Lenka returned the respectful greetings of her father’s two dapper young assistants as she walked through the shop and mounted the wide staircase that led to Victor’s office. The walk from the apartment had been a pleasant one; before she returned home she would be able to stroll along the Nevsky and look in the shop windows. Perhaps it wasn’t such a nuisance after all that Anna had not been available to carry her mother’s message to her father.
She tapped on the door; had pushed it open before she had had time to register that the voice that had answered was not Victor’s.
Pavel Petrovich turned from the window, smiling. The chair behind Victor’s desk was empty.
Lenka stopped in the open doorway as if struck. ‘I – was looking for Papa –’
‘So am I, my dear Lenka. So am I. Or, should I say, I’m waiting for him. I have to leave Petersburg for a little while and we have some unfinished business to attend to before I go. They tell me downstairs that he’ll be back at any time. Come in, child, come in. It’s draughty with the door open.’
She trembled quite literally upon the verge of turning tail and running like a frightened child; and she could see that he knew it. His smile widened. The rapacious eyes flickered, and the skin of her body crept, raising the hairs on forearms and neck. ‘I’ll come back later,’ she said.
‘No.’ He crossed the room in a couple of quick strides, took her arm and drew her into the room, pushing the door shut behind her. ‘Oh, no, my dear. I’m certain your father would rather that you stayed to keep me company until his arrival. Don’t you think?’
She did not reply.
He stepped away from her, perched himself upon the corner of the desk, arms crossed, one leg swinging, watching her.
The familiar, paralysing panic rose; she could barely breathe. His gaze quite deliberately dropped to her breasts, lingered there. When he slipped from the desk and moved towards her she stood petrified, rooted to the spot. ‘There are many things I shall teach you, Lenka,’ he said, softly. ‘Oh, yes. Many things.’
‘Wh-what do you mean?’ His face, with its slanted bones and narrow eyes, seemed to her to be the cruellest thing she had ever encountered. Everything about it terrified her; the eyes, though lit with that venomous light, were cold, the line of mouth harsh. She felt as an insect must feel, pinned live and helpless to a table top. When he lifted his hands to her breasts she turned her head sharply from him, her face twisted in fear and in disgust. His touch at first was surprisingly light; expertly he roused her. She clenched her teeth. He laughed. And then he had her nipples between his fingers, pinching viciously, deliberately hurting. She gasped with pain, tried to pull from him, but in a quick movement he had her wrist in his hand, her arm pinned behind her arched back. Easily holding her he bent his head, closed his lips and then his teeth upon her nipples through the material of her dress, deliberately biting. At first she felt only the pain; and then the sensation of warmth, the wetness of his spittle as it soaked through the thin material and, revulsion overwhelming her, she found the strength to throw him from her. Taken by surprise at the sudden strength of the movement he laughed aloud; in her inexperience she failed utterly to see that her resistance, far from deterring, afforded him a delight that, jaded, he had thought long lost.
She retreated clumsily to the door, watching him fearfully, groping behind her for the handle. She knew as well as anyone how important this beast was to her father. She knew that if she screamed, if she caused a scandal – if indeed anyone believed her story, which was in itself probably doubtful – her father would never, ever, forgive her. She fumbled for the door handle.
He had straightened and was upon her in a stride, a hand over her shoulder, upon the door, holding it shut fast. ‘Bare your dugs, Lenka,’ he said, softly, into her ear, a fierce edge of excitement to his voice. ‘Let me touch them, naked. The first – I am the first, aren’t I? Come, Lenka – open your dress and bare them. Let me see your naked breasts. Your big, soft, naked tits – what harm? A small favour, before I leave.’
She was shuddering with disgust and terror, beyond tears.
‘Bare yourself, Lenka.’ His fingers were working upon the buttons of her dress. ‘You’ll enjoy it. I promise you. You’ll see –’
‘No! No!’ She pushed him from her, wriggled from his hold, flew to the desk, banging her hip painfully upon it as she ran behind it, putting its solid bulk between them. ‘I’ll scream,’ she said, desperately calm. ‘Believe me. I’ll scream this building down if you touch me again. The whole of Petersburg will hear me.’ Her breath was choking her. Her fingers fumbled frantically with the buttons he had undone. ‘I’ll – I’ll tell Papa.’ She knew as she spoke the emptiness of the threat.
The already harsh line of his mouth tightened. He stood tense for a moment, then stepped back, leaving the way to the door open. She finished buttoning her dress, stood in silence, warily watching him.
