Lost Roses

by Martha Hall Kelly

  “Luba, really,” the countess said and pointed to her own bowl.

  My hands shook as I stepped toward her. I set the tureen on the table, pulled the ladle from the soup and hovered it over her bowl. Then all at once, in my wrist I felt a sharp pain, and my hand faltered and, as if in a dream, a fleck of purple no bigger than a pinhead flew to the countess’s white sleeve.

  The countess pushed back her chair as if stung. “What must it take to get decent help in the dining room?” she asked in Russian.

  Breath stuck in my throat and I stood like an elk caught in a clearing. What to do?

  I brushed at her sleeve with a napkin. “I can wash it—”

  “This is linen, it’s ruined. Out.”

  “But—”

  “Do you not understand out? Out, out, out!”

  The countess’s older daughter stood and pushed her chair back. “Agnessa, it’s just a spot.”

  I threw down the napkin and ran toward the kitchen, the blood pounding in my ears.

  I stepped into the pantry and closed the door behind me, tears stinging my eyes. I pulled off my apron, ripping one of the ties, and kicked off the clunky shoes. They had money to burn in that house. Could they not provide their servants with proper shoes? I wrapped my legs and slipped into the woven shoes I came with. At least they fit.

  A knock came at the door and it opened. It was the boy’s mother, the child on her hip.

  She held out her hand. “Don’t mind Agnessa. I am Sofya.”

  I bowed deep before her. “Varinka Niscemi Kozlov Pushkinsky.”

  “No need to bow, Varinka.”

  “Your mother—”

  “My stepmother. Agnessa has trouble keeping her anger in check sometimes. We’ve all felt it, I’m afraid. Please don’t be offended.”

  I held my tongue and studied the floor. I turned my head to hide my tears. “I’ll be going now.”

  Sofya touched my sleeve. “Wait. What a lovely scent that is.”

  I stood, mute. Was she mocking me?

  “Don’t be afraid. Is it peppermint?”

  “Yes. Make it myself.”

  “Reminds me of my childhood. Do you have any experience with children, Varinka? You certainly charmed young Max, here.”

  I paused. “Just village children. I try and teach them a little Latin. And French, which my Mamka taught me.”

  She smiled. “Vraiment? Merveilleux. This is Max. He is just over two years old.” She swayed and cooed something in his ear and then walked out of the room, expecting me to follow.

  Sofya turned to me as we walked. “Our Swiss nanny, Justine, left this morning for home. She cried every day she was here since she missed her family, so it was a relief to see her go, I’m afraid. We also had an English nanny but Luba left a lizard in her bed.”

  Sofya led me up the steep back stairs to a nursery as big as our whole izba, the walls covered floor to ceiling with yellow paper showing finely dressed men and women having picnics. A small fireplace sat on the far wall, a fire blazing there, and in one corner stood a basket on wooden legs, draped with white lace and ribbons.

  “What is that?” I asked.

  Sofya smiled. “Why, a bassinet. Where Max sleeps.”

  I just stared at this bassinet, a thing I’d never seen before. Mamka told me I’d slept in a drawer when I was a baby.

  “I slept in it as a child. Luba, too, though she was tiny when she was born, had to sleep wrapped in cotton wool and packed with hot water bottles. It was a hard birth for my mother. She never fully recovered.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Here I am talking way too much about me and I should tell you about your new charge, if you accept the position, of course.” Sofya touched one finger to Max’s chin. “Max fell when he was just learning to walk and cut his chin just under here, very badly. Had a little black beard of stiches for weeks.”

  I tickled him under the chin. “He mended well.”

  The boy smiled and I caught my breath. Such perfect little baby teeth.

  “Would you like to hold him?”

  She handed the child to me and his weight surprised me. A good eater. I held him close to my side and he settled in. I thanked all the saints and Papa, too.

  “He likes you already,” Sofya said. “Must admit I could use the help.”

  I ran my fingers down the side of his leg, soft as milkweed silk.

