Carola Dunn (16 page)

“Can I have my fortune told?”

“Of course. I thought that would amuse you so I have a purseful of silver for crossing palms. Let us go and watch the dancing first, though.”

As he escorted her towards the bonfire at the centre of the camp, careful to protect her from the crush, she kept her hood close about her face. Though a number of the Russian officers had females on their arms, she suspected that they were not of the first respectability.

Not for the world would she have been so poor-spirited as to spoil John’s treat in the interests of propriety. Clinging to his arm, she smiled up at him.

The violin’s tune ended with a flourish as they reached the clearing by the fire. A handsome girl in flamboyant scarlet and yellow, gold-sashed, completed her final gyration with a low curtsy, her dark head held proudly. A cheer went up and coins showered at her feet. Two small boys scrambled to collect this largesse while the girl herself moved with lithe dignity into the shadows. Rebecca saw the glint of silver braid and guessed that a hussar waited for her.

Tambourine and cymbalon joined the fiddle for the next dance. A couple ran out into the clearing. Rebecca watched entranced as they swayed and swirled and leapt with impossible agility and astonishing stamina. She was breathless by the time the man caught his partner in a final dramatic pose.

“Like it?” John’s grin told her he knew the answer. She realized he had been watching her face more than the dancers. “They make the waltz look positively staid, do they not?”

“It was…it was...I cannot find the words. Will they dance again?”

A couple of Guards officers were arguing with the musicians, who had laid down their instruments.

“Later, I expect. Come, let us find the Gypsy queen and have your fortune told.”

They were directed to a large caravan set somewhat apart from the rest. A torch flared above the open door. John went up the steps and exchanged words in his mangled French with someone inside, then beckoned to Rebecca.

An old woman, her hair covered by a white kerchief, sat at a table before a black curtain embroidered in gold thread with strange symbols. A similar cloth covered the table, on which rested a crystal globe, a pack of cards, and an oil lamp. The dark eyes that appraised Rebecca from head to toe were unexpectedly keen, and the voice that bade her be seated was commanding.

She obeyed, and John gave the Gypsy a few coins.

“Now you will leave, milord,” the woman said in heavily accented English.

Startled, he shook his head. “No. I don’t know how you guessed who I am, but I will not leave the lady.”

She scrutinized him, her gaze piercing, then nodded. “You do well to take care of her. You may stay. Now,
barynya,”
she switched to Russian, “give me your hand.”

Her fingers were knotted with rheumatism but her clasp was firm. Rebecca was disappointed when the fortune she told was the usual rigmarole about a tall, dark, handsome stranger, great peril, a long voyage, and true love waiting at the end. John was the stranger of course, and the fact that she was a foreigner made the long journey an obvious deduction. Sooner or later most people met with some sort of danger, and as for true love...

She stole a glance at John. He was flipping through the Tarot deck, apparently unheeding, though she could not be sure if he was just pretending not to understand Russian. She suppressed a sigh.

As for true love, John was not the marrying sort and she must put such farfetched notions out of her mind. She thanked the fortune-teller and declined an offer to seek further revelations in the crystal.

“Milord!” said the Gypsy sharply, “the cards are now attuned to you. I will read them.”

Rebecca nearly giggled when John dropped the pack as if they burned him.

“No, thanks! I don’t go in for such taradiddles, begging your pardon, ma’am. Are you finished, Rebecca? Let’s be off, then.”

The torchlight outside seemed bright after the mysterious dimness in the caravan. The violin was playing again, soaring above a rhythmic clapping from the crowd.

“Let’s go and see what they are doing now,” John suggested eagerly, his hand on Rebecca’s arm to steady her on the rickety steps.

As she stepped to the ground, the dancing-girl in red and yellow dashed across in front of them. A short, wiry Gypsy chased after her, slashing at her with a willow switch. Rebecca cried out as the girl stumbled and fell. The man was upon her, his arm swinging in vicious blows about her bare shoulders. She crouched there, protecting her head with her arms, no sound escaping her lips.

