The Jewel of St. Petersburg

by Kate Furnivall

All of them. Kill all of them. That day would come. His hand shook as he seized the door handle.

  Twelve

  UPSTAIRS THE CORRIDOR WITH ITS HIGH CEILING WAS cold. The wind raced straight through the attic, struggling under the roof tiles in an effort to push inside. Valentina heard the rattle of it and felt its echo inside herself, a wild kind of moaning that seemed to come from the forest. Then we shall get on well, he’d said. She smiled. She recalled the way his fingers held the reins, the smell of his coat. His hand on the back of her neck. May I call on you?

  No light came from under Katya’s door; nevertheless she opened it and slipped inside. Making no sound in the darkness, she kicked off her dancing shoes, raised a corner of the quilt, and slid into the well of warmth.

  “Katya,” she murmured. She wrapped an arm around the still figure and held her sister close, twined their feet together, and laid her cheek beside Katya’s shoulder. She lay in the bed for several minutes before her nostrils registered an odor among the sheets, a sickly coppery smell that she knew too well. She sat up quickly.

  “Katya.”

  No answer. That was when she felt the moisture. It was all down her arm.

  “Katya!”

  She twisted around and frantically found the switch of the bedside lamp. Her own hand was bright red.

  “No! Katya!”

  Her sister was lying peacefully on her back. On the far side of her was a pair of long-bladed scissors, and they were sticking upright out of her wrist. Like a knife in butter. Everything was red, the sheets drowning in scarlet, all from such a small jagged hole. Valentina leapt from the bed, seized the belt from Katya’s dressing gown on the chair, and bound it tightly around the limp arm, just above the elbow. The flood slowed. She tied a hard knot. The scarlet flow faltered and stammered to a trickle. Katya’s face was as white and as lifeless as her pillow, her blond curls the only part of her that seemed to possess any spark. Her eyes were closed.

  “Katya.” Valentina cradled her in her arms for one brief agonized moment. Her heart hurt in her chest as she pressed her lips to her sister’s cold cheek. Then she ran for Nurse Sonya.

  VALENTINA WAITED AT THE BOTTOM OF THE STAIRCASE and watched the first spiny fingers of dawn sneak under the shutters. A thumbprint of pink sunlight appeared on the veined marble of the floor. She watched it grow and when it was the size and shape of a child, she heard footsteps descending the stairs. They were slow and ponderous, as though each foot were heavy.

  “Dr. Beloi.” She looked up into a broad face with a neat little beard on the point of the chin. “How is she?”

  The doctor plodded on down. His coat smelled of laudanum and two fingers of his left hand were badly stained with nicotine, but he was one of the finest medical men in St. Petersburg, as well as the costliest. He placed a hand on Valentina’s shoulder as if to pin down her impatience.

  “She’s still alive. Your mother is with her now.”

  Valentina released a small noise.

  “Your sister will come through this ... aberration. God forgive her.” He shook his head and pinched a finger and thumb to the bridge of his nose as though he had a pain there.

  “She won’t die?”

  “No, don’t look so frightened. She won’t die. Thanks to you. You saved her life.”

  “She won’t die,” Valentina murmured again.

  “She’ll be weak for a while because she’s lost so much blood. You should go and change your dress. It’s covered in blood.”

  He patted her shoulder again as if she were a fretful pet and plodded on across the hall. Valentina remained gazing up the stairs. As a footman swung open the front door, the doctor turned back and beckoned her to him.

  “Valentina, come here.”

  She came, reluctant to leave the stairs.

  “Tell me, young lady, how did you know how and where to apply a tourniquet?”

  “I read things.”

  “Well, your parents will be thanking God on their knees that you went into your sister’s room when you did last night. She’d have been stone cold long before anyone found her this morning.”

  Valentina just looked up at the galleried landing above. Her fingers couldn’t keep still.

  “You did a fine job stemming the flow of blood. Worthy of a real nurse, my dear.”

  His words drew her attention. “Dr. Beloi, how would I go about becoming a real nurse?”

  “Good God, girl, don’t be absurd.”

