When Love Commands

by Jennifer Wilde

  Lucie came in as I finished dressing. She had changed into a gown of dark golden velvet and wore her golden brown sable cloak. She looked fresh and full of vitality and enviably young. I felt old after my sleepless night. Adjusting the long sleeves of my blue velvet gown, smoothing the bodice, I sat down to pull on the boots. Lucie arched a brow when she saw them. I told her her uncle had brought them to me, that they had belonged to one of the cossacks.

  “Vanya,” she said. “He has very small feet.”

  “You know them all by name?” I inquired.

  “Most of them. Vanya is very special. Before my uncle and I left Russia, Vanya was like a big brother to me. He taught me to ride.”

  “Oh?”

  “He was very patient, but very persistent. He looks fierce and savage, and he is, I suppose, when it is necessary, but with me he was as sweet and gentle as a lamb.”

  “It was certainly kind of him to give up his boots.”

  “They are very fine boots. I am glad you have them. We should have purchased several pair for you before we started. I did not think of it.”

  I pulled on my kidskin gloves. Lucie stepped over to the window and began to trace patterns on the moist condensation. I put on the heavy ermine cloak and pulled the hood over my head. Only a few coals smoldered in the brazier now, and the room was cold. There were noises in the hall as a fleet of servants dismantled Lucie’s room and carried furs, linens, candelabra and such downstairs.

  “It’s a lovely day,” Lucie said. “The sun is glittering on the snow and ice, and no snow is falling. The sky is blue-white. We will take a short walk while they pack.”

  “Wonderful,” I replied.

  She smiled at my lack of enthusiasm. “It will be good for you,” she told me. “It will get the blood circulating. It will toughen you up.”

  “Just what I need,” I said, picking up the ermine muff.

  I had to admit that it was lovely outside, the sky cloudless, a vast white canopy lightly stained with pale blue. There was a bustle of activity as the troikas were loaded, the horses led around from the stables and put in harness, tents folded up. The cossacks were as boisterous as ever, apparently unaffected by last night’s consumption of vodka. Three of them stood out front, hurling their sabres in the air, twirling and swinging them in complicated patterns, the dangerously sharp blades slicing the air with a whistling noise. I gasped as one of them began to swirl his sabre in a circular pattern at knee level, nimbly leaping up and down to avoid having his legs sliced off. He flashed a savage grin at me and continued this insane game with renewed vigor.

  “Playful, aren’t they?” I said.

  “This routine with the sabres they practice for hours on end,” Lucie informed me. “It is an important skill. The sabre is used as—how do you say it in English?—as a mental weapon as well as to slash and kill. A man on a horse charges toward his enemy and the enemy is discomfited. If he is yelling and waving a sabre in the air, the enemy becomes unnerved, disorganized, more vulnerable.”

  I digested this cheery bit of information as we walked on, boots crunching on the icy rime. My feet were warm for the first time since we had crossed the Russian border, and I was very glad that Vanya had such small, dainty feet. I would have to thank him for giving up his boots, I reflected. Lucie and I moved past the line of troikas, stepping out of the way as servants piled goods inside. Horses stamped. Harness jangled. Although it was extremely cold, our heavy cloaks kept us warm enough, and the air was curiously invigorating.

  “You feel better now?” Lucie inquired.

  “A little. I didn’t sleep much last night.”

  “Fleas?”

  “Cossacks,” I said.

  “They were rather noisy,” she agreed, “but I didn’t notice. I ate date bars and drank tea and read Mrs. Aphra Behn. I found several fleas in the bed. I summoned a servant and he killed them for me.”

  “The joys of travel.”

  We had passed the line of troikas and walked slowly down the icy road, huge mounds of snow on either side. Hearing boots crunching behind us, I turned and was not surprised to see Vladimir and Ivan following us, both heavily armed. Once we were clear of the posthouse, we were in a frozen white world without the least sign of human habitation, great drifts of snow making fantastic shapes, icy crusts catching the sun, throwing back vivid spokes of color like fine crystal.

