Andrea Pickens - [Lessons in Love 03] (8 page)

His wife nodded a vigorous assent.

Ha! thought Octavia. As if men haven't been making a dreadful hash of things for the past decade and more. But she let the matter drop without argument. Given the circumstances, she really couldn't afford any slip of the tongue. She needed this job. And so she forced a smile and pushed at the unappetizing morsels on her plate.

It was with great relief that she watched the stout housekeeper bustle in to clear the table and serve the pudding. Surely the interminable meal could not last a good deal longer. There was some solace in knowing it was not an ordeal that would have to be endured nightly. The lady of the house had already informed her that after being honored with an invitation to dine at their table this evening, her first in the household, she would be expected to take her meals with the rest of the help.

Mrs. Renfrew had ended her lecture with a tight smile. That was how a proper English house was run, so it wouldn't do to relax the rules, she explained Didn't Miss Hadley agree that order and discipline was what made life run smoothly?

Octavia found herself gripping her wineglass with nearly enough force to snap the stem. It was not hard to imagine what sort of life it was for an orphaned child in this sort of surroundings—

"So, Miss Hadley, you have met your charge. What think you of your ability to keep the young person under control?" Mr. Renfrew smoothed a wrinkled hand over his severely cropped silver hair. "Be assured that you need not fear being thought too strict. The child has an unfortunate tendency toward willfulness, which must be dealt with. We do not wish to spoil her."

Octavia bit back the urge to tell him that her trunk of whips and chains seemed to have gone astray during the voyage from England. "Oh, I daresay I shall be up to the challenge," she answered, striving to keep her tone neutral.

Husband and wife exchanged relieved looks. "Well then, we will leave you to your duties, Miss Hadley. If there is anything you require, you may inform Mrs. Renfrew." He turned his attention to the thin slice of apple tart set before him, finishing it off in dead silence. Then his chair scraped back, signaling an end to the meal. "I have a number of matters to attend to in my study," he said brusquely, not bothering to see whether either of the two ladies were done.

His wife abandoned the last bite on her plate and rose hastily to her feet. "I must see to several things as well."

Octavia stood up, her hand tightening on the back of the uncomfortable straight back chair to keep a grip on her rising temper. "Thank you for your kind hospitality," she murmured, hoping that the note of sarcasm was not too evident.

Mr. Renfrew inclined his head a fraction. "Think nothing of it," he said magnanimously. "After all, it was our duty to make you feel welcome."

Welcome indeed!

"Good evening, Miss, er, Hadley," said Mrs. Renfrew as she made to follow her husband from the room. "You look to be a capable young woman. I do trust you will be able to handle the child without needing a great deal of guidance in the matter."

Octavia didn't trust her voice enough to respond with anything more than a murmur that could be taken for an assent. It wasn't until she was climbing the narrow stairs to her own cheerless quarters next to the schoolroom that she dared unclench her jaw. Two colder fish she couldn't imagine. Perhaps their cruelty was unintentional, but the thought of an orphaned little girl having to endure such guardians kindled a hot anger inside her. Knowing full well what it was liked to be unloved and unwanted, she vowed that, as long as she was around, the child would have a friend.

Chapter 4

A great, shaggy bear was breathing down his neck, and try as he might, he couldn't seem to make his legs move. Already its stale, unwashed odor was filling his nostrils, and it seemed to be getting closer and closer...

With a choked cry, Alex lashed out a booted foot—

"Have a care who you kick, my friend," grumbled the burly peasant beside him, though he did shift his bearded chin from Alex's shoulder and roll his considerable bulk to the other side, drawing a muttered complaint from one of the other passengers.

Alex rubbed at his weary eyes and tried to stretch out his cramped legs among the tangle of sleeping bodies. The other passengers seemed oblivious to the fetid air and hard wooden seats, most having settled into the journey with a certain grim resignation. The only signs of life came from a country merchant snoring loudly in one corner and a short priest whose enveloping black robes that made him look like a rolled up carpet. From out of the wrappings of wool came a litany of whispered incantations and rumbled chants. Neither man was paid much heed by anyone, save for an occasional elbow when the rasps and wheezes got too loud.

It was a rather motley assortment of humanity, Alex decided, his mood none too charitable after another long day on the road. But as he glanced down at his own rumpled coat and soup-stained pants, a rueful grimace tugged at the corners of his lips. No doubt he, too, must reek of garlic and sour rye.

Well, at least he must blend in!

Another rut in the rough road threw his neighbor's knee into the side of his thigh, drawing a silent oath from Alex. Why, he thought in exasperation as he rubbed the tender spot, could not his uncle have managed to get the name of the estate right. Russian was not the easiest of languages, but a misplaced vowel had sent him nearly a week in the wrong direction. His relatives were owners of an estate named
Polyananovosk
, not
Polyananovisk
. And while the endless forests of spruce and pine had been magnificent, and the wooden villages and onion domed churches of great interest, he would have much preferred to arrive at his destination in a more direct manner.

And a more comfortable one. His hand threaded through a tangle of hair that felt as greasy as the bowl of mutton stew served at the last stop. Perhaps it had been overcautious to take on the guise of a poor tutor, rather than travel under his real name, in a spacious, well-sprung private carriage with all the amenities due a member of the English aristocracy. And yet, the rumblings he had heard in the various smoky taprooms along the way had caused him admit the precaution had not been unwarranted.

