Carola Dunn (9 page)

“You have convinced me. I daresay he will be ambassador in no time. Let me help you pin up your hair.”

Rebecca realized that in confiding his hopes to her John had shown his trust as fully as she had when she told him of her uncle’s violence.

Not another word of disparagement passed Teresa’s lips, and Rebecca noticed that John grew less self-conscious about his poor pronunciation. When the others conversed in Russian, for Teresa and Andrew’s grasp of the language was already excellent, he joined in, sometimes in stumbling Russian and sometimes in English. Nonetheless, when the
Daisy 0
sailed into the Gulf of Finland and St Petersburg was just a day or two away, his usual cheerfulness faded and he often fell silent.

The day before they were due to land, Rebecca found him on deck, leaning on the rail and gazing moodily at an island that lay ahead. She went to stand beside him.

Though she longed to ask him what was troubling him, she said only, “There are more ships visible now than we have seen throughout the voyage.”

“Yes, because we are approaching the harbour, and because it freezes all winter so the merchants are making up for lost time now that spring is on the way. There are Russian naval vessels about, too. That island is the naval base of Kronshtadt. It guards the approaches to St Petersburg.”

“It will be wonderful to walk on solid land again.”

“I suppose so. I wish Andrew were not so devilish secretive about what I shall be doing at the embassy! If they expect me to be able to speak the lingo, they are in for a disappointment,” he said gloomily.

“Andrew does keep saying you will not need to.”

“How am I to succeed at any job without it? And if I am a failure, his Grace will not help me to a seat in Parliament.”

“There must be a way to enter Parliament without your father’s help. I am certain you can do it if you put your mind to it.”

He smiled wryly and patted her hand. “You are the only creature in the world with any faith in me. Do you really think I can do it? I daresay I shall be as useless at that as at all else, but I have been talking to Annie about her experiences as a slave and I am determined to join the fight. Look, that ship is sailing towards us. That is the flag of the Imperial Navy, if I am not mistaken.”

Even as he spoke, the Russian ship took up a parallel course and hailed the
Daisy 0.
An answering shout rang across the water. Sailors on both vessels scampered to lower sails and their wakes died as they slowed. A pinnace was lowered from the Russian ship’s side.

The captain of the
Daisy 0
appeared on deck, a thick sheaf of papers under his arm. Sir Andrew joined him, leafing through more papers, as a Russian in an elaborate uniform climbed up the rope ladder lowered for him. Salutes were exchanged and the three retired to the bridge. Rebecca and John watched the official go through both stacks of papers with studious care. He produced a stamp from his satchel and stamped several, then took out some more documents and added them to the piles. Once more salutes were exchanged, and the Russian departed, somehow preserving his dignity despite the swaying rope ladder.

Andrew joined them, shaking his head ruefully.

“The most bureaucratic country in the world.” He showed them five or six different seals and signatures. “Nothing can be done without permission from at least three ministries and, in our case, the Russian Embassy in London. Not to mention letters of introduction from our Foreign Office to the Russian ministers, the Imperial Court, and Lord Cathcart, our ambassador. It’s amazing they ever get anything done.”

“How did you get papers for me?” Rebecca asked. “I only joined you at the very last moment.”

“I’m afraid you are classified as a servant. Since most Russian servants are serfs, and thus a form of property, they are simply added to their masters’ papers. John was more difficult, but it is wonderful how a determined duke can cut through red tape even of the Russian variety.”

John snorted. “He must have been very eager to place me under your eye.”

“It’s true you will be reporting chiefly to me. And I think this is the moment to explain what you will be doing, before we are surrounded by listening ears and prying eyes. Pray excuse us, Rebecca.”

The two gentlemen strolled off to a part of the deck out of earshot of both Rebecca and the crew. She could see the tension in John’s broad shoulders as he bowed his head to listen to the slight figure beside him. She turned away, a prey to her own forebodings.

With a nationful of prospective Russian teachers in the offing and Annie no longer plagued by nausea, she saw her usefulness to the Graylins at an end. Though she did not for a moment suppose that they would cast her off, her future was uncertain.

