Andrea Pickens - [Lessons in Love 03] (12 page)

"Oh, very well." An exaggerated sigh filled the air as she reluctantly took up her pen and set back to work.

Octavia made a show of studying the book in her lap in order to hide her smile. Her young charge was proving to be both a challenge and a delight. The girl showed intelligence and spirit, which spoke volumes about her character, considering what she had been through. And even though the wall she had erected around herself had not completely crumbled, the touching need for real affection was more and more evident through the chinks. There were still times of rebellion and childish sulks, but a genuine rapport was growing between them with each passing day. The smiles were beginning to match the scowls, and the eagerness for learning usually overcame any fit of pique.

The scratching of the quill suddenly stopped and there was a giggle.

Octavia's brow raised in question.

"I have just figured it out."

"I am glad to hear it, since you have been dawdling over this particular problem for—"

"Not just the answer. The occasion."

Octavia's expression remained one of puzzlement.

"When I might need geometry," explained Emma. She gave a mischievous grin. "Why, if I was to build a structure as magnificent as St. Basil's Cathedral, I imagine it would be useful in figuring out the diameter of the onion domes and the height of the spires."

"Quite right." Octavia's lips twitched upward. "If you become a famous architect, you would certainly have to have a knowledge of geometry."

"But of course I wouldn't admit it, so Tsar Alexander could not put out my eyes." She pushed the paper back to Octavia with a triumphant flourish. "There, it's done."

"And done correctly this time. I'm quite proud of you. It was a difficult problem."

Emma flushed with pleasure at the praise. "If I can see a reason for doing something, then the task always becomes easier."

It was a perceptive comment, especially from a child, and one with which she most heartily agreed. It was, however, time for another lesson. "Well, unfortunately we all must at times do things that we do not see the reason for."

Emma scrunched up her face. "Even adults?"

"Most definitely adults. Especially female adults."

The girl's face took on a mulish expression. "I thought you believed many of the strictures unfair and unreasonable."

"Some of them," admitted Octavia, "But that doesn't mean I don't accept that I must live with them. I do. Why, look at the characters in Miss Austen's book. They all must conform to certain rules, though they may not like it. In truth, they sometimes discover it was their own misconceptions that make things look unreasonable. However, in the end, her heroines usually manage to satisfy both the conventions of Society and their own sense of what is right." She gave a slight smile. "You see, we females just need to be a bit... creative within the boundaries set for us."

Emma looked thoughtful as she brushed the tip of her quill against her cheek.

"Come, shall we see how Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy are going to resolve their problems?"

The girl's eyes lit up. "Oh, yes." She jumped up from her chair to fetch the book. "Perhaps she will finally throttle that goose of a sister Lydia."

Chapter 6

Alex pulled the fur blanket up a bit higher. His feet felt like blocks of ice and his cheeks were so stiff with cold he could barely speak. "How much farther? Or are we meant to turn into snow statues, like some cursed characters in one of your wonder tales?" At least the interminable hours of travel had allowed him to improve his command of the language to the point where he was conversing quite easily in the foreign tongue.

Riasanov grinned, crackling the tiny icicles on his mustache and beard. "Russian winter, Mr. Sheffield. Suffering! Hardship! Is good for the soul." He thumped his chest as he slapped the reins against the traces. Bells jangled as the sleigh crept through the drifts of snow. "It makes us poets."

"It makes you madmen," grumbled Alex. He slapped his mittens together and thought longingly of the cracking fires in his favorite haunts in London, bottles of brandy and the willing warmth of some voluptuous beauty. Hell's teeth, what had he been thinking! He was as mad as any Russian to have set out on such a harebrained adventure.

"Another few miles and there is an inn. We shall stop for the night."

Recalling the last two nights, with the abysmal food and flea-ridden bedchambers, he was not sure the news would serve to improve his dark mood. As if to further dampen his spirits, the wind picked up and snow began to fall once again. With a muffled oath, he buried his chin deeper into the upturned collar of his coat, and watched the ghostly white fir trees drift by.

The inn was even worse than he had imagined. It was a wretched affair of rough logs and loose shingles, the common room nearly as frigid as the outdoors, despite the fire. Alex pushed aside the rancid stew after several bites. Even the vodka was nearly unpalatable, harsh and greasy as it burned down his gullet. At least it created a semblance of warmth in his insides. Lapsing into a brooding silence, he poured another glass for himself, ignoring the sidelong glances from his companion. He drained it with a grimace, then picked up the bottle and bade Riasanov a curt good night.

With nary a thought to removing more than his overcoat and boots, Alex slipped under the dirty blankets. Repressing a shiver, he took a long pull at the bottle for good measure. Slowly the vodka began to dull the worst of the cold. It could not, however, dull the feeling of emptiness inside him. Good Lord, was this what his life was coming to—day after day of nothing to look forward to but an endless night, with naught but a bottle of spirits to drown his loneliness and despair.

His eyes pressed closed. Of late, he had begun to realize that the copious amounts of brandy, the reckless gambling, the blatant risks and the frequent bedding of virtual strangers were no longer allowing him to hide from himself. Quite simply, he was getting tired of such behavior. If he wanted to put a period to his existence, mayhap he should put a pistol to his head. It would be faster, and, in some ways, cleaner.

Is that what he truly wanted?

