Valerie's Russia (5 page)

Now, for the first time, he desired a female who would not return his love. Yet the English girl was attracted to him, of that he was certain. She had proved it by her warm acceptance of his kisses during their sleigh-ride together.

Unfortunately, because of her stubborn pride, Valerie Marsh had turned her back on him and Pyotr did not know how to reclaim her affection.

‘Why not beg Grand Duchess Olga to assist you in this affair of the heart?’ said Andrei.

He was becoming bored by his friend’s continual conversation about the foreigner and wished the pair would either sort out their differences or agree to part forever.

‘Olga Nicolaievna?’ Pyotr frowned. ‘That is a possibility, my friend, for she has always been a caring young woman and she and Valerie are close companions. If she would only agree to coming with me to Mavara I know her heart could be won down there.’

‘Whose?’ said Andrei, with a grin. ‘Olga Nicolaievna’s?’

‘No, you fool, my Little England’s!’

‘Then speak to Olga, but hurry up about it. Your leave is due next week, is it not?’

Glancing across at his friend’s strong profile, Andrei believed that, as with all Pyotr’s other conquests, this one would fade after a few weeks of bliss.

‘I shall speak to the Empress,’ said Pyotr suddenly, turning his head to smile at his companion, a devil lurking at the back of his eyes. ‘I shall ask the Empress to aid me.’

Andrei stared in disbelief. ‘How can she assist you in your immoral plan? Careful, Petya, lest you make a rod for your own back.’

But Pyotr was confident and filled with excitement. At last he knew what to do about the stubborn Miss Marsh.

‘Empress Alexandra has always had a soft spot for me,’ he said, ‘because of my handsome face and manly figure. Haven’t you noticed?’ He leaned across to refill Andrei’s empty glass. ‘Drink this to my future, old friend, and to the conquest of that obstinate but oh, so desirable, Miss Marsh!’ He raised his own glass and smiled again.

‘What can the Empress do?’ protested Andrei.

‘I shall ask permission to take Valerie down with me to Mavara. I shall explain how much joy it will give my crippled sister to meet and talk to an English girl. And I am certain the Empress will agree.’

A
s Valerie sat on the train carrying her and Dashka down to the Ukraine, she wondered if she had been outmanoevered. She had the strongest suspicion that Count Pyotr Silakov was in control once again. But she was determined to keep him at a distance when they next met at Mavara.

Pyotr had reserved a sleeping compartment for her, insisting on first-class travel, and had given her her railway ticket before he departed for his family home a few days earlier

Now Valerie watched as small villages flashed past the train windows, looking like splashes of brown and gold tapestry edged with white. Every now and again birch woods appeared with the trees’ slender branches sparkling with frost and, occasionally, the high onion domes of distant churches decorated the skyline.

Apart from these fleeting glimpses of humanity there was an endless vision of snow. A white carpet on both sides of the track as the wide, flat steppes lay blanketed until the spring.

Although she was still angry with Pyotr, Valerie’s talk with Empress Alexandra had helped to soften her attitude towards the young count.

The Empress had suggested that a visit to the Ukraine would be an interesting experience for her, and when Her
Imperial Highness had also mentioned Tassya Silakov’s name, and said she thought it would be a kindness on Valerie’s part if she went and talked to the crippled girl, Valerie had been unable to refuse.

‘You may well care to mention Our Friend’s name,’ the Empress had said, her dark blue eyes alight with trust. ‘Father Grigorii is such a great healer he might be able to help Count Silakov’s young sister, as he has been able to help our beloved son.’

There was no way Valerie could tell her that Pyotr was hopelessly prejudiced against the man from Siberia, so she had simply nodded at the Empress’s words and remained silent. But if she could spend time with Tassya on her own, she might be able to plant a seed of hope in the girl’s mind. That was another reason for accepting Pyotr’s invitation.

For she had seen Father Grigorii again and it had been such a heart-warming experience, that Valerie knew she, and the Imperial family, and Anna Vyrubova, were all right about the holy man and Count Pyotr Silakov completely wrong.

It had happened after the tsarevich fell awkwardly in his room, knocking his leg against the corner of a wooden cupboard. It was the first time Alexis had injured himself since Valerie had been at Alexander Palace, and she quickly learnt how appalling such a minor accident could be.

Within minutes the Empress had been informed. Olga and the other girls immediately joined their mother in the tsarevich’s suite.

‘You come too, Valerie,’ Olga said, ‘as we will not be able to concentrate on anything else until we have discovered how bad the injury is.’

The grand duchess’s mouth was tight as she led Valerie along the passage to Alexis’s rooms.

‘If it is not too bad we can all return to our studies,’ she said. ‘But if Alexis has a bad attack then Tatiana and I will take it in turns to sit with him, just to give Mama a break. She will never leave his bedside and sometimes his suffering lasts for days.’

