The Seeds of Power

by Christopher Nicole

  *

  ‘They are saying thirty British transports sank last night,’ Yevrentko told Colin the next day. ‘I think, when the spring comes, your people will sail away again, eh?’

  Colin found himself disliking the fellow, but he was learning Russian, and he was regaining his health and strength. Dagmar Bolugayevska spent less time in his room, as he changed from an invalid into a guest. By early December he was able to leave his bed, and move about the room, although only when supported by two of the Bolugayevski male servants. ‘You will soon be fully recovered,’ Georgei told him. Now, I have arranged for my tailor to come in and measure you up for some clothes. I am afraid your uniform is destroyed beyond repair.’

  ‘When will I be transferred to a prison camp?’ Colin asked.

  Georgei gazed at him in astonishment. ‘Do you wish to be transferred? They are not very nice places.’

  ‘Am I not a prisoner?’

  ‘You are my father’s guest. However, one of the reasons I suggest you wear civilian clothes is so that you do not attract attention when you go out.’

  ‘You mean you will let me go out?’

  ‘As soon as you are strong enough. And when the weather improves. It would not do for you to catch a chill while in your weakened condition.’

  ‘And suppose I told you that as soon as I am strong enough I intend to escape back to my comrades?’

  ‘I would say you are mad. You seriously wish to go out into the ice and the snow, the starvation and the disease, which is the British encampment? Our spies tell us they are dying at the rate of a hundred a day out there.’

  ‘And do you seriously think I would remain here, in the lap of luxury, while my comrades are dying?’

  ‘Your comrades are all dead, or sent back to England,’ Georgei said. ‘Thanks to the incompetence of your generals. Why do you not practise a little Russian pragmatism, my friend? You are, as you say, a prisoner of war. It would be very easy for us to send you to that prison camp, where men, sadly, are also dying at a great rate, and from where there is no possibility of escape. They must sit it out to the end of the war. Now, we are inviting you to do the same, only here with us. The end result will be the same: you will be sent home when the war ends. You cannot affect that with odd notions of honour. What you can affect, by a simple act of will, is whether you return to England a strong and healthy man, able to resume your place in your regiment and in your society, or whether you return as a half-starved and shattered wreck, unable to do more than eke out a miserable existence on a small pension for the rest of your days.’

  ‘You put things with admirable succinctness,’ Colin remarked.

  ‘In Russia, it is necessary always to understand the realities of any situation,’ Georgei said, seriously. ‘We are having a bad winter, down here. But we are also having a bad winter further north. Have you any idea what it is like, to have a bad winter, in central Russia? You do not. I have read a lot of English literature. It is my hobby. I remember reading, not so long ago, the memoirs of an English parson, named Woodforde. He recalled the coldest winter he had ever known, so cold that his piss froze in the pot beneath his bed. Colin, in Russia, in winter, if he cannot warm his surroundings, a man’s piss gets frozen in his bladder. Now consider, you are a small landowner, in central Russia, and winter closes in. You have made every preparation for it, but yet it is a more severe winter than you expected, and it lasts longer. So it is that by March you are running out of wood to burn and food to eat, and there is as yet no sign of a thaw. Then you must think, we can only survive to see the spring if I can reduce the number of mouths to be fed, bodies to be warmed. Now, I know you English. Your initial reaction would be, you must do the gallant thing. You must walk out into the snow, and perish. But is that not a sign of total weakness? You are the one on whom the family will depend, when spring arrives. It is the weakest of the family that must be put out to die, however painful it may be to sacrifice a well-loved servant, or even a child. Can you understand that?’

  ‘I can understand why Russians have large families,’ Colin said. And I can also understand how fortunate I am to be British.’

  Georgei grinned good-naturedly. ‘And perhaps you can also understand why we drink vodka instead of beer, eh? Now, no more serious talk. Do you know what you need, now you are stronger? You need a woman. It has been a long time, eh? What sort of woman would you like?’

  ‘You mean, I tell you, you snap your fingers, and she appears?’

  ‘Well, as long as you do not seek the moon, it will be something like that, yes.’

