Miss Blaine's Prefect and the Golden Samovar

by Olga Wjotas

  “An attempt that will be doomed,” said the count. “I shall now go home to write my will, although, I assure you, I have no intention of dying.”

  He stalked out of the card room.

  “I shall do the same and my intention is similar,” said the general and followed him.

  I turned to Sasha. “I feel a bit bad about this,” I confessed. “I sort of wish I hadn’t accused the count of cheating.”

  It was the weirdest thing – I had another optical illusion. It was as though Sasha’s eyes were glowing red. I looked round to see where the red light source was coming from but I couldn’t find anything. When I turned back, Sasha’s eyes were as blue and limpid as ever.

  “You had no choice,” he said gently. “Your integrity allowed you no other course. The fault is entirely the count’s, for trying to deceive us all in such a blatant manner and then for denying it.”

  It had to be said that he talked very good sense. And he was unbelievably good-looking. It would be impossible to find a more perfect husband for Lidia. And if the count happened to kill the general, there wouldn’t be a single obstacle in Sasha’s way.

  I had to get home if I too was going to get a few hours’ sleep before the duel. Lidia, who was wilting under the barrage of young wives’ fashion questions, was happy to leave. Once we’d dropped her at her mansion, I asked Old Vatrushkin to make sure I got to the general’s in time to be at the secluded glade in the forest on the edge of town by ten past eight.

  “Of course, your excellency.”

  It crossed my mind that he might think I was involved in some sort of dodgy assignation, so I thought I’d better explain. Given that I was on a mission, it was important I was seen to be working.

  “I’m going to be a second in a duel,” I said. “Between the count and the general. I felt I had to be involved, since I sort of started it when I got cross with the count for cheating at cards.”

  The carriage lurched wildly and I had to cling to the side to avoid falling out.

  “Your excellency!” Old Vatrushkin gasped. “It’s a wonder the count didn’t horsewhip you.”

  “He did threaten to, but the general stood up for me. Of course, it took a while for everyone to notice he was standing up.”

  Old Vatrushkin didn’t even smile at my joke.

  “Who heard what you said?” His voice was tight with anxiety.

  “Only the people in the card room,” I said.

  He let out a groan. “So they will have told everybody else at the party, and now the whole town will know. Oh, your excellency, the count will never forgive you.”

  I gently pointed out that I didn’t require forgiveness since I wasn’t the person at fault. Old Vatrushkin groaned again, and pulled the drozhky into the side of the road. He peered all round in the darkness.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Ensuring that nobody can overhear us,” he whispered. “The matter we are forbidden to speak of – I am about to speak of it.”

  I leaned forward, intrigued. “Speak away.”

  “It was the night before the count’s wedding. He and his imperial majesty the tsar and some other gentlemen had gone to some drinking dens to celebrate the count’s last night of freedom. It is one of our traditional marriage customs.”

  “We have something similar,” I said. “It rarely ends well.”

  Old Vatrushkin lowered his voice still further. “As was the case here. They were playing a game of piquet and the tsar accused the count of cheating. The count said that if the tsar were not the tsar, he would horsewhip him. And the tsar said he was the tsar and exiled him. The wedding was hastily rearranged from the town to the church in the village of N–, but it was only after the ceremony that the count told the countess about being exiled.”

  “I imagine the countess wasn’t best pleased,” I said.

  “It is rumoured that they have not exchanged a civil word since then.”

  In the distance came the clop of horses’ hooves and the clatter of carriage wheels. Old Vatrushkin grabbed up the reins and set off at high speed.

  “I was afraid it might be the count,” he panted as we reached home. “But I think we are safe for the moment. Oh, your excellency, I beg you to be careful – he is a very dangerous enemy.”

  “So you reckon he’ll win the duel tomorrow?”

  “Impossible to say, your excellency. They are both superb shots. And they both have physical advantages. The count is so thin and the general is so small that they leave little for their adversary to aim at.”

  I pondered this as I got ready for bed. It would solve all Lidia’s problems if the general got shot. The atmosphere at social gatherings would be much improved if the count got shot. The ideal, surely, would be if they shot each other simultaneously. And yet the only reason the duel was taking place was that the general had defended me. I couldn’t wish him ill after that. And even though the count was totally obnoxious, I could scarcely stand by and watch him get killed. I had to find a solution.

  I know very little about firearms, beyond knowing that they’re dangerous and should be banned. I have a cursory working knowledge of duelling pistols, just basic stuff, like the difference between flintlock firing mechanisms and percussion lock mechanisms, and how the priming gunpowder leads to the main charge. And as I considered the mechanics, I realised what the solution was. If only I had . . .

  I raced over to my underwear drawer and wrenched it open. There, just beside a multiway bra, was a paper bag. A small bag, but it was full.

  “Thank you, Miss Blaine,” I said into the ether.

  The paper bag was safely in my reticule when Old Vatrushkin drove me to the general’s. The wee guy was already waiting for me outside, a plain white shirt under his black jacket, which was covered in military medals. He was holding a large wooden box.

