Carola Dunn (10 page)

A younger hussar left his companions, who were now singing a maudlin song about birch trees on the steppes, and came to weep on Volodya’s shoulder. To John’s relief, Sebastian Crane appeared at that moment to suggest that it was time to leave. Count Boris Ivanovich paid the thirty-five rubles he owed and they stepped shivering into the cold night.

“Devilish sentimental race,” observed Mr. Crane.

The following morning John woke late. He requested a bath, and his servant, Fedka, offered a choice of English or Russian. John was curious to experience the Russian version, but a glance at the clock dissuaded him. As it was, he did not reach the embassy until after noon.

On the way to Andrew’s office he passed Sir Humphrey in the corridor and heard him mutter, “Noble ne’er-do-well!” as he ostentatiously consulted his pocket watch.

Andrew was more welcoming. He met John in his outer office, where sat an English and a Russian clerk, and drew him into the inner sanctum, closing the door behind him. Despite this precaution, he put a finger to his lips as he waved John to a chair. He sat down behind a vast, empty desk on which he promptly put his heels.

“Well?”

John described his evening in detail, omitting only his own ideas and Crane’s warning. He finished with the military attaché’s aside a few minutes since. Andrew was laughing at this when the English clerk put his head round the door.

“I sent Fedorenko for the samovar, sir.”

“Thank you, Harvey. Now, John, we’ve ten minutes before the fellow returns. You have made an excellent start. You’ve established that you don’t speak or understand Russian, and your execrable French will lend weight to that, while allowing you to communicate with those who don’t speak English. Confiding the story of the duel was a master-stroke.”

“I thought it might help,” said John modestly.

“It will be all over the city in a day or two and no one will be surprised that you spend your time carousing instead of working. Nor will they wonder at your deigning to report to me occasionally, since I am lucky enough to be married to your cousin. And it sounds as if Colonel Wharton is already convinced that you only obtained the position through your father’s influence.”

“Which is true, of course. The only problem is that Volodya was so drunk we made no arrangements to meet and I can’t for the life of me recall what his name is. Captain Prince something. Without him I’ve no entrée into military circles.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that. These Russians have hard heads and he will probably turn up. Even if he doesn’t, it’s early days yet and you will meet other soldiers. You might even call on your friend without him. I can find out where he lives, and princes are not the unapproachable beings here that they are at home.”

“They seem to be two a penny!” John was saying as the door opened and Fedorenko carried in a tray with glasses in silver holders and a plate of
zakuski.
He was followed by a servant bearing a tall metal contraption, rumbling and hissing with steam escaping from the top.

“Spasibo, Makar Ilych,”
said Andrew. “Yes, there are a lot of princes. They are not necessarily connected with the Imperial family, since the Tsar’s children are grand dukes and duchesses—
vyeliki
knyaz;
actually that translates as grand prince, but no matter. Often, I collect, the princes of the ordinary sort are neither influential nor rich. In the early days of Muscovy there were many petty princes, and since every one of their offspring took the title, they have proliferated beyond measure.”

John accepted the glass of tea offered him by Fedorenko and the Russians withdrew.

“Thanks for the lecture,” he said softly. “Do I have to drink this stuff?”

“Certainly. As a ‘diplomat’ you must learn to live with the national idiosyncrasies of your hosts, and drinking tea at all hours is essential to Russian civilisation, as to English. I will not force you to put jam in it, as they often do, but we must not let Makar Ilych suppose that you do not care for it after he went to the trouble of fetching it.”

“No, I can see that that would not be wise.” John sipped the clear amber liquid. “Not bad, when it’s not ruined with milk and sugar as English ladies prefer it. By the way, how are Rebecca and Teresa?”

“Teresa took an instant dislike to the curtains in the drawing room, or so she claims. I suspect it is an excuse for exploring the shops of St Petersburg, which is how she and Rebecca are spending the day. Teresa hopes you will find time in the midst of your dissipations to visit her. At least you cannot escape the ambassador’s ball next week, so she will see you there.”

