The Lost Souls of Angelkov (60 page)

Grisha answers Valentin’s knock.

“How did you know where to find me?” he asks.

“That miserable woman at the manor told me. May I step inside for a moment?”

Grisha moves aside to allow Valentin inside, then shuts the door behind him. “What do you want?”

It’s obvious to Valentin that Grisha won’t invite him to warm himself by the fire. It doesn’t matter. What he has to ask Grisha will only take a moment. “I rode here to try to speak to Countess Mitlovskiya.”

“I heard you’d left the Bakanevs’.”

“Yes. I’m staying at an inn in the nearest village. The servant at the house told me the countess was already asleep. I suspect she is lying.”

Grisha crosses his arms. “She creates her own truths.”

“That peasant has made her feelings towards me obvious.” Valentin’s look pierces Grisha. “It’s clear I haven’t been
welcomed at Angelkov by anyone except for the landowner herself, which is all that matters, really.” His voice grows loud, angry, and he steps further into the room, in spite of the frown on Grisha’s face. “Countess Mitlovskiya appeared cheered by my music and my conversation. And I have greatly enjoyed her company. And yet someone …” He stops. “… has been telling sordid tales.”

Grisha says nothing. Valentin glances at the full bookshelf. Strange for a man who has probably spent half his life beating the serfs at Angelkov, he thinks. But from what Valentin has witnessed, there are now few left to flog.

“So you’ve heard I’ve been dismissed from the Bakanev estate.” When Grisha still doesn’t speak, he says, “Surely the whole province is enjoying this bit of scandal. I felt it necessary to speak to the countess. I want to make sure she’s all right. The last thing I wanted was to cause her any more pain. She’s had enough in her life to contend with without gossips trying to ruin her reputation. As for mine”—he gives a barking cough—“I’ll be lucky to find a day or two’s work in all of Pskov once the Bakanevs have finished their campaign against me.”

“I don’t understand what this has to do with me,” Grisha says, fully expecting that Valentin has come to accuse him of spreading the lies. He and the steward at the Bakanev estate are friends. It only took a few words in his ear.

“I’ve written a letter to the countess. I thought I might post it, but then realized, as I said, how much I’d like to see for myself that she’s all right. When that servant didn’t allow me in, I didn’t want to leave the letter with her. I knew it would be better to bring it to someone with authority, someone who will ensure that the countess receives it.”

It appears that Kropotkin isn’t accusing him of anything after all. “You don’t trust Lilya with the letter,” Grisha states.

“That hard-faced woman? No. And although I know you don’t think much of me, Naryshkin, you have the look of a solid man.”

As Grisha goes to the fireplace to throw another log onto the fire, Valentin studies the bookshelf more closely. It’s lined with neatly arranged volumes interspersed with a variety of small, charming objects. A
svirel
—a primitive Russian flute—sits on the top shelf. He picks it up, turning it over and looking at the name carved there. He puts the flute to his lips and blows a quick scale.

Grisha looks up at him, the poker in his hand. A chill runs through him. He drops the poker and snatches the flute from Valentin. Nobody has ever been inside his house except the count and Tania; the countess has only stood at the door once or twice. It angers him that this man is here at all, let alone touching his belongings.

Valentin’s hands hang empty in the air. He shakes his head at the rudeness of the man, then, without knowing why, asks, “Who is Tima?”

Grisha’s stomach contracts as if the buckwheat kasha he had eaten earlier has turned rancid. “Give me the letter for the countess.” He sets the flute back on the shelf. “If you intend to get back to the inn before they lock the door, I’d suggest you leave now.”

Valentin takes a square of paper sealed with dark blue wax from inside his coat. The cold has cracked the wax. He hands it to Grisha.

“It’s very important to me that she receive it tomorrow morning. Early.”

Grisha is angered by the man’s gall. “I have my own plans for tomorrow. I’ll see that she gets it when I have time to deliver—”

“In the name of all that’s holy, Naryshkin,” Valentin interrupts, his voice rising, “have you never felt anything for a woman?”

Grisha sucks in his breath, turns and puts the letter on the mantle. Not looking at Valentin, he walks to his door and opens it.

Valentin pulls down his hat and steps out into the cold. “Please, Naryshkin,” he says. “All I ask is that you deliver the letter to Antonina tomorrow. It’s not much, is it?” His voice is even, with no whisper of subservience, and this angers Grisha further. And that he calls her Antonina. “Can you not help me, Grisha?” he says, and Grisha’s head pounds. Something about Kropotkin is troubling him, making him feel strangely unsteady. He wants him to leave.

That he would dare act as if they were old friends, calling him Grisha, talking of feelings for a woman, for her, Grisha thinks as he closes the door on Kropotkin.

The musician hardly knows her.

The next morning, Antonina unlocks her bedroom door when Lilya brings her hot chocolate and two sweet buns. “You must eat, Tosya,” she says, setting the tray on the table beside her.

She glances at it. “I’m not hungry.” Antonina’s face is puffy and pale.

“If you’re upset over Kropotkin, and whatever else the letter said … Tosya, it’s not worth it to make yourself ill.”
Lilya takes the empty vodka bottle from the bedclothes and sets it near the door. “He has nothing, Tosya. He’s penniless, and useless, apart from making beautiful music. He’s like a pretty songbird, designed to bring pleasure. Yes, he’s well-spoken, but every word is surely rehearsed for you. To impress you.” She holds her breath, ready to be reprimanded.