  “It is beautiful,” I admitted, “but I long to see a sprig of green. All this white could become terribly oppressive.”

  “This is true. This explains much in the Russian character. The snow, the solitude turns one upon oneself.”

  “But in the springtime, in summer—”

  “One waits for the snow,” Lucie said. “One knows it is coming. One lives furiously during the warm months, knowing the snow and ice will soon make cavorting in the hay fields and dancing in the meadows impossible.”

  “That must be sad.”

  “It is sad, yes, but when the Russian is happy, he is riotously, joyously happy. There is always an edge of desperation to his happiness, you see. This is why the cossacks ride so hard and yell so loud. This is why the folk dancing is so furious, why the peasants prefer such bright colors.”

  “Are you glad to be back?” I asked quietly.

  Lucie did not answer at once. Her face, surrounded by the sable hood, was pensive, and her violet-blue eyes were thoughtful. She dug her hands deeper into her large muff.

  “Russia is in my blood,” she said. “It is part of me. It will always be, but I—I have few pleasant memories of my life here. I have seen another world now. I love my country, and—yes, I am glad to see it again, but I do not wish to live here. After I complete my studies in Moscow, I will go back to England, perhaps France.”

  “And become a brilliantly successful actress,” I added.

  “You make fun of me?”

  “Of course not, darling. I believe you will be. I’ve listened to you read the plays aloud. I’ve seen the way you interpret the lines, color them with emotion. One day, I’m sure, you will be as famous as Perdita.”

  “But she is a great beauty.”

  “She isn’t one half as beautiful as you. The—the features you think of as unattractive, others find exotic and unique.”

  “This is true?”

  “Indubitably.”

  “This word I do not know.”

  “It means without question, darling. I think we’d better turn back now. My nose is beginning to freeze.”

  Lucie smiled at my tone of voice. We started back, Vladimir and Ivan tromping sullenly behind. The troikas had all been loaded when we reached the posthouse. The cossacks were climbing into their saddles, swinging themselves up with acrobatic ease. Our driver was on his perch, heavily bundled in fur, casually gnawing on an onion. Count Orlov was standing in front of the posthouse with the caretaker who, coatless, shivered with cold. His wife stood in the doorway, her stolid body immobile, her face stamped with grief at the loss of her chickens and pig. Orlov dropped a few gold coins into the man’s hand. The caretaker stared at it blankly, as though he had never seen gold before, and perhaps he hadn’t. Head drooping, shoulders bent, he mumbled something under his breath. Orlov turned away in disgust, striding briskly to his horse. Lucie and I climbed into our troika, and a few moments later we were on our way.

  There was no need to light the candles. With the curtains drawn back, the interior was flooded with brilliant light. The braziers were filled with hot coals that glowed a bright cherry red, and the furs were soft and warm. The ice and snow glittering outside made it all seem cozier. Mile after mile of frozen white slipped past the windows, the shadow of our vehicle racing along beside us, blue and gray against the white, growing longer as the sun rose higher. The warmth, the movement, the monotony had a drowsying effect on me, and I soon nodded off.

  Shouting awakened me. I sat up with a start, disoriented. The troika was still speeding along. Sunlight still streamed through the windows. Lucie looked at me over th
e top of her book, completely unperturbed.

  “What is it?” I asked. “What’s happening?”

  “One of the cossacks just spotted a wolf,” she said. “I saw it two hours ago, loping along, following us. I just caught a glimpse, of course. They’re extremely shrewd, staying out of sight, waiting for the right opportunity to pounce.”

  “My God! Is there any danger?”

  Lucie put down her book and smoothed the lap robe over her knees. “Not with a large party like this,” she told me. “They generally prey on the lone traveler in an open sleigh. This one follows us in hopes someone will lag behind.”

  “They—they attack people?”

