Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-One
O lga’s not heartbroken, Anna told herself. If only her aunt could have seen her dancing with the tsar at Prince Kochubey’s reception! It was natural that Varenka should want to think well of her niece, but Olga wasn’t languishing in St. Petersburg. She was having the time of her life.
The days that followed were so busy, Anna forgot about Olga Bulgarin. Compared to the stiff grandeur of St. Petersburg, the informality of Moscow society appealed to her. She liked the city’s authenticity, the buzz of life and combination of old and new. Varenka took her to visit the great bazaar, a vast treasure-trove containing all the riches of the east. The shops could only be reached by individual ladder steps and sold everything from Siberian pelts to golden icons and precious stones. There were chests of tea from China, lacquered wood from India and Arabian horses for sale. Bukhara merchants with long beards and embroidered caps laid out colourful shawls and Anna bought one, along with boots, gloves and furs for the journey.
The church bells of Moscow rang from morning to night until Anna no longer noticed them. Other sounds stayed with her – the sharp cries of the fruit sellers, the gruff voices of horse dealers and smooth enticements of merchants. Varenka found her a pawnbroker where her zhemchuzhina fetched a good price. As she handed them over, she remembered the night her parents gave them to her and her eyes welled up. Mama and Papa want me to marry Boris Renin, she reminded herself. I can’t go back. Not yet. One day I’ll return to St. Petersburg and make my peace with them.
Anna’s education had been similar to other girls of her milieu. She was fluent in French and spoke Italian and English better than Russian. Her childhood had been happy; yet, looking back, it seemed cloying and claustrophobic. Our lives were too sheltered, she thought now; we were as unprepared for happiness as we were for disaster. I had so many dreams – my art and love for Peter – but knew nothing of the real world.
In Moscow, for the first time, Anna experienced a new sense of independence. Her only concern was for Sofia. Why was there no news? She couldn’t visit the Pavels. Instead, she wrote to Omelko, enclosing money for the journey home and thanking him for his kindness. Varenka arranged for the letter to be taken by hand. Omelko was the last link with home and, when the letter had gone, Anna felt bereft.
‘Do you miss St. Petersburg?’ Varenka enquired astutely.
‘I’ve never been away from home before but I’m happy here. You’ve been very kind.’
When asked, Anna evaded a definitive answer as to the duration of her visit. Sofia must write soon and surely Maria had arrived in Moscow by now? She would pay her a visit in the next few days, she decided as she slipped into the easy-going routine of the Bulgarin household.
The gates leading into the courtyard from the street were never locked so that visitors walked through the servants’ quarters, up the stairs and into the hall to arrive unannounced. A constant stream of friends and acquaintances passed through the house and the humming of the samovar ceased only at mealtimes. Two young maids with trays and cups mingled with the guests until lunchtime, when it was whisked away and tables wheeled in, laden with caviar, smoked herring, lobster and cheese. Meals were accompanied by an assortment of vodkas and, when the last course finished and the table was cleared, the samovar returned as a signal for conversation to begin again.
Sometimes Nicholas joined them, sometimes not. Then, one morning, he offered to show Anna his library. Among a collection of Russian books, there were works by Voltaire and Madame de Stael and, in the lower shelves, the poetry of Byron, Keats and Shelley.
Nicholas told her to borrow whatever she liked and went to his desk while Anna sat reading in a chair. She loved books – the smell of leather and smooth vellum pages – but most of all she loved the work of Alexander Pushkin. Nicholas had the latest instalment of his verse novel Eugene Onegin – right up to the moment when Onegin shot the poet, Lensky, in a duel. Anna was so absorbed she didn’t notice he had left his desk and was standing by her. A tear slid down her cheek as she came to the end, and he took the book out of her hands.
‘Don’t tell me Monsieur Pushkin’s made you cry.’
‘But the poet was Onegin’s friend,’ Anna mumbled, searching in her pocket for a handkerchief. ‘He killed his best friend.’
‘And you, my dear, are too sentimental.’
‘Pushkin believes it better to have a thousand dreams than never dream at all.’
