Four days, Nyebogatov had needed, to coal, water and store his ships and carry out necessary maintenance and repairs in preparation for the long haul to Vladivostok. May 14th now, 0630; calm and warm, would be hot when the sun had burnt the sea-mist off in an hour or so. Michael was on the bridge, as were Zakharov and others, watching the ‘flat-irons’ filing out of Port Dayotte behind their flagship; the rest of the squadron waiting for them here three miles out – more or less where they’d been all the time, except for once creeping into Van Phong to coal during a temporary absence at Natrangh of Rear-Admiral de Jonquières.
He was here now in the Guichen, cruising slowly about a mile offshore, no doubt highly relieved at finally speeding his unwanted guests on their way to either glory or perdition.
There’d been two letters from Tasha, both forwarded by Jane; they’d come in the Kostroma, Nyebogatov’s hospital-ship, which having called in at Saigon had arrived at Van Phong on the 11th. In the first of them she was quite bitterly critical of his disregard of her earlier pleas, and again despairing of the squadron’s chances – she’d had the news of Mukden of course, which when she’d last written had been in the balance – and in the second she’d soft-pedalled on the war situation and his obduracy but described an evening spent at the Derevyenkos, their neighbours in Yalta – of whom he hadn’t particularly wanted to be reminded. There’d also been two brief covering notes from Jane – with the line in one of them I suppose you must believe you know what you’re doing, but has it occurred to you to wonder what you might be doing to that poor girl? – and at last one from brother George, oddly enough not mentioning Igor’s letter about Tasha; just country chat, culminating in his own version of what had become the popular refrain – Look here, old, chap, you really had better get yourself on to terra firma pretty deuced quick – seeing as in your present company and circumstances it seems to be universally agreed you‘re on a hiding to nothing… And some hand-written ‘despatches’ from William that weren’t now of much interest. A report of Nyebogatov having sailed from Djibouti for instance, a lot of post-mortem reportage on the crushing defeat at Mukden, and a story from Vienna – Vienna? – that a commission of inquiry into the surrender of Port Arthur had unanimously sentenced General Stossel to be shot.
Zakharov had been interested in that one. Having his own personal worries too though, asking Michael diffidently, ‘Any communique from Natasha Igorovna, may I enquire?’
He’d shown surprise, then smiled: conveying that he wouldn’t have expected to hear from her. ‘Have you written your letter to her yet?’
‘I’ve been making attempts at it. One difficulty is my slight confusion over the events of that night at Injhavino. How she’d see it – did see it. Whether I shouldn’t have paid court to her instead of conversing – and I’ll admit, to some extent carousing – with Princes Igor and Ivan. The truth is, Mikhail Ivan’ich – it embarrasses me to tell you this – that in relation to Natasha I was in a state of – what’s the word, confusion. My age, of course – and knowing only too well I’m no Adonis – and in contrast her own extreme youth and beauty. I felt like a – a lecher. Buying her… In fact, as you know, buying Volodnyakov influence – but through her, using her – taking such advantage… Well, I’d agreed to it – oh, months before, when Prince Ivan put it to me as suddenly as if it were some wild notion that had just occurred to him. I admit, I jumped at it—’
‘He and his uncle would have discussed every detail before as much as a hint of it was dropped to you.’
‘Of course. But did I behave in a manner that offended her, that night?’
‘Not that I know of. What must have stunned her was that her father hadn’t seen fit to say a word to her about it – ask her how she’d feel or—’
‘And she’d have seen me as part of that.’
This conversation had taken place on Ryazan’s bridge in the fading evening light of the 11th or 12th. After the Kostroma’s mail had been distributed, anyway – that was what had been in his mind, those two letters and their apparent indications. Trying to convince himself that she’d only have been writing about those people in order to fill a letter without whole pages of remonstration. Zakharov meanwhile droning on, explaining his problem – ‘If in more ordinary circumstances, one had – oh, come to ask a man for his daughter’s hand in marriage, then with his assent to propose to her – well, in the loftiest of romantic tradition one might have been down on one knee to her, but even without that at least making efforts to present oneself as favourably as possible. Instead of which – a foregone conclusion, and Prince Igor and his nephew lavish with their hospitality – in which in some degree of personal embarrassment vis-à-vis this beautiful young lady, I was perhaps in a way taking refuge—’
‘May I make a suggestion?’
