The big man laughed delightedly at the description. Margarita frowned a little, nodded stiffly. She had never expected such informality – not to say familiarity – in the introduction of servants, which, after all, was all that the man Yuri could be.
Yuri bent, lifted the cases as if they were a featherweight. ‘The sledge is outside, young master. Your mama waits with great impatience.’
Margarita’s frown deepened. Did she detect a trace of reproach in the words? Had the dark eyes that had flickered in her direction shown a shadow of resentment?
Sasha was laughing. ‘Come then, home!’ He threw his head back and breathed deeply of the cold air. ‘Why does the snow always smell so much cleaner in the country? Margarita, tuck yourself into the furs here – I’ll ride up front with Yuri.’
Margarita sulked thoroughly, and to no avail at all, during the long ride. Huddled in furs that smelled none too clean, she allowed her apprehension and self-pity full rein. Sasha was ignoring her. It was thoughtless and unkind of him not to be sitting with her, warming and reassuring her. The first few moments within the sphere of his family and already she had been relegated to a back seat, both literally and metaphorically. Well – her small mouth tightened a little – they’d see about that.
The deserted, seemingly endless road wound through mile upon mile of all but featureless woodland, passed through a few scattered, poor-looking villages, crossed an unimposing frozen river. The rhythmic jingle of bells, the sound of the horses’ hooves upon the snow thrummed monotonously on, constant and unvarying. Margarita seriously considered screaming. Holy Mother! Would they never get to this God-forsaken place? Then at last, two long hours after leaving the station and with full darkness upon them, the horses, harness and bells jingling, swung through a large, open, wrought-iron gate and onto a narrow, winding drive that sloped into a small valley. As it did so two small dogs, barking hysterically, hurled themselves upon the sledge, snapping at the horses’ heels, leaping about the runners. ‘Petya! Melya! Here!’ Sasha bent, held his arms open. The two little dogs leapt like monkeys onto the moving sledge, climbing all over Sasha, licking his face, tails wagging wildly, still yapping in an ear-splitting frenzy of delight. Sasha laughed over his shoulder at Margarita. She smiled thinly back. Her heart was racing, her stomach churning. In the distance she could see faintly glowing lights and what looked, so far as she could tell in the darkness, to be a long, low house, two storeys high and with many chimneys. Drovenskoye. They had arrived.
* * *
On first impression Drovenskoye was, to Margarita’s inexperienced eye, every bit as imposing as she had expected and hoped it would be. The sledge swept in a wide semi-circle and drew up in a three-sided courtyard formed by the long, low housefront and two stable wings, at the foot of a flight of wide, shallow steps leading to a great, ancient-looking wooden front door. That the steps were quite obviously crumbling, the sweep of drive packed with dirty, uncleared snow, the lamps that glimmered on either side of the door rusted and smoking she did not notice. Nor did she see the peeling paint or the unhinged shutters. She saw a childhood dream; a country house, a private house many times larger than any she had ever set foot in~;~ than she had ever dreamed of setting foot in, let alone owning. For a moment, looking up at the crumbling facade, she saw brilliantly-lighted rooms, shining floors, gleaming crystal, heard music and gaily-lifted voices. Saw herself the lovely chatelaine, greeting her guests with kisses and with laughter. No painted set for a toy theatre this. No cardboard cut-out prince either, standing beside her, but a tall and handsome young man who was her husband. For one brief moment she almost loved him; for bringing her here, for owning this. Then she remembered the women who waited beyond this door – the women who belonged here – and the moment died. ‘For heaven’s sake, Sasha, where is everyone? Do you want me to freeze to death?’
Sasha had leapt down from the high front seat of the sledge. Yuri swept the yelping, struggling dogs into his arms, tossed them back into the sledge, where they worried the fur wraps, shaking them like rags. Like a boy Sasha bounded up the shallow steps, pushed open the great door. ‘Hello? Mama? Galina? We’re here!’