Antonina’s silence makes Lilya bold. “Don’t you understand, Tosya? For someone so clever, you don’t see what’s in front of you, do you?”

Antonina looks at her, waiting, knowing Lilya will tell her what’s in front of her.

And Lilya will. But she has a different angle in mind than the one she used with Grisha.

“He knows you’re far beyond his reach. Yes, he’s a free man now, but that means nothing—all men are free in Russia. Does that mean you would take up with the village butcher or local blacksmith? With a merchant with a few bolts of cloth for sale, or a former steward with a patch of land to his name?” She is taking a chance on the last sentence, but Antonina’s expression doesn’t change. “You must continue to think of your class, Tosya. Nothing’s changed in that respect. You’ve only been teasing him.”

“Teasing him?”

“You’ve made him care for you, haven’t you? It’s clear he’s taken with you.” Lilya shakes her head. “What are you doing, Antonina Leonidovna?” she says, her voice almost a whisper. “What are you doing?” she repeats. “You put Kropotkin in an impossible situation. He cannot be part of your life. You are committing class treason, and in this way you are being unkind to him.”

Antonina looks away from Lilya’s steady gaze.

“There is no possibility of anything between you,” Lilya says, her voice still low, but firm. “Surely you know this, Antonina. First impressions might be that he’s a good man, but he’s not. He’s not the right kind of man, even if he was of your class. You will never find a man who will be able to deal with your strength, a man who understands what you’ve been through. What we have all lived through at Angelkov.” She kneels in front of Antonina, taking her hands in her own. “Look how you’ve coped without your husband. He was useless from the day of the kidnapping, and you carried on so bravely. And now you must let the musician go. You know he’s already suffered for it.” Lilya’s voice is low, soothing, full of sympathy.

“I never had feelings for Valentin other than friendship, Lilya. And I do not suspect he had the feelings you speak of for me. We simply enjoyed each other’s company. That’s all.”

“Truly, Antonina?”

“Do you not believe me?” Antonina pulls her hands away, standing.

“No one knows you as I do, Tosya. No one,” Lilya repeats, softly, still on her knees.

Antonina says nothing. She sits on her window seat and looks out over the dying garden.

T
he sky is full of stars, and a full moon lights the road. Tinka is asleep in front of the fire glowing in the music salon; Antonina has chosen to eat her dinner there. The rest of the house is in darkness apart from the kitchen, where the servants complete the last of the day’s work. There’s no reason to heat stoves and light fires when the rooms are empty.

Antonina looks at the new bottle of vodka Pavel set on the table near the door at her bidding, but, without touching it, she puts on a heavy cloak. She leaves Tinka sleeping and carries her cup of tea out to the veranda and looks up at the stars. She finds some of the constellations, and remembers pointing them out to Mikhail.

On the still air is the sudden echo of distant barking from the nearest village. Her two harriers, lying on the floor of the veranda near the door, rise silently. Hooves pound up her drive. As the horse and rider draw near, she can see by the
moonlight that it’s Valentin. She puts her teacup on the railing and goes down the front steps. The dogs crowd against her skirt; she rests a hand on each of their heads.

“You got my letter, then,” Valentin says, dismounting and coming to her. “Thank you for waiting for me. I wanted to come earlier, but it was impossible.”

Antonina shakes her head. “I didn’t receive a letter. I came out … the stars are so …”

“Your steward didn’t deliver my letter to you, to tell you I would come this evening?”

“No.”

“I wanted to see for myself that you were all right after what happened with the Bakanevs,” he says. Valentin believes he was very close to gaining some footing with the countess. He was prepared for it to take some time; he has rarely known a woman so reserved. “I don’t know what they said to you, though I know they sent a letter. Were they insensitive?”

“They made their position very clear. But what of you, Valentin? Is it true that you won’t get work anywhere in Pskov?”

“It appears that way. I had no luck today, even in the city itself.”

“What will you do?”

“I’ll go back to St. Petersburg. Nobody there will care about what happened—or didn’t happen”—he smiles—“between an unknown musician and a beautiful landowner out in the provinces.”

“Do you have friends there, somewhere to live?”

Valentin thinks of Madame Golitsyna. Will she invite him in when he knocks on her door? “I have my violin.
That’s all I need. I’ll find something, if not in St. Petersburg then in Moscow.”

Antonina remembers Lilya’s words in her bedchamber that morning. “I feel responsible, Valentin. I shouldn’t have … encouraged you.”

Valentin smiles again. “It was I who sought your company. I wanted to see who you had become.” He pulls his collar closer against the chill.

“And did you?”

Valentin continues to smile.

“It’s cold,” she says. “Will you come in?”

Ah. It’s not over yet, then. Valentin says, very quietly, “Have I not created enough turmoil for you?”

“It’s still my home. Nobody can tell me what to do in my own home. And it’s clear that you can’t be damaged any further by gossip. Come.” In a bold move, knowing she won’t see him again, she takes his hand. In spite of the night air, his hand is warm, and his fingers wrap about hers.

In the entrance, she lights a candle. Olga is asleep in a deep cushioned chair in the shadows, her rosary looped through her fingers. Antonina points to her and puts her finger to her lips, and then leads Valentin to the music salon.

Tinka rises and comes to Antonina. “Could you build up the fire?” Antonina asks, and lights lamps as Valentin crouches in front of the fireplace and stirs the embers. He adds kindling and, when it catches, puts on two small logs. The air warms, and the glow is red and orange over their faces as she comes back to stand in front of the fire. She picks up Mikhail’s journal from the mantle; she had been reading it again, for comfort.