Emma wasn't long distracted from that train of thought by task of peeling away the hot shells. "All my other governesses have said that if I don't learn to behave properly, no man will want to marry me and then I'll end up an old maid." She made a face as she popped a piece of the sweet kernel into her mouth. "They make it sound like the fate worse than having your head cut off by your husband." Her eyes stole a look at her companion. "Do you never wish to marry, Miss Hadley?"
Octavia took her time in answering. "I have no objection to the idea of matrimony, Emma. In fact I should like very much to have children, a family of my own. But not at the expense of my... my self." She paused for a moment. "So, if I should meet a man willing to listen to my thoughts with as much attention as he pays to those of his male acquaintances, willing to discuss things rather than issue orders, willing to be a... friend rather than a tyrant, then I should listen quite seriously to any offer that might come my way." An ironic smile crossed her lips and she endeavored to sound a lighter note to her words. "Unfortunately, there do not seem to be an abundance of such admirable men in existence, so I am quite resigned to being, as your former governesses put it, an old maid."
Emma peeked up shyly from under the fringe of her fur hat. "Perhaps, until you meet that man, we... we could be friends?"
"Why, that's quite the nicest offer I have ever had!" She gave the young girl's thin shoulder a big hug. "I accept—and not just until I meet such a paragon of virtue. I should be honored if you will always consider me your friend."
Emma colored with pleasure and ducked her head to eat another chestnut.
They continued on in companionable silence for some way before Emma spoke again. "He would have to be very handsome."
Octavia's gaze jerked away from the bright gilding on one of the onions domes peeking out from behind the red brick walls of the Kremlin. "Who?"
Emma shook her head in exasperation. "Your future husband, of course. He would have to be tall as well. What color eyes do you favor?"
"Blue," she blurted out before she had a chance to think.
"A fine choice," allowed the girl. "Fair or dark haired?"
"Oh, dark, of course. What gothic hero would dare be an insipid blond?"
Emma giggled. The rest of the walk home was spent in spelling out all the attributes needed for a man to meet their combined standards.
Ha! thought Octavia as they approached the door to the Renfrew's house. There wasn't a snowball's chance in Hell that such a saint existed.
Chapter 5
"What do you mean, he is not here?" demanded Alex. Weariness and a wrenching sense of frustration had him perilously close to shouting. His momentary elation at having actually found his nephew made the new revelation even harder to swallow.
The steward gave an apologetic cough. "There were several incidents that might have proved fatal to the young master if we hadn't had luck on our side. Ludmilla and I decided that it would be best to send him where he would be safe from that murderous cur of an uncle until we could make contact someone we trusted." Noting Alex's grim expression, he added, "Of course, we were not anticipating your arrival."
"No," allowed Alex. He forced a thin smile. "I do not mean to appear ungrateful—I'm afraid all the traveling and other setbacks have me rather on edge. " His hand raked through his dark locks. "No doubt you have done the right thing to protect Nicholas from harm. But from whom did you seek help? We know that the countess wrote to her brother in England, but she must have been fairly certain help would not be forthcoming from there."
"Yes, she had little faith in her own family. Only desperation drove her to contact yours. But I was also asked to send off a letter to Prince Yusserov, a close friend of the late count who has spent many a visit here at Polyananovosk. It is he who was named as the boy's guardian, not his uncle." The steward gave a helpless shrug. "But he, like the count, is a military man, and given the state of things, who knows when the news will reach him. After the countess's death, I also sent word to the count's man of affairs in Moscow. You see, the young master's uncle somehow contrived to cut off funds and began to turn out our servants in order to replace them with lackeys loyal to him." He gestured toward the darkened part of the house, "You no doubt noticed how deserted the house is. I refused admittance to him and his men, and he dared not try to use force—yet. But it is possible the count's man has been bribed to hold his tongue. Such a thing would not be uncommon in this country. So I have no doubt that Nicholas's uncle will be back. That is why we decided that it would be best to hide the young master."
Alex nodded, a grim expression tugging at his mouth. "You have done well. But just where is he?"