‘You want to go?’ he asked, the contemptuous quiet of his voice a menace in itself. ‘Go. You want to play the outraged innocent? Please yourself. But know this, Lenka – you won’t escape me. When you’re mine I’ll have you serving at my table barebreasted if I so desire. Best to please me, Lenka. Always best to please me. I can be a loving master or a cruel one. A bitch is brought to heel as well by a beating as by kindness. The choice is yours.’
She stared at him. The words made no sense to her. All she knew was that she had to get away, away from those merciless eyes and from the filthy threat of the man. Very slowly she sidled around the desk, moved towards the door. He watched her mockingly. ‘Naked to the waist, Lenka,’ he said, quietly, smiling, the very normality of his voice as he spoke the monstrous words almost the most shocking thing about them. ‘Think about it. Serving at my table. And – my friends perhaps? Would you like that, do you think? Serving us naked – offering yourself to be fondled – you know you could enjoy –’
‘Stop it!’ Her hands over her ears she made a dash for the door. He made no effort to stop her. She flung it open, turned on him. ‘You’re mad!’ she said. ‘You hear me? Mad!’
As she turned and ran along the open balcony to the stairs she heard his soft laughter behind her. Blindly she clattered down the stairs, ignoring the surprised looks of assistants and customers alike as she ran through the shop, blundering into a table, stumbling over a rug. Outside she took several great gulps of air before turning to run down the wide avenue, skirts lifted, feet flying. Anything – anything! – to put distance between her and that foul tongue, those disgusting eyes, those groping, twisting fingers.
She did not stop until she reached the river, where she leaned against the parapet of the bridge, panting for breath, fighting a humiliating need to retch. Slowly, slowly, her breathing calmed.
The waters of the river moved beneath her, shining and serene.
She leaned her elbows on the parapet, bent her face into her cupped hands, stood so for a very long time. Images flickered behind her closed eyes, Donovalov’s voice sounded in her ears. Her breasts were horribly sore. Words were pounding in her head, repeating themselves, over and over. Terrible words. What had he meant: ‘When you are mine’? What had he meant? She closed her eyes, struggled to calm her breathing. He had said it to frighten her of course. Everything he said, he said to frighten her. He could not possibly have meant it literally. How could he?
She could still feel his hands on her body, still hear the sound of that aroused and vicious voice in her ear. Still sense that tiniest and disgusting quiver of reaction that she knew her treacherous body had imparted to him.
It was her fault. It must be. He did not look at Anna like that; would never dare to lay a finger upon her sister, Lenka knew. No. Her father was right. The things that happened to her were always her own fault. Somehow, Donovalov knew; she was as bad as he was. The surge of self-disgust that accompanied the thought brought another stirring of nausea.
She lifted her head, feeling the gentle breeze on her wet face.
The river – cool, smooth, clean – swirled quietly about the pillars of the bridge. It was deep here, and very wide. She stood for what seemed to be an age, staring down into it. Here perhaps was an answer? A swift, cold shock – the quiet of the dark waters – and then peace. She let the thought float in her mind for a moment and then in despair she turned away. She did not have the resolve to kill herself. Even in that she would fail, she knew.
Workers were hurrying across the bridge, back to the cramped maze of streets on the other side of the river where most of them lived. Several glanced at her curiously. She was suddenly aware of her tears, of her hair blowing untidily in the wind. She scrubbed at her wet eyes with the back of her hand, tried largely ineffectually to tuck the long wisps of hair back into its pins. A little calmer, she turned back to the river. Great pied crows hopped heavily upon the muddy strand, scavenging. The spire of the Admiralty gleamed in the afternoon sun. The old, sullen resentment was rising. Why should the rest of the world be always right and she, Lenka, always wrong? Why could she never achieve the content that others apparently took for granted? Under what miserable star had she been born that her life should be so blighted?
Her young spirit was as sore as her abused body, her uncertainty and her fear of the future crystallized suddenly into a near-hatred of the busy, normal, apparently happy world about her. Always difficult, always lonely, she now felt totally isolated, utterly miserable.
And it was Anna’s fault.
The thought came from nowhere, settling into her mind like one of the huge, ungainly birds that flapped and cawed along the shore. Anna’s fault.
She pushed herself away from the parapet and began to walk, slowly, across the bridge, in the direction of the apartment, eyes blindly upon the pavement at her feet.
