Authors: Sara Judge
He remained confident and at ease as they entered a huge crimson and gold ballroom where the chandeliers dripped with crystals. Looking up, Valerie thought they looked like icicles in the winter sunshine.
‘Now, Varinka, smile and look happy,’ he said, taking her hand as they joined a stream of dancers in the slow, processional steps of the polonaise.
‘I would like to know about Sophia,’ said Valerie. ‘Is she a family friend? Have you known her long?’
‘Ah, the Lukaev.’ Pyotr shrugged. ‘She is nothing, Varinka. Quite unimportant. The important one is
you
, my lovely one, and this evening of pleasure. We are here to enjoy ourselves, remember?’
Valerie pursed her lips. There was to be no explanation. Well, so be it. She would dance with Pyotr, and dine with him and his friends, and make the most of this historic occasion. Hopefully, she would not see that uncomfortable beauty again.
‘Where are the Tsar and Empress Alexandra?’ she asked, trying to concentrate on the haunting beat of the music. ‘Olga said they would all be here tonight but I haven’t seen them.’
‘The Imperial family will be in the main reception room,’ he said, ‘meeting a long line of selected guests.’
‘I am glad not to be royal,’ said Valerie, ‘and able to do most of the things I want to do.’
‘Most?’ said Pyotr. ‘Why not
all
the things you want to do, Varinka?’
‘Because there is so much to see and do before returning to England!’
‘And what do you want most of all?’ he asked.
They were waltzing now and Pyotr was holding her closer than was proper. She could feel the warmth of his body against her breasts and thighs and when she looked up his eyes caressed her lips, as if he wanted to kiss them.
Valerie swallowed hard and turned her head away, trying to gather her thoughts.
‘I want to see more of Russia, and would dearly like to visit the birthplace of the holy man in Siberia.’
‘Not that moujik again!’ Pyotr loosened his hold on her and his blue eyes darkened with distaste. ‘That peasant is no more holy than you or me, Varinka. I hope most sincerely you will remember my warning and have nothing more to do with him!’
‘Of course he is holy! Anna Vyrubova and the Empress both think so and they cannot be wrong.’
‘Nonsense. If you stay long enough in Russia, Valerie Marsh, you will learn exactly what kind of a man Rasputin really is.’ Pyotr began to lead her away from the dance floor. ‘Come, it is time to eat,’ he said.
In the dining room she was introduced to two more officers and their wives, and they all sat at one of the many white-clothed tables and were served lobster salad and cold sturgeon and three kinds of caviar, followed by pastry tarts and whipped cream.
Valerie enjoyed the food, which was very different to the simple meals out at Tsarskoe Selo, but she couldn’t follow the ebb and flow of conversation, so remained silent.
Once they had completed their repast, Pyotr bade his friends farewell and escorted Valerie back to the ballroom.
‘Tonight,’ he said, ‘I will take you home in a sleigh. It will be extremely cold, but we will have plenty of furs to wrap around us, and I wish you to see the stars above St Petersburg. It will be a wonderful memory of this, our first night together, Varinka.’
They were dancing the mazurka and Valerie was trying to remember the steps Olga had taught her.
‘I don’t know that there is much I
want
to remember,’ she said. ‘That meeting with the lady who obviously disliked me was a shock. And your prejudice against Father Grigorii was also upsetting. I thought I enjoyed your company, but this evening you have shown a less pleasing side to your nature.’
There. She had said it. And she didn’t care if his pride had been hurt.
But Pyotr was surprisingly unabashed.
‘Now, now, Varinka,’ he said, ‘you are making a mountain out of a bees’ nest.’
‘Out of a mole hill,’ she snapped.
‘A mole hill, yes.’ He nodded. ‘But once you know me better you will feel happier and not find insults in everything I say and do. Come.’
Although Valerie would have liked to dance some more, she was hustled out into the corridor and down the wide staircase with no time for further argument.
With the black cloak around her shoulders, Pyotr hurried her down the last steps, anxious to summon a sleigh. Other guests were also departing and, although a long line of carriages stood waiting, there were few sleighs about.
Fortunately he was able to attract the attention of a brightly painted one, drawn by two black horses.
