Andrea Pickens - [Lessons in Love 03]

by The Storybook Hero

  By that evening he had exchanged the clothing he had brought from London for an equally modest assortment of Russian essentials that befitted a genteel but impecunious tutor. He sighed as he regarded the streak of dirt on the rough planks of his tiny garret room. The dingy sheets and threadbare blanket looked suspect as well, and he was sure he would be scratching in earnest by morning. Tossing the secondhand satchel on the floor, he sat on the rickety bedstead and uncorked the bottle that was hidden in the pocket of his heavy coat.

  Good Lord, now that he was here, the enormity of what he had undertaken caused an icy knot to form in his stomach. Did he really expect to travel over such a vast strange country, alone and without any help to fall back on, and manage to locate a twelve-year-old child he had never set eyes on? And if he did accomplish such a daunting journey, what made him think he would be able to convince whoever was looking after the lad—or the lad himself—to let the young count quit his home in the company of an utter stranger?

  Alex took a long swallow of the clear, fiery liquid. His Uncle Ivor must have been mad to think such a plan could work! As the vodka sought to burn through the tangle of doubt inside, he was sorely tempted to fling his plans to the devil and board the next ship for home.

  What had possessed him to take on this challenge? He was bound to fail, and fail miserably, just as he had at any meaningful thing in his life. His jaw tightened as he eyed what was left of his drink. His brother was dead, his family despised him and he had spent nearly all of his adult life engaged in turning cards, bedding other men's wives and seeing how many bottles of claret and brandy he could pour down his throat.

  Oh yes, a fine hero he made.

  He quickly swallowed the last of the spirits. Not bothering to remove the thick boots he had just purchased, he fell back on the thin mattress and closed his eyes, the empty bottle falling to the floor with a loud thump.

  It was only the clatter of cart wheels and loud shouts of the drivers that finally caused Alex's lids to pry open. A faint ray of light from the narrow window fell across his face, causing him to wince in discomfort. The iron frame creaked as he shifted slightly.

  He felt like hell.

  As his hand ran along the stubble on his jaw he had no doubt that the cracked glass above the shabby chest of drawers would show that he looked no better. It took some force of will to untangle his legs from the threadbare cover and swing them to the floor. The glint of glass on the rough pine caught his bleary eye.

  No wonder he felt like the devil. Although, he added to himself, usually it took more than one bottle to have this sort of effect. The Russian stuff must be stronger than French brandy or Jamaican rum, judging by the cottony feel in his throat and the abominable ache in his head.

  Alex wished his valet was here. Squid always knew just the right concoction for getting him on his feet. He missed his man's sunny chatter as well, which never failed to lighten his depressed mood on mornings such as these. His stomach gave a lurch, as much from the realization that of late, most every morning began this way as from the pangs of hunger. He couldn't remember the last time he had bothered to eat. With a grimace, he raked his fingers through his tangled locks and sought his razor.

  A short while later, he stumbled down the narrow stairs, bag flung over his shoulder, and headed back down toward the Neva. At a small shop close to the river he joined a crowd of laborers in purchasing a steaming cup of tea and a wedge of rye bread spread with a thick plum preserves. The heavily sugared brew caused a pucker of his lips, but made some inroads in settling the gnawing feeling inside him. Hunching over in the wooden chair he began to nibble at a corner of the thick slice as he contemplated his next move. Though the grimy window a sea of masts was visible above the peaked roofs. It should be no difficult matter to find the next merchant ship bound for London.

  The sweet jam nearly stuck in his throat. What did it matter that he was slinking back, tail between his legs, without even trying to accomplish what he had set out to do? Surely nobody really expected anything else form him.

  He took another swallow of tea.

  The trouble was, what did he expect from himself?

  Bolting down the rest of the bread, he took up his belongings and shouldered his way out of the crowded room. He paused for a moment, watching a straggle of drunken sailors and thickset laborers make their way toward the fog misting up the water's edge. But instead of following them, his steps headed in the other direction, past the narrow canals and pastel buildings shimmering in the pale northern light.

