Valerie's Russia

by Sara Judge

  ‘When will you be coming to join us?’ asked Valerie, hoping it would not be too long before she saw him again.

  ‘I am not quite sure at present,’ said Pyotr. Much would depend on Sophia and the date she chose for their wedding.

  ‘We will manage quite well without you, brother,’ said Tassya, smiling at him through the glass and hoping he wouldn’t come down too speedily. She needed time to exercise her slow old feet and a couple of weeks was not long enough. ‘Come for my birthday,’ she said.

  ‘But that is months away,’ said Valerie, frowning. ‘Your mother will want to see you sooner than that, Pyotr.’ So will I, she thought, but she couldn’t say that.

  ‘If mother is ill she will be thinking only of herself,’ said Tassya, a little waspishly.

  ‘Now, now.’ Pyotr moved closer to the window and gave the glass by his sister’s face a little tap. ‘Be patient with Mother, and tell her I shall come home as soon as I can.’

  Tassya nodded as her eyes began to sparkle. How she longed to tell her brother about her improvement. But Pyotr was not yet ready to believe in the holy man and she had the strangest feeling that Valerie, too, had turned against Father Grigorii.

  Never mind, thought Tassya, waving as the train began moving slowly out of the station. She and Valerie hadn’t had much time to themselves and she obviously couldn’t speak about the holy man in Pyotr’s presence. But now they were going to have days together in the train, and she would be able to ask Valerie everything she wanted to know.

  Valerie, refreshed by two nights of unbroken slumber at the Lees, and thankful to be away from the curious banker’s wife, wanted only to think about the future. To think about Mavara, and Pyotr’s eventual coming. She wanted to organize the best cleaning and scrubbing, dusting and polishing, the tired old house had ever experienced. And it would keep her happily occupied whilst she waited.

  But with Tassya’s eager face in front of her, she was suddenly aware of the difficulties confronting her in the confined space they now shared. With all the chaos and upheaval of the past days, she had forgotten all about Tassya’s connection with the Siberian peasant, and her innocent trust in him.

  Oh heavens, how was she going to explain her revulsion of the man?

  ‘Valerie, talk to me.’ Tassya’s voice was raised above the rhythmic pounding of the wheels as they rolled along the metal tracks. ‘What did my holy man say to you? What did you say to him? Did you thank him properly for what he is doing for me?’

  ‘I was trying to forget about that,’ said Valerie slowly.

  ‘What? I don’t understand.’ Tassya was impatient. What was wrong with Valerie? She wasn’t a bit like the cheerful girl who had come to tea at the Lukaev’s mansion. ‘Come on – I want to know all about your visit.’

  I’ll have to tell her, thought Valerie, but it will break her heart. Perhaps the details could be watered down? Perhaps she could leave out the worst bits and pretend Rasputin had been playing a game?

  Yet memories were so devastating she knew she couldn’t lie.

  Carefully Valerie began explaining about her arrival at the apartment and her surprise at finding so many Society ladies there, and how she had tried to leave and return another day.

  Tassya nodded. ‘I wouldn’t have liked lots of people there,’ she agreed, smiling as she remembered the quiet antechamber and the calm, reassuring presence of the man of God. ‘It was just Dunya and I when we were there, and the sound of his wonderful deep voice praying over me.’

  Valerie sighed. How could she make Tassya understand that there were two Rasputins? One, a good man who worked miracles. But also another, who enjoyed bedding as many different females as he could.

  ‘Let’s leave it, Tassya,’ she said. ‘You remember a holy man and I remember a very different being.’

  ‘But you can’t leave it like that,’ said Tassya, frowning across at Valerie. ‘What is the matter with you? How can I understand your strange attitude if you don’t tell me what happened?’

  ‘Very well,’ said Valerie stiffly. ‘All the ladies were drunk and forced me to drink too much wine. Rasputin was also drunk. Then I was dragged into his bedroom against my will and two of the women undressed me.’

  Tassya gasped, staring at Valerie with huge eyes.