‘Please do.’
‘Put it all on paper to her. Clearly and frankly. It makes perfect sense to me. How she’d take it – well, one can’t tell, can one. Only way to find out, though – eh? You might tell her that if – when – we get back from Vladivostok you hope she’d receive you, allow you to – say, make her acquaintance in a more normal way. And add—’
He’d paused, thinking about it.
‘Add what?’
‘That if after that she felt disinclined to – continue with the betrothal—’
‘But my agreement with her father—’
‘Agree with her is what we’re talking about. Irrespective of what dowry arrangement you’ve made with him.’
‘Speaking as her big brother – huh?’
‘If you like.’
‘And as opposed to the betrothal as I suspect she must be?’
In the two or three days since then nothing more had been said. In his sea-cabin Zakharov would no doubt have been struggling with his letter. There’d be a coaling stop before they reached Tsushima, and mail would no doubt be sent off in the coal ships – the Tambov and the Mercury, who when empty were to be sent into Saigon. Might be an even later opportunity when other transports and auxiliaries were detached when off Shanghai. As well as his old ironclads and the hospital-ship, Nyebogatov had brought with him several transports, a water-tanker and a repair ship, the Keenia. Most were being sent home from here, stores of any value trans-shipped from them to the Anadyr, Irtysh and Korea, who being the least unreliable of the old brigade would be staying with the fleet right through to Vladivostok. As were the Sibir – whose cargo of field-guns intended originally for Port Arthur would no doubt be very thankfully received by the army now preparing to defend Vladivostok – and the crazy old Kamchatka. The best of the machine-tools, materials, and spare parts in the Keenia were to have been transferred to her, space being made for it by moving less useful gear from her to the Keenia. Engineer-Constructor Narumov’s province of course – deciding what should be kept and what discarded. Really a very important personage now, was P.V. Narumov. But also staying with the fleet were the tugs Rus and (Nyebogatov’s) Svir; personnel had been exchanged too, between those ships coming and those leaving, civilian crews and workmen who were averse to confronting Togo being sent home, so that those staying on should all be volunteers.
Loonies?
A notice on the board outside the ship’s office read:
Following the tragic demise of Senior Lieutenant V.V. Radzianko, the responsibilities of navigating officer have been assumed voluntarily by Senior Lieutenant M.I. Genderson, who will be assisted by Michman G.I. Egorov . Signed: N.T. Zakharov, Captain.
Chief loony, this M.I. Genderson?
But as he’d mentioned in one of his letters to Tasha, there was nothing pre-ordained, i.e. suicidal about it. All right, these ships had come halfway round the world, were foul-bottomed and in poor mechanical condition, most of them cranky and out-dated and manned by crews who were still no more than half-trained; but (a) despite the narrowness of the Tsushima Strait, the East China Sea and Sea of Japan were vast expanses of open water – respectively four hundred and eighty thousand and four hundred and five thousand square miles – and given anything like suitable conditions, evading Togo shouldn’t be by any means impossible; (b) despite the handicaps imposed by having Nyebogatov’s old relics dragging along behind – lack of speed, and even more of a tendency to break down – it was a fact that ship for ship and gun for gun they did probably have the edge on Togo’s battlefleet.
As navigator, he didn’t keep watches: spent most of his days and nights on the bridge or in the chartroom. For his own satisfaction he was keeping the ship’s position fixed by taking morning and evening stars – having been lucky so far with clear skies – and encouraging young Egorov to do the same, showing him how to do it better.