"With his old nursemaid, in the village of Bereznik."
"And how far is that?"
Riasanov pulled a face. "Two—maybe three—days of hard travel. That is, assuming the roads are passable."
Alex muttered an oath, which needed no translation to convey its meaning.
So near yet so far.
Ludmilla set out three wooden bowls on the table with a deliberate clatter. "Time enough to discuss what to do in the morning," she announced in a tone that brooked no argument. "Now it is time to eat." She removed a huge copper cauldron from where it had been simmering and began to ladle out a thick stew of potatoes, onions, carrots and chunks of wild boar, redolent with the scent of rosemary and parsley. "Things will seem better on full stomach," she assured him.
Alex slumped into his chair without another word, suddenly feeling utterly drained. Exhausted from the arduous journey, depressed by this latest disappointment, he couldn't help but think that failure seemed to hang about his neck like a cursed millstone. Perhaps he should stay away from the lad—he only seemed to bring bad luck wherever he went.
With such bitter thoughts in mind, he could barely do justice to the savory meal, the first decent food he had been served in weeks. With Ludmilla clucking over him, refilling his glass with yeasty beer, pressing another slice of bread slathered with butter on his plate, he managed to swallow just enough to mollify her motherly instincts, though it might have been vinegar and chalk for all he tasted.
Riasanov guided him to chilly bedchamber. Lighting the meager pile of split spruce did little to take the edge off of the cold, but a thick eiderdown quilt promised a modicum of comfort. Shedding his travelworn garments, he slipped between the icy sheets, giving thanks that at least they were clean. The warmth of the spirits and the hot meal gradually began to mellow his mood just a bit. At least he now knew where young Nicholas was, which was more than he could claim when the day began.
That was some progress, he allowed. So perhaps Ludmilla was right and the situation was not as black as he had thought. After a good night's sleep, and a much-needed bath and shave, things would no doubt look even brighter.
However, when he awoke, Alex found he was wrong. Oh, the situation was not black—it was white. A thick, enveloping white. The steadily falling snow of the previous night had turned into a raging blizzard that nearly obliterated all signs of life. Gazing out of the frosty window, he found he could not even discern where land left off and sky began. Tugging on his coat, he hurried to the kitchen where Ludmilla was fiddling with the brass samovar, muttering dire predictions under her breath about being trapped all winter.
Riasanov appeared moments later, shaking a shower of thick flakes from his fur cap. A layer of snow coated his legs up past the knees, telling evidence as to the state of things outside. He brushed at the tiny icicles clinging to his shaggy moustache. "It is difficult to reach even the barn, and the storm shows no sign of letting up." His lips compressed as Ludmilla pressed a glass of hot tea in his hands. "I fear that we are stuck here for some time, Mr. Sheffield."
"God's will," said Ludmilla under her breath as she cracked a dozen eggs into her frying pan and added a dollop of butter.
Alex also muttered the Lord's name, but in not so accepting a manner. Stifling the urge to cut the cloying sweetness of the Russian tea with a
generous splash of the vodka he spied on one of the shelves, he glared out the window at the blanket of whiteness while his fingers drummed impatiently on the rough pine table. "Is there any news about the movements of the French army?" he inquired in an abrupt change of subject.
Riasanov shrugged, a gesture with which Alex was becoming well acquainted since his arrival in Russia. "News travels slowly here, but yesterday, while I was fetching supplies from town, the word was they have crossed the border." He gaze also went to the window, and a slight smile crossed his lips. "They will find they have to fight more than General Kutusov and his troops." He gestured at the swirling snow. "Our greatest ally—a Russian winter, though it is unusually early this year."
Alex grunted, and the tempo of his drumming increased.
"In Russia, we have a proverb, Mr. Sheffield. It says that patience is a virtue."
"Yes, we have a similar one in England." Alex heaved a sigh of frustration. "Patience is not a quality with which I am well acquainted. However, it appears I have no choice but to wait."
* * *
Octavia closed the door of the drawing room and folded her hands primly before her.
Mrs. Renfrew looked up from her embroidery. "You seem to be handling the child without undue problems," she said.
