‘No, not exactly bad news, but unexpected,’ I said, remembering the letter about Patrick’s troubles in India.
‘About your – ?’ He paused delicately, seeking for a suitable word.
‘About the man I was going to marry? Yes.’ So he too knew about Patrick. I suppose I should have guessed it.
‘What was he like, Miss Rose? To look at, and as a person?’
Could I still remember what Patrick looked like? Faces, even beloved ones, fade so fast. ‘He was tall, fair-haired, with blue eyes; not a bit good-looking really.’
‘But you thought he was, all the same,’ Peter said gently.
‘I suppose so.’
The conversation seemed to be taking on the kind of intimacy I didn’t feel ready for. I was quite relieved when Ariadne suddenly suggested: ‘And now what about church?’
‘Very suitable,’ said Peter good-humouredly. ‘To settle your mind after all that shopping.’
‘And Madame Titov will be there.’
‘And Edward Lacey,’ said Peter sardonically.
‘Well, yes, but he is not the point. Won’t Rose like Madame Titov? Or anyway, like to meet her?’
‘If you can meet her,’ said Peter lazily. ‘She is so neutral and cloudlike.’ All the same, I thought he did wish me to meet her. I had already noticed that Ariadne’s apparently spontaneous suggestions had often the appearance of being prompted by either Peter or her mother. ‘She is a nice woman,’ Peter went on. ‘A member of the Imperial household.’
‘Very close to the Tsarina,’ put in Ariadne.
The coincidence of meeting the Heir, a Grand Duchess, and a member of the Household came home to me. I wondered if it was really all by chance – but the point of the design, if there was one, escaped me. We walked along in silence for a time, side by side. The afternoon was now very hot, the sun striking off the stone in a dazzling way. Dolly had intimated that we would be leaving St Petersburg soon for the country.
‘You’re getting that look again,’ said Peter. ‘You are thinking either of your lost lover or poor Mademoiselle.’
‘Both,’ I said. ‘Both.’ And it was true. Ever since Laure had told me about her own broken love affair, there had been a link between them in my mind. Strike a note of pain and disappointment, and at once I saw them both.
‘And there is Major Lacey,’ said Ariadne, suddenly interrupting. She pointed to where he stood outside the Church of St Andrew.
He came forward to meet us, smiling. ‘I called at the house, and Madame Denisov told me where to find you,’ he said. So then I knew this expedition had been well planned.
We were very close to the open church door, and a wave of incense – Russian incense, stronger than anything I ever knew – blew towards us.
‘Are you thinking of being received into the Orthodox Church?’ I asked the Major.
‘No, I come for the singing.’ Impossible to tell if he was serious or not.
As always, the church was crowded with people of all ages and conditions, rich, poor, sick and the fashionable healthy like us. The smell of humanity mixed with incense was overwhelming. It usually took me a few minutes to get used to, although Ariadne seemed not to notice it; but I saw Major Lacey’s nose wrinkle slightly. ‘By Jove,’ I heard him murmur under his breath. ‘Rich.’
Inside the church, the darkness was lightened only by candles. I stood still while my eyes adjusted. Then I slipped into a place beside Ariadne, whose head was bent; she was murmuring reverently. Now that my eyes were used to the gloom I could take in the great splendour of the building. I had been here several times by now, of course, but the almost barbaric magnificence of the place astonished me afresh on each visit. Everywhere that the light of the candles penetrated I could see the glint of gold. It shone from the golden candelabra, from the crosses and from the gold leaf used in the paintings which decorated the walls. The other colour which shone through the darkness was the blue of lapis lazuli which I could see on walls, pillars and roof. Here and there were the deep green of malachite and the yellow of onyx. I felt as though I was inside a great jewelled box – but inside this box I felt stifled, not free and at peace as in the kirk at Jordansjoy. I was pressed down by the weight of too many centuries, and too much emotion expended in too much wealth of decoration.