The driver was so heavily wrapped in his bearskin coat and cap that his face was almost invisible. But he clambered off and made sure Pyotr and Valerie were well covered in furs, with lambskins for their feet and extra pieces of fur tucked into the corner of the sleigh for warmth. Then he climbed back in front of them and flicked his reins over the horses’ steaming backs.
They were off. The sleigh flew silently over the snow and quickly left the clear shovelled streets behind. Then the only sound was the cheerful jingling of the bells on the horses’ harnesses, and the hissing of the metal runners as they slid over the frosted carpet beneath.
Cocooned in her mountain of furs, Valerie looked up at the starlit night and her annoyance died within her. To her right the river Neva shone like steel. Above her the moon illuminated the spires and gilded domes of many churches and made the roofs of palaces along the waterfront glisten and sparkle in turn.
‘Is she not beautiful, my Russia?’ whispered Pyotr beside her. ‘Is this sleigh ride not something to remember, Varinka?’
She sighed and turned her head to look up at him. This journey under the stars of St Petersburg
was
something very special, and she had to agree that
this
was worth remembering.
‘Good.’ Pyotr sounded very self-satisfied, but she was not going to let him irritate her again. ‘Now, Varinka, I have been thinking of what you said and have decided to show you more of my beloved land. Soon I have some leave from duty, and wish to invite you to Mavara.’
She was snuggled beneath her furs like a small hibernating animal with only her eyes and little nose showing in the freezing air. But the sparkle had returned to her luminous eyes, which were almost black in the moonlight, and he caught a glimpse of her smile.
‘Oh Petya, I would love to see Mavara! But is it right for me to have more days away from Tsarskoe Selo, when I should be spending time with Grand Duchess Olga?’
‘I shall speak to the Empress,’ he said, rejoicing in the fact that she was his enthusiastic and lovable Varinka once more. ‘I will explain that as you are only in Russia for a short time, it is very important for you to see as much as possible of our great land.’
‘If Empress Alexandra agrees, I shall be happy to visit your home, Petya.’
She was about to say more but he leaned over and cupped her face in his hands.
‘Be silent,’ he said, and covered her mouth with his.
She could feel the warmth of his body radiating through the folds of fur, then he was touching her closed mouth with the tip of his tongue, caressing, taunting, making her gasp. When his tongue entered her parted lips it flicked in and out, then around her little strong teeth until her tongue came to join his and she was weak with rapture.
Suddenly Valerie wanted to feel his hands on her body, wanted him to touch her breasts and stroke her trembling thighs. She ached to be rid of all the furs and restricting clothing and feeling Pyotr’s skin against her own. She was hot and shaking and overwhelmed by a passion she had never known before.
Pyotr was laughing, amazed and delighted at the emotions he had aroused in her.
‘Our time will come, my Varinka, do not fret.’ He adjusted the furs around her before stroking back the curls on her brow and setting straight the diadem of pearls, which had fallen askew. ‘But now we are approaching the house of your friends.’
Valerie blinked and put a hand to her head. Her bound locks were still in place, but her lips were burning and she prayed she did not look too dishevelled.
The sleigh turned into Bolshoy Prospect and slid noiselessly up to the English couple’s residence
‘I will see you again, Varinka,’ said Pyotr, scrambling out from beneath the furs and helping her onto the white, crystallized forecourt. ‘I will see you again at Tsarskoe Selo.’
‘Oh yes!’ said Valerie, holding both his hands against her breast. ‘I hope it will be soon, Petya!’
Then the footman opened the door to receive her into the warm hallway and Valerie left the man who had captured her heart.
Count Pyotr Silakov was the man Father Grigorii had meant. She was sure of that now.
As Dashka helped her to prepare for bed, Valerie thought of visiting Pyotr’s home and meeting his mother and sister, and getting to know him better. She scarcely knew him as a person. But as a
man
she was totally devastated by him.
T
he following day, trying to put Pyotr to the back of her mind for a while, Valerie concentrated on the voluble Mrs Lees who was taking her shopping.
The Lees’ coachman made sure the ladies were covered with several tartan rugs before he closed the door of the carriage, then went round to climb up onto his seat behind the horses.
