Lost Roses

by Martha Hall Kelly

  I hurried on toward the dining room and passed Cook, hands on hips, hair slicked back, his blue eyes deep with concern. His apron wore a world map of that night’s dinner—a goose-greasy blotch of Africa, a raspberry compote North America, Europe a chocolate smear.

  “Where have you been, Sofya? Your Father has been asking for you.”

  “Quiet,” I said as I passed. “Agnessa will hear.”

  “We’re leaving tonight, no time for a proper dinner. The travel papers came. I packed you some flower seeds for the trip.”

  As he leaned close and handed me the little packet, I caught the scent of his French cologne mixed with the incense of turned soil.

  “I took the hulls off,” he said.

  I hurried into the dining room to find Agnessa, Luba, Father, and the count, all dressed in traveling clothes, except for Agnessa who wore a beige lace dress, her idea of casual wear. They sat around the table, finishing a simple meal of breads and cheeses. A map lay extended among it all.

  They all rushed to me.

  “I thought you’d been kidnapped,” Agnessa said.

  “We leave tonight,” Father said.

  “Cook told me.”

  Luba stepped to my side, finishing the last of a buttered roll. “We only have room for two of the count’s trunks.”

  “And what of my peacocks?” the count asked.

  Father folded a map and tucked it in his breast pocket. “We’ll ride second class from Petrograd to Paris and send for our heavier things.”

  The count dropped a sugar lump in his glass of tea. “Bedding down with every thief in Russia?”

  “Second class will attract less attention,” Father said.

  “Let’s not rouse suspicion by seeming too poor,” Agnessa said. “I can’t wait to see Paris, but it’s outrageous we of all people should be forced to leave. Don’t we treat our servants well, spread benefits to the miserable?”

  Luba licked her finger. “Perhaps the miserable don’t like being called that, Agnessa. And they have no opera at which to wear your cast-off gowns. They cut them up for household rags.”

  “French velvet is very durable.”

  Cook, dressed in a handsome brown traveling coat, rushed in and stepped to Father. “Ready?”

  Father slipped his watch from his vest pocket. “As soon as we load the count’s trunks we will be off.”

  All at once, a great commotion rang from the hallway, the sickening crunch of broken wood and brutish male voices.

  Agnessa reached for Father. “My God, Ivan.”

  I pulled Luba close, her heart thumping against my chest, and time stood still as our world came crashing down.

  CHAPTER

  14

  Eliza

  1916

  Caroline returned to the apartment four days after Henry died, the cold, rainy night of his burial, and sat alone in her bedroom, refusing dinner. Pale and somber, she brought to mind an egg with the contents blown out.

  Peg placed the mourning wreath on our door, proof the dread visitor had borne away another prize. The seamstress so bent on sewing our voyage ensembles sewed Caroline and me mourning frocks, four of mine, almost identical, made of dull, black twilled silk bombazine with stiff, black crape trim that scratched my wrists and throat, my penance for not saving Henry.

  Mother came to my bedroom one morning and left on my bedside table the locket she’d always worn in memory of Father, his miniature likeness pressed inside under glass. I stared at it there, the oval, gold case inset with a jeweled spider. A fat old mine diamond made up the spider’s abdomen, his head and thorax rubies. It had been her mother’s, my grandmother Jane Eliza Woolsey’s, which she had worn after her husband had died at sea. Were we Woolsey women cursed to live in heartbreak?

  “The best cure for grief is to throw yourself into charity work like a maiden into a volcano,” Mother said.

  “Not now, Mother,” I said and pulled the quilt to my chin.

  Numb with grief, it took me hours to complete the simplest task, but with manicure scissors I cut Henry’s picture, the size of my thumbnail, from a wedding photo. I opened the gold locket and slid it under the glass opposite Father. Both men smiled up at me.

  How could you both leave me? I slipped the chain over my head and it weighed heavy on my neck and chest.

  I sorted through the condolence letters and pulled an envelope written in Sofya’s hand from the pile. I sat for a moment soaking it in, the stamps double-ring-cancelled in Cyrillic letters, her lovely upright script, though it looked more rushed than usual. What a comfort it was that we wrote each other every single day without fail, the next best thing to having her with me, and it let me know she was safe for the moment.

  I ran my fingers under the envelope flap and unfolded two sheets of creamy white stationery, with Malen Koye Nebo, “Little Heaven,” engraved in black type at the top. Just seeing her handwriting sent a pang of longing for my dear friend. What a comfort she would be, here with me, to talk about Henry and that terrible day. How strange she didn’t even know he’d died. I had written her about it. Were my letters still being received?

  Dear Eliza,

  I hope you are well. It seems like just last week we stood on your terrace in Southampton. We received your books, thank you. I’ve always wanted to read Five Weeks in a Balloon and Luba is over the moon, for she loves Jules Verne and is quite curious about Africa. I will tell you the day we start so we can all read together.

  As you so aptly predicted, the situation deteriorates here, I’m afraid, with the working classes in an ever-worsening state of discontent, distracted by war for now but for how long? Germany is a most determined foe. Father grows more concerned about the mounting Bolshevik movement and the growing number of attacks on estates by bandits, and we are packing for a move. With Afon off with his regiment, we are increasingly vulnerable and Father has arranged for our departure via train.