  “Would you give me an introduction to one of the hospitals, so that I can train?”

  “Valentina, this is no time to be making jokes.”

  “I’m not joking.”

  He sighed and pinched his nose again. “I will do no such thing. Your parents are distressed and have enough problems without you adding to them. It’s just a silly notion you’ve got into your head because of this”—he waved a hand, clutching at straws—“this mistake by your sister.”

  “You won’t help me?”

  “Certainly not. Go and comfort your poor mother instead of coming out with such absurdities. Nursing is not for the likes of you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Don’t be foolish, girl. You know perfectly well why not.”

  He pulled on his coat with a dismissive shrug and left the house.

  VALENTINA PUT DOWN HER BOOK.

  “I think we should forget about Mr. Rochester’s misfortunes now and talk about you instead.”

  She was sitting on the edge of Katya’s bed, reading Jane Eyre aloud to her sister. It was one of her favorite novels, so packed with bird imagery that she constantly saw Katya fluttering through its pages, her wings damaged, her eyes bright and desperate.

  Katya looked at her with muted defiance that brought faint color to her cheeks. “Let’s not,” she said.

  “You’re going to have to tell me, my sweet sister.”

  “I already have.”

  “No, I mean really tell me.”

  “What I said is true. I was tired. I’d had enough.” She put a hand over her eyes, the fingernails soft and white. Blocking out the world. “Enough of everything.”

  Gently Valentina removed the hand. “Enough of me?”

  The blue eyes blurred with tears. “That’s not fair.”

  “What you did wasn’t fair.”

  “I know.”

  Valentina shuffled up until she was sitting next to Katya, an arm around her thin frame. She stroked the bandaged arm.

  “Tell me about the ball,” Katya said.

  “It was dull. Too many stiff military types. Too much testosterone.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s what men use instead of perfume.”

  Katya chuckled. “You know so much.”

  “No, I’ve just looked through some medical books.” She turned her head and placed a finger under Katya’s chin, tipping it to face her. “Katya, is that why you did it? Because of the ball?”

  Her sister lowered her eyes, but Valentina continued to wait in silence.

  “I knew you’d find yourself a husband there,” Katya whispered at last. “That’s what they’re for.”

  “Rubbish, you silly thing. It was horribly dreary. I only went because Mama made me, you know that.” She entwined both arms around her sister and pulled her close, smelling the eucalyptus embrocation that Nurse Sonya had rubbed on her skin. She kissed her hair.

  “I’ll not leave you,” she promised.

  “You didn’t meet a husband then?”

  “No, of course not. I just danced a bit. Drank lime cordial and looked at the stars.”

  “The stars?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you meet anyone special?”

  Valentina pictured a pair of intense green eyes probing hers. And hard gray ones behind a rifle barrel.

  “No,” she smiled. “No one of interest.”

  VALENTINA AND HER MOTHER SET OFF TOGETHER TO GO to a bookshop. The sky was heavy with snow, the clouds like leaden weights sinking down to
crush St. Petersburg. In the car Valentina could not keep her eyes from the back of the chauffeur’s head. She wanted to beat her fists on the stiff shoulders of his padded coat and say, You frightened me. You frightened me so much I made a fool of myself in the sleigh. In front of a pair of green eyes. She wanted to say, Tell me what was under the tarpaulin.

  Instead when he politely opened the car door for her to alight, she looked him directly in the face and said, “There will be no moon tonight. Unlike last night.”

  She saw the sharp eyes grow blunt. Confusion made him blink.

  Nothing more to say about my sweet arse? No rifle now to make you strong?

  She left him standing beside the car and walked with her mother into the warmth of the bookshop on Morskaya. She’d make him wait. Damn him, she’d make him wait until his feet froze in the gutter.

  DO YOU HAVE A SECTION ON ENGINEERING?”

  She spoke quietly so that her mother at the other end of the shop wouldn’t hear. The assistant craned forward to catch her words.

  “Indeed we do, miss. Let me show you where—”

  “No, just tell me. I can find it.”

