The Lost Souls of Angelkov (49 page)

“It’s better if you don’t, countess. You shouldn’t see the horse in this …” He stops, and something heavy drops in Antonina’s stomach. “It is very unpleasant, madam, but you had to be informed. The carcass will be removed shortly.”

Antonina pushes past him, hurrying out of the house to the stables in her nightdress. Her feet are still bare, but she doesn’t feel the cold packed earth, damp and sticky from yesterday’s rain, as she crosses the yard. She hears Fyodor’s footsteps behind her. Her breath streams in the cool autumn air. A handful of men stand in the doorway of the stable. They all look down when they see her approach, and part for her as she hurries to Felya’s stall.

The stable is near to empty. In the last few weeks Grisha has sold off most of the Orlov Trotters—considered the equine royalty of Russia—for a good price. The countess was pleased when he came to her with the rubles from the sale. There were only six horses left: three of the Orlovs for pulling the troika, Dunia and one Arabian. As well as Felya.

Lyosha stands with legs wide as if on guard, his face contorted in grief, his cheeks wet. He shakes his head, saying,
No, countess
, but she pushes past him.

Antonina stares into the stall, her brain trying to understand what she’s seeing. She clamps her lips to hold back a cry at what is left of Felya. She puts one hand over her mouth and nose. There is a frenzy of flies gathering over the animal, and the stink of blood and the exposed organs is strong.

Antonina gags, not only at the smell, but at the brutality.

Felya, noble, high-spirited Felya, has been ripped open from the base of his neck to his tail. Cut, sliced down the belly as one slices a fish, and gutted, his entrails spilled onto the straw of the stall. The eyes are still open.

Around the horse’s slender black neck hangs a rough rope, and on it a jagged piece of wood. Misspelled in charcoal are two sentences:
This is what happens. You don’t do what we say
.

“Where is Grisha?” she asks.

“I went to his house, countess,” Lyosha says, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. “But he isn’t there. Do you know where he is?”

There are hard, fast footsteps and suddenly Grisha is standing beside her. He grips the top rail of the stall as he looks at the horse. The skin around his lips is white with shock.

Antonina doesn’t want to witness his grief. “I’m sorry, Grisha,” she says, her voice low as she looks away from him.

“We will bury him, Fyodor,” he says, his voice hard.

“But we burn the dead animals. It will be difficult to dig such a large—”

“There are enough of us. He won’t be burned. Do you understand?”

“All right, Grisha,” Fyodor says. “If the countess gives her permission,” he adds, turning to her.

She sees that his gaze is on her bare feet.

Having a stable serf—former serf, she has to keep telling herself—see her naked feet reminds her of who she is. “Of course. It will be as Grisha wishes. Thank you, Fyodor,” she says, and he lifts his eyes from her feet to her face. She doesn’t know if Fyodor truly does look at her with something
slightly less than respect. But then he nods to the men behind him, and Antonina steps aside, closer to Grisha, as they move into the stall and spread a large sheet of canvas. With grunts and muttered curses they start to haul Felya’s remains out of the stable.

Antonina watches them, seeing that Lyosha is still struggling for control. He’s a gentle boy. Man, she corrects herself. He must be past nineteen by now. He has no violence in him.

She thinks of Fyodor’s bruised knuckles, the deep scratch on the back of his hand. Is he one of the men who butchered Felya, putting on an act of dismay so as not to arouse suspicion?

In the next instant, Antonina tells herself that her imagination is running wild. All of the yard servants carry fresh bruises and scrapes on top of old scars from the hard work they do. Fyodor and Raisa laboured for Konstantin for many years before she arrived at Angelkov as a bride, and Fyodor has always been a respectful and hard-working head stableman.

“Wait,” she calls out, and the men stop. “Cut the board from the horse’s neck and give it to me,” she orders. Grisha watches her as Lyosha hands it over.

“It’s a warning,” Grisha says.

She studies the splintered board. “A warning? Of what, Grisha?”

Grisha hadn’t given Lev the money. Now his beloved horse is dead. They are becoming bolder. “You’re meeting with the lawyer this afternoon?” he asks, avoiding her question.

She has forgotten about Yakovlev’s visit. “Oh. With all of this, and Konstantin deathly ill …” She wants Grisha’s comfort. “I wish I could cancel the appointment, but Yakovlev will already be on his way. Do you still wish … Shall I call for you when he arrives?”

He nods—little more than a dip of his head—and leaves her, standing with her bare feet suddenly cold, the board hanging from one hand.

Back in her room, Antonina shudders, holding Tinka to her chest as she leans her forehead on the window. The splintered board sits on the table near the fireplace.
This is what happens. You don’t do what we say
. Don’t do what who says? It was Grisha’s horse. Is it Grisha they’re warning?

Her son is gone, her husband … Who knows what will happen to him? The servants are all leaving. She has committed a terrible sin. Now a beautiful horse is slaughtered.

From the window, Antonina can see Olga in the wide flower garden, cutting the last of the hardy bronze and gold chrysanthemums and orange gerberas. Olga has no family, and nowhere to go. She counts on Antonina to support her in her old age.