  ‘Suppose I asked for Jennie Cromb?’

  Georgei frowned. ‘Jennie Cromb?’

  ‘My God! You do not even remember her. You abducted her from Blaistone, remember? What did you do with her? Throw her out on to the street?’

  ‘Jennie!’ Georgei slapped his thigh. ‘I just did not connect her name with Cromb. I have never called her that. I did not abduct her, Colin. She came with me of her own free will. I agree, she had to be...persuaded to come with me to Russia. But I am very fond of her, and I insisted.’

  ‘You mean she is alive, and in Russia?’

  ‘Oh, indeed. Very much so. In fact, she is a mother. My son.’

  ‘My God,’ Colin said again.

  ‘You are welcome to have her, if you wish. She is at Bolugayen, with the rest of my family. I will take you there. In the spring.’

  CHAPTER TWO - THE SISTER

  The Russians had no doubt that Sevastopol would still be holding out in the spring. In the spring! Colin felt inexpressibly guilty, yet Georgei’s words were insidiously sensible. What purpose would he serve by insisting upon being transferred to prison? He stood a much better chance of escaping from here. But even that was not possible until he was fully fit again.

  Meanwhile, Russian, and clothes. He was amazed at the variety of garments the tailor provided for him. ‘A dinner suit? Where on earth am I going to wear a dinner suit?’ he asked Yevrentko.

  ‘At Christmas, Mr MacLain. You must be properly dressed at Christmas.’

  Which by Colin’s reckoning had occurred several days before, uncelebrated. Now he recalled that the Russians followed a different calendar to the West. Was he to eat with the family? Although he had continued to be served his meals in his room, he had the run of the house. He was not yet strong enough to try leaving it, and did not know what would happen if he did try. All around him was hustle and bustle as silver was polished and floors washed and vast quantities of food disappeared into the palace kitchens. The French and British might be starving at Balaclava and Kamiesch, but there was no shortage of food and warmth within the Bolugayevski Palace.

  The whole was overseen by Dagmar Bolugayevska. She made a splendid figure, in her white gowns and her hair, which was a tawny yellow, piled on top of her head, her rope of pearls, and her quick, incisive movements. Colin was fascinated. After so long, he did, indeed, want a woman, and the woman he wanted was Dagmar.

  For the time being, he could look, and dream, and be curious. ‘Is the Princess on the estate?’ he asked Yevrentko.

  ‘The Princess is dead,’ the schoolmaster replied. ‘She died some years ago. Since then, the Dowager Princess has been mistress of Bolugayen. But Countess Dagmar has also managed her father’s house.’

  ‘Why has she never married? How old is she?’

  ‘It is impolite to inquire a lady’s age,’ Yevrentko said severely. ‘But if you must know, the Countess is twenty-six years old. That she has not married is because she regards it as her duty to stay with her father, until perhaps he marries again. There was talk of it before the war, but it cannot now happen until after your people go away.’

  Oddly, Colin got the impression that the schoolmaster was lying, although in what respect he couldn’t decide. He’s in love with her, he thought. ‘Are there other children apart from Dagmar and Georgei?’ he asked.

  ‘There are the two younger daughters,. Anna and Alexandra. But they are on the estate.’<
br />
  ‘No brothers?’

  ‘The Prince has been unfortunate in that respect. There is only Count Georgei.’

  ‘And are the two younger daughters as handsome as their sister?’

  ‘They are beautiful,’ Yevrentko said reverently. ‘Their mother was a beautiful woman.’

  He’s in love with all of them, Colin thought. And they are as far above him as are the stars. But not so far above himself.

  *

  Next morning he deliberately put himself in Dagmar’s way. ‘I only learned yesterday about your mother,’ he said. ‘I am very sorry.’

  ‘It was a few years ago,’ she said. ‘Your Russian is coming along very well.’

  ‘Thank you. May I ask what she died of? She cannot have been very old.’

  She had been making lists. Now she checked, her writing block in her hand, raising her head to look at him. ‘Mother died in childbirth, Mr MacLain.’

  ‘Oh, I...’ He was totally embarrassed.

