The Property of a Lady (11 page)

In the end, though, he had agreed to compromise. They would go to Turkey for the months of May and June, avoiding the worst of the heat, and return later in the autumn. In between they would take up Prince Misha Ivanoff’s long-standing invitation to visit St. Petersburg. When the prince had been reading ancient history at Oxford, the professor had become both his mentor and his friend, and the two had corresponded ever since.

But in Turkey he had sat up night after night, excitedly writing his notes by the light of a flickering oil lamp with never a thought for the marauding mosquitoes. After only three weeks he had been stricken with the severe chills and fevers of malaria. The dig was in a remote area, a hundred miles from the nearest village, and there was no doctor. The quinine and patent medicines Missie had brought along did little to help, and he quickly became dehydrated from the fever. She nursed him anxiously for a week, and then, quite suddenly, he seemed to pick up again. He had told her eagerly that he wanted to get back to his work, but she had thought his eyes looked a little more tired, and his hands had trembled. He had suddenly looked, she remembered with a pang, like an old man.

How she wished she had insisted they return to England, but again she had compromised; they would go to Russia, where her father would recuperate at the palatial Ivanoff villa on the Crimean coast.

The villa had turned out to be more like a marble palace, spacious and cool and with every luxury, including dozens of servants to cater to her every whim. But she barely noticed because the professor immediately fell ill again. Despite the best medical care, Marcus Octavius Byron
had died two days later. His last words were “Take care of yourself, Missie. There are big changes ahead of you now.” He had pressed her hand lightly and, without even a sigh, he was gone. Missie had no other living relatives. Without her father, she was alone in the world.

He was buried the next day in the immaculate little Orthodox churchyard on a hill overlooking the indigo-blue sea far below. There was no time for Prince Misha to travel the thousands of miles from St. Petersburg to mourn his old colleague, but when Missie followed her father’s coffin into the cool domed white church, she found it filled with the prince’s own friends who were holidaying at their villas.

They had murmured words of comfort and encouragement as they accompanied her back to the Ivanoff villa, sipping endless glasses of tea and watching her with troubled eyes. “Why does she not cry?” they had whispered to each other worriedly, because they were used to the great outpourings of emotion that were so Russian. “She is so young … only sixteen … and all alone in the world now, Misha Ivanoff says….”

The tears had come the next day, alone in the cushioned comfort of the Ivanoff private train as it took her to St. Petersburg to stay with the prince and his family. And then when she finally got there and met Misha, her whole life had changed, just as her father had said it would.

The big Ivanoff houses were filled with a mixture of relations, ancient maiden aunts and widowed second cousins, who all lived happily amid a flurry of knitting needles, spicy gossip, and a faint odor of peppermint and cologne. An extra person here and there only added to the expansive Russian family hospitality. But Verity Byron was special; the hearts of all the Ivanoffs went out to her in her loneliness and grief, and with no family of her own to go back to, she soon became one of them. And of course, she was hopelessly in love with Misha.

Looking back now, Missie thought the time seemed to
have passed too quickly and she longed with all her heart to be able to turn back the clock. If only they hadn’t gone to Turkey her father would still be here … if only she hadn’t fallen in love with Misha Ivanoff and had gone home to Oxford … if only there had been no revolution and things had stayed as they were … she wouldn’t be running for her life, with the double responsibility of an old woman and a small child to look after.

It was two days before the train finally made its way through the snowdrifts into Dvorsk, and in all that time Alexei had said not a word. His huge frightened eyes had followed Grigori as he paced the bakery, raging at the railway’s inefficiency. Only if Grigori was there would Alexei eat the bowls of thin soup and the bitter black rye bread, still warm from the baker’s oven. And whenever Grigori put on his coat and went to the door he would find Alexei at his side, staring at him silently, a forlorn little figure following at his heels like a dog faithful to his new master.

The ancient steam engine, fueled with small mountains of logs, spat smoke and sparks into the foggy, freezing early-morning air. Suddenly a great crowd converged on the small station, pushing and shouting as they fought their way onto the already-crowded train. Their carriage had at one time been the luxurious private coach of an official of the railway company, but now it was reserved exclusively for Grigori and his entourage. There was no heat or light, but the velvet seats were cushioned, and two young officers carried a milk churn filled with soup, some loaves of bread, and candles. Compared with the other passengers, crammed onto slatted wooden seats or on the bare floors and corridors, and even lying on the overhead luggage racks, they were traveling in comfort.

Every so often the train would stop and Grigori would jump from the carriage and stride along the track, conferring angrily with the engine driver. But the engine was
old and the fuel not enough, so that even when it started again, it merely crawled along.

Soldiers in tattered makeshift uniforms patrolled the length of the train, demanding identification papers and travel permits. Every so often, as the senior officer on board, Grigori would be called upon to arbitrate over some infringement of the rules. Although he was a hard man, he still felt a kinship for those of peasant background. He knew most were only trying to rejoin their scattered families and he dealt leniently with them. The case of the English girl was different.

She was standing in the corridor in the grip of a pair of dirty, unkempt soldiers, and Grigori noticed two things about her: She was very beautiful in a cool, European way, and she was very angry. Her violet eyes flashed sparks of contempt at her captors.

“Tell them to take their hands off me,
at once,”
Missie commanded in excellent Russian. “They have no right to treat an Englishwoman this way.”

She turned to look at him, catching her breath as she recognized him, almost blurting out the question that burned in her brain day and night: “Where is Alexei?” But instead she stared down at Solovsky’s boots, biting her lip. She and Sofia had come to a decision in the long wait at the Yeventlovs’ hut. Everything that was past had to be pushed from their minds, buried with their dead. If they were to survive they could only look forward. And Missie desperately wanted to survive.

