As soon as Anya saw Ooskada, the verbal storm began again. Ooskada drew her away from Stanislaus toward the edge of the clearing. He dropped to his haunches as he listened to Anya's complaints. When the cursing and angry tears halted, Anya flung herself down full length on the moss beside Ooskada.
She looked up at him, and her eye searched his face. "What do you think, Uncle?"
He smiled down at Anya. "You are like your mother. When she became angry, it was like a great storm from the north. She could be wild for days."
Ooskada sat down next to Anya. With a sigh, he lifted one dark red curl.
"Does the Russian's woman hurt you?"
"Yes!" Anya pounded the ground with the flat of one hand. "She is making my life miserable!"
Two large tears dropped from her cheeks into the green moss.
So, Ooskada thought. She needs my protection. The Russian should have controlled his woman better.'
Ooskada laughed. He set about teasing Anya into a better mood. Later, they walked into the forest where Ooskada showed Anya the cedar he had chosen for his new canoe. They discussed designs for the prow. Together they decided the raven and the orca would be best for a shaman's canoe.
As they walked through the woods, Ooskada asked Anya to name the healing plants for him. He also asked her to give a short description of what effect could be expected from each when used in the proper manner. Anya enjoyed this method of study. She was happy to comply with his request. It pleased her to possess a body of knowledge, few beside the two of them understood.
***
Stanislaus dropped the reins of the two horses near the edge of the village. God was good. He was now Anton’s assistant and Count Dmitri had entrusted Anya to his care. When Anya went to school, he would also go to school. These were things he never thought to get.
Two of the Tlingit boys wandered over. They admired Stanislaus’ mount and the sturdy pony Anya rode. The boys chatted in Russian with Stanislaus.
He kept watch in the direction in which Anya had gone with her uncle while he visited with the young men. He knew who Ooskada was. Stanislaus knew the family history as everyone else did. The island held few secrets. It was doubtful Anya was in any danger from her uncle. However, keeping her safe was his duty and he would do so to the best of his ability.
When Anya returned from her walk with Ooskada, she was calmer, it was a relief. Stanislaus rose from the small group of boys. He was taller and broader than any of them.
Ooskada made eye contact with Stanislaus. The boy knew the man was assessing his ability to watch over Anya. Stanislaus stood unflinchingly under the older man’s scrutiny. He was able. The rifle in its scabbard was loaded. The son of a fur hunter, Stanislaus was a fur hunter himself and had already spent two winters trapping on the mainland.
Anya took leave of her uncle with a quick hug. Stanislaus did not help her mount the pony. He ducked his head, so she could not see his quick grin when she used a rock as a mounting block. It was likely she would slap him if he attempted to offer help. The girl always wanted to do things for herself.
As they guided the animals through the forest back to the main house, he kept watch for the bear. So far no one but the Count had seen any sign of the animal. But the forest was thick on the island, and it could be anywhere.
He didn’t wish to surprise the creature or come up on it while it was consuming a kill. That possibility was remote as long as they stuck to the longer trail around the far side of the mountains. Since the deer frequented the high meadows in summer, the bear would keep to the upper ranges.
He was thankful she hadn’t argued with him over the route. Anya in a foul mood would argue with God. It did not bother him when she became irritable or angry, once her mood abated, the girl was always sweetness itself.
And she was beautiful. The dark red hair and bright gray eyes drew him in a way he could not explain. Even in fits of temper, Anya never acted as if she were a princess and he but a servant.
They had played together for years. Anya and the other children got caked in mud from head to foot. They had sailed boats made of birch bark down the creek to the beach. There they looked for shells when the tide was out and raced along the sand. She was his friend and the friend of almost all the children of the village.
It was not Anya’s fault that a few girls were jealous of her. Anya ignored the grumpy ones, and they played their games happily. But he knew she was unhappy because her father had remarried and did not understand why. The lady seemed nice enough. He wondered if perhaps Anya might be angry over having to share her father with his new wife. Stanislaus nodded to himself. Jealousy was a nasty thing; he hoped she would put it aside one day.
Some noise in front of them captured his attention, and the boy gripped the reins tighter while shifting the rifle in his arms. He must pay attention. It would not do to allow the bear to take them unaware.
***
For Camille, the next few weeks passed without problems. Several pieces of her new wardrobe arrived, and it was all she had imagined. In a move designed to please Dmitri, she gave away all her old clothing. Her old things went with her to the village on the three days she held classes. A used barrel by the door became the repository for the clothing.
There were so many other chores for the village children to do; three days were the most they could be spared. But her students were eager to learn, and she found no fault with their behavior.
What surprised her were the two Tlingit students. Both boys sat in the back and paid attention. They stayed to themselves and left as soon as she dismissed the class. One, the older boy, seemed to speak Russian well, and when he talked to anyone, it was Stanislaus.
Some of the supplies that Dmitri ordered for the school arrived. The readers had not yet come, but they could proceed without them. Camille took her students outside and with a long stick, she drew math problems in the dirt, while the children gathered around her. Knowledge was the only area of agreement between herself and Anya. The girl’s thirst for learning was the bridge that enabled a wary truce between them at school.