The first room was filled with court officials, doctors, and the tsarevich’s personal guard, as well as Anna Vyrubova. They were all talking in hushed voices, looking tense and worried.

In the bedroom beyond, the Empress sat beside her son’s bed, wiping his brow with a damp cloth and talking quietly to him. Her left arm was around his shoulders, propping him against his pillows, and through the open doorway Valerie could see the boy’s face blanched as white as his bed-linen, with dark patches beneath his eyes. He was moaning with pain and his body appeared twisted beneath the bed-covers.

‘Can the doctors not do something?’ she asked Tatiana, who had come in with her younger sisters as Olga went forward to join her mother.

Tatiana shook her head. ‘There is nothing any of us can do except pray,’ she said, falling to her knees beside Anna.

At that moment Tsar Nicholas strode in, pausing briefly to speak to the huddle of doctors by the door, then walking through to join his wife at the bedside.

Olga returned to kneel beside Valerie.

‘It is very bad,’ she whispered. ‘Dr Fedorov says the haemorrhage cannot be stopped and Alexis’s temperature is rising.’

A tremor of fear shook Valerie’s body. He wouldn’t die, would he? But he was so young. Could nothing be done to save him?

She looked at the anxious faces all about her, particularly at the medical men. Surely they knew what to do? But they remained near the door talking and gesticulating in nervous undertones, as ineffectual as a cluster of crows.

‘We should be used to these dreadful attacks,’ said Olga, ‘for Alexis seems to be having them more and more frequently.’ She bit at her lower lip, trying to control her tears. ‘I cannot believe that such a normally healthy boy could die, but it’s the pain, Valerie. How much can such a young body endure?’

‘Don’t.’ Valerie stretched out her hand and covered Olga’s cold fingers with her own. ‘Don’t say any more.’

Her fingers tightened in Valerie’s grasp as they both heard the piteous sounds coming from the other room.

‘Help me, Mama: Help me!’

Forcing herself to look up, Valerie saw the Empress of all the Russias bending over her tortured son, murmuring words of comfort and love, trying to draw his pain into her own body.

That night, Olga, Tatiana, and Anna Vyrubova, took it in turns to stay by Empress Alexandra’s side, endeavouring to make her have a few hours sleep. But Valerie and the two younger sisters were sent away – there was nothing they could do.

Then, some hours later, there was an urgent tapping on Valerie’s door.

‘Who is it?’ She sat upright in the darkness, staring at the strip of yellow light that was framing her doorway.

‘It is Anna,’ called a soft breathless voice. ‘Can you come, Valerie? Something wonderful has happened.’

When Valerie bade her enter, she came swiftly across to fling her arms around the English girl’s neck, half-sobbing, half-laughing.

‘It is Our Friend,’ she said. ‘The Empress sent for him just before midnight and he is here now. Come, dear, come and see what the man of God has done.’

Flinging her dressing gown around her, Valerie took Anna’s hand and they ran together down the corridor that led to the tsarevich’s apartment.

In the far chamber stood the dark-robed figure of Grigorii Rasputin. He was standing at the foot of the bed looking down at the boy. The Empress was sitting where she had been all day and night, her face pale and drawn with fatigue, but lit with a rare smile. And beside her Alexis slept, his body relaxed and colour beginning to return to his cheeks.

‘The pain has gone,’ said the Empress, glancing up. ‘His fever has abated and my son sleeps.’

At the sound of her voice, Rasputin lifted his head and nodded.

‘The little one is well again,’ he said.

Then he turned and strode past Anna and Valerie, his black boots making no sound despite his solid build, a sheen of perspiration running down his face and into his beard.

‘God does not hear my prayers, nor those of my family,’ said the Empress softly. ‘But His spirit rests upon Father Grigorii.’

Perhaps Father Grigorii would be able to help Tassya Silakov, thought Valerie, as the train puffed its way south. Her faith was as strong as the Imperial family’s now and nothing Pyotr said would cause her belief to falter. Maybe she was being sent to Mavara as a messenger? Maybe God intended her to play a small part in Tassya’s recovery?

Grand Duchess Olga had also encouraged the idea. Once she knew that her brother’s life was out of danger, she had spent time with Valerie once more and was both intrigued and enthusiastic about the English girl’s plans.

‘You must bring her north,’ she said. ‘And we will make sure she meets Our Friend.’

Pyotr’s heart gave a leap of joy as he stood on the platform of Kamenka railway station and saw his Little England alight.

There was no dull grey-blue wool today, but a dashing long coat of red fox fur with a matching hat, smart black button
boots, and a black fur muff. Olga Nicolaievna had been at work again, he decided.

As he strode forward to greet her, her face lit up beneath the soft red fur, and his heart jumped again in triumph. Valerie Marsh was his now, and the thought of their passionate nights together at Mavara, filled him with almost drunken ecstasy.