  Near the outskirts of the city, after numerous inquiries, he found the inn he was looking for. Cursing himself for a fool, he tossed his bag into the dark interior of a coach reeking of stale onions and cabbage. With one glance over his shoulder, he climbed inside.

  * * *

  The cool, appraising stare would have been even more unnerving had the not the eyes been those of a twelve-year-old. Still, Octavia couldn't help but shift uncomfortably as she stood before the narrow desk.

  The young girl laid down her pen and smoothed the sheet of paper on the polished wood. "Are you the latest one?" she inquired.

  Octavia nodded. "I am Miss Hadley. And you are Emma?"

  The girl's nose wrinkled slightly in disgust. "Who else would I be?" she said, just loud enough for Octavia to hear. "I hope you will display more intelligence than that if I am to be forced to listen to you for hours on end." The tone made no attempt to hide what she thought of governesses in general and the newest one in particular.

  Octavia chose to ignore the deliberate rudeness. "May I sit down?"

  Emma shrugged her thin shoulders.

  Pulling up the only other chair in the attic chamber that had been turned into a makeshift schoolroom, Octavia sat opposite her new charge and cleared her throat. "Do I look to be so easily intimidated," she asked lightly.

  There was no reply as the girl picked up her pen and began to trace elaborate doodles in the margins of her writing.

  She tried another tack. "As you say, Emma, we are going to be in each other's company for a good part of the day, so I would hope that we might try to be friends."

  "Why bother?" shot back the girl. "You won't be around any longer than the rest."

  "What makes you say that?"

  Emma didn't look up from her paper. "The others hated being in such a strange, place, with such different habits and speech. They said it was land fit only for heathens or madmen. All they wanted was to go back to their homes and families. You will, too."

  Octavia made a wry face. "Well, since I have neither, I rather doubt it."

  The scratching of the pen stopped. "Everyone has a family. They have to take you, whether they want to or not."

  "Not me, I'm afraid. I've already been given the boot by the only relatives I know of. Not that it matters—I wouldn't go back there for all the tea in China."

  Emma fidgeted in her chair. "What did you do?" she finally asked, not able to hide her curiosity.

  "Ah, let us say that I... well, I had a disagreement with my cousin's husband. A serious one."

  The girl thought on that for several moments. "I act disagreeably, but they've nowhere to send me. I guess they aren't allowed to simply turn me out," she said in a small voice.

  A glimmer of understanding came to Octavia's eye. "Aren't you happy with your aunt and uncle?"

  "They aren't really my aunt and uncle, just distant relatives," she answered quickly. "And they don't want me here. I know they don't."

  Octavia made no attempt to foist any hollow platitudes about unconditional familial love on the child. "I know how you feel."

  Emma eyed her warily, surprised to be spoken to on such equal terms. "You do?"

  "It's not very pleasant." She picked up one of the thick leatherbound volumes that lay on the desk. "Do you enjoy Mrs. Radcliffe's writings?"

  The girl's lower lip jutted out in defiance. "My last governess forbid met to touch such books. She said a well-bred young lady does not read such
scandalous rubbish."

  "What a prosy bore," remarked Octavia. "No wonder you headed straight for the bookshelves."

  Emma stared at her in disbelief.

  "Have you discovered Miss Austen's works as well? I should think you might enjoy them even more than these gothic tales. The heroines have infinitely more pluck and common sense, not always expecting some clod of a male to sort things out."

  "I... I don't think Uncle Albert has any of them on his shelves."

  Picturing the stiff bearing and colorless features of both Mr. Renfrew and his wife, Octavia could well imagine that was true. "No matter. I believe I have a copy of Pride and Prejudice in my trunk. But for now, perhaps you will acquaint me with what sort of subjects you have been studying?"

  There was only a brief hesitation before Emma reached for the pile of notebooks on one side of the desk. "In history, I have been learning about the reign of Elizabeth...."