More slowly Margarita followed, found herself standing in a large hall, completely empty but for a carved wooden settle and a tall marble torchère upon which guttered a smoking candle lamp. More candles were set in wall sconces, reflected in small, triangular, smoke-darkened mirrors.
Sasha snatched off his hat, shrugged out of his heavy fur coat, tossed them carelessly upon the settle. ‘Mama? Galya?’
‘Sasha!’ A door opened. A light-footed, dark-haired girl dressed in shabby black ran across the hall, hands outstretched. Margarita would have recognized her anywhere. She was the living image of her brother. ‘Sasha!’ she said again, and in a swift movement took him into her arms, kissing him on both cheeks. ‘Oh, how good it is that you’ve come!’
Sasha hugged her, laughing. Margarita stood like stone in the shadows. When brother and sister drew apart at last she stepped forward. Sasha held out a hand. ‘Rita, darling, come and meet my Galina. Galya, this is Margarita, my wife.’
The two girls looked at each other, the smallest comprehensive flick of a glance taking in everything from the crown of fair or dark head to Margarita’s shining boots and Galina’s shabby shoes. Then dark eyes met blue and in that long, cool moment, war was declared. Galina smiled, very brightly, held out a slim, cool hand. ‘Welcome.’
And, ‘Thank you,’ Rita said, equally warmly, equally falsely, and kissed her new sister upon both smooth cheeks.
Sasha, watching, beamed. ‘I know you two are going to be very great friends. Galya, where’s Mama?’
‘In the drawing room. Come. She’s waiting to greet you.’ Galina led the way into a square, cold, lofty room, candlelit, as was the hall. Margarita had a swift impression of heavy old furniture, darkly panelled walls, smoke-stained portraits. Then her attention was held by the tall, slender woman, not young but frailly beautiful in the shadowed light, who stood awaiting them. She was dressed, in honour of the occasion of welcoming the heir of the house and his new wife, in a formal dress of a shining gold stuff so old and so fragile as to be almost transparent, the train spread upon the threadbare carpet behind her. In her hands was a lovely and obviously ancient icon of the Virgin and Child. On the table beside her stood a tray, upon it a round loaf of black bread topped by a small silver salt cellar.
Sasha caught Margarita’s hand in his, led her forward, dropped to his knees in front of his mother. A small stir of rebellion kept Margarita on her feet for a moment longer than good manners demanded before she, too, responding to the pressure of her husband’s hand in hers, knelt. Sasha’s mother made a reverent sign of the Cross with the icon above their bowed heads, then she took the bread and the salt and again blessed them. Rita glanced sideways at her husband. He knelt like a child, head bowed, eyes shut. ‘My children,’ the woman said, gently, ‘welcome.’
For some strange reason Margarita found that her teeth were locked, vice-like, fast together, her jaw rigid. As she rose gracefully to her feet she made a purposeful, physical effort to relax them. She smiled her most beguiling smile. ‘Mother,’ she said, shyly. And saw Galina’s dark, sardonically-lifted brows as she stepped forward to accept the butterfly embrace of her mother-in-law.
* * *
The visit could not by any stretch of the imagination have been called a success, which was no more than Margarita had expected; what did surprise her was how little, in the end, it actually mattered. She had known from the start that Sasha’s family, not unnaturally, would view with some disapproval and caution the upstart nobody who had so unceremoniously arrived in their midst as his wife; oddly, what she had underestimated was her own hold on her besotted young husband and the consequent lessening of the influence of his devoted mother and sister. That devotion, too, told against them; they treated him like a favoured child, still. What Sasha wanted must be given. And Sasha undoubtedly wanted Margarita. A li
fetime of defending a sensitive younger child against the depredations of an intolerant and overbearing father and brother had ingrained habits that were hard to change. That Galina disliked her intensely Rita knew; she reciprocated in full. It irritated her beyond belief that the other girl, dressed as shabbily as any servant, on cheerful, first-name terms with every ostler and kitchen girl – not that there were many such at Drovenskoye – yet with her clear, clipped voice, her infuriatingly natural, aristocratic bearing achieved a cool self-possession that Margarita positively ached to emulate, and could not. Even in the smart, dove-grey mourning she had been so careful to buy she felt out of place, almost vulgar compared to Galina in her rusty black and Sasha’s mother in her unfashionable, heavy gowns and woollen shawls that might have come from the back of any peasant woman, and in which Varya, Margarita knew, would not have been seen dead. Galling it was too when Sasha and his sister rode out each morning – Galina, to Margarita’s scandalized surprise, dressed in breeches and heavy sheepskin against the cold – on the horses that had been theirs since childhood. Margarita had never learned to ride a horse, was positively afraid of the great, bad-tempered beasts, so it was impossible to accompany them. She was left alone with Sasha’s quiet, gentle mother in whose company she felt as clumsy as the most inept servant girl and as out of place as a pebble in a jewel box.