The choir began to sing, emerging in procession from behind the great carved screen which concealed the tabernacle and the host. With them came the priests in their splendid robes of velvet and stiff silk, embroidered with gold and silver. In colours of mulberry and purple and deep blue they walked, one after another, men with pale faces dominated by their vestments. Incense was being thrown about lavishly in great clouds. The host was carried round and the people pressed close. A woman near me knelt down to kiss the floor; Ariadne crossed herself continually. I sat with my hands folded, feeling a little apart; I was not drawn into the emotion spilling out all round me. I felt sad that I wasn’t more touched; I felt reverence and respect for the ritual of the great tradition unfolding itself before me, but a little hard knot of reserve remained within. I wanted to give way, but I could not. I had been like this with Patrick, when I had wanted to show him some special mark of affection, had longed, really, to let my love overflow towards him. But something held me back, and I remained constrained and stiff. Perhaps it was this, in the end, which separated him from me – I think this shyness would have gone with marriag e but I never got a chance to show him. Poor Patrick. I had been so angry with him at first, so full of injured pride and resentment. Now I only grieved for him. I hadn’t thought of myself as to blame in the breaking-off between Patrick and me, but I saw now that I might have been. To a man under stress I had turned a perfectly composed face, and it hadn’t been enough: he could not confide in me, and perhaps he had thought I did not love him.
So as I stood beside Ariadne, I was really thinking of Patrick.
‘Time to go, Miss Rose,’ whispered Peter. ‘We must move. We are keeping the people behind us waiting.’ He looked at me with interest. ‘You were far, far away. Oh, it was the music, I know, it affects everyone, no one can resist it.’
‘Yes, it was very fine.’
‘Interesting counter-tenor they have in the choir,’ said Edward Lacey.
‘He’s a genuine castrato,’ said Ariadne with enthusiasm.
Peter grinned, and Edward Lacey looked a little disconcerted at Ariadne’s frankness. Possibly he thought that well brought up young girls should not be too familiar with the term ‘castrato’, although anyone who has seriously studied music must know it. ‘I thought he might be,’ he said. ‘Strange noise he makes. Vibrant but odd. One could hardly call it beautiful.’
The crowd was pressing close against us, hemming us in on either side, making it difficult to move. We did slowly edge an inch or so forward. I was struck once again by the variety of people that made up the mass. A richly dressed woman was shoulder to shoulder with an old man in his working clothes, a fragile old creature in tatters and rags stood before a burly man carrying a silk hat. Behind them came a trio of schoolgirls in the charge of a Sister in flowing robes, and behind them the tall figure of a bearded monk. The girls were giggling amongst themselves, and I saw the monk give them a hard stare. I noticed his eyes, for they had a particularly alive and searching glance. He turned his head towards me with a penetrating clear look. I blinked.
Once when I was walking in the woods around Jordansjoy, I came upon a young fox. He appeared on the path above me; the ground sloped, so we met eye to eye, and he stared at me boldly, unafraid. Now, to my surprise, I saw that free, questing animal stare again in this man’s eyes. Strange eyes for a monk, I thought.
‘We can move now, Miss Gowrie,’ prompted Edward Lacey politely.
The crowd was much thinner and it was easy now to make our way to the great door, where groups of people still stood about talking and settling their hats and gloves preparatory to departure. As we went forward, I could see that Ariadne had her eyes on a woman sober
ly dressed in plain, dark clothes who was drawing on a pair of white kid gloves and opening a parasol.
‘Madame Titov,’ she said. ‘I want you to meet her.’
Peter withdrew from us a little, leaving us apart. Perhaps he did not so much like Madame Titov.
‘Oh yes, I remember you mentioned her.’
‘She is a person it is very good to know,’ Ariadne assured me earnestly. ‘Nice in herself, and important.’
She didn’t look important, rather she looked a shy, quiet woman with a dowdy taste in hats, and yet she had an air of being completely at ease in the world.
‘And she’s very holy,’ went on Ariadne. ‘That is, devoted to the Church, you know.’
‘Pious,’ I said. ‘And what makes her important?’
‘Hush, she’ll hear. It’s the Empress, of course. They are very close. She looks after the Heir. In the schoolroom and so on.’
Ah, I thought, a governess, even if of a very superior sort. A sister to me beneath the skin. ‘So that’s why you want me to meet her? We are two of a kind.’
