Within ten minutes the children and their mother were traipsing gaily down the dirt path behind the house that led to the rye field, a heavy-laden basket on Anna’s arm. In less than five minutes more, all out of breath because Andrei had turned their walk into a game of chase, the three came within hailing distance of the workers. Anna could now see all three workers. Ilya and Sergei were swinging sickles, working together in perfect rhythmic cadence, while old Yevno followed behind gathering the cut grain.
Anna would have liked to watch the men for a moment, but Andrei had other notions. He bounded forward, shouting as if he were attempting to engage in battle. The men heard the commotion at once and, not overly distressed to be distracted from their labors, left their work immediately. Sergei bounded forward at a jog, his own enthusiasm nearly matching Andrei’s. He took the lad up in a big affectionate hug, swinging the boy around several times in the air before setting him back on the ground.
“Papa, Papa! I found a hurt bird with a broken wing and Yuri and I made a bed for him and took him to the barn and Mama said we could keep it until it was better and I found him first, Papa, because I was walking through the woods like a little mouse just like you said I should—”
“Hold on, lad!” laughed Sergei. “Don’t you need to take a breath?”
“Not that one!” chuckled Yevno, tousling his grandson’s golden hair. “He could talk the fancy boots off a rich moujik!”
“Come, come,” said Anna after everyone’s merriment had settled down. “We can talk while you three men refresh yourselves.”
The men had been working for hours and did not argue. They found a place to sit by an old fallen tree trunk, and Anna handed out chunks of black bread and a flask of warm tea. The men ate the simple fare as if it were a king’s repast.
“So, Yuri,” said Sergei when half his bread had been consumed, “were you in on the marvelous find, also?”
“Yes, Papa,” said the boy.
Anna noted how different her sons were, for, though Yuri was as full of energy as any eight-year-old, he was more serious, more sensitive than his exuberant younger brother. He resembled his father in this respect as well as in appearance, except for his darker hair and eyes. Andrei, on the other hand, had the light eyes and blond hair of his father, but those eyes could flash with zeal and mischievousness like his Aunt Katrina’s had.
“Do you know how to care for a wounded bird?” asked Sergei.
“It must have a bandage!” answered Andrei quickly. “And lie still, and maybe take one of Grandmama’s potions.”
“But how do you give medicine to a bird?” Sergei asked.
Yevno chuckled under his breath but folded his arms across his chest and said nothing. If he had enjoyed and doted upon his own children, he was simply ecstatic over his grandchildren. He also enjoyed watching his children interact with the little ones, and in sixteen years he had come to think of Sergei—even more than his two other sons-in-law—as his own son. Sergei might have come of noble stock with refinement and education to match, but they had the most important things in common—a faith in God and wisdom that sprang from practical simplicity and common sense.
Sergei’s question momentarily daunted young Andrei, who clamped his mouth shut and scowled. He didn’t like not having all the answers.
“Papa, how do you give medicine to a bird?” Yuri, the curious one, always had more questions than answers.
“I think, Yuri—and Andrei—that a bird might not need our potions,” Sergei replied. “I think God has given creatures a special ability to tend their own wounds. If you give it a safe place to rest, it will mend on its own. You might speed things up a bit by putting a splint on its wing, though. I will show you how tonight.”
The boys thanked their father; then a perplexed frown crossed Yuri’s brow.
“Do you think the bird is safe enough now?” he asked.
“We better go check!” exclaimed Andrei, who jumped to his feet at once and was halfway down the path before Yuri had fully considered all the ramifications of his question.
But not wanting to be left out, he too leaped to his feet. “Goodbye, Mama, Papa, Grandpapa, Uncle Ilya . . .” he said as politely as his haste would permit before he bounded after his brother.
The adults watched affectionately as the children disappeared from view. Then Ilya sighed.
“Sergei, you are a good father,” he said. “I hope I can do as well.”
“Have no fear, Ilya!” said Sergei encouragingly. “If I can do it, anyone can. My friend Misha gave me some good advice once that I will pass on to you. I confided in him my own fears at the prospect of raising a child. He said he was the last person to give any advice in that area since he had never had children. But then he said something I thought quite wise. He said, ‘I suppose children can’t be that much different from horses—they need to know who is in charge, but they want a lump of sugar now and then, too.’”
“Unfortunately,” lamented Ilya, “I know as much about horses as I do about children!”
Yevno howled with laughter; then he laid a gentle hand on his youngest son’s shoulder and said earnestly, “You have a heart full of love, Ilyushka. I know you will be a good father.”
Ilya smiled as if he believed these encouraging words and did not still feel a quaking down inside. He was glad when Yevno said it was time to get back to work. He’d rather reap every field in Russia than think about the terrifying prospects of fatherhood. Yevno joined him, but Sergei lingered a moment longer with Anna.
