Lost Roses

by Martha Hall Kelly

  She stood, stunned, one hand to her throat. “Jesus. Shall I call the police?”

  I sat up in bed. “You can leave us, Peg.”

  Peg walked backward out of the room, her gaze trained on Merrill.

  He pushed the door closed and stepped to my bed, eyes red-rimmed, one arm curled around a silver bowl.

  “Couldn’t this wait until—” I reached for my dressing gown and he handed it to me.

  I eased myself from under the covers and stepped into my slippers. “It’s late and Peg will broadcast your presence here in all forty-eight states by daybreak.”

  “This isn’t easy, Eliza.”

  “Does Anna know you’re here?” I tied my dressing gown at the waist.

  “I deserved to lose you to Henry. He was the better man certainly.”

  “Merrill, please. We need to calm—”

  He stepped to the window, and with one hand threw up the sash and opened it wide.

  Merrill turned to face me and held the silver bowl with two hands. “Eliza, I regret the day I competed for this cup.”

  “You have every right to be sporty, Merrill.”

  “What you said before is true. I do care too much about appearances. But all that is changing tonight.”

  Merrill reached out the window and sent the silver bowl flying. It caught the moonlight for a second as it sailed out over Mr. Gardener’s potager garden and then plunged with a distant thud onto the back lawn.

  I smiled. “The trophy committee will want to be reimbursed.”

  “Damn the trophy committee. Damn the whole club. I won’t be going back until they reinstate you. And Mrs. Parker. I’m tired of it, Eliza. The catty talk, the gossip.”

  “Merrill—”

  “Just listen for once. I don’t love Anna Gabler. I’d convinced myself I did, but seeing you tonight…You may not return my affection, Eliza, but I won’t marry someone else just to go through the motions. If I can’t have you I’ll have no one. I’m leaving today. Enlisting.”

  A chill ran through me. “Oh no, Merrill.”

  “I thought you’d be happy.”

  “But—”

  “I’m finally doing what’s right, Eliza. After all, it’s you who said, ‘Only a coward would wait to be called up. Good men enlist.’ ”

  “That was just casual conversation.”

  “I’ll tell Anna on my way to get my physical exam. I hear there might be a group going to France to learn to fly according to French methods.”

  Merrill voluntarily traveling to France?

  “An aviator, Merrill? Couldn’t you drive an ambulance, far back from the front?”

  He laughed. “It’s much safer in the air. Don’t know a word of French, but I’ll learn. The training is top drawer. Need to make it through exercises at Newport News first.”

  “Virginia? Must you this moment?”

  “I’ve never been more energized, Eliza. I feel like I’m finally doing the right thing.”

  Merrill stood transformed, cheeks flushed. “I love you, Eliza. I knew it the first time I saw you on the steps of St. Thomas Church.”

  “This is so—”

  “Please don’t say no. Just give me a chance.”

  Merrill pulled me to him and the delicious scent of sweat and salt air surrounded us and for once I forgot everything wrong with the world.

  He whispered in my ear. “All I need is hope.”

  CHAPTER

  31

  Varinka

  1917

  The morning after Taras branded me I lay under the satin coverlet on the countess’s bed and thought of ways to kill myself. How else to escape? Hang myself from the countess’s chandelier? Throw myself from her balcony?

  How could I live this way? Every day was worse, with no freedom, Taras watching me in the bath, ready to blow up at the smallest thing. But how could I leave little Max? At three years old, he was more aware than ever. How much did the child take in?

  Max climbed up onto my bed, and I smoothed back his blond curls. I tried not to flinch as he ran his finger down the burn just under the edge of my right eye, gentle as a buttercup’s kiss.

  “Fait mal,” he said with a serious look.

  “Yes, your Mummy hurts.”

