The Jewel of St. Petersburg

by Kate Furnivall

  “Miss Valentina is engaged at present. In the blue salon.”

  The footman was a wiry fellow with a narrow face and extraordinarily large hands. Jens passed him his card.

  “Please inform her that I am here.”

  The footman vanished. So she was engaged at present. Maybe a friend from school? It was the custom for the ladies of St. Petersburg to drive around to each other’s houses in the morning handing out their visiting cards, and then to call on each other in the afternoon for tea, followed by a string of engagements and parties in the evening. It was nothing for a woman to change her dress six or eight times in one day. Jens thought about Valentina’s words in the moonlight: I want ... more. He couldn’t blame her. But nursing? That was a different matter.

  “Miss Valentina will see you now.”

  He entered the blue salon. Presumably it must have been furnished in blue, but he didn’t notice. All he saw was Valentina: her slender form seated on a brocade sofa, hands quiet in her lap, her back straight, too straight. He had the feeling something was making her uncomfortable. Was it his intrusion? Yet she smiled at him, rose to her feet, and held out her hand.

  “How kind of you to call.”

  Her manner was formal, as though she’d never been curled up against his chest on an icy road in the dark.

  “I hope I find you well.”

  “Very well, thank you,” she responded. “Though I’ve felt the cold these last few days.”

  Her dark eyes held his for a moment longer than necessary, and there was that teasing spark in them before she lowered her lashes and turned away with a rustle of silk.

  “Let me introduce you to Captain Stepan Chernov.”

  Only then did Jens notice the other occupant of the room. A fair-haired captain of the Hussar Guards, a broad handsome face with a confidence that came from having killed people. Jens had seen it before in the military, that belief in their own invincibility after they’d fought in battle and survived. But today there was no stink of blood on him, and he made an impressive figure in his immaculate uniform and highly polished boots. Jens bowed politely and thought about putting him to work in one of his tunnels. Dirty him up a bit.

  Valentina smiled at the captain. “This is Jens Friis. He’s an engineer. I believe you met each other at the ball the other night.”

  “Did we?” Captain Chernov asked. “I don’t recall.”

  “Apparently so,” Jens replied. “The halls were crowded.”

  But they both remembered. Jens could see it in the other man’s eyes. That moment when Jens had arrived bearing lime cordial and had whisked Valentina away from under the captain’s nose. Chernov had not forgotten.

  They sat down in high-backed chairs and a maid served them tea in paper-thin porcelain cups with ornate gold rims. Doll’s cups. Jens could have crushed his in his hand. Valentina guided the conversation down safe paths; she talked about the latest restaurant on Nevsky, then invited gossip about Prince Felix Yusupov, heir to the richest family in Russia, who had just returned from Oxford University to the Moika Palace. She touched on Kschessinska’s latest performance at the ballet. But she was bored. Jens could see it in the stiffness of her shoulders. So he was interested when she turned on Chernov with wide innocent eyes.

  “Tell me, Captain, do you hunt?”

  A simple question, although Jens heard the undertone in her voice. But the captain was young and had not yet learned to listen to what women say behind their words.

  Chernov leaned forward, balancing the ridiculous cup on his knee. “I do.” He gave her a broad smile, anticipating her approval. “I was in the tsar’s hunting party last year with the American ambassador.”

  “Wasn’t that the hunt when half the forest was slaughtered?” Jens asked mildly.

  “Yes.” Chernov nodded at Valentina, unaware of what was happening. “Eighty stags and a hundred and forty wild boar. Not a bad day’s haul. I have a pair of magnificent antlers on my barracks’ wall from one of the animals I downed.”

  “How clever of you,” Valentina said.

  The moment stalled. Too late the captain sensed he had been tripped up. Leaving Chernov to wallow in his blood-splattered hole, Jens stretched out his long legs and contented himself with studying the way Valentina’s hair tumbled in gleaming ripples around her shoulders. Darker than the night sky. Swept back at the sides by pearl clips, her ears just visible, soft fragile shells.

  “Do you hunt, sir?” Chernov asked in an attempt to drag Jens in with him.