  “My lucky pistols,” he explained. Then he gave a piercing whistle, and a large black horse appeared from round the corner and trotted up to us. “My lucky horse,” he explained. I was surprised that the servants hadn’t already harnessed it to the carriage.

  “After you,” the general said, indicating the horse, which I now saw had a saddle on it. The general detected my look of slight surprise.

  “I’m a simple old soldier,” he said. “I don’t believe in modern fripperies like carriages.”

  There was no way I could sit astride without exposing a scandalous amount of leg.

  “We could go in my carriage,” I offered.

  The general shook his head. “Secrecy is of the utmost importance.”

  Old Vatrushkin stepped forward. “If his excellency the general would take his place, I shall assist you to mount.”

  The general walked away from the horse, then turned and started running. At the optimum point, he jumped, got a foot in a stirrup, and swung himself into the saddle. I was still gazing at him with new respect when Old Vatrushkin grabbed me and lifted me up bodily to sit in front of the general, side saddle without a saddle. The general reached round me to take hold of the reins, his arms stopping me from falling off. The only problem was that I completely blocked his view of the road.

  It was just like the advanced motoring test, giving a running commentary on everything I could see. “Avenue with lime trees,” I announced. “Small dusty road to the right. Small dusty road to the left. Woman in headscarf with basket full of hens about to cross. Slow down. Woman in headscarf has dropped basket full of hens. Hens on road. Veer left.”

  We proceeded very effectively. I have excellent eyesight and the general had excellent reflexes. There was very little else on the road (“Haycart ahead. Haycart wobbling. Haycart tipping over. STOP!”) and then I spotted a carriage in front of us, containing a lean cadaverous figure and another that, even from the back, looked stunning.

  “Count’s carriage directly ahead, travelling approximate
ly twenty versts per hour. We can just keep behind it and follow it to the locus,” I said.

  “Twenty versts per hour?” said the general. “And you want us to follow them? I wouldn’t dream of going so slowly, even if my horse was lame in all four legs.” The next thing I knew we were accelerating.

  “Pull into the outside lane!” I yelled just before we careered into the back of the carriage, and we overtook with only dyuims to spare.

  “Are you crazy?” the count shouted after us. “You could have killed me!”

  “Give me time,” murmured the general, and we hurtled on, cackling like loons. I was warming to the wee guy.

  “This is fun!” I shouted.

  “It’s even more fun when you’re under enemy fire,” said the general, breaking into a battle song in a fine baritone. There was more to him than met the eye, which was just as well, there being so little of him. Considering things rationally, the only way I consider them, all I had against him was that he wanted to marry Lidia. And if he had been younger and taller, I would have had no objection to that. Was I guilty of being ageist and heightist? No: the general might be a perfectly decent bloke, but Lidia deserved better than that. She deserved a soulmate, someone as good and as beautiful as herself, and that was Sasha. As soon as the duel was over, I was going to the station to get rail tickets to the village of N– to complete the background checks.

  We were crashing through the forest now en route for the rendezvous, the horse’s hooves and general’s voice scattering small creatures and the occasional elk.

  “Wooded glade!” I announced, and the general pulled on the reins, bringing the horse to an emergency stop.

  “I always like to arrive first,” he said. “It creates a psychological advantage.” He scrambled off the horse, and was stretching up to assist me when I told him I could manage. I sprang down, landing proficiently on my DMs.

  “You would have made a fine aide de camp,” said the general.

  I shook my head. “I’m not keen on wars. I believe we place too little reliance on diplomacy.”

  “Then you would make a fine Metternich,” he said.

  Another clue. It must be before 1859, when the Austrian empire’s celebrated diplomat died. I was narrowing down the timescale.

  The general handed me the large wooden box with his lucky pistols. “We will allow the count to choose which weapons he prefers,” he said.

  The count’s carriage was too bulky to come into the forest, and eventually Sasha and the count appeared, scrambling through the trees. I appreciated the general’s tactics. Here he was, composed, prepared, unruffled, while the count was dishevelled, tired and fractious, which didn’t bode well for a steady aim.

  “I’ve never seen such hazardous riding!” he greeted the general.

  “I’m sure you haven’t, since you have never thought it your duty to join the army,” the general responded.

  Duellist trash talk.

  Sasha was smiling at me, an open, sincere smile that spoke not only of pleasure at seeing me but also recognised the absurdity of the situation we were in.

  “The pistols,” demanded the count.

  Sasha and I opened the boxes. The general’s pistols were practical. The count’s were blingtastic. They must have been a present from the countess.

  “You have the choice of weapon,” said the general politely.

  “I should normally choose yours, as being the ones you are most used to, but mine will allow you the opportunity to enjoy a much superior firearm,” said the count.

  They each lifted a pistol out of the box.

  “Aren’t we forgetting something?” I said. “The seconds have to check that everything’s in order. I mean, they might not be primed correctly, or they might have the wrong type of lead shot.”

  I handed them to Sasha, who glanced at them and pronounced them acceptable.

  “You don’t mind if I have a proper look, Count?” I asked. “I’ve never seen such beautiful pistols. Wogdon & Barton, are they?”

