Behind the Raven Mask

by Cherime MacFarlane

  Catching sight of Camille in the mirror, he noticed her watching him covertly. Dmitri walked over to the wardrobe, where he took a flask from his drawer. Uncorking it, he took a large swallow of the brandy. He turned to glare at the girl in his bed.

  Camille looked away, unable to face him. Why was he so irritated? Camille twisted her fingers together beneath the covers. There were tales of Russian cruelty circulating here and there in San Francisco.

  There were American seamen who were whipped by the Russians for simply sailing into their waters. The little she did know about Russians and Alaska was enough to frighten anyone with any sense.

  The Count drank from the flask again. Camille found herself remembering Dmitri mentioned brandy had played its part in the circumstances leading to their marriage. Did he have a habit of heavy drinking? Camille continued to watch him, hoping she was not as conspicuous as she felt.

  Dmitri was aware of her veiled scrutiny. He defiantly took another drink, draining the flask. Frustration and anger engulfed him. With a muttered curse, he hurled the empty container across the room.

  Camille clutched her hands together beneath the covers. Perhaps if she were very still and did not look at him, the Russian would leave her alone. She closed her eyes tightly, trying to pretend she was somewhere else.

  "Gregor!" He roared. "Damn your lazy hide, get in here!"

  Startled, Camille opened her eyes and watched as the little man appeared in the doorway. Gregor was smiling faintly.

  "Press these damn pants, man." Dmitri sat on a chair, pulled his pants off and tossed them in the general direction of the door. His hastily unbuttoned shirt flew toward Gregor. "Do the shirt as well."

  "Yes, sir. At once Count."

  The servant backed out of the room. The door closed with a soft sound behind him.

  Camille sighed. Thankfully, Dmitri did not notice the man's amusement.

  When he began to remove his underthings, Camille was unable to look away. She felt the blush penetrate into the roots of her hair. Bressoff dropped the articles on the floor, glaring at her as he did so. Totally nude, he sat down at the dressing table and began to look through his paperwork.

  She turned her head away. It was her first opportunity to observe any man without clothing. For a few minutes, she refused to give in to the temptation to look at him. After a moment, Camille's curiosity became too great. She took a glance at him. Dmitri was stonily ignoring her. With his head on his left hand, he was hurriedly writing.

  There were great welts, scars that ran in ridges across his muscular shoulders. One scar ran down his neck. His back looked as if it had been torn to shreds. A gasp escaped her. Camille put one fist into her mouth, to try to stop from crying out again.

  Slowly, he lifted his head; he had heard. Dmitri's one gray eye stared at Camille. Overwhelmed by emotion, with a sob, she threw herself down and, pulled the covers over her head with one hand.

  Dmitri watched her in silence. Dropping the pen, he turned to stare out of the porthole. The sound of sobbing grew weak. Eventually, it died altogether. Dmitri rose from the chair. Hands clasped behind him; he strode over to the porthole.

  The fright in the girl's eyes finally cooled his anger. He was acting like a fool, a stupid boy having a temper tantrum. She had a right to be frightened. What if his child was thrown into a similar situation? How would he feel, if the man involved were so concerned with his particular misfortune, he failed to take his daughter's feelings into account?

  Lowering his head with a slight shake, Dmitri knew exactly how he would react. Camille was someone's daughter. Obviously, life had not been easy for her recently. She was an innocent. He was treating her, as if she were an experienced woman as if she were Vanessa O'Hare. Camille was not the woman he expected to find the previous night.

  But that was not her doing, the girl was not to blame for his mistakes. No matter how much laudanum she had taken, the undisputed facts were, he entered her room without invitation. He initiated the activity, which resulted in her loss of virginity and their subsequent marriage.

  The only way he could keep his hands from Camille, would be to send her away. It had been too long since a woman shared his life. The truth was, he wanted the solace of a woman, but one of his choosing. It was quite clear to him. Dmitri walked back to the dressing table.

  Absently, he flipped through the papers. He was thirty eight now. Was it really so old? Vanessa did not think him old that was a comforting thought.