Unrest was in the air. Rumors of an impending invasion swirled around every village they had passed through. Any foreigner was eyed with suspicion—why, he had seen an older Danish gentleman dragged from his carriage and beaten to within an inch of his life just two days ago. The local peasants were not particularly concerned with the nuances of nationality and which country was the current ally of the Tsar. The threat to Mother Russia was from anyone not of their own blood That England had until recently been one of the enemy only exacerbated the potential for trouble. So, as Alex scratched at one of the innumerable bites on his abdomen, he had to admit that the plan, however unpleasant, had been a wise one.

The coach finally lurched to a stop in the muddy yard of a small inn. Climbing over several prostrate forms—numbed into oblivion by the local brew at the last stop, if the smell of their breath was any indication—Alex pushed the door open and stumbled to the ground. A sharp gust of wind cut through the homespun fabric of his garments but the tang of larch and pine cleared the muzziness from his head. He stood for a moment, savoring the clean crispness of the air, before pulling the thick wool cap down over his ears and hurrying inside the inn.

Rather than stay in the smoky room, he carried his thick glass cup of hot tea back outdoors and walked toward a dense stand of birch, their silvery white trunks like drizzles of sugar against the darkening sky. A storm looked to be heading their way—indeed, Alex felt a snowflake catch on his cheek, then another. The temperature was dropping by the minute and behind him, he heard the horses stamp in impatience to be off.

One of the ostlers muttered an oath as he struggled with a buckle of the harness.

"Nasty weather," remarked Alex, strolling to the other man's side.

A grunt was the only reply.

"Does it look like we will see snow?"

The man shrugged. "Whatever God wills."

Alex probed for a different sort of information. "Are we far from Polyananovosk? The estate of Count Scherbatov."

The question was met by a blank stare.

"I was told it was near Kovrov."

"Oh, that is at least twenty kilometers down the road," answered one of the other men tending to the horses. The way he said it, he might have been speaking about a spot halfway around the globe.

A horn sounded, signaling that the driver was impatient to be off before the full brunt of the storm hit. With great reluctance, Alex climbed back into the crowded confines of the coach, consoling himself with the knowledge that the journey was near an end.

Several hours later, the horses paused before a cluster of wooden huts." You! The fellow looking for Polyananovosk," shouted the driver from his perch. "You must get out here. And be quick about it. I haven't got all day." Already the reins were twitching in his mittened hands.

No further directions were forthcoming and Alex dared not risk any questions. He grabbed his bag and stepped over his neighbors, drawing more than one tired curse. The door felt shut, the whip cracked and the wheels creaked forward. With nary a regret, he watched the dark, lumbering shape disappear around the bend.

Then hoisting his bag to his shoulder, he turned to make inquires of just how he might continue on to the count's estate. The few errant flakes had become a steady fall of powdery snow. Already his toes were feeling the seep of a numbing chill through the worn leather of the second hand boots. Hell's teeth, he muttered to himself. This time, his information had better be accurate or he might well end up a meal for the roving wolves of the steppes.

The gnarled old babushka, her head so heavily wrapped in a gaily patterned wool scarf that her words were barely audible, waved a scrawny finger in the direction of a faint cart path. From what he could understand, he was meant to follow it until it crossed the drive leading to the main house. When he asked how far, she merely shrugged.

Alex shifted his weight from one cold foot to the other, debating whether to leave the only signs of civilization for the yawing darkness of the looming forest. The sound of muffled hooves and creaking leather interrupted his thoughts. A small wagon approached, then slowed at the sight of the lone figure by the side of the cottage.

"What business have you around here?" demanded the driver, a tone of authority shading his deep growl.

"I seek the house of Count Scherbatsky."

"For what reason?" The man leaned down from his seat, his narrowed eyes sweeping over Alex's shabby garb with undisguised suspicion.

Alex hesitated only a fraction. "I've been engaged as a special tutor for the young count."

The other man pursed his lips. "I have heard nothing of any new tutor. The countess did not say anything of it before she—" He stopped abruptly and fixed Alex with a suspicious stare. "What sort of tutor?"

"I speak English."

The man tugged at the corner of his mustache in some indecision. After lengthy consideration he finally gestured to the seat beside him. "I suppose you had better come with me," came the gruff order. As Alex scrambled up, he added, "I am Riasanov, steward to the Scherbatov estate." He made no offer of his hand, giving only a brisk shake of the reins as soon as Alex's feet cleared the ground. Further attempts at conversation proved futile as each simple inquiry was rebuffed with no more than a rough grunt.. Alex finally gave up and the journey continued on in an eerie silence, save for the swirl of the wind and the whoosh of the wheels in the drifting snow.

Turning his collar up to ward off the icy gusts, he tried to turn his attention to the countryside and what sort of lands his relative possessed. But even that proved impossible in the fading light and thickening flurries. It was with great relief that he finally heard the crunch of gravel under the lumbering cart and was able to discern the outline of a manor house not too far ahead.

As the horses trotted into the courtyard, a groom emerged from the barn, swathed in such layers of wool and fur that he appeared some strange creature conjured up from one of the fanciful wonder tales of the region. The sound that emerged from where his mouth should be was equally bizarre, bearing no relationship to any words Alex had ever heard. His companion, however, seemed to have no difficulty in understanding the fellow. He barked out a series of orders then gestured for the tutor to follow.