He thought for some time, staring up at the cobwebbed ceiling. He used to have hopes and dreams, though it was so long ago in the past he could hardly remember what they were. Silly ones, no doubt, for he had been nothing but a raw youth. Still, perhaps it wasn't too late to have new ones.

A rueful smile stole to his lips. Perhaps he had a touch of Russian temperament, for the winter seemed to be affecting his own soul as well. He wasn't usually given to such introspection. In the past he had always managed to keep such disturbing thoughts at bay with whatever excess happened to be at hand. Alex regarded at the bottle in his fist with a grimace of disgust, then slowly let it drop to the floor.

Jack was gone, irrevocably gone, drowned in the ocean. Perhaps it was time for him to stop drowning in self pity.

The next morning he arose, his head for once not quite so fuzzed with drink, and his spirits than a bit brighter than they had been in some time. Riasanov's bushy brow rose at the sight of Alex's light step and sunny countenance. "Not feeling like a black bear this morning? I had feared you were on the verge of abandoning the journey and leaving the young master to his fate." He gestured toward the drafty windows. "But look, the snows have stopped and the temperature is rising. We should reach Bereznik by this afternoon."

"Oh, you'll find I'm a rather stubborn fellow. I don't give up so easily."

Riasanov lowered his voice. "You may need that resolve, Mr. Sheffield. The word is that the French have moved much more rapidly than expected. It is said they may even threaten Moscow." He stopped to cross himself. "Though I pray the rumors are wrong."

"What of Kutusov and his army?" asked Alex in some surprise.

The other man lifted his shoulders.

Alex bit back an oath. "Well then, let us be off at once."

"Without my tea?"

"Suffering. Is good for the soul, remember?" he muttered, heading for the door.

The journey proceeded with little conversation, both men preoccupied with their own thoughts. Less snow had fallen in these parts and the way became easier going. After a bit, it thinned to a mere dusting, and the sun broke through the clouds. Riasanov gave a shake of his head at the sudden change. "Russian winter," was all he murmured.

* * *

Yet rather than feeling buoyed by the passing miles, Alex couldn't shake a sense of unease. In the past hour, several conveyances piled high with household belongings had passed them, going in the opposite direction. Even more ominous was the fact that the last small village they had passed through looked to be nigh on deserted, no smoke coming from the chimneys, no sign of life in the yards.

Riasanov muttered darkly under his breath. The whip cracked in the air, urging the horses to greater speed.

His lips thinning to a tight line, Alex shifted in impatience under the heavy blanket.
Hell and damnation!
He certainly hadn't anticipated that the French would advance as quickly as signs indicated. With a start, he realized that if Moscow was indeed the target, then poor Miss Hadley was in even more danger than he was. He found himself hoping that she would come out of the panic and chaos of war unscathed. Then he forced such thoughts aside. He had enough of his own problems to worry about, and there was precious little he could do for her.

Besides, he thought with a wry smile, she seemed rather good at taking care of herself.

It seemed like an age before his companion slowed the team to a walk and pointed ahead. A number of dwellings, weathered a silvery grey from the elements, came into view, nearly dwarfed by a stand of towering spruce and fir behind them. The steward grunted something unintelligible, then guided the sleigh toward a simple cottage at some distance from the rest of the houses. He slowly dismounted and thumped his mittened fist on the door.

Alex held his breath. There was no sign of reply. Riasanov was just raising his hand to knock again when it opened a crack.

"Yevgeny! Thank God you have come." The little old woman threw her arms around Riasanov's neck, a feat made more difficult by the fact that her kerchiefed head came barely level with his chest.

"Of course I have, Natasha. And I have brought... a friend."

She stole a glance at the figure in the sleigh, then turned her attention back to the steward, tugging on his arm. "Come inside, both of you. The stove is warm and the samovar is hot. We have much to talk about."

Alex climbed down from his perch, stiff with cold and followed the others into the cozy kitchen. A boy was curled up in a chair by the large tiled stove, reading a book. At the sound of voices, his head jerked up. He looked to be rather small for his age, with rather delicate features and a thin nose apt to be termed aquiline as he grew older. A shock of hair the color of a raven's wing nearly obscured the large hazel eyes. He broke into a smile at the sight of Riasanov, then his expression turned wary as he took notice of the tall stranger behind the steward.

Alex noted that the boy's fingers tightened on the spine of the book and his gaze darted toward a small door hidden in the shadows behind a large pantry. A welling of sympathy caught in his throat as he remembered that within the space of several months, his young relative had not only lost both parents but had found his very life threatened by the only other family he knew.

Good Lord.
And he had the nerve to feel sorry for himself!

Before anyone else could speak, Alex stepped forward and stamped the snow from his boots, a tentative smile on his lips.. "I have been looking forward to making your acquaintance, Nicholas," he said in English as he extended his hand. "I am your cousin Alex and I have come at your Mama's request to take you back to England."

The boy stared at him, as if uncomprehending what had been said.

Behind them, a gasp of surprise came as Riasanov whispered a translation to the boy's old nurse.

Just as Alex began to phrase his greeting in Russian, the boy put aside his book and stood up. He took a few steps forward, then bowed with a formality that nearly brought a smile to Alex's face. "I am most pleased to make you acquaintance, too, sir," he replied in the same language his older cousin had used. "My mother—" His voice caught in his throat for a moment. "My mother and my father used to speak often of our English relatives, as did my grandmother." He took a deep breath, struggling manfully to control his emotions. "So her letter reached you?"