“And rugs and linens and such. When one travels one must expect—what is it my uncle says?—Spartan conditions. Are you feeling better, Miss Danver?”
“I’m feeling much better.”
“Your color is good. You were so pale and drawn.”
“You’ve been so terribly kind to me,” I said. “I’m afraid I don’t know how to thank you.”
“It was my pleasure,” Lucie replied. “It was so nice to—how you say?—to have an excuse to break our journey for a while. For months and months we travel, travel, travel. It is very wearying.”
“Is your uncle on some sort of diplomatic mission?” I asked.
She shook her head, a faraway look in her eyes. “No, he travels to forget.”
I longed to ask her what she meant by that, but instinct told me the question would not be welcomed. I took a sip of coffee. Lucie gazed into her cup as though it might contain the answer to some ever-elusive mystery.
“My uncle is a—a very restless man,” she said. “We travel and travel and always he is eager to move on to the next place. We will stay in London a month, and then, at last, we will return to Russia. He feels it is time.”
“You’ve been away long?”
“Two years,” she said. “I was fifteen when we left.”
“You must miss your country a great deal.”
“I do not miss the old life,” she said, lowering her eyes. “Sometimes I think of it, and—and I know it was a fortunate day indeed when my uncle took notice of me and decided to allow me to travel with him.”
“He must love you very much.”
“Yes,” she said.
The word seemed to contain a multitude of meanings. As I finished my coffee, Lucie informed me that Count Orlov had departed for London three days ago in order to attend to some business and rent a fine mansion for them to occupy. He would be returning in two days’ time.
“He—he was worried about leaving me behind, but I insisted he go on without me. I didn’t want to leave you, you see. I couldn’t leave and—and never know if you were really all right. I told my uncle I would be quite safe with Vladimir and the others to watch after me. He finally agreed, but he—he does not like to have me out of his sight.”
Lucie fell silent as the muscular servants returned to remove table, chairs and dishes. She moved to the window, gazing pensively down at the courtyard. When the servants had gone, she turned to me with soulful eyes that made her seem painfully vulnerable and even younger than her seventeen years.
“When we return to London, you shall accompany us. We would be very pleased to have you as our guest.”
“That would be nice, Lucie. Ordinarily I would love to, but—”
“I so long to have a friend, you see,” she continued. “I have never had one before. I feel—I feel you are already a friend, Miss Danver.”
“I feel the same way, Lucie,” I said gently. “You have been wonderful to me, and I appreciate everything you’ve done. I—I’m afraid I will not be able to travel with you, though, nor will I be able to be your guest.”
“No?” Her disappointment was moving indeed. “But why?” she asked.
“Because I’m leaving for London at once,” I told her.
Chapter Two
Vladimir stood at the foot of the stairs, watching with sullen brown eyes as I made my descent. The ceiling was low, the hall narrow, and the Russian seemed even larger in the close confines. The high black boots and silver-trimmed blue livery had been augmented with a short, heavy blue cape trimmed with sleek black fur that matched the fur of his tall hat, and there was a pistol in his belt, a lethal-looking knife in a scabbard strapped to his thigh. He was an incongruous sight here in this peaceful country inn. His wide lips curled as I reached the lower steps. I might have been some despised animal, a creature scarcely worth his disdain. Muttering a guttural remark in Russian, he took hold of my arm and helped me down the final step.
“Let go of me,” I said icily.
I tried to pull away. The hand tightened its grip on my arm, causing me to wince, and I was forced to totter along beside him as he marched briskly toward the front room. Flushed, angry, I could barely contain myself as he led me outside. Geese honked, scattering across the cobbles, and a flaxen-haired youth standing beside a wagon of hay gawked in open mouthed amazement as the enormous Russian let go of me and growled an order I could not understand. I rubbed my arm, certain there would be new bruises.
“Gemminy!” the youth cried. “Ain’t never seen nothin’ like ’im a-fore! Whut is ’e, lady?”
“A brute!” I snapped.
