Valerie's Russia

by Sara Judge

  Valerie smiled. ‘I am so pleased for you,’ she said. ‘And of course I’ll keep your secret. But don’t forget to tell everyone that it was thanks to Father Grigorii that you recovered. He is disliked by so many people this will prove he is a great healer and a true man of God.’

  ‘I shall tell everyone it was Father Grigorii, and you can tell them, too, Valerie. I want you to come down to Mavara and join in my birthday celebrations.’

  To return to Mavara was the last thing Valerie wanted.

  ‘When is your birthday?’ she said slowly. ‘I’m not sure if I will be able to visit the Ukraine.’

  ‘My birthday’s on the first day of August and you must come, Valerie. I am sure the Imperial family will allow it when you tell them the reason, and give plenty of warning. I don’t mind their knowing our secret. Ask as soon as you get back, Valerie. Promise.’

  There was a fleeting glimpse of Countess Irina on Tassya’s determined little face.

  ‘I will ask, but I cannot promise to come, Tassya.’

  Valerie went across to give the girl’s narrow shoulders a hug. She must never allow her own bitterness and unhappiness to stand in the way of Tassya’s enormous achievement.

  ‘When does Father Grigorii leave for Siberia?’ she asked, as she prepared to make her return journey to Tsarskoe Selo. ‘I’d like to see him before he goes and thank him for what he has done for you.’

  Tassya beamed as she gave Valerie the holy man’s address in the capital.

  ‘Then he travels east, I travel south, and you go west,’ she said. ‘What a busy time we’ll all be having. But don’t forget the first of August, Valerie,’ she repeated, as Dunya wheeled her out into the hall and she waved farewell to her friend. ‘Don’t forget my birthday surprise!’

  Sophia Lukaev sat before her mirror, taking the pearl drops from her ears, but not seeing the beautiful face that looked back at her. At last she had heard something that was very important to her. It would be the means of getting rid of that irritating foreign girl.

  Vera, her maid-servant, had heard Valerie Marsh and Tassya talking that afternoon, and had informed her mistress that the English girl intended visiting Grigorii Rasputin during the coming week.

  This knowledge would annoy Pyotr.

  Of course it was incomprehensible that he should be interested in the penniless foreigner, and after that last evening at Mavara, Sophia was sure he only had eyes for her. But Valerie Marsh lived too close for comfort, and she had spent the last weeks with him and the Imperial family down in the warmth of the Crimea.

  Sophia would not feel really confident until Pyotr’s ring was on her finger and the girl had returned to England.

  The following Tuesday Valerie travelled once again to St Petersburg. But this time she hired a drozhky from the station that took her to the holy man’s apartment. She felt guilty about taking another day away from the palace, but when she had explained to Olga, the grand duchess had smiled in delight.

  ‘Of course you must go and thank Father Grigorii for spending some of his precious time with little Tassya,’ she said. ‘Mama will understand perfectly when I tell her.’ Then she sighed. ‘We are all so envious of you, Valerie, being able to move around unattended and now going to see Our Friend in his own home. How we would love to do that!’

  Life was strange, Valerie thought, sitting on the hard flat leather cushions of the drozhky, an open carriage drawn by one horse, which was rattling its way over the cobbled streets on its iron wheels. The Imperial family possessed everything that money could buy, yet Olga longed for anonymity and freedom. And she would have given anything for the Lukaevs’ wealth, because then she could have married the man she loved.

  She had decided to come to St Petersburg without Dashka. Another rule being broken but Valerie did not care.

  She should not be travelling alone. She should not be visiting the apartment of an unmarried man. Yet Olga had not tried to stop her. In fact, she had been enthusiastic about this visit and even envious of Valerie’s independence.

  What was more important at this time was the knowledge that the Imperial family loved and admired Rasputin just as she did, and understood her desire to show gratitude for what he had done for little Tassya.

  Grigorii Rasputin’s apartment was situated in the west of the city, near Nicholas Station. A man-servant opened the door to Valerie on the third floor and showed her into a large antechamber. He told her his master was eating, but said she should go through to the dining room.

