Flight From the Eagle (22 page)

He remained sitting quietly on the
stairs for some time after Kusm
insky had finished with him and he had gone through the tedious business of putting on his uniform again. It was not so much the shirt and coat which gave trouble as the sash and sword belt and that ridiculous stock, which in fact he left off as he couldn't do it up with one hand and everyone seemed too busy to be asked for help. His arm ached and he felt very tired, a reminder that he was only two days out of a fever and not yet back to his normal strength.

It was pleasant just to sit there, leaning against the banisters, listening to the rain still falling outside and the busy sounds insi
de the house, and watching Kusm
insky moving among his patients, inspecting wounds, bandaging, giving a word of warning or encouragement carefully calculated to cheer the fainthearted or restrain the over-eager.

Kolniev came through from the back regions at about five o'clock, followed by two orderlies with a samovar and a tray of tea-things, and they adjourned to the conservatory for tea in a very civilized manner. The Captain set up the samovar on the large marble slab which Orlov though
t looked like a tombstone. Kusm
insky drew up four little wooden chairs,
and they sat round sipping glasses of tea.

Kusminsky gave a sudden snort of laughter. 'Of all the ridiculous things in this ridiculous escapade! Sitting around drinking tea in someone's conservatory on a wet summer afternoon
!
Too provincial for words
!
'

'Just like home!' the Countess said, with a tight little smile which didn't look very amused.

'Did your aunt have a conservatory?' Orlov found her aunt curiously interesting and wondered what she had been like —had she been kind to the girl?

'Yes,' the Countess replied. 'She was quite interested in gardening.'

'Didn't she consider that flowers were frippery?'

'Oh, she didn't grow flowers. Only vegetables and fruit,' the Countess replied solemnly.

By suppertime, Kolniev reported that he had managed to stow all the supplies in the carts, still leaving room for the men's personal-gear, and Kusminsky had completed his inspection of his patients. Orlov helped him with the last few and at the end, Kusminsky drew him aside and said, 'Corporal Adraksin's foot is not very satisfactory.'

Orlov had to think for a moment to be sure which man he meant and then he realized that it was the corporal who was Sergeant Platov's shadow. 'How bad is it?' he asked.

'It's infected,' Kusminsky replied wearily. 'Not much as yet—it doesn't hurt him, but if it gets any worse, it will have to come off.'

Fighting down a wave of nausea at the thought, Orlov asked in an almost normal voice, 'When will you know?'

'In the morning,' Kusminsky replied. 'If it has to be done, I shall do it as soon as possible. If we stay here, during the day. If we move on, as soon as we camp. I hope I shan't have to do it at all, but if I do, I shall need you to help me.'

Orlov looked at him in speechless horror for a moment, then stammered, 'But I've never—I've only one hand____'

'I need one reliable extra hand, that's all,' replied Kusminsky. 'It's more for the sake of the man—it'll give him confidence to know that you're there. I'll tell you what to do —nothing difficult, mostly just holding things. I notice you don't ask why you. Half the reason is concerned with the
patient's confidence and the other half is that I want someone who won't faint or panic in the middle of the operation.'

He grinned at the expression on Orlov's face. 'You won't, you know! You think you will, but you're the one man I'd be willing to stake my reputation on! You'll be as calm and unruffled in appearance as if you were taking tea with your maiden aunt, whatever you feel like inside!'

Orlov wished he shared the surgeon's confidence and found his appetite for supper much diminished. However, he sat down to the meal and pulled himself together, dismissing future possibilities from his mind, and managed to behave normally.

After the meal they sat found the fire talking for some time, Kolniev smoking his pipe, Kusminsky lying on the floor with his feet up on a box, the Countess darning and Orlov fidgeting with the hilt of his sword. Eventually, the Countess stuck her needle into the reel of thread, excused herself and went upstairs; Kusminsky kicked over his box and got up in one fluid movement, and Kolniev knocked out his pipe.

'Do we move on tomorrow?' he asked.

'Depends on the weather,' Orlov replied. 'If it rains, no; if it's fine, yes, probably.'

Kolniev gave an immense yawn, stretched and wandered off to bed. Kusminsky said, 'Don't worry about Adraksin. It'll probably be all right,' and followed him up the stairs.

To give the Countess a little time to herself, Orlov went on a tour of inspection. He found most of the men asleep, lying in a large fan-shape round the fires in the big salon and the servants' hall, wrapped in their blankets and greatcoats. It was surprising how much colder it had become after the recent heatwave and Orlov shivered a little as he looked round the stables, sprinting from one building to another through the light drizzle winch-had replaced the heavier rain.

He re-entered the house, climbed the stairs and hesitated outside the door of the pink room for a moment before tapping on it and entering. The room was lit only by the leaping flames of the fire which blazed in the grate. The Countess was sitting in her petticoat on her pile of bedding at one side of the hearth, combing her long, thick hair. Orlov's blankets were piled neatly on the other side and a tidy stack of firewood stood ready for use. The whole scene looked a little odd with an orderly row of two trunks, his own and Countess Barova's, standing in the middle of the floor and not a stick of furniture in the room.

'They might have left us a bed,' he said without thinking and then hastily amended it to 'two beds' which made matters worse. He hung his sword by its belt from the neck of one of the little plump putti carved on the marble overmantel and the Countess laughed. 'He looks so surprised!' she said.

