my aunt was right in thinking me a vain and foolish creature.'

  'On the contrary,' Orlov smiled down at her. 'As a large and impracticable object myself, I think you show admirable good sense!' The lavender hedge, drying rapidly in the sun, sent up a perfume which was almost tangible in its intensity, like an invisible wall round the little island on which they stood. 'I've never realized that the scent of lavender could be so heady,' he said inconsequentially.

  'It's a very unexciting and unheady scent, considered suitable for young girls and respectable old maids,' she replied with a trace of bitterness. 'My aunt said that all other perfumes are sinful and dangerous. Are they?' she added, with genuine interest.

  'Some of them,' Orlov replied with equally genuine seriousness. 'Some perfumes have an extremely stirring effect on the senses and I suppose that if a woman uses them deliberately to obtain that effect on a man, it could be called wicked. It would certainly be dangerous for the man or if an innocent girl used one of them without realizing what sort of message it conveyed to the men around her.'

  'I suppose there are some that are—well—in between? A little more exciting than lavender water, without being—not respectable?'

  'Many! Orlov replied. 'Pleasant, mildly exciting, perfectly respectable.'

  The Countess sighed. 'My aunt seemed to believe that everything must be at extremes, somehow. Respectable dresses had to be high-necked, long-sleeved, dull in colour and fabric. Low necks, bare arms, bright colours and soft fabrics were all wicked and depraved. I'm wrong to talk of her like this. She was good to me in her way, but I can't help feeling that she was very narrow in her outlook. Surely it's possible to have a little fun and colour in life without being a complete wanton?'

  'My sister has an interesting and amusing life, with plenty of gaiety and colour and she's a pillar of respectability!' Orlov assured her. 'She dresses very elegantly and enjoys the attentions of at least half-a-dozen men who are earnestly engaged in trying to gain her affections—with honourable intent, I assure you, or they'd have me to deal with! I expect she'll marry one of them eventually but meanwhile she enjoys flirting with them; she goes to Petersburg for the season, dances all night, goes to parties, balls, masquerades, the theatre, uses gallons of the less extreme varieties of perfume, all without the slightest hint of depravity.'

  The Countess considered this information and then said in a hesitant and subdued voice, 'Do you enjoy flirting too?'

  Orlov looked down on her bent head and felt that he was beginning to understand her. 'Flirting's a very enjoyable pastime when there's nothing better to do,' he said, 'and quite harmless if it remains merely a pastime on both sides. It's a different matter if it goes too far or if one of the people involved takes it seriously. I try to make sure that no one is hurt by my amusements. 1 don't pursue where I'm not encouraged, I don't seduce the innocent and I don't flirt with inexperienced girls who might think me serious.'

  She looked up at him, studying his face with an anxious, questioning air and he met her gaze with his clear grey eyes, which did so much to inspire other people's confidence in him. 'I wouldn't flirt with you,' he added bluntly.

  The sun was beginning to decline towards the horizon, turning the remaining streaks of cloud a vivid red and it may have been the reflection from them that gave her cheeks abecoming flush. Orlov pulled a few stalks of lavender and crushed them between his fingers. 'Your aunt was wrong about lavender,' he said with a smile. 'It's as dangerous as any perfume I've ever smelled!' He threaded a few stems through her coronet of plaits, and laughed at the spiky crown which resulted. 'Queen Sparrow!' he said.

  'Czarina, if you please!' she replied in a superior tone. 'You can't expect a Russian to be content with being a mere queen!'

  Orlov felt a happy sense of comradeship with her. How good to find a woman who could share his own occasional fits of nonsensical humour! He dropped on his knees and kissed the hem of her skirt, laughing up at her. 'Your pardon, Majesty! I mistook you for a little Sparrow, but now I see you're really a bird of paradise!'

  'And I mistook you for an eagle but now I see you are really a peacock!' she replied. Orlov stood up, protesting. 'Indeed I'm not. If I can't be a robin, then you'll have to allow me to be an eagle for that was your choice for me! A good Russian eagle!'

  'Very well then,' she replied with a sudden smile of pure mischief. 'A good Russian eagle with two heads and a cross expression!' and she ran away across the garden, laughing at him over her shoulder.

  'Two cross expressions!' Orlov called after her, and stood watching as she crossed the terrace and entered the house.

  He followed at a more sedate pace, musing on the changes of mood he had experienced during the day, and encountered Kusminsky in the hall. The surgeon gave him another of his searching looks and said, 'Feeling better?'

  'Yes,' Orlov replied. 'How's Adraksin?'

