Andrea Pickens - [Lessons in Love 03] (9 page)

Stiff with cold, Alex managed to dismount and trail after the steward. Any hopes of a respite from the biting cold within the main house were dashed as the heavy wooden front door was thrown open. It was nearly as chilly inside. The other man stamped the snow off his boots, leaving a shower of flakes on the stone floor. Alex did the same, unconsciously pulling the knitted wool scarf tighter around his neck.

Good Lord, he thought, he hoped the fellow wouldn't expect him to remove his coat!

His eyes darted around the dimly lit entrance hall, taking in the heavy pine furniture, gaily painted with bright colors and swirling motifs so very foreign to his English eye. A shaggy bearskin was stretched out in front of a massive sideboard, above which hung two portraits. With a start, he realized that the man bore a striking resemblance to his uncle.

The father of young Nicholas? he wondered.

He had little chance to see much else, as the steward indicated they were to continue along a dark hallway that led off to the left. Every door they passed was shut tight, no hint of light coming from beneath them. No voices were evident either. In fact, there was no sign of life at all. Nothing but a dark, ominous silence. Alex could feel the knot in his stomach tighten with each step....

The other man's gloved hand took hold of the thick iron latch and shouldered open the door in front of them. Alex tensed, half expecting some fur-clad giant to swing a cudgel at his head. Instead, it was a long handled cooking spoon that cut through the air.

"Ah, Yevgeny! Thank the Lord. I was afraid you might be trapped in the blizzard."

A short, stout, woman, nearly as wide as she was tall, wiped her free hand over patterned apron. "Warm yourself by the stove while I fetch you a cup of tea." Catching sight of Alex, her mouth cracked in a smile that revealed several missing teeth. "Who is this with you? By the way he is dressed, he would soon have been a carcass for the wolves if you hadn't found him."

The steward removed his fur hat and stepped over to the huge tiled stove, holding out his stiff fingers to the blast of heat. "A tutor, he says. For young Master Nicholas."

The woman tucked a wisp of greying hair up under the kerchief knotted around her head. "Tutor," she repeated, casting an appraising glance at him. "Well, best warm your bones, young man. You look as if you might like a cup of tea as well." Her glance ran over his lean form. "And a bite of supper, I imagine."

Alex nodded gratefully as he unwound the scarf from his neck and shook the drops of melting snow from his hat. The kitchen was blessedly warm, with the smell of fresh baked bread and simmering borscht filling the air. He could feel the heat beginning to seep through his rough garments and wet leather of his boots. Leaving a puddle on the spotless floor, he didn't wait twice to be invited closer to the hissing stove. After several minutes, he finally felt able to remove his coat, though his fingers were still so wooden they let it slip to the floor in a heap.

The old woman thrust a glass of steaming tea in his hands, waving away his halting apology for creating a mess in her domain. "Sit! Sit!" she urged, motioning him to the long trestle table, still flecked with course rye flour and caraway seeds.

Alex obeyed. Riasanov was already settled comfortably in a chair, helping himself to a bowl of pickled beets and eggs. After a brief hesitation, the steward took one last morsel and pushed it on toward him, still without addressing a word in his direction.

"Where did you come from?" At least the woman was proving less taciturn.

"From Cheboksary," he mumbled through a mouthful of egg.

She placed a crusty loaf of dark bread on the table and began to saw off generous slabs. Alex could feel his mouth begin to water at the rich scent. "What were you doing there?"

His mouth crooked in a rueful smile as he accepted a piece. "I'm afraid my directions were a bit unclear. The Scherbatov family I encountered there had no person under the age of sixty five."

"Hmmph. Bad directions, indeed." She exchanged looks with the steward. "Who hired you? The countess?" she continued, her tone growing sharp.

Alex paused in buttering his slice of bread. The mood in the room had become markedly chillier. "I was given the job by, er, an intermediary. I have never met the countess," he answered slowly, deciding to stick as close to the truth as possible.

