Finding My Own Way (19 page)

“I guess the bank along the river belongs to everyone,” I admitted, with a shrug.

We had all moved back down the roadway together, and now stood where the cars were parked. “We should have some tea,” the Countess decided. “We bring flowers back later. Paul has rented car, and now we go to have tea at hotel dining room. Join us, please?”

Since we had no other plans for the next hour, Irene agreed. We returned to our car while Paul seated the Countess in his, folding her wheelchair into the trunk. A few minutes later, my aunt and I rejoined them in the dining room of the Albion Hotel, where, over butter tarts, tea and coffee we learned more about the Countess Balenskaya's reunion with her nephew. Paul Mordkin lived in Montreal, where he was a schoolteacher. He had been on a month's holiday and had come to meet his aunt for the first time. His father, Dimitri, had married a Canadian woman late in life, and he had died when Paul was still a child. “I always heard that Father had a sister in Canada somewhere, but Mother never knew much about her. They'd lost touch with each other years ago. I decided this summer that I would find her.

“I've visited the site of the mine where my father worked. And when I came here, I discovered they still rented rooms in the boarding house Auntie used to run. So here I am, staying in her old home.”

“I did okay,” the Countess affirmed.

Tomorrow was Paul Mordkin's last day in Pinkney Corners. “But I will return,” he assured us, “now that Auntie and I have found each other. And the next time I come, I will bring my fiancée. Auntie has promised to
come to our wedding in the spring.”

“If I am still living,” muttered the Countess, slurping her tea.

“You'll be living,” Paul promised. He winked at me. “We Russians are tough.”

And knowing now all that his aunt had been through—the loss of her homeland, the death of her husband and baby—I had to agree.

“It's really only lately that I've become interested in my Russian heritage,” explained Paul. “I intend to take a course in Russian studies at the university. But the first order of business was to try to find my aunt.”

“Then you must know the story of Anastasia,” I suggested, hopefully.

“Of course,” Paul said, “the youngest of the Grand Duchesses.”

“What do you think about the theory that she might still be alive somewhere?”

“An interesting premise,” Paul agreed. “But I don't happen to believe anyone survived the slaughter in the Ipatiev house.”

He looked thoughtful as he stirred sugar into his tea. “You know, self-proclaimed members of the Russian royal family keep popping up all over the place. You may have heard of Anna Anderson, the woman who lives at Unterlengenhardt, on the edge of the Black Forest in Germany, and who claims to be Anastasia? She is not the first claimant. I doubt if she'll be the last.”

“I saw a movie about Anastasia,” Irene interjected, accepting a refill on her coffee from the waitress. “A couple of years back.”

“Starring Ingrid Bergman,” said Paul, with a cynical smile. “I saw it too. If the Russian people had been told the truth in the beginning, these stories might never have started. Do you know that for a long time, Russians liked to believe that the family was just off sailing somewhere in their yacht? Or galloping over the frozen tundra in their sleigh, bells jingling, everyone bundled in furs against the cold.”

“Pretty picture,” declared the Countess wryly. “But not true. Truth was too ugly.” She was picking up pastry crumbs from the table with a moistened finger. “But now, no more sadness,” she ordered, sweeping us with her gaze. “Today, we have much happiness. I thought I had no one. No family. And now I have nephew. Is good.”

Irene and I were reminded by the chiming of the town clock that we had promised Mrs. McIntyre we'd be back for lunch. Paul and the Countess planned to take a drive out into the countryside before returning to inspect the headstone. Neither Irene nor I wanted to diminish the Countess' happiness by telling her about the fire. We said our goodbyes outside the hotel, with promises to visit the Countess the next time we were in Pinkney Corners.

“She didn't say a thing about you being her daughter!” I exclaimed as I slid into the front seat of the car with Irene. “I guess you were right about her knowing the truth all the time.”

Irene nodded. “Now that she has found her real, flesh-and-blood nephew, she doesn't need a make-believe daughter.”

“You're not sorry, are you?” I asked, watching her face.