How many of the servants will continue to depend on her? Without them, she cannot run Angelkov. How can she keep up the magnificent house, the small orchard, the vegetable and flower gardens and the hothouse of exotics, as well as the granaries and cattle barns and stables? She needs money. Even though the last thing she wants to do today is speak of finances and the estate to the lawyer, she must. It’s bewildering at the best of times. After all that has happened in the last two days … Again she thinks of Grisha’s unreadable expression as she stood beside him in the stable, and that makes her put down Tinka and cross to the wardrobe to take out her vodka.

There are streaks of blood on the pale carpet. She must have cut her foot on something, a splinter in the stables or a
sharp stone in the yard. She stares at the blood, remembering the stains from Konstantin’s hand on the green silk settee.

She retrieves the bottle and puts it to her lips. At the first taste she thinks of drinking with Grisha in the dacha, the way his lips curved on the rim of the glass. The way they’d felt on hers.

She covers her mouth with her hand and swallows. She is still a wife. She returns the bottle and goes to see Konstantin. His breath rattles the quietness of the bedroom.

“Please let me know when the doctor returns,” she tells Pavel, then goes into the hall. “Lilya!” she calls, but Lilya doesn’t appear. She calls for her again, and finally a young girl comes out of another bedroom carrying a rag and a pail. “Nusha,” Antonina says, “find Lilya and have her come to my room.”

The girl ducks her head and scampers down the stairs.

Lilya arrives a few minutes later. “Where were you?” Antonina asks. “I called for you a number of times. I wish you to bring me warm water to clean my feet. But … what’s wrong, Lilya?”

“The horse. I saw it.”

“Who could do such a brutal thing?”

Lilya doesn’t respond. She is twisting her hands in front of her.

“Do you care so much about it?” Antonina asks. She hadn’t thought that Lilya would show emotion over the dead animal. Lilya has never shown any interest in animals apart from Tinka.

Lilya still doesn’t answer, shaking her head as she continues to wring her hands.

A thought comes to Antonina. Surely she’s wrong, she
thinks, as she glances at the splintered board with its bloody warning.

Lilya’s writing has never progressed beyond a very rudimentary style. She always wrote the letter
h
backwards in the psalms she printed out. No matter how many times Antonina pointed out the inverted letter, Lilya continued to form it incorrectly.

Lilya leaves to fetch the water and Antonina picks up the splintered board. As she studies the crudely printed letters, she knows it isn’t Lilya’s hand; there are too many other errors. Still, the letter
h
troubles Antonina—one letter, yet she can’t stop thinking about it.

She recalls Lyosha’s face: thoughtful, a little wistful. Did Lilya teach her brother to write? Please, not Lyosha, she prays.

Not Lyosha.

“
I
t sounds like the beginning of pneumonia,” Dr. Molov says, his eyes closed as he presses his ear to Konstantin’s lungs. He straightens, taking a small rubber hammer from his bag and tapping on Konstantin’s chest, producing a dull thud. “Yes, there is fluid collecting.”

Konstantin moans, and Pavel steps beside him with a bottle and a glass.

The doctor looks at it. “What’s this?”

“Chloroform, doctor,” Pavel says, “as you instructed.”

“As I instructed? When? Do you mean after the surgery to his arm?”

Pavel swallows, then nods.

“You allow him to regularly breathe chloroform?”

“This is a tincture, mixed with alcohol. He drinks it. When …” Pavel knows, by the doctor’s expression, that something is very wrong. “When the bottle you left him was
finished, it was arranged to have someone bring a supply of it to the estate.”

The doctor sits heavily in the chair beside the bed. “Holy Mother of God.”

“What is it, Dr. Molov?” Antonina asks.

“His behaviour—the spells of shouting and confusion, his irrational suspiciousness and threats.”

“Yes. He’s grown worse steadily since the amputation.”

The doctor stands. “Chloroform is a poison to the brain. It’s only to be used in the smallest quantities, to put a patient to sleep temporarily, to allow him or her to withstand great trauma to the body.” He looks from Pavel to Antonina. “The chloroform has caused his madness.”

“But you told Pavel that—”

“For the first two or three days. That’s all. Not daily, not for months.” He makes a sound of disgust. “Can nobody follow a simple order?” He snaps his bag closed and gestures for Antonina to follow him away from the bed. They stop at the door. “His sputum is discoloured. If he can’t clear it, in a few days he’ll drown from the fluid in his lungs. I’m sorry to have to speak so bluntly, countess.”

“But there’s a chance he’ll live?” Antonina asks.

“There is little chance of a full recovery. There’s nothing to be done. You should also know”—the doctor glances back at Konstantin—“that should he rally physically, his mental condition will not improve. The damage cannot be reversed.” He opens the door. “I suggest, Countess Mitlovskiya, that whatever the outcome, you will need to prepare for a very difficult time ahead.”

The lawyer, short, heavy Yakovlev, arrives at two o’clock.

Antonina’s head is pounding over all that’s happened, but she forces herself not to drink any more from the bottle in her wardrobe. She needs to be as clear as possible when she speaks with Yakovlev. For the same reason, she also makes the decision not to have Grisha present. Even though she had told him earlier that it would be helpful to have him there, she knows how distracted having him near will make her.