The next day was ostensibly a quiet one, but inside me a struggle was going on. I did not want to own the Gowrie Works because of what they made there, so the obvious solution was to take the German offer and let the place be run down and so disappear. On the other hand, I could see that it was well run and efficient, giving employment to people who probably badly needed it. There was a distinct temptation to take it over and run it myself. Here Andrew Grossetête’s very distrust of me and my sex made the temptation the greater. Simply, I would like to show him.
That day I had a letter from Marisia.
‘Vyksa is itself, and yet not itself,’ she wrote. ‘You have improved us. Not out of mind, you would certainly recognize us here still, but we are changing slowly. An inspector came down from St Petersburg no less, and my father has been ordered to alleviate life for the prisoners. Less work is to be demanded, and food and conditions generally improved. In particular, the hospital is to be cleaned up. My father has set it all on foot. I wish I could think he did it from the heart, but there is nothing left in him now but obedience.’
And then, bleakly, without preamble, she wrote: ‘I have no word of Patrick. He has left us. If I had anything of comfort to tell you, I would do so. There is nothing.’
I folded the letter back into its envelope. Almost, I wished Marisia had not mentioned Patrick. I felt I could bear the burden of that grief more easily if no one even spoke of it to me. I wanted no pity, no sympathy, for this second loss of Patrick was a hard fact that I had to absorb and somehow make part of myself.
I became aware that black Ivan was fussing away behind me, trying to attract my attention.
‘She wants to see you, up the Red Staircase, the old Princess. I shouldn’t go if I were you.’
I turned round. ‘Well, I shall have to, shan’t I?’
‘I would have to. You don’t have to do anything.’
He knew I was rich now, of course; the whole house knew it. Ivan was pleased for me and had told me so. He had asked me to take him into my service, and I had promised that if I ever had a house of my own in Russia, I would.
‘No, I’ll go up there now, and get it over with.’
As I went up the Red Staircase, I felt a different atmosphere about it: there was more light, the air was fresher. It was almost as if the old Princess had the door open, even a window.
She had got the door open. As I got to the top of the staircase I saw that the double doors at the entrance to her room stood open and that the heavy curtains were drawn back. When I went tentatively into her room, wondering what I should find, I saw her sitting there in the company of a young man. The blinds were up, and sunlight actually came into the room.
‘Ah there you are. I never heard you arrive. I have someone here I want you to meet,’ she said archly.
Not her lover, I thought. Surely not? Her companion was an extremely handsome young man wearing the uniform of one of the Imperial Guards. He was dark-haired, tall with pale blue eyes.
‘Now I told you I had my own solution to your problem,’ she went on. ‘And here he is. While it is true you cannot marry that rascal, Peter, you must marry someone, and soon. Now Count Alexei Grabbe belongs to one of the oldest families in Russia and is completely eligible. Not rich, perhaps, but he would give you a position at Court. You won’t get it otherwise, you know. No, take him, my dear, and be grateful you have such a good friend in me.’
I opened my mouth, and then shut it again.
‘He is in the Preobrajenski Regiment – the loyalest of the loyal, you know, that’s what they call them, because they never rebelled when the others did in 1812.’
‘I thought I recognized the uniform.’ It was all I could trust myself to say. Count Alexei smiled amiably.
‘There, isn’t he nice?’ asked the Princess, as if he were a toy dog.
‘I’m afraid it’s impossible,’ I said. ‘We don’t know each other.’
‘Oh, don’t be so ridiculous. There will be a courtship. You will get to know each other. His mother approves, I can tell you.’
‘Thank you. However, I don’t.’
‘Don’t be sarcastic,’ said the Princess sulkily. ‘It doesn’t become you.’
‘Can’t he speak for himself? You must be embarrassing him.’ I glanced at Count Alexei; he did not look embarrassed, but continued to smile. Perhaps he was deaf. But we had moved into talking English, and no doubt he could not follow what was said.
