Lilya looked up at her, the weak winter sun on her face. “Good day, countess,” she said. The other women bowed.
Lilya didn’t bow. She seemed to have gained a bit of weight, although it might have been the padded coat and thick shawl wrapped around her. But she no longer appeared as exhausted as the first time Antonina had seen her. Her eyes were clear and her cheeks quite pink in the December chill.
Antonina wanted to tell her about her pregnancy. She had shared it with Konstantin, and sent a letter to her father. Of course, the house serfs knew—there was no hiding anything from them. Varvara had witnessed her morning nausea and immediately recognized that the countess was with child.
Antonina had so many questions for Lilya about the last four years. More than anything, she wanted to beg forgiveness, to tell her what had happened in her father’s study. But they were no longer girls, they were married women, and as once Antonina had been the daughter of the man who owned Lilya, now she was the wife of the man who owned her. She could not demand, a second time, that Lilya be her friend. And it was clear that Lilya no longer felt the same way about Antonina as she had then. How could she? Antonina had betrayed her, and had her and her brother torn from their home and parents.
She nodded to Lilya and the women and rode on.
A few months later, Konstantin told Antonina she should be thinking of a wet nurse and a nanny for the expected baby. He had given her a list of suitable women who had worked on neighbouring estates, and expected her to pick one of them.
But Antonina set off down the snowy roads in a troika, to the village where she’d last seen Lilya. She asked a peasant on the street where she could find Lilya Petrova, married to Soso. She was directed to a hut at the end of the village. When the coachman helped her step down from the troika, she told him to wait for her. “You’ll enter the hut, countess?” he asked. “Alone?”
“Yes,” she told him, and walked to the door and knocked. The coachman followed her anxiously. When the door was opened by a boy Antonina knew must be Lyosha, she smiled. “Is this the home of Lilya?” she asked, and Lilya’s face appeared behind her brother’s shoulder. She looked, in that instant, frightened.
“May I enter, Lilya?” Antonina asked, and when she nodded, Antonina turned to the coachman and again told him to wait in the troika. He did as he was told this time, but he didn’t look pleased.
“This is Lyosha?” Antonina said as she stepped into the hut.
The boy bowed. “Yes, madam,” he said. His voice was high and clear.
She glanced around the dark room, seeing a tunic, a skirt and two pairs of socks drying on a rope across the ceiling. There was a stove with a bubbling pot of what smelled like buckwheat porridge. Apart from a table holding lengths of fine white skeins and a wooden shuttle, there were two benches and an icon on the wall over the stove. Nothing more.
“I won’t keep you from your work,” Antonina said, looking back to the table.
“I make lace for the extra kopecks,” Lilya explained, still with that anxious look.
Antonina went closer. “May I look at it? You may rise, Lyosha.” The boy straightened and went to stand beside his sister.
Lilya held out the end of the small strip of lace.
“It’s lovely,” Antonina said. “So delicate. I could never master tatting.” Now she was here, she wondered whether it was wise even to think of this, but she forged ahead. “I’ve come to ask a favour of you.”
“A favour?”
“Yes. I carry a child, and will, in a few months, need a nanny.” Before Lilya could say anything, she continued, “I know you haven’t had children, and my husband won’t approve of me hiring a woman with no experience, but I will—”
“I’ve had children,” Lilya interrupted.
“But you said you didn’t.”
“They no longer live.”
Antonina’s throat grew tight, and she put her hands on her belly, suddenly light-headed. “I must sit down,” she said, and Lilya came to her and put her arm around her and helped her to one of the benches.
Lilya was, for the first time, close enough to breathe in Antonina’s scent. It was still attar of roses.
“What happened to your children?” Antonina asked once she was seated.
Lilya took a deep breath. “I had daughters. Twins. They died—one in her second month, the other three weeks later.”
“I didn’t know …”
“How could you know? The last one—her name was Klara, the other Lena—had died only a few weeks before we met, during the harvest.”
“May God have mercy on their souls,” Antonina murmured, crossing herself. “But you will have more children, surely.”
