Antonina stares into the stall, her brain trying to understand what she’s seeing. She clamps her lips to hold back a cry at what is left of Felya. She puts one hand over her mouth and nose. There is a frenzy of flies gathering over the animal, and the stink of blood and the exposed organs is strong.
Antonina gags, not only at the smell, but at the brutality.
Felya, noble, high-spirited Felya, has been ripped open from the base of his neck to his tail. Cut, sliced down the belly as one slices a fish, and gutted, his entrails spilled onto the straw of the stall. The eyes are still open.
Around the horse’s slender black neck hangs a rough rope, and on it a jagged piece of wood. Misspelled in charcoal are two sentences: This is what happens. You don’t do what we say.
“Where is Grisha?” she asks.
“I went to his house, countess,” Lyosha says, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. “But he isn’t there. Do you know where he is?”
There are hard, fast footsteps and suddenly Grisha is standing beside her. He grips the top rail of the stall as he looks at the horse. The skin around his lips is white with shock.
Antonina doesn’t want to witness his grief. “I’m sorry, Grisha,” she says, her voice low as she looks away from him.
“We will bury him, Fyodor,” he says, his voice hard.
“But we burn the dead animals. It will be difficult to dig such a large—”
“There are enough of us. He won’t be burned. Do you understand?”
“All right, Grisha,” Fyodor says. “If the countess gives her permission,” he adds, turning to her.
She sees that his gaze is on her bare feet.
Having a stable serf—former serf, she has to keep telling herself—see her naked feet reminds her of who she is. “Of course. It will be as Grisha wishes. Thank you, Fyodor,” she says, and he lifts his eyes from her feet to her face. She doesn’t know if Fyodor truly does look at her with something slightly less than respect. But then he nods to the men behind him, and Antonina steps aside, closer to Grisha, as they move into the stall and spread a large sheet of canvas. With grunts and muttered curses they start to haul Felya’s remains out of the stable.
Antonina watches them, seeing that Lyosha is still struggling for control. He’s a gentle boy. Man, she corrects herself. He must be past nineteen by now. He has no violence in him.
She thinks of Fyodor’s bruised knuckles, the deep scratch on the back of his hand. Is he one of the men who butchered Felya, putting on an act of dismay so as not to arouse suspicion?
In the next instant, Antonina tells herself that her imagination is running wild. All of the yard servants carry fresh bruises and scrapes on top of old scars from the hard work they do. Fyodor and Raisa laboured for Konstantin for many years before she arrived at Angelkov as a bride, and Fyodor has always been a respectful and hard-working head stableman.
“Wait,” she calls out, and the men stop. “Cut the board from the horse’s neck and give it to me,” she orders. Grisha watches her as Lyosha hands it over.
“It’s a warning,” Grisha says.
She studies the splintered board. “A warning? Of what, Grisha?”
Grisha hadn’t given Lev the money. Now his beloved horse is dead. They are becoming bolder. “You’re meeting with the lawyer this afternoon?” he asks, avoiding her question.
She has forgotten about Yakovlev’s visit. “Oh. With all of this, and Konstantin deathly ill …” She wants Grisha’s comfort. “I wish I could cancel the appointment, but Yakovlev will already be on his way. Do you still wish … Shall I call for you when he arrives?”
He nods—little more than a dip of his head—and leaves her, standing with her bare feet suddenly cold, the board hanging from one hand.
Back in her room, Antonina shudders, holding Tinka to her chest as she leans her forehead on the window. The splintered board sits on the table near the fireplace. This is what happens. You don’t do what we say. Don’t do what who says? It was Grisha’s horse. Is it Grisha they’re warning?
Her son is gone, her husband … Who knows what will happen to him? The servants are all leaving. She has committed a terrible sin. Now a beautiful horse is slaughtered.
From the window, Antonina can see Olga in the wide flower garden, cutting the last of the hardy bronze and gold chrysanthemums and orange gerberas. Olga has no family, and nowhere to go. She counts on Antonina to support her in her old age.