  Mummy. Though I used the word he never did. It had been months since Taras and Vladi took over the estate and the boy still showed signs of stress. Purple smudges under his eyes from restless sleep. He insisted on spreading blankets on Mamka’s bedroom floor and sleeping there, what he called “camping out.” He stood by the window of his bedroom most days watching. Waiting for Sofya? He spoke mostly Russian but Mamka and I kept up his French.

  At least Taras had called a truce on Max for now.

  “We will get away from Taras,” Mamka had said. But how? What would Papa have done about it all?

  Papa. Just the thought of him brought tears, which spilled over, stinging my burn. Somehow the pain felt good. I had my own sins to atone for.

  The door opened and Taras stepped partway into the room.

  “Close your eyes, Varinka.”

  Max clung to me, arms about my neck.

  “You’re scaring him,” I said.

  Taras stepped to the foot of the bed. “I have something for you.”

  “I’ve had enough of your gifts.”

  Taras looked at the carpet and fell silent for a moment. “I have tried to find your Papa’s samovar and cannot, but this is something you might like as well. Max, cover Varinka’s eyes.”

  Max directed his gaze at me and I nodded. He sat up on his knees and placed his small hands over my eyes. I waited with a pit in my belly as the sound of Taras’s footsteps on carpet came closer.

  “Oh, dear,” Max said.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “A surprise,” Max whispered, his soft lips tickling my ear.

  Something lay cold and hard against the spot where Taras branded me, the cold metal soothing my burn. Then I felt cold metal across the top of my hand.

  “Open your eyes,” Taras said.

  I found resting atop my hand a most incredible necklace, of diamonds so clear you could see through them and smooth, green stones like humps of moss.

  “They’re emeralds,” Taras said. “I convinced Mrs. A. it was a fake and she offered it to me in exchange for the izba. She’s going to store her supplies there.”

  “How could you? Papa built that place with his two hands.” Oddly all cried out, I could not summon even one tear.

  “It was the countess’s and not a fake at all. Mrs. A. says blondes look best in emeralds. You like it?” With his free hand Taras smoothed a lock of my hair behind my ear.

  I flinched at his touch.

  “Ungrateful girl. But you’ll need fine things for we are going to Paris.”

  “When?”

  “Soon as I have a meeting in Petrograd. They chose me to go since Vladi will serve as district commissioner here.”

  Paris. Just the thought of it warmed me. Mamka had told me so many stories of it. The shops and the clothes. Could Mamka and Max and I escape Taras in Paris? Surely it would be easier there.

  I tossed the necklace on the bed. “That is good news, I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  “You sold my home, Taras. Mamka will never forgive you.”

  “You’re never happy.” Taras pulled a valise from the armoire and heaved it onto the bed. “I am taking you with me to Petrograd.”

  It was a sour thought, the idea of being with Taras for a whole trip, but my blood raced at the thought of visiting the city. I’d been there only once with Mamka and it was the most beautiful place, the streets lined with pretty shops.

  I tried to brush away the bad thoughts that buzzed around me. How could I leave Mamka and Max alone? Would Vlad
i hurt Max while I was gone? Kill the Streshnayvas? Vladi said Sofya had escaped. Would she take Max? Did Max even remember Sofya? Mamka often brought up the subject that she was his rightful mother, but I just walked away. Papa had given the child to me and it was too late to change things.

  Mamka stepped into the room. “My daughter is not going anywhere. The city is too dangerous right now.”

  “This is just a brief trip. The committee wants to speak with me and they are sending a motorcar and driver. It will do her good to get out of this place.”

  “I don’t like it. Since the February madness every bandit in Russia is there. Telegraph service and post are cut off. How will you reach us if there is a problem?”

  “Stay out of it, if you know what’s good for you. Go pack now, Varinka. The car is coming.”

  Taras left the room and Mamka watched as I tossed clothes into the valise.

  “We need to get away from him,” Mamka said.

  Images of Petrograd flitted through my head. Would I have a chance to escape? Why even think that way? Taras would keep Mamka and Max as hostages.