  “Oh yes,” she said casually. “Sometimes, when the winter is very bad, they travel in large packs, and no one is safe on the roads. Several years ago two of my father’s guests were killed. He was having a house party and Count Lanskoy decided to take Princess Gerebtsova for a moonlight drive. They were married, you see, but not to each other, and so they slipped away in a sleigh to have some time together. It was a very foolish thing to do. Count Lanskoy knew there were wolves. There had been several reports, yet he took the princess out anyway.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “The wolves attacked, not more than a mile from the estate. They were both torn to pieces, as was the poor horse. There was not much left to identify them by, only a few scraps of clothing, part of a hand with a ring on its finger, many bones, much blood. The snow was red with it.”

  I shuddered. “How—how hideous.”

  “It is not uncommon,” Lucie said, still in that matter-of-fact voice. “When wolves are abroad, people with sense stay inside. Those foolish enough to expose themselves run a grave risk. When starvation is in its last stages and they are crazed with hunger, wolves have been known to attack small villages.”

  “I don’t think I care to hear the details.”

  Lucie returned to her book. Shaken by the story, I gazed out the window and tried to rid my mind of the gruesome images. The cossacks were still yelling and racing up and down the line of troikas, several of them waving rifles in the air. I saw a large gray shape darting behind a mound of snow, moving so quickly it was barely more than a blur. I peered intently at the mounds of snow as we sped along, and several minutes later I saw it again. This time I could make out the huge body, as large as a small pony, legs and tail extended as it leaped for protective cover. A cossack flew past the troika, half standing, gripping the flanks of his steed with powerful knees, rifle aimed, eyes on the sight, finger curled around the trigger.

  There was a shot. I saw the wolf spinning in the air, saw red streams spurting as it crashed to the snow. The cossack let out a triumphant roar as our troika moved on. Lucie never even looked up from her book. I shuddered again and longed for green and shady English lanes with rhododendrons abuzz with bees. What if the wolf had happened along when Lucie and I were taking our walk? Was that why Vladimir and Ivan had followed so closely? What madness had possessed me to come to this strange, savage country?

  It was two hours later when the troika began to slow down, finally sliding to a halt. Whenever the weather permitted, we stopped for the noonday meal, enabling the horses to rest while they munched their bags of oats. The sun was still shining brightly, gilding the snow with a silvery yellow sheen, and as there was no wind, the great stove would probably be hauled out and we would have a hot meal instead of the usual cold sausage rolls, cheese, caviar, and smoked fish. I was a bit reluctant to climb out after Lucie’s earlier tale, but she laughed and assured me that the wolf following us had been a lone one and that it was much too early in the season for packs to gather.

  “Besides, they’d never attack so large a gathering. They’re extremely smart, they prey only on the vulnerable.”

  “I could really learn to love this country,” I said wryly as Vladimir opened the door for me. “Snow storms, wolves, peasants on the rampage—how did I get so lucky?”

  “At least you’ve retained your sense of humor.”

  “In sheer defense,” I told her. “To keep from screaming.”

  Lucie smiled. “It is an adventure,” she reminded me. “You’re enjoying it.”

  “Every bloody minute.”

  Vladimir helped me out of the troika, none too gently. He still regarded me with suspicion, considered me an outsider, an intruder, and I had to confess that I had not grown fonder of him. I brushed my blue velvet skirt, wrapped the ermine cloak around me, jammed my hands into the muff. It was not all that cold, certainly not as cold as it had been earlier, and I was glad to have an opportunity to stretch my legs, though I certainly wasn’t going to take any pleasant little strolls. When Lucie climbed down, I asked her to point out Vanya. The cossacks had all dismounted and were stomping their boots in the snow and laughing and milling about like a gang of rowdy boys eager for action.

  “That one over there,” she said. “The one with the wolf.”

  I hadn’t seen the wolf. Vanya had just slung the corpse down from the back of his horse and now stood over it with a long, glittering knife. I had intended to go thank him for the boots, but now I hesitated, not at all certain I wanted to get that close to the horrible thing sprawled on the snow. Lucie saw this and, smiling mischievously, took my hand and led me toward the tall, slender cossack.

  “Vanya, this is Miss Danver,” she said in Russian. “She wanted to see your wolf.”

