The Lost Souls of Angelkov (57 page)

He reasons, as he rides, that if the prince is willing to negotiate—what are a dozen versts to one who owns thousands?—and the money isn’t too slow in coming, Mikhail could be with his mother before the first snow. He knows that even if the prince agrees to buy back the land, he can’t be assured of getting the full amount he paid. But it will have to be enough for the greedy bastards. Any amount is better than nothing.

T
he following day—it is the eve of the two-hundredth day since Mikhail’s abduction—Lilya sends words to Grisha that she wishes to speak with him again.

Grisha comes in the back door and stamps the mud from his boots. “What do you want this time?” he asks, eyeing the full bottle of vodka on the table. The woman is getting bold, he thinks, helping herself from the countess’s stores.

“Sit down,” Lilya says, pouring them both a glass, then pushing a crystal dish of pickled, salted pearl onions and cubes of beetroot towards him. “So? Did you get the money?”

“Soon—a week at the longest. There’s paperwork to be done, and the prince is away for a few days. I can’t get the money until he returns.”

“Hmm. What about Kropotkin, eh?” she says then, taking a drink.

Grisha holds his glass, watching her.

“He’s charming the countess with his music and his sweet talk. I hear him,” she says, “and see the way she looks at him.”

Grisha’s hand grips the glass more tightly.

Lilya notices that his knuckles have whitened. “I think if this goes on long enough, he’s going to try to marry her.”

Grisha half stands, the chair sliding back on the wooden floor with a long screech. “What are you talking about? He’s only been here a few times.”

“Six,” Lilya says. “He’s been here six afternoons over the last few weeks, and today she told me he would be staying for dinner tomorrow night.”

Grisha gives her a wild look, lifts his glass and drains it in one gulp. “Her husband is hardly cold. You’re mad to suggest there is anything between them.”

“Stranger things have happened. We have to protect her from him, Grisha. Maybe from herself.” Lilya motions with her hand for Grisha to sit again. “The countess has ordered Raisa to use the last of the salted beef for soup, and to have a chicken killed. No doubt she’ll call up one of the last bottles of wine for her guest. And if he stays for dinner, do you suppose he’ll saddle up later, in this cold, and ride home in the darkness? Do you really suppose that’s what he’ll do? Surely he’ll stay.” She stops to let her words sink in. “It’s not good, Grisha. He’s not good for her.”

“What does she see in him?” Grisha asks, filling his glass again. “He’s a serf.”

Casually, Lilya says, “He
was
a serf. He could easily work his way into her heart. She’s lonely, Grisha.”

At that, Grisha grows too hot, still wearing his heavy quilted coat in the kitchen, which is overheated by the roaring stove. He throws it off and takes another drink. He thinks of
the way Antonina had tipped her head to swallow her vodka in one mouthful in the dacha, her long pale throat exposed, vulnerable. That was what she’d said to him before she led him to the bedroom.
I’m lonely, Grisha
. Is she using the same words with the violinist?

“You’re right. We must protect the countess from him.”

Lilya pushes the bottle closer to Grisha. “As a widow, Angelkov is hers to do with as she wants.” She shakes her head, picks up a piece of beetroot and takes a delicate bite. “But should she marry Kropotkin, the estate and what versts are left after the final division and dispersing to the local
mirs
would become his.”

Grisha is surprised Lilya is aware of the law—that the only thing a single or widowed woman in Russia can own is land—and therefore what’s at stake should Antonina marry. He’d thought the music teacher would be gone from the Bakanevs’ by now, that it would be a simple matter of a visit or two.

Lilya shakes her head and takes another bite of the beetroot. “I’m surprised at madam’s behaviour. What I’ve seen … well, it’s quite unbecoming for a woman of her class.” She finishes the beetroot and lifts her apron to wipe the corners of her mouth. She knows Grisha wants to ask what she’s referring to exactly, but won’t. It’s better this way. Lilya knows the power of imagination. “I just thought you should know.” She stands. “Since you’re as concerned about madam’s well-being as I am.”

Grisha studies her. He stands as well, finishing his drink and picking up his coat. As he shrugs his arms back into it and opens the door, Lilya speaks once more.

“I’ll let you know what happens tomorrow. When he comes for dinner.”

As he walks back to his house, Grisha remembers how Antonina kissed him, how hungry she had been, how unafraid to show her heat. Certainly she was loosened by the vodka, but Grisha knows that Antonina wasn’t putting on an act when she made love to him.

The musician could never handle a woman like her.

“The violinist is wrong for her,” he says into the darkness.

Valentin and Antonina have had their
solyanka
, the thick, piquant beef soup, followed by a main course of baked fowl with gravy and a potato salad with capers, olives, hard-boiled eggs and peas. In the kitchen waits a platter of cheese and pickled beets, as well as a cake, which Antonina knows has taken far too much of what’s left of their sugar.

Valentin notices that they are served dinner by the same man—Pavel—who ushers him into the house and takes his coat. Obviously, there is no longer any specific serving staff. It’s clear that the countess and the estate have been adversely affected by the serf emancipation.

Antonina eats little but drinks her wine steadily. Pavel soundlessly opens the second bottle and replenishes Antonina’s empty glass. He then moves towards Valentin, the bottle poised, but Valentin shakes his head. Pavel sets the bottle back on the sideboard and returns to his position at the door.

