The Lost Souls of Angelkov (35 page)

Grisha quickly proved to the count that not only was he more astute at accounting than Gleb, but he complained less. He handled immediate problems with the serfs on his own, without constantly coming to the count to drone on about small issues and ask for direction.

Two weeks later, he moved into the steward’s pleasant house and immediately painted the shutters blue, like the wooden house in Chita where he’d grown up. In place of the vegetables in the garden, he planted cherry and apple trees. He built shelves for the books he had brought with him from Siberia and those he had collected since, as well as others the countess lent to him, believing he would enjoy a particular author. He slept alone at night for the first time in his life apart from those months he’d travelled through Siberia, when the sky was his roof.

And yet he continued to carry a deep sense of restlessness. He believed it was because he was still a slave to another man’s whims. He considered Konstantin beneath him in intelligence, and this was hard to bear as well. After Grisha had been steward for a year, the count told him he was weary of sneaking about the manor with Tania and wouldn’t lower himself to go to her room in the servants’ quarters. He
wanted to use Grisha’s house once a week. Grisha was aghast and disgusted. But what could he say? The count did not own him, but he owned the house.

Certainly these factors played a part in Grisha’s unrest. But a part of it was also loneliness. After working so hard to feel nothing, Grigori Sergeyevich Naryshkin was incapable of recognizing that he was lonely.

Antonina gave thanks in her daily prayers for finding Lilya again. But she was sorry their friendship had to remain hidden. Only when they were alone in her bedchamber could she and Lilya talk in the old way. There Lilya could call her Tosya instead of countess or madam, and speak to her with some of her old frankness. Occasionally, when Lilya spontaneously laughed over Misha’s antics, Antonina thought she was almost like the girl she had been in the forest.

She wondered about Lilya’s life outside her bedchamber, but Lilya made it clear she wouldn’t talk about Soso. She did, however, often speak of Lyosha with pride, telling Antonina how strong he was growing, and how he was being given more and more responsibility in the stables.

One morning, as Lilya smiled, smoothing Misha’s fair hair with the palm of her hand, Antonina asked, “What of you, Lilya? Do you hope to have more children?”

Lilya stopped smiling, although she continued to run her hand over Misha’s hair. “I hope not. I don’t want any more.”

“Really?” She put her hand on Lilya’s arm. “You will always be my maid, even if you have more children. I promise you that. And I want you to feel happiness again, as I do with my Misha.”

When Lilya said nothing, Antonina insisted, “Surely you don’t mean you don’t want any more children. What about Soso? Doesn’t he want a son, like all men?”

Lilya shrugged, and the conversation ended.

Lilya was glad that Antonina needed her to stay with her through the nights while the baby was so small. But as he grew older and Antonina told her she should return to her room with Soso in the servants’ quarters, Lilya still found excuses to stay late. She did not like relations with Soso any more than she had when they were first married. She tried to make sure that when she returned to their room Soso was in a deep, snoring sleep, and didn’t roll over onto her.

She knew that the fewer times a month she had to submit, the fewer the chances of ever being caught with child again. She despised having to open her legs to him.

Antonina did not know that just as she dreamed of Valentin Vladimirovitch to help her yield to her wifely duty on the nights when her husband moved heavily over her, Lilya envisioned the long, pale neck of the beautiful countess.

I
t’s now early September. Mikhail’s birthday had passed at the end of June, but there has been no more word. Over and over Antonina questions Grisha.
What did that man Lev say when you beat him for answers? Why didn’t you follow him and see where he went? You could have waited, watched his home. He had the ransom money. Someone would have come for it
.

And just as Antonina badgers him with the same questions, Grisha has the same answers:
I couldn’t get any more out of him. He moves from village to village; he has no home. He is only the messenger, others are involved. He knows nothing more. We must be patient, countess
.

Patient? How can she be any more patient?

Life at the estate itself has grown even more difficult. Konstantin is a shambling ghost of his former self. He prowls about the house, shouting at the servants, calling them the
wrong names, and accusing them of theft and insubordination. They try to stay out of his way, crossing themselves when they see him. None of the women want to go into his room to clean except Tania, and he refuses to be seen by the doctor. Pavel is the only person he will allow near him, but he won’t let his faithful manservant help him bathe or change his clothing. His hair has grown long and greasy, his beard matted with food. He swears that his son is dead, and sometimes wanders in the cemetery looking for his grave.