Mrs Lees would not allow any furs within her conveyance.
‘Nasty, uncivilised things and one can never be sure where they’ve been,’ she told Valerie, pulling her tartan more closely round her maroon-clad body.
Mrs Lees’ wide-brimmed velvet hat was also maroon with an ostrich-feather trim, and it made Valerie feel very inferior in her grey-blue woollen coat and grey felt hat.
But she had looked grand enough last night, she thought, hugging herself in silent pleasure as she remembered her satin gown, and the pearls, and the sleigh-ride back with Pyotr.
As Mrs Lees babbled on about how she missed England, and how dreadfully cold it was during these long winter months, and how excruciatingly hot St Petersburg became in the summer, Valerie wished the lady would stop chattering.
She wanted to gaze out of the window and look at all the exciting things that were passing before her eyes. For this was Pyotr’s beloved Russia and she wanted to see, and learn, everything possible for
his
sake now, as well as for her own.
‘And the smells, dear,’ went on the relentless voice beside her, ‘during a heatwave are quite frightful with epidemics always raising their ugly heads. Usually it is cholera and we have to boil all our water – most tiresome,’ said Mrs Lees, with a sniff. ‘Of course, we go away for some of the time and I suppose you will be going with the Imperial family on one of their lengthy trips away from the heat and dust?’
Valerie nodded. ‘Grand Duchess Olga mentioned a visit down to the Crimea at Easter, but I don’t know about the summer.’
Perhaps Mavara? But she didn’t mention Pyotr’s invitation to Mrs Lees. She held the memory of last night close to her heart, still bemused by what had happened and the emotions he had aroused in her newly awakened body.
As they were crossing Nicholas Bridge with its splendid bronze griffons on the railings, Mrs Lees caught her attention once more.
‘Have you seen much of Anna Vyrubova?’ she asked. ‘And has the name of that peculiar man from Siberia been mentioned?’
Valerie folded her hands neatly together on top of the rug and turned to look at her companion’s inquisitive face. Mrs Lees had brought her to Russia, and was also providing her with a home during the few days she remained in the capital. The banker’s wife was a kind, if irritating lady, and would naturally want to know all about life at Tsarskoe Selo.
‘I have seen Anna Vyrubova several times,’ said Valerie, ‘and it was at her house that I was introduced to the holy man, Grigorii Rasputin.’
‘You’ve met him!’ Mrs Lees’ voice rose to a shriek above the rattling of the carriage wheels. The snow had been swept off the streets down which they were travelling and piled between road and pavement, forming ramparts almost four feet high. ‘Valerie, I beg you to be careful with that peasant. He has the most
dreadful reputation: Dear me, I wish Mr Lees were here – he would know best how to manage this delicate matter.’
Valerie frowned. Why was everyone with whom she now spoke so opposed to the holy man?
Mrs Lees’ voice dropped to a whisper as she glanced at the front of the carriage, fearful lest the coachman should hear.
‘I cannot speak of the immoral habits of that man. Holy, indeed! But I do assure you no lady is safe in his company and do not
ever
agree to visit him in his apartment, dear.’
Valerie stared. These were similar remarks to those made by Pyotr but she had thought he spoke from jealousy. Surely that was not a sin applicable to this decent English matron?
‘The Empress is very fond of him and so is Anna,’ she said. ‘And you couldn’t find two more respectable ladies, could you, Mrs Lees?’
Mrs Lees pursed her mouth. ‘Empress Alexandra is not very highly thought of so far as
I
can gather, and they do keep themselves very hidden away out there at Tsarskoe Selo.’ She changed the subject abruptly. ‘And what about the young tsarevich? What do you think of him? There are many rumours about that boy, you know. Some say he is mad – others that he is deformed. Have you seen much of him, dear?’
Outside the carriage windows St Petersburg was standing in all its glory. The golden domes of cathedrals were shining in the wintry sunshine beside pillared porticos of romantic buildings, and many frozen waterways. Iron braziers were set up in side streets and glowed like red beacons in the snow, whilst in the parks men in great rough boots and sheepskins were making snow mountains for shouting children, who stood ready with their toboggans.
And Valerie had to sit and listen as her companion’s voice rolled on as monotonously as the carriage wheels.