‘Not exactly,’ Ariadne smiled. ‘She is not a bit like you. Nor are your duties the same. But she wanted to meet you.’
Inwardly I raised my eyebrows: so now it was she who wished to meet me. That hadn’t been the story the first time round.
‘I think the lady knows you are here,’ murmured Edward Lacey under his breath.
It was true, now I took another glance, Madame Titov was unobtrusively studying me as she fiddled with the buttons on her gloves. Clearly, she was waiting for us to come up to her. Nor did we keep her waiting long. Ariadne piloted me towards her deftly, towing Edward Lacey behind us like a small tug guiding a liner. Except that even out of his uniform there was something of the warrior in Edward’s bearing, so perhaps I should have likened him to a man o’ war.
‘This is Miss Cowrie,’ said Ariadne breathlessly. ‘Madame, may I present Miss Gowrie. Rose, this is Madame Titov.’
‘Delighted,’ murmured Madame, extending a soft hand. Her fingers seemed to melt into mine as I took them, and to give no palpable pressure back. Her expression was friendly enough, although I judged she was not a lady who ever allowed strong emotions to show. Perhaps she felt none. She turned to Ariadne. ‘I believe you are going into the country soon?’
‘Quite soon,’ said Ariadne.
‘We shall meet then,’ said Madame Titov decisively. ‘Because I am going to the country too.’ She held out her hand to meet me. This time I noticed a very faint response to my own pressure. ‘Goodbye till we meet again, Miss Rose Gowrie.’
I felt as though I had been inspected and approved. I was annoyed with myself for being pleased, and yet I was pleased. Quiet-mannered as Madame Titov was, I felt I valued her good opinion.
As Madame Titov walked away, she passed close to where the tall monk was still standing. He must have been watching us all the time we talked. He took a step towards her, a broad smile beginning on his face; I thought he meant to speak to her. If so, she gave him no chance. Not for a second did her progress falter. Instead, she seemed to walk faster, and as she hurried on, her skirt gave an angry jerk, as if she had pulled it aside. Ariadne too was flustered. I could see she wanted to draw me away from what she seemed to regard as this man of God’s dangerous vicinity. But he was already approaching.
‘Good afternoon, Father Gregory.’
He raised his hand. ‘Bless you, child.’ He had a peasant’s voice, but it had rich tones. He held out his hand to her, she took it reluctantly, then dropped it almost at once, but never for a moment did Ariadne take her eyes off his face. Then he turned towards me, holding out his hand again and smiling at me with his pale, bright eyes. He stank. ‘He looks like a fox and he smells like a fox,’ I thought; but I took his hand. I found his touch unpleasant, damp with sweat on this hot day, and withdrew my hand, sorry that I had removed my glove.
‘Bless you, my child,’ he said, staring at me. ‘You have the face of a saint.’ Bright and compelling, his eyes held my own, and it was with an effort that I withdrew my gaze. To my surprise, something had passed between us; I couldn’t put a name to what I had seen, but a communication of some sort had occurred. Then I knew what it was. I had recognized a quality in him and he had responded. It was like two metals striking against each other and each giving out the same note.
He knew too, and his eyes burned fiercely. ‘May I see your hands?’
Reluctantly, almost against my will, but certainly unable not to do so, I held them out, fingers extended. Tenderly, he turned the right one over, putting palm uppermost. ‘Yes, there, at the base of the thumb, there is the mark. The mark of the healer.’
‘I see nothing.’ I stared at my hand.
‘It is enough.’
I wanted to turn my hand over, but for the moment I couldn’t do it.
‘Come along, Miss Gowrie,’ said Edward Lacey in a friendly but formidable fashion. ‘Ariadne is anxious to get home. Goodbye, Father.’ He turned to Peter. ‘Hurry up there.’
Why, he’s jealous, I thought, absolutely jealous of Ariadne. He must be the sort of man who showed possessiveness towards any woman in whom he took an interest, even me. It was sad, because I had begun to like him. ‘The charlatan,’ he muttered.
But we are all charlatans,’ said Peter. Aren’t we?’
The next morning, although I looked expectantly for Laure, she was nowhere to be seen. Apparently her promise – or threat – to talk to me and explain her vague warnings of danger had not been important enough to keep her from her favourite habit of disappearing.