  She headed quickly for the shelf he had indicated. She inspected the titles, but not many were available: one on bridge construction, several on mining, one on the building of the Kremlin in Moscow. None on tunnels.

  Choose. Quickly.

  One on cars. He liked engines; he said he liked fiddling with metal. Her finger lay on its leather spine, ready to extract it from its position, when her eye caught the name on a book below it. Isambard Kingdom Brunel. She snatched it off the shelf, hurried to the counter, and paid for it. The assistant wrapped it in brown paper.

  “What’s that?” Her mother’s voice was curious.

  “It’s a biography of Brunel.”

  “And who is this Brunel, Valentina?”

  “Just an Englishman, Mama,” she said casually. “Look, I’ve bought a book for Katya as well.” She held up a copy of the poems of Charles Baudelaire.

  “Will she like that?” her mother asked doubtfully.

  “Yes.”

  “You are good to her.” Elizaveta Ivanova smiled affectionately. “I want you to know that your father and I are deeply grateful to you for what you did, for saving her life. She is lucky to have you.” She touched her daughter’s hand, the one holding the book for Katya. “So are we. I mean it, my dear.” As if embarrassed by her display of affection, she added more formally, “By the way, Valentina, I forgot to mention. Captain Chernov from the Hussars—I believe you spoke with him at the ball—left his card this morning. He is coming to call on you tomorrow afternoon.”

  AS HE DROVE THEM HOME ARKIN LISTENED TO THE SILENCE in the car. Something had happened in the shop. The spark that had made the girl’s dark eyes challenge him earlier had gone. There will be no moon tonight. Her words nagged at him. Yet she couldn’t know about last night. Damn it, she couldn’t.

  He needed to speak with Sergeyev. But after the bomb he had to lie quiet. Quiet. He sounded his klaxon at a cart blocking his road because noise was the only way he could keep the other sounds out of his head. Quiet was something he could only dimly remember. Quiet was no more than a word now. Paradise on earth came at a high price and he was willing to pay it, but the nights were hard. His mind was beyond quiet.

  Behind him the mother was filling the heavy silences. She pointed out a new dressmaker’s establishment and promised to arrange fittings for her daughter, suggesting different styles of gowns. As Arkin listened he realized that he liked the sound of Madam Ivanova’s voice. It was brighter than the rest of her. Hearing just her voice as he sat in the driver’s seat, he could picture her without the wary look that was always in her eyes. She didn’t trust people, and she didn’t trust life. Nothing wrong with that. He knew exactly how she felt.

  He slowed at a crossroads on Nevsky and heard her daughter say quite distinctly, “Mama, I’m worried about Papa. This bomb attack on Prime Minister Stolypin could be the start of a plan to attack all the tsar’s ministers. They could come for Papa again.”

  “Valentina, we have to leave such things for your father to deal with. Don’t interfere. He doesn’t like it. He is the one who makes these decisions, not us.”

  “Do they frighten you, Mama, the revolutionaries?”

  “Of course not. They are a disorganized rabble. And anyway, don’t forget that we have our army to protect us.”

  “Men like Captain Chernov?”

  “Exactly.” There was a long uncomfortable silence before Elizaveta Ivanova added, “Please don’t be difficult about this visit by him, Valentina.”

  Arkin could imagine them behind him. Believing their Captain Chernov could keep them safe.

  ARKIN WOKE IN A SWEAT. SOMEONE WAS SHOUTING, BELLOWING in his ear. The bed was tangled and he tried to kick his legs free, but they were trapped. Cobwebs gathered on his face in the pitch blackness, threads like hot wires, scorching his skin. Still that shouting. Wouldn’t the bastard ever stop? His head hurt; his heart pounded so hard that his stomach abruptly heaved and he vomited on his sheets.

  A different hammering. A fist on a wall.

  “Shut the fuck up!” Popkov’s voice.

  Too late Arkin clamped a hand over his mouth, and the terrible shouting ceased. It had been coming from his own throat. He sat up in the darkness and yanked his legs to the floor, where the touch of the cold boards on his bare feet brought him to his senses. He came back to his cramped little room above the stables and wiped the sweat from his eyes.