  Max looked up at me, smiled, and then jumped a little. I held him tighter and felt a pull in my belly. It was as if Papa himself had answered my prayers and dropped little Max into my arms.

  CHAPTER

  10

  Eliza

  1916

  Though one was repeatedly promised, no ambulance arrived for transport to the hospital so we alone worked to save Henry. Dr. Forbes ordered his serum and we applied plasters, compresses, and cool towels through the night. But no matter what we did Henry’s skin turned grayer by the hour, his coughing spells lasted longer, and his eyes grew glassy, with an unsettling, fixed stare.

  Then at nightfall Henry’s temperature lowered. Hope. Doctor Forbes sent me to my room for a nap. Relieved, I fell into a fitful sleep only to be shaken by the shoulder soon thereafter.

  “Eliza,” Dr. Forbes said. “Wake up, dear. We’ve lost Henry.”

  My first thought was Go find him, for goodness’ sake. But then, as I woke, I understood the horrible truth. I ran past him to the bedroom, heart beating wildly.

  I stepped to Henry’s bed and gathered him in my arms. He was still warm. “Why did you not call me sooner?”

  I could not tear my gaze from Henry’s face, calm as if he slept, grayer still, his lips bluish at the edges. It couldn’t be. I smoothed his hair back from his forehead.

  “I wouldn’t do that, Eliza,” Dr. Forbes said as he walked back to his hideous black bag coiling a length of rubber tubing. “I called someone to come.”

  “No one is taking him—”

  “It’s necessary, Eliza. Pneumonia is communicable. The household will—”

  I took Henry’s hand in mine. Already cooling. “How could this just happen when I wasn’t here?” He’d robbed me of my chance to say goodbye.

  “The dying often allow themselves to slip away when their loved ones are out of the room.” Dr. Forbes turned to look down at Henry. “Even in his last moments, he was considerate.”

  Rage grew in my chest and cut off my breath. “We should have taken him to the hospital.”

  “There was nothing anyone could do. The rain, the cigars, a bug of some kind.” With two hands, he held my shoulders and gently pulled me from Henry.

  I swatted him away. “You are a doctor. You could have saved him. Or at least called me before he…”

  The doctor stepped to his bag and clicked it shut. “When God calls, Eliza—”

  “Don’t talk to me of God, Dr. Forbes.”

  A knock came on the door and a young man entered. Hatless and brown-haired, with jug-handle ears, he introduced himself as Mr. Archibald Trymore. He had the kind yet deferential disposition of those in his unfortunate line of work.

  My whole body began to quake.

  “Mr. Henry Ferriday?” he said to no one in particular.

  Dr. Forbes nodded.

  Mr. Trymore entered and I held Henry tighter. “Please don’t,” I said, by then shaking as if doused with frigid water.

  I struggled as Dr. Forbes pulled me back, more forcefully this time, and I left Henry lying on the bed. I stood, losing balance as if standing on shifting sands, while Mr. Trymore smoothed a linen bag up and over Henry.

  I lunged toward Henry but Dr. Forbes held me back.

  He slipped a bottle from his jacket pocket. “Take two of these at mealtime. It will help.”

  I accepted the vial as I watched Mr. Trymore pull the shroud ov
er Henry’s face.

  Dr. Forbes rubbed my back. “Perhaps step outside, Eliza—”

  Was this real? I pushed his hand away. “I will not. How could you give up on him so easily?”

  Dr. Forbes went back to arranging his bag.

  Poor Mr. Trymore barely slowed his business of packing Henry up. “May I ask if you prefer the deceased to be arranged in a slumber robe or a favorite suit?”

  “Where are you taking him?”

  He tied off the shroud and moved Henry onto his wheeled trolley, much as a grocer loads his cartons. How many times had he done this?

  I grabbed Mr. Trymore’s sleeve. “Please, no.”

  “Get hold of yourself, Eliza,” Dr. Forbes said, pulling me back again. “Woolsey women are strong.”

  No we’re not, I wanted to say, this is too hard, but I could only stand and watch him go.