“Look at that knife! An’ ain’t that a gun in ’is belt? ’E plannin’ to go ’untin?”
“I’ve no idea.”
Vladimir scowled, looking even more menacing in the brilliant midmorning sunlight that bathed the yard. He stood stiffly at attention, waiting for his mistress to appear. The hostler stepped from the stables. The youth grabbed his pitchfork and began to toss hay into the open stalls. A mud-splattered coach pulled into the yard and a solemn, gray-haired man in black climbed out, followed by two tittering young women in billowy muslin frocks. The man gave them a curt nod, and they scurried inside, tittering all the more as they moved past the immobile Russian in his exotic attire. A groom came to see to the horses as the driver removed the bags from the top of the coach under the suspicious eye of the dour gent in black.
The sun-washed cobbles, the honking geese, the smells of hay and manure and ancient wood—it was all very rustic and charming, but I was as out of place in these surroundings as Lucie and her entourage. Two days had passed since I had made my announcement to her after the lavish breakfast. I had been much weaker than I thought, so weak, in fact, that I had had to go back to bed almost immediately. Containing my impatience, I had realized that the only sensible thing for me to do was to wait for Lucie’s uncle to return and drive to London with them, trying to build my strength in the meantime. I had rested and eaten solid, nourishing food and, accompanied by Lucie, had taken several short walks, Vladimir and Ivan following close behind.
Vladimir clicked his heels together as Lucie stepped outside, Ivan behind her. She looked much younger in a simple white frock with a yellow silk sash. Vladimir scowled and barked an order in Russian. Ivan hurried back into the inn, returning a few moments later with a heavy white cloak lined with yellow silk. Vladimir settled it over Lucie’s shoulders and fastened it at her throat, and the girl scarcely noticed, accepting the ministrations of her servants as a matter of course.
“Is beautiful today, no?” she said. “So much sunlight. We take another walk.”
“You don’t have to come with me, Lucie.”
“Oh no, you mustn’t go alone. What if you felt faint?”
“I’m feeling much, much stronger,” I told her.
“You have the lovely color. Such a beautiful English complexion. A soft pink flush to the cheeks. The English are a handsome race, I think, but they lack the fire.”
We had left the yard and started down the tree-lined lane that led past open fields and pastures. Ivan and Vladimir walked ten paces behind us, two stalwart, scowling watchdogs. Lucie seemed unaware of them, but I was acutely conscious of those boots crunching heavily, those eyes boring into my back. Lucie’s servants still did not trust me. Orlov had left her in their charge, and they were fiercely suspicious of anyone who came too close. I had the feeling any one of them would have slit my throat without giving it a second thought.
“The passion,” she said. “The moods. The—how you say?—the temperament. The English men are—they lack the hot blood, the fire. They are cool and—everything is contained, held back.”
“Not all of them are like that, I assure you.”
“This man of yours, he is different?”
“He’s very different.”
“He has the temperament?” she inquired.
“Enough for ten men.”
“Do you love him, Marietta?”
I nodded, brushing
a speck of dry leaf from my full blue skirt. I loved Jeremy Bond, yes. The love was a lively, vital, mercurial force, contradictory and full of contrasts. It was elating and exasperating, gentle and furious, and frustrating. I longed to humble myself before him and beg his forgiveness, longed to stroke his cheek and kiss his eyelids and tenderly hold him to me. I longed, too, to pull his hair and kick his shin and pound his chest with my fists. I longed to fight with him, to be defeated, to savor the aftermath in his arms. Jeremy Bond inspired emotions I had never felt for any man, marvelous, conflicting emotions denied far too long.
“He is handsome?” Lucie asked.
“Yes and no. His nose is slightly twisted and his eyes are—so blue, so audacious. His hair is thick and brown and one wave flops over his brow, always unruly. He has a merry look, but there is ruthlessness, too, an undeniable hardness.”
“The body?”
“The body is—superb,” I replied.
“He makes love well?”
The question was utterly ingenuous, asked in that soft, mellifluous voice with its curious accent, yet I was taken aback nevertheless. What did this gentle, innocent young creature know of … of bodies and such?