Anna had not spoken to their father about the University as she’d promised. As she had faithfully promised.
Anna had not even attempted to break the strained silence that had fallen between them in these past weeks. She had been too involved in her new friendship with their cousin, too absorbed in her stupid music, too busy running up and down the stairs to Uncle Andrei. Anna did not care. Anna had never cared.
Hot tears blurred her eyes again. Self-pity rose, not unnaturally, to smother self-disgust. Disappointment and hurt merged into self-justifying hostility; whatever the world might think, Lenka’s unhappiness was not her own fault; it was Anna’s.
Anna had not even noticed Donovalov’s horrible and unwelcome attentions to her sister. Or – worse – if she had, she had ignored them. She had not listened when Lenka had tried to tell her; had not wanted to listen. Always before she had been there, encouraging Lenka to run to her, reassuring her, supporting her, loving her. Or so she had pretended. Where was she now? Where had she been these past weeks? Anna had deserted her, and now she had no-one, no-one at all to turn to.
And through the miserable anger, through the resentment a question nagged at the back of her mind, too terrible, too frightening to be faced, and answered.
What had Donovalov meant by those confident words ‘When you are mine’?
Grimly she hunched her shoulders and, head down, walked on.
The first thing she heard when she reached the apartment building was Anna’s voice, coming through the half-open door of Andrei’s work room.
‘– Honestly, Rita! Whatever you do don’t let Papa hear you saying such things! He’ll put you under lock and key!’ The words were warm, light-hearted.
Lenka stopped at the foot of the stairs, turned, leaning against the newel post, listening.
Inside the room Margarita shrugged an airy shoulder. ‘I mean it. I do! I’m going to marry a soldier. And not just any old soldier, either, I can tell you! An officer. In one of the Cossack regiments, probably. The uniforms are so very dashing, don’t you think?’ Her voice was completely composed and matter-of-fact, her sister’s open laughter notwithstanding.
‘With a title thrown in, I presume?’ Anna enquired, grinning.
Margarita shrugged, blandly. ‘Why not? Stranger things have happened, you know.’
Anna laughed again. ‘Not a lot stranger!’
‘What do you think, Uncle Andrei? Don’t you believe that I could make a handsome young officer fall in love with me?’ Margarita cocked her head in the almost unconsciously coquettish way that so brought to mind her mother.
‘I have no doubt at all, my dear, that you could twist any red-blooded man around your little finger,’ her uncle agreed, soberly.
Margarita was not to be fooled. ‘You’re laughing at me too,’ she said, undisturbed. ‘I don’t care. I’ll do it. You’ll see.’ Her young voice was perfectly confident.
‘How are you going to meet this dashing young man of yours?’ Anna was still teasing. ‘You can’t exactly walk up and introduce yourself to him on the street, can you? And I don’t somehow see Papa allowing you to frequent the restaurants on the Islands!’
‘Why, at Cousin Katya’s, of course. You’ll be silly yourself, Anna, if you don’t take advantage of Uncle Mischa’s connections. Mama says it was just about the only worthwhile reason for coming to Petersburg.’ Ignoring the quizzical look that passed between her sister and her uncle she added imperturbably, ‘I’ve quite made up my mind. You just wait and see.’ Looking like a fresh spring flower in pale lemon sprigged cotton she moved about the room with her small, dancing steps. It always seemed to Anna that her younger sister moved to a music that no-one else could hear. Margarita had picked up the half-finished bow that Andrei had laid upon the bench and was inspecting it with some interest. ‘What funny wood. It’s sort of red, isn’t it? And it’s so heavy! Where does it come from?’
Andrei relieved her of it, gently but firmly. ‘Brazil. It’s called pemambuco. It was originally used as a dye wood – if you put it in water, the water turns red.’
She picked up a small, heavy block. ‘I know what this is. It’s ebony, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right. From Mauritius.’ Andrei was watching her, amused at her butterfly interest, fully aware that her questions were simply to keep his attention upon her. Anything he told her would go in one ear and out of the other; tomorrow they might well repeat the self-same conversation, and she would be as disarmingly ignorant again. ‘And the horse hair,’ he added, pulling a slim hank of it through his fingers, ‘is our own Russian horse hair. From Mongolia.’
She leaned against the workbench, with a slender finger gently tilting the finely balanced scales that he used to weigh the bows. ‘Uncle Andrei, if your bows are so famous, why do you still only use mother of pearl and silver to decorate them? If you used proper precious stones and gold, couldn’t you charge a lot more for them?’
