We had abandoned the carriages over a week ago, exchanging them for these elaborate vehicles designed to travel over the icy roads of Russia. Orlov’s fine horses had been left behind, too—they would be sent to his country estate along with the carriages when weather permitted, months from now. The horses pulling the troikas were sturdy, muscular animals with short, thick legs and extremely broad shoulders. Though shorter than the chestnuts, not much larger than ponies, really, they pulled the huge troikas with ease and seemed immune to blasts of icy wind and snow.
There were twelve troikas in our caravan, eight of them to carry various supplies that would not be available henceforth, and each vehicle was as large as a small room. Orlov had his own, though he spent much of his time galloping along with Vladimir and the other guards, and ours was equipped with every conceivable luxury. Lined with padded, pale violet velvet embroidered with silver, with blue velvet curtains and cushions, it had built-in cabinets and shelves and a special curtained cubicle with porcelain chamber pot and ewer. Candles glowed warmly inside crystal globes affixed to either side, between the windows, and in addition to those at our feet there was another, larger silver brazier filled with glowing coals. Furs were piled everywhere, glossy, gorgeous robes and cloaks, and there were books galore and games and puzzles and an endless supply of wonderful things to eat and drink.
The luxury was all very nice, but it was still cold. Lucie assured me that I would get used to it and, truth to tell, it didn’t bother me nearly as much as it had in the beginning. She hardly seemed to notice, but then she had grown up in this clime. Her uncle actually seemed to prefer to be out in the open, galloping on his horse, claimed it was bracing, and I had never seen him as vigorous and hearty as he had been since we crossed the Russian border. I would personally take the sultry warmth of Texas any day, or even the English spring. Still, if one had to travel through Russia, it was nice to do so bundled in ermine and mink and sable and surrounded by all these niceties.
I finished my tea and handed the cup to Lucie. She put it away and selected a chocolate, peeling away the silver paper and plopping it into her mouth. Was it really only six weeks ago that we had sat there in her sitting room, talking until dawn? London seemed like a distant dream now, something vaguely imagined that had never really taken place. We had left a week after the party for Princess Dashkova, crossing the channel at Dover, watching the great white cliffs recede slowly in the distance. In Paris there had been dinners with aristocratic friends, a visit to Versailles, a flurry of buying at the exquisite shops. In Berlin there had been crisp apple strudel and stodgy German barons, dark beer and leather goods and a cuckoo clock for Lucie. Across Europe there had been accommodations ranging from the luxurious to the barely adequate. Since we crossed the border, there had been only dismal posthouses, each more squalid than the last.
The first lap of the journey had been interesting, full of variety—rustic French villages where one bought delicious homemade bread, dark German forests and plush spas where one avoided the sulphur water, mountain ranges covered with vivid green pine trees under a cloudless indigo sky—but in Russia there was only snow and ice and howling wind, with an occasional collection of hovels to break the monotony. Lucie assured me it was lovely in the spring and positively lush in summer, but I hoped to be on my way to Texas by then. I would cheer up when we got to St. Petersburg, she added. It was a magical city, created in the middle of a former swampland and one of the wonders of the modern world with its hundreds of bridges and huge, majestic buildings. It rivaled Paris in theater and music, its shops considerably better, with goods from all over the world, and Versailles couldn’t compare with the Winter Palace.
I watched as she contentedly reached for another chocolate. The tormented child I had held in my arms six weeks ago seemed to have vanished, replaced by a vivacious creature with sparkling violet-blue eyes and a ready smile. She had never had a friend. She had never been able to laugh and share her enthusiasm and gossip cheerfully for hours on end. As the darkness in her soul melted away, a radiant personality came to the surface, the personality I had glimpsed so briefly that night at the theater when she had been enthralled by the play. There was surprising sophistication as well and a voracious new thirst for learning languages.
