by Olga Wjotas
The princess’s eyes widened. “Not little Lidia Ivanovna, who has been locked away for all these years?”
“That’s the one,” I said.
“How fascinating! It is beyond me, Countess, why you should describe her as a nobody when she must be one of the richest heiresses in the land. Princess Tamsonova, my dear, I shall call on you tomorrow.”
“Excellent. I’ll make sure I’m in all day,” I said.
The princess kissed her hand to me, then descended the staircase without a further word or glance for the countess.
There was a scrabbling noise. The animated floormop was baring its teeth at me.
“Hello, doggy,” I said. Tresorka growled and scuttled under the countess’s voluminous gown.
“Lovely party,” I told the countess, beaming. “Always nice to meet a fellow princess.”
The countess’s smile was fixed like concrete. “But how wicked of you, Princess Tamsonova, to remain incognito yesterday.”
“Yesterday wasn’t about me,” I said. “It was about Lidia Ivanovna taking up her rightful place in society, which I’m glad to see she’s doing very successfully.”
Lidia was now dancing a quadrille with the general, thoughtfully steering him out of the way of the other couples since he couldn’t see through her.
“Anyway, must go and circulate,” I said. “Noblesse oblige.” I watched the countess carefully to see if she recognised the phrase, which had been coined by Honoré de Balzac in 1835. The rictus smile remained intact. But as I turned to go, my super-acute hearing picked up a faint whisper: “I shall destroy you.”
I couldn’t be sure whether the countess didn’t know the Balzac expression, or just really hated me. Whichever it was, it hadn’t helped to pinpoint the year.
I approached a gaggle of young wives who all reverently jumped to their feet and installed me in their midst.
“This is your first visit here, Princess Tamsonova?” ventured one. “What are your impressions?”
“Very much as I imagined,” I said. “I reckoned it would be a bit of a fashion backwater, so I got my dressmaker to make me up some of last year’s designs which I see make me fit right in. But I couldn’t believe it when I saw Lidia Ivanovna – what a style maven! Retro is so totally on trend in Scotland this season, but she’s the only one to pick up on it. And she’s got the dare-to-bare look absolutely right – everybody in Edinburgh is using no-make-up make-up. And her hair! It must take her hours to get that simple, natural, just-washed-in-the-loch effect. Honestly, you think all these years she’s been shut away, missing out on all the social life, and it turns out she’s been keeping up with high fashion all the time. That yellow wool fichu matched with the navy cotton is so totally this season’s colours and textures – I just can’t wait to try it out.”
I shook my head in admiration.
At that moment, the quadrille ended. The young wives twittered with excitement and called Lidia over to join them, making a space for her. I spotted Sasha on the other side of room, sitting by the old woman with the ear trumpet and the eye patch. He showed every sign of listening attentively to her, but his eyes were on Lidia. I tuned out the young wives’ conversation and tuned in to Eye Patch Lady and Sasha.
“I shall be waiting for you tomorrow afternoon,” she was saying.
“And I shall be counting the minutes until then,” Sasha replied.
He was such a sweet guy. When he married Lidia, she would have to be careful that he didn’t exhaust himself doing good works, and left some time for her.
An irritatingly squeaky-voiced young wife interrupted my thoughts. “Dearest Lidia Ivanovna, may we send our dressmakers to you to copy your charming on-trend gowns?”
“And please tell us where may we purchase a woollen fichu,” said another.
A third begged for the secrets of Lidia’s beauty regime.
“Lidia Ivanovna will tell you that the key thing is to insist on performing a wide range of domestic duties: chopping logs, scrubbing clothes, peeling potatoes,” I said. “It really gets the circulation going and tightens up the pores, leaving you with a smooth complexion. It’s also great for toning up those flabby upper arms. If your serfs complain that there’s nothing for them to do, don’t back down, just remind them who’s boss.”
“But–” said Lidia.
“You’re quite right to correct me,” I said. “But most important of all, as Lidia was about to tell you, is one’s beauty sleep. So if we’re all to be up at the crack of dawn tomorrow to get those stoves and samovars heated up, we really should go.”
As Old Vatrushkin settled us in the drozhky, Lidia said, “How kind and welcoming they are to me.”
I didn’t want to disillusion her. The lesson on pretentious social climbers could come later.
“You’re enjoying being out in society, then?” I asked.
She hesitated. “It’s not quite as I imagined it.”
“It’s much more exciting than you imagined?” I suggested.
“I was so looking forward to dancing,” she said. “The general is a charming and valiant gentleman but I find stooping to dance with him slightly uncomfortable. His conversation is very lively, about carnage on battlefields, but I’m afraid I know very little about carnage or battlefields and cannot contribute much.”
This would all be solved when I got her together with Sasha.
“And the ladies,” she went on. “It is so good of them to include me, but I fear I cannot contribute anything to their conversation either, since I know nothing about fashion and beauty regimes.”
You and me both, sister, I thought.
“Society seems . . .” She hesitated again. “I’m not sure if I can find the right word.”
“Just say what comes into your head,” I encouraged. “I’m sure I’ll work out what you’re trying to say.”