How many of the servants will continue to depend on her? Without them, she cannot run Angelkov. How can she keep up the magnificent house, the small orchard, the vegetable and flower gardens and the hothouse of exotics, as well as the granaries and cattle barns and stables? She needs money. Even though the last thing she wants to do today is speak of finances and the estate to the lawyer, she must. It’s bewildering at the best of times. After all that has happened in the last two days … Again she thinks of Grisha’s unreadable expression as she stood beside him in the stable, and that makes her put down Tinka and cross to the wardrobe to take out her vodka.
There are streaks of blood on the pale carpet. She must have cut her foot on something, a splinter in the stables or a sharp stone in the yard. She stares at the blood, remembering the stains from Konstantin’s hand on the green silk settee.
She retrieves the bottle and puts it to her lips. At the first taste she thinks of drinking with Grisha in the dacha, the way his lips curved on the rim of the glass. The way they’d felt on hers.
She covers her mouth with her hand and swallows. She is still a wife. She returns the bottle and goes to see Konstantin. His breath rattles the quietness of the bedroom.
“Please let me know when the doctor returns,” she tells Pavel, then goes into the hall. “Lilya!” she calls, but Lilya doesn’t appear. She calls for her again, and finally a young girl comes out of another bedroom carrying a rag and a pail. “Nusha,” Antonina says, “find Lilya and have her come to my room.”
The girl ducks her head and scampers down the stairs.
Lilya arrives a few minutes later. “Where were you?” Antonina asks. “I called for you a number of times. I wish you to bring me warm water to clean my feet. But … what’s wrong, Lilya?”
“The horse. I saw it.”
“Who could do such a brutal thing?”
Lilya doesn’t respond. She is twisting her hands in front of her.
“Do you care so much about it?” Antonina asks. She hadn’t thought that Lilya would show emotion over the dead animal. Lilya has never shown any interest in animals apart from Tinka.
Lilya still doesn’t answer, shaking her head as she continues to wring her hands.
A thought comes to Antonina. Surely she’s wrong, she thinks, as she glances at the splintered board with its bloody warning.
Lilya’s writing has never progressed beyond a very rudimentary style. She always wrote the letter h backwards in the psalms she printed out. No matter how many times Antonina pointed out the inverted letter, Lilya continued to form it incorrectly.
Lilya leaves to fetch the water and Antonina picks up the splintered board. As she studies the crudely printed letters, she knows it isn’t Lilya’s hand; there are too many other errors. Still, the letter h troubles Antonina—one letter, yet she can’t stop thinking about it.
She recalls Lyosha’s face: thoughtful, a little wistful. Did Lilya teach her brother to write? Please, not Lyosha, she prays.
Not Lyosha.
“It sounds like the beginning of pneumonia,” Dr. Molov says, his eyes closed as he presses his ear to Konstantin’s lungs. He straightens, taking a small rubber hammer from his bag and tapping on Konstantin’s chest, producing a dull thud. “Yes, there is fluid collecting.”
Konstantin moans, and Pavel steps beside him with a bottle and a glass.
The doctor looks at it. “What’s this?”
“Chloroform, doctor,” Pavel says, “as you instructed.”
“As I instructed? When? Do you mean after the surgery to his arm?�
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Pavel swallows, then nods.
“You allow him to regularly breathe chloroform?”
“This is a tincture, mixed with alcohol. He drinks it. When …” Pavel knows, by the doctor’s expression, that something is very wrong. “When the bottle you left him was finished, it was arranged to have someone bring a supply of it to the estate.”
The doctor sits heavily in the chair beside the bed. “Holy Mother of God.”
“What is it, Dr. Molov?” Antonina asks.
“His behaviour—the spells of shouting and confusion, his irrational suspiciousness and threats.”
“Yes. He’s grown worse steadily since the amputation.”
The doctor stands. “Chloroform is a poison to the brain. It’s only to be used in the smallest quantities, to put a patient to sleep temporarily, to allow him or her to withstand great trauma to the body.” He looks from Pavel to Antonina. “The chloroform has caused his madness.”