“I may—I just may go on the stage one day,” she had confided, “and I will need to speak flawless French, flawless English, too. You should learn Russian, Marietta—I will help you. It will be fun.”
And so we passed the hours away with grammar books purchased in a fine shop in Paris and I learned Russian and taught her English and helped her improve her French and we both laughed at our mistakes and stumbled on, hour after hour. Lucie had purchased dozens of books of plays, and she read them avidly. Molière was delightful, Racine a bit stuffy, Shakespeare exciting but hard to understand. Her favorite plays were those written during the Restoration, scandalous farces penned by Mrs. Aphra Behn, even more scandalous dramas by John Dryden. Reading them aloud helped her greatly with English, while I corrected her pronunciation and explained the meanings of unfamiliar words. My own progress in Russian was considerably slower, but I had a working knowledge of the language now, could understand it if it weren’t spoken too rapidly and was able to speak it myself, if in a highly ungrammatical fashion. My Russian was every bit as good as her uncle’s French, Lucie informed me.
Orlov was delighted with our projects, enchanted when I spoke my first Russian sentence to him. The grin on his face and the wicked twinkle in his eyes led me to believe I had been less than word perfect when I informed him that the horses were sturdy creatures and the weather was foul. The count had been a delightful and attentive companion in France and Germany, showing off his knowledge of the places we went, buying us little surprises, treating me with a courteous and disarming warmth. I might be an employee, but I was treated like a guest, my comfort of paramount importance to the count. I had had my reservations about coming along, true, but most of them had vanished. I knew that Orlov found me attractive, but he had shown me the greatest respect and had never once indicated he would like to go to bed with me.
There had been a woman in Paris, I knew, a woman in Berlin, a peasant girl at the last posthouse. Women were as necessary to him as the air he breathed, but as long as that husky, caressing voice and those seductive looks were used on others, I had no complaint.
Was there, perhaps, just a faint touch of disappointment? It was something I didn’t care to examine too closely. I was human, flesh and blood, and Count Gregory Orlov was a magnificent animal, the most magnetic man I had ever met. I would be less than human were I not to find him physically appealing, but I was perfectly content with the status quo. I had no intentions of becoming involved with any man, however magnetic, after Jeremy Bond. Orlov knew, and he respected my decision, content to be a genial host and jolly companion.
“It is gone,” Lucie said, peering at me. “Finally it is gone.”
I snapped out of my revery. “I—I’m afraid I was lost in thought. What is gone? What are you talking about?”
“That lost, betrayed look in your eyes. It was there in London all the time. It was there in France, too, even when you were smiling. It is gone now. I think perhaps you have gotten over this man at last, Marietta.”
“I haven’t gotten over him,” I said, “but I—I think perhaps I have made a great deal of headway. Being with you has helped. Traveling, seeing new things, all these experiences—all of it has helped.”
“You love him still?”
“I detest the son of a bitch, not to put too fine a point on it. And, yes, I love him still. Damn his soul.”
“It is strange, love. All these plays I read, so much to do with love, everyone in a muddle, laughing, lying, plotting, wrecking their lives for love. So much talk of splendid bliss. Is it blissful, Marietta?”
“It can be, darling. It can also be hell.”
“Will you—do you think you will ever fall in love again?” she asked.
&n
bsp; “Not if I can help it. I’ve had quite enough of the divine madness, more than enough to last me a lifetime.”
“That is just talk, I think,” she said sagely. “You are young and beautiful and men will always fall in love with you. You will love one of them back, it is inevitable. Is this the right word?”
“The word is right. The statement is wrong.”
“I think not. Perhaps you will even meet this Jeremy again.”
“I fervently hope so,” I said.
“What would you do?”
“First I would slap his face so hard his ears would ring. After that I would think of something more painful.”
Lucie nodded. “You do still love him. It is like in the plays. You want to hurt the one you love because of the hurt he gives you. When love is gone, there is indifference only.”
“I think perhaps you have read too many plays.”