  As she crossed the antechamber, Valerie was surprised by the sound of voices and was immediately aware that she had come at the wrong time. She should have asked Tassya the best time to call. She certainly didn’t want to see Father Grigorii in the company of others. And by the sound of it there were many female visitors.

  Like a hen house, thought Valerie uncharitably, as the manservant ushered her through the open doorway.

  Then she stood for a moment, stunned by what she saw.

  Around a big table sat seven well-dressed Society ladies and at the head, facing the door, was Rasputin. But he was not the holy man she remembered from Anna Vyrubova’s house. Nor was he the great healer she had seen standing at the foot of the tsarevich’s bed.

  This man was dipping his fingers into a bowl of fish in front of him and filling his mouth with the smelly mess. His beard was matted and filthy, he was using no napkin, and the potage was splashing onto his purple blouse and trickling down his sleeves.

  Suddenly he caught sight of Valerie.

  ‘English girl!’ he roared. ‘English girl come and eat with us.’

  Two of the ladies moved apart and another chair was placed up at the table.

  ‘You sit there.’ Rasputin gestured to Valerie to take a seat.

  ‘I am sorry.’ She stepped backwards. ‘I didn’t know you had visitors. I’ll come another time.’

  She had to get away. Out of that apartment and away from that disgusting man and the smell of fish.

  ‘You stay!’ shouted Rasputin, and his man-servant moved swiftly to block her path.

  In desperation Valerie looked back into the room, and saw a pleasant-faced young woman nodding and pointing at the chair next to her.

  ‘Do come and join us,’ she said. ‘I will translate if you do not understand. The Master wants you to stay. We are all disciples gathered here, so please come and join us.’

  Slowly Valerie walked to the chair, which was between the two who had made room for her. Perhaps she would be able to speak to Father Grigorii once this strange meeting was over? Perhaps he would become more acceptable once these women had departed?

  Averting her gaze from the spattered linen cloth, the discarded crusts of black bread, and the numerous glasses and bottles of wine, Valerie folded her hands tightly on her lap and smiled faintly at the friendly woman beside her.

  ‘Drink for our newcomer,’ said Rasputin, placing a grubby hand around the bottle and pouring a glass of wine for Valerie.

  She was not thirsty, but forced herself to sip at the liquid and think about Tassya. This man had helped the girl, Valerie had seen the result with her own eyes. And she had also seen how Alexis had recovered from his appalling attack of haemophilia.

  Maybe this extraordinary and uncivilised behaviour was his way of relaxing? A way for him to rest his body and mind before being called yet again to use his miraculous powers of healing?

  ‘Here, Nina, my hands are dirty. Lick them clean,’ said Rasputin, holding out his slippery hands to the woman at his side.

  To Valerie’s horror, the woman leaned forward and began sucking at his fingers, one by one.

  ‘The Master teaches us to be humble,’ whispered the woman next to Valerie.

  But not this way, thought Valerie. Her father preached often enough about the dangers of conceit and self-esteem, but the Reverend Marsh would never condone what Grigorii Rasputin was demanding of his followers.

  Suddenly she thought of Pyotr and how he had warned her abou
t the Siberian moujik, and how Mrs Lees had spoken of him with distaste, and how Sophia had called him a very fine man of the flesh, who cleansed women of their sins if they sinned with him first.

  It was imperative that she got away – now – immediately. But how could she leave when the man-servant was still standing in the doorway? The wine was also having a strange effect on her and Valerie was not sure her feet would be firm beneath her if she stood up?

  She turned her head to see her friendly neighbour smiling at her.

  ‘When Father Grigorii has finished eating he will choose one of us to go with him to his Holy of Holies,’ she said. ‘Pray that you are the chosen one, my dear. It is an experience you will never forget.’ Her face was alight with hope as she gazed at the man.

  ‘Holy of Holies?’ Valerie felt her stomach heave. She was going to be sick right across the table, adding to the mess of fish soup, black bread and spilled wine.

  ‘His bedroom,’ said the woman, with soft sobbing breath, ‘where he teaches us love as I have never experienced it before. And I am a married woman, dear.’

