Miss Blaine's Prefect and the Golden Samovar

by Olga Wjotas

  “Princess!” she gasped, sinking into a deep curtsy. “You honour me with your presence!”

  An elderly lady dressed in a mass of chartreuse silk and lace, her grey hair in elaborate coils and loops, gazed somewhere over the countess’s left shoulder. Her expression was even more contemptuous than the count’s.

  “Get up,” she said irritably. “I’m not here to see you.”

  The countess turned puce and stayed where she was. I was quite impressed that she was prepared to disobey a princess. But as the moments went past, I realised her change of colour stemmed from effort rather than annoyance. She hadn’t got up because she couldn’t.

  Since nobody else was doing anything, especially not the countess, I took charge.

  “You grab her right arm,” I told the count. “I’ll grab her left arm, and Lidia, you push from the back.” With some difficulty, we managed to propel the countess upright.

  The princess surveyed us through her lorgnette. “Who are these people?” she drawled.

  Lidia went into an even deeper curtsy than the countess, but since her knees were fine, she had no problem getting up again. My egalitarian principles prevent me from bending the knee to someone who’s considered superior purely because of an accident of birth. But I believe in politeness, so I nodded in a friendly enough manner.

  The countess waved a dismissive hand. “Do not trouble yourself with them, Princess,” she wheezed. “They are nobodies.”

  “How extraordinary. I wouldn’t dream of inviting nobodies to my soirées.”

  “I scarcely invited them, Princess. They simply arrived.”

  “Even more extraordinary, to allow anyone entry – they could be anarchists.”

  I was about to reassure the princess that I firmly believed in the supremacy of the ballot box when it struck me that she probably didn’t.

  “But you’re wasting my time, Countess. Where is the young Adonis?”

  With a ghastly ingratiating smile, the countess indicated that the princess should follow her, and lurched in the direction of a sofa that contained the handsome Sasha surrounded by a gaggle of young wives.

  He was even more delicious than I remembered, the floppy fair hair, those dark-fringed eyes, that perfectly straight nose, that luscious mouth. And then the mood was destroyed by the countess clapping her hands as though she were shooing away stray cats. The young wives sprang up, curtseyed to the princess, and vanished.

  With panther-like grace, Sasha got to his feet and bowed low. The princess walked round him, then took hold of his chin, tilted it, and made a detailed study of his face.

  “Most acceptable,” she said over her shoulder to the countess, who simpered. “Now, sweet creature, what is your name?”

  “Sasha, your imperial highness,” said the young man, his musical voice respectful.

  “Call me Princess.” She sat down on the empty sofa and patted the place beside her.

  Lidia had been completely oblivious to the exchange. She was gazing round the ballroom, eyes shining, her hands clasped in delight.

  “How grand it all is, how magnificent! How I wish I could dance here! But I cannot see the general.”

  “Yes, he’s pretty tricky to spot,” I agreed. “Oh, look, there he is, almost hidden by that Ming vase.”

  I signalled to him to join us. He formally asked Lidia for a dance and she formally accepted. Then they set off, Lidia politely stooping so that the general could get hold of her.

  I parked myself on a spare sofa, my gaze drawn yet again to Sasha. Even though the princess had requisitioned him, I could see his eyes were fixed yearningly on Lidia as she whirled round the ballroom. He was obviously smitten, which was perfect; I would have no problem with him once I got them together. But tonight I couldn’t do anything, not after my vow to Nanny. I couldn’t allow Lidia to talk to or dance with any man apart from the general. I also had to make sure her fichu stayed in place. Fortunately, because the general could take only small steps, she wasn’t dancing vigorously enough to dislodge it.

  This was a wasted evening as far as my mission was concerned, and I had a deadline. I was going to have to stop making vows to Nanny, or at least cross my fingers behind my back.

  The dance ended. Lidia charmingly thanked the general and, oblivious to Sasha’s wistful look, went to sit by an old lady whose voluminous dress was made of scarlet silk.