She spent long hours avoiding everyone by exploring the house, at least half of which had apparently been shut up for years, fascinated by the endless rows of portraits, many of them recognizably Sasha’s ancestors, upon the damp-stained walls, the ancient, heavy furniture, the old fabrics and rugs that looked ready to fall apart at a touch. Well-wrapped against the cold she would wander from room to room, enthralled as a child at this strange new world she had entered. It astonished her that the Kolashkis, an ancient family of what seemed to her wealth and standing, should live in such relatively primitive conditions; the Shalakov apartment on the Venskaya boasted running water, warm and comfortable rooms, and recently-installed electric light. In this decaying house it was a constant struggle to keep warm, curtains and wallcoverings were mildewed, and – most astonishing of all – all water had to be brought by cart or by sledge each day from the nearby river. The toilet facilities were of the most basic kind, the great beds, to which they repaired by candlelight, cold and damp. Margarita developed a chill within hours of arriving. Yet, living in conditions not unlike those that held sway in the Vyborg and other working-class districts of St Petersburg, these people retained an air of superiority, of unquestioned and unquestioning authority, of unshakable self-confidence in themselves and their world that made Margarita feel an outsider, worse, an interloper. That her father in his new-found prosperity probably possessed more disposable income than did the entire Kolashki family, let alone her Uncle Bourlov who could undoubtedly have bought this estate several times over if he had had a mind, made not the slightest difference. The divide was there, and no amount of well-mannered effort could disguise it. And as the days went by, certainly on the part of Galina and of Margarita herself, less effort, well-mannered or otherwise, was made. The two girls had disliked each other on sight and made little beyond the slightest polite attempts to disguise it. Yet in a way, far from harming Margarita, Sasha’s sister’s hostility was a positive advantage. Sasha was no fool; he sensed the undercurrents and knew their cause; knew also that in this alien place his young wife had no champion but him. Margarita, whose chief talent was manipulation, took full advantage of this.
After a series of skirmishes she won a final and significant battle over the speaking of French at the dining table.
As was customary in such families the Kolashkis conversed, fluently and easily, only in French at table. Margarita’s education falling rather short of her protagonist’s – her application, it must be said, falling even shorter – her smattering of the language was in no way good enough for her to keep up with the rapid-fire talk and laughter that Galina, recognizing her advantage, immediately instigated. Sasha, slipping into old ways with ease, at first satisfied himself simply with laughing translations for his smiling, prettily gracious, inwardly fuming wife. A short and fiery interview before bed one evening, however, followed by a cold, inexorably turned back quite decisively restored his sense of husbandly duty. When he and his sister returned from their morning ride the following day Galina’s face was set; in the afternoon Sasha sat with his mother in her small parlour – virtually the only warm room in the house – recalling the past, talking of the future, and making a reasonable to say nothing of well-mannered suggestion.
That night, with no comment made, they spoke Russian at table.