  Vanessa would have provided exactly what Dmitri thought he wanted from a woman, before last night. The problem stemmed from his being unable to choose for himself. Camille was forced on him and because of it, he resented her. And unfortunately, he wanted her. A purely physical thing, he was sure, but quite correct none the less.

  There were many things needing his attention. Dmitri reread the nearly finished letter he was writing to the manager of his lumber mill near Seattle. After adding a few more lines, Dmitri signed it, along with an authorization to purchase rights to a large stand of timber.

  The transaction required the building of a new flume, but the money spent would be regained in a short time. It was worth it. Gregor returned with his clothing. Dmitri absently thanked him.

  "It will be time for dinner soon. Did you wish to dress for dinner?" Gregor spoke in a low tone, so as not to disturb the sleeping girl.

  "I think not. Please hand me my dressing gown, Uncle. We will dine alone. Would you fetch a tray, please?" Dmitri also spoke softly.

  Gregor held the dressing gown out. "Are you very hungry?"

  "No." Dmitri smiled at Gregor. "My appetite and my temper have both cooled."

  "Very good, Nephew. Wild things need to be tamed gently." Gregor commented as he left the cabin.

  Dmitri rose, stretched, and then shrugged into the velvet robe. Wondering what Gregor meant by his comment, Dmitri walked over to the bed. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, he flipped the covers from Camille's still form. Almost automatically, his hand reached out to stroke her hair gently.

  "Camille! Wake up. Gregor is bringing us a tray. It is time for dinner."

  She placed her arm over her eyes, to shut out the light. "Is it truly that late?"

  "Yes, unfortunately. Come along." Dmitri rose from the bed. Opening the wardrobe, he took out Camille's robe and held it out toward her.

  Camille looked up at him, as she cautiously stood up. Without a word, her husband held open the dressing gown and waited quietly. Camille turned to allow Dmitri to help her into the robe.

  After she had folded it around her, he turned Camille around and tied the sash. "There. If you wash your face, I think you will feel better."

  Camille felt herself bristle slightly at his tone. Looking away from him, she squelched her antagonism. First intense anger, then condescension. The man was impossible to deal with. In his position, the Count was probably used to giving orders, but she did know enough to wash her face.

  While Camille attended to her toilette, Dmitri drew the covers across the bed.

  "As the table is fastened to the floor, I think we will have to improvise something."

  A light scratching at the door alerted them to Gregor's arrival with their dinner tray. Dmitri opened the door for his valet, then took the tray from him.

  "Thank you, Gregor. Good evening, we shall manage the balance on our own."

  Gregor smiled up at Dmitri, with a conspiratorial grin. "Have a pleasant evening, Nephew," he whispered.

  Dmitri turned away as Gregor quietly shut the door. "Are you ready to eat?"

  "In a moment." She tied her hair back with a ribbon, before joining Dmitri on the bed. "This is a bit like a pic-nick."

  "It is at that, child." Dmitri began to fill her plate with roast beef and vegetables.

  Camille felt another twinge of hostility, at his choice of words. She resented his labeling her a child. However, this might not be the time to take issue.

  The man did appear to be trying to act reasonable.
It was a trivial thing, after all. She took the plate with a polite acknowledgment. He poured each of them a glass of wine. At least, she was to have wine, instead of 1sarsaparilla. Camille thought to herself sarcastically.

  They ate in silence. Camille occasionally glanced at Dmitri, who appeared lost in thought. Once the meal was finished, Dmitri leaned back against the wall at the foot of the bed. He lit a cigar, before dividing the last of the wine between them.

  "Now, I will tell you about my life. I was born in Alaska; I own an island in the inside passage. Anya is my daughter from my first marriage. She is ten years old now. What else would you like to know?"

  "How...well, how did your first wife die?"

  He took a sip of the wine. Rotating the stem of the glass in his fingers, Dmitri was silent for a few moments. "She died shortly after Anya was born. My mother and I thought it likely she died of pneumonia, or perhaps milk fever. It was so sudden there was not even time to take her to the doctor in Sitka."

  He fell silent. Taking a puff of the cigar, Dmitri watched the smoke float upward.