“These things a woman knows instinctively,” she replied, “even if she has never been in love herself.”
“You will be, darling,” I promised.
“I do not know that I care to be. There is too much suffering. I would rather be loved and admired by—” she hesitated, dreamy eyed, “by the people sitting out there in the darkness,” she continued. “They would love me and I would feel their love, but it would not be able to hurt me.”
“You were impressed by Perdita, weren’t you?”
“I wish to be like her. I know my uncle will object, but I think—I think when I am eighteen I will go to the school in Moscow and learn to act. My father no longer has any interest in me, so that doesn’t matter. My uncle will yell and throw things, but I think I can be stubborn and have my way.”
“It is a difficult life, Lucie. Acting is a—a very precarious way to make a living.”
“My uncle will disown me, true, but I will sell my jewelry. Is it wrong to have a dream, Marietta?”
“Everyone should have a dream, darling.”
“You do not think I am foolish?”
I shook my head. “Of course not,” I said gently.
“Do you—do you think this dream could possibly come true?”
“Dreams do come true, Lucie, if you are willing to work. If you are willing to sacrifice and persevere and keep going. If you can do this, there is no reason why you couldn’t become anything you wanted to be.”
“This I will do,” she told me.
Both of us were startled a few minutes later by the sounds of hoarse shouting and whips cracking. The troika lurched, skidded, slid to a halt, causing dishes to rattle in the cabinets and books to spill to the floor. I lifted the curtain. Pandemonium reigned outside, wild-eyed men in peculiar costumes galloping on fiery steeds, waving their sabres in the air. One of them saw me staring through the window, jerked his steed to a halt beside the troika and yelled savagely, whirling his sabre over his head.
“My God!” I cried. “We’re under attack!”
Lucie peered out, utterly calm. “My uncle’s cossacks,” she told me. “There is no cause for alarm.”
“Cossacks?”
“Almost every great nobleman has his own small private army. My uncle has only twenty,” she added, “but then there are also Vladimir and the others who are personal guards, not cossacks.”
I stared, fascinated, as the men charged around like a band of marauding red Indians. They wore high black boots and full blue breeches that belled over boot tops. Their long-sleeved blue coats were belted at the waist, the flaring skirts hemmed with thick gray fur, and their squat gray fur hats were squashed down low over their brows. Most of them had beards and long, drooping mustaches that gave an added, devilish look to their tan, weathered faces. They yelled and cavorted, their horses kicking up great clouds of snow. Several of them fired pistols into the air. Never had I seen such wild abandon, such fierce exuberance.
“They—they do carry on, don’t they?” I said.
“They are excited to see my uncle again. It has been a long time. They know he is returning, of course, but I wonder why they ride all this way to join us? I am puzzled by this.”
Lucie frowned. The soft sable hood fell away from her face, revealing golden brown waves. I let go of the curtain and sat back, listening to the din that surrounded us. Horses neighed. Guns fired. Shouts rose, mingling with loud, diabolical laughter. All the demons of hell seemed to be unloosed out there in the snow, and I gave a start when the door of the troika flew open. Count Orlov peered in at us. He smiled, looking like a rowdy schoolboy who has just been joined by his chums.
“Is all right,” he said. “No cause for alarm. My men join us. Is a surprise to me.”
Flakes of snow blew into the troika, along with freezing gusts of wind. Orlov climbed inside and closed the door, brushing snow from his shoulders. He was able to stand without stooping, although his head almost touched the ceiling, and in the close confines of the troika he seemed larger than ever. His bulky gray fur coat completely enveloped him from shoulder to mid-thigh. His gray kidskin breeches clung snugly to his legs, outlining the strong muscles, and his gray leather boots were crusted with snow. A pair of supple gray leather gloves protected his hands.
“Why have they come?” Lucie asked.
“They are eager to see me. They cannot wait for me to arrive.”