  'Oh, he'll do,' Kusminsky said. 'He's a cheerful, resilient soul and now he's talking of being discharg
ed unfit and going home to sit by the fire and watch everyone else working. His family is quite prosperous so it doesn't worry him. I'm sorry I had to drag you into the proceedings—very unpleasant for a man of your sensibility.'

  Orlov thought the surgeon was making fun of him, but he seemed quite serious. 'I suppose we can expect to continue our Odyssey tomorrow?' the doctor asked.

  'It looks like it.' Orlov glanced out at the sunset which was in full glory. 'Will Adraksin be fit to travel?'

  'No one's fit to travel,' Kusminsky pointed out. 'But we've managed pretty well so far. He's in no worse a state than you were the night we started, or four days ago, and he has enough sense to lie still and not go riding around on a damned great carthorse.'

  'He's not a carthorse!' Orlov protested. He had grown quite fond of the grey.

  'I expect you're half a horse yourself, being an Orlov,' Kusminsky mocked, referring to the famous Russian breed of horses. Orlov could see that a number of more or less obscene jokes were likely to arise from this and, remembering the soldiers' comments reported to him by Countess Barova, he hastily changed the subject by asking Kusminsky if he could leave off his sling.

  'No, keep it on for a few more days,' the surgeon advised. 'Use the arm a little if you want to, but rest it pretty frequently. Don't put any strain on those stitches just yet.'

  Kolniev, whose large frame seemed to require frequent refreshment, leaned over the balustrade to tell them that supper was nearly ready and Orlov went upstairs, shouting for Josef, who appeared in the doorway of the pink and white bedroom with a clean shirt over his arm and an expression of pained resignation on his face. He had obviously been waiting some time for his master to appear.

  At supper, Kolniev asked what would happen when they reached Kaluga. Orlov had hardly given the matter any thought so far, but he said he expected they would be able to find beds in the military hospital for most of the men. The others could go into the barracks or on to the camp which was being built up at Tarutino.

  'What will you do?' Kolniev asked.

  'Report back to headquarters, wherever that may be by then,' Orlov replied. 'I have a modest feeling that the army can't manage without me.' He grinned at himself.

  'You should take sick leave,' Kusminsky said in the tones of one who doesn't expect to meet agreement. Orlov shrugged and winced. It didn't hurt nearly as much, but it was enough to remind him. Kusminsky laughed.

  'I thought we'd cured you of that,' he said. 'Where did you learn that ridiculously Gallic habit? France?'

  'Italy, actually,' Orlov replied. 'I lived in Florence for a year.'

  'Studying art and the language?' Kusminsky was half-sarcastic, half-interested.

  'Yes, and fencing,' Orlov replied equably. 'Any excuse to live in a country with warm winters.'

  'Is it warm?' Kolniev asked.

  'Warmer than Petersburg. Damp, very smelly and they all lalk Italian.' Orlov didn't sound very thrilled with Florence.

  'But isn't it beautiful?' the Countess asked.

  'No more beautiful than Petersburg,' Orlov replied. 'After all, our city was built by Italian architects and they profited I rom the mistakes they made in their own cities.'

  'I haven't even seen Petersburg.' The Countess sounded almost ashamed of her untravelled state, and Orlov smiled to himself at the thought of the pleasure they would find in visiting the great cities of Europe together—always provided, of course, that he could persuade her to marry him. The smile faded abruptly and was replaced by an anxious frown which she appeared to have noticed, for she looked at him enquir-ingly and he hastily summoned up an encouraging smile and made a non-committal remark to the effect that she would have plenty of time to travel when the war was over.

  After supper, Kusminsky asked Orlov to come on his rounds with him while Kolniev checked the carts to see that everything was in order for the morning. Kolniev muttered something about having done so already but he went off with a lantern, leaving the other two in the entrance hall, where Corporal Adraksin had been laid by the fire on a pile of palliasses, roughly screened from the draught by a couple of lattered blankets.

  Orlov knelt beside the man and asked him gently how he hit. The corporal was quite conscious and only very slightly feverish. He thanked Orlov for his enquiries, saying he felt quite well and sounding almost cheerful, considering. 'It was good of you to help the doctor, sir,' he said. 'It must have turned your stomach something cruel—I wouldn't have fancied it.'

  Kusminsky gave a bark of laughter. 'The Major's stomach's pretty delicate, but he stuck it out very well—nearly as well as you did. But then, you had the advantage of being drunk!'