‘Rita!’ Anna was torn between despair and laughter.
Andrei laughed outright. ‘My dear little Philistine! A Shalakov bow is not valued by its content.’
‘What is it valued for, then?’ Now she was being deliberately pert.
Exasperation won. ‘It’s valued for its weight, its strength and its balance,’ Anna said, shortly. ‘As you well know, I think. No amount of gold and diamonds could make them better. Ostentation isn’t everything, you know. Oh, Rita, for heaven’s sake, do be still for an instant! Now where are you going?’
Margarita had danced across the room and disappeared into the living room. Andrei and Anna exchanged glances again, smiling, unconsciously conspiratorial. Andrei bent his head once more to the unhaired bow he was oiling and polishing. Anna watched the practised movement of his hands, resisted the impulse gently to touch the thick silver hair that gleamed in the light that fell upon him through the window.
‘There’s a bow that isn’t finished in here,’ Margarita’s voice called from the other room.
‘I know,’ Andrei said.
Anna marched into the living room. Margarita was standing by the sideboard with the unfinished bow in her hand.
‘Rita! You really are the limit, you know! You’ve no business to poke about in other people’s rooms!’
‘Uncle Andrei isn’t other people, he’s Uncle Andrei,’ her sister said with irrefutable logic. ‘He doesn’t mind. Do you, Uncle?’ She did not wait for an answer; she was leaning forward, peering at the photographs. ‘Is that Aunt Galina? I suppose it must be. I’ve never seen a picture of her before. Wasn’t she pretty?’
‘Margarita, please!’ Anna hissed.
Andrei spoke from the door, his voice easy. ‘Yes, she was. Very. And as good and gentle as she was pretty.’ He moved to where Margarita stood, removed the picture from her hand and stood it back in its place. ‘Which is more than can be said for some.’
Rita laughed delightedly, enjoying herself. ‘Uncle Andrei, what can you mean? Oh – and who’s that distinguished-looking gentleman with the silver hair? Isn’t he handsome?’
Andrei regarded her with over-innocent eyes. ‘That’s me.’
She giggled. ‘No! Not you – the picture!’
‘Ah. The picture. That’s Guy de Fontenay. A very old and dear friend of mine who lives in England.’
‘He looks nice,’ Margarita said.
‘He is nice. Very nice. Something you’ll have a chance to discover for yourselves in a few weeks. Now, my dears, much as I love your company if I’m to finish what I’m doing I really think –’
‘He’s coming to visit?’
‘Indeed he is. He comes most years – partly business, mostly to see his many friends in the city, of whom I’m proud to count myself one. He never comes in the winter, for he detests the cold. But he loves the white nights, so usually he comes in June.’ They had turned and were walking back into the other room.
‘My birthday’s in June,’ Anna said, ‘and Mama says we may have a midnight picnic by the Gulf. Will he be here for that, do you think? Would he like to – ?’ She stopped.
Yelena stood in the doorway. Her hair was dishevelled, her brows a straight, glowering line. She greeted no-one. ‘Anna,’ she said, abruptly, ‘I want to talk to you.’
‘Lenka? What’s the matter?’
‘Upstairs,’ Lenka said, and turned on her heel.
Three pairs of eyes watched her departure in astonishment, and, on Anna’s part at least, anger. ‘Lenka!’ she called, sharply.
Yelena did not reply.
Margarita grimaced ferociously. ‘You’d better go, Anna. That’s Lenka’s absolutely grousiest face. If she bumps into Papa in that mood there’ll be the most awful trouble!’
Anna’s anger was rising. ‘She really shouldn’t –’ She stopped.
‘Oh well, I suppose you’re right. I’d better find out what’s the matter.’
Lenka plodded miserably on up the stairs, ignoring her sister’s voice calling behind her. She knew she was behaving badly; but in those moments when she had stood, an outsider as always, listening to that silly, light-hearted conversation the grudge against Anna conceived in the past hour had hardened to resolve. Anna had broken her promise; in the walk from the river Lenka had convinced herself that there lay the root cause of her unhappiness. She had trusted her sister to talk to their father, to persuade him; and Anna hadn’t even tried. Nor had she listened when Lenka had tried to articulate her fears about Donovalov. She’d have it out with her. She would!
They faced each other in their shared bedroom, the sound of Seraphima singing about her work in the parlour down the hall an incongruously pleasant background to their low, angry voices.
