The Red Tide

by Christopher Nicole

  But Sonia! Sonia had always been the most private, conservative of women.

  Her religion and background had made her so, but she had preserved that armour-like shroud over her personality, even when being mishandled by the secret police. Even during their trek across Siberia when they had been forced to offer themselves time and again just to live, where Patricia had gone to the men with a defiant but almost enthusiastic acceptance of her fate, Sonia, the more beautiful woman, had merely submitted, her mind clearly closed. But perhaps even then she had been dreaming of a handsome face, and a man her own age or even younger! How little, Patricia thought, do we actually ever know about anyone, no matter how intimate a friend?

  “Wow!” Joseph said again, as the carriage turned into the drive and stopped. “Is this where we are going to stay?”

  “This is our house, darling,” Patricia said. “Well, Aunt Sonia’s house.”

  Even Colin was gaping now, not at the house, which was very similar to the one in Poltava, although considerably smaller than that at Bolugayen, but at the automobile which stood outside the portico: there were not many cars in the south. “That’s a Mercedes-Benz,” Joseph asserted. “They build them in Germany.”

  “It’s very big,” Colin remarked.

  The door of the house was opened by Dmitri the butler himself; he had overseen the arrivals from a window. “Your Highness,” he said. “If we had but known you were coming...”

  “It was a spur of the moment decision, Dmitri,” Sonia told him. “You remember Countess Patricia? Mrs Cromb?”

  “Your Excellency.” Dmitri bowed. “Welcome back to St Petersburg.”

  “I am delighted to be here, Dmitri,” Patricia said. Although he was sixteen years older than the last time she had seen him, he did not seem to have aged a bit — and what memories the sight of him brought flooding back. But then she had experienced the same emotions when again meeting Gleb, the butler on Bolugayen. Gleb was an even more faithful retainer than Dmitri, but his brother had betrayed the family, and herself, and died for it. She wondered if Gleb had any idea that it was his own master, the Prince, who had executed Rurik Bondarevski? All memories. But that secret belonged to Duncan and Morgan, and Alexei and herself. She did not even know if Sonia knew of it. And there were so many other memories. She could not prevent herself gulping as a woman emerged from the back of the hall and came towards her.

  “Madame Rykova, our housekeeper,” Sonia explained.

  “Welcome to St Petersburg, Your Highness,” Madame Rykova said. “Your Excellency.” She gave a brief curtsey to Patricia.

  “We have never met,” Patricia said.

  “No, Your Excellency.”

  “Yet you knew who I am.”

  “With respect, Your Excellency, you are a Bolugayevska. No one could have any doubts about that. I will prepare your apartments. And for the children.” She bent a somewhat severe stare on the youngsters; clearly she saw in them disrupters of her orderly household.

  “You really mustn’t be so suspicious,” Sonia whispered, as they went into one of the downstairs reception rooms.

  “When I think of that woman Popova...you never met her.”

  “No. But I know she was an Okhrana spy. Alexei got rid of her. This woman comes with the highest references.”

  “So did Madame Popova.” She looked at the door as Dmitri came in, bearing a tray with cups of tea. He was followed by a girl in her early teens, handsome in a heavy manner, of both feature and figure, with thick golden hair.

  “Hello, Dagmar,” Sonia said. “This is your Aunt Patricia.”

  Dagmar Bolugayevska stared at Patricia. “You were sent to Siberia,” she announced.

  Sonia gulped, but Patricia merely gave a cold smile. “That is true. Have you never been sent to Siberia?”

  The girl looked bewildered. “Is your Mama at home?” Sonia asked.

  “We’ve just come in,” Dagmar said. “You never told us you were coming.”

  “No, I did not,” Sonia agreed.

