by Olga Wjotas
The salver had been placed between me and Sasha. He glanced at it involuntarily, the way you do, and then gave me the sweetest apologetic smile, before turning away and catching sight of the clock.
“Please excuse me – I had no idea it was so late,” he said. “The countess has instructed me to call on another of her acquaintances, whom I must catch before her afternoon nap.” He gave us both the most graceful bow and left.
I had been going to answer Nanny’s summons, but the general had just poured himself another glass of wine and I felt it would be rude to abandon him. Also, this was a useful opportunity to garner more information. If Nanny’s message was really urgent, she would send another footman, or come and get me herself.
“Would you like to hear about my second-favourite battle?” the general asked, picking up the condiments.
“That sounds great,” I said, “but I think I need a bit more time to absorb the tactics of your favourite battle. I wouldn’t want to confuse the two. Anyway, about your late wife.”
To my astonishment, he burst into tears. “She’s not entirely dead.”
I had a hideous vision of his mansion being terrorised by a marauding zombie. No wonder he preferred to live in a tent in the garden.
“When you say not entirely?”
He hiccupped. “Not at all.”
“So she wasn’t really carried away in the floods?”
“She was,” he said. “But she was rescued by a miller when she got entangled in his watermill. She sent me a letter saying she much preferred him to me, and that I should consider her gone forever.”
He didn’t seem to have a strong grasp of legal matters, so I explained about bigamy, and how he couldn’t marry anybody while he was still married to the Mrs General.
And then he explained that he had immediately divorced her, but to avoid the social scandal of being a divorcé, he was passing himself off as a widower.
By this time, his sobs were diminishing. “I thought we were happy together,” he said. “I was always away on manoeuvres or at war and we never saw one another. Then when I retired, she said I just got under her feet and stifled her individuality.”
My sympathy was with the wife. I didn’t imagine he had done any pre-retirement planning. But I felt a twinge of sympathy for him as well. He looked so forlorn, blowing his little nose on the starched linen napkin.
“I just want companionship in my old age,” he snuffled. “And a draught-free mansion.”
“There must be plenty of ladies who would love to marry a war hero,” I said.
He shook his head. “Lidia Ivanovna is the only suitable lady on the market at the moment. And I’m certain she’s the only one who can do woodwork.” He paused and shot me a hopeful look. “Unless . . .”
This time I shook my head. “Not bad at woodwork. But not on the market.”
He sighed. “A pity. But I must go. That young man reminded me, it’s time for my afternoon nap as well.”
I was more determined than ever to keep Lidia away from him if he thought she was merely interchangeable. I walked him down to the grand entrance. As he left, there was the weirdest trick of the light – I could have sworn I saw Sasha disappearing down the end of the driveway. But that was impossible, since he had left ages ago.
I went back indoors and made my way to Nanny’s room.
When I knocked on the door, there was a gasp of alarm from inside. “Who is it?” she quavered.
“It’s me, Nanny,” I said and then, for the avoidance of doubt, “Shona Fergusovna from Scotland.”
There was no reply, so I opened the door and went in. Nanny was huddled in a pile of knitting in the corner. There was something different about the room, I thought, something missing, but I couldn’t work out what it was.
“You wanted to see me?” I said.
“No!” she said.
I produced the note from my pocket. “Didn’t you send me this?”
“Yes,” she said. “No.”
“Yes you didn’t or no you did?”
“Stop trying to bamboozle a poor old woman!” she moaned. “Why don’t you just leave me alone?”
“Nanny, are you cross with me?” I asked. “Are you cross because I invited Sasha to lunch?”
She started rocking as she sat in her cocoon of knitting. “Stop pestering me with questions!” she wailed.
“I just wanted Lidia to see that the general wasn’t her only option,” I explained. “He’s a nice old guy, but you have to admit he’s not a patch on Sasha as a fiancé.”
Nanny was still rocking and wailing, and now she threw her apron over her head. I was beginning to realise she was a sore loser.
