Carola Dunn (17 page)

* * * *

When he woke the next morning, he was in a small white-washed room. Just enough sunlight fought its way through the grimy windowpanes to set hammers pounding in his head, and there was a foul taste in his mouth.

He ventured to move slightly, and a straw mattress rustled beneath him. The sheets were none too clean.

A rickety table and two chairs stood against the far wall, on which hung an icon. The only other furniture in the room was a chest, made of cheap deal but lovingly carved by inexpert hands. The door of the room was ajar and his greatcoat hung from a nail behind it.

John had no idea how he had got there.

He sat up with a groan and swung his legs off the bed. At that moment a plump, cheerful-looking girl with an untidy yellow pigtail thumped the door open and set down a hissing samovar on the table. She turned to regard him.

“Vy prospalsa, dusha moya?”

Had he slept it off? John pretended not to understand, alert though his head was pounding. Why had she called him “darling?” He groaned again. He remembered nothing but the implications were obvious.

“Chai?”
she offered, pouring a glass of tea.

He took it gratefully, refusing the lump of coarse beet sugar that went with it. The hot liquid revived him somewhat, though when he stood up he felt a bit shaky. Taking his
top coat from the nail he hunted through the inside pocket.

There was a gold three-rouble chernovetz, two Imperials, worth ten roubles apiece, and a handful of silver. In one of the other pockets he found a twenty-five rouble note. He had a vague memory of winning large sums last night. Had he gambled it all away again, or had he been robbed?

He looked at the girl. Her expression was enquiring, not in the least guilty. He put the Imperials and the note on the table, patted her cheek, and departed.

The narrow staircase stank of cabbage soup. By the time John reached the courtyard he was feeling decidedly nauseated. Fortunately a
drozhky
driver was just setting out to look for passengers. His suspicion vanished when John tossed him a silver rouble and he drove him home.

At least, John had intended to go home. The
drozhky
pulled up in front of the Graylins’ house, and he realized he must have given the wrong address. It was too complicated to explain, so he gave the man another rouble, and stumbled up the steps to knock on the front door. Rebecca would give him something to ease the pain in his head and the queasiness in his stomach.

The Russian servant who opened the door started back in dismay before recognizing him.
“Milord! Shto vy...”

“Who is it, Vanya?” Rebecca stepped into the hail. “John! Heavens above, what have you been doing? You look as if you have been dragged backwards through a bush, at the very least. Come in and sit down.”

Suddenly aware that he had slept in his clothes, lost his hat, and neither combed his hair nor shaved, John hung back.

“I’d better not.” Unwisely he shook his head. He winced.

Rebecca seized his hand and tugged him after her into the drawing-room. “Sit down,” she insisted. “What is the matter?”

“Kolya won a horse-race yesterday,” he explained sheepishly. “We were celebrating last night.”

Her expression changed from concern to indulgence. “Ah, then I can guess what ails you. Wait here a moment.”

She went out, to return a few minutes later with a glass of aromatic tea. He sniffed it suspiciously.

“It is one of Teresa’s herbs. Annie has learned all about them and she says this is what you need. Drink it up and you will soon feel more the thing.”

He obeyed, feeling like a small boy who had hurt himself being naughty. She was treating him just as she had treated Esperanza when she fell from the railing.

The tea helped, but the departing discomfort left room for his anger and disgust with his own behaviour. He did not want Rebecca’s amused tolerance; he wanted her to see him as strong, capable, worthy of her respect. He thought he had had that respect, but now he had lost it. It would have to be earned again.

His dejected musing was interrupted by the servant.

“It is
Knyaz
Nikolai Mikhailovich Volkov,
barynya.
Are you at home?”

John made a quick gesture of denial, but Rebecca smiled and nodded. “Yes, show him in, Vanya. Perhaps he too is in need of some herbal tea.”

Kolya was immaculate in a fresh uniform, smoothly shaven, at worst a trifle paler than usual. He kissed Rebecca’s hand, then tossed a package of papers and a clinking leather pouch on the small table beside John.

“I came to return these to you.” He shook his head in mock reproach, grinning, as he took in his friend’s condition. “You had devil’s own luck last night—begging your pardon, Rebecca Ivanovna.”

