The Summer Day is Done (27 page)

Nicholas and Olga finally dismounted. Grand Duke Nicholas, commanding and courtly, handed her into the car at a moment when more Cossacks burst upon the crowded scene, swelling the numbers dangerously in their exuberantly reckless way. Kirby felt as if he was being squeezed by irresistible movement and weight. His mount, a mare, threw up her head. A compact but fiery Cossack stallion snapped its teeth at her. Rolling-eyed she backed, then reared in shrill fright from its odour and viciousness. Kirby toppled backwards, he lost stirrups and seat and thudded to the ground. Olga, standing in the car, saw it all. In paralysing horror she saw the mare wheel and plunge, bringing shod forefeet crashing down. The right hoof broke Kirby’s left arm, the other hoof struck the peaked cap from his head.

The blood drained from Olga’s face. Her gloved hands stifled a scream. There was a disorderly milling of men and horses, the mare shivering. But Nicholas was not as indecisive in a common crisis as in an Imperial one. He shouted a command that was surprisingly clear and authoritative.

‘Nicholas Nicolaievich! Get them clear!’

Grand Duke Nicholas roared, ‘Rabble! Get back, you fools!’ He struck out, a giant of a man undwarfed even by horsed men, and the melee broke apart. Noisy Cossacks sprang from saddles to see to the fallen, unconscious British colonel. They brought him out, one arm limp and dangling, his head bloody.

He awoke to a sense of drowsy comfort, to the light of the late afternoon sun streaming through open windows. Brocaded curtains hung back in soft, heavy folds. The room and its furnishings were in blue and gold, the walls adorned with ikons and pictures. Vases were filled with the spring flowers of the Crimea, each bloom fresh and new, and with its own delicate scent.

The atmosphere was quiet, beautiful.

He knew where he was.

He turned his head, he winced as the movement shattered his drowsiness and brought stabbing pain. It hammered at his temple for long seconds before subsiding to a sensitive ache. His left arm was heavy with plaster, the pain a dull, throbbing insistence. He was in blue pyjamas, the jacket embroidered with the Imperial crest. He lay there, recalling his fall, the breath-robbing impact as the ground rose to meet his back, the plunging forelegs of the frightened horse above him. That had been a moment of fine balance between life and death.

Someone came quietly in. It was Karita. She looked crisply delicious in her full-skirted blue dress with white front. Every golden hair was in
place. She regarded him silently for a moment as if she could not make up her mind whether he had been unforgivably clumsy or excessively unfortunate. She must have given him the benefit of the doubt, for she smiled and said, ‘Poor Ivan Ivanovich, you’re better now?’

‘Better than – oh, great God,’ he said as speech imparted throbs to his skull. ‘What’s happening to my head?’

‘Nothing’s happening now,’ said Karita, ‘the damage is already done. But there was only a small cut and a big bruise, so you haven’t been bandaged. It’s your arm that’s bad, you’ve broken it.’

‘Not me, the horse,’ he said, speaking economically and with care.

‘Well, never mind, you’re all right now,’ said Karita.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘Well, at least you’re better,’ she said. She hoped he was. The Imperial family had been most concerned, the Grand Duchess Olga Nicolaievna distressed. ‘Dr Botkin himself attended to your arm,’ she went on. ‘They put it in splints after it happened and then you were brought here, and Dr Botkin could not have served you better if you’d been the Tsar himself. The Empress telephoned Princess Karinshka and asked if I might come over, and Princess Karinshka too of course. But Her Highness said she’d come tomorrow as long as—’

‘Yes?’ he said as Karita stopped to pat a pillow and hide a smile.

‘As long as you weren’t dying today. She
said you were probably drunk, but not to Her Imperial Highness, of course.’

‘To you.’

‘She wasn’t serious,’ said Karita. ‘Everyone here has been so kind and the children were in such a bother about you. The Tsarevich is not very well himself but he commanded all his sisters to be quiet and to only creep about, as if this was only a small house instead of a palace. The Empress said I’d be a great help to you if I could come and so I came at once. Ivan Ivanovich, you see, you need to be unfortunate to find out how lucky you are. They could not have been kinder to a Grand Duke.’

‘They don’t have to be.’ He winced again. ‘Grand Dukes don’t fall off their horses.’

‘I’ll fetch you something to eat,’ said Karita.

‘Nothing to eat, angel, just some tea. Thank you, Karita.’

‘It isn’t me, it’s our Father Tsar and all his family,’ she said. ‘You should be proud, I am very proud.’