How the woman would have any notion of how things were progressing was beyond imagination, thought Octavia waspishly, since neither she nor her husband had laid eyes on their ward for the past two weeks. Why, Emma and her governess could have set out on a trek to Siberia for all the Renfrews might have noticed! Still, she kept a rein on her tongue and merely dipped her head in silent assent.
"We are well pleased with you, Miss Hadley," continued the other woman. "I fear my nerves were quite tested by her willfulness. I mean, one has to do one's duty for family, but there is little thanks from the likes of such a child. I do hope you have no plans to... leave."
"Not at all. I find the situation quite to my liking."
Mrs. Renfrew seemed slightly perplexed by the answer. Her needle darted into the taut fabric, pulling the colored silk in a neat stitch. "My husband must travel to St. Petersburg for a conference with the minister there and I plan to accompany him. We would like you to remain here with the child. I trust that presents no problems for you?"
"None at all, ma'am," replied Octavia coolly, though she was sorely tempted to remind the woman that her niece's name was Emma.
"Good." There was a small sigh of relief. "Well, then, that settles matters." The words were as good as a dismissal.
Octavia turned to leave.
"Oh, Miss Hadley, one more thing." The needle made another pass. "Naturally you are teaching the child the sorts of things she must know in order to make her way in Society? She is the daughter of a baronet, you know, and must be able to make a decent match when the time comes."
The new governess had been in the household for over a month and this was the first inquiry as to what was taking place in the schoolroom. Again, Octavia had to fight to remain civil. "Naturally," she replied.
"Good—oh, dear!" Mrs. Renfrew's brows came together. "Goodness! I've put in the wrong color. I fear the design is ruined!"
It was the first sign of emotion Octavia had ever seen from the woman.
"Oh, dear," repeated Mrs. Renfrew. She was so busy fretting over her spoiled handkerchief that she didn't notice the look of contempt that came to her employee's face. Octavia had to restrain the urge to go over and shake her until her teeth rattled. Instead, she took a deep breath and walked away.
Still fuming over the encounter, Octavia found herself muttering a number of unladylike words under her breath as she stalked down the hallway. It wasn't until she was halfway up the stairs that she realized she had forgotten to ask about borrowing the atlas from Mr. Renfrew's library. She paused, debating whether to return to the drawing room to make the request. Given her current mood, any further contact with her employer was not the wisest idea. Her patience, never great to begin with, was already stretched taut from the first meeting. It needing only the slightest tug to snap completely.
However, the door to the library had been left ajar, revealing that no one was there. It would only take a moment to fetch the volume.
The oversize book was easy to spot. Taking it under her arm, Octavia brushed past the large mahogany desk. In her haste to be gone, her sleeve caught one of the papers sitting on the tooled blotter, knocking it to the carpet. She snatched it up, fully intending to place it back where it belonged, when her eyes fell on the first line of the elegant script.
The corners of her mouth tightened as she read on. Duty, indeed! Why, the Renfrews were being paid handsomely out of Emma's trust to care for the child. Octavia did a bit of quick calculation. The young girl's clothing was adequate but hardly extravagant. Even adding a more than generous amount for food and shelter, as well as her own paltry salary, the couple was siphoning away a handsome profit for their so-called charity.
Quickly returning the letter to the top of the pile, she quit the room and made her way back to the stairs. Hypocrites, she raged, her heels beating an angry tattoo on the wooden treads. Dislike turned into loathing as she considered the callous indifference inflicted on young Emma by her guardians. Was there anything she could do, she wondered, anyone she could appeal to? Would a letter to the solicitors administering the trust amount to anything? She paused. The word of a insignificant governess against that of a respectable government functionary? Not likely! Besides, it was not as if they were doing anything illegal, simply immoral.
It would take some thought, but she vowed she would find a way to make the girl's situation less intolerable.
* * *
"You've seen this, I take it?" Thomas threw the newspaper down on the center of the table, a black look on his face.