With a muttered oath John strode towards them. He pulled his whip from his pocket and raised it to strike, then he glanced back at Rebecca and seemed to falter. The Gypsy looked up. In one agile bound he was facing John in a fighter’s crouch.

A knife glinted in each hand.

The two men circled warily. John was a head taller than his opponent, who was within easy reach of his whip, but the whip was no protection against the deadly danger of a thrown knife. Afraid of distracting him, Rebecca did not dare stir even when the girl brushed past her and fled up the steps.

She heard urgent voices in the caravan behind her. She was about to go up and beg the old woman to intervene when a tall, well-known figure strolled into view and stood arms akimbo regarding the combatants.

“Kolya!” Rebecca gasped.

The fortune-teller spoke sharply from the top of the steps. Only one word was comprehensible—”Volkov.” The Gypsy flashed a sullen glance at his queen. For a moment it was touch and go, then he shrugged. The knives disappeared and he faded into the shadows between the caravans.

Rebecca ran to John, reaching the safe circle of his arm just as Prince Nikolai clapped him on the shoulder with a laugh.

“Well, John, we both know uses of having influential father,
nyet?
Who is your fair charmer?”

“No one you know.” John sounded on edge. Glad that the light was behind her, Rebecca bowed her head and pulled the hood tighter. “I must take her home now. My thanks, Kolya. I shall see you tomorrow.”

“Think nothing of it, old fellow,” said the prince genially.
“Do svidanya.”

“Until tomorrow.”

* * * *

John drove in silence for some way. Clouds hid the moon and the poor quarters they traversed were ill-lit. Her mind whirling with the events and emotions of the past few hours, Rebecca was glad of the time to compose herself.

“I'm sorry your evening was spoiled. I ought not to have taken you there.”

John’s voice was still strained, and Rebecca found that her nerves were not yet settled.

“It was not spoiled. I would not have missed the dancers for the world. But I was so frightened for you.”

“I don’t mind admitting I was in a bit of a quake myself,” he said wryly.

“How fortunate that Prince Nikolai was there!”

“Yes, and how fortunate that he did not recognize you.” Though John suspected that Kolya had guessed the name of his companion, he knew his friend would never betray her. On the other hand, it was just as well if Rebecca did not repose too much trust in the Russian.

He took her home, paid off the carriage, and after assuring himself that she was recovering from the shock, he went for a walk. He needed to think.

The streets were still, though high above a wind scattered ragged clouds across the sky, now hiding now revealing the moon. The glassy waters of the Fontanka reflected the white circle briefly, then plunged into darkness, then gleamed again. John leaned against the balustrade. Ideas and images raced through his mind, some clear and some obscure.

He should not have taken Rebecca to the Gypsy camp. It was no place for a respectable female, though he had not suspected how dangerous it could be. It had been a delight to see her face as she watched the dancers, yet he had had to steer her away from the dancing bear, remembering how its trainer had whipped and prodded it into performing on his last visit. She was oversensitive to violence. Not that he enjoyed seeing animals mistreated; he had never frequented cockfights or bull-baiting at home, but he had not actively disapproved. He had never really considered such matters until he met her.

He liked to think he would have gone to the rescue of the Gypsy girl even if Rebecca had not been there.

It was growing chilly standing still. He wandered on, passing a noisy tavern without the least desire to go in. Looking back, his life seemed one long vista of taverns and gaming houses and rowdy companions.

He could not blame his dissatisfaction on the Russians. Even in London, he realized, he had been searching for something more. One by one his friends had moved on. Some had ended in the sponging house, or fled to the Continent, but others had married, taken their seats in the House of Lords, retired to the country to tend their acres, or otherwise converted to a life of sober discretion. New faces had always replaced them, and a few of the old lingered still. Bev, for instance, showed no sign of repentance and could always be counted on for a lark. Of course, that was about all one could count on him for.

And that, thought John in dismay, was exactly what his Grace had said of Bev. Oh lord, was he in danger of turning into the sedate, serious person his father wanted him to be?

Alarmed, he went into the next tavern he passed and ordered a bumper of brandy. It was a shabby place, patronized by labourers and minor clerks, who fell silent when he entered and stared to see a gentleman among them. None spoke French, let alone English.