“Of course not!”

“I just thought, being a ballerina, you might enjoy pretending that you came from Russian stock.”

“Well, thank you,” Irene snorted. “But I'm pretty proud of the good, ordinary Canadian stock I do come from.” She became thoughtful. “I'm glad, though, that we had that chance meeting this morning. With all the secrets out of the way, perhaps the Countess and I can become friends again.”

We swung into the driveway next to the farmhouse. “I wonder why the Countess would have made up that story in the first place about giving her baby to Nan,” I mused.

Irene shut off the car's engine, but remained seated behind the wheel. “Well, I have a theory about that,” she said. “The Countess and my mother
were
friends. And I
did
study ballet from her. I think, in the elderly, that the edges of memories collected over a lifetime, tend to shift and blur and run together.” She was frowning at me. “What's the matter?” she demanded. “Why are you staring at me?”

“That's very poetic, Irene,” I said, only half-teasing. “You really must be part of this family!”

Ernie had come to welcome us as we got out of the car. I was relieved that the dog had already picked up where he'd left off six weeks ago, following Henry McIntyre out to the barn at milking time, playing bark-and-whinny with the horse and chasing the ducks when they came to investigate.

Suddenly, the dog began to bark. A police cruiser had pulled into the driveway behind Irene's car, and Mert Cooney got out. Ignoring the dog, he sauntered over to
where we stood waiting. “Good day, ladies,” the policeman drawled, pushing his hat to the back of his head. “Had a piece of business you might be interested in.” He leaned up against the hood of the car.

“And what might that be?” Irene asked because somebody had to.

“Well, it's about the fire, miss,” Cooney began. “It may not have been the wiring like we originally suspected. It's looking more and more like arson.”

“Arson!” Irene and I gasped in unison.

“Looks that way. The fire marshall tells me the fire appears to have been started in the woodpile alongside your shed. Then it likely burned up the side of the shed and spread quickly to the back wall of your house, and into the attic.”

“You mean someone deliberately set fire to the place?” Irene demanded. “Who would do a thing like that?”

The policeman cast a skeptical glance in my direction. “No ideas, young lady? You can't think of anyone with a grudge against you?”

For a minute I was flabbergasted by what he seemed to be suggesting. It couldn't be! “You mean, Bobby Baker?”

Cooney nodded and pushed himself upright, taking a more authoritative stance. “We think so. When Mr. Fred Forth heard about the fire, he came to the station and told me that Baker blamed you for his misfortune. Forth was suspicious, and he wanted to make sure that the fire would be fully investigated. Of course, it will be.”

“Mr. Forth turned him in?” I was incredulous. “Did you know he's sending Bobby to another store?”

“He was on his way when we caught up with him,” the
policeman said, looking very pleased with himself. “Baker's not going anywhere till we get to the bottom of this,” he promised.

When Mert Cooney drove off, Irene demanded to know the whole story and so, over lunch, I filled my aunt and the McIntyres in on what it was that had caused me to lose my job and Bobby Baker to seek his revenge. If he had. It was hard for me to believe that anyone would do that deliberately. Bobby Baker was a creep and someone who used other people, but I couldn't believe he was also an arsonist.

Michael Pacey arrived at the McIntyres' early that same afternoon, sweeping in on his motorcycle to make sure that I was really okay after the fire. “And to see if there's anything I can do, Libby. Anything at all.” His tone was grave, his blue eyes worried. “I couldn't believe it when I went by the place.”

“There's really nothing anyone can do,” I said, brushing lunchtime crumbs off the front of my blouse. “But thanks anyway.”

He unstrapped a cardboard carton from the back of the motorcycle and set it on the step at the McIntyres' back door. “When I told Mother I was coming over this aft, she insisted I bring this. Some things of Margaret's,” he explained, wincing apologetically. “I wouldn't blame you if you didn't want them.”

“I appreciate it, really,” I assured him. “Everyone's been very generous. Irene brought me a few things, but this is great.”