  * * *

  The conversation was nearly as bland as the overcooked joint of meat. Octavia took a small swallow of wine and tried to think of yet another innocuous remark to make about the state of the weather or the color of the draperies. An earlier try at discussing current events had been squelched by a disapproving glance from the head of the table.

  "That is not a subject you ladies should trouble yourselves with," announced Mr. Renfrew. "Rest assured the proper people are dealing with such important matters. The complex issues would merely serve or confuse or upset you. Don't you agree, Mrs. Renfrew?"

  His wife nodded a vigorous assent.

  Ha! thought Octavia. As if men haven't been making a dreadful hash of things for the past decade and more. But she let the matter drop without argument. Given the circumstances, she really couldn't afford any slip of the tongue. She needed this job. And so she forced a smile and pushed at the unappetizing morsels on her plate.

  It was with great relief that she watched the stout housekeeper bustle in to clear the table and serve the pudding. Surely the interminable meal could not last a good deal longer. There was some solace in knowing it was not an ordeal that would have to be endured nightly. The lady of the house had already informed her that after being honored with an invitation to dine at their table this evening, her first in the household, she would be expected to take her meals with the rest of the help.

  Mrs. Renfrew had ended her lecture with a tight smile. That was how a proper English house was run, so it wouldn't do to relax the rules, she explained Didn't Miss Hadley agree that order and discipline was what made life run smoothly?

  Octavia found herself gripping her wineglass with nearly enough force to snap the stem. It was not hard to imagine what sort of life it was for an orphaned child in this sort of surroundings—

  "So, Miss Hadley, you have met your charge. What think you of your ability to keep the young person under control?" Mr. Renfrew smoothed a wrinkled hand over his severely cropped silver hair. "Be assured that you need not fear being thought too strict. The child has an unfortunate tendency toward willfulness, which must be dealt with. We do not wish to spoil her."

  Octavia bit back the urge to tell him that her trunk of whips and chains seemed to have gone astray during the voyage from England. "Oh, I daresay I shall be up to the challenge," she answered, striving to keep her tone neutral.

  Husband and wife exchanged relieved looks. "Well then, we will leave you to your duties, Miss Hadley. If there is anything you require, you may inform Mrs. Renfrew." He turned his attention to the thin slice of apple tart set before him, finishing it off in dead silence. Then his chair scraped back, signaling an end to the meal. "I have a number of matters to attend to in my study," he said brusquely, not bothering to see whether either of the two ladies were done.

  His wife abandoned the last bite on her plate and rose hastily to her feet. "I must see to several things as well."

  Octavia stood up, her hand tightening on the back of the uncomfortable straight back chair to keep a grip on her rising temper. "Thank you for your kind hospitality," she murmured, hoping that the note of sarcasm was not too evident.

  Mr. Renfrew inclined his head a fraction. "Think nothing of it," he said magnanimously. "After all, it was our duty to make you feel welcome."

  Welcome indeed!

  "Good evening, Miss, er, Hadley," said Mrs. Renfrew as she made to follow her husband from the room. "You look to be a capable young woman. I do trust you will be able to handle the child without needing a great deal of guidance in the matter."

  Octavia didn't trust her voice enough to respond with anything more than a murmur that could be taken for an assent. It wasn't until she was climbing the narrow stairs to her own cheerless quarters next to the schoolroom that she dared unclench her jaw. Two colder fish she couldn't imagine. Perhaps their cruelty was unintentional, but the thought of an orphaned little girl having to endure such guardians kindled a hot anger inside her. Knowing full well what it was liked to be unloved and unwanted, she vowed that, as long as she was around, the child would have a friend.

  Chapter 4

  A great, shaggy bear was breathing down his neck, and try as he might, he couldn't seem to make his legs move. Already its stale, unwashed odor was filling his nostrils, and it seemed to be getting closer and closer...