I gave Ariadne her English lesson as usual. We were reading The Idylls of the King by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. I would have chosen something simpler and livelier, but Dolly had said she wanted Ariadne to understand English poetry. Judging by her yawns, Ariadne was already very bored.
‘You can close the Tennyson now,’ I said. ‘We’ll start on Pride and Prejudice. Sit up, though.’
‘Oh, good. I fear I am not a poetic person.’ Ariadne straightened her back. ‘What is Pride and Prejudice about?’
I hesitated, wondering how to sum up the subtle complexities of the plot. ‘Oh, several families living in a country village: two girls, Jane and Elizabeth, the eldest of a family of girls; a clergyman, a landowner, two love affairs and an elopement.’
‘Sounds like Russia,’ said Ariadne, yawning again. ‘As long as it’s not boring.’
‘It’s a very amusing book.’
‘Delightful. The novels I read with Mademoiselle Laure were so dull. Goodness, they bored me! All about beautiful girls of noble birth thinking virtuous thoughts. Not like any of the girls I knew at school.’ She giggled.
‘Did you go to school?’ I was surprised.
‘Oh, yes. I had one year at the Smolny Institute, that’s the Imperial School for girls from the nobility. But I left,’ said Ariadne. ‘Back to poor Mademoiselle Laure.’
‘She was here then?’
‘She’s been here all the time. I can’t even remember when she came. When I was in the nursery, I think.’ Yawns overcame her again.
‘Have you seen Mademoiselle Laure this morning?’
‘No.’ Ariadne paused in mid-yawn. She sounded surprised I should ask. ‘But then one never does. One never notices her. She does it on purpose, of course. Years and years ago when she was just starting out in the world, some preceptress said to her: “Laure, always stay in the background.” And so she does. But it gives her pleasure. Of a kind.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I think it does. And how sad that is, poor Mademoiselle. And you are a very clever girl to have noticed it.’ And I looked at my pupil with some respect for her acuteness.
‘Sad?’ Ariadne laughed. ‘She likes power, does Mademoiselle, I’ve noticed that also.’
At that moment there was a scream, then a short pause, followed by the sound of running feet. Ariadne and I looked at each other. I went to the door.
One of the maidservants was standing
outside, sobbing; her face was white and she was wet from her throat to her waist. She clung to the banister, swaying.
‘What is it?’ I hurried to her. Immediately she leant against me, resting her head on my shoulder, murmuring something.
‘Make her speak,’ urged Ariadne.
The girl whispered something to me. I became aware that other servants were hurryng up, but all my attention was concentrated on the girl. I had caught her whisper and thought I knew what she was trying to say. ‘Speak up,’ I said urgently. ‘Repeat what you said about Mademoiselle Laure. You must speak clearly. I can’t hear.’
The girl raised her head from my shoulder and said something that only I could hear, and I only with difficulty.
‘What does she say?’ cried Ariadne.
‘What is it? What’s the girl crying about?’ The elderly woman who was the housekeeper had appeared. Mechanically, I handed the weeping maidservant over to her. I felt sick.
‘She says that Mademoiselle Laure is lying upstairs, dead.’
The girl gave an hysterical wail as if to confirm what I had said. ‘Dear God,’ said the housekeeper, and crossed herself. ‘Be quiet, girl.’
‘She’s mad. It can’t be so,’ declared Ariadne. ‘Mademoiselle can’t be dead.’
‘I’m sure she is,’ I said. I was already mounting the stairs.
‘Come back!’ wailed Ariadne.
‘Get help,’ I said. ‘Order two of the servants to come with me. No – ’ as Ariadne made a move. ‘Don’t come yourself. Go to tell your mother. And then send for a doctor.’ Resolutely I mounted the stairs.
The door to Laure’s room stood open. The curtains were drawn and the blinds were down, but enough light was seeping through to see by. In the middle of the room, surrounded by a nest of towels, was a flat tin bath. In it lay the figure of Laure, her head falling backwards with her dark hair streaming to the floor; I could see her features foreshortened and distorted.
The Red Staircase Page 10