‘Lenka, honestly, your manners get worse with every passing day!’ Anna was furious. ‘It’s no wonder you make people angry with you!’
‘At least I keep my promises! At least I don’t give a person my word just to keep her quiet and then break it!’
‘What are you talking about?’ The thin, pale skin of Anna’s face had flushed suddenly.
‘You know very well what I’m talking about! The University! You promised – you promised – to talk to Papa –’
‘Lenka, I haven’t had the chance –’
‘You should have made the chance!’ The floodgates were opened; all of Yelena’s misery and confusion, her anger against an unfair world, were vented upon her sister. And Anna, knowing in her heart that there was at least some justice in the other girl’s accusations, took refuge in anger. Furious, they faced each other; neither guarded her tongue. Small spites and small irritations were flung like wounding stones. Their voices rose. Both said things they did not mean; either one of them would have died before admitting it. The bitter quarrel was broken up eventually by a flustered Varya, afraid that the newly-arrived Victor would hear the raised voices.
With a wary but interested Margarita in her narrow pallet bed still awake and with ears cocked, they went to bed that night with a stony silence lying between them like a blade; a silence that was hardly to be broken, except for the most imperative and unavoidable of communications, in weeks.
The northern spring turned to temperate summer, and as the balmy evenings lengthened for a time at least the interminable dark days of winter were forgotten. Katya and her parents were preparing to spend several weeks, as they did each year, at their dacha in Finland, fifty miles or so north of the capital.
‘Oh, Anna, do come! I asked Papa, and he said you could. It really is such fun! We swim in the lake, and there’s riding and walking in the forest. The Molinskis always take the house on the other side of the lake – we get together for parties, and picnics – oh, do come?’
Anna shook her head. ‘I can’t, Katya, really I can’t. Mama needs me here.’
‘Oh, fiddlesticks! Sometimes, my chicken, you act as if you’re thirty years old. Do you know that? Come, oh, do come, at least for a time.’
‘I don’t think Papa would ever agree, Katya.’
‘Mischischa would get him to agree if I asked him.’ Once with her teeth into something Katya held like a terrier. ‘We have paper chases, and hay rides – and it’s so quiet and beautiful –’
‘Not for long after you arrive from the sound of it.’ Anna’s voice was amused.
Katya pulled a face. Then, impulsively and affectionately she took her cousin’s hand. ‘Do come, Anna? My parents could persuade yours, I’m sure they could. Won’t you let me try?’
Anna shook her head, gently obstinate. ‘No. Really, Katya – not this year. It’s best that I stay in St Petersburg.’
Katya eyed her, suddenly and astutely thoughtful. ‘Anna Victorovna! What are you up to?’
‘Up to?’ Oddly flustered, Anna disengaged her hand, set about tidying the desk that was littered with paper and books. ‘Whatever do you mean? Why should I be up to anything?’
Her cousin was still watching her with a disconcertingly shrewd interest. ‘What’s keeping you in St Petersburg when you could come to Finland?’ A sudden smile tilted her pretty mouth. ‘Oh, Anna – surely not? A man?’
Anna straightened, hands on hips, facing her. ‘For goodness’ sake, Katya! This is me you’re talking to – Anna – remember? Not one of your fly-by-night friends! A man indeed! How very silly!’
Katya shrugged a little, reluctantly surrendering the intriguing but she had to admit unlikely suspicion. ‘It was just a thought.’
It was indeed. It was a thought that occupied Anna on and off for the next few days. Just a few months ago she knew she would have been very tempted by the opportunity to spend the summer in Finland with the Bourlovs. Margarita, hearing somehow through her own obscure channels of the opportunity her sister had refused, had been openly consumed with envy and as openly incredulous. ‘Anna, how could you refuse? Oh, Lord, if only I were older! If they’d only ask me I’d go – like a shot I’d go! Just think of all the people you’d meet.’
‘I’d rather stay in St Petersburg,’ was all Anna would say.
Because of Andrei.
For her own peace of mind she came up with many other quite credible excuses. Her mother did need her; though she could certainly have managed without her for a few weeks. Her father would undoubtedly have disapproved of his eldest daughter gallivanting about Finland with what he quite openly perceived as an irresponsible and ‘fast’ – if not worse than ‘fast’ – set of young people; but with Mischa on her side she knew he could have been persuaded to let her go. She would have been an outsider, at least at first, and her meagre wardrobe and possessions might have marked her apart from the others; but with Katya to champion her not many would have cared to make too much of such social distinctions. And anyway for Anna it would have been the opportunity to explore the lovely, tranquil countryside of Finland that would have been the attraction rather than the social life offered. No. In her heart she knew that her reason for staying in the city was Andrei. The only thing she knew with any certainty was that the mere thought of being away from him for a matter of weeks, perhaps months, was something she simply could not contemplate. The disturbing depths of which feeling she did not care – or perhaps more honestly did not dare – to plumb too deeply.