  I tickled Max’s chin. Just a look into his blue eyes made my troubles dim. Would he ever be safe with Taras in his life?

  “When I return we are going to Paris. Taras has been sent there by the Reds.”

  “Saints be praised,” Mamka said. “Everything will be better in Paris.”

  * * *

  —

  ONCE I CHANGED INTO one of Sofya’s nicest dresses of pale pink satin, we put our bags in the motorcar and set off. I watched Mamka and Max grow smaller from the back window, nervous at every bump since I had never ridden in an auto before.

  We passed through the gates, now staffed by a young man from town, and I tried not to think of Aleks and Ulad. I pressed my hands to my face.

  Taras rubbed my thigh. “Don’t cry, you’ll see Max and Zina soon.”

  I pushed his hand away. “I’m afraid Vladi will hurt Max. What if he kills the family?”

  “It’s not your business.”

  “They are good people, Taras.”

  Taras turned to me, grabbed my wrist. “Would you stop? Things are different now.”

  The driver looked at him in his rearview mirror and Taras lowered his voice.

  “It’s our turn, don’t you see? And the party needs me.”

  “To do what?”

  “The less you know, the better.”

  I looked out the window at the deep forest passing by. Would Vladi shoot the family? More than once the villagers had come to take them away, stopped by Taras. Maybe it would be best for them to die, rather than continue living like dirty animals. I wished for a quick death for them all, even the countess.

  * * *

  —

  WE ARRIVED IN PETROGRAD that afternoon and Mamka was right about the city being in chaos. Our fancy motorcar drew hostile glances until Taras raised his arm, tied round with a red cloth, to the window. One soldier lifted his bottle in salute. “Good day, comrade!”

  It was sad to see our capital in such disrepair; the pavement pried up on so many roads, market women calling out their wares right on the fanciest streets; even on the best one, Nevsky Prospekt, thick crowds were shoving and shouting.

  I was relieved as we slowed and approached Hotel Evropeiskaya.

  “Tsar’s gone now, ’course,” the driver said. “Under arrest in Alexander Palace, whole family.”

  All at once Mamka’s little portrait of the royal family, which she kept on her beautiful corner shelf came to mind. The “little father” with his neatly trimmed beard, the wistful tsarina, their four daughters and young son.

  I tried to keep the shake from my voice. “But the tsar—”

  “Don’t waste a tear on that group.”

  “But he was appointed by God,” I said.

  “And I’m the Queen of England. Wake up. They cared little for us, miss. Only themselves. The tsar mowed down his own people in the streets. Taxed us to death.”

  My thoughts went to the terrible day the taxman came to the izba. Anything was better than that.

  The driver smiled and waved in the direction of the Winter Palace. “The Bolsheviki had a good time raiding that palace. The fools passed right by the treasures there and cut the leather seats off the chairs instead. Chopped the gilded plaster from the tsar’s walls, sure it must be real gold.”

  “Is no one stopping them?” I asked.

  “The provisional government is on its last leg.”

  “So, the fighting is over?”

  “Ha!” the driver said. “Just begun, if you ask me.”

  I stepped out of the auto and looked up at the hotel, a stately stone palace four stories tall. If only Mamka could see it. What looked like bands of criminals let loose from the prisons and soldiers in ragged uniforms roamed the sidewalk. Others encamped in the street, unfurling their packs and sleeping there. Some sold leather-covered books and paintings from their new outdoor homes. One soldier walked by bumping his gun along the street as a fine gentleman uses a walking stick.

  We hurried into the hotel lobby, the grand place overrun with men resting on the velvet couches.

  Taras grabbed me by the arm as we walked. “Stop giving your opinion so freely to strangers. You never know who is your friend here.”

  The hotel manager, a squinting mole of a man, showed us to our rooms, adjusting his wire-rimmed spectacles as he walked. As we rushed through the hallways I tried to peep at the rich furnishings in those rooms with open doors, many looking as if they’d been hacked open with the force of an ax and ransacked.