“I’m sorry, Nanny,” I said, “but as we agreed, I’m doing my best to help Lidia and I’m a bit disappointed that you’re being so pig-headed about it.”
“You don’t understand!” she howled.
“Then explain it to me,” I said.
“I can’t! I can’t!” she moaned. “Just go away and stop bothering me!”
But after my conversation with the princess, there was still something I wanted to clear up.
“Nanny, Lidia’s mother. Am I right in thinking that–” I tried to put it as delicately as possible “–she was no better than she should be?”
Nanny sat up, dislodging countless balls of wool. “Exactly!” she said. “No better than she should be!”
I was surprised by how readily she had agreed. It suggested that Lidia’s allegedly saintly mum had been a bit of a one.
“So the tragedy, the one we don’t speak of, the baby–”
I stopped, abruptly. It’s tricky to keep talking when you’ve got a mouthful of yarn. She had lobbed a ball of wool at me, and her aim was impressive.
“I can’t say anything, but isn’t it obvious?” she yelled.
I removed the wool. “Isn’t what obvious?”
She lobbed another ball of wool at me, hitting me on the nose.
“You’re useless! Get out! I told you, get out!”
“I’m going,” I said with dignity. “But I’m inviting Lidia to a wee afternoon tea tomorrow. Girls only. No boys. No Sasha, no general. I hope that’s all right.”
I tried to hand her the invitation but she turned her back on me and looked out of the window instead. Then she gave the most pitiful wail, the sort you might give if your team had just lost to Partick Thistle.
“Oh, Chicken,” she groaned, “what have you been doing?”
I looked out of the window over her head, which wasn’t difficult, and saw Lidia emerge from a large closed carriage. Nanny shoved past me and scuttled off down the stairs. I left the invitation on the nearest pile of wool and followed her.
Nanny ran towards the carriage, shouting, “Where have you been, Lidia Ivanovna?”
Lidia recoiled, colour draining from her face.
“I asked you where you had been,” Nanny persisted.
“Nowhere,” Lidia faltered. “That is, I just went for a little drive.”
“Have you been speaking to any men?” demanded Nanny.
It was fleeting, but I was sure a look of relief crossed Lidia’s face. “No,” she said. “No, I haven’t.”
“You shouldn’t have been out at all. Now get inside and stay there.”
“Bye, Lidia,” I called as she fled into the house. “Don’t forget afternoon tea tomorrow and then the princess’s party.”
Nanny turned on me. “This is all your doing, Shona Fergusovna,” she hissed. “You fool, you don’t understand the danger–” She clapped her hand over her mouth.
“Danger?” I said. “No, I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”
“I can’t tell you!” she screamed. “Just go!”
So I went.
Six
I’d given up asking the mai
d to do anything. She spent most of her time swanning around town in my dresses and sneering at other maids.
But I couldn’t load all the work on Old Vatrushkin. He was always hanging around in case he could help, and it was taking me all my time to get him to paint for an hour a day.
“Old Vatrushkin, can you go out for some messages?” I asked.
“Your excellency is expecting messages? Will the couriers not come here?”
I really had to stop translating directly from the Scots. I explained I wanted him to do some shopping for the traditional Scottish afternoon tea. I sent him off with the list I had written for him, using the appropriate weights and measures. Peter the Great had standardised everything on the eighteenth-century English system, with futs and dyuims for feet and inches and funts and untsyas for pounds and ounces.
Old Vatrushkin set off with my list: 4 plain loaves; 3 funts plain flour; 2 funts cheese; 1 kruzhka pickle; 3 cucumbers; 1 dozen eggs; 1 funt sugar; 2 funts butter; 1 vedro milk; 1 kruzhka condensed milk; 2 garnets raspberries; baking powder if available, otherwise, leavening agent such as unpasteurised beer with live yeast.