Lilya’s eyes were strangely flat. “I will be honoured to be a nanny to the child you carry. But there is one condition.” Her voice faltered as she realized how she was speaking to the woman whose husband owned her.
Antonina didn’t seem taken aback. “What is it?”
But Lilya was silent for a moment. Why was God rewarding her so richly? Did she deserve such blessings?
“Is it your husband?” Antonina asked. “But of course, I won’t separate you. I’ll have the steward find him a job with the livestock or in the storerooms. You’ll be given a room in the married servants’ quarters.”
Lilya drew a deep breath. “Oh—Soso,” she said, as if just remembering him. “Yes, he’ll be glad of a better job. But it’s Lyosha I worry about, countess.” She looked at the boy beside her. “I won’t leave him behind in the village. I’m the only mother he remembers now.”
Ah. Here it is. Antonina felt a huge surge of guilt, and pain. “Of course, he must come as well. He’s your family. Yes, bring him. He’s how old?”
“Eight. He’s very quick to learn, very even-tempered. A good boy.” Lilya said this as proudly as if she were his mother.
“He works the fields?”
Lilya nodded. “But”—she took a breath—“he loves horses, countess.”
Antonina looked at the boy. He stared back, saying nothing.
“Then I’ll get him a job as a stableboy, cleaning out the stalls, oiling the saddles and so on. As he grows older, he’ll advance if he’s as clever and quick as you say.”
“And he will live …?”
“With you and Soso. Lyosha?” she said, addressing the boy directly. “Would you like a job in the stables?”
The boy bowed again. “Yes, countess.”
“Then it’s done,” Antonina said to Lilya. “He will come with you.”
“You’re certain this will be all right with the count?”
Antonina shrugged and gave a sudden, bright smile, and all at once she was the girl Lilya remembered from the forest. “I am the countess. In certain areas I can do as I wish.” She would deal with Konstantin’s questions as to why she had hired a village woman and insisted her family be given work on the estate.
Lilya wrapped her thin arms around herself, smiling back at Antonina. “It’s a dream come true, Tosya. Truly. Lyosha, do you believe our good fortune?”
At the sound of her diminutive, which Lilya had used so naturally, Antonina felt a surge of joy. She had found her friend again, and had also found a small way to try to make up for what had been done to Lilya and her little brother.
Maybe someday she would be forgiven.
Within a month, Lilya and Soso and Lyosha were settled into the servants’ quarters. Soso was given a job in the storehouses for the estate, and Lyosha, as promised, had become one of the youngest of the stableboys.
Even though the baby wasn’t expected for another two months, Antonina had Lilya spend as much time as possible with her. Soon the two young women were talking and laughing as they had almost five years earlier.
Antonina enjoyed having Lilya with her so much that she moved Varvara into another job, and promoted Lilya to the role of her personal maid. She was relieved to no longer have Varvara hovering over her with a look of disapproval. Antonina knew that she wo
uld never fill the dead countess’s shoes, not only for Varvara but for Konstantin too.
Lilya quickly learned about the layers of clothing Antonina wore, and how to help her into them one by one. Following Antonina’s instructions, she was eventually able to sculpt her hair as Antonina preferred it. It was tricky for her, and sometimes both of them laughed at her earnest attempts, but a woman who could make fine lace could also learn about the intricacies in dressing a noblewoman’s hair.
One evening, Lilya was helping Antonina bathe in front of the fire in her bedchamber and gently ran her hand over Antonina’s extended belly. A small heel protruded beneath the tight skin. She let her hand rest there, smiling at Antonina, and this gave Antonina the courage to ask Lilya about the births of her daughters. Antonina was ashamed of her own ignorance about childbirth and had no one else to ask.
Lilya, her hand still on Antonina, didn’t immediately respond.
“Lilya?”
Lilya looked into Antonina’s eyes then back to her own hand, slowly caressing the other woman’s skin. “Your skin is so fine,” she said, barely above a whisper.
Antonina shrugged. “My body doesn’t feel like my own anymore. But please, Lilya, would you stay with me throughout the confinement?”