  They all looked at the doorway, where Dmitri was bowing to the Princess Dowager Nathalie Bolugayevska. Patricia was quite taken aback. She had never met her late half-brother’s widow, but she had heard all about Nathalie’s drinking and her appalling lifestyle. Yet she had not expected to see quite such a huge woman. Nathalie was above medium height and could hardly weigh less than a hundred and seventy English pounds; only the fact that she wore her thick golden hair in the fashionable pompadour prevented the suggestion that she had walked straight out of a Wagnerian opera. The truly remarkable thing was that she was more than a year younger than either Sonia or Patricia herself. “Sonia?” she enquired, her voice a low rumble. “What are you doing here?”

  “I am visiting Petersburg, Nathalie.”

  “Ha! I would have supposed you would have been arrested by now.”

  “They’re not arresting princesses this season,” Sonia said sweetly.

  “Ha!” Nathalie remarked, and left the room again. “Mama doesn’t like you, Aunt Sonia,” Dagmar said. “I’ve heard her say so.”

  “Well, my dear, I don’t like your Mama,” Sonia said. “Now you can tell her you heard me say that.” Dagmar followed her mother. “I did warn you,” Sonia said. “That we would not be welcomed.”

  “And as I said, if they don’t like us being here they can always leave.” Patricia drank her tea.

  In fact they saw very little of the Princess Dowager for the next few days.

  Following their arrival, Nathalie decided to take her meals in her apartment. Dagmar was always about, watching the children play in the garden with a somewhat supercilious air. She did attempt to join in the boys’ games on one occasion but Colin shooed her away. The girls were too small to interest her.

  Sonia and Patricia, equally, kept to themselves, and let no one know they were in town, although they could not doubt that their presence was being talked about, at least by the servants, while Nathalie had a telephone in her apartment. But they only wanted to be ignored, went shopping together, reminisced together and played with their children together. “It is splendid to see the way Colin and Joe get on,” Sonia said.

  “Well, they should,” Patricia remarked, and flushed as she glanced at her friend.

  “Do you ever regret, well...Joseph Fine?” Sonia asked.

  “Of course I do not. Anyway, little Joe is as much Duncan’s son as mine. Duncan has insisted upon that.”

  “You must love Duncan very much,” Sonia suggested.

  “I do. Oh, I will admit I didn’t at first. I mean, I gave him my virginity, quite outrageously, when we were in Port Arthur together. My God, the things I did as a girl! If Jennie were ever to do anything like that...well, I don’t know what I’d say, or do.”

  “You would sympathise and understand,” Sonia suggested.

  “I’m afraid I’m not a very sympathetic or understanding woman,” Patricia confessed.

  “But you did manage to fall in love with Duncan.”

  “I did, yes. He is such a...well, I suppose you’d have to say, noble person.”

  “That is just the word I would use about Alexei. So, you have never had any desire to...stray?”

  “Of course. What woman doesn’t? But like you, I have managed to resist the temptation, until now, anyway. Now you tell me, how do you get on having Aunt Anna in the house?”

  “We get on very well. I think she has mellowed a great deal.”

  “You mean she no longer sleeps with every man who takes her fancy!”

  Sonia smiled. “I think it is a case that the spirit may be willing but the flesh is weak.” She looked up as the door was thrown open. That could only be one person.

  “There is someone who wishes to meet you,” Nathalie announced.

  “We are incognito,” Sonia said. “We do not wish to meet anyone.”

  “You are not incognito, as everyone knows you are in Petersburg,” Nathalie pointed out. “And this is not an invitation you should refuse. It is f
rom someone to whom even the Okhrana bows its head. To offend this person is to take a serious risk. Especially where one is already vulnerable.”

  Patricia raised her eyebrows. “You mean the Tsaritsa wishes to receive us?”

  Nathalie tossed her head. “This person is far more important than the Tsaritsa. I am speaking of the staretz, Gregory Rasputin.”

  “Who?” Patricia asked.

  “Have you not heard of Father Gregory?” Nathalie was astounded, and looked at Sonia.

  “I have heard of him,” Sonia said. “I have heard that he is a charlatan.”