  We stopped in front of a closed door and the manager turned a key in the lock.

  “This is our best suite for now, I’m afraid. In better days Igor Stravinsky stayed here.”

  The suite held two rooms put together, a door between, each bigger than my izba, the ceiling three times Taras’s height. I touched the keys of the grand piano and ran my hand down one wall, velvety as the fur on an elk’s antlers.

  “Have you never seen wallpaper?” the manager asked, clasping his mole hands together. “That is velvet damask. And the white lamps at either end of the sofa are wired to electricity. Not that we’ll have power much longer.”

  He kept his overcoat on. Was he cold due to the lack of coal or just planning for a hasty retreat in case of attack?

  “No maid service now,” the manager said as he showed us to our adjoining rooms. “Servants are all on strike. Probably just out having fun in the streets. Washerwomen, too, so don’t expect food or clean linen.”

  Taras turned and stared at the manager.

  “Not that it isn’t their right to work as they please, of course, comrades. Who am I to judge a fellow worker?”

  We walked about the rooms, the furnishings dirty and topsy-turvy. Soiled water stood in the washbasins and the balcony doors had been left open, curtains fluttering in the light wind. A trunk almost my height stood near the balcony, open and violated, traveling clothes and cosmetics trailing out of every little drawer.

  He handed Taras the key. “The Bolsheviki barge into the hotel’s rooms at all hours to requisition goods and arms from anyone of any wealth. They carry off whatever they please, so sleep when you can.”

  Machine-gun fire erupted on the street below, sending the manager into a little spasm, one hand to his chest.

  He swallowed hard. “This suite was once occupied by a princess who, well, won’t be returning.”

  Taras handed the manager some paper money. “We’ll lock our door.”

  The man pocketed it. “Locks mean nothing to them. They do as they please. The princess’s trunks are still here—rifled through, of course—but will be removed soon.”

  The manager rushed off with a series of deep bows and Taras hurried to the balcony doors and shut them.
>
  “I’m late for my meeting.” Taras handed me the key. “Lock this door when I go. Do not set foot on the balcony. Do not let anyone in and don’t go anywhere. Understand?”

  I nodded.

  He came to me, smoothed his thumb across my burn, and I willed myself not to flinch.

  “I’m tired of the arrangement, Varinka. This is an opportunity for us tonight. No child. No Zina. I don’t care what the priests say.” He pulled me to him, close enough to feel the hardness in his pants, and kissed my neck.

  I pushed him away. How could I risk having a baby with him?

  His face darkened. “I’ll be back at eight and you had better be here, Inka. I will not be so charitable next time you disobey me.”

  Of course, I would obey him. Where would I go? Join the mobs?

  He hurried out. I turned the key in the lock and slipped it in my dress pocket.

  I listened for Taras’s retreating footsteps and then stepped to the balcony and opened the doors wider. What a relief to have him gone. My stomach grumbled. How to get food?

  As it grew dark thousands of people filled the square, sailors lit fires and sang military songs. A thrill ran through me as sounds came from the direction of the shops on Nevsky Prospekt: young people’s voices laughing and singing, and the shifting grind of the motor trucks passing below, their running boards filled with what sounded like drunken men shouting Russian songs.

  I closed the doors, stepped to the bathroom, turned on the tap, and let the water run over my fingers into the big white tub. Such a wonderful thing, warm water from the tap.

  As the water ran, I wandered the room and stopped at the ravaged trunk, such a sad sight. Perhaps that princess should have been more concerned about the people.

  I eased the lacey underthings back in their little drawers and pulled a French magazine from one drawer. La Vie Parisienne. The cover showed a woman lifting her skirt high enough to show her shoes, four other pairs scattered around her. I stood and flipped through the pages, past pictures of half-naked girls wearing the newest hats and dresses. A store called Superior Lingerie showed pictures of stockings and “Corsets for even the curviest girls.”