Count Antonov's Heir

by Christina Laffeaty

  There was no response from the old woman, and Caroline feared that she had lapsed into another, and perhaps final coma. But she pressed on nevertheless.

  ‘They beat you, didn’t they, Anna, when they mistook you for an escaped exile? And yet you kept on walking, so that you would see Sacha for the last time. Why was it important, Anna? Why?’

  ‘Wanted to—give him—something...’ The words came in a whisper from Anna.

  ‘What was it? Where is this thing you wanted to give him?’ Caroline looked at Sacha. ‘Has she already given it to you?’

  He shook his head, mystified. Anna seemed too weak now to make any response; her eyes were closed and her breath came in short gasps.

  Caroline’s gaze searched the room. It was sparsely furnished and contained, besides the bed and a chair, only an oak coffer. Caroline hurried to open this. Apart from Anna’s shawl and the black kerchief she would normally wear upon her head, it held only one other item—a silver medallion.

  Caroline grabbed it, and returned to the bed. ‘Anna,’ she said urgently, ‘please open your eyes! Look—was this what you wished to give Sacha?’

  After a long, breathless moment the old eyelids flickered open. Anna moved her head in agreement.

  ‘Why did you wish to have it?’ Caroline pressed.

  ‘Belonged—his father. Count Antonov...’

  ‘And how did you come by it if it belonged to the last Count Antonov?’

  ‘Stole it,’ Anna whispered.

  Tears filled Caroline’s eyes. ‘Oh Anna, forgive me...’ She held the medallion out to Sacha, and watched his face as he read the inscription on it.

  ‘Presented in gratitude to Sergei Barovska,’ it read, ‘for saving the life of his master, Count Wolkonski.June 1798.’

  ‘Anna can’t read,’ Caroline said quietly. ‘I doubt if even the original Sergei Barovsky could have read the French inscription on the medallion when it was presented to him. It’s clearly a family heirloom, Sacha, the only thing of value she had to pass on to you. Valuable enough, in her eyes, to justify walking from Siberia. Obviously she had no notion that it would betray her secret. It did belong to your father before you—to Leonid Barovska.’

  Anna had slipped into unconsciousness, and so was quite unaware what a revelation the medallion had been.

  Sacha looked at Caroline, his expression clearly shaken. ‘God knows,’ he said, ‘I would be more than proud to acknowledge Anna as my mother. But she must have been rambling when she said the medallion belonged to Count Antonov, and that she had stolen it. Of course it belonged to her husband’s family, and she wanted me to have it because there is no one else left to whom it can be passed on, and because Anna loved me.’

  ‘Why can’t you accept the truth?’ Caroline cried with despair. ‘Why won’t you believe that you are her son?’

  ‘Because,’ he said quietly, ‘nothing can explain away my Antonov birthmark, my streak of white hair.’

  He laid the old woman gently back down upon the bed. ‘Nothing has changed Caroline,’ he said. ‘Nothing can change.’

  ‘No.’ Her voice was flat with failure and hopelessness. She had forgotten about the damning white Antonov triangle of hair.

  With great tenderness, Sacha leant over Anna, and wiped the perspiration from her brow, pushing back her nightcap as he did so. His breath caught, and Caroline followed his gaze of stunned disbelief.

  No longer as startlingly conspicuous as it must once have been, the distinctive white triangle was still clearly visible among Anna’s salt-and-pepper hair.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Caroline said in a dazed voice. ‘Sacha, you must surely have known, and had perhaps forgotten—’

  ‘No.’ His voice was equally stunned. ‘I’ve never seen her hair before. Like most peasant women, and particularly widows, she always wore a kerchief knotted about her head.’

  ‘And she had more reason to cover her hair than most,’ Caroline said. ‘She had never been to St Petersburg, and therefore she could never have seen that portrait of the sixth Count Antonov. She kept her hair covered for fear that someone would notice that she had the same birthmark as her natural son. You, Sacha.’

  He was still staring at Anna’s hairline as if mesmerised. ‘She is my mother. I must acknowledge it now. But how could she have come by the Antonov birthmark?’

  ‘The Antonovs have never had any respect for their serfs, have they?’ Caroline pointed out. ‘It is only too obvious that Anna’s mother or grandmother was seduced by one of them.’

  Sacha lifted his eyes to Caroline’s, and gradually their expression changed. He was looking at her with emotions which he had not allowed himself to betray for a long time.

  Then a slight fluttering of Anna’s eyelids alerted him. He gathered her in his arms again. ‘Dearest Anna,’ he said tenderly, ‘I wish you had been my mother, for you are the only one I remember, the only one whose love never faltered. So you will forgive me, I know, if I call you Mother. Farewell, Mamasha. May God be with you.’

  Anna was incapable of replying, but they knew that she had heard and understood, for a look of serenity spread across her face.

  She died with that look on her face. Sacha folded her arms upon her breast, and touched her forehead with his lips.

  ‘It was important to her to keep the secret of my birth,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m glad she died believing that she had taken it to the grave with her.’

  ‘Yes.’ Caroline’s voice was husky with emotion. ‘You are truly her son, Sacha. You behaved as selflessly as did she.’

  A few minutes later he and Caroline had left the house, without being seen by Irina. The latter would conclude that they had slipped away to avoid being placed in quarantine, and by the time a physician pronounced that Anna had not, after all, died of the plague, Sacha and Caroline would be safely on their way to Arkhalengsk with Michael.

  Three nights later they were all boarding a ship to England. It was a cargo vessel, with no pretensions to luxury and affording scant comfort, but they were oblivious to its shortcomings. Michael was enchanted with the novelty of his surroundings; as for Caroline and Sacha, any setting in which they could love without guilt and without fear was perfect.

  The journey to Arkhalengsk had been difficult and dangerous, and there had been no time for many expressions of love. But as they stood together on deck, and watched the shoreline of Russia disappear into the distance, Caroline felt Sacha’s hand tightening on hers.

  Without a word he drew her towards him, but they did not embrace until they had reached the haven of their small, cramped cabin.

  Only when the door had been firmly shut against the rest of the world did Sacha gather her in his arms, and part her lips with his kiss.