  With a cry Valerie stood up, jerking back her chair, but her legs would not hold her and she almost fell as she tried to make for the door.

  ‘That one: I choose the English girl today!’ Rasputin was rising and smiling across at Valerie.

  The woman beside her caught hold of Valerie’s arm.

  ‘You are the fortunate one, and the pleasure awaiting you is out of this world. Oh, envy, envy!’ She began weeping hysterically against Valerie’s shoulder.

  ‘Come, we will assist you,’ said two others, coming up behind her and grabbing hold of Valerie’s arms. They began propelling her away from the table and the weeping woman.

  ‘I don’t want to go!’ Valerie rolled her head from side to side and tried to wrench free from their grasp. But her tongue was heavy in her mouth and her eyes wouldn’t focus properly.

  ‘You won’t go yet, English girl, don’t worry. You will have enjoyment first,’ said one, opening the door in front of them.

  She was half-carried into an ill-lit room where the curtains had not been drawn back from the windows, and a huge bed almost filled the space from wall to wall.

  Valerie struggled as the women began to undress her, but her body was weak and they were too strong for her.

  ‘Leave her.’ Suddenly the Master’s voice rang out. The women let go of Valerie and she fell back onto a rumpled heap of cushions and furs. ‘Now go, and leave us in peace.’

  The women departed, the door was closed, and Grigorii Rasputin advanced on Valerie’s defenceless form.

  Chapter Twelve

  Once the English girl had been joined by the Master in his Holy of Holies, the group of disciples made ready to leave the apartment. They were not wanted that day and all knew from previous experience that the Master liked to be left alone with his chosen one.

  The man-servant helped the ladies with their coats and furs, then saw them away before returning to clear up the debris in the dining-room. But to his astonishment, the front door suddenly burst open and an officer of the Imperial Guard came striding into the room, fury flashing in his vivid blue eyes.

  ‘Where is she?’ He looked at the scene of spilled wine and broken bread, and smelt the fish, his nostrils flaring in revulsion. ‘The English girl – where is she?’ He confronted the horrified servant and felt murder in his heart.

  The man knew that his master must never be disturbed at such times, but fear of the furious stranger overwhelmed him.

  ‘In there,’ he squeaked, nodding at the closed bedroom door and then retreating as fast as he could to the kitchen quarters.

  Pyotr stormed through the dining-room, knocking over several chairs as he went, then wrenched open the door leading to Rasputin’s inner sanctum.

  For one long moment he stood staring – his worst fears realised. Valerie lay naked on the wide bed, her arms above her head in listless submission. Her eyes were closed and Pyotr prayed that she had fainted. Beside her, also naked, reclined Grigorii Rasputin, his chest almost as hairy as his bearded face. He lifted his head to look up at the intruder, his hand falling away from the girl’s white body.

  ‘Get out of here!’ he shouted.

  He struggled to a sitting position as Pyotr leapt forward, gathering up remnants of Valerie’s clothing and flinging them over her inert body.

  ‘Valerie, wake up! Get up!’ He leaned over her, terrified she was drugged, or dead.

  To his relief Valerie opened her eyes, then gazed in horror at a man’s face so close to hers. But then she recognized him, and with a cry of joy flung her arms around his neck.

  ‘Thank God,’ she whispered, ‘thank God you’ve come. Oh, take me away. Take me away from this place!’

  Gathering her up in the fur on which she was lying, Pyotr folded it carefully to hide her shame. Then he lifted her in his arms and looked down at the scowling Rasputin.

  ‘The Empress will hear of this,’ he said. ‘Your days of fame and glory are over and I will see you banished to the frozen wastes from which you came.’

  Then he strode out of the room and out of the apartment, carrying the trembling girl in his arms.

  Below in the street his carriage was waiting and as soon as Pyotr appeared at the top of the steps with the burden in his arms, the coachman jumped from his seat and flung open the door.

  ‘Tsarskoselsky Railway Station, bárin?’ he said.

  ‘No.’ During the last painful minutes Pyotr had made up his mind. ‘Bolshoy Prospect on Vassily Island,’ he ordered, climbing in and cradling Valerie on his knees.