       There was a knock on the door and Harvey again appeared. “Excuse me, sir, there’s a Russian asking for Lord John.” He consulted a card.
“Kapitan Knyaz Vladimir Dmitrievich Vasilyevski,
my lord. He is waiting in the vestibule.”

Glad though he was that the hussar had tracked him down, John could not help resenting the clerk’s smooth Russian pronunciation. As he went below-stairs, he reminded himself that his lack of talent in that direction was a positive asset to his job of collecting military intelligence.

Volodya greeted John like a long-lost friend, with a repeat of the previous night’s embrace. John suspected that this was a custom he would not easily adjust to. He submitted without a perceptible shudder, and slapped the short, chubby young man on the shoulder in return. They exchanged
‘bong joor’
s
.

The captain had a
drozhky
waiting outside the embassy gates, driven by a serf in a long peasant coat and felt boots. Making laboured conversation in French, they drove through streets a-bustle with carriages and pedestrians. John was again impressed by the extravagant mansions, their white marble pillars standing out against walls of pale blue or yellow or green stucco.

The
drozhky
stopped before one of the largest.

“Vot dvoryets Volkovykh,”
the captain announced.
“Ici palais de Volkov.”
He explained that Prince Nikolai Mikhailovich spent much of his time at his father’s house though he also had quarters in the Tsar’s Winter Palace and in a nearby barracks. If he was not at home, the genial hussar was willing to take John all over the city in search of him.

A liveried porter ushered the gentlemen into a high-ceilinged entrance hall whence a magnificent double stair of marble swept up to the upper regions of the house. He gave their visiting cards to a footman, one of three waiting in the hall, who hurried above-stairs with them. Moments later Kolya ran down, beaming a delighted welcome.

“John, my dear fellow!” he cried in slightly accented English, seizing both his hands. Having spent several months in England, he knew better than to kiss him. “What the devil are you doing in St Petersburg?”

John grinned at his friend. Tall, thin and lively, Kolya looked the same as ever. Though his hair was light brown and his eyes hazel, the shape of the latter gave his long face an oriental slant that supported his claim to a Tartar princess somewhere in his family tree. He was dressed in the uniform of the Tsar’s own
Preobrazhensky
regiment of the Imperial Guards, dark green with red sleeves and facings.

“It’s good to see you again, Kolya. I’ll tell you all about it later. I believe you know Volodya, who was kind enough to bring me to you.”

“Knyaz Vladimir Dmitrievich, nyet?”
Kolya and the captain shook hands, apparently not being on hugging terms.

John did his best to look blank during the ensuing brief conversation in Russian. Kolya thanked the hussar and offered refreshments, which were refused. Volodya did not want to interrupt the reunion of old friends which ought to be carried on in English, milord’s French being as bad as his own. He was on duty tonight, but perhaps Nikolai Mikhailovich would be good enough to convey to milord his invitation to join a party of friends the following evening.

Kolya translated, while John nodded and smiled.

“Enchantay,”
he accepted, and the captain took his leave.

“Come up to my rooms,” Kolya suggested, starting up the stairs. “Stepka, some refreshments at once! Now tell me, John, how come you to be in Russia?”

“I’m in disgrace,” John confessed, and told again the story of the duel, this time with various embellishments that he knew would amuse his friend. “I have already told the tale to one of your countrymen, who was flabbergasted that Englishmen could joke about an affair of honour.”

Kolya laughed. “English are indeed curious nation. Here, this is my sitting room.” Turning to the icon hanging on the wall with a lamp burning before it, he crossed himself, then shrugged. “Old childhood habit. Tell me, how is your friend Mr. Fitzsimmons?”

They were talking of mutual acquaintances when three servants brought refreshments. A number of bottles and dishes were set out on the table in the window, then one of them dismissed the others, bowed, and spoke to Kolya in a low voice.

“Stepka says that my father has heard of your arrival and hopes you will dine with us today. I have told him how kind Duke of Stafford was to me in London and he wishes to meet his son. It will not be amusing evening I had planned for us, I fear,” Kolya said.

“I shall be honoured to meet the prince,” John said with more politeness than truth.