  ‘Then that awful man came in and told the others to go. He lay down on the bed with me and wouldn’t let me go. He was smelly and hairy and revolting.’ Valerie fumbled for her handkerchief. ‘It was dreadful, Tassya, and I hate him!’

  ‘You are lying,’ said Tassya, her cheeks aflame. ‘My man of God would never do anything like that!’

  Dunya, who was sitting in the far corner, stood up and went to sit beside her mistress. She put an arm around Tassya’s shoulders and spoke softly to her.

  ‘It is the truth,’ said Valerie, wiping her face. ‘How I wish it was not. Then Pyotr came and rescued me, thank God.’

  Tassya shook off Dunya’s arm and glared. This foreign girl, whom she had thought was her friend, was trying to destroy two of the most important things in her life. Her blessed healer, Father Grigorii, and her faith in him.

  ‘I don’t believe the Imperial family allowed you to come here on leave,’ she said suddenly. ‘I believe they have dismissed you. They love Father Grigorii just as I do, and they don’t want you around spreading wicked lies about him, Valerie Marsh.’

  Valerie shrugged and turned her head to look out of the window. It was useless trying to convince Tassya so she would keep quiet and think about Pyotr. He knew the truth, and would support and comfort her when he came south.

  Tassya also remained silent, but her mind was filling with dislike for this English girl whose lies had so upset her.

  When they first arrived at Mavara, Tassya insisted on being at her mother’s bed all day long, so Valerie was sent to fetch and carry for both of them.

  She had to take messages down to the kitchen, tell Sidor Novatko what to prepare for each meal, and give the maids their orders. There was no spring clean as she had imagined it, but a continual running to and fro up and down stairs.

  ‘Tell Sidor there was too much salt in the borscht last night. I could not drink it,’ said Countess Irina.

  And—

  ‘Go and see Feodor about these lamps. The wicks are too low and they smell abominably.’

  And ‘Go to the linen room, Valerie, and look me out some better sheets. Then tell Galina to take more care with her sewing. Mine have been badly mended and I cannot sleep on them.’

  All the while Tassya sat composedly beside her mother, looking as contented as a well-fed cat. And Dunya, sewing some unimportant item, would glance up with an equally satisfied air. There were three other maid servants in the house, but none of them was ever called once Valerie arrived at Mavara.

  Valerie thought Countess Irina looked older and more haggard than when she had last seen her and, although the woman did not complain of pain her doctor had said rest, so rest she did.

  She had lost weight and sat scarecrow-like, her yellow face against the pillows, but her brown eyes were still sharp and her voice harsh.

  To begin with, Tassya had read to her mother and written letters for her, whilst Valerie had run errands for them both and carried trays up to the first floor for their meals three times a day. But quite soon Tassya had become bored in the sick-room and eager to distance herself from such an irritable and demanding patient.

  ‘Pyotr sent you down here to help us,’ she told Valerie, when her mother was taking her afternoon nap, ‘and as I need Dunya to help more with my legs you must stay with Mother and do whatever she wants.’

  Valerie, who was beginning to wish she had brought Dashka with her, was thankful to agree. She enjoyed reading and writing letters, and the thought of sitting for longer periods was pleasing. She would also hear all Pyotr’s news and be able to write to him in his mother’s name.

  Unfortunately she had forgotten about the Cyrillic alphabet. Although her knowledge of spoken
Russian had improved considerably, she had no idea how to write the language.

  This didn’t affect her reading as the countess was very fond of both Dickens and Jane Austen, and possessed sets of both authors’ works printed in English. But Valerie knew she could never cope with any correspondence.

  However the countess soon had a solution to that problem.

  ‘I am quite capable of reading my own letters,’ she said, ‘but do not intend labouring over the replies. So you write them your way, Valerie, and I will spell the words for you. We are not all illiterate peasants here, you know. And those with whom I wish to correspond will be quite capable of understanding – so long as your script is legible.’