  I will send a telegram and write with more details immediately upon our arrival.

  A kiss to your charming Henry, and one to Caroline, too.

  Do say a prayer or two for us.

  Your most loving and devoted friend,

  Sofya

  My whole body grew cold as I reread the letter. The growing number of attacks on estates by bandits? Why had I not followed through and sent Sofya my travel agent’s name as I’d promised? They could have been safe here with me this very moment.

  I ran through the names of Mother’s friends at the State Department. Could one of them help the Streshnayvas? Ensure safe travel out of Russia? I pocketed her letter and stepped into Caroline’s room.

  I held on to one post of the canopy bed, and fought back tears at the sight of Peg, her dark hair piled up on her head, helping my daughter step into a mourning dress of her own. Since Caroline was only thirteen years old, not yet fourteen, the age at which children were sentenced to wear black, she wore a frock of dull, white linen, with an oversized, black crape sash as an awful reminder her father was gone.

  Caroline’s gaze came to me as I entered, a lilac crescent under each eye. “It’s not fair that you have to wear heavy black when I wear white, Mother.”

  Why could I not embrace her, wash away her pain?

  “White’s a symbol of hope,” Peg said, through the pins in her mouth.

  While Peg had only a vague idea of how to mop a floor, she possessed an encyclopedic knowledge of mourning practices.

  “I’ve baked the mourning biscuits, Mrs. Ferriday,” Peg said, eyes on her work. She nodded to the morbid little ovals, which sat in a bowl on Caroline’s desk, each wrapped in wax paper, with a black wax seal affixed.

  “And I’ve covered the mirrors in crape.” Peg wore a black dress, which I assumed got regular use since she spoke of funerals she’d attended as some speak of their favorite plays.

&
nbsp; Caroline waved her hand in front of her face. “The crape smells terrible.”

  Made with a host of harmful chemicals, the fabric was unhealthy, but was the requisite item worn to show proper mourning. Clearly the deceased’s family was obligated to risk their own health after their loved one died.

  “No need to cover our mirrors, Peg.”

  “You don’t want the spirits seeing themselves.”

  I was too tired to fight. Was it Dr. Forbes’s pills?

  “And please stop turning the pictures over.” I returned every photo upright, only to find them turned over once more, all part of Peg’s bereavement protocol, since she felt departed spirits would invade the photos.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Thunder rumbled above us and shook the china dogs on Caroline’s shelf. Peg stepped to the window, drew back the white-dotted Swiss curtain. “That thunder means Mr. Ferriday reached heaven—”

  Caroline turned her face to me, eyes bright with tears.

  “—and may come back tonight for a visit.”

  “That’s enough, Peg.”

  “But, my uncle Pat—”

  “I don’t care about your uncle Pat, you are scaring my daughter and I want you to stop with this. The pictures and the predictions—”

  Peg bowed her head and dabbed at her eyes with her black-trimmed handkerchief.

  “Ridiculous Irish voodoo. Mr. Ferriday is dead and he’s not coming back.”

  Peg wrapped her arms around Caroline and the two stood crying as one, black and white together. How had I been reduced to scolding poor Peg, grieving herself for Henry? A hot word had been almost unknown in our house.

  I wrapped my arms around them both and felt their sobs in great heaving breaths against me.

  How would we get through it all without him?

  CHAPTER

  15

  Varinka

  1916

  I approached the estate gates and a chill went clean through me, as it always did, to see those sharp, black spikes atop there. Such a scary-looking fence for such a pretty house. Eager to get to work, I hurried by the guardhouse and Ulad and Aleks waved to me.

  “You get prettier every day, Miss Varinka,” the younger, Ulad, said.

  “I seem to remember it’s someone’s name day,” Aleks said.

  “I’ll bring you both some cake,” I said, barely looking at him, and hurried by.

  It was growing dark by the time I made it to the estate and climbed the back steps to the rear entrance. I knocked, listened for Raisa, no longer able to see through the pebbled glass, for old Bogdan had boarded up the glass of the doors.

  A key scraped in the lock and the door swung wide to reveal Raisa.

  “Come in quickly,” she said, moving aside.

  I stepped into the back hallway and breathed in the scent of vanilla cake.

  “So, it’s your special day?” Raisa asked as she closed the door behind me and locked it. “There’s a surprise for you.”

  From the kitchen came the usual clank of cast iron against the porcelain sink, Cook shouting orders, the scent of fatty goose. Maybe I could live there one day and share the oak table downstairs in the servants’ dining room. Sofya was close to offering it, I could tell.

  “But go upstairs to work now,” Raisa said.

  I climbed the back stairs to the nursery, my fingers caressing the orange in my pocket. Mamka would love such a treasure. We would open it together.

  I stepped into the nursery, once a rather plain room furnished only with a fancy bassinet and a white slatted crib. Sofya made it much more comfortable once Afon left. She’d moved a cot and some of her clothes into the room. I lifted one pillow and held it to my nose. She didn’t allow the maids to launder her bed linens because they still smelled of him. Of palaces and hair pomade and love.