“It’s rather simple fare,” Antonina says. “I apologize.”

“Do you know why I remembered you all these years, countess?” Valentin asks, ignoring her comment about the food. “And why you made such an impression on me when I first saw you at your name day celebration?”

Antonina looks directly into his eyes. She doesn’t want what happened with her mother to have anything to do with the answer.

“I saw you the first day as we rehearsed. You thought you were hidden behind a pillar. What I noticed was something free about you. You had a wildness—I know of no other way to describe it. It was subtle but apparent: the way you moved, the way you impatiently brushed back your hair as if it was put on your head to annoy you. And you were so unaware of it. That was part of the intrigue—that you had no idea of your uniqueness. I saw even then that you had the ability to break the hearts of men, if you would but recognize it.”

Antonina wonders if he is certain it was her. No one has ever described her like this: a desirable woman.

The candlelight wavers across Antonina’s face. She’s very good at masking her emotions. Valentin sees through this, though. He’s more than a musician. He knows what women like to hear, what they desire men to see in them. And so he continues.

“And when I saw you recently at the Bakanevs’, your girlish prettiness had evolved into beauty.” He lets her absorb the compliment. “But there was no longer any wildness in you. You looked bewildered, as though you had been trapped. Countess, you look lost.” His voice, so soft, is full of sympathy.

Antonina takes another sip of wine. It’s a French burgundy that warms the inside of her mouth. Tonight she’s enjoying wine more than the crisp burn of vodka at the back of her throat.

“May I be so bold as to inquire why you don’t wish to
accompany me when I play?” Valentin asks, and Antonina looks away.

“Why won’t I play?” she asks, feeling slow-witted.

Valentin nods encouragingly. His compliments and empathy don’t appear to move her, so he is trying a different tactic.

Antonina moves from the table. “Please, bring your wine. Let us go to the music salon.” They walk out of the dining room, and she tells him, “It relaxes me to be near my piano. My son and I …” She stops to take a drink. “Mikhail insisted I play with him daily,” she says after she swallows. “I haven’t played for anyone—with anyone—since he was taken.” The words catch in her throat. She wets her lips with her tongue. They are at the music salon door.

Valentin opens it for her, then follows as she goes to the piano and sits on the bench. “It’s quite different for you, Mr. Kropotkin. You are able to use your ability—the talent you were born with—to bring enjoyment to wide audiences.” Valentin sits beside her. “It’s taken you somewhere—look at your life now.” She puts her wineglass on the top of the piano and looks at him. “I know you must have once been a village child.”

Valentin drinks the rest of his wine and sets his glass beside hers.

“And now … here you are, a fine gentleman in a tailored suit, dining with a countess.” Her hands rest on the keys, and she appears relaxed with him for the first time. “Dining with a countess.”

Valentin glides his fingers over hers on the keys.

“While your music took you into a different world,” she went on, still looking at him, “for me it was forever trapped within the walls of home. Like every other woman
of my class, I am only allowed to play for the enjoyment of my family.”

Valentin realizes she’s intoxicated. She tries to hide it, but is not quite successful.

“Because, as you know, Valentin Vladimirovitch,” she says, using his Christian name and patronymic for the first time, “no matter how talented, no woman of the noble class in Russia can hope for anything more.”

There is a loud, booming crack, and they both jump. “What the cold does to the old timbers,” Valentin says, glad for the interruption of the countess’s monologue. “Always snapping as they contract.”

Antonina is suddenly aware that she has embarrassed herself, and surely her guest. She moves her hands from under Valentin’s and stands.

Valentin stands as well. “Countess,” he says, but her face has lost its slight daze. Her eyes are focused on his, and he knows he must not rush her. “Certainly this situation—the life you speak of—is changing since the manifesto was declared. It may not be as apparent in the provinces, but in the capitals the nihilists are truly creating a new Russia for both men and women. There is talk of emerging conservatories in St. Petersburg and Moscow which will welcome both men and women to be instructed in a professional music career.”

She hasn’t moved away from him. “It’s been some time since I’ve been to St. Petersburg. Not since … well over a year. Yes, before the emancipation was announced.” She wants her wine, but Valentin is between her and her glass.

“I think you would find it very different,” he goes on. “Things are opening up in surprising ways. The Russian Musical Society that came into being a few years ago is intent
on raising the standard of music in the country, and on allowing musical education to be available.” He stops, but when she doesn’t respond, continues. “The diversity of the students is astounding—from bureaucrats and merchants to university students. Even young women who cannot afford to study privately are attending. There are wonderful fresh options and opportunities.”

Antonina can see her half-full glass over his shoulder. “I wasn’t aware … I’ve been caught up in my own affairs for some time. Please forgive me, Mr. Kropotkin, I’ve lost track of the time.” She’s struggling for composure; she knows she’s had too much to drink. “It will be a cold ride home.” She gestures towards the door.

“The Bakanevs have been so kind as to allow me the use of a carriage and coachman. So I won’t have the cold to contend with on the way back. But of course, if you would prefer I leave immediately …” He puts his hand on her arm.

In spite of the faint buzzing in her head, Antonina is filled with shame. She has just complained about her indulgent, extravagant life, and feels she gave him an unflattering, perhaps even ugly, glimpse of who she really is. She feels the warmth of his hand, and looks at the ormolu clock on the mantle.

“It’s still early. May I offer you cheese, or dessert?”