  “Well,” Nathalie said. “I would not say that too loudly if I were you. Or you may well find yourself back in Siberia. This ‘charlatan’ has the ear of the Tsaritsa. You are invited to take tea with him, this afternoon. Shall I tell him you refuse?”

  Sonia looked at Patricia, who shrugged. “It sounds as if it might be a giggle.”

  To the surprise of Patricia and Sonia, Dagmar accompanied them.

  “Father Gregory is very fond of Dagmar,” Nathalie said, enigmatically.

  They drove to Rasputin’s house in Nathalie’s Mercedes-Benz, with much tooting of the horn by the chauffeur. “Tell me about this man,” Patricia said.

  “He is a holy man of great powers,” Nathalie said reverently. “He can heal illnesses. He heals the Tsarevich when he is ill, which is often enough. But more than that, he can relieve sins.”

  “Surely any priest can do that,” Patricia said.

  “Not like Father Gregory. We are not speaking of an ordinary confessional.” She glanced at her other sister-in-law. “He can even relieve your sins, Sonia.”

  “He will find that difficult,” Sonia retorted. “As I am not going to confess any. We do not go in for that sort of thing.”

  “He will know,” Nathalie said.

  “Where does he come from?” Patricia asked.

  “From a remote Siberian village.”

  “How did he learn to be a staretz in a remote Siberian village?”

  “Silly girl,” Nathalie said scornfully. “One doesn’t learn to be a staretz. One is visited by voices, and one knows. We have arrived.”

  The Mercedes had turned into a driveway off the street, and come to a stop. Patricia looked out of the window at the large house. “I had no idea being a holy man was such a remunerative profession.”

  “Or such a busy one,” Sonia remarked, for the driveway was entirely blocked with cars and carriages, and lounging chauffeurs and postilions, who gave the new arrivals no more than a glance.

  “He is the very hub of Petersburg society,” Nathalie assured them. They stepped down, and made their way through the waiting men, not one of whom was the least respectful. Indeed, Sonia heard one chauffeur say to another, “Here are some more plump chickens to be picked.” She had no idea what he meant, but held her hat on her head and began to regret that she had allowed Patricia to talk her into this adventure.

  But Nathalie did not seem the least concerned as she led them up an outside staircase and opened the door at the top. This gave access to a large reception room, which was absolutely crowded with people, all women, save for a supercilious looking major-domo standing by an inner doorway. The women turned to stare at the new arrivals, and Sonia realised that all the glances were hostile, and that some of them must have been here for some time; the air was heavy with the scent of stale perfume. But the major-domo had recognised Nathalie, and hurried across the room, pushing women to either side with total familiarity and lack of manners. “Your highness. How good to see you.”

  “Is Father Gregory free, Anton?” Nathalie asked imperiously.

  “At the moment no. But I will tell him you are here.” Anton bowed and hurried across the room to open the inner door. Instantly there was a kind of surge towards it, by everyone present, checked when the door was firmly shut in their faces.

  Sonia looked around the room. Presumably they would have to wait for some time, and there were no chairs left. One or two of the women, indeed, very well dressed, were actually sitting on the floor. But that was not something the Princess Bolugayevska could contemplate. “Perhaps we should come back another day,” she whispered to Nathalie. “When he is not quite so busy.”

  “Another day,” snorted the woman standing close by, who had overheard the suggestion. “I have been here every day this week, and I have not yet seen the staretz.”

  Sonia looked at Patricia, who winked. Patricia, with that streak of wildness inherited from some long-dead English ancestor, was enjoying herself thoroughly. While she was feeling more and more embarrassed. “It is true,” Nathalie said. “He is always this busy. But he will not keep us waiting.”

  To Sonia’s astonishment, only five minutes later Anton was back, standing in front of the closed door and beckoning Nathalie and her companions towards him. Just as if we were serving girls, Sonia thought. The other women were incensed. There were several hisses, and some uncomplimentary remarks. “Ignore them,” Nathalie recommended. “They are just jealous.”