"Your accent," she persisted. "Where are you from?"

He swallowed hard. "From outside of St. Petersburg."

Suddenly, his head was jerked back and the bread knife pressed up against his throat. "What town, exactly?"

Alex didn't attempt an answer.

"As I thought," growled Riasanov, tightening his grip on Alex's collar. "A stupid mistake, my friend. Did you really think that we would be so stupid as fall for such an obvious ruse? You may tell Vladimir Illich that it will not be quite so easy to steal Polyananovosk from the young master—that is, when you see him in Hell!"

"Wait!" cried Alex as he felt the serrated blade start to move against his skin. "You are mistaken! I can prove it!"

The steward gave a harsh laugh but the woman's face betrayed a flicker of indecision. "Yes, wait, Yevgeny. Let us hear him out." She put down the heavy iron frying pan that she had taken up from the stove. "Plenty of time to deal with him if he proves to be one of Rabatov's men."

The pressure of cold steel relaxed somewhat. "Very well. Explain yourself—and no more lies."

Alex took a deep breath. "It is true that I am not what I said I was, but I come as no threat to Nicholas." He gestured toward his shirt. "May I take out something that might help to convince you?"

Again the two of them exchanged glances. Riasanov growled an assent. "But slowly, and no tricks or they will be your last," he added, giving a meaningful twitch of the blade.

Alex reached inside his shirt and removed a small oilskin packet that hung by a cord around his neck. First he unfolded several sheets of paper and pushed them to the center of the table. "I am Alexander Sheffield, an English cousin of young Nicholas's father. My late father, the Marquess of Wright, was married to the sister of Nicholas's grandmother."

The old woman eyed the gilt crest and elegant script in confusion. It was with some concern that Alex realized she could not read. "Yevgeny," she said uncertainly, "Can you tell if what he says is... true?"

He fervently hoped that the steward could make sense of the letter of introduction from the Russian mission in London, verifying what he said.

Riasanov hesitated, then released his hold on Alex's coat and reached for the papers. He studied them once, then again before laying them side. "Hmmph. Such things can be forged." However, his fierce expression had tempered somewhat less. "Have you any other sort of proof that you are who you say you are?"

Alex removed another sheet from the pouch. It was a thin parchment, much wrinkled and stained from travel. "Are you familiar with the countess's handwriting?" he asked. "This is the letter she sent to my uncle, the Earl of Chittenden, asking for our help in keeping Nicholas safe. That is why I am here. From what she said, I thought it best to be cautious and pass myself off as Russian until I could be of sure of how things stood here." He grimaced. "I see I was not very convincing."

The steward put down the knife as well as the countess's letter. "Not at all—we would have been suspicious of anyone." He turned to the old woman. "I know the countess's hand like my own. I am sure she wrote this, so what our friend here says must be the truth." She crossed herself as he turned back to Alex. With an awkward bow, he essayed a few words in heavily accented English. "Welcome to Polyananovosk, my lord."

Alex breathed a sigh of relief at finding his neck no longer in peril. "You needn't bow as if I am the one with the title. I am merely a younger son, and it is best if you simply call me 'mister'."

The steward shuffled his feet uncomfortably. "I hope you will forgive the rather rude welcome, Mister Sheffield."

"Yes, and you must be starving after all your travels," added the old woman in a rush. Now that matters were cleared up, she was more than anxious to make up for the misunderstanding by plying their guest with food.

"Indeed I am, and judging by the heavenly aroma coming from your pots, I imagine I am a lucky man." A note of anticipation crept into his voice. "But first, if you please, I should very much like to meet my young cousin."

Riansanov cleared his throat. "Ah, I am afraid that is not possible, Mister Sheffield. You see, Master Nicholas is not here."

* * *

"Is it not one of the most fantastic buildings you have ever seen, Miss Hadley?" demanded Emma, her hand nearly pulling away from Octavia's in her haste to get closer.

