“You know that’s not true, Gregory,” I said.
“You are against me. You are all against me. I was going to have my apartment in the Winter Palace again and I was going to have power and I was going to have glory as I did before and there would be triumphal arches erected for me as they were before and another medal cast in my honor and everyone in Russia would know Orlov was back where he was meant to be. Catherine wanted me back, I know she did, and you—you undermine me!”
“Gregory—”
“It is true!”
His eyes were blazing, and my blood turned cold for I knew he was no longer rational. I knew he had finally lost that precarious mental balance and toppled over the edge. He pressed his lips together and took several deep breaths. The fury that raged inside him was controlled, held in check, and a lethal calm possessed him now. It was far more disturbing than his rage would have been. He took a step toward me, stopped, stared at the doorway.
“What do you want?” he asked harshly.
Vladimir stepped into the room. I felt the color leave my cheeks.
“Lucie is gone,” Vladimir said.
“Lucie is gone?” Orlov did not seem to understand. “Lucie is in her room. Lucie would not leave me.”
“She left hours ago,” Vladimir told him. “This one”—he jerked his head at me—“she tricks me. She pretends to have a bad ankle. She leads me away from my post.”
“Lucie is gone?” He spoke the words as a child might, slowly, without comprehension.
“I go back to my post after you leave with this woman. I knock on the door after a while and there is no answer: I think she is sulking. I wait. I knock again. I go inside and she is not there.”
“Lucie is not gone,” Orlov said. He shook his head.
“We search the palace. We search the grounds. She is nowhere to be found. One of the men remembers seeing Vanya leave the grounds with a maidservant. All the maidservants are accounted for. None of them left the palace tonight. One of them says her cloak has been stolen.”
Orlov looked at Vladimir and looked at me. He clenched and unclenched his hands. My heart was palpitating. There was no way out. There was no escape. I was trapped between a madman and a savage who hated me with a vengeance. Vladimir curled his lip, glaring at me.
“This one helps her. She and Vanya. Vanya returns and I order the men to seize him. He puts up a fight. He wounds two of the men. He is badly wounded himself, but he gets away.”
Count Gregory Orlov continued to clench and unclench his hands and finally curled them into tight fists. He looked at me thoughtfully, as though wondering how I came to be standing in his drawing room.
“Vanya gets away,” Vladimir said. “This one does not.”
“This is so,” Orlov replied.
“From the first I know she is going to make trouble. What are we going to do with her?”
“This I will have to think about,” Orlov said.
Panic swept over me like a tidal wave and receded just as quickly, leaving me dazed for a moment, and then a strange calm possessed me and I faced both of them defiantly, too proud to cringe, too proud to cry, and determined to show no fear.
“Lucie is gone,” Orlov said. “You helped her.”
“I helped her,” I said.
“Where is she?”
“She’s beyond your reach now.”
“Where is she?” he repeated.
“If—if you must know, she’s on a ship. It left Kronstadt at ten. She’s safe. Thank God she’s safe. She’s going to marry Bryan. You’ll never be able to touch her again.”
“Your ankle was not hurt.”
“I faked it.”
“You—you tricked me.”
“I did what I had to do.”
“You—the necklace—” he said suddenly, and his eyes grew wide with disbelief. “You do not wear the necklace. You—”
“I gave it to her. She was entitled to it. She—she told me everything. Lucie told me how you raped her, how you—your own niece! Yes, I tricked you, and I’m glad. I’m glad!”
Count Orlov stared at me in shocked disbelief, and the bright spots of color began to burn on his cheeks again. He tightened his fists. The rage he had held in check was beginning to overflow, beginning to consume him. He shook his head from side to side and then threw it back and let out a roar and I stared in horror as he charged, one arm swinging back, swinging forward, the huge fist flying through the air like the ball of a mace.