I set about cleaning the public rooms. I was just doing a bit of last-minute tidying up when my super-acute hearing picked up the sound of faint sobbing outside. I went to investigate and found Old Vatrushkin huddled on top of the box on the drozhky, his dark beard soggy with tears. He hid his face when he saw me.
“Oh, your excellency,” he said brokenly, “I was unable to fulfil all your instructions about the messages. I don’t know what condensed milk is. And there was not a cucumber to be found so I had to improvise with gherkins. Emancipate me now.”
“Don’t be silly, Old Vatrushkin. What did you manage to get?”
He choked back a sob and started ticking things off on his fingers. “I have the bread, and the cheese, and the pickle, and the flour, and the sugar, and the butter, and the raspberries, and the milk, and the eggs, and the beer.”
“Well, that’s perfect. As long as we’ve got cheese and pickle sandwiches.”
“Your excellency’s tolerance of my ineptitude is beyond anything I deserve,” hiccupped Old Vatrushkin as he carried his purchases to the pantry and began setting them out on the table.
“What’s that?” I asked, pointing at some peculiar-looking packages.
He beamed. “Cream cheese and cabbage pickle for the cheese and pickle sandwiches. And I have four of the plainest rye loaves I could find.”
I managed to say “Excellent”, but for once my heart wasn’t in it as I contemplated the buckwheat flour, buffalo milk and massive sugarloaf. It was going to be dreadful. The only good thing was that they wouldn’t make snarky comments about deep-fried Mars bars because they wouldn’t have heard of them. I set Old Vatrushkin to snipping bits off the sugar loaf, while I boiled up buffalo milk to make cream.
A few hours later, we had finished. Though I say it myself, the results were fabulous. The buckwheat scones and Victoria sponge hadn’t quite risen, but with cream and raspberry jam, they tasted brilliant. The cabbage pickle and cream cheese on rye was excitingly tangy. And the tablet made with sugar loaf and buffalo milk was sublime. Old Vatrushkin and I arranged everything artistically on the Sèvres porcelain.
Lidia was the first to arrive, not realising that she was supposed to be fashionably late.
“Glad to see you,” I said. “I wasn’t sure whether you would be able to come.”
“That’s why I went out yesterday, to leave me free today,” she said. “Nanny was so angry with me. But I really didn’t do anything wrong, Shona Fergusovna – you must believe me.”
I only had to look into those limpid guileless eyes to believe her. I got her to send her coachman away, giving him some time off, since Old Vatrushkin could take her home. I was determined to do what I could to improve the working lives of the serfs. But I stopped after that. It wasn’t going to improve Old Vatrushkin’s working life if he had to take everyone home, besides which I wouldn’t get rid of my guests for hours if they all had to wait their turn.
Nobody was as fashionably late as I had expected, presumably through nosiness. Lidia distributed the newly knitted fichus to the young wives, who cooed over them and jealously checked whose was the best. Fortunately, Nanny had ensured that they were all equally shapeless.
The princess commandeered Lidia to sit beside her and pronounced her charming, which set the young wives off in a new fashion frenzy, trying to untangle their carefully primped and ringleted hair to duplicate Lidia’s plain style.
“Now, my dear,” the princess continued, “I am hoping for some wonderful gossip from you.”
Lidia’s limpid guileless eyes widened. “From me? I’m afraid I don’t–”
The princess wagged a playful finger at her. “Now, now. My coachman has just informed me of the field-marshal’s widow falling downstairs and breaking her neck. God have mercy on her soul.” They all crossed themselves.
This was embarrassing. The princess had seemed quite on the ball but she was having a seriously senior moment.
“That was two days ago,” I reminded her. “That’s why the countess threw her party.”
The princess stared at me and one of the young wives gave a shriek of laughter, hurriedly stifled when the princess turned and stared at her.
“My dear Princess Tamsonova, I am not speaking of little Potapova, but of the field-marshal’s widow. We discussed her at the countess’s atrocious party. I remember your particularly remarking on her scarlet gown.”