"Indeed," she murmured, keeping her charge from dashing away across the vast cobbled square. "Do you know an interesting story behind its creation?"

That caught the young girl's attention. She slowed her steps and looked up expectantly.

"Well, St. Basil's Cathedral was built by Ivan IV, known, I'm afraid, as Ivan the Terrible. On its completion, he was so pleased by its stunning beauty that he summoned the architect and asked the man if he could ever design anything as magnificent as the church again. Wanting to impress his Tsar, the man assured Ivan that of course he could, whereupon—" Octavia paused for dramatic effect—"Ivan had the man's eyes put out. To ensure that he never did."

Emma's own eyes widened, then crinkled in silent amusement. "Monarchs get to have all the fun."

Octavia repressed a smile. In her experience, most children seemed to take a ghoulish delight in such stories rather than become frightened or upset. It was clear that Emma was no different.

"Henry VIII got to cut off the head of a wife that displeased him," went on the little girl, her expression conveying a touch of longing at being able to deal with unpleasant relatives in so decisive a manner.

"Oh, I doubt you would truly enjoy making heads roll," said Octavia.

"Why not?" countered Emma.

"Too messy. I think I should make people walk the plank, like Bluebeard the Pirate."

Emma stifled a giggle. "I like being with you, Miss Hadley. You never tell me I can't think or say something because it is not the proper sentiment for a young lady. Miss Withers was forever telling me to hold my tongue. So does Aunt Renfrew."

Octavia couldn't help but be pleased with how far she had come in earning the young girl's trust. Over the past several weeks, wary suspicion had turned into a cautious acceptance. In truth, she liked Emma as well. Her charge was bright, inquisitive and eager to learn. And beneath the sullen, willful shell she had learned to affect in the face of a series of uncaring adults, was a sensitive, vulnerable child, yearning for some real affection. "People are always telling me the same thing, you know. I'm afraid I never learned my lesson. But at least I have enjoyed the use of my brain, which is more than can be said for a vast majority of our sex."

Emma's mouth dropped slightly at hearing such mutinous thoughts expressed aloud. "Uncle Renfrew says that it is unseemly for females to think—"

"No doubt he does. What could be more threatening to a man of such little intelligence or imagination?" she said rather acidly.

The young girl's face became very thoughtful.

"But I trust you will not repeat such opinions in his presence," continued Octavia quickly.

"There is a Mrs. Wollstonecraft who believes that females are capable of rational behavior and thought too, isn't there? I have heard my uncle lecture my aunt about how she should be thrown in Bedlam because of a book she wrote."

Octavia nodded.

"Do you have that book?"

She had to admit she did.

"Could we read a chapter of it tonight before bedtime?" asked Emma.

After her pointed words, it would have been nigh on impossible to deny the request. "Very well, but I suggest we make no mention of it to your guardians."

The young girl shot her a withering look. "What do you think I am—a child?"

Octavia gave a slight cough. "Ah, why don't we see if we might enter the cathedral and have a look at some of the icons there. Now, Andrei Tretiakov was considered the most brilliant painter of the...."

She launched into a detailed explanation of Russian art, while ruing her own rather precipitous tongue. She had spoken on impulse, forgetting that her listener was only twelve years old. Perhaps such views on a female's right to independent thinking were a little too complex for a child to understand, but the look of self-doubt on the young girl's face had wrenched the words out of her. How well she knew what it was like to be told it was improper to have ideas or feelings just because of one's sex. She simply refused to let the obvious intelligence and spirit be stamped out in this young lady if she could help it.

They emerged from the candlelit cathedral some time later, their senses still reeling. The combination of the sweet, cloying incense, sonorous chanting from a group of monks clustered in one of the naves and rich colors at every turn was a most singular experience. Octavia found herself wondering what Mr. Sheffield's opinion would have been of the exotic spectacle. From what she had overheard on the ship, she knew he had a sharp eye for observing people and a pithy sense of humor when so moved. She felt sure he would have had something interesting to say....