  Even as I watched Lidia, and watched Sasha watching Lidia, I became aware of an odd recurring noise, a scrabbling followed by a hastily stifled squeal of pain. I looked round to find a number of guests surreptitiously rubbing their lower legs. Then I saw an animated floormop creep up behind an elderly officer and sink its teeth into his ankle. Unlike the others, the officer had masterly self-control and didn’t make a sound. He merely shook his leg until he managed to dislodge the floormop, then began limping stoically in the direction of a drink.

  “Whatever is the matter with you, Colonel?” called the countess.

  “Afraid the old war wound’s playing up,” he said.

  I leaned over towards the guests on the next sofa. “What’s that thing on the floor?” I asked.

  “It is the countess’s darling little lapdog,” someone trilled. “Such an amusing little creature! We all love it so much!”

  The countess might be new to the social scene, but nobody seemed in any hurry to challenge her. She had attracted a princess to her party, after all.

  The darling little lapdog shuffled closer, and I could see its malevolent little eyes focus on me.

  “Not a chance,” I said. “Shuffle along.”

  The creature locked gazes with me, its eyes glittering balefully, and with a sudden bound, it landed on the sofa beside me.

  “Bad dog,” I said, grabbing it and plonking it back on the floor. There was a horrified silence from the guests around me, broken by piteous whining. With a cry, the countess rushed over and scooped the floormop up in her arms, cooing at it and petting it.

  “My darling, what happened to you?” she screeched.

  The silence spread in ripples across the ballroom, reaching even the orchestra, which lurched to a discordant halt. Everybody was looking at me.

  “Nothing happened to it. I merely shifted it from the sofa to the floor,” I said evenly.

  “My poor Tresorka, what did the nasty foreign lady do to you? Never mind the nasty foreign lady. She doesn’t like dear little doggies.”

  “On the contrary,” I said. “I’m a regular St Francis of Assisi. But I believe there’s a place for everything and everything in its place. And a dog’s place is not on the soft furnishings.”

  “Ah yes, one’s place.” The countess’s voice reverberated round the hushed ballroom. “And where is your place, Shona Fergusovna? You have already informed me that you are not an itinerant dance instructor. In that case, I am quite at a loss to know who you are.”

  I stood up, smoothed down my dress, took a deep breath and addressed the gathering.

  “You want to know who I am? Very well. I come from the capital of Scotland, where I attended the Marcia Blaine School for Girls and gained the finest education in the world. May I say that I believe what is important is not our social position, but the use we make of our talents.”

  “Good God!” an officer exclaimed. “The woman’s a Decembrist!”

  I carefully noted this latest clue to the date. The Decembrists, a radical political reform group, had had a failed uprising in 1825.

  “I’m not any kind of -ist,” I retorted. “Except a feminist, obviously.”

  “What is a feminist?” I heard someone whisper to their neighbour.

  “It must be someone who upholds the highest virtues of womanhood: humility, obedience and flower arranging,” came the reply.

  I decided to let that one go.

  “As I told you yesterday evening, I am the crème d
e la crème,” I went on. “It was no idle boast.”

  Even as I said the words, there was a tightening in my chest and a pounding in my temples at the thought of That Book.

  “Yes,” I said, “every single Blainer is the crème de la crème by virtue of our outstanding education. But a depraved novelist claimed that this epithet applied only to a small coterie, the pupils of one particular teacher. And in a salacious misrepresentation of our beloved school and its irreproachable staff, she portrayed that teacher as a promiscuous adulteress who was prepared to prostitute her pupils. Pupils whose prepubescent sexual fantasies she described in sordid detail.”

  I had to clutch a nearby gilt salon chair for support, and to let my pulse slow down. I pride myself on my self-control, but this is a wound that will never heal.

  A lady sitting nearby leaned forward eagerly: “Please, Shona Fergusovna, may we have the name of this book and its author? In order that we may avoid it, of course.”