It crashed against my cheek and lights exploded inside my head and a thousand hot sharp spears stabbed as I stumbled, fell, hurtling into a spinning oblivion of blackness. I whirled in blackness, burning, falling faster, faster, and it grew darker and I heard a moaning noise like an animal whimpering and it was far, far away. Blackness swallowed me, smothered me, and then it turned to dark purple and then gray and the pain was worse than ever and strange silver-orange lights were spinning before my eyes and I was groping through layers of thick fog and there were voices, distant, distorted.
“—do with her now?”
“—leave tomorrow—take her along—will decide later what punishment is fitting for what she has done to me—”
Silver-orange lights whirled and spun and the fog lifted and the pain was a shrieking, shattering thing that stormed across my brain in violent flashes. Between those blinding flashes I saw a woman in sky blue silk sprawling on the floor, two gigantic men looming over her like immense tree trunks in a glittering forest of crystal and gilt and marble. The forest began to spin and colors began to blur and pain seared and blackness swallowed me again, pulling me into welcome oblivion.
BOOK FOUR
Chapter Twenty-Two
The silence in the north was a tangible presence, hovering just beyond vision, holding its breath. The air was still, and when a bird cried out in the woods surrounding Count Orlov’s estate, the sound was magnified, echoing loudly, finally fading, the silence even more ominous after that shrill intrusion. Though the trees were encased in ice and the ground covered with snow, it wasn’t that cold as I strolled restlessly over the grounds. The sky was a translucent white, blurry with pearl gray streaks, and there were pale amethyst shadows on the snow. In the distance the house crouched squat and ugly, a long, low two-story structure of dark gray stone with a dull greenish gray slate roof, leaded windows like glazed reptilian eyes watching me.
The front door opened. A tall figure in dark blue livery and black fur hat stepped out. Although he was too far away from me to discern features, I knew it was Vladimir. He never let me out of his sight for too long, was forever checking on me, watching grimly, waiting for me to make a foolish move. We were isolated here in the bleak north country. This was the end of the earth, it seemed, and I had been given complete freedom ever since we had arrived two and a half weeks ago. What could I do? Where could I go? Were I insane enough to attempt flight, they reasoned, I would freeze to death in the woods—if I weren’t torn to pieces by the starving wolves whose chilling howls could be heard every night.
The bruise on my cheekbone had faded now to a faint mauve shadow that was barely discernible. I had been unconscious for hours, awakening to find myself in a moving carriage. The journey from St. Petersburg had taken three long days. Although I was a prisoner, my carriage zealously guarded by Vladimir and another of Orlov’s men, I had been treated with cold politeness, all of my needs tended to promptly. Upon arrival here, I had been shown to my quarters and given free reign of the property. The servants treated me like an unwanted but privileged guest, mystified by my presence and even more mystified by the conduct of their master—who had gone quite mad.
Count Gregory Orlov spent almost every waking hour downstairs in the great, gloomy drawing room in the front of the house, just off the great, gloomy hallway with its dark staircase winding up to the second floor. In front of a roaring fire, surrounded by shadows and delusions, he drank bottle after bottle of vodka and rambled to himself and to the shadows, yelling loudly at times
, at times sobbing pathetically. Vladimir tended to him as he might tend to an infant, taking him food which remained largely uneaten, supplying him with bottles, taking him upstairs to bed when he finally lapsed into a drunken stupor. Orlov had moments of lucidity, but they were rare. Most of the time he had no idea where he was, what was real or what was a figment of his haunted brain.
He had not touched me since that dreadful night at the Marble Palace when he discovered Lucie had gone. He had not once spoken with me. He would decide upon a punishment fitting for what I had done to him, he had informed Vladimir, but had plunged into the abyss of madness and, except for those few rare moments, was not even aware of my presence. Vladimir was waiting for instructions, waiting patiently for Orlov to tell him what to do with me. In the meantime I wandered about the dark, brooding house with its ponderous furniture and threadbare rugs—there was no elegance here, no opulent display of wealth, the place was a bleak and neglected mausoleum. More often, I wandered about the grounds as I did now, plotting the escape they deemed impossible.