At a word from Grigori, the soldiers let go her arms. She rubbed her bruises, avoiding his eyes, wondering nervously if he recognized her. Her mouth felt dry with fear and she thrust her hands behind her back so he would not see them trembling. Solovsky continued to stare at her silently. Her head ached with strain and weariness. They had been on the train for over twelve hours; there was no heat and even though they were bundled in padded coats with babushkas, the traditional headscarves, tied under
their chins so they looked like ordinary peasant women, only the crowded animal heat of too many bodies had kept them from freezing. Madame Yeventlov had prepared a small package of food for them, but they had not dared take it out during daylight for fear it would be torn from their grasp by the starving peasants, many of whom were drunk on homemade potato vodka. They ate only under cover of darkness. Not knowing how long the journey might take, they were forced to ration the bread and piroshkis, the little pasties filled with potatoes and vegetables. There were no lights on the train and they dared not sleep, afraid for their lives in the pitch-dark night.

They had told themselves it could all be endured; that eventually the train would get to St. Petersburg. Then they would take a train to Yalta on the Crimean coast where the people were still loyal to the “White” Russian cause, and they would be safe. They had no papers and no luggage and very little money, but somehow they would do it. Only now she was about to be interrogated by Solovsky, and all their lives depended on what she said. And as she looked at Solovsky, she knew her story had better be a good one because this man’s eyes told her he had seen and heard it all before.

Solovsky allowed the silence to lengthen as he studied her. Was that a flicker of fear he had seen in her eyes? He shrugged. She had a right to be frightened, being manhandled by those two beasts. And yet what was she doing, a young foreign woman alone on this train in such dangerous times? “Who are you?” he asked finally. “And where are your papers?”

Missie took a deep breath and said, “I am the widow of Morris O’Bryan, an engineer with the American Westinghouse Company, in St. Petersburg. My husband was killed three weeks ago when a bomb destroyed part of the plant. I am with my mother-in-law and my young daughter. We were trying to get home through Finland but there were no more trains. We waited over a week; I thought
the only solution was to return to St. Petersburg and see what happens….”

Grigori let her stumble through her story in silence. He had long ago perfected an unblinking stare that destroyed the lies and half truths frightened men wove around themselves. But this girl merely stuck her chin in the air and said haughtily, “Would you please tell your men to allow us to continue our journey in peace!”

Solovsky barked a sudden command and the soldiers hurried back down the corridor, returning moments later with Sofia and Xenia. Viktor padded beside them, showing his fangs in a snarl as they waited nervously for what might happen next.

Grigori inspected them carefully. The old woman was dressed poorly but there was a certain air about her. Despite himself, Grigori felt that old, deep-rooted peasant instinct to doff his cap. Thrusting his hands into his pockets, he turned to the child. He knew children always spoke the truth.

“What is your name, little girl?” he asked in English.

“Her name is Alice Lee O’Bryan,” Missie intercepted hurriedly. Alice Lee was the name of her own dead mother. She held her breath, staring at Xenia; all their lives depended on the next words of a child not yet three years old.

Her palms were slippery with sweat and she dared not look at Sofia as Solovsky asked again, “What is your name, little girl?”

Xenia stared back at him with that blank, dreamy look Missie knew so well. Suddenly her face lighted up and her pansy-gold eyes sparkled with amusement. Twirling a flaxen curl around her plump baby finger, she smiled trustingly at Solovsky. “Azaylee,” she told him. “My name is Azaylee O’Bryan!”

Instinct told Grigori something was wrong and he stared hard at the child, but she just smiled back at him, twisting the curl around her finger. He knew he should
question her again, but then he might look like an ignorant peasant fool in front of these foreigners. “Did you inspect their luggage?” he asked the soldiers instead.

“Our luggage was stolen,” Missie said quickly, “and all our papers. We have only what we are wearing.”

“I apologize for the behavior of my countrymen,” Grigori said formally. “I shall be pleased to give you a document that will ensure your safe travel without further molestation.”

Sending one of the men to fetch the forms from his carriage, he added, “A word of advice. The Crimea is the only gateway left from Russia. But do not linger in St. Petersburg. Go straight to Kursk Station and take the first train south, or it will be too late.”

Missie could hardly believe it as he filled out a form and stamped it with the official seal of authorization. “I wish you a safe journey, madame,” he said, signing it with a flourish.

Their eyes met as she took it from him and whispered, “Thank you.” And then she hurried back along the corridor, urging the others along in front of her, aware of Grigori Solovsky’s speculative glance following them every inch of the way.

Paris

Leyla Kazahn was enjoying the rare luxury of a day alone at her Paris home on the Ile St-Louis. It was cold and gray with a threat of snow but she welcomed the chance to breathe clean fresh air after the stuffy overcrowded salons and hot, smoky photographic studios where she spent most of her time. She was wearing a violet shearling jacket, jeans, and boots, and with her long dark hair pulled back and no makeup, she looked like a different girl from the sleek model of the Paris catwalks and fashion magazines. Only her extraordinary eyes, almond-shaped and a blazing blue, betrayed her identity.

When she was just seventeen, she had been discovered by an agent browsing in Barney’s. He had whisked her to the city’s grandest photographer, who had insisted on taking pictures of her there and then, a simple unadorned schoolgirl in a T-shirt and jeans. He had emphasized her delicate mixture of the East and the West, and before she knew it
Vogue
was commissioning pictures. Instead of going on to study at the Sorbonne, Leyla had a calender booked a year ahead with modeling assignments. Of course now she had to live in Europe, but right from the beginning she had insisted on keeping two months free every year, because even though she was happy in her spacious Paris apartment, the place that held her heart, her home, and her family, with all its timeless traditions, was Istanbul.