Thinking pretty well constantly about Tasha, meanwhile. Perhaps the worst contingency would be if the bitterness of the first letter and the hint in the second of ever-closer friendship with the Derevyenkos had been – was being – initiated/orchestrated by Anna Feodorovna, who for all her charm and elegance was hard-headed, decisive, he guessed quite ruthless. If she’d decided that Tasha should – well, disengage…
Thoughts merged into dreams – senseless but also bad ones, from which one had to force oneself awake, sit up – on the late Radzianko’s couch – reach for a cigarette…
Derevyenko – father Andrei, Graf Andrei – meaning count – one-armed son Count Pavel. But getting her next letter after that one – the one she’d written after her visit to St Petersburg and which he’d read when they’d been at anchor outside Angra Pequena – he remembered having felt ashamed – of jealousy sparked by distance and impotence. Felt the same now too: recognizing also that it was mostly his own damn fault – in here yes, her view of his obduracy being perfectly understandable. Although – rasp of the match, the Russian cigarette’s cardboard tube squashed almost flat so it’d draw better – as things were now there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
Didn’t help, of course, that there was no chance at all of hearing from her now – between here and Vladivostok. Touching wood for that – eventual arrival at Vladivostok: which incidentally should settle all that in Tasha’s mind. Apart from the fact that one would be around, extant. Touching the polished mahogany of the chart-table, over which a dim light glowed – pulled right down on its flexible, telescopic deckhead mounting so as to reduce the spillage of light from it. The fleet was steaming without masthead or navigation lights, with shaded stern-lights only. Even smoking on the upper decks was prohibited. Throb of Ryazan’s engines, the creaking and groaning of her iron frame and plates, rattling of loose fittings, seesaw motion as she rode the low swell and smashed through the rolling wakes of the forty-odd ships ahead. (Almost forty: down from fifty-two, since the shedding of those transports.) Thinking back to Zakharov’s admission that at Injhavino he’d been out of his depth, overawed by Prince Igor’s effusive hospitality. He’d have been more than half-seas over too, probably – he certainly enjoyed his drink, which loosened his tongue though not his facial muscles. And was obviously well aware of that face of his: which in fact one got used to, but a young girl wouldn’t, certainly not on first acquaintance. They had been sloshing the drink around that evening; there was a punch for instance with a kick like a mule’s, and when Michael had mentioned this, Prince Stepan – Ivan’s older son, who had a club foot and with his younger brother Pyotr (physically strong but mentally less so) worked on the estate, Stepan calling himself the overseer but both of them actually labouring like peasants – Stepan had joked that a mule might have provided some of the content of the punch as well. Zakharov had, of course, been a stranger to everyone in the house except Prince Ivan, yet was guest of honour and at any rate to start with too shy to have done much more than mumble a few pleasantries at Tasha and at her mother and then retreat, hide his face and dull his sensitivities. And that had been long before the speech by Igor which must have embarrassed him all over again – that heavy over-emphasis on his father being one of Moscow’s foremost merchant princes.
(Not exactly one of us, my friends: but…)
A snapshot flickering into mind then of Tasha in her mother’s arms, on a great tasselled sofa with a rip in its red-and-white satin covering, the two dark heads together, Tasha in tears and her mother’s lips moving, murmuring ‘There now, my darling, but stop it now, don’t let them see you in such a state, you know how the wretches gossip. We’ll see to it, put it right, I swear we will. Please, darling…’
Waving him away then. Probably wisely, at that. Prince Ivan a minute later throwing an arm round his shoulders and leading him over to clink glasses with this dog-faced, moneyed stranger; and a neighbour of the Volodnyakovs, a Count Selander who had Swedish blood and an enormous brood of children – fat, soft-faced Swede with a cigar about two feet long and a brandy glass so full he kept slopping it over his white hand and wrist. Ivan and a young woman who was staying in the house but seemed to be related to the Swede’s wife had something going between them, Michael had thought; Ivan having left his own arthritic wife Ilyana in Petersburg, as she hadn’t felt up to making such a long journey just for a day or two. No positive reason to disbelieve him, it was simply how it had looked and felt, as one remembered it – in memory one image imposing itself on another, the last in that particular sequence being of Tasha and her mother slipping out of the room together, quietly and swiftly, leaving behind the roar of conversation punctuated by bursts of merriment and, in the quieter moments, music coming from several rooms away, much of the time inaudible.