  “Joseph Manton,” he grunted.

  “The acme of weaponry!” I breathed. “I should have known that’s what you would have. They’re amazing. Eleven-millimetre calibre, I suppose?”

  He grunted again.

  “Nice platinum touch holes. And that’s an impressive frizzen.”

  I had covertly taken the paper bag from my reticule before retrieving the pistols from Sasha, and as I ran my fingers along them in apparent admiration, I shook the aniseed balls out of the bag and swapped them for the ammunition. There was now a faint scent of liquorice in the air, but I hoped everyone would just think I was wearing a new perfume.

  I gave a pistol to both the general and the count.

  “Right, then. May the best man win.”

  “Now you are forgetting something,” rasped the count. “There must be a final attempt at an apology.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “It’s a bit late, but I’m happy to accept it.”

  “No, you brainless idiot!” he snarled. “I am the wronged party! It is up to you to make the apology!”

  I felt the wronged party was the one being called a brainless idiot, but under the circumstances, I was prepared to let it go.

  “Count, I’m very sorry I said you had cheated at cards.”

  “So you admit making an unjustified slur?” he grated.

  “You’re not listening,” I pointed out. “I said I was very sorry I said you had cheated. It’s not an unjustified slur, because you did cheat. But I’m prepared to allow that it may have been a bit rude of me to point it out, even if it was unfair on the rest of us for you to attempt to win through deception. But I’m prepared to overlook your fundamental dishonesty in the interests of avoiding bloodshed. There, apology accepted?”

  The count’s nostrils flared. “General, let us begin.”

  It seemed he was determined to fight. The two combatants, pistol in hand, measured forty paces between them, turned and began walking slowly towards one another. I knew they would aim and fire when there were only ten paces between them. As I concentrated, I unconsciously inched forward in time with their pacing. Just as they both lifted their pistols and fired, I tripped over a stray branch and stumbled forward.

  There was noise and smoke and a smell of burning aniseed balls. But as I fell, I felt an odd tug at my pelisse, and I could have sworn I heard three shots rather than two. I examined my pelisse and found a hole in it, the edges still smouldering. I made a quick geometrical calculation and realised that if I had been standing upright, the lead shot would have gone straight into my heart.

  Eight

  “Count, you’re still alive,” shouted the general. “But I aimed directly at you and I never miss.”

  “And I aimed directly at you and I never miss,” the count shouted back.

  “And somebody aimed directly at me and definitely didn’t miss,” I said, getting to my feet, and displaying the hole in my pelisse.

  Sasha rushed over to me, concern on his handsome face. “How terrible, Shona Fergusovna. One of the pistols must have misfired.”

  I shook my head. “From the angle, whoever shot at me must have been behind you. Did you notice anybody?”

  “Forgive me, I was watching the duel. I saw nothing else. But who in the world would want to shoot at you?”

  It was a no-brainer. The location of the duel had been decided with the greatest secrecy, so it couldn’t be a stranger.

  “Count, did you tell your wife you were going out duelling?” I asked.

  He stared down his aquiline nose at me. “Of course. She had a right to know she might soon be a widow.”

  The countess had clearly bribed or bullied the count’s coachman into an assassination bid. He had crept through the forest after the count and Sasha, secreting himself behind a nearby tree, and then shot at me under cover of the op
ponents’ fire.

  But it would be imprudent of me to complain to the count about his wife in case it provoked another duel.

  “We’ve had an early start, so I’m sure we could all do with some breakfast,” I said.

  I asked the general to drop me off at the station and told him I would make my own way home. He was really upset about not killing the count, saying he had never lost a duel in his life and he must be losing his grip.

  It was tempting to tell him that he was as good a shot as ever, but that aniseed balls do very little damage. Instead, I bought him breakfast. We sat companionably on a station bench eating kasha and pelmeni.

  “This getting married thing,” I said. “Are you sure it’s for you? Isn’t it nicer to be your own boss and do exactly what you want?”

  “But that’s what I did when I was married,” he said.

  I gave him a significant look, which he interpreted correctly.

  “The marriage was arranged by our families. My wife and I disliked each other from the start,” he said. “I only went into the army to get away from home. Now, in the twilight of my life, I yearn for the happiness that I see other people have. And this time, I shall choose my own bride. When I first saw Lidia Ivanovna, I thought she was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. And my regard for her only increased when I discovered her woodwork skills.”

  “I can see the benefit to you,” I said. “But what’s the benefit to her?”

  He thought for a while. “I’m quite old, and will leave her a wealthy widow.”

  “She’s wealthy already,” I said. “Anything else?”

  He thought some more. “No,” he said, in a voice almost as small as himself.

  “Oh, come on!” I said. “You’re a great singer, a superb horseman and an expert marksman. I’m sure today was just a blip.”

  “You think so?” he said earnestly. “Oh, Shona Fergusovna, we made a good team. Are you sure you–”

  “Absolutely sure,” I said. “I told you already, I’ve got no wedding plans.”

  “A pity.” He sighed. “We could have gone on gallops together around my estate.”