His tone was humoring, his manner off hand, but both of us could tell he was hiding something. Lucie adjusted her hood and looked at her uncle with cool eyes.
“They are so eager to see you that they ride hundreds of miles through stormy winter weather? This I do not believe. They could be snug in their warm barracks with their vodka and their whores. They do not leave that merely because they are eager to see your smiling face.”
Orlov scowled, highly displeased. Lucie gave him a defiant look, waiting for his reply. The scowl vanished. He looked extremely uncomfortable. He brushed at the snow clinging to gray fur, took off his hat, brushed it as well, deliberately delaying.
“Well?” Lucie demanded.
“Is nothing to worry about,” he said, petulant.
“What is this we are not to worry about?”
“There has been some unrest among the peasants,” he confessed. “Some madman has been stirring them up, filling them with seditious ideas. Is nothing new. It happens all the time. Damn! You are much too impudent, Lucie. I do not wish to tell you this. I do not wish you to worry needlessly.”
“How serious is this unrest?”
“Not serious at all. He—this madman has gathered together a few followers who believe he is some kind of saint. He preaches revolt against the landowners. Some serfs have run away. One or two troikas have been stoned and the passengers roughed up. These are isolated incidents, nothing to cause alarm. This madman will be put down quickly enough.”
Lucie looked unconvinced. Orlov put his hat back on.
“My men are restless,” he said in a conciliatory voice. “This gives them a reason to leave the barracks where they grow bored and flabby. When they hear I am coming, they take it upon themselves to ride out and act as protective escort for the rest of the trip, though there is no need.”
Lucie made no reply. Orlov grinned again.
“Mostly they wish to ride and yell and carry on like men of action. For too long they have been cooped up. I am happy to see them, though this means twenty more stomachs to fill. We will have to buy provisions at the next village.”
He adjusted his cap and shifted restlessly, eager to join his playmates.
“We will continue on our way now. You make me tell you these things against my will. You are not to worry for a moment. No handful of peasants with pitchforks will dare to throw stones at our troikas. There will be a celebration tonight when we get to the posthouse.”
He left then, moving out of the troika like a great gray bear, icy flurries of snow blowing in before he slammed the door. The din continued, as riotous as before, and it was several minutes before the troika began to move again, gliding easily over the ice. The cossacks rode
up and down the line on either side, making a terrible racket, thoroughly enjoying themselves. Orlov and his other men were no doubt having a jolly time, too, I reflected, placing my feet on the brazier. I wrapped the fur lap robe more closely around me and shook my head in dismay.
“They will wear down after a while,” Lucie said. “Now they indulge in high spirits.”
She picked up the books that had tumbled to the floor, replaced them on the seat beside her and then, selecting one, settled back to read. I tried to concentrate on a Russian grammar book, but it was extremely difficult. After a while I put the book aside and resigned myself, wondering what on earth I was doing in this luxurious but bizarre vehicle, riding through a snow storm in a strange country with seemingly crazed ruffians charging about outside. It was utterly improbable. Only three months ago Russia had been merely a name on a map to me, a country I had absolutely no interest in, and now here I was, swathed in fur, my feet on a brazier, heading deeper into the snowy wasteland. Somehow it all seemed unreal, so unreal that I could hardly believe it was happening.
It had stopped snowing when, three hours later, we finally reached the posthouse. The sky, black before, was now a dark pewter gray smeared with orange and pink blotches that gradually blurred. There was a deepening blue haze in the air and the dazzlingly white snow was spread with long blue-gray shadows, glistening in the fading light. The posthouse was a dilapidated two-story structure of weathered brown wood, the slanting roof threatening to collapse under the weight of snow. Great mounds of snow surrounded it, reaching the ice-glazed windows. Lucie and I stayed inside the troika until Vladimir and his men had cleared a pathway to the front door. While they did so, the cossacks busily set up heavy tents in the courtyard beside the stables.
When Love Commands Page 15