Stanislaus accompanied them both to school on those days and took part in the lessons. Camille learned he was only four years older than Anya. The boy was already an accomplished trapper and hunter at fourteen. Stanislaus also had a mind which absorbed every fact it came in contact with. He was quite quick with mathematics. Rakov was a good student; one Camille enjoyed teaching.
Anya, she was certain, was learning more than she wished to acknowledge. The child did not want Camille to know she wanted and needed to learn. The fact came to her attention when she came upon Stanislaus and Anya in the stable one afternoon.
As Stanislaus worked mucking out the stalls, Anya perched on the top rail of a vacant stall. She was reading to him from one of the history books Dmitri had in the study.
“So.” Stanislaus threw a fork full of debris into the wheelbarrow. "Do you think it was necessary for all the French aristocracy to be eliminated?”
Anya thought for a moment. "I think the mob was so angry, it did not matter to them if one individual was worse than another.”
“I am not sure all deserved to be relieved of their heads.” He used a shovel to scrape the floor, taking special care with the corners of the stall. “I do not see justice in it.”
Anya closed the book, keeping a finger between the pages she had been reading from.
“Stanislaus, I have heard Father talking with Alexis about conditions in Russia. Do you think it could happen in Russia?”
“Rebellion can take place anywhere.” He patted down the load in the wheelbarrow, so he could get more of the straw and manure into it. “It happened in America and France. I am glad we are no longer part of Russia. I have heard stories of the mother country. There, you would not be reading history to a peasant while he mucks out the stable. For us to be together at school would be impossible. And you Anya, could not do much of anything, other than learn to be a lady instead of a hoyden.”
/> Camille could feel Anya bristle from her position near the door. She slipped away from her hiding place with a smile.
“And what do you...”
Camille heard Anya start the argument with the boy. He could handle it as he had started it. She was glad to see someone beside herself would be frank with Anya about her behavior.
While looking for a place to sit and be alone with her thoughts, Camille walked out on the wharf. She sat on the top of a piling the Arctic Tern used to moor to when in port. Camille watched the waves surge into the harbor.
Dmitri was kind and attentive, yet somehow distant. He treated her as if she were a china doll, easily broken if handled too roughly. Camille thought he might suffer from guilt.
She had forgiven him for the small cut on her head, but not for the woman. He had been drunk. She tried to forget the hurt of that night, recalling only the pleasure. She would never forget the words of love he whispered.
Camille wanted to experience the extraordinary passion they had shared once again. But, in the three times, Dmitri had come to her following that night, Camille had wondered afterward if she dreamed everything.
He was ever so gentle with her now. Too gentle. She did not want to be brutalized, but there must be a middle ground. Camille did not want to be wrapped up in cotton wool, protected from harm. She wanted to love and be loved as they had before. His restraint, however, imposed an equal curb upon her desire.
She had hoped he only needed coaxing and had flirted with him, flaunting herself in a manner that brought a blush to her face when she thought about her actions. Aware of his efforts to control himself, Camille tried harder to force him to give in. She seduced him at every turn. Camille learned how to flirt shamelessly with a man by practicing on Dmitri.
Her vague yearnings brought about changes in Camille. Thinking about Stanislaus’ comments to Anya, she realized she was not kind to anyone now. She fussed with Helena when her costume was not perfect. She cried in frustration when her hair was less than wonderful.
Camille cried even harder when Dmitri left her alone after making love. There was something missing, but she did not understand what. He was ardent, but distant and oh so careful. In desperation, Camille had contrived to get both her and Dmitri drunk the previous day. That had proved to be a horrible mistake.
Dmitri made a harmless remark about the War Between the States, and she took offense. The evening ended in a dreadful quarrel. Control gone, Camille threw an ashtray in his direction. When Dmitri lifted an arm to ward off the object, Camille misunderstood and thought he meant to hit her. She turned to run from him with a cry of fear. Camille now understood alcohol was not a remedy for what ailed them both.
She recalled flattening herself against the connecting door to the dressing room. He had turned and picked up a chair which he dashed into pieces against the fireplace. Terrified he would hit her, she cowered there. Instead, he smashed the chair again and again into the stones of the fireplace until it lay in pieces on the hearth.
Camille recalled his shudder. Without a word, Dmitri ran from the room. In the early morning hours, Camille awoke to the sound of Dmitri's violin.
When the music died, he came to her. Once again, they shared an incredible time of lovemaking. Camille fell asleep in his arms, hopeful of having reached a new place in their relationship.
Yesterday morning, she found a note from Dmitri on the pillow. It said he must leave on business for a while. He would take both Alexis and Gregor with him. In two to three weeks they would return. For the time being the estate was in her care until he returned,
The crumpled note lay in her hand. She shredded it piece by piece and tossed each little scrap into the sea. She knew where he had gone. Dmitri was going to Juneau and his other woman.