  What kind of man has nightmares about the horses he killed? What about the people he’d slaughtered? Each night the dream came to him, vivid images of the black horse with its hind legs blown off, twisting itself in half to sink its massive yellow teeth into what was left of its bloody rear end, trying to gouge out the pain. Its screams splitting the night.

  Where were the people? Where were their screams?

  Dear God, what kind of man was he becoming? He stripped off his soiled nightshirt and stood shivering. The dark suited him. He liked the way it blacked out everything. It was only the future that was bright.

  Thirteen

  THE COUNTESS’S SON WAS FEARLESS. JENS COULD NOT DENY that. He bobbed over every obstacle Jens set him to. He was not a talkative child, but as he spent his days incarcerated with a dry stick of a tutor, who could blame him for keeping his words locked inside his head? But he would release great whoops of childish joy when his stubby little pony took off in sudden darts of energy, the boy’s heels drumming its fat sides. A trickle of sun flashed through the trees, sending arcs of light bounding across the trails.

  “Alexei,” Jens called over his shoulder, “let’s head down to the stream.”

  “Can I jump it?” the boy yelled.

  “You fell off last time.”

  “It didn’t hurt.”

  His mother had complained that her son’s shoulder was black for a fortnight and had forbidden them to jump the stream again till he was older.

  He grinned at Jens. “I won’t fall.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  “Keep your heels down, boy.”

  They barged through the undergrowth to where the stream carved a path through the black earth. The boy’s cheeks were red. Jens watched his small hands tighten on the reins; a quick kick and the pony gathered itself for the jump, but at the last moment Alexei yanked hard on the reins, forcing the pony to skid to a halt. The small figure leapt out of the saddle and dropped to his knees in the freezing water.

  “Get out,” Jens ordered.

  But the boy was holding a dog. Or rather, a dog’s head. The large brown body lay under the water, but Alexei had lifted its head above the ice to allow the animal to breathe. He was stroking its wet muzzle, pulling weeds from its eyes.

  “Alexei, leave it. It’s dead.”

  “No.”

  “Come out of the water. You’ll freeze to death.”

  “No.�
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  Alexei had never defied him before. Jens swung from his saddle and heaved the lifeless animal out of the water. It was a large hound with rough black fur and white young teeth. It lay limp in his arms, soaking his clothes, and with Alexei still hanging on to one of its dripping ears, they waded back onto dry land.

  “I want to bring it home,” Alexei said.

  “Why?”

  The boy clutched the sodden head to his chest. “If I die in a river, I want someone to bury me.”

  Jens couldn’t argue with that. He strapped the dog onto the pony’s back with his belt, then lifted Alexei onto Hero and swung up behind. He wrapped the shivering boy in the folds of his coat and rode fast.

  “Uncle Jens, did you ever have a dog?”

  “Yes. When I was a boy, a strong sled dog. All heart and teeth, he was. Gave me a few scars to remember him by. Every boy should have a dog.”

  The small head nodded, then swiveled around, and eager eyes gazed up at him.

  Jens sighed. “I’ll speak to your mother.”

  Fourteen

  JENS CALLED ON VALENTINA AS HE’D PROMISED. HE STOOD on the doorstep and felt as awkward as a young dolt from the fields with straw in his hair. It was laughable. He had wined and dined the finest ladies of St. Petersburg’s elite without batting an eyelid, except to flirt with them. Yet this tender slip of a girl could make his feet feel too big and his shoulders too broad just by turning her head on that neck of hers and letting her velvet brown eyes study him for a moment too long. There was a music in her movements that made others clumsy, even in the way she had uncoiled from the filthy floor of the sleigh and settled on the seat beside him. As smooth as the breath of a summer breeze on the Neva.

  The door was opened by a liveried footman who showed him into the reception hall. Impressive indeed. Jens glanced around at the gilt chandelier and the marble statues that lined the niches in the walls. Russians loved to display their wealth as ostentatiously as peacocks unfurl their gaudy tails.