Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Three
I n the days and nights that followed, an encroaching sense of dread preyed on Anna. As far as she knew, Boris Renin hadn’t visited the house again. Could he have changed his mind and withdrawn his proposal? She wondered if Valentina had heard from him. Surely, her mother would have said something? She was burdened enough with worrying about Papa, so Anna refrained from asking her. It occurred to her Renin might have had her followed to Pushkin’s apartment. She would have noticed, Anna told herself. But where was Nicholas, for heaven’s sake?
The longer she waited, the tighter her nerves were stretched and, after a night of fretful sleep, Anna rose early. She was in the library, looking for a book, when James came to the door.
‘Captain Pavel’s here to see you, ma’am. I’ve taken him to the drawing room.’
Anna smiled as she followed James across the landing, a smile that left her face as she walked into the room.
Michael was standing with his back to the door and turned round as she came in. The grim look in his eyes stopped her on the threshold, stilling the words of welcome on her lips.
‘I’m sure you know why I’m here.’
‘I’m glad to see you, dear Michael–’
‘I’m told Visions of Hell has been sent to every prominent household in the city!’
‘I don’t understand.’ Anna advanced hesitantly towards him.
‘Please don’t feign ignorance. I know you did those drawings.’
‘Have you seen them?’
‘I don’t need to see them! They’re all everyone’s talking about this morning. How could you be so cruel?’
Anna sat down abruptly, and Michael strode the length of the drawing room before he came back to stand in front of her. ‘What gives you the right to portray my sister’s humiliation to all the world?’
For an instant Anna wondered if she had heard him right. She pinched the bridge of her nose between forefinger and thumb, then took a deep breath. ‘Sofia approved of the drawings. She agrees with Maria Volkonsky. The tsar must be held to account.’
‘Princess Volkonsky doesn’t know what’s best for her husband.’
‘That’s not true!’ Anna cried, stung by the attack. ‘Maria understands perfectly well—’
Michael cut across her. ‘Have you thought of the pain these images will cause the families of the traitors?’
A torrent of thoughts rushed through Anna’s mind. Of course, Michael didn’t support the Decembrists, but he had always been loyal to his sister. He couldn’t abandon Sofia now! He had the gaunt, shadowed expression of a man gnawed by hidden pain. She wanted to take his hand and comfort him, but his voice kept her at a distance.
‘The only way we can survive is by trying to forget. My parents can’t bear to think of Sofia and the disgrace your brother inflicted on our family!’
‘And you? Will you banish Sofia from your life, too?’ Anna’s lips whitened with anger. ‘Sofia loves you. Besides, I thought Sasha was your friend.’
‘Last December changed everything.’ Michael’s voice was dark and hollow. ‘The Russian empire is held together by the tsar and his army. Those who seek to destroy the established order deserve to be punished. A Third Division’s been set up in the military to eradicate all Decembrist sympathisers. The lines have been drawn. There’s no going back now.’
‘So why are you here?’ Anna said sharply.
‘To make sure that you denounce the drawings. The tsar will never forgive the Decembrists for bloodying the first day of his reign. Any exhibition of public support only serves to harden his resolve.’
For a time, she was silent. Then she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin.
‘Thank you for telling me, Michael Yurievich. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. Please would you be kind enough to show yourself out?’
Michael’s face was taut but he said nothing. Tipping his head to her, he stalked out of the room.
The moment the door closed, Anna went over to the bureau. Michael was Sofia’s beloved brother. How could he turn against her? Her drawings had been published and Pushkin must have informed Nicholas. He knew the prints were in circulation. Surely, he had returned to the city by now?
With a shaking hand, she took out a piece of paper, dipped a quill in ink and wrote quickly.
Dear Nicholas,
I need to speak to you urgently.
Please come as soon as you receive this.
Anna
*
Anna paced the floor of the hall as she waited for the Marinskys to collect her for the ballet. It was warm for early May and she wore a dress of blue muslin with a gathered skirt and white sash. Mazra had pinned her hair high to show off the pearls gleaming around her neck, but the reflection of her face in the glass was pale and strained. She had sent Omelko with the note to Sadovaya Street and waited all afternoon for his return. When he came back with the news that Count Bulgarin had been in St. Petersburg the last two days, Anna almost exploded. Why hadn’t he come to see her?