That it might have been better for Andrei had she taken this opportunity to part them was something that did not occur to her until much, much later. She was, after all, very young; and first love is never easy.
There was, she assured herself in the spirit of her self-deception, a lot to be said for St Petersburg at this time of the year. Bands played in the parks and gardens: waltzes and military marches, operatic arias and popular songs from the stage. Small sails swooped about the wide river and across the seawater Gulf, graceful as birds in flight. The days grew warm enough to be, for northern blood, almost uncomfortable; but the evenings were, though still pleasant, fresh and magically lit. In the enchantment of those white nights in which the sun hovered dimly upon the horizon as if reluctant to leave the beauty of the lovely summer’s twilight, the Gulf of Finland to the north of the city was a still and limpid lagoon, the salt sea air mingling with the sweet fragrance of flowers.
Together with half the population of the city on one fine Sunday the Shalakovs took the train to Peterhof, where the Court of the Tsar spent the summer months and where, in a Versailles of gardens, palaces and pavilions set against the glittering backdrop of the sea, fountains played constantly, and the rich, the aristocratic and the ambitious vied for favour or simply enjoyed themselves. The common populace almost to a man came to watch, to wonder and often acidly to comment; whilst in the rides and parks those who ruled them rode, took carriage, paraded their riches with apparently little thought and much ostentation.
‘Oh look! Look! The lady in the black victoria! Isn’t she beautiful? I wonder who she is?’ Margarita was in her element. In honour of the season she had persuaded from her father a new outfit, quite the most grown-up she had ever worn, if for her own taste a little lacking in colour. Yet inadvertently the soft dove grey of the demure silk gown with its darker braid edging set off her blossoming good looks to perfection. Many a head turned as Margarita danced by; as for all her apparent indifference Margarita well knew. ‘I wonder if we’ll see the Grand Duchesses? Or the little Tsarevich? And oh, Mama – look at the gentleman on the grey horse, isn’t he splendid?’
‘A tailor’s dummy whose boots would feed a family for six months,’ Lenka muttered, scuffing along behind her.
Her father shot her a sharp, frowning glance.
‘I shouldn’t like to eat his boots,’ Rita said, sweetly, and was rewarded by her mother’s silvery trill of laughter. Margarita had not quite mastered that pretty sound, though not it must be said for want of trying. She smiled delightedly at Varya and resolved to try harder. She had seen men’s heads turn at the sound of her mother’s laughter.
‘There’s a concert in the gardens by the sea this evening, Father. May we stay for it?’
‘Why not?’ Victor was expansive. Things were going well, business was picking up very nicely and the Imperial contract was at last his, signed, sealed and delivered just before Donovalov had left the city on unspecified business of his own a couple of weeks before. ‘We can catch the later train back if you’d like. Andrei, you’ll stay with us?’
Andrei nodded. ‘Most certainly. I’d like to.’
Anna caught his eye, and smiled. The first few days after that emotional scene in the workshop had been difficult for both of them. Andrei, despite his promise, had avoided her, and she for that short while had been content to allow it. She had had much to think about. Every word they had spoken, every gesture, every touch she remembered. Treasured. He loved her; impossible it might be – even wicked perhaps – but the knowledge was a small flame of joy that could not be extinguished. Again and again she told herself: something so wonderful could surely not be wrong. Even Andrei had admitted that they could be friends; devoted friends. The words had a romantic, almost poetic ring to them. The memory of his kiss and the frightening emotions it had roused in her she buried deep, afraid to examine it, to confront the dangerous truth of her real feelings for her uncle. At last, unable to stay away, she had taken to visiting him again – though as he had suggested almost always in company of one of the younger children. And as these enchanting summer weeks had progressed, the tensions between them had seemed to drop away. There was an ease between them now, a shared but unspoken intimacy that delighted her. How perilous was this intimacy she, unlike Andrei, did not in the least understand; nor did she know the effort it cost him to sustain this apparently calm and easy friendship. While Anna in her youth and innocence happily deceived herself, Andrei could not. She would have been shocked had she known that his fiercest and most heartfelt prayers were that she should find another love, as young and innocent as herself, for only in her loss, he knew, could his own agonizing dilemma end. His own desires and feelings he could handle; but the look in those clear eyes, the perfect trust in her warm and ready smile, above all the music that she played, he knew, for him alone, sometimes all but broke him. At such times the vodka bottle was not enough. Anna would have been even more shocked to know of the redheaded young prostitute in the dockland cafe.