  Dr. Forbes restrained me by the hand as Mr. Trymore wheeled Henry out, and it was only then I realized my face was wet with tears.

  * * *

  —

  I SENT CAROLINE TO STAY with relatives, as was the custom then. She sat in the entryway of our apartment rubbing a favorite pocket square of Henry’s, ashen-faced, all cried out, as Peg gathered her luggage.

  Peg took her by the hand and they walked toward the door.

  Caroline sent a dark glance back at me. “I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

  * * *

  —

  THE FUNERAL AT ST. THOMAS CHURCH was a blur, frail Mother at my side, still shaky from illness herself. We stood with Aunt Eliza in the front pew and they locked arms, the last of the Woolsey women, their chins held high. Dr. Forbes’s pills helped dull the ache and I stood, numb, as we sang “Nearer My God to Thee” and an endless loop ran through my head. I should have worked harder to save him. It was Merrill’s fault for running him around in the rain.

  My gaze fixed on the satin ribbon of one floral arrangement as it fluttered ever so slightly, curling like a hand beckoning to the casket, Henry lying there in his best bespoke suit.

  How did so many floral displays find their way into the church? I had requested an n.f.—no flowers—funeral, since bereavement flowers are so vulgar and such a hideous waste of blossoms. Yet so many floral emblems stood on stands around the casket. Dyed indigo roses and tinseled leaves in the shape of heaven’s gates ajar. A pillow of monstrous white, waxed roses, At Rest lettered in burgundy chenille, a stuffed white dove lying there. It mocked Henry’s life, for no one loved birds and fresh flowers more than he.

  Mother and Aunt Eliza stood with me as I greeted a dark line of mourners. I was unable to say much as Julia and E.H. delivered heartfelt embraces. Merrill murmured condolences and moved on. Henry’s Poor Brothers coworkers, faces blotched, kissed my cheek and whispered earnest comforts. I could not take my gaze from the black crape armbands that squeezed their jacket sleeves.

  What did any of it matter? Henry was gone, and my one chance for happiness finished.

  CHAPTER

  11

  Sofya

  1916

  The morning Afon drove off to the regimental quarters in Petrograd Father started locking the doors. Perhaps it was old Bogdan being shot in the woods. We’d found two iron bars of the back fence pried loose, but no sign of the shooter.

  I sat at the breakfast table with Agnessa and watched Bogdan, his arm in a sling, supervise Cook and the male dining room staff as they boarded up the house.

  “We’ll be imprisoned inside our own home?” Agnessa asked.

  Cook helped Bogdan slide an oak panel over the window behind Agnessa. Though a cool, fall day, the perspiration down the middle of his back caused his shirt to cling there.

  Agnessa lit a candle. “Well, if the Bolsheviks do come here to kill us in the woods we’ll already be dead from lack of air.”

  The men covered the glass parts of our doors with oak planks, affixed iron bars to the windows, and installed great, brass locks, which opened by means of a key larger than my whole hand. It felt good to finally do something to protect ourselves.

  “It’s as if we are being bricked up in ‘The Cask of Amontillado,’ ” Agnessa said, looking pleased she’d made a literary reference.

  Thoughts of Afon plagued me after he left, for our bed still smelled of him. Max squirmed in my arms, a fussy toddler with a new tooth, and I felt the loneliness descend like a shroud. How would I raise Max alone?

  * * *

  —

  THE FOLLOWING NIGHT I woke with a start from a dream about Afon to the sound of heavy footfalls downstairs and the hum of an idling motorcar. I sat up, heart pounding. Was it Afon, back on an unexpected leave? I rushed down the front stair, wrapping my dressing gown around me, with Agnessa, Father, and Luba close behind. Raisa, perfectly dressed, answered the door.

  Every part of me sagged as Count von Orloff entered the vestibule and Bogdan and two pantry boys followed, heaving in his trunks, along with an enormous silver cage containing two peacocks, and set them on the tiled entry floor.