  Valerie learned when Pyotr returned to Tsarskoe Selo and resumed his duties, although there was no mention of the Empress. So in the next letter from the countess to her son, Valerie slipped in a note addressed to Grand Duchess Olga, thanking her for hers.

  Soon after arriving at Mavara she had found the courage to read Olga’s letter, which Pyotr had given her in St Petersburg. To her relief the words, although short and stilted, showed she didn’t hate Valerie for what had happened.

  ‘… I was very sorry to hear such bad news of you, Valerie – I wish we could talk, but perhaps it is just as well if you go south. Time heals all wounds and maybe before too long we will meet again. I shall miss you. Olga Nicolaievna.’

  There was sympathy in the letter despite its brevity and that helped Valerie during her days of drudgery in the crumbling old house, as well as her thoughts of Pyotr.

  To add to her discomfort, she had been made to realize very early on that the other servants disliked taking orders from a foreigner, even though the words stemmed from Countess Irina. She was hurt by their looks of scorn, or scarcely-concealed sniggers as she struggled with yet another embarrassing demand, or reprimand, from on high.

  Even Feodor, though more dignified in his behaviour, showed by his raised eyebrows, or by making her repeat a message, that Valerie was not his mistress, nor acceptable in the household where she was no longer a guest.

  So all she could do was grit her teeth and wait for Pyotr to come and tell her what the future held for them both.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘May I join you, Varinka?’

  Valerie’s head jerked up from her sewing and she lay down her needlework as she saw Pyotr standing in the open doorway.

  ‘Oh, please come in – I’ve wanted to talk to you for days, but we never get the chance to be on our own together.’ She held out her hands to the tall, dark-haired man who came loping towards her, looking cool and wonderfully fit in his loose cotton trousers and blue peasant’s blouse. ‘Where are the others?’ she whispered, as he cupped her face in his warm hands and silenced her with a kiss.

  As Valerie fondled his springy thick hair and felt his mouth on hers, she rejoiced at the clean masculine smell of him. It had been so long since she had been in his arms, she couldn’t get enough of his kisses and hard body close to hers.

  Pyotr, in turn, savoured her sweetness, revelling in her soft receptive lips and smoothing her tender body with his hands, Then he raised his mouth from hers and pulled her to her feet, before seating himself on the chair and drawing her back to lean against him.

  ‘Sophia and Tassya have gone to Kamenka for yet more shopping, and as Mother is sound asleep next door I felt this was the best time for us to talk, my love. But why so thin, Varinka?’

  He had seen little of her since arriving at Mavara, for Tassya always joined him and Sophia at mealtimes, whilst Valerie remained upstairs with his mother. Even when he went to talk to the countess Valerie was scarcely visible, sitting on a chair by the window saying nothing unless spoken to. But what could he say when his mother was always present?

  ‘I have been working quite hard,’ Valerie said, rubbing her cheek against the light cotton of his blouse, almost purring as his right hand slid down the open neck of her dress and began caressing one small breast.

  ‘Even these are thinner,’ he grumbled, lowering his head to nibble at her neck then at the smooth milky whiteness of her breast.

  ‘You must not!’ She was almost whimpering with longing for him to remove her clothing and allow him to kiss and fondle every part of her quivering body. ‘Your mother will wake up soon and I must be ready to go to her.’

  Slowly he lifted his head to place his face against her shiny hair, but his hand stayed inside her bodice cupping her flesh, his fingers playing with her nipple.

  ‘You have been working like a slave, have you not, Varinka? Was it by your choice, or did my womenfolk insist upon such grudging?’

  ‘Grudging?’ Valerie stared. Then she burst out laughing. ‘You mean drudgery, Pyotr Silakov! Your English is not improving I fear.’ She removed his hand from inside her dress and kissed it. ‘I don’t mind the work, but I hated it at first and it was only thoughts of you that kept me going.’

  Then she turned and looked down at him with such longing, such tenderness in her pale face, that Pyotr felt a stab of self- loathing pierce his body. If only he could have married this girl!

  ‘You won’t ever leave me, will you, Petya? I know your wife and children must always come first, but you won’t forget your Varinka?’