  ‘So did the babe,’ she said. ‘He would have been another brother. It was very sad.’

  ‘I did not mean to distress you.’

  ‘But you are curious. I do not blame you for that.’ She placed her writing block on the table. ‘Are you sorry to be here for Christmas? Do you have brothers and sisters, a mother and father?’

  ‘I have a mother and a father, and a sister.’

  ‘Who will be worrying about you. But as we informed your general that you had been taken prisoner, and again, that you had recovered from your wound, they will at least know you are safe.’

  ‘Does General Raglan know I am in this house?’

  ‘I imagine so. Does the fact that he knows you are here concern you?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, of course it does, mademoiselle...ah, Countess. Is that how I should address you?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘You should address me as Your Excellency. But I think in all the circumstances we could settle for Dagmar. Why are you unhappy to be here?’

  ‘I have no business being here.’

  ‘You are afraid you will be cashiered?’ she suggested.

  ‘I will certainly be severely reprimanded.’

  ‘For not dying in prison? It is a senseless world, is it not? Honour! All men think about is honour, when it is the most absurd thing in the world. Perhaps you should stay here in Russia,’ she suggested.

  ‘Don’t you have notions of honour in Russia?’

  ‘More than in England, I suspect. But they are only important in places like Moscow or St Petersburg. Not on Bolugayen.’

  ‘You mean your father might offer me a job?’

  He was being facetious, but she appeared to take him seriously. ‘Why, yes, I think he might very well do that.’

  ‘I know only soldiering.’

  ‘Then we will have to teach you something else.’ She tapped his hand with her fan. ‘You are distracting me from my work. The party is only two days off.’

  ‘Are you really going to have a big party, in the middle of a war?’

  ‘But of course. The Bolugayevskis’ Christmas Ball is a famous event. Should we be stopped by a few British shells?’

  *

  He presumed she had indicated that he was to keep out of her way for the next few days, but to his surprise, she sought him out only two days later, the Russian Christmas Eve. He was in the cellars with Yevrentko, making a few tentative passes with a sword. ‘You will exhaust yourself,’ she commented.

  They had not heard her come in, and both turned in surprise.

  Yevrentko bowed. ‘Mr MacLain wished to practise, Your Excellency.’

  ‘Actually, I am trying to get fit,’ Colin explained. ‘Of course. Are you a good swordsman, Mr MacLain?’

  Colin looked at Yevrentko.

  ‘Mr MacLain is an excellent swordsman, Your Excellency.’

  ‘I thought he would be. You may leave us, Yevrentko.’

  The schoolmaster hesitated, then bowed again. Colin tossed him his sword, and he carried both weapons from the room. There was a single chair, and Dagmar sat down. ‘You have been avoiding me.’

  Colin wiped sweat from his forehead and neck. ‘I was under the impression that you were busy.’

  ‘I was. But it is all done now. I like your suit.’ Colin put on his jacket. ‘You should congratulate your brother. Or his tailor.’

  ‘Is that the sort of suit they wear in England?’

  ‘The cut is not quite the same, no. But it is very well cut. As usual, I am most grateful.’

  ‘Tell me about England,’ she invited. ‘I mean, Georgei has told me about it, but his is an outsider’s view. I would like yours.’

  ‘Well, actually, I’m a Scot.’

  ‘You mean, you’re the English equivalent of a Cossack?’

  He had never thought of it that way, but he supposed in a manner of speaking he was. ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Is it true there are no serfs in England?’ Dagmar asked.

  ‘Quite true.’

  ‘But my brother brought one of your women back with him.’

  ‘You know of this? I mean, you approve of it?’ She shrugged. ‘Whether I approve of it or not is hardly relevant. Georgei does what he pleases.’

  He stood beside her. ‘Is Jennie well? Georgei said she is a mother.’

  ‘Why, yes, I believe she is. Yes, she is well.’ She raised her head, a faint frown between her eyes. ‘You mean you knew the girl?’

  ‘It was she and I who dragged your brother from the bog.’

  ‘Of course. I had forgotten. I wish I had been there.’