“He—makes love very well,” I said.
“You are most fortunate then, I think.”
“I think so, too.”
And the world’s greatest fool to have almost lost him, I added to myself. Sunlight seeped through the canopy of limbs that met overhead, and bright golden flecks danced at our feet as we walked slowly down the peaceful country lane. I thought of Jeremy, impatient, so impatient to be off to London, to be with him. If he had left, as was likely, I would follow him. I would find him, and I would hold him fast and never, never let the scamp out of my sight again.
“One is enough?” Lucie asked.
“I don’t understand.”
“One man? One is enough?”
“This one is.”
“Our Empress, she has many men. They are—the men are like bonbons, and she gobbles them up. She has the strong appetite, and she adores the variety. There is always one man beside her—Potemkin now—but there are always others to—how you say?—to fill in.”
“Your Empress Catherine is a—remarkable woman.”
“Yes. Very strong. Very forceful. Beautiful, too.”
“You’ve met her?” I asked.
“I saw her once when she visited my—my father’s estate. She was wearing the white velvet gown bejeweled with sapphires and pearls. There were pearls at her throat, too, and diamonds and sapphires. Her cloak was ermine with the glossy black tails gleaming in the white. Her hair was powdered. My father led her into the ballroom, and I stood outside in the darkness, gazing through the French windows for hours. I was six then, maybe eight.”
Lucie sighed. She fell silent, gazing around her with pensive violet-blue eyes that seemed to be seeing other places, other times. Again I sensed that aura of mystery about her, sensed secrets that made those eyes far too sad and serious for one so young. She sighed again, peering at the wild flowers that grew in thick clusters between the tree trunks.
“So many flowers,” she said. “So many trees, so much green—is not like Russia at all. England is a strange country, no?”
“I’m sure I would find Russia much stranger.”
“We have the sweep, the grandeur, the vast spaces. In winter there is the snow and ice, everything white, the wolves howling. In summer there is the hot sun, the golden fields and the red, red poppies.”
“It sounds lovely.”
“It—it is frequently depressing.” Lucie sometimes found it difficult to express herself in proper French grammar. “The black moods come to all Russians and often there is violence. The Russian temperament is dark, brooding. There is little sunshine in the soul, much inner turmoil. The vodka makes one forget, makes one smile when there is no reason. Is not a happy country, Russia, but it is nevertheless the greatest country in the world.”
“I know a few people who might disagree with you.”
“They do not know Russia,” she replied. “We have walked enough?”
Although perfectly willing to accompany me, Lucie found the idea of walking for the sake of walking peculiar indeed, another bewildering English eccentricity impossible to comprehend. We had walked perhaps a mile and a half and, truth to tell, my leg muscles were beginning to feel the strain. I was ready to turn back. Leaves rustled overhead, heavy limbs groaning quietly in the breeze, and the pastures beyond were bathed in sunlight. As we neared the inn, a farmer approached us carrying bunches of vivid orange carrots and a string of beautiful silver-mauve onions.
“What lovely carrots,” I said, “and those onions—I wonder if he grew them himself?”
Lucie showed not the slightest interest. The farmer grinned in anticipation of a sale, holding out the carrots so we could better observe their splendor as we came closer to him. He was tall and sturdy, dressed in ancient leather jerkin and patched brown breeches, his boots in deplorable shape. No older than thirty or so, he had a leathery face, friendly gray eyes and straw-colored hair that fell across his brow in a shaggy fringe. Lucie and I paused, and he came over to us in a loose-kneed shamble.
“Want-ta buy some fine carrots, lady?” he asked me. “I ’ave onions ’ere, too. Fine onions. Me ’an my wife growed ’em our—”
He never finished the sentence. I gave a gasp as Vladimir shoved me out of the way. Stunned, I saw a powerful fist swinging toward the farmer’s face, saw it make contact, heard the hideous crunching noise as bone bruised bone. Vladimir growled as the farmer reeled backward several feet, tottering, finally falling to the ground with a thud, landing on his back. Vladimir unsheathed his knife and fell to his knees, seizing the unconscious man’s hair, jerking his head up, ready to slice his throat from ear to ear.