  That Book, here! It was a dreadful thought. But who knew what wrinkles there were in the time-space continuum? After all, here I was, without any idea how I’d got here. What if That Book should suddenly turn up in nineteenth-century Russia and people mistook it for an accurate representation of the Scottish education system?

  “A wise precaution,” I said. “The title of this depraved novel is The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie and the writer is a Mrs Spark.”

  There was a rustling as the ladies all opened their reticules, took out pencils and paper and carefully wrote down the details.

  “We shall seek out every copy in order to prevent them falling into innocent hands,” said the young lady, and they all nodded.

  This was heartening. “I’m most grateful to you,” I said. “The sooner we can rid the world of this farrago of lies, the better.”

  Now that I had averted danger, I could resume my theme. My self-control and my pulse were within acceptable levels. I looked steadily at the countess.

  “But it seems that some of you here still believe in the importance of social status. In that case, I’m proud to inform you that there is not a single person in Scotland who can boast a finer or a higher lineage than my own, or claim precedence over me. For I, Countess, am one of the children of Jock Tamson.”

  There were wondering gasps and then someone began to clap, swiftly followed by the others. Everyone, I noticed, apart from the countess. I also noticed that the person who had started the applause was none other than the guest of honour, the elderly princess. That startled me, because she had seemed very status-conscious. But I had been speaking from the heart, and must have touched her with my eloquence.

  Her clipped patrician tones cut through the continuing applause. “My dear Princess Tamsonova! Pray come and sit by me.”

  The daft woman had got the wrong end of the stick entirely. Inbreeding has a lot to answer for. There I was, making the case for social equality, and she thought I was saying I was Caledonian royalty. The very definition of ironic. I was going to explain her mistake, and then I thought it was unwise to antagonise her unnecessarily. Also, I couldn’t really be bothered.

  “Delighted, Princess,” I said.

  She gave Sasha a dismissive shove and he disappeared into the crowd. I had the distinct impression that he was escaping. Another signal from her, and the orchestra struck up again.

  “It is an unexpected pleasure to meet another princess,” she said in perfect English and gave a dry chuckle at my reaction. “Ah yes, I speak your language. I had an English governess – indeed, I should say a Scottish governess, for she was most particular on that point. A Miss Menzies from Aberfeldy – perhaps you know her?”

  “Sorry, I don’t think so,” I said.

  “No matter – she was, as you say in your picturesque language, a nippy sweetie.” Another arid chuckle. “Ah yes, I know Scots as well as English. And I am well acquainted with your beautiful country – or should I say bonnie land? – through the works of Sir Walter Scott. I am at present reading Rob Roy, and it would be a pleasure to speak with you of Scotia’s glorious braes and glens.”

  Excellent. Another clue. Rob Roy was published in 1817. “The pleasure will be all mine, Princess,” I said. “I never tire of talking about my dear, my native soil.”

  The princess flourished her lorgnette enthusiastically. “A quotation from your national bard, dear Rabbie! I adore his enchanting verses. Simple. Inspiring. Profound.”

  “Left–” I began and just managed to prevent myself continuing: “–wing.” That wouldn’t go down well with royalty. “–us a wonderful legacy,” I concluded, glancing round to see what was going on elsewhere. Quite a few guests were gawking at us in open-mouthed awe, albeit at a discreet distance so they couldn’t be accused of eavesdropping. Not that they would have gleaned much, since the princess was holding forth in a fine Perthshire accent. But the countess was giving me evils, a snarl on her face that would have done credit to the animated floormop. She seemed, in the words of dear Rabbie, to be nursing her wrath to keep it warm, to the extent that I feared her stays might spontaneously combust.

  Lidia was now chatting to another old dear who was brandishing an ear trumpet and wearing an eye patch, while Sasha had ended up sitting beside the lady in red who had been Lidia’s previous companion. As I watched, Sasha helped her to her feet. She was completely cylindrical and looked remarkably like a pillar box.