  “No, I don’t, Captain.” Jens decided to help his companion dig a little deeper. “But I’d be interested to know what kind of rifle you favor?”

  Valentina’s dark eyes flicked to Jens and she tilted one eyebrow at him. But before either of them could learn the secrets of the captain’s preference, the door opened and Elizaveta Ivanova walked in, elegant in pale blue crepe de Chine. Both men rose to their feet.

  “Captain Chernov”—she held out her hand—“my husband is free to see you now. He’s in his study. Let me show you the way.”

  But the captain delayed her. “Before I leave, with your permission, I’d like to invite Valentina to a display of Hussars’ swordsmanship next Friday afternoon.” He turned to Valentina and bowed with such style, Jens wanted to chop off his knees. “I’d be honored if you would attend the event.”

  “No, I—”

  “Of course she will,” her mother enthused. “Your displays are legendary. Fine demonstrations of skill ... and danger. I’m sure my daughter will be impressed by them.”

  “No, Mama.”

  “Madam Ivanova.” Jens stepped forward. She was small like her daughter and he towered over her despite the height of her fair hair, braided on top of her head. “Valentina has agreed to a previous engagement for next Friday afternoon.”

  “Oh? What might that be?”

  “I came today to confirm it. An inspection of the tsar’s commissioned engineering works. It’s an official tour and Tsar Nicholas himself will be there, as well as Minister Davidov and his wife.”

  He saw Valentina’s eyes grow wider. “How wonderful.”

  Her mother frowned.

  The captain scowled at Jens. “Not a suitable amusement for a young lady, surely.”

  “And watching men pretend to stab each other is?” Valentina asked.

  “I’m sure you would not want to disappoint Tsar Nicholas,” Jens addressed her mother. “He was enchanted by your daughter when she played the pianoforte for him at the concert. A great credit to you.”

  He saw her waver.

  “With a chaperone, of course,” he added.

  He heard Valentina draw breath.

  “Very well,” her mother conceded reluctantly. “She will have to wait till another occasion for a display of swordsmanship. But come now, Captain Chernov, my husband is waiting to speak with you. In the meantime,” she said briskly to Jens, “I wish you good afternoon, sir.”

  She escorted both men from the salon, but as the door was closing behind them a light burst of laughter skipped through the gap.

  VALENTINA STOOD ON THE CURB AND EYED ST. ISABELLA’S Hospital with excitement. It was larger than she’d expected and its pale stone was blackened with age, flaking like an old man’s skin. Its tall windows were barred with rusty iron strips, but not even that discouraged her. The cold was intense, and she tucked her hands into her muff.

  To be a nurse you need to be tough.

  That was what he had said. She straightened her shoulders, pushed open the door, and walked into a large vestibule that smelled of disinfectant and something else, something unpleasant, something that made her stomach flip over. The interior was large and gloomy with too much brown paint. Corridors led off to places she couldn’t even imagine. On one side was an office with a glass hatch that slid from side to side, and behind it a woman sat in residence. Her fingers rippled a coin over her knuckles as Valentina approached.

  “Dobriy den, good afternoon.” Valentina offered a smile
but didn’t receive one in return. “I am looking for someone to speak to about nurse training.”

  “You want to hire a trained nurse?”

  “No. I want to find out how to become a nurse.”

  “Well, you need to send the girl in herself. Our medsestra, our Sister, will want to speak to her directly.”

  “It’s for myself,” Valentina pointed out. “I’m the one.”

  “You want to become a nurse?”

  “Yes.”

  The woman turned away and busied herself with some paperwork. Valentina assumed she was searching for a form but then noticed the narrow shoulders shaking. She felt her cheeks flush crimson.

  “Is there someone I should speak to?”

  “Up that corridor there. Third door on the left. Gordanskaya is the name.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “Spasibo.”

  “Girl, you want some advice?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t waste your time.”

  NAME?”

  ”Valentina Ivanova.”

  “Age?”

  “Eighteen,” she lied.

  “Do you have your parents’ permission to be here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have any nursing experience?”