  Camille wished to ask about his scars. She was afraid if she were to do so, she might irritate him and disturb the delicate balance they both appeared to be attempting to maintain.

  Acknowledging to herself that Bressoff's quick temper frightened her, Camille settled for what seemed a less dangerous topic. "Is your mother living on the island?"

  "My mother died a bit after my first wife did." He looked at her steadily, as if aware of her hesitancy to question him.

  Camille lowered her gaze. Why did she always find her glance drawn to the eye patch? It embarrassed her to be found looking at it. Horribly, he seemed to have guessed at her thoughts. Leaning forward, Dmitri gently lifted her chin. His face was inches from hers. Her fears eased a bit, as she noticed his odd little smile.

  "I have worn this." One finger of the hand holding the goblet, flicked the edge of the eye patch, "Since I was sixteen. I do not mind if you look. You will soon get used to it."

  It was her opening, but Camille found herself unable to ask Dmitri about the eye patch or the scars. Feeling the heat of a flush rising into her cheeks, Camille nervously twisted both hands together.

  Dmitri's hand dropped from her chin, and he leaned back against the wall, puffing on the cigar.

  Nervously, Camille excused herself and slipped from the bed. Lifting the tray, with its used dishes from the coverlet, Camille carried it over to the door, where she placed it on the floor. "Do you think it will be out of the way here?"

  "Of course. By the way, the Laurie will stop at our home before going on to Sitka or Juneau. Your uncle is taking a load of lumber from my mill to Juneau."

  "I understood that was to be the route. Uncle Samuel has never made Alaska a regular part of his run before. Do you think he will be doing so now?"

  Not exactly comfortable with what seemed to be the only course open to her, Camille climbed back onto the bed. Piling the pillows up behind her, she leaned back against them.

  Idly, he blew a smoke ring into the air above his head. "There is a reason for him to come this far north now. I have assured him of cargoes of fur and lumber from my company. He can sell the timberr in Juneau and the furs in San Francisco."

  Closing his eye, the Count fell silent once more. Camille took advantage of this moment to inspect his face carefully. Thick reddish gold eyebrows, angled across his forehead. The eyelashes of his right eye were a darker shade then his eyebrows. His nose was long and straight, yet did not overpower his face. A thinner than fashionable reddish mustache gave his mouth hard cast. With a strong lower jaw and chin, his was a strong face with no softness about it.

  Unlike other blondes she had seen, Dmitri's hair was thick. He wore it long in the back that brought to mind a gambler she once met in San Francisco. Dmitri fit her fantasy of a knight, or perhaps one of Shakespeare's heroes.

  With a small sigh, he turned his attention to Camille again, and his gaze fixed on her face. "I hope you and Anya will learn to like each other. Be warned, it may well be quite difficult at first."

  With a short burst of laughter, he shook his head. "She has gone through governess after governess. I believe one per year if my memory serves me correctly. Tatiana, my nannie, lives at the house. She takes care of Anya, as she once took care of me. There are times when I believe Tatiana may be partially responsible for Anya's recklessness. Yet," he sighed..." it is in her blood."

  The man seemed lost in thought, his gaze went beyond her, as one hand stroked the back of his neck. "I try to control her for her own safety. The touch of wildness is a part of her heritage. She must learn to survive in a world which is changing rapidly. I think she will need her stubbornness, determination and faith in herself in the future. These may be the most important things I can pass on to her. I fear Tatiana may indulge her too much, however."

  "Why do you think that?" Camille asked softly.

  He took another puff of the cigar. "Tatiana spoils her, caters to Anya's every whim, much as she did with me."

  "Surely, you could do something about the problem."

  He rose, walked over to the tray and bent down to place the empty glass on it. Dmitri moved over to the dressing table, where he stubbed out the cigar in the ashtray. Turning a chair around, Dmitri sat astraddle of the seat, folded his arms across the chair back and placed his chin on his arms.

  "I have thought about what is best for Anya. One year I sent her to live with friends in Sitka. She became ill. So I brought her home to Tatiana and myself. Perhaps you will be able to help me. I am at a loss, where Anya is concerned."