“But you told Pavel that—”
“For the first two or three days. That’s all. Not daily, not for months.” He makes a sound of disgust. “Can nobody follow a simple order?” He snaps his bag closed and gestures for Antonina to follow him away from the bed. They stop at the door. “His sputum is discoloured. If he can’t clear it, in a few days he’ll drown from the fluid in his lungs. I’m sorry to have to speak so bluntly, countess.”
“But there’s a chance he’ll live?” Antonina asks.
“There is little chance of a full recovery. There’s nothing to be done. You should also know”—the doctor glances back at Konstantin—“that should he rally physically, his mental condition will not improve. The damage cannot be reversed.” He opens the door. “I suggest, Countess Mitlovskiya, that whatever the outcome, you will need to prepare for a very difficult time ahead.”
The lawyer, short, heavy Yakovlev, arrives at two o’clock.
Antonina’s head is pounding over all that’s happened, but she forces herself not to drink any more from the bottle in her wardrobe. She needs to be as clear as possible when she speaks with Yakovlev. For the same reason, she also makes the decision not to have Grisha present. Even though she had told him earlier that it would be helpful to have him there, she knows how distracted having him near will make her.
Standing behind Konstantin’s desk, she finds Yakovlev annoying with his endless fiddling with his moustache and the spastic blinking of his right eye. He has his nostrils stuffed with cloves. As he greets her, he apologizes, saying he has a head cold and the cloves alleviate the clogged sensation.
Yakovlev studies her face. His breeding does not permit him to inquire about her injuries, but he does ask after Mikhail. “Your son … there is still no word?”
Antonina shakes her head.
“And the count? How is his health?”
“He’s taken a turn for the worse.”
Yakovlev makes a sound of sympathy, but begins to spread his papers over Konstantin’s desk. “Madam,” he says, looking across the desk at her. “The situation is very grave indeed.” His voice is nasal because of the cloves in his nose.
For a horrible moment, Antonina has to fight an almost hysterical laughter. The doctor has told her, only hours earlier, to prepare for difficulties. Now the lawyer is telling her the situation is very grave. Under what conditions do these men suppose she’s been living for the last months? She covers her trembling, involuntary smile, turning away.
“Are you all right, countess?”
In the next moment, she looks back at him, composed. She sits in Konstantin’s chair, nodding to indicate he should sit as well. “Yes. Tell me about the situation,” she says, refusing to give in to alarm. Yakovlev’s idea of gravity may be different than hers.
“For the last few years, your husband has been rather remiss in handling his finances,” Yakovlev says. “Specifically, he’s incurred debt and neglected to pay the estate taxes. Although I spoke to him on both matters frequently, as I know your steward also did, he chose to ignore our advice. There is a great amount owed, countess.”
“I see. We owe the government taxes. I must pay them, then. What resources does the count have?”
Yakovlev frowns, leaning forward. “Resources? What do you mean, my dear lady?”
Antonina feels something flutter against her ribs. “I mean, Attorney Yakovlev, from where shall I take the money necessary to pay the government what they—you”—she nods at the papers between them—“say I owe?”
Yakovlev plays with the waxed ends of his moustache. Antonina sees that one side is thicker than the other.
“But Countess Mitlovskiya,” the man continues, and Antonina knows what he will say before he says it. She grips her hands in her lap, where Yakovlev can’t see them behind the desk. “There are no resources. There is nothing but what you have here in the house. The count has been selling his businesses for the last few years, just to keep Angelkov afloat.” He leans back again.
Antonina’s eyes go to the bureau-bookcase—a lovely, hundred-year-old piece Konstantin inherited from his father. It has a flap front that becomes a writing table. In the locked bottom drawer sits Konstantin’s padlocked box, which had once contained piles and piles of rubles. It is now empty, as is the smaller safe in his bedroom.
She swallows. “I knew, of course, that he shut down the distillery. Other than that, my husband did not keep me informed about business matters. But the government … if one can’t pay the taxes—and certainly I’m in a category with many other landowners,” she adds, remembering Grisha’s words, “—if I can’t pay the taxes, what can the government do about it?”