Camille had screamed and cursed Dmitri upon finding the note. The sight of the empty wharf where the Arctic Tern should be had increased her anger. It was a massive and unforgivable tantrum. She shook her head in disbelief at her actions the previous day.
Camille cursed her husband, calling him a bastard. She screamed in frustration, which brought Helena running in concern. But Camille ordered her companion out of the room and went downstairs. There she took her anger out on Tatiana, Helena and then, Anya.
It was the shouting match with Anya, which forced her to realize she must control herself. After Anya had run off toward the stable, screaming out her hatred, Camille found her way into Dmitri’s study.
She understood why her husband retired to the study. Camille stood to make her way back into the house. Once again, she took refuge in the study. Here, she would not be bothered. There were no other people to deal with, no mistakes to repent of later. She took her evening meal there.
When Camille asked Karin if Anya was at home, the maid responded Anya was eating and had expressed an intention to remain in her room for the rest of the evening. That suited Camille. She dismissed Karin, after telling her not to bother with the tray, it would wait until morning.
Camille picked at the food and forced herself to eat something. Unable to finish, she pushed the uneaten meal to one side on the big desk, Camille walked toward the side table which held the liquor decanters. After pouring a glass of sherry, Camille took a seat and stared out at the point. She was careful to sip at the liquor and avoided glancing at the pier.
What on earth was she doing on an island, in the middle of nowhere, with a husband who said he loved her, yet acted as if he were repulsed yet fascinated by her? Proper mess this! Camille finished the sherry and hesitated before pouring herself another glass.
Perhaps she should return home. That brought up another question for her to ponder. Where was home? New Orleans? She had no family there, no friends. That portion of her life was over. There was always Leontine, but could she endure Devins? He would have a tizzy if she descended upon his household again. Her full lips set in a pout as she stared into the glass. With a slight shrug, Camille tossed down the liquor.
It seemed she could not leave Dmitri's damn island. But it was a comfortable prison. Dmitri provided well; her material needs were few.
Emotional necessities were another matter. A queer hunger burned inside, one which defied explanation. The words to define it were beyond her limited experience. The sherry warmed her as it provided a pleasant numbness.
"Why not?" She asked herself as she poured out another drink. At least, he was not here, so the likelihood of a confrontation did not exist. The most difficult thing for her to deal with was the sure knowledge of her love for Dmitri. The admission caused a stinging behind her eyes.
"I will not cry!" She stated while rising from the chair.
Camille paced about the room. What she needed was a diversion. A glance at his desk decided her, and she walked over to sit in his high backed leather chair. Her fingers slid along the drawer pulls as she chose and opened a drawer. "Well husband, what secrets do you keep in here?"
The top right hand drawer held paper and pens along with other writing equipment. In the middle drawer, she found a loaded pistol. Camille slammed it shut, then opened another. It contained an alphabetical file. Camille riffled through it, looking for anything resembling a love letter. She found nothing and banged the drawer closed in frustration. Again, she sipped the sherry.
Turning to the left bank of drawers, she tugged open the first one. Inside was a box. Camille lifted the lid to find a quantity of fifty dollar gold pieces and a bundle of bills. She counted the money, then returned it to the box. Wide eyed, she shut the lid, making certain it latched. There were one thousand five hundred dollars in cash in the small box.
That much money would take her back to the States. But, what would she do there? She could always teach. The problem was finding a position. Camille ignored the possibility for the moment.
Behind the box, she noticed a leather wallet. Camille opened it. With her thumb, she fanned through the blank bank drafts stored in it. There were drafts on banks in Chicago, New York, Seattle and Geneva, Sw
itzerland. A small ledger tucked in the opposite flap of the wallet gave balances which caused her to gasp in astonishment. Dmitri was a rich man! She put everything back into the drawer as she had found it.
The next drawer was full of papers. Camille did not bother with them. The last one held another file. In the front of the large leather wallet, Camille found a date book. While leafing through it, Camille caught her name and read the entry,
"Remember to give Mother's jewels to Camille."
She jammed the book back into the drawer and closed it. Her legs resembled jelly when she walked over to the table, where the sherry decanter waited. Her hand shook so much, the crystal decanter rattled against the mouth of the goblet, as she poured out the liquor.
She stared into the golden brown liquid, then closed her eyes for a moment. Camille recalled how his fingers had gently lifted the damp hair from her forehead. Then Dmitri had buried his face in her hair. In a whisper, so soft she almost did not quite catch the words, Dmitri said he loved her. It had been no dream. He loved her, and she loved him in return.
Why did things always go wrong between them? There must be a way to work out their problems. Camille placed the glass down on the table. The liquor made her sad. No more for now. She was tired, and it was time to go to bed.
The next morning, Camille woke with a headache. When she tried to get up, a wave of nausea struck her. On reaching the chamber pot behind the screen, Camille became sick. When she recovered, she leaned against the wall and resolved to limit her drinking from that point on.
A coughing spasm shook her as she poured water from the pitcher into the hand basin. Camille splashed her face and neck with the cool water. That helped somewhat, and she decided she needed a cup of tea.
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