Vladimir watched me from the distance as I walked over the snow in my topaz velvet gown and dark brown fur cloak. Surprisingly enough, all of my things had been packed and brought along, so I was able to dress warmly. Ignoring the distant sentinel, I strolled slowly, my heels crunching on the hard snow, and after a while he went back into the house. How long would it be before Count Orlov had a brief lucid spell, remembered his grievances against me, and told Vladimir to kill me or … or worse? His twisted, perverted mind might well devise some horrible torture, some hideous fate that would make death seem a welcome relief. I knew that, and I did not intend to wait around.
A woman alone, without transportation, would have no chance of surviving in this country, that was quite true, but I did not intend to be alone, nor on foot. During these past two and a half weeks I had made allies, and I had made several plans. If Mitya and Grushenka were able to do their parts, the three of us might well be leaving tonight. Casually, taking my time in case Vladimir might be watching from one of the windows, I strolled back toward the house and then, without apparent purpose, circled around it toward the back. I passed the barracks with the cobbled yard in front where Orlov’s cossacks warmed themselves by fires and consumed vodka. They paid no attention as I wandered on past the other outbuildings, finally reaching the stables.
An overpowering smell of mud, manure and horseflesh assailed my nostrils as I stepped into the stables. Horses neighed, stamping in their stalls, impatient for their ration of oats. The rough flagstone floor was littered with damp hay. The ceiling was low, and it was dark and shadowy inside, only a few rays of sunlight stealing through cracks in the rough wooden walls. How I missed Natasha. She had been left in the stables in St. Petersburg, along with several more horses. Did she miss me and Vanya? And Vanya … where was he? He had fled into the night, badly wounded. How bad had his wounds been? Was he all right? I would probably never know, and that saddened me.
Passing the stalls, I came to the enormous room where oats and harnesses and various supplies were kept, an open hayloft above. A shaft of sunlight fell across the huge pile of hay beneath the loft, leaving the rest of the room deep in shadow, a black and gray cave. I smelled rotting leather, rust, dried sweat. Chickens squawked, running loose. Hay sprinkled down from the loft, and then a huge heap came tumbling down. The prongs of a pitchfork glittered above. There was a rustling noise, movment, a loud grunt, then another heap of hay fell onto the pile below.
“Mitya?” I called quietly.
A heavy rope came swinging down from the rafters like a vine, and a moment later the tall, husky groom came shimmying down out of the gloom. I saw a pair of muddy boots emerge into the shaft of sunlight, then long legs in worn brown cord breeches, a powerful torso covered with a coarse, soiled white shirt, then a head capped with thick, unruly brown hair. The rope swung to and fro, flying wildly as Mitya dropped to the ground. He brushed hay from his broad shoulders and rested his hands on his thighs, glaring at me with a sullen expression.
“I wait for you,” he said gruffly. “I send the other two grooms away to soap the saddles so they will not be here when you come, and I wait for you. I begin to think you are not coming.”
“I couldn’t just leave the house and come directly to the stables. Vladimir is always watching me. I had to stroll about and—and more or less wander to the stables to see the horses. He knows I love horses. He won’t think anything amiss. We have to be discreet, Mitya.”
“What does this word mean—this ‘discreet?’”
“It means careful.”
He nodded sternly. “Yes, it is important to be careful. I am very careful last night when I slip away and go to the village to see Aloyosha Fyodorovich. No one sees me leave. No one sees me come back.”
“Did—is he going to help us?”
“He is very cautious. Where does this rough stableboy who smells of manure get all these gold pieces, he wants to know. He is most suspicious. He does not want trouble brought upon his house.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I tell him a very grand lady pays me to help her and gives me these gold pieces to buy a sleigh and horse. I tell him you are running away to meet your lover and this he understands, but he wants to know more. I tell him I will deal with him or I will go to Alexy Petrovna in the next village and deal with him and Alexy Petrovna will pocket all this gold. Aloyosha Fyodorovich agrees to help us then.”