John picked up the papers. “Then I did win! I was not sure whether I had dreamed it or been robbed.”

“In that case, is good thing that I kept them for you. You have won fortune, my dear fellow. Among those papers you will find vowel for Count Kirsanin’s
dacha
at Peterhof. As I remember, his bath-house is exceptional. I suggest we go and inspect your property—Russian bath will make you new man.”

“Yes, do go,” Rebecca urged. “I daresay fresh air and exercise will help.”

John grimaced, but had to agree that powerful remedies were called for. He heaved himself to his feet, apologised to Rebecca for having visited her in such a state, and made his way carefully towards the door.

“I bring him back to you tomorrow right as trivet,” Kolya promised Rebecca. “Was grand celebration.”

Rebecca had been a little shocked to see John in such a disreputable condition. At the same time, she could only be glad that he was sufficiently at ease with her to turn to her for comfort. It was odd that the gallant gentleman who had supported her and given her confidence in herself should ever be in need of her aid. She wished she had been able to do more for him.

She went above-stairs to the nursery, where she had a difficult time explaining to Esperanza why Uncle John had not gone up to play with her.

“Prince Nikolai came to take him to Peterhof,” she said. “He was in a hurry and one must not keep a prince waiting. They will return tomorrow and I expect Uncle John will come to see you then.”

“Cochon,”
observed Gayo reproachfully.

Esperanza giggled. “That means pig in French. He’s not s’posed to say that.”

At last they settled to lessons. It was peaceful in the sunny room. The parrot was muttering to himself over a dish of sunflower seeds. Annie sat by the window sewing and Esperanza was drawing a flower with coloured chalks to illustrate the letter
F.
Rebecca had a book open on the table before her, but she was still thinking of John when a hurried step was heard mounting the stair.

Had he come back? It did not sound like his tread, yet nor was it the stolid gait of the Russian servants.

Annie dropped her sewing and struggled to lift her heavy body out of the chair. “That’s...” she began, when Rowson burst through the door.

“Miss Beckie! Annie! You’re all safe then? Where’s his lordship?” As he spoke, Rowson enfolded his wife in his arms and planted a hearty kiss on her brown cheek. Dressed in a Russian peasant smock, sheepskin jacket, and felt boots, he looked travel-worn, weary and agitated.

“Rowson! Where’s my Mama and Papa?” Esperanza abandoned her chalks and flung herself at him. He caught her with one arm and gave her a quick hug, the other arm still about Annie’s swollen waist.

“That’s what I’ve to talk to Miss Beckie about, missy.” He sent a glance of appeal to Rebecca.

“Go down to the kitchen, Chiquita, and tell Cook I said you can have a
sladki pirozhok.”

Esperanza pouted. “I don’t want cake, I want my Mama and Papa.”

Rowson dropped to his knees and put his hands on her shoulders. “Be good, missy. Sir Andrew and my lady bain’t with me right now, but they’s jist fine, I promise.”

She looked at him seriously, then turned to Rebecca. “An apple tart?” she bargained.

“Yes, scamp, you can have an apple tart. Off with you, now.” Rebecca clenched her fists in her lap, hoping her apprehension was hidden from the child.

Rowson closed the door behind Esperanza. “Ifn you don’t mind Miss Beckie, I’ll sit down. It’s a long way I’ve come, and fast.”

“Of course, Rowson.” She was amazed at how calm her voice sounded. “Now tell us what has brought you back alone.”

“Annie, love, come sit aside me.” He helped her to the table, seated her and dropped onto the chair next to her. She clung to his hand. “I think we’re safe here, but I’ll talk soft and careful-like. You know what Sir Andrew was up to, don’t you, miss?”

Rebecca nodded. “Yes, roughly. They are all right, are they not? You promised Chiquita.”

“Aye, miss, they was all right when I left, and safe and sound by now I don’t doubt. But there’s no denying the Russians guessed what’s up and was after us. Sir Andrew decided ‘twas best to head for the Turkish border. Not far away from it, we wasn’t. Only summun had to warn his lordship, being as how he’s in the same business. No one takes note on a servant, so I bin riding day and night for more days than I c’n count.”