  This was exciting – another possible clue. Every Blainer knows that the great Victorian novelist Anthony Trollope invented the British pillar box in 1852. The Post Office had sent him to Europe on a fact-finding mission. Had he got as far as Russia and been inspired by Pillar Box Lady?

  And then I had to smile at my jejune error. The original pillar boxes had been green.

  “Tell me,” I said to the princess, “does that lady over there have an olive-coloured dress?”

  The princess shook her head. “She is known for only ever wearing scarlet. Her late husband found a financially advantageous deal on a bale of silk from the Indies.”

  A pity. But it was a timely reminder that I must never take anything for granted. Had I forgotten that it was twenty years before pillar boxes were painted red, I could have made an erroneous assumption. I must always check and double check, and deal in facts, not suppositions.

  Pillar Box Lady was making her way to the door with the help of Sasha and a walking stick. My super-acute hearing picked up their conversation.

  “You will not forget?” said Pillar Box Lady.

  “How could I?” said Sasha. “I shall be counting the minutes until I see you tomorrow morning.”

  She stroked his cheek. “Sweet child! My coachman will bring you straight to me.”

  What a sweet young guy, I thought, offering to visit lonely wrinklies. But the princess was demanding my attention.

  “So you have come from high Dunedin’s towers. Do you reside in the castle itself or in the picturesque Palace of Holyroodhouse?”

  It would do my mission no harm if she thought I was a fellow princess, but I was reluctant to tell an outright lie.

  “Neither,” I said, thinking of the topography of Morningside. “I actually live on a brae.”

  “Delightful!” said the princess. “Such a wise choice. A town palace can be so dreadfully enervating with the constant bustle of common people nearby. It is much more pleasant to remain on one’s country estates. And do you rin aboot the braes and pu’ the gowans fine, as dear Rabbie suggests?”

  “Frequently,” I said.

  “I’ve always wondered,” said the princess, “what exactly is a gowan? I assume it is a Scottish serf?”

  “More like a small gerbera,” I explained, and the princess gave a sigh of disappointment.

  “You must tell me about that intriguing item of male clothing, the kilt. It must be very splendid to see the brawny thighs of your serfs when the snell wind blaws
.”

  I wasn’t going to get drawn into a conversation about serfs. “Kilts are a Highland tradition, and Edinburgh is a lowland city.”

  “Then when I visit, you must take me to the Highlands.”

  Did time travelling work in both directions? It would be quite awkward if she turned up. I would have to take time off to show her round properly. And since she was a princess, I would probably have to give up my bedroom and sleep on the bed settee. But I didn’t say any of this to her, just smiled in a non-committal way.

  She patted my arm. “I came here with few expectations, but young Sasha is bonnier than I could have imagined, and it is a muckle joy to find such a braw lassie as my fellow princess.”

  “Sir Walter couldn’t have put it better,” I said politely.

  The princess waved a bejewelled hand at the countess, who scuttled across as fast as her fat little feet could carry her.

  “My carriage,” ordered the princess in Russian as though to a hearing-impaired doorman.

  “But you can’t leave already!” the countess protested.

  The princess stared at her, gimlet-eyed. “Do you presume to command me?”

  “No, Princess, of course not – what I mean is, it would be so disappointing for all the other guests.”

  “I am not a dancing bear, here to provide entertainment. You seem to have an extraordinary capacity for thinking that royalty is a source of diversion. And can you explain why you told me that Princess Tamsonova was a nobody?”

  The countess spluttered. “Dearest Princess, you must have misunderstood!”

  “I? Misunderstood?”

  “No, no, of course not, what I mean is that I must have been unclear. Of course I would never describe our dear Princess Tamsonova as a nobody. I was referring to the other people present at the time, whose names I forget.”

  I felt I should be helpful. “There was only one other person present, my friend Lidia Ivanovna,” I said.