‘I have seen Alexis only at meal times,’ she said, ‘as most of my time is spent with Grand Duchess Olga.’
‘But what does he look like?’ persisted Mrs Lees. ‘Is he physically maimed? He will be the next tsar, you know.’
‘I know that, and Alexis is a most handsome child – as are all the family. Ah, is this Nevsky Prospect?’ Thank heavens they had arrived.
‘I would rather have Regent Street any day,’ said Mrs Lees. ‘But Nevsky Prospect is supposed to be the longest and widest street in the world and stretches from Alexander Gardens, which we passed just now, all the way down to the Moscow Gate.’
There were many people about, all heavily clad in long fur coats and boots, some skimming along the side in sleighs, which made Valerie’s heart leap at memories of the previous night and others looking less at ease in laboriously drawn carriages, like their own.
‘The shops here are quite pleasant,’ said Mrs Lees, ‘and I am taking you to Alexandre’s, which is similar to Asprey’s. I intend purchasing a scarf of Persian silk. At least the assistants are French and know how to treat a customer with dignity.’
Their carriage rolled to a halt before an enormous pillared doorway with huge windows on either side of it. The coachman helped them to alight onto the broad pavement which had been cleared of snow, then Valerie followed Mrs Lees’ majestic figure into the shop.
Inside, thick red carpets muffled every footfall and enormous chandeliers glittered overhead, almost as magnificent as those at the Winter Palace. They were as bright and sparkling as the diamond jewellery that nestled beneath on beds of black velvet.
For a moment Valerie gazed at the fabulous jewels and at the ornaments of jade and ivory, before following her companion past displays of umbrellas, walking sticks, and purses, to the area that displayed the scarves. These looked as colourful and
fragile as a mass of butterflies’ wings, stretched and festooned all over the stall.
Valerie had never been in such a shop before, nor seen such exotic items for sale, and she remained speechless with awe. Then a very elegant lady dressed all in black moved forward to greet them, speaking English with an attractive French accent.
‘Whilst I am deciding on my scarf you take a look round, Valerie, and choose a little present for yourself,’ said Mrs Lees. ‘I don’t suppose you are paid for all your time at the palace, are you, dear?’
‘No,’ said Valerie, turning her head away from the assistant’s interested gaze and wishing that Mrs Lees wouldn’t speak so loudly.
‘Then go and look for a little something to take back to England as a keepsake, and I will pay for it, dear.’
How could she possibly find a ‘little something’ amongst all this finery? But Valerie thanked Mrs Lees and moved away to look at the stand of purses. Surely she could find something there that was not too extravagant to take home with her?
After studying some embroidered with gold and silver thread, some with sequins, and others of pigskin, suede, or velvet, she saw one of plain black suede, which would be most useful for her needs.
As Valerie was sighing with relief at having found something suitable, she heard a familiar voice.
Raising her head with a jerk and staring across the stand of purses, she saw Pyotr deep in conversation with a very fashionably attired female. Their heads were bent as they stared down at the cases of jewellery, but Valerie knew at once who Pyotr’s companion was.
She was so elegant in her narrow skirt and long, hip-length jacket of emerald green wool, that Valerie longed for the floor to open and drop her into oblivion in her dreary grey-blue coat.
Sophia’s flower-pot hat was black, with a feather standing upright from the brim, and around her long neck was slung a sable wrap. Pyotr was wearing a long dark grey overcoat and black fur hat with his accustomed grace.
For a moment Valerie thought she was going to faint, but she forced herself to breathe deeply and recover her composure. Don’t let Mrs Lees see them, she prayed, trying to hide herself away behind the purse stand. Let us take our purchases and get out of here!
But as she slowly retreated, moving back towards Mrs Lees with some object always between herself and the animated couple, the English woman’s voice rang out, loud and carrying.
‘Valerie, do look! There is your handsome count. We must go over and have a word with him. And who is his companion? Is she a member of the nobility? What a very stylish young woman.’
At the sound of her penetrating voice, Pyotr lifted his head and glanced across the floor.
‘Who is that frightful woman?’ whispered Sophia, watching as a large lady in maroon velvet bore down on them with a small, red-faced girl in tow.