“Do not fear, most of my family speaks English, to some degree at least. We had for many years English governess, as I think I have told you once.” He informed the servant that milord would stay to dinner and the man left. “Let me pour you some wine, or will you try our
pivo?
It is nearest thing to your ale. I must go for one hour or two to palace this afternoon. Will you come with me? It is not so exotic as Carlton House of your prince, or Brighton Pavilion that they call ‘Little Kremlin,’ but I think you will enjoy to see it.”

          Kolya drove a
troika
to the Winter Palace. John exacted a promise to teach him the art of driving three horses abreast, the outer two of which were harnessed so that their necks curved away from the centre. It looked much more difficult than even a four-in-hand.

Before going about his business, Kolya seconded a subaltern to show John the splendours of the Tsar’s principal residence. Though he occupied a couple of hours agreeably enough admiring the superb classical architecture and magnificent furnishings and artworks, including French spoils of war, he was glad of his friend’s return.

On their return to the Volkov mansion, John was introduced to what seemed like hordes of brothers and sisters and aunts and cousins and hangers-on. The prince and princess greeted him graciously, but he was not unhappy to find that there were more important guests who occupied their attention. The younger members of the family were as lively as Kolya. Unabashed by the presence of their elders, they made John feel at home, involving him in their games and music. He thoroughly enjoyed the evening.

While he was waiting for a convenient moment to take his leave of his host, he overheard a fragment of conversation. It was in French, the preferred language of the aristocracy. One of the distinguished guests said something about the possible future emancipation of the serfs. The minister responded with a vigorous exposition on why the Russian peasant would never be capable of using his freedom to his or anyone else’s advantage.

John was reminded of his Grace’s obstinate opposition to reform of Parliament. Having made his farewells, he mentioned this, laughing, to Kolya.

“Is no joke,” said his friend fiercely, escorting him out into the hall. “Condition of serfs is disgrace. When I inherit,”—he crossed himself as if to ward off that day despite his disagreement with his father—”I free every one on our estates.”

“Does the Minister know this?”

“Da.
We have often disputes. I am in trouble with Tsar for my views, too, but still my father protects me, or I will—would—be in exile like you, to Moscow at least. Tsar Aleksandr Pavlovich was once progressive; now he listens only to Arakcheyev. Bah!”

On the way home in the Volkov carriage, John was thoughtful. He was surprised to find a serious side to his companion of many a lark. He had been tempted to tell Kolya of his own ambitions. However, besides a certain unwillingness to expose himself to raillery, it suited his purpose better to be considered an unthinking scapegrace. Little as he relished deceiving Kolya, particularly after his family’s enthusiastic welcome, his duty to his country must come first.

He found a game of faro in progress in the staff residence. Nothing loath he joined in, drowning his misgivings in vodka. It was a positive pleasure to be surrounded by Englishmen.

John had every intention of calling on his cousin and Rebecca. In fact, he rose early one morning with that intention, only to find them out. He stayed half an hour to play with Esperanza and talk to Annie. Otherwise, his time was fully occupied by the outings and entertainments proposed by his new acquaintances. Before he realized it, the evening of the ambassador’s ball arrived.

In London he had generally avoided such tame events, unless coerced by his mother into escorting her. Now he found himself looking forward to it, particularly when he learned that Kolya was to attend.

As a member of His Excellency’s staff, however superfluous, he was kept busy for some time looking after the earliest arrivals. Even the censorious Colonel Wharton had nothing to complain of in his behaviour. Lord John Danville was, after all, a gentleman of the highest
ton,
and bred up to such occasions. Outwardly nothing was visible of his rising sense of anticipation except, perhaps, a tendency to glance rather often at the entrance to the ballroom, where Lord Cathcart was greeting his guests.

John saw Andrew move towards the door and he gracefully extricated himself from his present companions.

Two ladies were curtsying to the ambassador as he approached. Teresa, as always, was strikingly lovely. John’s gaze slid over her appreciatively and came to rest on the girl beside her. He drew in a long breath at the magical transformation.

A vision in white and silver, her dark gold hair released from its braids and coiling in shining ringlets to her slender shoulders, Rebecca smiled at him. Their eyes met. No longer a frightened waif, she was timid still, but expectant, hopeful. She was beautiful.