He’d gone up after them and knocked on her bedroom door. Her door or her mother’s – they had interleading rooms, on the first floor in the front of the house where the corridors were wider, rooms and windows larger. They were together in there anyway: Tasha had thrown herself face-down on the bed and her mother had come to the door and opened it: ‘Micky…’
‘What can I do?’
‘Nothing.’ She – Anna – with her guard down, looking utterly distraite. ‘But come in – quickly, just for a moment… Nothing we can do immediately, I meant. We left it too late – I left it too late. With you away in any case – God, you might as well have stayed away, spared yourself this—’
‘Tasha?’
Tear-stained: sitting, then standing, dabbing at her eyes. ‘Nothing you could have done even if you had been within a thousand miles. He must have guessed what Mama was intending, waiting for – otherwise why all the secrecy, and this cruel suddenness…’
‘We can still beat him.’
‘How?’
Her mother had asked that question: and he couldn’t answer it. Shaking his head: ‘It’s inconceivable that they can do such a thing to her. Although you were right, Anna Feodorovna, you did anticipate some such—’
‘It was always in his mind.’
‘In any case, I –’gazing at Tasha – ‘and Tasha, you too, I hope…’ Tongue-tied, though, over this: letters were one thing, a declaration face-to-face and in the presence of a third party, and with the awful feeling that one might effectively be ham-strung – and couldn’t allow oneself to be… ‘Anna Feodorovna – would I have your approval – help – if Tasha and I were simply to run away together?’
‘No! – I mean – oh, let’s calm down a bit… Micky, the answer in principle is “yes”, but it would not be at all “simple” – and in any case there’s no need to – oh, stampede… Time’s on our side – the only thing that is, but it’s the most important. My brain’s beginning to work again – thank heaven. You see – if this Zakharov’s to go with the Second Pacific Squadron – I wasn’t listening to all that, but he is, isn’t he? – he’ll be away for months. Months and months… Of course, Igor will be watching like a hawk: in fact if he had any reason to suspect…’
She’d dried up: brain at work but running into problems. ‘Micky, let’s talk in the morning. You’d better go – really, we must be very careful. In any case, so I can get this child to bed—’
‘May I kiss the child goodnight?’
A pause, looking from him to her. Then: ‘Child would probably insist in any case.’
He’d kissed her cheek when he’d arrived, earlier in the day: under everyone’s eyes in a general toing and froing, servants dragging trunks up the stairs and along the passages, new arrivals discovering who’d been allotted which room, and so forth – the allotting and supervising of it all being done by old Princess Olga, Igor’s spinster sister. But other than that necessarily chaste, cousinly greeting it was more than three years since he’d seen her, let alone touched or kissed her. Whispering now – her mother having tactfully drifted into the adjoining room – ‘I love you.’
‘And I love you.’
Her eyes huge under his; lips and tongues in contact and sweet-tasting between murmurs. Back to Yalta: might have been no more than weeks ago. ‘Never stopped loving you, wanting you. Don’t intend stopping now – or ever—’
‘Ever. No – you mustn’t!’
‘Will beat them – I swear—’
‘I know how.’
‘How?’
‘Don’t lock your door.’ Tiny whisper: into his mouth first, then – when he might have heard it but hardly dared believe he had, his expression therefore questioning – a repetition with her lips close to his ear. Down off her toes then, inching back, with a glance at the door to the other bedroom and speaking in a normal if slightly breathless tone: ‘Goodnight, my darling.’ Anna Feodorovna’s voice then before she actually came through, by which time they were bodily apart although facing each other, holding hands. Anna asking him, ‘Will you go back down there now, Micky?’
‘Might be – diplomatic.’
‘I agree. You should. If Igor asks, tell him Tasha and I were both exhausted.’
‘All right. I’ll spend say half an hour down there. Then back up to my little corner room.’
‘Sleep well in it. And we’ll talk tomorrow.’
‘Yes. Goodnight.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘You sleep well too.’