Yakovlev’s stomach grumbles, and Antonina knows she’s remiss in not offering him a meal or even tea after his ride from Pskov. But she wants him to give her the facts and then leave. This is not a social call.
Yakovlev clears his throat. “For all of those deeply in debt, as is the case with Angelkov, the government will take ownership. Or …” He stops.
“Take ownership? I could lose Angelkov?” She’s shocked by Yakovlev’s casual pronouncement. His silence is the answer. Finally she says, “Or? You said ‘or’—there is another possibility, Attorney Yakovlev?”
“You could sell off the land not owed to your former serfs. Sell your livestock, furniture, anything that you can, in order to raise the funds to give a deposit. If the government sees that you are attempting to pay your debt, there is the hope they will be lenient, and allow you to stay on your land. You must be able to meet a minimal sum each year. I would suggest you begin some form of payment immediately—at least by the start of next month.”
“You’re suggesting my neighbours would buy what’s left of my land?” She thinks for a moment. “What is left of my land?”
Yakovlev nods. “It’s calculated on the number of souls your husband owned. In this case, a great many—thousands. So once the land is divided into mirs, there would be enough for a small harvest to support you, if you could get your unpaid servants to work it, and perhaps another fifteen versts of forest. That’s all. It’s a difficult time for everyone, Countess Mitlovskiya,” he finishes, and Antonina knows her distress is visible on her face, in her voice.
They sit in silence for a long moment. Outside, one of the dogs barks, but is silenced by a man’s shout.
“Do you know … have any of the other landowners been threatened?” she asks, Felya’s grisly image still so vivid.
Yakovlev’s eyebrows rise. “There is definitely unrest, countess, unrest and dissension in many areas. Things will settle when the former serfs understand that protests will get them nowhere, when they remember they should be grateful to God and the Tsar for the great blessings bestowed on them.”
Antonina thinks of the misery of Tushinsk. “Blessings?”
“Their freedom, of course. There has been too much bloodshed for decades, starting with the Decembrists in ’25. Now the serfs have freedom, yet they act like ungrateful children.” He shakes his head. “They depended on th
eir little fathers—the landowners—for everything, doing nothing but complaining. Then we give them freedom, and what do we have? More discontent.” He sighs, pressing his fingers against his middle, and Antonina hears his stomach groan again.
She stands, extending her hand. “Thank you, Attorney Yakovlev. We all have much to do now.” A shadow of disappointment crosses the man’s face as he realizes he won’t be fed.
He bows over her hand. Antonina grimaces at the eczema on his scalp. “I will leave my bill,” he says, looking up. “Although, in order not to cause you any further time, you may choose to …”—he hesitates, searching for the right phrase—“save us both the bother of me having to return for the payment. You understand.” He is still holding her hand.
“I do,” she says, pulling her hand away. “But please don’t leave without a meal. I’m afraid I can’t join you, but I’ll have the table set up for you in the smaller dining room. And I’m certain there are some wonderful vintage wines in the cellar. You might enjoy a glass with your meal, and … would you honour me by taking two—perhaps three—as a small gift?”
Antonina isn’t fooling him, but Yakovlev is willing to play the game. He bows again. “It would indeed be my honour, countess,” he says.
“I’ll have some brought up immediately,” she adds, and he smiles.
It’s more than many of his clients can offer these days.
Antonina summons Lyosha as soon as Yakovlev is settled in the dining room, eating boiled beetroot salad with onions and sunflower oil with undisguised pleasure. A nice piece of fish sits in a chafing dish in front of him.
The young man comes into the study, his hat in his hand. He has removed his boots and someone has given him a pair of felt slippers to wear in the house. They’re too small and his toes push against the soft fabric.
“Can you read and write, Lyosha?” She wants him to say no.
“Yes, madam.”
“Then please, sit here,” she says, gesturing at the desk, where there is paper, a pen and an inkwell. “I want you to write something for me,” she says, keeping her voice noncommittal but firm.
The Lost Souls of Angelkov Page 31