She leaned miserably against the rail, wondering if she should offer to go back to England on the next ship, whether Cousin Adelaide had already found a new companion. Or perhaps she should look for a position as a governess in a Russian family, where she could teach both English and French. At least then she might see John occasionally—and the Graylins of course.

“Rebecca!” John was returning to her, a spring in his step, grinning. “Splendid news! I wish I could tell you but Andrew says no one is to know, not even Teresa.”

He seized her in a bear hug and swung her around till she gasped for breath.

Chapter 8

John was provided with lodgings in a house belonging to the British Embassy, which was shared by most of the unmarried embassy staff. As son of a duke rejoicing in the official, if vague, position of attaché, he had three spacious rooms and he was allotted a personal valet.

Like all the servants, except the English butler, the man was an English-speaking Russian, assigned by the Russian Foreign Ministry and doubtless reporting thereto. John realized what Andrew had meant about prying eyes.

His first evening in St Petersburg, he dined in the common room. Most of his fellow-diplomats were present, in honour of his arrival, along with a few guests from other embassies and one or two Russians. A long table ran down the room. Silver gleamed on the spotless white cloth and crystal sparkled in the candlelight. Slightly disappointed, John felt he might as well be attending a convivial bachelor dinner in London.

The military attaché, Colonel Sir Humphrey Wharton, performed the introductions, then they all gathered round a side table. On it were a number of bottles, and a couple of dozen dishes, most of which John did not recognize.

“Zakuski,”
said the slim young man standing next to him, the Honourable Sebastian Crane. “Hors d’oeuvres. Pickled fish, pickled mushrooms, pickled cabbage, pickled bees’ knees for all I know. That revolting-looking mess is the best caviar, which is never exported. Then of course there’s cheese, radishes, sausage and so on if you don’t feel adventurous. Allow me to pour you a glass of vodka, my lord.”

John accepted a plate filled with various tidbits that someone else pressed on him, and cautiously tried the salted sturgeon. It was delicious. He took the glass Mr. Crane handed him and sipped.

“They drink this by choice?” he choked, his throat on fire.

Mr. Crane and a couple of bystanders laughed.

“Yes, but not like that.” Mr. Crane raised his own glass in a toast, then tossed the entire contents back. “If you do it right, it misses the epiglottis and goes down quite smoothly. You don’t even have to taste it. Try again.” He topped up John’s glass.

After two or three painful attempts, John caught the knack. A glowing warmth spread outward from his belly. “Not bad,” he admitted.

The second secretary arrived and they sat down to dinner. A tolerable Hungarian wine was served with the meal. Thirsty after the salty
zakuski,
John indulged freely, nor did he refuse a snifter of the excellent cognac that followed.

“The Russkis brought it back from Paris by the hogshead,” someone explained when he commented on its superiority.

“Much went also to England,
nyet?”
said a Russian seated opposite, grinning.

A Frenchman some way down the table scowled.

At peace with the world, John leaned towards him and said genially, in atrociously pronounced French, “There is nothing to compare with French wines, monser.
Reeang dew toot.”

That, he thought with great satisfaction, should establish his reputation as an appalling linguist.

After dinner, the Honourable Sebastian invited John to join a group of the younger diplomats at a popular tavern. The friendly Russian, a somewhat dandified gentleman named Count Boris Ivanovich Solovyov, went with them.

As they left the house, a sleepy
drozhky
driver
offered his services. Crane waved him away.

“Let’s walk,” he suggested. “Clear our heads before we start again.”

Chatting and laughing, they strolled through the dark streets of St Petersburg. On the way from the harbour to the embassy, John had noted the wide thoroughfares, lined with the magnificent classical palaces of the nobility. Now they plunged into a maze of lanes and alleys behind the mansions. An occasional rush torch showed tenements crowded round squalid courtyards where dirty snow still lay in piles, hidden from even the noonday sun. There were wooden huts, too, leaning drunkenly askew. Now and then John heard raucous laughter or the sound of steady cursing.