  The statement touched Camille. The man had taken her into his confidence. It was quite unexpected on his part. The concern of a father for his daughter, was apparent and at the same time was a small measure of acceptance of her as his wife.

  Dmitri appeared to be a man of mercurial emotions. She found his personality too much to grasp and a bit off putting. He now acted as if they knew each other and married accordingly.

  "In some ways," His voice was softer, yet cut through her thoughts. "You and I are alike. Sorrow has left its mark on each of us."

  Startled, Camille started to respond, but before she could comment, Dmitri jumped to his feet, spun the chair around and began to shuffle through his papers.

  He is embarrassed. Camille smiled at the small boy shyness, which replaced the confident facade. Shyness she understood, it had plagued her all her childhood.

  To give him time to regain his equanimity, she looked at the porthole and the scenery beyond. Daylight still poured through the glass. Camille wondered what time it was.

  "What time do you have Dmitri?"

  He reached for his pocket watch, where it lay on the table. "Half past seven."

  "How can it be that late? It is much too bright." Camille exclaimed in surprise.

  Turning around Dmitri grinned at her. "The further north you go, the longer the sun is aloft."

  "Oh, is it because of the way the earth tilts?"

  He raised one eyebrow, as he stared steadily at her. Dmitri then gave a short nod. "Yes, my dear child, exactly so."

  Without another word, he returned to his work. The silence was almost comfortable and was a state she hoped to prolong. Camille rose from the bed. Searching through her belongings, she found her needlework. The crewel embroidered shawl was something Camilllle worked on half-heartedly. It had been quite a while since she had touched it.

  Tonight, she wished to work on it, to watch the pattern take shape. Returning to the bed, she plumped up the pillows, settled herself and began to stitch. The soothing rhythm of the stitching calmed her tattered nerves.

  Daylight streaming in through the portholes made seeing the stitches much easier. The young woman was silent as she applied herself to the embroidery work. After a while, her fingers faltered. Camille slipped off to sleep quite quickly.

  When the light began to fade, Dmitri stretched. He glanced in the direction of the bed. With a
broad smile, he took the fallen embroidery hoop from Camille's lap. Dmitri placed it on a chair.

  Carefully, he lifted Camille and slipped the bed covers from beneath her. Dmitri eased the robe from her shoulders. What a lovely thing she was. Small in stature, she was quite feminine. Full breasts, a narrow waist, and rounded hips, marked her as a woman. It occurred to him; he did not even know her age. It was her innocence that left him feeling as if he were dealing with a child.

  Dmitri slid his hand down the curve of one hip. Lightly, he touched her bare thigh. With a sigh, Camille stretched out on the sheet, still clad in the cotton chemise. Reluctantly, Dmitri removed his hand. Stripping off his dressing gown, he slipped into bed beside her and pulled the covers over them both.

  He awoke to the sound of sobbing. Camille was thrashing about.

  "I'm sorry!" She cried out.

  Instinctively, he reached for her. He did not know what the dream was, but he could guess the theme, considering her past.

  "Wake up, Camille." He held the trembling body close to his. Her arms crept up around his neck, as she struggled to stop crying.

  "Are you awake, child?"

  "Yes. Please hold me."

  Dmitri did as she asked. "Is this the reason for the laudanum?"

  "The nightmare, yes. It keeps on returning. Nothing I do makes it stay away."

  "I understand. Poor little one." Dmitri stroked her back.

  Camille nestled against him, taking comfort from his presence. Dmitri took little in hers. How hard it was to lie next to Camille and do no more than hold her. Dmitri craved much more from her.

  Perhaps she needed what he could give her. Sooner or later he would have to acquaint her with the sexual side of marriage while she was aware enough to understand. Camille needed him now. Dmitri felt this moment might be the best time for them both.

  His fingers found the curve of her cheek, and as he kissed her, Dmitri reached down to stroke her hip. The shift had gathered about her waist. Dmitri's hand found soft flesh. When he caressed her, Camille shivered slightly but did not move away.

  Rolling her onto her back, he tugged at the hem of her chemise. "Lift up, Camille. Take this off."