“Well, Mother was talking to Margaret on the phone, and Margaret told her what she thought you would like to have.”

The drone of voices, the clatter from the kitchen
came to us through the screen door. “Dad told me to take an hour off and come check on you,” Michael said. “It must have been terrible, Libby. To see everything you'd worked so hard for go up in smoke.”

“It was terrible,” I agreed.

We moved away from the back door then, crossing the yard together and stopping at the fence, where we could see the horse grazing in the field beyond. I was aware of Michael's eyes on me all the while.

“Why do you keep looking at me?” I asked.

“Sorry,” Michael said. “Am I embarrassing you?”

“A little,” I admitted. “I keep wondering if I've got food on my face, or if my hair's a mess.”

“Let me see.” Michael leaned over the fence to study me more closely and smiled. “Nope. No food. And your hair's fine.”

I touched the wiry mass. “It doesn't make you think of one of those things you scrub pots with?” I was fishing, but this was fun.

Michael laughed. “No, it doesn't. I love your hair.”

And I loved standing there with him, leaning on the fence together, feeling the warmth of his arm against mine, and wishing this moment could go on forever.

The horse, seeing company, ambled over to check our pockets for treats. She had to be content with the grass Michael pulled for her from around the fencepost. We had come unprepared. We stroked her nose and talked to her, but the animal soon grew bored with us and wandered away again.

“I guess the reason I keep looking at you, Libby,” said
Michael, “is that I'm thinking how I've known you practically my whole life. But I never really saw you before.”

“I know what you mean,” I nodded. “I used to wish you could be my brother!”

“And now, I guess, we're both moving on,” Michael said. “Look at all the time we've wasted.”

I turned around and rested my elbows on the fence behind me, thinking about what he'd just said. “It wasn't really wasted,” I suggested, after a moment or two. “We have all that ‘getting to know you' stuff out of the way now.”

“That's true. Will you ever come back?” he asked.

“Of course I will! I still own property here, and one day I'll have another house built on it.”

“No kidding? Well, I probably won't be back much myself before next summer.” He looked down at his watch again. I noticed the fine bones of his wrist, the golden hairs that grew along his arm.

Michael had been watching the time, and now he pushed himself away from the fence with a sigh. “I wish I didn't have to get back, Libby, but I do.”

On the way back towards the house, Michael took my hand. “I can tell you're going places, Libby Eaton,” he said solemnly. “You aren't going to be stuck in this place. So I won't ask you to wait for me.”

I felt my heart turn over. “What about Anna?” I wondered out loud. “Is she going to wait for you?”

Michael laughed wryly. “Anna was more interested in the motorcycle than in me,” he admitted. “We were never going steady anyway. The day her old boyfriend turned
up, driving a T-bird, she lost interest in me pretty fast.”

I never did think Anna Nobles was very bright.

It felt so right to be holding hands with Michael. “I would wait for you, if you asked me,” I told him.

“No, you wouldn't.” He shook his head, but his smile was tender. “You're too smart to limit your choices like that.” We'd reached the motorcycle, and he let go of my hand, throwing his leg over the machine. “That's one of the things I admire about you, you know.”

“I want to study journalism at university,” I said. “I'm going to concentrate on my grades this year and aim for a scholarship. You can tell your father I'm taking his advice.”

“He'll be pleased,” Michael said.

I waited while he started the engine. Then, instead of saying good-bye, Michael leaned towards me and placed his lips very gently on mine. I moved willingly into the kiss, lifting my arms to encircle his neck, joy and regret filling me at the same time. When, I wondered, would I ever see him again?

It was a long time after the dust had settled behind him before I went back inside. The phone had rung in the McIntyre kitchen and Henry, who had picked it up, held the receiver out to me as I came through the door.

“Oh, Libby dear,” cried Marjory Thomas on the other end, “I can't tell you how sorry I am about your house! You must be devastated. Were you able to save anything at all?”

“Not much,” I admitted. “The house was totally destroyed. But tell me how Mr. Thomas is? I meant to call you before. Is he all right?”