  One bird screamed and my thoughts drifted to another peacock, the one at the tsar’s Winter Palace, in the magnificent peacock clock. I’d come to the palace for my debut, lost interest in the pomp of it all, and stepped away to visit the oversized timepiece. It was the tsar’s pride and joy, and we stood entranced by the golden woodland scene, as each metal forest creature, life-sized peacock, fox, rooster, and owl came to life.

  As the clock began its show with an eerie chime and the little owl turned his head, a young man walked up behind me. As he passed I caught a wave of his scent, of motor oil and shave cream.

  “You’ve found my favorite way to tell time,” he said.

  “Too bad it wouldn’t fit on your wrist.”

  The golden peacock turned its head and slowly lifted its tail.

  “I am Afon,” he said.

  I extended my hand. “Sofya Streshnayva.”

  He kissed my hand and lingered there, his lips soft on my skin.

  “I must admit I saw you come in here,” he said.

  “How brave you are. Now you’ll be stuck here talking with me even if you find no pleasure in it.”

  We turned our attention to the charming mechanized show and I gasped as the peacock turned and fanned out his golden plumes.

  “What a burden such beauty would be,” Afon said, his gaze fixed on the bird.

  “You’re handsome enough to be the peacock, you know, as I’m sure every female since birth has told you.”

  “And that makes you?”

  “Please, not the squirrel.”

  “Choose the quick fox. No animal is more beautiful to my mind. It suits you well.”

  “Might the fox not devour the peacock?”

  Afon smiled, with a trace of sadness that pinched my heart. “I fear the poor fellow may already be slain.”

  I felt a rush of—

  Count von Orloff rushed about the vestibule tapping his cane on the floor.

  “Take this thing off me,” he called to Raisa as he shrugged off his traveling coat. Barely taller than Luba, his booming voice made up for his lack of stature. The last time I’d seen him he was wearing a turban, trembling on a St. Petersburg tram.

  The Count rushed to Agnessa and clasped her hands in his. “Countess, I have most unfortunate news.”

  “Come in, Count. We can get Cook to—”

  “Eat? Never, after what I’ve been through.” His eyes had a wild look to them. He wore a patent leather–brimmed sailor’s cap and double-breasted jacket.

  Agnessa clenched the throat of her dressing gown. “I’m afraid the guest rooms are not aired out. We can put you in Luba’s room.”

  He waved the suggestion away. “Sleep? Who can sleep when the whole world is going to hell with those dirty Bolsheviks? I carry three guns now.”

>   Luba leaned toward me. “One to shoot with and the other two for the bandits to steal.”

  “I barely made it out alive tonight. We’d just finished packing up the car, hoping to join my wife in Moscow, and heard a terrible commotion outside. It was rabble come to invade the house. From upstairs I saw them running through the place, most with bottles in hand. They held my valet out the window by his feet. Though he begged for his life they dropped the poor man three stories.”

  Agnessa gasped. “Despicable.”

  “I escaped out the back door, thankfully the driver had stayed at the wheel, and we came here, with no hope of making Moscow safely. Things are beyond repair in the cities. A man was shot dead on our corner a week ago when he refused to give up his watch. We’ve never locked our doors and hardly lost the least thing. But now bandits come into any house on any excuse and walk away with lady’s cloaks. My wife’s friend visiting from Siberia had two sables stolen.”

  Agnessa led the count toward the zala. “Clearly, not everyone in Siberia is as poor as they’d have you believe.”

  “The point, Agnessa, is you can’t trust a soul today. I would be dead if not for my quick thinking. No one is safe.”

  Agnessa settled the Count in a seat in the zala and one of the peacocks screamed, causing Agnessa to jump.

  “Get those birds out to the poultry house,” Father said to Bogdan. “Is there anything worse than that scream?”

  Raisa lit the lamps and Father opened the brandy cabinet, starting the elaborate Kabuki dance of consolation.

  The count looked to the ceiling and wiped away a tear. “The worst is that I cannot even appeal to the tsarina for help. She had always welcomed me at court, invited my counsel. The tsar as well. But no more.”