Lilya pulled her hand away and picked up a warm, dry flannel. “Come, it’s time for bed.” As she helped Antonina stand, she said, “You will be strong, I know. If I could survive it, with only an old woman from the next izba to help me as I laboured on a blanket on top of the stove, surely it will be so much easier for you, Tosya. You will have the doctor and any number of women to help. And of course, you will have me as well. I will always be here for you. Always.” She patted the flannel over Antonina’s shoulder blades, then rubbed more firmly in the small of her back.
“Yes, that feels marvellous. Your touch is so comforting,” Antonina murmured, and Lilya closed her eyes for a moment.
Later, when Antonina was in bed and Lilya was hanging her loose day dress in the huge wardrobe, she stroked one of the many beautiful fitted gowns there. “I’m sure you’ll be happy to be wearing these again soon.”
Antonina nodded. “I suppose. I can’t imagine how I ever will.” She patted her belly, laughing.
Lilya, on the pretence of straightening the dresses, leaned into the huge wardrobe and pressed her face against the delicate silk and satin, smelling roses.
SPRING 1861
After Misha is kidnapped, Lilya sleeps on the window seat in the countess’s bedroom, and every day tries to encourage Antonina to bathe. If Antonina agrees, Lilya slowly and carefully pats the warm, soapy cloth over Antonina’s body. She knows that it hurts Antonina to be touched too strongly. A number of times a day she tempts her with dishes of her favourite foods and sweet tea. She brings the first spring snowdrops and hyacinths. Every evening she has Antonina sit in the comfortable chair by the fire while she changes the bed linens. Sometimes, after she settles Antonina into bed, she lies beside her, humming to her, stroking her back, her brow, her hair, until Antonina falls into what passes for sleep.
Lilya. What a good and loyal friend. At times it would appear that these are strangely happy days for Lilya, in spite of Misha’s absence. The count lies in a dazed state in his room. She has Antonina all to herself.
In Konstantin’s bedroom, Olga has set out dishes of chopped garlic to try to stop the fever. But Konstantin has grown worse, muttering and calling out in delirium as the wound on his hand putrifies.
Antonina watches him through several long nights as he convulses with chills and then lies still, panting as if he’s run many versts. At times he moans. Pavel tends to him with gentleness, bathing him with cool cloths hour after hour.
Even though he lies so still as to appear almost lifeless, each time Pavel holds a spoon or cup to his mouth, Konstantin’s lips seal themselves into a thin line. It’s as if they’re darned with the most gossamer of blue silk, as if his mouth has been sewn shut.
When the doctor removes the dressing from Konstantin’s hand, he shakes his head. “I’m afraid it’s critical, Countess Mitlovskiya. There is still no urine output?”
Antonina shakes her head.
“Soon his kidneys will fail. We must give him vodka, with milk, every few hours.”
“But he refuses.”
“Then I shall try. The vodka and milk, as well as quinine, and tincture of the chloride of iron,” he says, turning from her fixed expression, looking through his bag, pulling out small bottles and vials.
“And if this doesn’t work?”
Konstantin’s hand, she sees, is even more swollen, the skin around the wound livid, with streaks of burgundy and plum radiating up into his wrist and forearm. She stares at it, unaware that the poison is making its way into her husband’s body.
My son. Is he being fed? Is he warm? Does he call out for me?
The doctor follows her gaze. “There’s no way to stop the infection except …” He pauses. “Not yet. For now, we will try forcing him to ingest the medicine.” He glances at Olga, who has brought hot water. “Where is your priest?” he asks, and Olga gasps.
The old woman doesn’t comprehend the doctor’s medical talk, but she does understand what the presence of a priest means.
“It’s all right, Olga,” Antonina says. “Send for Father Cyril.”
As she leaves, Olga mutters, “The Father’s prayers will surely heal the master.” Her eyes flicker to the doctor, holding a long, slender tube. “Prayers we can always rely on,” she says, giving him a pointed look.
Antonina does not apologize for the servant.