“It is not hard to be a good father when you have good children,” he said, taking Anna’s hand in his as if he were thanking her. “And a good partner in parenthood.”
“Thank you, Sergei,” Anna replied. “We do indeed have good children, don’t we?” Then, almost without thinking, her brow creased.
“What is it, Anna?”
“I do sometimes worry about Mariana.”
“She is a dear and beautiful child.”
“Hardly a child any longer. She just turned seventeen.” Anna rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “Mama has already been suggesting we engage a matchmaker for her. But I don’t know. We always thought that when she came of age we would tell her everything about her family. But when is the proper age?”
“At least she knows we are not her blood parents,” said Sergei. “And we have told her much about her mother, even if we have avoided all the details about our nobility. Does she need to know more? She is happy here. Do you think she would be as happy in the Fedorcenko household with my father, a sick and bitter old man? Or with her father, wherever he is?” He uttered this last comment regarding Mariana’s father and his own one-time best friend with an edge of repressed ire in his tone. He could never fully forgive Dmitri for his selfish irresponsibility.
Anna had similar feelings, although she made a point of speaking highly to Mariana not only of her real mother but of her father also. It was best that way. But Anna could not dwell long on the subject of Count Dmitri Remizov without resentment. When he had fled the scene after the birth of his daughter and the death of his wife, he had promised to help in the support of his child. Anna resented not so much that he had never once made good on this promise of financial help, but much more that he had disappeared without even an occasional letter to inquire after his daughter’s health or to leave them an address so they could keep him informed. Anna had never been overly fond of Dmitri, but because Katrina had loved him, she had tried to overlook his faults—drinking and gambling and neglecting his wife, to name a few. But to abandon his child in this way—that was hard to forgive!
Still, Anna had always had some misgivings about not telling Mariana the entire truth of her ancestry, although Sergei had steadfastly maintained the wisdom of this decision. The question of Mariana’s safety could not be minimized, especially in those early years. Basil Anickin, the crazed lawyer whose love Katrina had spurned and who had tried to kill Katrina and Dmitri, had never been apprehended. His hatred of Katrina and Dmitri had seethed for two years before his last awful attempt on Katrina’s life, just before Mariana’s birth. Someone at the time had wisely said that with a man like that, time is not a healer but rather a medium in which wounds only fester and grow. Now with so many years of peace under the proverbial bridge, no one felt the intensity of this threat any longer. Yet it still remained a cloud, if a tiny one, on the horizon.
More to the point was whether returning to society would really be better for Mariana. Sometimes Anna thought of the life Mariana could have had—the palaces, the fine clothes, servants, ample food . . . the life of a Russian aristocrat, which she was. Anna thought of the grandmother, Dmitri’s mother, who believed Mariana was dead. Was it right to keep her from her granddaughter? But Anna remembered how adamant Katrina had been on her deathbed that Mariana not go to that self-absorbed, arrogant woman.
As for Viktor, Anna had hoped that seeing his grandchild might act as a healing balm to his ravaged mind. But when Mariana had been five years old they had made the trip to the Crimea, at no small financial sacrifice, only to be met with disappointment. Viktor had accepted the child as Katrina’s daughter but then raged that his own neglectful daughter had not come herself to visit. Unable to hear his dear sister denigrated so, Sergei had unthinkingly revealed the fact of her death. Viktor seemingly ignored this news completely, but that night went on a drunken binge that lasted two days.
Anna and Sergei had no doubt then that their loyalties must lie with Mariana and her best interests, that it was not fair to a mere child to upset her life in the blind and unlikely hope of doing good to an old man. That decision must lie with Mariana when she was old enough to make it. Yet this assurance did not keep an occasional pang of confusion from hounding Anna at times.
Anna shrugged with uncertainty. “I just don’t know, Sergei. One day she may want to know.”
“Then that day is soon enough.”
“But what if she hates us for keeping the whole truth from her?”
“Our Mariana?” Sergei exclaimed as if the idea were inconceivable. “Surely you must know her better than that.”
Anna smiled. “Of course you are right.”
“And you doubted it?” He frowned with mock affront. “Remember, I am the expert father, your brother Ilya said so!” Then he burst out laughing, though mostly at himself.
Anna gave his hand a tender squeeze as she joined in his amusement. Without saying a word—her eyes said it all—she reaffirmed the truth of Ilya’s statement. God had blessed her beyond anything she could have hoped for. How could she doubt that her Father in heaven would not also provide her with wisdom in dealing with Mariana? Katrina’s daughter was also in God’s hands and had been since—and before—that sad day of her birth. He would not forget her now, nor her adoptive parents.