Pillar Box Lady.
“She fell downstairs and broke her neck?” I asked.
“Yesterday morning,” said the princess. “And my coachman informs me that dear Lidia Ivanovna had just been visiting her.”
This was the first I had heard of it. Lidia had been out yesterday afternoon, but she hadn’t said she had been visiting anybody.
“So, my dear.” The princess patted Lidia’s hand encouragingly. “Were you there when she fell? Did you see everything? Was it dreadfully shocking?”
Lidia’s hands were clenched tightly in her lap. “I . . . no . . . that is . . . I . . .”
The princess’s smile was fading.
A young wife seized her chance to shine. “Princess, by a remarkable coincidence, I have some gossip to share with you.”
“Then convey it in a loud, clear tone so that I miss none of it,” commanded the princess.
“My coachman,” began the young wife in a loud clear tone, “informs me that yesterday afternoon, the admiral’s widow fell downstairs and broke her neck too.”
“God have mercy on her soul,” said the princess and they all crossed themselves again.
“The admiral’s widow?” I asked.
“You must know her,” said the princess. “Everybody knew her. She was as deaf as a post, couldn’t hear a thing without her ear trumpet. And she always wore an eye patch in memory of the admiral, who lost an eye in the battle of Kronstadt.”
Eye Patch Lady.
“Enemy fire?” I asked.
“Too much vodka. Fell on a sextant.”
“But that is not the only remarkable coincidence,” chirped the young wife. “My coachman also informs me that Lidia Ivanovna had just been visiting her.”
I knew Lidia had been out yesterday afternoon. And I had seen her chatting to Eye Patch Lady at the countess’s party.
“Disgraceful!” bellowed the princess and Lidia quailed. “This happened yesterday afternoon, and I am hearing it from some young flibbertigibbet? Why did my own coachman not inform me? I’ll have the fellow flogged!”
“Don’t do that,” I said hastily. It must be a nightmare for the princess’s poor coachman trying to keep up with all the news. “I’m sure he was just spreading things out to create a bit of dramatic tension.”
Old Vatrushkin was still being the doorman. I
went to find him, on the pretext of getting him to hand round the tea things, so that he could warn his brother coachman to think up a plausible defence before the princess got hold of him. And as I went downstairs, pondering Lidia’s presence at the homes of Pillar Box Lady and Eye Patch Lady, I remembered Old Vatrushkin’s insistence that Lidia had been visiting Madame Potapova, the first of the plummeting old dears. It looked as though I owed him an apology.
But before I could talk to him, he ushered in two more guests. The countess, accompanied by Sasha. I caught my breath at the sight of him – he looked lovelier than ever. But the countess was a cheeky bizzum for bringing him, and I had no intention of putting up with her nonsense.
I descended the staircase towards them. “I’m sorry, Countess,” I said, “I think I made it perfectly clear that this was girls only.”
I was expecting at least a show of embarrassment, but instead, the countess’s expression was a mixture of slyness and smugness. If I had being paying more attention, I should have been worried, but I was too busy admiring Sasha.
“What an unfortunate misunderstanding,” she said, now displaying nothing but bland regret. “But I’m sure you will have no objection to our darling Sasha joining us, now that he is here.”
“I apologise for the error,” said Sasha quietly. “Of course I shall leave immediately.”
The countess turned on him. “You shall do no such thing,” she snapped.
I was going to make an issue of it when I realised this was the ideal opportunity to get Lidia and Sasha together.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said to Sasha. “You’re most welcome.”
The countess’s bosom heaved alarmingly under her pelisse. She rootled around among layers of satin and lace and produced her ghastly lapdog.
“Perhaps you’d like to leave your fur in the cloakroom,” I suggested.
The countess puckered her lips and mimed a kiss at the matted bundle. “Naughty Princess Tamsonova, always teasing poor Tresorka.”
“If you’re bringing that thing upstairs, it stays on the floor.”