She smiled gratefully. “I know I can always depend on you, dear Shona Fergusovna. I find society trivial, petty, worthless and inconsequential. Forgive me if I haven’t expressed myself clearly.”
“No, that seems clear enough,” I said.
“Nobody in society does anything that is not trivial, petty, worthless and inconsequential,” she went on. “And so I have decided to withdraw from society and return to my woodwork.”
I clutched the side of the drozhky in alarm. If Lidia withdrew from society, I would never be able to get her married to Sasha, and I would have failed in my very first mission. Which probably meant I wouldn’t get sent on a second one. This was all my fault, bigging up her woodwork when I should have been extolling the virtues of marriage and motherhood like a Stepford Wife.
“Promise me you won’t do anything hasty,” I said. “Give it until the end of this week.”
She gave a delighted laugh. “I see, it is a test,” she said. “I shall not disappoint you. My resolve to lead a life of seclusion will be even firmer by the week’s end.”
Five
I awoke knowing that there was someone in my room. Someone who was sneaking around. Someone who didn’t want me to know they were there.
I kept my eyes closed and breathed in heavily as though deeply asleep. No scent of cologne, tobacco or leather boots. A faint whiff of cabbage.
I sensed the figure approaching me and held myself in readiness. Martial arts is one of my hobbies and while I wouldn’t claim to be as expert as a Shaolin monk, I’ve got more than enough knowledge to be effective. As the intruder leaned towards me, I leaped up and pinned them to the wall.
The maid screamed.
“I’m terribly sorry,” I said, loosening my grip and helping her into a chair. “I thought you were somebody else.”
The maid scowled. “It is very hard working for you. The countess beat me all the time, but she never tried to kill me.”
“I wasn’t trying to kill you,” I said. “I was just tryin
g to find out who you were and what you were doing in my bedroom. Incidentally, what are you doing in my bedroom?”
“I came to dress you,” she whined.
“Do you dress yourself?” I asked.
The maid rolled her eyes. “Of course, madam.”
“Do you find it difficult?”
“Of course not, madam.”
“Well, neither do I, so in future, there’s no need for you to come into my room in the morning.”
“It’s not right,” muttered the maid. “It’s what I’m supposed to do.” And then, apparently noticing my attire for the first time: “Saints in heaven, madam, what are you wearing?”
“Pyjamas,” I said. “Black Watch tartan. Very cosy. Would you like a pair?”
The maid shuddered. “It’s not decent. You should wear proper nightclothes, madam.”
“It’s what I was given, and I’m very happy with them,” I said.
“I hope the rest of madam’s clothes are appropriate,” sniffed the maid.
I decided against showing the maid my underwear drawer, guessing that the multiway bras would cause particular upset. But I opened the wardrobe to display my dresses and evening gowns.
“Do these meet with your approval?”
The maid nodded, a glint of acquisitiveness in her eye as she surveyed the elegant muslins, chintzes, satins and silks.
“Tell you what,” I said. “To make up for giving you a fright, why don’t you borrow my clothes if you’re going out somewhere special? We’re about the same height and build.”
I had assumed that this would be a bonding exercise, but the maid simply gave a shrug. “I suppose there are a few I wouldn’t mind being seen in. Of course madam is substantially wider than myself in the–” She gestured in a disparaging way. “But I’ll try to make the necessary adjustments.”
I was going to point out that my glutes were solid muscle, but she was already rummaging through the wardrobe. She requisitioned three of my most expensive-looking gowns and a couple of velvet bonnets.
“These will do for the moment,” she said disdainfully. She turned to leave the room with her haul, and screamed.
“What is it now?” I asked.
The maid pointed a trembling finger at the log wall that was covered in deep gouges and splintered planks where I had been doing my knife-throwing practice. It did look pretty bad. I would have to leave some money for repairs when I left.
“What happened?” she whispered.
“I was having a bit of trouble with the sleeves of my new fur coat,” I said.
Her eyes wide in terror, the maid fled.
“Breakfast in ten minutes,” I called after her. But when I reached the kitchen, I discovered that was where she had fled to, so that she could complain to Old Vatrushkin.
“Madam tried to kill me!” she was saying. “You should see the wall – she tore it to pieces with her nails because she didn’t like her coat. I’ve never known anyone to have a temper like madam’s. You mark my words, it’s only a matter of time before she tries to tear us to pieces.”
“Her excellency may do as she wishes,” said Old Vatrushkin. “It would be an honour for us to be torn to pieces by her.”
I cleared my throat warningly. “If you repeat these preposterous, inaccurate and defamatory allegations one more time,” I said, “you know what I’ll do.”
The maid screamed. “No, don’t tear me to pieces!”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I said. “Stop being such a drama queen. I was referring to emancipation. Anyway, I’m expecting a visit from the princess some time today, so we’d better get the place tidy and organise some tea and cake for her.”
The maid gave a petulant sniff. “I’m a lady’s maid,” she said. “These are not my duties.”
“What exactly are your duties?” I asked.
“To dress and undress you, madam.”
I sighed. Still, life would probably be simpler with her doing as little as possible.