He freshened up a bit before returning to the party, chatted to various people in his far-from-perfect Russian, accepted another glass of brandy, made sure Prince Igor saw him, and discussed with Admiral Prince Ivan the Second Pacific Squadron’s prospects. Ivan assuring him – with his arm round the hour-glass waist of the Swede’s wife’s sister – if that was what she was – ‘We’ll teach your Jap allies a lesson they won’t forget. They had the devil’s own luck at Round Island and now they think they’re world-beaters. They would, you see, being bone-headed monkeys. The “little learning” syndrome, isn’t it – teach a peasant the ABC and he’s a damn professor – uh? Well, the world will see, Mikhail Ivan’ich!’
People were leaving, carriages scrunching up and some of their owners being helped out to them, Michael went out on the steps to see a group of them off – was complimented on his Russian – which needed all the practice it could get – and on his way back inside told the hobbling Prince Stepan, ‘I’m for bed. Whacked. Daren’t take another sip.’
‘I did warn you about the punch…’
He couldn’t have locked the door even if he’d wanted to. There wasn’t a key. When he’d got himself ready for bed he left one candle burning – there was no electricity on this upper floor – lay down in his dressing-gown and wondered if she’d come. Or have fallen asleep by this time: or changed her mind. Or be unable to make a move because of her mother’s proximity and sharp ears.
But would her mother give a damn now?
Creaky old house, gradually falling quiet. Michael hardly breathing and not stirring, listening intently. Hearing over and over that thrilling whisper – promise – Don’t lock your—
Its hinges squeaked. First sound he’d heard. He was on his feet as it squeaked shut. Telling her softly – because she was fumbling for it – ‘There’s no key.’ She was in his arms then: her gown open, slipping away over those incredibly lovely shoulders and his palms following it, caressing them, continuing over and down to the warm, astonishingly soft hollow of her back, the sculptured swell of hips. Up from there to cup her breasts: ‘Tasha, you beautiful, beautiful—’
‘This is how we’ll beat them!’
That and the next few hours had been the glory of it: had been and still was, always would be: astonishingly, mind-stunningly wonderful. While the sequel hadn’t at that stage been – imaginable. Starting with her whisper half-waking him, her silhouette discernible between him and dawn’s glimmer in the small, half-open window with its rotten frame. Her whisper: ‘Better go now, Mikhail darling, lover…’
‘Uh?’
Still so dazed that for a moment he’d thought she was telling him he’d better go. Go where? Then catching on as she slid across him: catching her. ‘Tasha—’
‘No. Getting light, my darling!’
He realized she was right. Recalling Anna Feodorovna’s Must be very careful Which this already didn’t quite measure up to: but as far as he was concerned – well, there was nothing he wouldn’t do to steal her. Be hard up, incur the displeasure of Their Lordships of the bloody Admiralty – as well as Igor’s and all the other Volodnyakovs’… ‘I’ll come with you – as far as your door and—’
‘I’ll be quieter on my own—’
‘I can be going to the lavatory.’ Scooping up her gown, holding it for her while she slipped her arms in. Holding her again then. ‘Tasha, you sweet, lovely—’
‘Come on.’ With the door slightly open though, turning to kiss him again: his hands on the outside of the flimsy gown now, and even from that contact almost irresistibly inclined to pull her back inside, shut the door again—
‘Christ!’
Like the sudden rush – escape – of some large rat – outside, along the passage. Shocked, stock-still in each other’s arms: hearing it reach the stairs and slither – patter – down. Human, bare-footed?
No sound now.
‘What on earth—’
Her fingers on his mouth. Stable-door treatment, in fact. At least, as far as one might guess, the horse had bolted: some horse, to some purpose. Tasha’s whisper: ‘Old Dmitry – sneaks around, tells my father whatever – oh, Christ almighty…’
‘Why’d he spy on us?’
‘On me, I suppose. He’ll go straight to him – at least, as soon as he wakes. Oh, Mikhail—’
‘I’m on my way to the lavatory, came out of my room for that purpose. You aren’t here, weren’t here, never left your room. He can’t know you were here – unless he has ears like—’
‘Probably followed me up here. Oh, God!’