  Sonia glanced at Dagmar to see how the girl was taking it all, and was astonished to see that her niece-in-law was apparently totally oblivious of the people around her, but was staring at the door with enormous, shining eyes.

  Anton opened the door for them, then immediately moved behind them, to restrain the other women and to close the door firmly as soon as they were through. We are being pushed into the lion’s den, Sonia thought. Then gazed in consternation at the scene in front of her. A woman, from her clothes and jewellery very wealthy, was hastily restoring those clothes and jewellery to some semblance of decency. It was obvious that only a few seconds previously she had been naked, at least from the waist up. Her hat was on the floor, her hair had come down, and she was breathing heavily as she fastened her bodice, while her cheeks were flushed. But the most amazing thing about her was that these signs of excessive emotion were not caused by any embarrassment at being discovered in such deshabille by four other women, but were, actually, just excessive emotion. “Why, Aimee,” Nathalie remarked. “How nice to see you.” And then ignored her. “Father Gregory! You see I always keep my word.”

  Sonia found herself gazing at the man standing beside the table, which, apart from the settee and four chairs, was the only furniture in the room; there were no paintings on the walls, not even a cross or an ikon, although there was an expensive carpet on the floor. The drapes over the two windows were also of expensive material. But the man! Or was it a monster? Rasputin stood some inches over six feet, and was built to match. His head looked bigger than it was because of the amount of hair; this flowed in black profusion past his ears and there joined his beard, also black, which stretched to the centre of his chest. He was not dressed like a priest, but more like a servant, wearing a white blouse outside of his pants, which were black, with his feet thrust into black boots. Sonia realised that the blouse was silk, but so were the blouses of the servants on Bolugayen. He was in the act of filling a glass from a decanter of Madeira, but this he now put down as he came towards them. “You promised me the two most beautiful woman in Russia, and I never doubted it for a moment, Nathalie Alexandrovna,” he said.

  Sonia gulped, less at the deeply resonant voice than at the total familiarity with which he addressed a Russian princess. “Will you not introduce me?” Rasputin asked. As he did so he ran his fingers into Dagmar’s hair, dislodging her hat so that it fell to the floor, and then sliding beneath her pigtails to caress the nape of her neck, almost as if he had been her father.

  “This is Mrs Duncan Cromb, Father Gregory,” Nathalie was saying. “Before her marriage she was the Countess Patricia Bolugayevska. She is my late husband’s half-sister.”

  Rasputin released Dagmar to take Patricia’s hand. Again Sonia could only stare in consternation as he drew off Patricia’s glove to caress her fingers and the palm of her hand. Patricia was also staring at him, lips slightly parted, with that defiant but acquiescent expression Sonia remembered so
well. “I have heard much about you, Countess,” Rasputin said. “But the tales have not done your beauty credit.” He released Patricia’s hand to take the hat from her head and throw it on the floor, which he apparently regarded as the proper place for hats, and then used both hands to pull the pins from her hair, allowing it to cascade past her shoulders in auburn splendour. Again Sonia could only stare at such indecent familiarity, unthinkable with any woman he had just met, but with a countess and a Bolugayevska... “Such hair should never be confined,” he said. “It makes me think of a stormy sunset.” Patricia licked her lips.

  “And the Princess Sonia Bolugayevska,” Nathalie said. Rasputin stood before Sonia. She gazed at his face, which was large-featured and surprisingly bland, although the line of the mouth, even half-concealed by the beard and drooping moustache, was hard. But she found herself caught by his gaze, for his eyes had a magnetic quality she had never encountered before. Even as she realised how Patricia had been unable to make any response to his insolent compliment, she equally realised that her own brain was being emptied of coherent thought, as he stared into her eyes in turn. “She walks in beauty like the night,” he said. “Of cloudless climes and starry skies; and all that’s best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes.”