‘What I suggest is sensible and rational. You certainly must marry. Why not choose a husband who can give you a position and who will be no trouble to you. Look at him, he’s like a child, a clever girl like you can certainly manage him.’
I took a closer look at Count Alexei Grabbe now, and I saw that beneath his fixed smile his face was vacuous. His pale blue eyes were empty of intelligence. I was furious with her then, for what she was trying to do; she wanted to marry me to a fool. There was precious little choice between her and Dolly, for both of them were trying to manipulate me for their own advantages, and on the whole Dolly’s motives were the nobler. She at least wanted me and my possessions for Russia, whereas to the Princess I was a sort of superstitious symbol of her continuing life, who must on no account be allowed to go free. She couldn’t really believe I could prolong her life, but just in case I might, I could not be released.
She was really annoyed with me this time, I could see. ‘I shan’t let you go, I shan’t,’ she said in a loud voice. ‘I have friends in high places, remember that.’
As if he had been wound up like a mechanical toy, the Count Alexei got up and moved towards me. He was really quite beautiful, if you could believe in him at all. ‘Miss Gowrie,’ he said. ‘I have the honour to ask for your hand in marriage.’ He had a lovely voice, full of deep rich tones, but it was as empty as his eyes.
‘And I have the honour to refuse,’ I said decisively. It was as if I had not spoken. He moved forward to me relentlessly and put his arm round my waist. Perhaps I had spoken in English, I don’t know. He bent his head and kissed me strongly on the lips; his grip on me was very firm. What he had, he held.
I felt a moment of panic, as if I really could be married to this man against my will. If so, I should never get free; stupid he might be, but he was also tenacious, I felt it in his touch. I wrenched my head away. Over his shoulder I saw the Princess Irene’s eyes fixed on me in fascinated speculation.
I pulled myself out of his arms, and looked towards the door. Miraculously, my black Ivan had it open and was standing by it. With barely a word of farewell to either of them, I ran through it and down the stairs. ‘I told you not to go,’ was written all over Ivan’s broad face, and his smile was conspicuously absent.
When I got back to my room I knew without any hesitation what I must do next. I dressed myself for the street, hired a hackney cab and had myself driven to Mr Dundee’s office. He was just preparing to leave for his house, but he stopped at once at sight of my expression.
In a few short sentences I told him what I wanted.
‘I want you, please, to have someone make an investigation for me.’ His eyebrows shot up. ‘More truly, to make a search. I want you to try to find any trace of a man called Patrick Graham who was last seen at Vyksa.’
‘Ah, that place,’ he said, giving a doubtful shake of the head.
‘Yes, there. Spare no expense. Do everything you can to find him, whether alive or dead.’
Yes, Patrick, did you think I would forget you? Now I had money and power, and I meant to seek you out.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Money is a great emanicipation. From the very moment that it came into my hands I started to move more freely and make my own decisions more radically. In the thoughtful look in Dolly Denisov’s eyes I saw this new freedom of mine reflected, and saw also that she did not like it very much. I was also out of favour with the Princess Irene; for the moment the Red Staircase was barred to me. And I sensed a general change in the whole St Petersburg house. The atmosphere se
emed darker and more ominous, as if a subtle infection – creeping, perhaps, down the Red Staircase?-had reached into every corner.
Yet outwardly the Denisov household remained much the same. Edward Lacey and Peter were still habitués. Ariadne still went riding with them, still spent hours gossiping with her friends. Dolly still devoted hours to her appearance. And yet underneath, I felt they were at odds with each other.
Peter was about the house a good deal, playing cards with Dolly and teaching Ariadne the latest dance steps. I knew he had a more serious side, as they all did, but it was not much in evidence. He seemed to have, by some means of his own, an insight into the mind of his aged relative, the Princess Irene.
‘She says she arranged a perfectly good marriage for you that would have solved all your problems and that you ran away,’ he informed me.
‘I suppose everyone knows about that.’