“Lord John has gone to Peterhof with Prince Nikolai. I have no idea how to reach him.” Rebecca stood up and wandered restlessly to the window. “What should I do? If you have brought us the news already, I daresay it has reached the Russians here. No one knows where John is now, but he will be arrested as soon as he comes back to St Petersburg. Oh lord, what shall I do?”

She leaned her forehead against the window pane, cold despite the sunshine. He would ride back down that street, cheerful, restored to his usual exuberant health, and they would be waiting for him. There must be some way to warn him!

A group of four uniformed horsemen was cantering towards the house. The chill of the glass ran throughout her body.

“Rowson, come here. Look.”

He hurried to her side. “That’s the Pavlovski regiment, as garrisons the Peter-Paul fortress,” he confirmed grimly. “Looks like we’re in for a mite o’ trouble.”

The thunderous knocking at the front door could be heard even from their position on the third floor. It stopped suddenly, to be succeeded by pounding feet on the stair. Rebecca felt the blood drain from her face as she turned to face the intruders.

The door swung open and crashed against the wall. A short, thin officer strutted into the room. Rebecca recognized by his insignia that he was a lieutenant, and though she had been uncertain of the uniform, his snub nose confirmed that he was of the Pavlovski regiment. The massive trooper who loomed in the doorway behind the lieutenant was also snub-nosed. She remembered with half-hysterical irrelevance how Kolya had told her of the founding of the regiment by mad, snub-nosed Tsar Pavel Petrovich.

“Vashi dokumenty!”
the officer snapped.

Rowson stepped forward. “We are servants, your excellency. We have no papers.”

“Your names.” He checked their names against a list, pointed to Annie and Rowson, then hitched his thumb over his shoulder. “You and you—out.”

Rowson hesitated, glancing back at Rebecca.

“Go on,” she insisted. “You must take care of Annie. I daresay he only wants to ask me some questions.”

Despite her brave words, she felt very alone when the two had gone, Annie in tears. Behind her back, she gripped the windowsill as if it could save her from being swept away.

“Revekka Ivanovna Nootall.” The lieutenant rolled the
r
with more than usual Russian gusto, and leaned on every syllable. “You are not servant.”

“I am a governess,” she replied with all the composure she could muster.

“You entered Russia as governess, on passport of Sir Andrew Graylin. Then you go into highest society, to balls, theatre, everywhere. Is curious,
nyet?”

“Lady Graylin was kind enough to take me to parties.” To her chagrin her voice was shaking. “But I am a governess.”

“What you know of Graylin’s business in south?”

“Nothing. I was told they were to visit Moscow.”

“Where is Lord John Danville?”

“I do not know. He does not report his movements to me.”

“But you know he is spy! And Graylin also!” His stabbing forefinger threatened with an almost physical shock. “Perhaps you too are spy?”

“No! They are not spies. I am not.”

“Tell me why Graylins went to south.”

“To see Moscow.”

“Where is Lord John Danville?”

“I do not know. Indeed I do not!”

“I think you know. I think you will tell my colonel when he asks.” He gestured to the trooper.

The soldier marched forward and gripped Rebecca’s upper arm. She stumbled after him down the stairs. The world seemed to swim about her head, but she saw the pale, frightened faces of the Russian servants and heard Esperanza crying in the kitchen. Of Annie and Rowson there was no sign.

In the street, they shackled her wrists and tossed her up on a horse before one of the other troopers. Grinning, he pulled her roughly against his chest, his arm round her waist. He smelled of cabbage and sweat, and despite the warmth of his body she could not stop shivering. The streets passed in a dream, until they crossed the Neva and she saw before her the sinister gate and gold cathedral spire of the Peter-Paul fortress.

They rode through the square stone gateway, beneath the sneering double eagle. She was lifted down from the horse and hustled into the nearest building. Her escort paused before a door and knocked. A gruff voice bid them enter.

As they obeyed, a familiar figure slipped past them and out of the room. Rebecca caught only a glimpse of his face, but it was enough.

It was Count Boris Ivanovich Solovyov. And he wore an expression of malicious satisfaction.

The next few hours were a nightmare of repetition. “Why did the Graylins go to the south? Where is Lord John Danville?” She stood before the hard-faced colonel, obstinately insisting that she did not know. They did not touch her, just let her stand there, the shackles biting into her wrists. At last she crumpled to the floor, barely conscious.