As the Marinsky barouche drew up at the Bolshoi Kamenny Theatre, she tried to put the conversation with Michael out of her mind. There had been no mention of anything untoward during the ride. She was strung tight as a wire but she wouldn’t let her mood ruin the evening.
Rubin Marinsky alighted first and they passed through a foyer crowded with programme-sellers and theatre-goers before making their way upstairs to the circle. The sound of music could be heard as they approached the first tier, becoming louder as an attendant slipped before them and opened the door to their box. The orchestra was tuning up as they entered the brightly lit amphitheatre. Anna went to the front of the box with Anastasia, smoothing her skirts as she sat down and looked around.
The walls were decorated crimson and gold, the boxes luxurious and adorned with white and pink medallions. Dominating everything was the Imperial Box, two storeys high and surmounted by an enormous double eagle. It was empty, thank God. The tsar and his entourage had stayed away and Anna felt a glimmer of relief.
The theatre was packed with men in evening dress and ladies with bare shoulders, their heads coiffed and bejewelled. Below them in the stalls, soldiers stood about as dandies in swallow-tail coats wandered up and down the aisles scrutinising the beau monde; all of them waiting until the last minute to take their seats. As her gaze passed over the audience, Anna had the uncomfortable feeling of hundreds of eyes looking at her. She felt colour creep into her cheeks and opened her fan, holding it in front of her face.
‘The young bucks are here to search for pretty girls and to be admired.’ Anastasia remarked casually. ‘They don’t care two hoots about ballet.’
A door creaked and the steps of belated arrivals were heard as a woman and two gentlemen entered the adjoining box. Then the conductor came to his stand in the orchestra pit, lifted his baton and the overture began. Anna’s arm, bare above the elbow, rested on the velvet rail, her hand opening and closing in time with the music, until the curtain rose and all eyes turned to the performance.
The stage consisted of smooth boards with a background of trees and the dancers moved in flowing arcs. Sometimes, the whole corps de ballet was on the stage; sometimes only one or two. The ballerinas wore loose skirts that reached just below the knee to show off their footwork on points. Their movements appeared effortless, but Anna heard ragged breaths and the soft thud of shoes as they strained to keep time with the music. The audience stayed silent until the music stopped and then burst into enthusiastic applause. Those in the stalls shouted and clapped, hurling bouquets of flowers on the stage and the prima ballerinas came out for curtain calls.
‘I see our friend’s here. He must have arrived late.’ Anastasia hand touched Anna’s elbow.
Anna looked to a box on the opposite side of the stage and saw Varenka Bulgarin sitting at the front. She was wearing a green headdress and next to her was a petite, red-haired lady. Anna caught sight of Nicholas’s dark head sitting behind them. There was a woman beside him, partially obscured by the side of the box. Anna could see only her slender arms in long black gloves. She willed Nicholas to look at her but it was Varenka who noticed her first. She lifted her arm to wave and Nicholas leant forwards. When he saw Anna, he nodded and smiled. She inclined her head in acknowledgement as apprehension rippled through her. Who was his companion? Surely, it couldn’t be Elizaveta Romanov? She might be a royal princess, but she wouldn’t have the gall to appear in public – and certainly not with Nicholas!
The next scene was underway, but Anna could not keep her eyes on the stage. More than once, she stole a glance over the rows of pomaded heads to the Bulgarin box. Nicholas sat with one arm thrown casually across the back of a chair and seemed oblivious to anything else. A pain tightened in her chest and, when the curtain came down for the interval, she lowered her gaze to the stalls. It was then she caught sight of Boris Renin. He was wearing dress uniform with an imperial sash and walked down the aisle with a swagger to stand with his back to the orchestra pit. He was in full view of everyone and a group of young men thronged around him. They were joined by Michael Pavel and Anna saw him greet Boris Renin with a handshake. Were they now good friends? Would Michael betray her?
Despite the hum of conversation and the sounds of people enjoying themselves, Anna was so tense she began chewing the thumb of her glove. Boris Renin was surveying the audience through opera glasses and, when he looked up to the circle boxes, she quickly turned to speak to Anastasia. Friends of the Marinskys came to their box and champagne was served. A handsome young Hussar engaged Anastasia in conversation, obviously entranced, and Anna was introduced to a general and his wife. They were polite but it was an effort to exchange pleasantries and she was relieved when the interval came to an end.