William looked up from the chessboard. "Yes, I heard the news at White's this afternoon. Unfortunately, it comes as no surprise that Boney has dealt the Russian army yet another resounding defeat. He appears to be moving ever closer to Moscow."
"Is that all you can say?" exclaimed his brother. "Unfortunate? Unfortunate that Alex is alone in a strange country, facing not only cutthroat Russian relatives, but about to be engulfed in the general madness of war!"
Their uncle fingered one of the carved ivory pieces already removed from the game. "It is unfair to ring a peal over William's head," said Ivor. "If anyone is to be blamed, Thomas, it is me. I did not think Bonaparte would be able to advance so quickly against as canny a general as Kutusov."
Thomas took a deep breath. "Forgive me," he muttered. "I fear I'm feeling a bit overset at the moment."
"And with good reason. We are all concerned for Alex. I've managed to send a letter along with the latest government dispatches to our St. Petersburg mission asking for whatever help they can provide in locating him—"
Thomas let out an exasperated snort. "Oh, come, you know as well as I that they won't be able to do a thing! Not with the whole damn French army advancing on Moscow."
Ivor sighed. "Nonetheless, it is the best we can do."
His younger nephew stalked to the sideboard and poured himself a stiff brandy. "Perhaps not."
William's head snapped up. "What do you mean, Thomas?"
"What I mean is, I don't intend to sit by and watch another brother perish if there is aught I can do about it."
"Good Lord! You can't intend to—"
"To set off for Russia myself? That's exactly what I intend, William."
"And what of Olivia? And Ranleigh Hall?"
"Olivia is in full agreement with me, and my steward is perfectly capable of running the estate until my return." He cleared his throat. "A dispatch ship leaves from Gravesend in three day's time. The admiral has made room for my passage."
There was silence in the library, save for the crackling of the logs in the fireplace.
"Dash it all," growled the marquess after some moments. "You had best make sure there are two berths in that cabin."
>
"Now, William, you know you cannot leave all your responsibilities—"
"Perhaps my responsibility as head of this family is the most important one right now," he answered softly. "It's high time we reach out a hand to Alex."
"You are sure Augusta shall not kick up a dust?"
He made a wry grimace. "The females of this family have always had a tender spot for Alex, you know. More likely she would rake me over the coals if I didn't go."
"Well then, we have much to do before—"
"I daresay the Admiral can be convinced to allow a third party to join in."
Both of the younger gentlemen nearly spilled their drinks. "Uncle Ivor," sputtered the marquess. "Don't you think the, er, rigors of a sea voyage and a Russian winter would be... rather uncomfortable for—"
"If you say for a man of my age, you young pup, I'll show I am not so deep in my dotage that I can't still take a birch to your backside! I set all of this in motion, so of course I shall join in seeing it set to rights." There was a slight twinkle in his eyes as he went on. "Besides, I have wanted to visit St. Petersburg ever since I was a young boy and heard tales of Tsar Peter striding along the streets of London in those magnificent tall boots of his."
His nephews knew the futility of arguing with their uncle when his mind was set.
"Ah, well, in for a penny, in for a pound," said the marquess with a sigh.
Ivor grinned. "Good, then it's settled." He turned toward the paneled oak door and raised his voice. "You ladies may as well come in now. No doubt you will have a number of suggestion to add as we begin to make plans."
The brass knob turned very slowly. Both Augusta and Olivia looked slightly abashed as they sought to smooth the telltale creases caused by kneeling from their skirts.
"We... We were just passing by, Uncle Ivor," said Augusta.
"Yes, I know, and the keyhole jumped up and took hold of that lovely ear of yours."
Augusta directed an indignant look at her uncle while Olivia contrived to look injured. "Well, we wouldn't have to stoop to such measures if you would admit that we are just as capable of rational thought as you are. It's not fair that you men skulk off and lock yourself in the library to discuss all the interesting matters. If you mean to make important decisions about the family, we should be included, too," she retorted. "After all," she added sharply, with a pointed glare at her husband, "we do play rather a large role in ensuring that there will be a Sheffield line in the future."
Andrea Pickens - [Lessons in Love 03] Page 7