They stayed for a week; a strange week for Margarita. Though disappointed at the degree to which her husband’s inheritance had run to ruin, yet still she could not rid herself of the sense of excitement that the old house with its sense of history, its aristocratic connections aroused in her. Indeed she understood well that had Sasha’s family been as well-off and as well-connected as once they had been her marriage to the son of such a family could never imaginably have taken place, whatever her charms or his weakness. All the childish romance to which she still clung – the very first thing she had done upon moving into their far from large apartment had been, to Sasha’s delighted disbelief, to set up her small toy theatre on the tiny sideboard in the living room – was fed by this house with its empty, echoing rooms, its faded glory, its unkempt and run-down fields and garden. Yet the bourgeois in her was impatient to the point of contempt; how could they have allowed it to happen? For all their airs and their undoubted graces, what good were they, to themselves or to those who depended upon them? More than once she found herself thinking of her Uncle Bourlov – whom above all people she admired – his energy, his shrewd business brain, his single-minded ambition. He would never in a million years sink into the genteel, mostly self-inflicted poverty in which the Kolashkis found themselves. And if by any ill chance he did, he would not sit idly by twiddling aristocratic thumbs and speaking French at the dining table while the world continued to crumble about him. She’d speak to him – ask his advice. If they could marry Galina off – there must be someone who would want her? – and perhaps farm Sasha’s mother out to some distant relation, surely something could be done to restore at least some comfort and prestige to the Kolashki estate? Anna, by all accounts, was living a life of landed luxury in England – the photographs she had sent of her husband’s Sussex house where they now spent most of their time showed a small but exceedingly pretty country house set in lovely gardens and rolling parkland – why should not her youngest sister achieve the same end in Russia?
Thus dreaming Margarita sustained herself through the last few uncomfortable days before they could leave and go back to life in St Petersburg.
On the day before they were due to leave Sasha’s mother, gently but very firmly, suggested that she and her new daughter-in-law spend the morning together.
Margarita, who had quite cleverly avoided any such intimacy up until now, could do nothing but agree. She joined her mother-in-law in her parlour, poured water from the bubbling samovar into the tea glasses and prepared for the inquisition.
It did not come.
Olga Mikhailovna Kolashkova was by no means stupid. The marriage was made, nothing could be done about it. It was unlikely, anyway, that anyone of their own station would have looked at poor Sasha with his debts, his dependent female relatives and his millstone of an estate. The problem was not Margarita’s lowly birth, it was her character. Above all Sasha’s mother was concerned for the happiness of her beloved son; nothing she had seen of Margarita had convinced her that this was in safe hands. ‘My dear,’ she said, after the everyday courtesies had been carefully observed, ‘it occurs to me – Sasha has never been happy in the army. He took his Commission only to please his father. Might it not be an idea now for him to leave, to come home? The estate needs a man, someone with a strong hand, to run it, to get it back on its feet.’ She tried h
ard to make that sound like a positive premise rather than a hope.
Rita, already sitting ramrod straight, stiffened further. She took a long moment to sip her tea, very composedly to replace her glass in its small saucer. Then, ‘Oh, no,’ she said, very sweetly and reasonably, ‘I really don’t think that will be possible. Not for a while, anyway.’ She lowered her eyes, hiding the sharp gleam of anger. ‘Sasha has his way to make in the world, Mother-in-law,’ she added, quietly, her young voice edged. ‘He’s changed. Of course he has. He’s no longer a little boy. He’s a man. He knows what he has to do.’
Olga lifted a narrow, elegant hand. ‘He was never suited to the army,’ she repeated, doggedly. ‘Never.’
Margarita lifted her head, fixed the older woman with a wide, confident, apparently innocent stare. Faded, astonishingly uncertain eyes met hers. There was a long silence. The eyes dropped. Margarita let out a small, satisfied breath that had been pent in her throat. In such a short moment, they both knew who had won.
The silence lengthened. Olga sighed. She had, she supposed, known it would be useless. This vital, exhausting, self-centred child would never think of anyone but herself. Her mother’s heart bled for gentle, incredibly silly Sasha. She remembered her own marriage, not in the beginning the penance it had later become, and flinched from the knowledge that history, inevitably, seemed to repeat itself. ‘You’re leaving tomorrow?’ she asked, conversationally, in her voice not the slightest sign of despair.
‘Yes.’ Margarita was watching her warily.
Strange Are the Ways Page 25