  To Orlov's surprise, the corporal also laughed, though rather weakly. Orlov thought Kusminsky was being unnecessarily jovial about the whole business. It was hardly fair to the man to make jokes about his losing a foot, but the corporal didn't seem to mind.

  There were several other men whom the surgeon seemed to think would benefit from a few words from the major, although Orlov couldn't think why. He obligingly followed Kusminsky's progress through the two big rooms being used as dormitories and tried to make the appropriate enquiries and encouraging remarks, feeling rather embarrassed by the thanks he received for doing so. All the men seemed very cheerful and several remarked that they were looking forward to pressing on towards Kaluga in the morning, so presumably the rest had done them all good.

  When Kusminsky finally released him it was time to turn in and he climbed the stairs slowly, his mind reverting to the problem which he had not been able to think about at supper—what he should do about asking the Countess to marry him, and what chance he stood of being accepted if he did?

  If he let her go on from Kaluga without saying anything, the whole position would be difficult. It might be thought odd that a young woman, quite unconnected to the family, should stay indefinitely in his home with his sister, even if he was not there himself. She might meet and fall in love with someone else, or find herself a position as a governess and simply disappear. The thought of losing her by default, so to speak, was unbearable.

  On the other hand, if he said anything to her before he sent her to Ryazan, this also raised problems. She might agree to many him out of gratitude or think he was offering for the sake of her reputation—a dozen misunderstandings might arise. The biggest problem would be that if she accepted him, she would feel bound to marry him and he daren't tie her like that while he was still in the army. He couldn't possibly resign while the French were still in Russia.

  Obviously he must go back to duty and if he were maimed—killed wouldn't matter in this connection—but if he were maimed, perhaps icvoltingly or in some way that made him incapable of being a proper husband and she felt bound to marry him—it was all too dreadful to contemplate. Anyway, did she like him enough to accept him in the first place?

  He found he was standing outside the door of the pink and white room, his mind churning round in impossibly involved convolutions, peppered with 'ifs'. He sighed, tapped at the door, and went in.

  The room was again lit only by the leaping flames of a good fire and their various belongings were set out as they had been the night before, looking just as incongruous now as they had then. The Countess was securing the end of her plait with a piece of ribbon and greeted him with a smile before snuggling down into her blankets. Orlov returned the smile and then tried to avoid looking at her, determined not to repeat his inexcusable behaviour of the night before.

  As he tugged at his boots, he decided to say something and began rather obliquely, 'I wrote a long letter to my sister this afternoon.'

  'How will you send it to her?' the Countess asked, sounding interested in the problem.

  'Oh, from Kaluga, if we don't meet any of our army on the way. If I send it as soon as we arrive, she'll get it before you reach Ryazan. It'll take a couple of days to arrange your journey, quite apart from the fact that you'll need a rest before you go on—it's another couple of hundred miles.'

&n
bsp; 'Is the letter to warn her about me?'

  'Tell, not warn!' he protested. 'I think you'll like Tatia. She's very pleasant and good-hearted.' He wondered how to introduce the next stage of what he wanted to say and to his relief, she gave him the opening he needed by asking, 'Do you think she will marry again?'

  'I'm sure she will. She was only seventeen before—it was arranged by our father, and she hardly knew the man. They were only married a few weeks before he went off on the Austerlitz campaign—hardly time to get to know him. He was very badly wounded, mutilated and hideously disfigured. It was dreadful for Tatia though she's never said anything about it. For a woman to be tied to a fearful wreck of a man like that—he died after a few weeks fortunately for both of them. She's been quite recovered from it for some time now.'

  He was silent for a moment, having reached another tricky point and before he could start to negotiate it, the Countess said, 'But if she'd loved him, surely she would rather have had him whatever he looked like, unless he was suffering very much.'

  'She didn't love him and he was suffering very badly,' Orlov replied flatly. 'It would have been better if he'd been killed outright—being married to what remains of a man after injuries like that turns marriage into some sort of hideous torture.' He fidgeted with the spur on one of his boots, and then went on abruptly, 'I can't honourably leave the army while the French are in Russia. I'll have to wait until they're back across the Niemen. After that—well, I've intended for some time to resign and settle down at home. Meanwhile, when we reach Kaluga, I shall have to return to duty and take my chance like any other soldier. I may be killed or left like my brother-in-law—' He didn't go on, feeling that he had said enough if she understood him and if she didn't, well, probably there Avas no point in saying more.

  After a moment she said, 'I see.'

  He gave a little sigh. 'I'd be—grateful—if you would stay with Tatia until I can resign and come home.'