  She was clinging to him as if she would never let him go, the remains of her clothing hidden somewhere amongst the folds of fur that enveloped her. Her face was against his broad chest and Pyotr could imagine her mortification and terror at what had occurred.

  Valerie needed to dress herself respectably once more, and to have a good wash. The smell of fish clung to her tangled hair and his nostrils were further insulted by the odour of stale wine.

  Anger swelled in Pyotr’s breast. His once innocent, apple-fresh Varinka now stunk like an over-used prostitute making him feel in need of a wash and change of clothing.

  But at the Lees’ house in Bolshoy Prospect, Valerie would receive the care and attention she so desperately required. The couple were English, friends of the Marsh family, and although the large lady with the loud voice and monstrous hats had irritated him in the past, Pyotr thought she and her husband were the ideal people with whom to leave Valerie at present.

  Tsarskoe Selo was too distant and Alexander Palace not the right place for the distraught girl. However, he intended going back the moment Valerie was safely settled. Empress Alexandra should be told the truth about her adored Friend and he, Pyotr Silakov, was going to tell Her Imperial Highness exactly what kind of a brute he really was.

  The Empress had refused to listen to unsavoury gossip about the Siberian moujik in the past, but she had never had cause to distrust him before. Now, the girl who was companion to her eldest daughter, and whom the Imperial family had grown to love, had been most viciously assaulted by the drunken beast. Pyotr was going to demand his expulsion to Siberia – forever.

  Valerie, warm in the comfort of the fur and firmly held in Pyotr’s strong arms, was almost asleep. She had drunk too much wine, then been so frightened and repulsed by the fondling of that black-bearded beast, she had almost fainted.

  But Pyotr had arrived when she most needed him, and with the warmth of his body close to hers – a clean healthy young body – and with the steady swaying of the carriage, she felt very secure and wanted to stay like that until slumber overtook her. She didn’t want to think, or remember, or do anything except sleep.

  Fortunately the Lees were at home and the moment Mrs Lees saw the handsome count standing in the hall with Valerie’s limp, fur-covered body in his arms, she hurried forward, consternation clouding her face.

  ‘What has happened to
her? Has there been an accident? Oh, my dear child – is she alive?’

  Mrs Lees peered forward, touching the girl’s ruffled hair, gazing anxiously at her closed eyes. Then she caught a whiff of Valerie’s wine-sodden breath.

  ‘Dear Heavens!’ She took a step back and glared at Pyotr. ‘She is inebriated! What have you done to her, Count Silakov?’

  ‘Is something the matter, dear?’ Mr Lees came through from the library, taking in the strange scene in the hall with blinking, owl-like eyes. ‘What is going on?’

  ‘It is all right.’ Pyotr endeavoured to calm the fraught atmosphere. ‘Valerie is not hurt.’ At least he prayed not. ‘But I have taken her away from Grigorii Rasputin’s apartment where too much wine was drunk. May she have a room here, Mrs Lees, until she regains her senses?’

  He looked at the astonished lady with his most charming smile.

  ‘I do not know where else to take her. She will be so ashamed when she recovers. You know what gossip is like in St Petersburg. So I said to myself, Mrs Lees is a family friend and also a very good woman.’

  Mrs Lees mellowed beneath the smile and flattering words.

  ‘Of course Valerie can stay with us,’ she said, then turned and gave orders to the footman to have a room prepared and Katia sent upstairs immediately. ‘You must tell me all about it another time,’ she said. ‘But now Valerie needs a bath and a good night’s rest. That smell, Count Silakov, is quite dreadful!’

  Her nose was quivering as her husband came forward to join them.

  ‘Do not stare, Mr Lees! Valerie is in a sorry state and must be given instant attention. Poor child, I always knew that man was no good and I told her of his appalling reputation.’ She paused, and Pyotr dreaded hearing what was in her mind. ‘You don’t suppose he—’

  ‘You are a wonderful and understanding lady,’ he said quickly, ‘and I am thankful to have brought Valerie to you, Mrs Lees. Now I will carry her upstairs if you will tell me where to go, then I must leave you. I have some important business to attend to.’