Over the summer, their closest neighbours, Prince and Princess Bakanev, came to Angelkov three times. Each time Antonina made excuses that the count was resting, offering refreshments and trying to keep track of the princess’s gossip-filled conversations while hoping Konstantin didn’t begin to shout from upstairs during the visit. Other estate owners in the province have sent notes full of sympathy about Mikhail, asked after the count’s health and offered invitations to Antonina. She has politely written back that it is a difficult time, and she will look forward to visiting at a later date.

After a while, the invitations become infrequent.

More and more of the former serfs are leaving Angelkov—not only because emancipation has freed them from any legal obligation or responsibility to their former owner, but because their former owner has gone mad. The last of the rubles in the strongbox have run out and Antonina cannot pay them anything. Most would rather try to create new lives for themselves than live on in the disturbing atmosphere of Angelkov.

As each comes to Antonina to say he or she is leaving, Antonina says goodbye and thanks them for their faithful service. She gives them each a small gift: for the girls and women, one of her own pretty shawls or a tortoiseshell comb
or bottle of scent; for the men, something of Konstantin’s, a pair of monogrammed handkerchiefs or a linen shirt.

She makes the sign of the cross on their foreheads. Some of the women cry, and she holds their hands for a moment, trying to smile, wishing them well.

The house feels larger, emptier and quieter except for Konstantin’s sporadic outbursts. In the evening, when the air stills, Antonina can hear the distant sound of the peasants labouring in the fields: their calls and whistles, the steady rhythm of the scythes. The sky is light until quite late, and they work until darkness falls.

Those who remain at Angelkov—the ones who have decided they would rather work for a roof over their heads and the surety of meals—struggle to bring in the garden harvest. Raisa reports to Antonina that they may not get it all in before the first frost. She doesn’t have enough help with the kitchen work: salting the cucumbers and putting them into huge brine-filled crocks; picking fruits from the orchard to make jams and compotes or to preserve as conserves; digging up potatoes and other root vegetables and putting them in sacks to be stored in bins in the cool, dark root cellars; curing pork and sides of beef; drying mushrooms—all the work necessary to stock the manor for the winter. Raisa is a tall, solid woman with thick arms and strong hands. She is usually cheerful. Now her face is constantly creased with worry.

As Angelkov starts to crumble without the hundreds of hands needed to keep it running effectively, Antonina hears that the serfs outside the estate are gaining power.

The world she knows is dying. She has no choice but to find a new way to live.

Life has also changed for Lilya.

She and Lyosha are working side by side in the garden, digging out the last turnips. Regardless of their former duties, whoever is available carries out the necessary jobs.

“Lilya,” Lyosha says as they both straighten to take a drink of water, “what do you suppose will happen?”

“What do you mean?”

“How long can the count and countess remain at Angelkov?” He gestures towards the manor. “Without enough staff to care for it, soon it will fall into disrepair, and then ruin. They must be making a plan to leave, to go live somewhere else.”

Lilya studies him. “The countess hasn’t spoken of it to me. As for the count …” She shrugs. “He’s as useless as dead. Why? Do you know something?”

“No,” he says, but Lilya sees his discomfort.

“The countess will find a way to hire back some of the servants, even if it takes time,” she says. “Things will be as they once were.” Not quite. Not without Misha. Not with the count as he is. But she and Antonina will work together to recreate what they can of the former life at Angelkov. The two of them, together.

Lyosha runs his palm over the handle of the spade, shaking his head. “Things can never be the same, Lilya. You know that.”

“They will,” Lilya insists. “With you here, as always, and me—”

Lyosha interrupts her. “I plan to marry, sister.”

Lilya drops her spade and looks at him, her mouth open. She gives a hoarse croak, as if trying to laugh. Her face is
bathed in sweat in the warm fall air. “Marry? Who would
you
marry? What are you talking about?”

“I’m going to marry Anya Fomovna.”

Lilya blinks, thinking. “Anya Fomovna?” Not the whey-faced girl from the village? Her?

“Yes.”

“Stop speaking nonsense. She’s not good enough for you.”

Lyosha knew his sister wouldn’t take his announcement well, and wasn’t looking forward to telling her. He’d been waiting for the last few weeks to find the right time, and finally realized there would be no right time. “Don’t speak of her like that,” he says. “You don’t know her at all.”