‘When does your English friend arrive, Uncle Andrei?’ Margarita had skipped up beside him and slipped her arm in his.
‘On Wednesday.’
‘Will he stay in one of the really grand hotels?’
‘Most certainly. He usually uses the Hotel de l‘Europe.’
‘Goodness! Will he invite us there, do you think?’
‘He might. If you smile at him very nicely.’
‘You must bring him to dinner, Andrei,’ Varya said. ‘On Thursday, perhaps. Or Friday. Do you think he would like to?’
‘I’m most certain he would, Varya Petrovna.’
‘Anna shall play for us,’ Victor said. ‘Does your English friend like music, Andrei?’
Andrei smiled again at Anna. ‘Guy loves music – more than almost anything else, I think. I have already promised him that our Anna will play for him.’
‘Oh, heavens! That sounds terrifying!’ Anna did not look in the least bit terrified; in these past months her confidence had grown, and she was, for many reasons and in many ways, no longer a child.
Andrei shook his head. ‘Guy isn’t terrifying. He’s the most amiable man you could wish to meet. You’ll like him, I’m sure.’
‘If he’s your friend,’ Anna said simply, ‘then I know I shall love him.’
The words in a way were prophetic; for if Anna did not exactly love Guy de Fontenay on sight she certainly liked him immensely from the moment he walked through the door. Tall, lean and distinguished-looking, he was indeed exactly as Andrei had described him: engaging, courteous, highly intelligent. But he was more. With sure feminine instinct Anna sensed that here was a kindly man, his warmth and charm no empty facade. And even had his personal qualities not won her, his obvious and open affection for Andrei would have been enough to ensure him an immediate place in her heart. Forewarned by Andrei, he came bearing gifts for everyone – flowers for Varya, cigars for Victor, a pretty brooch for Margarita, a handsome, lacquered bilboquet for Dmitri, whose pride at his expertise at this game, which entailed deftly catching a small ball in a cup on one end of the stick or impaling it on the spike at the other, was matched only by the irritation of most of the rest of the family at the clicking, clattering noise it made. For Lenka there was a book and for Anna a pale green silk scarf.
The evening was a great success. Sonya the cook outdid herself in honour of the foreign guest; the inevitable but tasty soup was followed by a selection of cold meats and fish and then by Sonya’s speciality, the delicious meat and vegetable pies known as ‘pirozhki’. Although normally dessert in the Shalakov household was eaten only on a Sunday, thinly sliced oranges sprinkled with sugar followed. The conversation was entertaining, Guy proving more than happy to satisfy his hosts’ curiosity about England and the English. His Russian was excellent, if strangely accented; he had had, as he pointed out with a smile, a very good and enthusiastic teacher. A bottle of vodka had been emptied and a new one started before the meal ended around the table upon which the steaming samovar was set. Even Lenka had been charmed from her usual reserve to question and even to laugh at the dry humour in which most of the answers were couched. Anna was then prevailed upon to play, and a little nervously she took the lovely old violin from its case and settled it upon her shoulder. Guy steepled long, bony fingers, leaned forward, watching her intently. His eyes, set in a lean, deeply-lined but not unhandsome face were the brightest blue Anna had ever seen. She played Mozart and Vivaldi; finished with Andrei’s wild gypsy tune. Their guest’s reaction was gratifying.
‘Wonderful, Anna Victorovna, wonderful! Andrei, you didn’t do your niece justice! Such sensitivity, such great maturity in one – if I may say so without offence? – so young!’
The small party broke up with warm thanks and an invitation for the whole family to join him for dinner the following Monday at the Hotel de l‘Europe, an invitation that set Margarita’s pretty eyes glowing.
Some little while later Anna, having supervised the clearing of the table and the work in the kitchen, came into the parlour to find her father alone enjoying a last small glass of vodka and one of Guy’s cigars. He was reading the newspaper, his pince-nez perched upon the tip of his nose. ‘I came to say good night, Papa.’