  He stood up and drew her close in one last desperate embrace.

  ‘I will never leave you, my dearest one. Just be patient for a while longer,’ he said. ‘Sophia and I will tell Mother of our betrothal this evening and that news will invigorate her as well as Mavara.’ He smiled briefly. ‘Then we will come down to celebrate Tassya’s birthday in August and hopefully our marriage date will be settled by then. Once that is done I shall be able to plan a future for you, my love.’

  ‘Not till then?’

  August seemed very far away. Why was she not independent and able to leave Mavara and set up her own home elsewhere? Valerie was acutely aware of her dire need of Pyotr, not only physically, but also financially. Without him she was nothing.

  Looking across at him standing in the doorway about to depart, she knew she loved him most ardently. But she was not the only female in his life and had to accept that she was the least important.

  Sophia possessed the essential wealth, Countess Irina would have to be cared for and her feelings considered until she died, and Tassya would be her brother’s responsibility unless, or until, she married.

  Pyotr’s mistress, however desirable, would never have a real claim on him.

  Quickly she forced herself to think about the countess as Pyotr left her alone. Countess Irina needed her and in some strange way she was beginning to like the woman. As Tassya had withdrawn more and more from their company, Valerie had grown closer to the invalid.

  The old woman never showed gratitude for what Valerie did, but they shared the same taste in literature and, although the countess snapped at her pronounciation, Valerie knew that her knowledge of Russian was improving rapidly during their sessions together.

  So patience was all that mattered now. Patience, and complete trust in Pyotr.

  That evening after dinner they all went through to the big salon at the rear of the house, where Sophia had once played the piano so beautifully and where Valerie, clad in Grand Duchess Olga’s apple-green satin gown, had last danced with Pyotr.

  Valerie almost smiled, thinking of her changed circumstances. She was wearing her usual drab grey, more worn and faded than during her time with the Imperial family. Because her two day dresses were in constant use, and she was without the funds to pay for new material, her poor grey and blue cottons would have to last the summer.

  Fleetingly she wondered what had become of the muslins and laces that had been made for her in the Crimea. But Pyotr had been in such a hurry collecting her belongings from Alexander Palace, it was not surprising that many items had been left behind.

  However, the other younger females graced the salon with elegance and style. Tassya in the prettiest of white muslins, which had recently been given t
o her by Sophia. It had an emerald green ribbon threaded through her round neckline and short puffed sleeves.

  Valerie had noticed that Sophia wore a different dress both daytime and evenings, and was now wearing wine red taffeta with pearls at her throat and a rope of them entwined in her high piled lustrous black hair.

  The countess reclined on a chaise-longue, which had been given to her by Sophia. It was set in the middle of the bare floorboards whilst the other chairs were placed in a semicircle in front of her. Her sallow face was flushed with pleasure and she clutched a small velvet box over the rug on her knees.

  It was a warm evening and the glass doors had been opened onto the verandah, but Pyotr’s mother seemed to feel cold and told Valerie to run and fetch her shawl.

  Pyotr frowned at this command and glanced towards Dunya, as if to order her upstairs, but at that precise moment Tassya turned her head to say something to her maid, who was standing behind her chair.

  So Valerie left the room without demur.

  ‘This has been in the Silakov family for over one hundred years,’ the countess was saying, as she returned. ‘And I am proud to pass it on to you, Sophia Lukaev.’

  Valerie placed the shawl around the old woman’s shoulders and saw that the box now lay open, lined with gold satin, and holding a cabuchon ruby set in pearls, on a platinum ring.

  ‘Here, Petya,’ said the countess, ‘place it on her finger. Wear it with pride, Sophia, and when your first son becomes engaged to marry, you must give it to him for his bride. Thus it will continue in the family.’

  ‘I will.’ Sophia smiled as Pyotr slid the magnificent ruby onto her finger.

  Valerie looked away as he bent to kiss his betrothed, trying to show no emotion as she settled down next to Tassya’s wheelchair.