‘Livadia,’ he said abstractedly. ‘Well, I never.’

‘Yes, Livadia,’ said Karita, looking at the open windows, the invading brightness. ‘It’s the loveliest place in the world, full of goodness and God. I’ll fetch the tea.’

He felt drowsy again when she’d gone. He felt at peace. The ache and the pain were unimportant.

He heard the sound of a trolley being wheeled in. He turned his head slowly, keeping the thumping contained to a bearable level. He saw the white trolley and the silver samovar, with the
dish of lemon. He saw the skirt of a primrose-yellow dress. That was odd. He raised his eyes and looked into the face of Olga. Her eyes were dark with concern, her soft wide mouth parted a little. Her dress was waisted by a red sash, her hair unbraided and flowing. She had sat her horse that day in quiet composure, in pride of her father. She had looked superb. Now she was as lovely as the blossoms of spring. And so young, so much beyond him because of her youth and her birth.

The intensity of his love was shattering.

‘I’m absolutely sure you aren’t Karita,’ he said. Each word he spoke seemed to thump in his head, but that was unimportant too.

‘Oh, Mr Kirby!’ Olga was breathless with relief and gladness. ‘Karita said you’d woken up, that you were better— oh, I mean Colonel Kirby, of course. But you were unconscious for so long, are you really better?’

‘Much,’ he said. ‘How is the horse?’

She stared down at him, unable for the moment to place his question in context. Then she understood and she laughed.

‘Oh, I’m so relieved,’ she said, ‘and as for the horse, Alexis says he’ll give it a good talking-to. Everyone is so sorry about your accident but, oh, you see, I said to Alexis days ago that you still might come. I didn’t think it would be this way, which has been very painful for you, but now you’re here Mama will see that you’re well looked after. Your arm isn’t going to matter at all and you’ll have to stay until you’re really better. Oh, I’m talking when I should be doing this.’

She realized she had been rushing on. She turned to the trolley and filled a glass from the samovar. She floated a slice of lemon on the golden liquid.

‘Your Highness—’

‘Oh, no,’ she said swiftly, ‘you’re not to call me that, you know you’re not.’ She turned to him again, not too shy now to show him a little reproof.

He was using his right arm to lever himself up to a sitting position.

‘I thought,’ he said, ‘that if you could punch the pillows up a little –’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’ Olga leaned. She moved the pillows, heaping them. Her hair was a soft whisper close to him, her scent perceptible, her dress rustling. ‘There, how is that?’

The pillows were very comfortable. His broken arm throbbed, his head thumped. But he felt well looked after already.

‘That,’ he said, ‘is fine. Thank you, Olga.’

She carefully handed him the glass of tea. It looked good. He was parched. He took a mouthful. He gulped. It was scalding.

‘What is wrong?’ she asked, quick with anxiety.

‘Too hot,’ he said.

Olga shook her head and her hair shimmered. ‘Oh, that’s nothing compared with everything else. I thought – we thought – well, it was so frightening for a moment.’

‘It was my own fault,’ said Kirby, ‘I was paying too much attention to you, thinking how splendid you looked. Then there was a bump and I was absolutely sure I was going to miss my lunch.’

‘It looked much worse than your lunch,’ said Olga. ‘Papa was so good. When he saw how bad you seemed he said, “This is infernally distressing, what’s the best thing to do now?” So I said, “It’s our fault in a way, Papa, so we’d better take him back to Livadia with us and let Dr Botkin see to him.” And Papa said, “Splendid,” and began to order everyone about in the most practical way until everything was arranged to his satisfaction. Then he began the drive home and we followed with you in another motor car. Well, it was thought best that an army surgeon should be with you and I sat with you too. Papa was most agreeable about that. He said army surgeons were the most considerate of fellows but not quite as considerate as women.’

‘Oh, much less, Olga,’ he smiled. ‘Karita was right, you’ve all been wonderful and it was only my arm. Thank you for everything.’

‘But it wasn’t only your arm,’ she said, ‘it was your head where the horse kicked you. There, at the side of your head, where you have the most awful bruise.’ She reached out, indicating with a characteristically shy gesture the livid bruise on his temple and spreading beneath his hair. ‘There was only a small cut but it bled such a lot, and you were so still in the car, so pale, and I was so—’ She drew in breath. ‘Oh, I was very silly. See, you’re sitting up now and we need not worry about you at all, need we? But I’m not being very good for you, I’m talking too much and Mama said you were to have quiet.’