  With a choked cry, Alex lashed out a booted foot—

  "Have a care who you kick, my friend," grumbled the burly peasant beside him, though he did shift his bearded chin from Alex's shoulder and roll his considerable bulk to the other side, drawing a muttered complaint from one of the other passengers.

  Alex rubbed at his weary eyes and tried to stretch out his cramped legs among the tangle of sleeping bodies. The other passengers seemed oblivious to the fetid air and hard wooden seats, most having settled into the journey with a certain grim resignation. The only signs of life came from a country merchant snoring loudly in one corner and a short priest whose enveloping black robes that made him look like a rolled up carpet. From out of the wrappings of wool came a litany of whispered incantations and rumbled chants. Neither man was paid much heed by anyone, save for an occasional elbow when the rasps and wheezes got too loud.

  It was a rather motley assortment of humanity, Alex decided, his mood none too charitable after another long day on the road. But as he glanced down at his own rumpled coat and soup-stained pants, a rueful grimace tugged at the corners of his lips. No doubt he, too, must reek of garlic and sour rye.

  Well, at least he must blend in!

  Another rut in the rough road threw his neighbor's knee into the side of his thigh, drawing a silent oath from Alex. Why, he thought in exasperation as he rubbed the tender spot, could not his uncle have managed to get the name of the estate right. Russian was not the easiest of languages, but a misplaced vowel had sent him nearly a week in the wrong direction. His relatives were owners of an estate named Polyananovosk, not Polyananovisk. And while the endless forests of spruce and pine had been magnificent, and the wooden villages and onion domed churches of great interest, he would have much preferred to arrive at his destination in a more direct manner.

  And a more comfortable one. His hand threaded through a tangle of hair that felt as greasy as the bowl of mutton stew served at the last stop. Perhaps it had been overcautious to take on the guise of a poor tutor, rather than travel under his real name, in a spacious, well-sprung private carriage with all the amenities due a member of the English aristocracy. And yet, the rumblings he had heard in the various smoky taprooms along the way had caused him admit the precaution had not been unwarranted.

  Unrest was in the air. Rumors of an impending invasion swirled around every village they had passed through. Any foreigner was eyed with suspicion—why, he had seen an older Danish gentleman dragged from his carriage and beaten to within an inch of his life just two days ago. The local peasants were not particularly concerned with the nuances of nationality and which country was the current ally of the Tsar. The threat to Mother Russia was from anyone not of their own blood That Engl
and had until recently been one of the enemy only exacerbated the potential for trouble. So, as Alex scratched at one of the innumerable bites on his abdomen, he had to admit that the plan, however unpleasant, had been a wise one.

  The coach finally lurched to a stop in the muddy yard of a small inn. Climbing over several prostrate forms—numbed into oblivion by the local brew at the last stop, if the smell of their breath was any indication—Alex pushed the door open and stumbled to the ground. A sharp gust of wind cut through the homespun fabric of his garments but the tang of larch and pine cleared the muzziness from his head. He stood for a moment, savoring the clean crispness of the air, before pulling the thick wool cap down over his ears and hurrying inside the inn.

  Rather than stay in the smoky room, he carried his thick glass cup of hot tea back outdoors and walked toward a dense stand of birch, their silvery white trunks like drizzles of sugar against the darkening sky. A storm looked to be heading their way—indeed, Alex felt a snowflake catch on his cheek, then another. The temperature was dropping by the minute and behind him, he heard the horses stamp in impatience to be off.

  One of the ostlers muttered an oath as he struggled with a buckle of the harness.

  "Nasty weather," remarked Alex, strolling to the other man's side.

  A grunt was the only reply.

  "Does it look like we will see snow?"

  The man shrugged. "Whatever God wills."

  Alex probed for a different sort of information. "Are we far from Polyananovosk? The estate of Count Scherbatov."

  The question was met by a blank stare.

  "I was told it was near Kovrov."

  "Oh, that is at least twenty kilometers down the road," answered one of the other men tending to the horses. The way he said it, he might have been speaking about a spot halfway around the globe.