“He will provide the horse and sleigh?”
Mitya nodded again. “It will be waiting for us in the clearing just beyond the east woods. I give him half of the gold pieces and tell him he will have the rest when we reach the clearing and find he has brought the horse and sleigh. He is said to be an honest man, but it is better to trust no one when there is gold involved.”
Obtaining transportation had been my first concern. There was absolutely no way we could steal one of the troikas or sleighs or carriages here and harness the horses without alerting the cossacks and guards. Mitya had informed me that a horse and sleigh might be obtained from a man he knew of in the village, but it would cost much money. Getting the money had been simple, as Orlov kept a safe here.
“You did well, Mitya,” I said.
Mitya scowled. He was only nineteen years old, but he looked much older with his sullen mouth and broad, flat cheekbones and humped nose. Brown eyes glared at the world with a hostile glow beneath arching brows. They grew tender only when he looked at Grushenka. When he was with Grushenka the animosity disappeared and this harsh, surly youth became gentle and playful. They were in love and their future held no promise, he a stableboy, she a maid in the big house, but that was changed now. The gold I had deftly stolen from the safe two nights ago would not only pay for the horse and sleigh, it would enable Mitya and Grushenka to make a new start once we safely reached St. Petersburg.
Chickens squawked, pecking at the hay. A door opened in the other part of the stables. Mitya cocked his head.
“You must leave,” he said gruffly.
“Tonight, then?” I asked.
“Tonight, after everyone has gone to sleep. I will meet you and Grushenka outside the kitchen door. You must steal a gun.”
“A gun?”
“This we must have. This I cannot buy. The wolves,” he said.
“I—I see.”
“You steal the gold easily enough,” he told me. “It should not be difficult for you to steal this gun. Ammunition, too. You know about this?”
His brusque, surly manner was both rude and irritating. Mitya vehemently detested all aristocrats, the oppressors of his kind, and he considered me one of them. He didn’t trust me, wasn’t at all sure this wasn’t all some kind of elaborate trap. Had it not been for Grushenka, he would never have agreed to help.
“I know that a gun is virtually useless without ammunition,” I replied, somewhat tensely.
He scowled at me and nodded impatiently toward the door as clumping footsteps appr
oached. I opened the creaking wooden door and stepped out into the sunshine as the other two grooms joined Mitya beneath the hayloft. Pigs were squealing in one of the pens nearby. Two of the cossacks were arguing loudly. I strolled past their camp-fires, ignored. The cobbled yard was littered with the shards of broken bottles. Bored, restless, the cossacks were resentful of this sudden relocation to the somber north country and uneasy about their master’s peculiar conduct. They were unhappy about their accommodations as well. The flimsy wooden barracks were falling apart and freezing cold. The food was abominable. Orlov’s elegant, temperamental chef had flatly refused to go to the north, and the slovenly cook who occupied the kitchens here produced wretched meals that could barely be called edible.
Entering the house through one of the back doors, I passed through a dusty hallway filled with rotting saddles and crumbling boxes and discarded furniture, and then I proceeded up the narrow passageway that ran alongside the main staircase and led into the enormous front hall. I paused, listening to the unnerving chanting noise coming from the drawing room. His voice low and rumbling, Gregory seemed to be repeating some woeful litany broken by sobs. I shuddered, folding my arms around my waist.
The drawing room door opened. Vladimir stepped into the hall. I caught a glimpse of Orlov sprawled out in the large leather chair in front of the blazing fire, his arms and legs hanging limp, lifeless. His face was haggard, pale, dark mauve shadows under haunted eyes. Vladimir closed the door and looked at me in the glow of the cheap wax candles that filled the air with a noxious smell. You are responsible for this, his dark eyes told me. You will pay. I stood my ground, defiant, meeting that glaring accusation with haughty composure, and he finally curled his lip savagely and moved on to fetch another bottle of vodka.
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