‘Duport’s on next,’ Rubin informed her as he studied the programme. ‘He’s the best dancer in the world – a Frenchman with the soul of a Russian.’
The maestro returned and people in the stalls took their seats for the second act. Deport was strong and young with finely toned muscles. He circled the floor in a series of thrilling leaps, splitting his legs wide and landing on one foot. There were yells of ‘bravo!’ from the galleries and he stopped, smiling and bowing to all sides. He waited until the audience quietened before he began again, spinning in circles and performing high jumps, his calves crossing like scissors in the air. The crowded theatre was spellbound. Looking towards the Bulgarin box, Anna noticed Nicholas had disappeared.
The violins were playing an entrée to the next scene when a draft of cool air came into the box. Anna knew it was Nicholas. She felt his closeness like heat and heard him speaking to Rubin in a low voice. Then his hand touched her shoulder and Rubin took her place as she went to stand out of sight of the audience.
It was too dark to see his face as he leant down and his lips brushed her forehead.
‘I received your note. What’s happened?’
‘Why wasn’t I informed the drawings had been published?’
‘Pushkin and I decided the less you knew the better.’
‘Well, you were wrong! ‘Anna answered in a fierce whisper. ‘Michael Pavel believes I betrayed Sofia. He says they’ll make everything worse.’
‘Does he know they’re by you?’
‘Of course he does! Michael’s no fool. And Boris Renin’s the very devil! He tried to blackmail me to force me to accept his proposal of marriage. I told you he’s dangerous. Where have you been all this time?’
‘I was unavoidably delayed in Moscow.’
‘And the last two days?’
‘With Monsieur Pushkin, organising the distribution of the prints.’
‘Damn you, Nicolay! You should have told me.’
Anna’s voice rose in pitch and Nicholas’s arm went round her, pulling her to him. She stood against him with her head down, longing for him to take her back under his protection and felt his hands on her shoulders.
‘Don’t let Michael Pavel make you lose confidence. I’ve told Rubin to wait here until I collect you. I’ll come as soon as I’ve seen Varenka and her party off in the carriage.’
Nicholas tidied stray wisps of her hair into place and gave her hand a gentle squeeze before the door closed behind him. Anna hardly remembered the final act. She stayed where she was, fiddling with a programme, tearing it into shreds and dropping the pieces on the floor. Nicholas hoped to reassure her, but what if they had made a terrible mistake? Closing her eyes, she pictured Maria’s face and resolute expression, and her mind changed pace. I won’t let them down, she thought. St. Petersburg society may pretend nothing has changed, but my drawings will ruffle their complacency. They’ll be all over the city by now and seen by hundreds of people. Everyone will know of the tsar’s betrayal and cruelty.
The ballet ended and the curtain came down to a standing ovation. As the clapping died away, there was the sound of people talking and shuffling feet, and Anastasia demanded. ‘Will one of you please tell me what’s going on? What was Nicolay doing creeping into our box like that? Why didn’t he come during the interval?’
‘He wants us to wait here and leave with him,’ Rubin responded. ‘It’s only a precaution. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.’
He made a fuss of collecting their cloaks, but neither Anna nor Anastasia was convinced. Rubin tried to talk about the ballet but gave up against their silence. Anna nervously touched her pearls. She had meant to thank Nicholas for redeeming them but had forgotten in the suspense of the moment. She could hear seats being lifted and the musicians packing up their instruments in the orchestra pit. The theatre was almost deserted, but they seemed to wait forever until there was a soft tap on the door.
With his cloak thrown back over one shoulder, Nicholas escorted Anna, his arm steady beneath her hand, as they walked down the passage. A young attendant carrying empty champagne bottles came out of a box and shot her a suspicious glance, which she ignored. Nicholas said nothing and appeared calm until they came to the top of the staircase. There he stopped.
Below them, a crowd of people stood in the foyer as ushers called for their carriages. Michael was by the door and Boris Renin standing at the bottom the steps. He was blocking their way and there was a hush as all heads turned in her direction. By the time Anna realised what was going to happen, it was too late. Boris Renin raised his arm and pointed straight at her.
‘Voilà, Mademoiselle Anna Brianski!’ He delivered the line in a loud, theatrical tone. ‘Here is the author of those scurrilous drawings, the Decembrist hussy who earns her keep by glorifying the enemies of our beloved tsar!’