‘Varinka – you are here at last.’ He bent to place his lips against her warm cheek, revelling again in the smooth, peach-like texture of her skin. ‘I seem to have been waiting weeks for your arrival. I do hope the journey was not too long and tedious for you.’ He took her case in one hand and placed the other on her arm. ‘Come – the sleigh is waiting, ready to transport you back to my beloved Mavara.’

Valerie smiled up at him, unable to keep her cool composure. Pyotr was so splendid in his wolfskin coat and fur hat, with his blue eyes dancing in his brown face. Due to so much riding his skin had a natural tan and she found him incredibly attractive. But she was not going to forget Sophia and would make sure she was never left alone with him.

In the station yard a sleigh was standing, drawn by two sturdy horses. The animals’ breath was smoking through the frosty air as they stamped restlessly on the snow-covered earth, eager to be off. And the bells on their harnesses jingled and sparkled in the fading afternoon light.

‘The journey was an interesting experience,’ said Valerie, as Pyotr helped her into the sleigh and Dashka squeezed in beside her. Then he placed more furs around them before climbing in himself and gathering up the reins. ‘Now I am looking forward to seeing your home, and meeting your mother and sister,’ she said.

‘Tassya is longing to meet you,’ he said, as the sleigh began to move. ‘Now, this is the main street of Kamenka, which is only a small village, as you can see, but we are very proud of
our railway station. There are not many shops, but they provide us with all the necessities we cannot produce for ourselves.’

‘Do you often visit Kiev?’ asked Valerie, looking from left to right as the shop windows lit up the white street.

‘Very seldom,’ said Pyotr. ‘It is some 250km. from here and on the estate we live simple lives and manage to provide most of the everyday things.’

Once the lights of the village were left behind and the sky began to darken they had only the moon to guide them, but Pyotr knew the way well and told her the horses would find their way home even in a blizzard.

Across the snow-white carpet they skimmed, the only sound being the hissing of the runners beneath them and the cheerful tinkling of the little bells ahead.

‘Over the next rise you will see the lights of Mavara,’ said Pyotr, looking down at the girl who was snuggled warmly in her furs. It reminded him of the last time they had travelled together on a sleigh.

Valerie also remembered, and was thankful Pyotr was holding the reins and unable to put his arms around her. Life was so romantic in Russia with the sleigh-rides, and the snow, and the warm seductive furs. It was hard to keep a cool head in this fairy tale world beneath the silvery lustre of the moon.

But Mavara would be busy and noisy, bustling with life; there would be many people working and talking, hammering and cooking, cleaning and washing. She would have Tassya to talk to and would try to speak to her about the holy man and, although she would see Pyotr, she vowed he must never be allowed to overwhelm her with sweet words and tender caresses as he had done before.

‘Here we are,’ Pyotr said, slowing the horses as they entered a wide courtyard with the house looming ahead of them.

There were a great many outbuildings and the two unlit wings that reached out on either side of the yard, appeared hostile in the darkness.

But lights were shining cheerily from the main block and the front door was open, allowing lamplight to spill out onto the snow.

Pyotr drew the horses to a halt as a man-servant appeared in the doorway, calling out a greeting. As another man moved forward to take the reins, Pyotr helped Valerie from her furs and escorted her across the cleared path to be introduced to Feodor, with Dashka behind her.

Feodor was a short, ageless man without a wrinkle on his broad face. He possessed no hair on his pink scalp, but had a very bushy black beard and whiskers. He was attired in an old black frock coat, black trousers, and well-worn black shoes. Valerie liked the friendliness in his blue eyes and bulging cheeks when he smiled.

She followed Feodor into the hall, which was big and cold, with a tiled floor and wooden panels on the walls reaching up to the ceiling. Pyotr told Dashka to take Valerie’s case to her bedchamber, then he led her through a door on the right, which opened into a spacious red-carpeted room. Here it was beautifully warm, and Valerie gave her outer garments to Feodor before moving forward and studying her surroundings.

A fire burned in the marble fireplace, and a round table stood in the middle of the room, covered with green felt over which was spread a white lace cloth. A samovar boiled happily on the table, surrounded by plates of fresh brioches, and buns, and a fruit cake.

It was pleasing to see a proper tea, after the plain biscuits at Alexander Palace, and Valerie was hungry. Several chairs were set around the table with green plush seats, and more
well-worn armchairs were beside the fireplace and against the walls.

Suddenly a voice called out behind her.

‘Petya – is she here?’

There was the sound of wheels in the hallway and Tassya arrived, her chair pushed by a maid-servant. Crouched low, Tassya’s face was rosy with excitement beneath a mass of dark brown curls.

‘Tassya, dearest sister, meet my very good friend, Valerie Marsh from England,’ said Pyotr, as Valerie stepped forward to greet the girl.

To her astonishment, strong little arms were flung around her neck as Tassya reached up to hug her.

‘I am so pleased to meet you, Miss Marsh. Please excuse my poor English. I try very hard to speak like you,’ said Pyotr’s sister.