John drank his brandy and went home to bed, thoroughly blue-devilled. Even his room depressed him though it was a pleasant place, spacious and well-heated. He was not used to living alone, with only a servant. In London most of his friends had hired bachelor apartments, whether they could afford them or not, but despite his profligate habits, he had always stayed in his parents’ house.

To his astonishment and horror, he was forced to admit that he missed his family.

Chapter 14

It was past noon when John was awakened by the arrival of Kolya.

“Get up, lazyhead. We shall miss first race.”

“Lazybones. Sleepyhead. Race?” John rubbed his eyes. He had had a restless night with disturbing dreams.

“Today is day of horse-races at Tsarskoye Selo. You remember, I am to ride in fourth race. So get up your sleepy bones and come.”

John quickly recovered his spirits in the lively atmosphere of the race track. It was largely a military event, with officers riding rather than the trained jockeys he was used to. Many of his acquaintances were there, several of them taking part, and the Tsar had honoured the occasion with his presence. The betting was enthusiastic for the honour of the various regiments was at stake.

With no axe to grind, John laid his wagers on the horses and riders that looked best to him. He won a considerable amount on the first three races, and put his winnings on Kolya in the fourth. The prince led the field from the start and came in two lengths ahead of his nearest rival. Again John bet everything on the next race, and again he was lucky.

“Not lucky, astute,” said Kolya, grinning, and bore him off to celebrate.

It was a riotous celebration. They started with Champagne and the inevitable
zakuski
in the quarters of one of Kolya’s fellow-officers at the nearby military camp. When two more members of the Preobrazhenski regiment won their races, the party spread to the officers’ mess, and then throughout the camp, growing noisier as it expanded.

Kolya invited John and several others to dine at a restaurant in St Petersburg. The sun was setting as the boisterous group drove into the city. There was much uproarious laughter when they found that the prince, in anticipation of his victory, had already reserved a room and ordered a banquet. Turtle soup, asparagus, veal, game and sturgeon were washed down by oceans of wine, and more oceans of vodka followed for the toasts. The floor was littered with smashed glasses by the time there was a general move to adjourn to a gambling hell.

John found himself walking across a bridge with Kolya at his side, some way behind the others. He was pleasantly tipsy, and when Kolya started singing the ballad of
Styenka Razin
he joined in with
Annie Laurie.
After a couple of discordant verses, they somehow ended on the same note.

“Splendid,” said Kolya. The word appealed to him and he repeated, “Splendid, splendid, splendid. England is a splendid country.”

“Annie Laurie’s
Scottish,” John objected.

“No, no, my dear fellow, Annie is an African. But what I mean to say is that it is all thanks to England that I won the race today. Was it today?”

“Think so. Don’t quite follow you, though. In Russia, not England, wasn’t it?”

“It was in England that I learned to judge horses and to ride like an Englishman.”

“Yes, England has the bes’ horses and riders in Europe. In the world. In the universe. You speak ex...ex...splendid English when you’re topheavy, Kolya.”

“It is my English soul speaking. England has not only the best horses but the best gentlemen.” He put his arm round John’s shoulders and said solemnly, “I model myself on the English gentleman. You are my model, John.”

“No!” Shocked, John stopped and stared at his friend. “Not me. Bad model. Very very very bad model. Best choose someone else, old fellow. Choose Andrew or Tom or even his Grace. Dozens of ‘em to choose from.” He waved his arms and nearly overbalanced.

“Come and have some brandy,” Kolya suggested pacifically, pulling on his sleeve, and they caught up with the others as they entered the gaming house.

That night John forgot his rule about mixing drinking and gambling. His luck was in, and the pile of rouleaux and vowels grew before him whether he played faro or boston or whist. In an effort to change their luck, his companions dragged him off to another hell, but he went on winning. They moved again. Somewhere along the way he lost sight of Kolya and found himself singing
Annie Laurie
again, in a demented counterpoint to a chorus of melancholy Russian soldiers. There was a girl on his knee, and another leaning on his shoulder.