‘Our great poet should stop making pronouncements and curb his addiction to duelling. If he fires his pistols over every woman he loves, he’ll be dead before his time.’
‘But he’s a romantic. He can’t help but feel passionately. How can he write poetry if his heart’s closed?’
‘Romantics use pretty words but they’re blind to the inconsistencies of human nature.’
‘Why are you so contemptuous of love?’
The question slipped out before Anna could censor it. She didn’t mean to challenge him, but his attitude perplexed her. She fell silent and it was moment before he answered.
‘I’m not contemptuous of love – but I pity those who fall under its spell. I’ve known too many people seduced by romantic illusion. They believe they’re in love until one day they wake up and find boredom and bitterness have taken over their hearts.’
Just now, as she began to warm to him, he had to say something to annoy her. Nicholas was a cynic, Anna thought. Had he ever felt deeply about anything? Was his outward manner some kind of pretext – a defence against sentiments he refused to acknowledge? He wasn’t coarse or ill-mannered, but nor was he a gentleman in the sense that she understood. He had a bold way of assessing women, his physical attraction at odds with his lack of emotion, adding to the confusion he aroused in her.
‘I’m leaving for St. Petersburg at the end of the month.’ His voice broke into her thoughts. ‘You’re welcome to accompany me, should you wish.’
‘Thank you but I’ve no intention of returning north. I expect to hear of our departure for Siberia any day now.’
‘I think that’s unlikely. The doctors are bound to recommend that Madame Brianski waits until after the birth of her child.’
Sofia’s pregnancy was not a subject to be discussed with a man, let alone a bachelor. In polite society, women only discussed such matters behind closed doors and Anna shifted uncomfortably in her chair. ‘Let Sofia be the best judge of that. If wives are forced to choose between their husbands and their children, we’ve no right to interfere.’
‘I’m not interfering, merely alerting you to the dangers of a miscarriage. Such a journey is perilous for a woman in her condition.’
It was shameful for a man to be so indelicate. If Nicholas had any decency, he would drop the subject. Anna was embarrassed by his directness and answered with as much dignity as she could. ‘Sofia’s determined to go to Siberia. She will make the journey, with or without me.’
‘You carry a heavy burden of responsibility, Anna Ivanova. Madame Brianski is indeed blessed to have such a selfless sister-in-law. I’m only sorry you’ve made up your mind to abandon your family.’
‘Sasha and Sofia are also my family.’
‘Indeed, but they’re not your parents.’
‘My parents have their own ideas regarding my future. They want me to marry Boris Renin.’
Nicholas shook his head incredulously. ‘That must be the strangest thing I ever heard.’
‘Mama’s even suggested I paint his portrait.’
‘Hardly a contract of marriage! Has Major Renin kissed you?’
The question was so unexpected it brought Anna to her feet. ‘Of course, not.’
‘So, what makes you think he wants to marry you?’ His eyes behind their blue gaze held a glint and Anna felt an inexplicable tremor in her hand. She didn’t want Nicholas to think it was vanity that made her so certain of Renin and she met his gaze squarely.
‘My family may be in disgrace but we’re not poor. Major Renin seeks wealth and social position, I’m sure. Since my brother’s exile, I’m the heir to my father’s fortune. He’s despicable and I dislike everything about him.’
‘Have you ever been kissed, Anna Ivanova?’
His shift of mood threw Anna. She was aware of his gaze, lingering on her neck and throat. Was he mocking her or making advances? Surely, he wouldn’t be so bold as to try anything when she was a guest in his home? Her thoughts showed in her eyes and he laughed softly as he returned the book to the casement.
‘One day some lucky man will kiss you. I hope you won’t be disappointed when the time comes.’
Anna refused to dignify the remark with an answer. Nicholas was outrageous, flirting with her one minute, then patronising her as if she were a child. What on earth would he say or do next? She was relieved when he changed the subject.
‘Would you like to go for a drive after lunch? If so, I’ll ask Varenka to accompany us.’