  He was, as always, angered by these people’s casual references to Jennie Cromb, as if she had no meaning outside of their own requirements. ‘Would you have stripped naked before a strange man?’ he asked.

  To his surprise she did not look the slightest put out. ‘Why, yes, to save my brother, certainly. And would you, then, have carried me off, Mr MacLain?’

  He gulped in embarrassment. Dagmar smiled, and stood up, tapping him on the shoulder with her fan. ‘I should hope you would have, Mr MacLain, otherwise I should have been very angry with you.’ She walked to the door, and turned back to look at him. ‘There has not been serfdom in England for many hundreds of years, I believe. But would you like there to be?’

  ‘Good God, no. I think it is a despicable custom. With respect, mademoiselle.’

  ‘There is no need to apologise, Mr MacLain,’ she said, and she swept from the room.

  *

  The Bolugayevskis’ Christmas Ball was the biggest affair Colin had ever attended. He was able to lose himself in the kaleidoscope of uniforms and swords, exposed shoulders and decolletage dresses, upswept hair, glittering jewels and orders. Georgei, resplendent in his dark blue uniform as an officer in the Actirski Hussars—the tunic was entirely obscured by the masses of gold braid—introduced him to various people, but they did not seem interested in him. Despite Dagmar’s compliment his Russian was not yet good enough to appreciate all the idioms of conversation.

  To his surprise all of the guests were junior officers, and he would not have said that any of the women were members of even the lower aristocracy. Yet Alexander Bolugayevski was a prince. He would have expected one or two of Sevastopol’s leading citizens to be present. Then he remembered Lord Blaistone’s hint that there was something not quite right about this family.

  He was required to take Dagmar into dinner, and suddenly it seemed everyone was looking at him. ‘I feel very conspicuous,’ he muttered, when they were seated and the family confessor had said grace. ‘Whoever did the seating? Georgei, I bet.’

  ‘Of course he did not,’ Dagmar said. ‘I arranged the seating.’

  His head turned, sharply. ‘And what made you choose me?’

  She rested her white-gloved elbow on the table, and then her chin on her gloved forefinger, while she looked at him for several seconds. ‘So that you would have to ask me to dance.’

  He couldn’t believe that she could be
interested in someone six years her junior. But he wanted her, quite desperately. And tonight she was quite superb. She wore a blood-red gown which was held up, it seemed, only by her magnificent breasts, and her hair was swept up in a chignon surmounted by a diamond tiara; the thought of holding her in his arms, if only to waltz, was breath-taking.

  Once the toasts had been drunk, one hand tight in his, the other resting lightly on his shoulder, they led the dancing. Now he regretted that extra glass of champagne with his meal. Her face was fuzzy at the edges, while her teeth seemed to gleam at him with an extra sparkle as she smiled. ‘You waltz very well, Mr MacLain.’

  ‘It goes with being an officer, Your Excellency.’

  The music stopped, briefly, but in that time she was claimed by her next partner. Just as well, he supposed; he had had a growing urge to crush her against him, and kiss her mouth. And then...you are very drunk, he told himself. But, so was everybody else. Why not be as drunk as everyone else?

  He set down his glass, took another, drank that as well, and made his way across the room. Dagmar was, as usual, the centre of a group of people, mainly officers, speaking and smiling as animatedly as ever, but she was watching his approach. ‘Gentlemen,’ she said. ‘Our English guest. Hero of that famous charge.’

  ‘I am Scots, not English.’

  ‘It seems half the English army is Scotch,’ said one of the officers.

  ‘Scots,’ Colin corrected him. ‘Scotch is what you drink, if you can get it.’

  The man glared at him, but Dagmar had moved to stand beside him. ‘You are drunk,’ she remarked in a low voice. ‘If you go around correcting people all the time you will find yourself fighting a duel.’

  ‘But the fellow was wrong.’

  ‘Nevertheless.’

  He gazed at her. ‘Are you not drunk, Your Excellency?’

  ‘Of course. But I cannot afford to show it until after our guests have gone.’

  ‘Then let me dance with you.’

  ‘My card is full for the entire evening. I think the occasion is proving too much for you. You have not fully regained your strength, you know. I give you permission to retire.’