“Your excellency, it would be a privilege to be allowed to clean the mansion for you,” said Old Vatrushkin. “I shall also start making some epicurean delicacies. And if in my poor unskilful way, I could serve them with some tea to your imperial visitor – but no, that would be unimaginable.”
“I’m imagining it right now and it would be perfect,” I said. “So that’s the staffing situation sorted.”
“To think that a princess is coming to visit and you don’t have a major-domo,” the maid sneered.
“The princess will just have to take us as she finds us,” I said. “I’m not getting involved with any more serfs.”
“No need, your excellency,” said Old Vatrushkin. “I am conversant with the duties of a major-domo.”
Proof yet again that coachmen know everything.
When the princess arrived, Old Vatrushkin performed his major-domo duties to perfection. But as she ascended the stairs, she remarked, “Your major-domo has a very odd uniform,” and I wondered whether he should have changed out of his jerkin and the shabby long coat with its turned-up collar, not to mention the scruffy black lamb’s wool cap. But I decided it ill became the princess to criticise anyone else’s clothes since she was wearing a bright emerald satin dress that made her look like a particularly lurid spear of asparagus.
The princess installed herself in the best seat in the salon and Old Vatrushkin set about serving the tea.
“Your footman has a very odd uniform,” said the princess. “It looks very similar to that of your major-domo.”
She obviously suffered from aristocratic myopia when dealing with the lower orders, and had no idea that she had seen Old Vatrushkin before.
“They’re one and the same,” I said.
“You can’t mean that your footman is your major-domo?” demanded the princess. I nodded.
“Just a wee Scottish thing. Saves on staff costs.”
The princess clapped her hands in delight. “Oh, Princess Tamsonova, what a splendid idea! There is so much we can learn from Caledonia, stern and wild. The moment I get home, I shall instruct all the major-domos in my palaces to become footmen immediately.”
“But you won’t get rid of your existing footmen?” I said, petrified that I might have been instrumental in a round of forcible emancipations.
“Of course not,” said the princess. “One can never have too many footmen.”
Old Vatrushkin went over to the golden samovar to pour the tea. The princess turned her lorgnette on it.
“What an exquisite samovar! And what an exquisite serf! I quite understand why you have him as both your major-domo and footman.”
Startled, I peered at Old Vatrushkin. He looked the same as always, timid dark eyes peeping out of a tangle of wild black curls. I would never have described him as “exquisite”. “Cute”, tops.
He served the princess with her tea, and she playfully pinched his cheek, yanking a quantity of beard. As he handed me my own glass of tea, he swivelled his eyes meaningfully towards the door and looked back at me with a pleading look. I understood immediately.
“We can manage very well on our own from here,” I said. “Return to your major-domo-ing.”
Swiftly, to prevent the princess countermanding my order, I said, “I’m intrigued by the countess. Do tell me more about her.”
The princess yawned. “I have no interest in her. Yesterday was the first time I made her acquaintance. Even if her wedding to the count had taken place in town, I doubt I would have attended. But of course it took place in the country as a consequence of the unfortunate incident of which we are forbidden to speak.”
“We can’t even speak about it a bit?” I asked.
“No indeed.” The princess leaned forward confidentially. “An artillery officer spoke of it in the hearing of his imperial majesty and the tsar tore off his epaulettes wi
th his own hands.”
“Nasty,” I said. “That would definitely put you off speaking about it. So tell me about the count.”
The princess yawned again. “I have no interest in him. He is not amusing and he is certainly not handsome. We have missed nothing over the past twenty years through his absence.” Then she perked up. “But have you ever seen anything more delightful than the young Sasha?”
“The countess’s protégé?” I asked cautiously and the princess erupted in gales of laughter.
“Yes, yes, her protégé – oh, Princess Tamsonova, there is no man in town more exquisite than Sasha and no man or woman more amusing than yourself! I shall certainly describe him as her protégé from now on.”
I couldn’t see anything remotely funny in what I had said. It was how Old Vatrushkin had described him and it seemed perfectly innocuous. But I laughed companionably so that the princess didn’t feel awkward.
“And speaking of Sasha,” I asked, “what do you know about him?”
“I believe he is the first cousin of the old prince. And I am certain he is related to the blue-eyed baroness, because of the unmistakable family resemblance.”
Interesting. Even the princess had been fooled by Sasha’s fake CV.
She had a faraway look. “But it is absurd the way the countess dresses him so drearily! She has no sense of style. I shall send my late husband’s tailor to him. I have a fancy to see him in some of the more snug Parisian fashions.”
I didn’t like the direction the conversation had taken.
“Princess . . .” I cleared my throat. “Your interest in Sasha. I presume it’s . . . maternal?”
The Princess’s laugh put me in mind of Sid James.
Feminism is nothing if it does not liberate both women and men. It is equality that we seek. “Princess,” I went on, “I think you might be being a wee bit sexist.”
“Sexist?” said the princess. “I do not know this word.”
“You’re sort of . . . objectifying.”
“Objectifying? My dear Princess Tamsonova, what language are you speaking? I have met none of this vocabulary in the delightful works of Sir Walter Scott.”