‘No, Olga Nicolaievna,’ he said.

‘I’m not being very good for you?’

‘You’re not talking too much.’

Olga smiled happily at that. He did not know how happy she always was at finding how easy it was to talk to him. She could not help her shyness or the way it constrained her in conversation with people. She did not suffer in that way with Colonel Kirby.

Colonel Kirby drank the hot tea slowly. Olga regarded him. His dark brown hair was unusually tousled. He had no beard. She must ask him about that. Perhaps Aleka Petrovna was responsible, not liking him with a beard. It did make him look younger. Tatiana would exclaim extravagantly over his handsomeness.

‘Colonel Kirby?’ Olga was suddenly aware that he was pale under his tan. ‘Oh, you aren’t feeling too well, are you? But I’m sure you will be in a few days and then you’ll be able to get up. The children can’t wait to see you and you should hear Tatiana—’

‘Ah, Tatiana,’ he said gravely.

‘Yes, she’s still quite devoted,’ said Olga, ‘but Mama says no one is to bother you yet, not even Tatiana.’

‘Will you thank Her Imperial Highness for me?’ he said. ‘But tell her it could never be a bother. Olga, I could not be more favoured.’

She was like her mother in her sensitivity, and his sincerity had an alarmingly weakening effect on her. Covering up, she said brightly, ‘You’ve taken off your beard. Why did you do that?’

‘They don’t like them in the British army,’ he said, ‘I think they think beards get in the way.’

‘Well,’ said Olga, ‘I simply can’t conceive what
they could get in the way of, but I’m sure Tatiana will consider you extremely dashing with a moustache and a broken arm.’

‘And my heroic tendency to fall off a horse,’ he said.

Olga’s smile was quick with delight.

‘Oh, we’re all so glad you’re here,’ she said, ‘Livadia will be such fun again. Well, it will be when you can come down into the gardens. I must go now, I’ve tired you enough and Karita will come to serve you more tea if you wish it.’

She did not want to go but her mother had said she could see Colonel Kirby for just five minutes. She could not stay longer, she gave him a smile and went. Kirby thought the room had been suddenly deprived of its brightest flower. He leaned back, his eyes turned towards the open windows.

Outside Livadia was greenly alive with the warm freshness of spring, a spring that was like soft summer.

He thought of Olga, of her unkissed mouth.

He thought of the sophisticated beauty of Princess Aleka Petrovna.

Olga had spoiled him for that.

He dropped into welcome sleep. He awoke when the night had come, velvet and dark. He was out of bed and in the bathroom when Karita looked in. She saw the light under the bathroom door. She returned to his bedside and switched on the light there. It gave a shaded golden glow. She talked to herself until he came out of the bathroom wearing the blue linen pyjamas that belonged to the Tsar. Nicholas did not wear silk.

‘Well, you’re a fine one,’ said Karita, seeing how awkwardly he held his plastered arm to his chest. ‘Dr Botkin said you weren’t to get up and walk about yet, he’s not sure about your head.’

‘Sometimes, Karita, I must get up.’

‘You should ring first and I’ll come and help you.’

‘My dear girl,’ he said, ‘I haven’t lost a leg.’

She ignored that. She saw him back into bed. She tucked in the bedclothes and straightened the pillows. He glowered at her. She ignored that too.

‘If you can’t sleep,’ she said, ‘Dr Botkin says you’re to take two drops of that in water.’ She showed him a small bottle next to a glass of water on the bedside table.

‘Very well, Miss Nightingale,’ he said.

‘Who is Miss Nightingale?’ asked Karita. In the glow of the lamp she looked warmly golden.

‘Someone lovely and compassionate. And strictly efficient. You’re just like her.’

Karita made a final adjustment to the bedclothes.

‘You must go to sleep,’ she said. ‘Her Highness Princess Aleka Petrovna will be here tomorrow and you must be at your best for her.’

‘Is she coming to see if I’m dead or to see if I was drunk?’

‘Ivan Ivanovich,’ said Karita, holding herself in so that her desire to giggle was tightly constrained, ‘that is not at all a nice thing to say. A man came to see her this morning.’

The irrelevance of this penetrated his ache.

‘Andrei Mikhailovich?’ he offered.

‘A different kind of man,’ said Karita, ‘who only looks at you and doesn’t speak to you. He has eyes like a fish four days old. His name is Prolofski. He would only speak to her Highness.’