‘Mrs Lees.’ Pyotr stepped forward to bow over the lady’s outstretched hand. ‘How very pleasant to see you again. And Miss Marsh.’ He looked at Valerie, wishing she had worn a more becoming outfit. ‘Have you been successful with your shopping?’ he asked, with his charming smile.
‘We were in the middle of our purchasing when I spotted you, dear count, and your exquisite companion,’ crooned Mrs Lees. ‘Do please introduce me.’
Sophia Lukaev nodded coolly, her eyebrows raised in surprise. Then she suddenly realized that the girl was the vision in white satin and pearls who had so alarmed her the night before.
‘It is the birth day of Sophia’s mother next week,’ explained Pyotr, hoping Valerie would understand.
But she was turning away from his close scrutiny, and he knew he would have to deal with Miss Marsh with supreme delicacy if he were ever to gain possession of her tantalizing innocence.
At Mavara, he thought, would be the solitude and privacy so essential for courtship, and she would be his. But first he had to make sure his Varinka would agree to visiting his estate.
Last night she had agreed wholeheartedly to his invitation, if the Empress gave permission. Today she looked as if she would gladly drive a dagger through his heart – if such a weapon were available at Alexandre’s.
‘We have decided on a brooch for Sophia’s mother,’ he said, but the English girl was walking away from him.
‘I am going back to the purse stand,’ she told Mrs Lees, interrupting the woman’s lengthy chatter about what Mr Lees did, and what Mr Lees said, and perhaps Miss Lukaev used the bank where Mr Lees was installed?
‘What, dear? Oh, very well, but hurry up, Valerie. As I have completed my shopping, perhaps Count Silakov and Miss Lukaev would care to join us for a little sustenance at the English Tea Room round the corner?’
Valerie marched away, determined to spend as much time as possible studying the purses. She was
not
going to sit at a table and sip tea with that wretched man and his beautiful companion.
It was with great relief, therefore, that she heard Pyotr explaining that unfortunately they must decline the kind invitation.
Clamping her lips together, she waited for Mrs Lees to join her, as the count and Sophia left the shop. Never would she have anything more to do with that man. Thankfully anger made tears impossible. Sophia Lukaev was not the unimportant female
Pyotr would have her believe, but too much wine, followed by that romantic sleigh-ride, had addled her wits last night.
‘You don’t have a fever, do you, dear?’ said Mrs Lees, at her side. ‘Your face is a most unbecoming red.’
‘Only a bit hot,’ said Valerie, adding quickly, ‘but I do have a bit of a headache and would like to go home, when it suits you. I am sure a few hours on my bed will set me to rights.’
‘Very well, then,’ said the older woman, and led the way out of the shop.
She was annoyed by the disappearance of that delightful young man and his fashionable companion, and by her insipid little guest who didn’t feel well.
It was no wonder Valerie had made a bad impression on Count Silakov. Last night, in her satin gown and gleaming pearls she could have taken her place in Society and been an instant triumph. But this morning Valerie had appeared both gauche and plain beside the stunning beauty in emerald green, and Mrs Lees knew such a handsome and titled gentleman was never going to consider a badly-dressed sickly creature worth bothering about.
Valerie thought only of her quiet bedroom overlooking the river, where she could weep away her distress against the pillow.
‘I will have that girl!’ Pyotr strode up and down the sitting room in the apartment in Tsarskoe Selo. ‘I love my little Varinka and she loves me – I know she does. But we have reached an impasse in our relationship and I am at my wits’ end trying to think of a way to proceed with my courtship. She is small and fragile yet proving to be as stubborn as a mule.’
Andrei Odarka, stretching out his long legs, helped himself to another glass of vodka.
‘Sit down, Petya, and think this out properly – like a battle campaign.’
‘I have never been ignored before,’ said Pyotr angrily, flinging
himself down in the chair beside his friend and reaching for the bottle, stood on the table between them.
Neither ignored, nor refused, he thought, pouring a glass of the fiery liquid.
Many hearts had been broken in his tempestuous youth, but the young count had prided himself on being a courteous and generous lover, always making sure that small gifts and flowers were sent to console his admirers once the time came for them to part.