*
As it turned out, Varenka was busy that afternoon and, by the time they left, the sun was setting. Anna sat alone in the back of the troika covered in bearskins as Nicholas mounted the driving board. The sleigh was pulled by three horses abreast, the shaft horse in the centre carrying the painted arc of the duga. The tracers on either side pranced with heads bent outwards, their harnesses strung with bells that made a jingling crescendo as they set off.
Omelko had taught her the art of driving a troika so Anna knew how difficult it was – how the driver must manipulate the horses through four sets of reins, all the while keeping the shaft horse at a different pace to the other two. They drove through the streets, and Nicholas guided them with his voice, keeping them at a steady canter. As they passed through the gates and reached open ground, the horses twitched their ears forwards, tugging at the traces, and he gave them their heads.
They were galloping fast and a fine spray of snow rushed past Anna’s face. She loved the intoxicating pace of the sleigh, the plunging horses and whistle of runners. Le vertige de la vitesse was in her blood – a craving for speed born in every Russian. Exhilaration made the blood sprint through her body so she wanted to shout and wave her arms and, when Nicholas glanced back, she laughed aloud. She admired his strength and skill as he slowed the horses and turned their heads towards home.
The sky was dark with impending snow and, as they neared Vozdvizhenka Street, her elation faded and Anna thought of Peter and Sasha. Had they reached Siberia yet? Were they already at work in the silver mines? The idea made her shiver as Nicholas swung himself out of the driving seat and gave her his hand.
‘Are you cold?’
Anna shook her head and asked, ‘Were the Decembrists so very wrong?’
‘They were right in what they hoped to achieve.’
‘So why didn’t you support them?’
‘The strength of our nation lies in the hearts and minds of its people. Until serfdom is recognised as brutal slavery from the highest authorities to every peasant in the land, nothing will change. Our friends have made people question the tsar’s unlimited power and the evil of our social system. It’s a beginning…’
As always, he sounded plausible and Anna wanted to believe him. Nicholas was unlike any man she had ever met before and impervious to the opinion of others. He could be charming or sarcastic, depending on his mood, but there was no denying his intelligence. He could not walk into a room without the talk dying around him, or walk out without leaving a sense of absence. Anna noticed how everyone listened when he joined in a discussion with Varenka and her friends – how the company hung on his words and valued his opinion. Nicholas was seemingly at ease with women – although she doubted that he respected any of them very much, apart from his aunt. He was different with Varenka. There was never that derisive, slightly mocking look in his eyes, and a softer note came into his voice.
Anna marvelled at his ability to deal with so many discordant sides of his personality. She was more relaxed in his company, but never lost the uneasy feeling of danger lurking beneath the surface. Then, at the end of an evening they had spent together, Nicholas walked with her and Varenka to the bottom of the stairs. He gave his aunt a candle before she made her way up, and lit one for Anna also.
As she reached out for it, he took hold of her hand and turned it over. His mouth pressed the inside of her wrist and she was too startled to draw back. At the touch of his lips, something vital and electric leapt from him to her, caressing her whole body. Darkness hid her face but she knew he must feel the racing of her pulse. Suddenly, she was overtaken by a wild desire to throw her arms round his neck and feel his lips on her mouth. Appalled by her reaction, she blushed to the roots of her hair as Nicholas released her.
‘Goodnight, Annushka. Sleep well.’ There was a warm note in his voice as he gave her the candle.
Anna went up the stairs so fast she was out of breath when she reached the top. I love Peter Dashkovy, she told herself. How can I be attracted to a man for whom I have no feelings? Nothing, not even love, was as simple as she once believed. An image of Peter drifted across her mind. There had been a time when she could draw his face from memory; now, his features were hazy. What was happening to her? She had no illusions about Nicholas Bulgarin. He was a flirt who could make a woman feel like paper licked by fire, and she was shocked by her response to him. I won’t let him manipulate me, she thought feverishly. From now on, my conduct must be more circumspect – no more sleigh rides or reading together in the library. Whatever his intentions, I’m strong enough to resist him.