  In the corner, a trunk stood open, hung with racks of small clothes. This was new. I had overheard Raisa say the family was leaving soon for Paris, but why had Sofya not told me? I clutched the crib rail, light-headed. Would I never see Max again?

  I moved to the fireplace, tossed a birch log onto the grate, and put a match to it. Once the log caught, I wiped every bit of soot from my hands on a white towel.

  I stepped to Max’s crib, picked him up and he clung to me. “Face hibou, Inka!” he said, and I made one of my silliest wide-eyed owl faces. He shook with laughter.

  What a good boy. I slipped him my special remedies, designed to induce love in a person, just small tastes when no one was about. They seemed to have done their job. What was the harm in this?

  With his blond curls, I could pass for his mother, couldn’t I? I brushed Max’s soft cheek with my lips and he smiled up at me. Taras and I would never have a baby, so what was the harm in pretending Max was mine? Sofya had everything and all I wanted was him.

  If only Mamka could see his little smile.

  All at once a heavy gray smoke billowed out from the fireplace. I stepped toward it, waving it away with my hand.

  How had I not seen it smoking so?

  I opened the nursery window, grabbed the white towel, and swung it back and forth over my head to dispel the smoke.

  Suddenly I heard shouting below us and the sound of footsteps on the back hallway floor.

  My gut lurched. What had I done? The signal.

  I froze in place.

  Taras.

  CHAPTER

  16

  Sofya

  1916

  Luba and I clutched each other, there in the dining room. Why could I not move? The bandits shouted orders to the servants and the sound of gunshots came from the direction of the back entryway. Who are these intruders? Would they attack my family? My son.

  “Max—I must go—”

  Luba whispered in my ear, “Quiet.”

  Father ran to Agnessa and stood between her and the door.

  The bandits wasted no time making their way toward us in the dining room. It was all men, it seemed, from the sound of their voices.

  “God help us,” Agnessa said.

  I could not think, the blood pounded in my head so.

  All at once the dining room door burst open. “What is—” Father shouted.

  A squat man entered, wearing a two-sizes-too-small, grimy kangaroo fur coat and a lady’s chinchilla hat, in one hand a revolver, which he seemed quite comfortable with, and in the other, a white pillowcase.

  “Welcome to a new world,” he said.

  He had the voice of a peasant but was supremely confident.

  Another man entered after him, much taller and dark-haired. He wore a dirty lynx coat and held a length of coiled rope.

  “On whose authority do you just come into a private home?” Agnessa asked.

  I held Luba closer.

  “Tie them up,” said the one in the chinchilla hat. And then, to Agnessa, “If you don’t shut up I’ll cut out your tongue and serve it to you there on your plate.”

  I could barely tear my gaze from the shiny, scarred side of his face, partly grown over by his untidy beard. I’d seen him before.

  I barely breathed. Was Varinka still with my son? And then all at once it came to me. The bandit from the tram. Would he recognize me?

  “Guards!” Father called.

  The men laughed.

  “The guards will be going nowhere I’m afraid,” the burned one said. “A bit under the weather.”

  The tall one stepped with his rope to Father and pulled his arms behind his back. Father struggled at first, then after one blow to the face, no longer resisted.

  Count von Orloff piped up. “Please. I have money. I’m a great fan of the Bolsheviks. I have a whole warehouse full of vodka—”

  The burned one pushed the count down onto a chair, his gun trained on Cook. “Empty those pockets. Slowly, now.�
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  Cook pulled a silver cigarette case from one pocket and a money clip from the other.

  The short bandit yanked the bills from the money clip and a photo fell from among the ruble notes.

  “Oh, sweethearts?” the bandit said as he retrieved the photo and held it up to compare with my face.

  Cook carried a photo of me?

  My cheeks burned and Cook’s gaze met mine with a silent apology, as the tall one finished tying his hands behind his back.

  The tall one came to me next. I tried to run, but he grabbed me by the wrists and bound me tight, as a hunter binds a deer.

  The burned one grabbed Luba next but she fought like a cat as he tied her hands.

  “You won’t get away with this,” she said.

  He slapped Luba hard across the face.

  Father stood, hands bound. “For God’s sake, she’s just a child.”

  Luba persisted, her cheek crimson. “The Ministry will come—”

  The burned one stuffed a napkin in Luba’s mouth, pushed Father back into his seat, and then tied up the count last. As they shoved us out of the dining room, my knees felt about to give out. Where were they taking us?

  We passed the kitchen, now silent, my whole body moving strangely slow and dull, thoughts tangled. Was that Max crying upstairs? How to reach him?

  As we passed the back stairway, I turned, started up the stairs, and said in most basic Russian, “I need to get my coat. It’s upstairs.”

  The bandit waved his gun toward the door. “Move along, all of you.”

  I continued up the stairs. “It has money in the pockets I can give you.”

  He pushed me along.

  I bowed low to the ground. “Please, generous Father. I promise I will come right back.”

  He raised his gun and shot into the ceiling, which caused us all to jump and sent my heart racing. The plaster showered down on us in chunks.