They crossed a bridge over a canal and came to another wide street, though less splendid than those they had left behind. On the opposite side a door stood open. From it issued a hubbub of voices and the strains of a lively tune played on unfamiliar instruments.

“Balalaikas play tonight,” said the Russian as they went up the steps and entered a crowded room hazy with tobacco smoke. “Is fine welcome for new visitor. Allow me to offer you Champagne, milord.”

He turned away, waving his ebony cane to summon a waiter, and Sebastian Crane murmured in John’s ear, “Watch out. Spy.”

John nodded his comprehension. His heart beat faster and an involuntary smile curved his lips. His mission was off to a good start.

The count, Boris Ivanovich he insisted on being called, challenged him to a game of piquet. They sat at a small table at the side of the room. The waiter brought fresh cards, and two bottles of Champagne.

“Yeshcho nagrablennoye voini,”
Boris Ivanovich remarked, indicating the bottles.

More spoils of war. John looked at him blankly, feigning incomprehension.

“You do not speak our language? Odd, for diplomat, is it not?” He eased the cork out of the first bottle and poured.

“Da,”
said John, breaking open a pack of cards and shuffling.
“Nyet.
To tell the truth, I’m not really much of a diplomat.” He confided the story of the botched duel and his subsequent exile.

“This duel, it was a joke? You English are truly strange nation. In Russia we take our honour seriously.”

They began to play. The count was a fairly skilful player and John concentrated hard until he had fathomed the other’s style. In a few minutes he knew he was better. He set out to win modestly—he had no desire to become known as a lucky gambler but, though Andrew had said the embassy would cover his losses to some extent, neither did he choose to be thought a dupe.

He sipped sparingly at his Champagne.

“You prefer
krasnoye vino?”
asked his opponent. “Red wine? Or brandy?”

“Thank you, no. The Champagne is excellent. However, though he has his mistaken notions, the duke taught me in early youth that drink and cards don’t mix and I have found the precept serves me well.”

“Another interesting oddity. Few Russians are able to drink with moderation.” The count gestured towards a large table nearby where a dozen or more hussars were toasting each other noisily.

John glanced at them occasionally as he played. Several of them had girls on their knees or leaning against their shoulders. Once more he might almost have imagined himself back in London at the Royal Saloon, except that now and then, after a particularly spirited toast, the soldiers tossed their glasses over their shoulders to smash on the floor.

He caught snatches of their conversation and gathered that it was a farewell party. Five of the young officers were leaving next day for a garrison in the south. It was the sort of information he was listening for, but not being seated with them he heard no details. He needed an introduction to military circles.

“Do you know Prince Volkov?” he asked the count.

“Minister Mikhail Denisovich?” The man was startled. “I have seen him only, never introduced. Is very important person. Why you ask?”

“Must be his son.” John laughed at the idea of the dashing young blade he had known rising to ministerial status. “He was in London in 1814 as aide-de-camp to your emperor. Kolya, his name was.”

“Knyaz Nikolai Mikhailovich. Da,
he is in Imperial Guards, I believe. I am not acquainted, but perhaps Vladimir Dmitrievich can help you.” He called to one of the officers at the next table.

The hussar extricated himself from the embrace of his doxy and stumbled over to join them. His face was red, his waxed moustache drooping, and his scarlet, silver-laced uniform jacket unbuttoned.

“Boris Ivanovich!” he cried, and embraced the count, kissing him heartily on both cheeks.

The count fended him off and brushed fastidiously at his elegant coat. Switching to flawless French, he performed the introductions.

“Captain Prince Vladimir Dmitrievich Vasilyevski, Lord John Danville.”

Before he could dodge, John in his turn was subjected to a hug and kisses from the drunken soldier.

“My dear English friend, you must call me Volodya,” he insisted in atrocious French.

John was glad to agree, since he was sure he would never be able to get his tongue around the fellow’s Christian name and patronymic, let alone his surname. In equally bad French he explained that he wanted to make contact with Prince Nikolai Volkov.

“Nikolai Mikhailovich? Of course, I take you tomorrow. Vodka!” he shouted to a passing waiter. “You drink with me, very sad day, little brother he go away.” He burst into tears.