  “Damn you, Lucie,” I muttered.

  But Lucie had already departed, leaving me standing there alone with Vanya and the creature at our feet.

  “Is good wolf, no? You understand Russian?”

  “I understand some Russian. Is horrible wolf.”

  “No!” he protested. “Is a beauty! Big. Almost as big as a man, no? See how beautiful the fur, more silver than gray. I make only one tiny hole with my rifle. I am going to skin it. I will give the skin to you.”

  “Please don’t,” I begged.

  Vanya grinned. He was at least six feet four and, slender as he was, seemed even taller. His dark face was sharp and lean and fierce, made fiercer by an oriental mustache that drooped down on either side of his wide, thin mouth. His nose had been broken a number of times and was decidedly hooked. Hooded by heavy lids, his black-brown eyes glowed like hot coals, thick, winglike black brows arching above them. It wasn’t the sort of face you’d like to encounter in a dark alley, I thought; yet despite this there was a most engaging quality about him. One sensed immediate warmth and friendliness.

  “I saw you shoot,” I told him,

  “You did? I am glad. With one shot I bring him down. I am the best with a rifle, though not so good with the sabre.”

  “I wanted to thank you for the boots, Vanya.”

  “This is kind of you. It is not necessary to thank me.”

  “I feel bad about taking them.”

  “Is a pleasure for me to know they are keeping warm the feet of so gracious and lovely an English lady.”

  “You may look like a frightening brute,” I said in English, “but actually you’re rather sweet.”

  Vanya frowned. “What does this mean?” he asked.

  “It means you are very nice, even if you do have dainty feet.”

  “So you tease me about these cursed feet, too?”

  “I couldn’t resist it.”

  “You I will not hit,” he said wearily.

  I smiled, liking him a great deal. How different he was from the grim and sullen Vladimir. His tall black leather boots were damp with snow, his loose blue breeches bagging over the tops, and the blue coat was superbly tailored to emphasize broad, bony shoulders and narrow waist, the flaring skirt hemmed with glossy gray fur. He smelled of garlic and sweat and gunpowder, a virile perfume that suited him perfectly.

  “You like my horse?” he inquired, indicating the handsome steed with a wave of his hand.

  “He’s a beautiful animal.”

  “Strong, too. Fierce. Like me. The best.”

  �
�You’re extremely modest, Vanya.”

  “What does this mean?”

  “Humble.”

  “Humble? Me? Vanya is fierce, not humble. A man displeases me, I knock him down. Maybe I break his arm, maybe his neck. This I have done. Men know not to fool with Vanya. You wish to ride this horse?”

  “I wouldn’t dare.”

  “You are afraid of him?”

  “Definitely.”

  “I get another horse for you. A mare, strong but gentle. Leo brings this mare along for an extra mount. Leo will not refuse to let me use her. He knows I break his arm, maybe his neck if he refuses.”

  “I—I appreciate all this, Vanya, but I really don’t ride that well. I haven’t had much practice, you see, and—”

  “This we fix. I give you lessons. In short time you will ride like the wind.”

  “You are terribly kind,” I said.

  Vanya scowled. “Do not say this to any of my comrades. They will tease me. I will have to bloody their noses. It grows tiresome.”

  I smiled and told him it would be our secret. Vanya brandished his long knife.

  “You stay,” he suggested. “I show you how I skin this wolf.”

  “I’d rather not. I fear I’m a bit squeamish.”

  “The blood bothers you?”

  “It bothers me a great deal,” I confessed.

  “Is natural. You are the delicate female. English, too. I skin the wolf and cure the hide and give it to you as a present.”

  He grinned. It was a delightful grin, broad and boyish. For some reason, I had obviously made a conquest. I felt a rush of gratitude for his friendship and longed to give him a hug. I didn’t, of course. I merely smiled again and told him good-bye.

  “I get this mare from Leo tonight. Tomorrow we will begin teaching you to ride.”

  “I shall look foward to it.”

  “In the meantime, you are not to worry about these foolish peasants. Vanya will protect you.”