‘Come on now. It’ll be all right – you’ll see…’
A bugle-call sent the hands to action stations before dawn. Some guns and turrets were manned all night but this was a general and customary stand-to, dawn like dusk being a favourite time for surprise attacks. Michael was in the bridge with Zakharov and others, Burmin on his usual roving commission springing surprises on the unwary if he found any, Galikovsky at the torpedo-control position in the conning tower – access to which was by way of a narrow flight of iron steps curving down from the side of the forebridge – and Murayev in the spotting-top, alternatively the conning tower or visiting the turrets. Michael with his Heath binoculars trained on the lumbering herd ahead while it did its unimpressive best to transform itself from a random mass into a fleet in cruising formation. The onset of daylight might help, he supposed; but there’d been a good moon last night – only three days short of a full one – so darkness was hardly an excuse.
He’d taken his morning stars; Egorov was in the chartroom working them out for him. He was a pleasant lad, grimly silent with anxiety for his father and seemingly glad to be kept busy.
‘It’s a mess again.’
Zakharov, beside him. Adding, ‘The breakdowns won’t have helped.’
There’d been two during the night: the transport Tambov first and then the battleship Oryol – the latter while Michael had been asleep. A steering-engine failure, Milyukov who’d had that watch had told him. The squadron had started off in reasonably good style yesterday, making nine knots, but if stoppages and slowing-downs continued at that rate you’d be doing well to cover one hundred and fifty miles a day. Two hundred would have been slow enough – with two and a half thousand miles to go, two thousand to Tsushima and another five or six hundred then to Vladivostok.
Nyebogatov’s captains and watchkeepers had had no practice at working with Rojhestvensky’s squadron – the only practice they’d get was what they were getting now. Perhaps more worrying, though – as Narumov had told them when he’d dined on board in Van Phong – was that Rojhestvensky had had Nyebogatov on board the Suvarov for no more than thirty minutes on the evening of the 9th – when the ‘self-sinkers’ had first arrived – and in that half-hour not a word had been said about tactics or battle-plans or even the route to be taken to Vladivostok. The towering but now apparently gaunt, sick-looking vice-admiral had met the short and tubby rear-admiral at the head of the flagship’s gangway, and they’d embraced, then paced the deck together exchanging only small-talk, and although during his few days in Port Dayotte Nyebogatov had been expecting to be called to some sort of conference, nothing of the kind had happened.
It was already quite light: the sky in the east flushed with pink and gold and the sun’s first rays gilding the hospital-ships’ white hulls, the sea around them blue-black and glittering, swirl and suds of broken water reflecting the pink flush overhead. To port the land, if one could have seen it, was still the bulge of French Indo-China, while to starboard at a range of about five hundred miles were the Philippines. Steering northeast as they were – aiming to pass around Formosa, to the east of it – by this time tomorrow the nearest land would be Luzon, at the top end of the Philippines. They’d pass roughly a hundred miles off Negra Point: nothing like close enough to upset the Americans, even though whatever ships they had based there would surely be on the lookout for them.
Burmin came back up into the bridge. Zakharov checked the time, and nodded. ‘You can send the hands to breakfast.’
‘Aye, sir!’ Turning, yelling: ‘Bugler!’
Zakharov told Michael, ‘I completed the letter we were discussing. Very much as you advised. Not taking it as far as you proposed, but – a level-headed approach, I think.’
‘Good.’
‘Is she likely to communicate it to her father?’
‘I don’t know. Truly, no idea.’
‘I feel better for having written it, in any case. Should have months ago. I’d rather she didn’t show it to him, but if she did – well, nothing in it he could reasonably object to.’
‘If you consider him a reasonable man.’
‘You don’t?’
‘We’ve spoken about him before, haven’t we. You expressed reservations, and I agreed with you. He and I are not the best of friends.’
‘Which leaves at least one question unanswered.’ A shrug. ‘Anyway, I’m obliged to you for the advice you gave me.’
The unanswered question, of course, would be the one he’d asked on Michael’s first night on board, in Tangier: ‘Only to satisfy my curiosity, Mikhail Ivan’ich – why did Prince Igor want me to bring you along with us?’