He nodded a little absently. ‘Yes indeed. Good night, my dear.’
‘It was a lovely evening, wasn’t it? I liked Mr de Fontenay very much.’
‘Charming man. Charming.’
Anna plumped up a cushion, moved a chair back into its accustomed place. ‘It will be nice to go to the hotel for dinner, won’t it?’
‘Most certainly it will.’
‘I was wondering – perhaps Mr de Fontenay would like to come with us on my birthday? The picnic? Since the Bourlovs can’t be there it would be fun to have someone different, don’t you think?’ The midnight picnic to be held in honour of Anna’s nineteenth birthday had been the subject of much discussion and much excitement over the past days, for all it was a full fortnight away.
‘By all means invite him, if he’s still going to be in St Petersburg.’ Her father closed the paper, folded it very neatly.
‘Oh yes, he will be. He’s here for a month, Andrei –’ she stumbled a little ‘– Uncle Andrei said so.’
‘Good.’ Her father carefully pinched out the cigar. Anna hesitated. Over the past few days, Lenka’s irritating sulks notwithstanding, her conscience had not been entirely clear. If she were going to try to persuade her father to allow her and her sister to enrol on a course at the University as Lenka so desperately wanted the subject would have to be broached at some time between now and the autumn. Several times she had been on the point of speaking to him, but each time somehow the occasion had not seemed exactly right. She remembered all too clearly the dreadful quarrel after his refusal to allow her to take up the scholarship; whilst outwardly their relationship had returned to normal she knew all too well – probably better than her father did – its true fragility. But still, sooner or later, the attempt would have to be made; perhaps this evening, convivial as it had been, was as good a time as any. ‘Papa?’
Victor was fussily folding his glasses, putting them into their small leather case, placing them precisely upon the folded newspaper. ‘Yes, my dear?’
Varya’s voice sounded in the hall outside, talking to one of the others. Victor turned his head, listening. Varya had behaved quite well this evening, he was willing to admit. She had graced his table prettily and played her role of hostess admirably. Possibly the stern talking-to he had given her after the Bourlovs’ party had paid dividends after all. Possibly too the headache of which she had been complaining ever since might have been cleared by such a pleasant evening. ‘I’m sorry?’
Anna hesitated. ‘I was just saying –’ Perfectly obviously her father’s thoughts were elsewhere. Perhaps now was not the time after all. ‘Nothing, Papa. I was just saying good night.’
‘Yes. Of course. Good night, my dear.’ He kissed her cheek perfunctorily, inclined his head absently in the direction of the icon above its steadily burning lamp in the corner and left the room.
After plumping up the cushions of her father’s chair and turning down the lamps, Anna followed. There really had been no point in trying to talk to him this evening. There’d be another chance soon. Perhaps on her birthday. He’d surely be readier to accede to such a request on such a day than at any other time? Lenka would just have to wait a little longer. It served her right for being so grumpy.
She stood in the darkened hall for a moment, alone. She heard her parents’ voices from behind their bedroom door, heard the click and rattle of the new bilboquet from her brother’s room. Margarita’s trill of laughter rang out, dishes clattered in the kitchen. Downstairs, just one floor below her, her uncle would be alone in his neat and quiet room. What was he doing? Reading perhaps? Asleep already? She pictured his face, calm and relaxed in sleep and fought a sudden, wanton impulse to slip out of the front door, down the stairs and –
She pulled herself up, shaking her head. Devoted friends. That was what they were. She must never forget that. Devoted friends. The line was set between them and as long as neither overstepped it both were safe. She found herself thinking suddenly of Guy de Fontenay, of the obvious affection he and Andrei felt for one another. It was good that Andrei should have such a friend. Anna remembered Guy’s intent enjoyment of her playing, recalled his warm praise, and smiled. Even on such short acquaintance she felt strangely certain that if she needed it he would stand friend to her too.
She stood for a moment outside the bedroom door, her fingers upon the handle. From within she heard Rita’s laughing voice and Lenka’s low reply. For one second longer she stood, savouring this small, solitary moment in a life in which such times were few. The evening had been lovely. She had played well. Andrei, she knew from the look in his eyes, had been proud of her. She was after all glad that she had not spoken to her father about the University; with a sudden uncharacteristic lift of light-heartedness it came to her that, despite all, for tonight she was as happy as she had ever been. It would have been foolish to spoil it. She would speak to him on her birthday. There was plenty of time.