‘Pretty well,’ he admitted.
‘She arranged a marriage with an idiot called Alexei Grabbe. The man was a moron.’
‘Not quite that, perhaps,’ said Peter with a smile. ‘You were hard on him, though. He’s the laughing stock of his regiment now.’
Meanwhile I had made plans to leave the house and move into my godfather’s apartment as soon as the Estate was finally through all legal formalities.
This was not approved of: ‘Young unmarried women do not live alone in Russia,’ said Dolly. And even Mr Dundee looked doubtful, although he gave me professional support. From upstairs, from the Red Staircase, came angry mutters, relayed to me by either Ariadne or Ivan. ‘She is a lunatic, that girl,’ the old Princess was reported to have said. ‘We shall soon see her falling into trouble.’ I suppose she was hoping that I would. I proposed, if possible, to disappoint her – but it would not be difficult to make one of those ‘unwary steps’ Dolly had talked of, for I found it hard to understand exactly where I stood. So as far as I could see I had status as an owner of property – and no status at all because I was unmarried and not a Russian.
I was also making incursions into the Gowrie Works. I bought myself a white overall and a note-book and a plentiful supply of pencils, and inspected everything. Everything they would let me into, that is, for the danger areas remained barred to me, two strong sentries having been engaged solely – as far as I could see – to keep me out.
I attached myself on the whole to Andrew and followed him everywhere. He was patient and polite, but no more. I soon saw that the Works were well run but on extremely conservative lines. In the offices, for instance, teams of clerks sat on high stools at sloping desks and transcribed everything in longhand. It was all so Victorian.
‘There are machines called typewriters,’ I pointed out to Andrew, ‘and they are now much used.’
‘Oh, we have one.’ And he produced one from a corner cupboard, which had the dust of several years of disuse on it. From its appearance it was one of the earliest models of its kind, and seemed to have won a prize in the Chicago Exhibition of 1886. The keyboard had been arranged for the Rusian or Cyrillic script and I felt obliged to admit that a letter typed on it might have aroused alarm when reaching London, Berlin or New York. The few lines I contrived to type had a wistful and yet sinister air.
I let him put the typewriter away in its kennel. ‘We might get a new one,’ I said. ‘And a woman to use it.’
‘Mr Gowrie did not approve of women in the office. It distracts the men.’
‘Times change,’ I observed, making a note in my book.
It did not take me long to discover that the most progressive part of my little empire was the research laboratories where Dr Gurien laboured. I knew enough of science to see that here they were working very well and probably making important advances in their sphere. But they were very secretive.
The truth was they were all of them secretive with me. I was a young woman, I was unmarried and I was not Russian – three tremendous counts against me. And so I was surprised when one day Mr Somov, that somewhat oppressed and down-trodden character, made an opportunity to talk to me. Modestly but firmly, he asked me never to reveal him as the source of what he was about to tell me. Then he informed me that in the last months before old Erskine Gowrie died he had become aware of a series of small thefts from the works, pieces of equipment and so on. More sinister, since I had inherited the thefts had increased, and he now believed that small amounts of explosives were being abstracted.
‘There are plenty of bomb-makers in this country,’ he said significantly. ‘I do not wish in any way to be associated with revolutionaries or anarchists. It is possible that we have in this place someone who is a worker in that cause. You should know, but now I have told you, I am going to forget. Even memories are dangerous in this country.’
‘Have you told Andrew Keller?’ I asked sharply.
‘That is for you to do.’ And his duty, as he saw it, done, he bowed himself away.
I went immediately to Andrew Keller and asked him if it was possible for thefts of explosives to take place and was he aware of any. He looked surprised. ‘I assure you we run the most careful checks. Nothing could go without my being aware of it. I keep my own secret check which no one else knows of. Every so often we have a little scare, but it always proves false when I investigate. You may see my records.’