  “Yes.”

  “What kind?”

  “My sister is paralyzed. I help take care of her.”

  “Have you had a job before?”

  “Yes.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I worked in an office.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  “I found it dull.”

  “So you think nursing won’t be dull?”

  “It will be more interesting than filling out forms all day.”

  Medsestra Margharita Gordanskaya threw down her pen on the desk, leaned her bulk against the backrest of her chair until the wooden frame creaked, and narrowed her eyes so that her fleshy cheeks threatened to swallow them.

  “Get out of here,” she said in a crisp voice. It bounced off the walls of the small room.

  Valentina stood her ground. “Why? Don’t you need more nurses?”

  “Of course we do. We’re desperate for them. But not like you.”

  “What’s wrong with me?”

  “Everything. So go.”

  “Please tell me why.”

  The narrow eyes popped open. Brown and humorless. “You’re a liar, for a start. The only truth in that pack of rubbish you told me was your name and the bit about your sister.”

  “I learn fast.”

  “No.”

  “Tell me, what’s wrong with me?”

  The medsestra shook her head, making her roll of chins surge alarmingly. “Look at you in your finery. You’re a rich young woman with too much time on your hands and nothing to do. You’ll tire of nursing in five minutes. Please don’t waste my time.”

  Valentina had worn her plainest dress. Her oldest coat.

  “I won’t tire of it,” she insisted.

  “I cannot afford to waste the hard-pressed resources of this hospital on training the likes of you.” Gordanskaya rose to her feet. Her starched uniform fought a momentary battle to contain the swing of her impressive bosom and won. “Now, for the last time, young woman, please take your fancy clothes and your fancy ideas out of my office.”

  Valentina looked down at her sable muff, at the way her fingers were squeezing the life out of it. Without a word, she walked out.

  ARKIN LAY FLAT ON HIS STOMACH ON THE WET GROUND, his coat stuck to him, his attention fixed on the empty horizon. He’d brought along three young apprentices from the Raspov foundry, one with a handcart, all of them eager as puppies. He was glad of their company. The job wasn’t hard, but it was risky. The train had to slow in exactly the right place to offload its cargo or they would be spotted. He’d chosen a section of rail track that was dead straight so that no one in the front carriages could look behind. Here the pine forest crept close on one side, its dense trunks offering easy cover. The wind swirled through the branches above their heads, gusts dislodging frozen icicles that fell into the snow beneath with a thud that made them all jump.

  A puff of smoke billowed on the horizon. Arkin felt his pulse kick. Beside him the youngest of the apprentices raised his head and grinned. Arkin nudged him.

  “Keep down, Karl. Be patient.”

  “If the wrong stoker is on board, he won’t be able to stop.”

  “It’s arranged. Trust them.”

  Karl nodded but with a frown. He was a boy of sixteen with a lion’s mane of sandy hair whose father was the engine driver on the train. His enthusiasm for every task was so infectious that Arkin slapped the boy’s bony shoulder affectionately. “Don’t worry, your father can handle this.”

  “Of course he can.”

  The noise of the steam engine pumped through the chill air, raising a string of crows from the trees. Their ragged calls sounded a warning and Arkin’s mind was caught by a moment’s fear. Not for himself, but for the boy. The birds seemed to cry Karl, Karl. No. Omens were for the weak-minded.

  The growl of the engine grew louder with the endless grinding of pistons, and suddenly it was in full view, steaming toward them down the track. Arkin turned his head and checked on the other apprentices farther back among the trees with the handcart, two pale young faces in the twilight of the forest. He signaled. Keep down. There was a screech of metal and a hiss of brakes that grated on his nerves. He tasted soot in his mouth. Slow and cumbersome, the train drew to a halt and it took only seconds for Arkin to leap from his position, open the heavy sliding door of the last wagon, and seize the small crate that was being pushed toward him.