The quinine and chloride prove no use. Dr. Molov next brings out a jar of fly maggots. “It sometimes helps,” he tells Antonina. “I’ll place them in the open wound. They will consume only the dead flesh, leaving the living tissue unaffected. Perhaps this can stop the spread. But I want you to be aware that it’s the last attempt.”
Antonina looks away from the squirming white larvae. “The last attempt before what? If the maggots don’t work, what then?”
“Countess Mitlovskiya,” Dr. Molov says, “it has become gangrenous. There would be but one option left to try and save the count’s life.”
“Yes?” Antonina says, although the doctor thinks she appears rather uninterested.
“Amputation, before the infection is carried even further into the body. It will be clear, in the next day, if the maggots are effective.”
The amputation takes place two days later.
Konstantin is tossing restlessly, and the bedroom is even more foul-smelling. Dr. Molov has opened a wooden case with a number of tools: various pincers and knives, as well as a small saw with an ebony handle.
“I will put the count into a sleep with chloroform,” Dr. Molov says. “Its vapour depresses the nervous system. But it’s difficult to find the right balance. Not enough and there will be the pain. Too much can lead to … Well, as I say, it’s a delicate balance. To be safe, I need two men to hold him down, should he start to feel the amputation.”
He uncorks a tall, narrow glass bottle. Antonina is near enough to detect a slightly sweet odour. Suddenly she notices a bucket of sawdust on the floor beside the bed. Why sawdust? Is this for the amputated arm? It will be cut off just below the elbow, the doctor has told her. Antonina’s mouth is dry; it’s as if she has been eating the contents of the bucket.
The doctor says, “Pavel, stand on one side of him, and you on the other … Grisha, is it?”
Grisha is watching Antonina. “You shouldn’t be here, countess.”
“You needn’t touch him yet,” the doctor instructs the men, who have moved into position. “Just be prepared.” He lifts Konstantin’s head and passes the bottle under his nose. Konstantin turns his head away fitfully, but within a moment it seems as though the anaesthetic is exciting him. He looks about, his eyes wide now, muttering syllables that make no sense. But in the next instant he slumps in what appears to be an insensible state.
“All rig
ht,” Dr. Molov says, rolling up his sleeves. He unwraps Konstantin’s hand, and Antonina covers her mouth and nose against the smell of the blackened, rotten-looking hand, the fingers bloated, the nails ebony and embedded deeply in the puffy flesh.
“I believe it best you go, countess,” Grisha says again, and she looks at him gratefully and leaves.
But even in her room, she hears Konstantin’s shrieks. She covers her ears with her hands and paces. Finally, all is quiet. She stands, looking out the window. There is a knock on her door. When she opens it, Grisha tells her, “You may see him.”
She goes to Konstantin’s room. His eyes are closed, but he is turning his head from side to side, as if in the grip of a nightmare. The bedclothes are drawn to his neck. Pavel and the doctor sit on either side of the bed. There is no evidence of the trauma that took place hours earlier. The window is open and a cool, fresh breeze blows in.
She looks down at Konstantin’s face, waxy and damp. She nods at the doctor, and returns to her room.
The day after the amputation, Dr. Molov tells Antonina that her husband has voluntarily taken some nourishment, and has spoken her name. He doesn’t tell her that, while delirious, Count Mitlovsky more frequently cried out for someone named Tania. The second day after the amputation, he says, “The fever is gone and the stitched area looks as well as can be expected. There is nothing more for me to do apart from regular visits to check on the healing. The recuperation should go smoothly, but the labour will be for the count to learn to use his left hand.”
Antonina finds it difficult to visit Konstantin. He closes his eyes or stares at the window when she comes to sit beside his bed, ignoring her when she asks if he has pain or needs her to do anything. Eventually she doesn’t go to his room, but asks Pavel how the count is doing. His answer is always the same: As well as can be expected, madam. He tells her that the tincture of chloroform mixed with opiate the doctor left helps her husband deal with the pain.
The Lost Souls of Angelkov Page 18