He seemed clear on the subject, and I was almost satisfied, but not altogether. I could not forget Mr Somov’s anxious face. Well, I could watch and observe as I went about the factory.
I kept up my visits. Notebook in hand, and white overall firmly on as a badge of official status, I followed Andrew Grossetête wherever I could. He certainly found me an irritation but as he got used to me he grew kinder, and I found that I liked and respected him. He was a man of standards. I still worried about the story of the thefts, however. It seemed to me there might be something in it.
We often ate lunch together and drank a glass of tea, a lunch provided by his wife, of strongly spiced meat pasties or slices of thick sausage flavoured with garlic. He talked to me about his young wife, who had given him three sons. That was the life for a woman, he seemed to be saying. And he talked to me of his ambitions for his children. ‘Mr Gowrie was good to me,’ he said. ‘The money left me will educate my sons. They will rise above me.’
‘You’ve done very well,’ I said.
He bowed his acceptance of the compliment. ‘But I shall go no further.’
‘I don’t know,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘You are my right hand.’ I could not speak of it yet, but I meant to give him a share in the Works. In this matter I would have a battle with dear Mr Dundee who frowned when I hinted at it, and suggested bluntly that the best solution to all my problems, since I would not sell the Works, was to find a husband. Preferably a Russian. I would be better with a Russian husband, he implied. He was no more subtle than the Princess and Dolly.
‘Would you consider leaving Russia and going abroad? Supposing I opened an English office – I really believe we need one – is this the sort of opportunity you would welcome?’ I asked Andrew.
‘No, never.’ He was absolutely decided. ‘I shall never leave Russia. Nor my children. I think you do not understand how we Russians feel about Russia. We are always Russian.’ His good face was flushed and his mouth open with emotion.
Ah, Andrew Grossetête, I thought, that garlic of yours is the strongest hindrance to the advancement of our relationship.
One innovation I did institute on my own initiative. I went shopping for dozens of thin, leather gloves and decreed that a pair should be issued to each girl working on the packing of explosives.
Some days later, hearing nothing, I asked about them. Andrew’s face was expressionless. ‘The girls don’t like wearing them,’ he reported, blank-faced. ‘It slows them down.’
‘Of course, they work piece-work, don’t they?’ I returned angrily. ‘If they were paid by the hour the slowing down would not worry them.’
‘It might worry me, though.’
‘Oh, the
re is much to reform,’ I said, still angry.
He didn’t answer, but I could see he thought I had gone too far. He did not show anger himself, that was not Andrew’s way. But at lunch that day as he ate his garlic sausage, and I drank some hot potato soup, he said: ‘I have heard that the Duma is going to petition the Tsar that only those of Russian birth, or those who are married to Russians, should be allowed to own manufactories of national importance such as those that produce explosives and guns.’ He spoke without rancour but I got the point.
‘And I suppose you think that will be a good thing?’
‘It must be best for Russia,’ he said smugly. ‘They say the Tsar will give way.’
‘He should have done it a long time ago,’ I said irritably. ‘And then I should have been spared a lot.’
But I was beginning to realize that I wanted to keep my control of the Gowrie concerns.
My authority was now such that I went into the ‘Danger’ zones as I chose. I decided to speak to the women working there in the great shed myself. Hitherto, I had not done this because I did not want to flout Andrew’s authority too directly. I knew his immense pride and saw how quickly I might injure the relations between us. Still, I thought this matter of the gloves important enough to try my own persuasions. So early one morning I went to visit the girls. Some of them looked far too thin, I thought, and I wondered if some subtle poison was conveyed by the explosive. I watched the women trudge between the great machines as they packed the shells, and I felt guilty at the difference between their condition and my own. The working day had only just begun, but most of them looked pale and tired already. As I studied their expressionless faces I knew they were going to be harder to talk to effectively than the peasant women at Shereshevo. ‘If there is a revolution in Russia then it will start in the cities and with the women,’ I thought, ‘and not with the peasants as so many predict.’
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