  The boy kept guard. He watched for anybody fool enough to come looking. The crate was manhandled into the cart and immediately the two apprentices started to haul it back to the dark cave of trees. The wagon door slammed shut, and the train started to move. Only at the last moment did the window of the next carriage fly open and a rifle spit out a single bullet before Arkin yanked Karl away from the track. They raced for the trees. Blood dripped like crimson flowers on the snow at their feet.

  “Are you hurt?” Arkin shook the boy, worried.

  “No, but you are.”

  Arkin blinked, then felt the sting of pain. He put a hand to his ear and his fingers came away painted scarlet. He laughed and wiped it on his trousers. “It’s nothing. A scratch. Now let’s see you shift this cart.”

  They all stole away through the trees with the precious crate, their breath coiling in front of them. Arkin thanked Morozov’s God that this time the crows had been wrong.

  THE FOG WAS THICK AND WAYWARD. IT TWINED ITS fingers around Arkin’s neck and clutched at his face, leaving his skin damp and chill. He urged the ugly brute of a horse under him to a faster pace, but it had a mind of its own and paid no heed. It chose its own pace. Like it chose its own path. The creature belonged to Liev Popkov, so what else did he expect of the damn thing? The village appeared on the side of the road with no warning, gray and ghostly, sliding in and out of sight as the fog curled around the wooden cottages. Arkin could hear the drag of an unseen river somewhere nearby as he rode past a blacksmith’s forge where a furnace was belching out scorched air. He called down to the man in the leather apron.

  “The priest’s house?”

  “At the far end.” The man drew a cross in the dirt floor with the fiery tip of the metal spike in his hand. “Can’t miss it.”

  Arkin didn’t miss it. Above its door loomed a large iron crucifix painted white that seemed to leap out of the fog as if to seize him by the scruff.

  “Stop here, you brute,” he grunted, tightening the reins, and for once the creature did as it was told. He swung quickly from the saddle, a burlap bag over his shoulder, and rapped on the door.

  “Vkhodite,” a small voice called out. “Come in.”

  Arkin opened the door. The smell of lingering damp mingled with scents of cooking and burning pine cones. It reminded him of that f
eeling he used to have as a child in his own village—that the outdoors was always in danger of slipping indoors if he left a window open. He closed the door behind him now, shutting out the fog.

  The place was sparsely furnished: a couple of poloviki, handmade rugs, on the floorboards; a few rough chairs; a woven basket that looked like a dog’s bed in front of the fire. Disheveled stacks of books in one corner. There was no sign of Morozov. But across the room a young girl of no more than four or five was perched on a wooden stool, frying onions in a skillet on the stove. She shook the pan expertly to prevent burning while she regarded Arkin with large blue eyes that were speculative rather than welcoming. Her hair was striking. It fell in a long straight sheet halfway down her back, so pale it looked almost silver.

  “Hello,” he said and smiled.

  She didn’t return the smile. “My father is busy,” she said.

  She picked up a kitchen knife that was far too big for her small hand and started chopping garlic on a board beside her. It was oddly disturbing to see such a young child performing these tasks with the ease of long habit, but Arkin recalled that Morozov’s wife was dead and this tiny mite of a girl had clearly taken on her role.

  “May I speak with your father?” he asked. “It’s important.”

  Her attention turned away. He was of less interest than her onions, but she pointed with the knife blade toward a door at the back of the room. He walked over and lifted the latch. Instantly he regretted it. In the middle of the cold bare bedroom a man with head bowed was kneeling on the floor stripped to the waist, flagellating his back with a small whip. Each of its five tongues of rawhide had a tight knot at the end, and each knot was tinged with crimson. The man was Father Morozov.

  “Excuse me,” Arkin said quickly and withdrew.

  In the outer room he sat down on one of the wooden chairs and waited.

  “I told you he was busy,” the girl said.

  “Yes, you were right.”

  He’d never have believed it of the priest. What the hell was Morozov thinking? Day after day he was fighting to relieve the pain of others, and yet at the same time he deliberately inflicted it on himself. It sickened Arkin. He sat in silence until the bedroom door opened and the priest walked in, fully clothed in his cassock, the usual gentle smile on his face. Arkin looked for the self-satisfaction such penitence must bring but saw none.