The answer to which he’d somehow fudged. Could hardly have told him ‘Because he knew I’d slept with his daughter and this was easier for him – in fact he might have thought it was cleverer – than having my throat cut or putting her in a nunnery – or both.’
Igor hadn’t sent for him that morning; doubtless would have, but Michael had anticipated any such summons by asking for a private interview. It had taken place in mid-forenoon in the park behind the house: there was an orangery with a lot of its glass broken, a lake, an orchard and a birch avenue. A lot of space, but everything in it noticeably run-down. The avenue led to a chapel that was actually in ruins.
Igor had told him, ‘We have plans for this estate. My great-nephew Stepan is overflowing with ideas. Mostly it’s to do with the latest kinds of agricultural machinery, not only for the working of our own land but for hiring out to neighbours. It calls for heavy investment, of course, but I am advised would lead to substantial profits. Before I die I should like to see the place not only commercially successful but looking as beautiful as it did when I was a boy… You wanted to speak to me?’
‘About Tasha, sir.’
‘Well?’
He knew, all right. Eyes like a snake’s, in his Roman Emperor-type face.
‘I’m told that Captain Zakharov has already left. But I’m not taking advantage of that, to raise this behind his back. If he was here I’d be more than ready to tell him what’s on my mind.’
‘If I’m guessing correctly it concerns the betrothal – on which as far as I’m aware you had no comment to make last night.’
‘I’ve had a night to sleep on it since then.’
‘Sleep on—’
He’d checked himself: probably in some vulgarity. Checked physical movement too; facing each other, the snake’s eyes vicious. ‘Well, what?’
‘I’d like to ask you for your daughter’s hand in marriage, sir.’
‘Although she’s formally betrothed to Captain Zakharov?’
‘She was given no choice in the matter, sir. She detests the thought of marrying him.’
‘Wants to marry you?’
‘I’ve loved her for a long time. I was only waiting for her to be older before I approached you on the subject. While she was so young – right up to the time I had to take up this last appointment – it would have been – premature, if not improper—’
‘Concerned with what’s “proper” or “improper”, are you?’
‘I don’t—’
‘In Russia – even in England, I believe – it’s generally accepted that a father is entitled to protect his daughter’s honour with a horse-whip!’
‘I’m at least as concerned for your daughter’s honour as you are yourself. I’m asking for her hand. If you think her honour or her happiness is better protected by selling her to a man she’s never met—’
‘She is formally betrothed to him, Mikhail Ivan’ich. That is a fact and can’t be changed. As far as you are concerned – and I’d advise you to watch your tongue – I’ve an idea which is a lot more than you deserve and which I feel sure will appeal to you. I’ve sent a telegram on the subject and should have a reply within hours. I’ll tell you this, meanwhile – the only reason your hide may be left intact and your naval career un-ruined is that I’m averse to the creation of a scandal that would besmirch my daughter’s reputation and with it the honour of my family.’
He’d turned away. ‘When I have an answer to the telegram I’ll send for you.’
Egorov had pencilled a neat intersection of the three stars’ bearings on the chart; he stood back, making room for Michael to take a look.
‘Mikhail Ivan’ich?’
‘Huh?’
‘Looks good. Must’ve got all the figures right, for once!’
Still staring: remembering Tasha’s incredulity when he’d told her what had been said. ‘You asked to marry me – when he already knew we’d—’
‘I’m going to marry you! But I had to get in first, make the point there was nothing casual or—’
‘What can he mean about a telegram?’
‘God only knows!’
Dragging himself out of it: but with her expression of alarm hanging on in memory, only very slowly fading… Right back to earth then – to Egorov, Gavril Ivan’ich, who was looking at him curiously. Couldn’t blame him, either. A shake of the head as he leant over the chart: ‘Sorry. Mind wandering. Yes, does look like a good one. Well done. Want my job?’
A smile: ‘Glad to understudy you, Mikhail Ivan’ich.’
‘Which you’re doing very well. Take evening stars yourself tonight, will you?’