“Vladimir!” Lucie cried.
She spoke to him quickly, harshly in Russian. Vladimir scowled, hesitating, eager to finish the job. She spoke again, even more harshly, and he released his hold and the farmer’s head banged to the ground. Vladimir stood slowly and thrust his knife back into the scabbard with a violent plunge. Lucie spoke to the other servant then, and Ivan stepped forward and picked the still unconscious farmer up and slung him casually over his shoulder as though he were a bag of potatoes. Gripping the man’s legs with one arm, adjusting his tall black fur hat with his free hand, he started toward the inn at a leisurely pace.
“My God,” I whispered. “He—your man was going to kill him!”
“But of course,” she said calmly. “In Russia, if a serf dares approach a young noblewoman he is—”
“This is England.”
“I know. You allow the serfs to be familiar. It is very strange.”
“We don’t call them serfs. We don’t have serfs. That man is as free as you or I.”
“Of course. That is why I stopped Vladimir. He does not understand, you see.”
“Jesus.”
“You are pale, Marietta. It is all right. Ivan will carry this free man to the house of the doctor and the doctor will tend to him and my uncle will see that the farmer receives much gold to—to”—Lucie struggled to find the right word in French—“to compensate for the damage Vladimir did to him,” she finished.
Her manner was cool and patrician, those lovely eyes totally unperturbed. I was still shaken, but the incident hadn’t disturbed Lucie in the least. She took my hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze, and I took a deep breath, trying to see the burst of violence from her viewpoint. We are all the products of our environment and upbringing, and Lucie was neither cruel nor unfeeling. Her attitude toward the farmer merely reflected that of her country and class. I shuddered to think that, had we been in Russia, she would not have intervened and the farmer would have been savagely dispatched. In Russia, though, a man of his class would never have approached a young noblewoman accompanied by two fierce bodyguards.
“It is over now,” she said. “You feel better?”
�
�I’m all right.”
We resumed our walk, the inn visible now at the end of the lane, pigeons cooing beneath the eaves of the steep thatched roof. Specks of sunlight continued to dart and dance on the shady lane, and birds frolicked in the trees, chirping pleasantly. Goats munched on the grass in a field nearby, the bells around their necks making a dull clatter. It was hard to believe that just a few minutes ago a man had almost been murdered right before my eyes. I was tired now, far more upset by the near-slaughter than I cared to admit. Lucie sensed this and took my hand again.
“I am sorry you were upset,” she said quietly. “A fine, fragile Englishwoman like you—it must have been dreadful.”
“I’m hardly fragile, Lucie. I’ve seen my share of violence.”
“The violence is natural for the Russian,” she explained. “The temperament is so brooding, you see. So much emotion held back, pent up, and turning inward—there must be an outlet, so there is the violence. The fierce fighting, the fierce lovemaking are part of the Russian character.”
“I see.”
“It is a fine race nevertheless. The heart is big, always, and there is always the generosity, the sentiment, the tears so easy to fall. Strong men cry as quickly as maidens.”
“And then beat someone senseless.”
“That is the Russian,” she agreed, completely missing my irony.
The neighing of horses and jangle of harnesses filled the air as we passed the outbuildings that surrounded the main yard. Two more coaches had come and horses were being changed, a groom leading two beautiful blacks toward the stables. Lucie and I paused, gazed at the large, rambling inn with its soft rose-gray brick walls, heavily leaded windows and pale brown thatched roof. A weathered wooden sign hung in front, The Wayfarer black against a faded blue background, black coach and horses silhouetted beneath the lettering.
“My uncle will be returning soon,” Lucie said. “He will be happy to see you well. He was most concerned.”
“Was he?”
“As concerned as I. He did not want to leave when you were still—still in such poor condition, but it was necessary.”
Love Me, Marietta Page 65