'As well he might!' Orlov replied. He sat down beside her, buried his face in her hair and put his right arm round her, his hand cupping her breast. Her hair smelled fresh and clean and he kissed her neck through its silky strands, working his way round to her throat, then downward to where he could just see the valley between her breasts in the modest neckline of her petticoat bodice. She stiffened slightly and he made himself release her, got up, and went over to lean against the fireplace, half-turned away from her. 'I'm sorry,' he said.

She looked as if she might dissolve into tears. 'You've been so kind to me ...' she began.

'But it wouldn't be very kind to seduce you,' he finished for her. He hesitated for a moment and then decided that as the subject had been raised, he might as well take the opportunity. 'I don't want to distress you,' he said gently, 'but do you realize that probably all the men think that I have done so—seduced you, I mean—already?'

'Not all of them,' she replied with surprising calmness. 'Only one or two, I believe.'

'They haven't said anything to you?' Orlov was appalled. 'No. I overheard some of them talking. They didn't know I was there. None of them has ever said anything at all— improper or suggestive to me.'

'What did you hear?' Orlov asked sharply. She looked at him for a moment but before he could apologize and withdraw the question she said, 'It was last night, just after dark. I went to get something from the cart and some of them were sitting on the other side of it, talking. I heard one of them say that it was good to see you riding in
front on your grey horse again and another said "He's a good horseman to stay in the saddle, the state he's been in", and then someone laughed and said "He gets plenty of practice! He rides the grey gelding all day and the brown mare all night! "'

Orlov made a faint noise and pressed his forehead against the pink marble in front of him, hiding his scarlet face. She looked at him again for a second and then continued without a tremor, 'Some of the others laughed and one of them said, "He's a pretty fine stallion himself. I should think he gives her more pleasure than she's ever had before! " I don't think I can repeat the next part, for it was quite obscene. Then Sergeant Platov told them to be quiet. "You know very well you're talking nonsense" he said. "The Major can recognize a lady of quality even if you can't, and he won't have laid a finger on her. He's not the sort of man to take advantage of a lady in difficulties! " Nearly all of them agreed with him and the two who were joking about you had to be quiet.'

There was a moment of silence, broken only by the crackling of the fire and then Orlov said in an unsteady voice, 'Oh, God! I'm so sorry—I don't know what to say!'

'It's not your fault,' she assured him.

'But to think that you had the embarrassment of hearing anything like that!' Orlov was clearly very distressed.

She gave a little sigh and then said, 'I've heard far worse from my aunt at times, so I'm afraid I'm not as shocked as I ought to be. Some of the things she said about me were far more humiliating than anything I've experienced since I met you.'

'Was she very unkind to you?' Orlov asked anxiously.

She thought about the question before answering. 'She gave me a home and looked after me, but she didn't like me. I was grateful but I had no real affection for her and sometimes she irritated me terribly. When I made her angry, she said I was pert and rebellious, or else spineless and subservient and she'd go on and on criticizing me—my manner, my voice, my ... my anatomy until she made me cry. She always said I'd never get a husband. I don't think she meant to be unkind and she never struck me. It's just that I upset her and I think her legs were very painful sometimes.'

Orlov sat down beside her again, his arm going round her shoulders in a fairly brotherly way as he earnestly told her that her aunt was quite wrong. She laid her head on his shoulder, her soft hair brushing his cheek and he was about to go into details of why her aunt was wrong when he caught sight of a black mark on her left wrist—her hands were lying in her lap, one of them still, holding her comb. He picked up her hand to look more closely at the mark, saw that it was a bruise and pressed his lips to it.

'How did you do that?' he asked. To his surprise, she hid her face against his shoulder and he suddenly realized that he must have done it himself when Kusminsky had hurt his arm and he had gripped her. He began to apologize, but she lifted her face and smiled at him, shaking her head so he kissed her lips instead, gently at first but then harder, pressing her close to him, crushing his mouth down on hers, forcing her lips open. For a wild, dizzy moment, he fought to ' regain control of himself and then tore himself away from her and retired, shaking, to his own pile of bedding on the far side of the fireplace.

'Perhaps I'd better move outside the door,' he said in an unhappy voice.

She made no reply for a few moments but busied herself with plaiting her hair. Then she said in a very matter-of-fact manner, 'It would be very cold and draughty there and the floor is tiled with marble I think.'

Orlov gave a snort of mingled amusement and self-disgust. 'It would serve me right to lie on cold marble all night!' he said. 'I must try to remember that I'm not the sort of man to take advantage of a lady in difficulties—I'll have it engraved on my tombstone, I think! If I promise to behave, do you think I might be allowed to stay?'

The Countess was wrapping herself up in her blankets with apparent composure and she merely replied in a calm, social sort of manner, 'I should think so. Goodnight,' and then lay down to sleep.

Orlov struggled out of his boots and outer clothing in silence and lay awake for some time thinking about her with a great deal of admiration for her self-possession. He wondered what sort of turmoil and confusion it covered. Revulsion? Fear?

She had stiffened when he kissed her throat but not immediately, only when his lips moved lower, and then she had only stiffened, not pulled away. Several times now she had leaned against him when he put his arm round her as if she found his nearness comforting, but that didn't mean very much—he could remember leaning against his dog in that companionable way when he was a boy and something had made him feel lonely and unhappy. She had actually hugged him whe
n he gave her the hairpins, but
Tatia sometimes hugged him when he did something which pleased her.

He shifted about uncomfortably. The floor felt very hard and unyielding and he seemed to have a bruise on his right hip which made lying on that side hurt a little. Flat on his back wasn't very easy either. The floor grew lumps and bumps which pressed into his shoulder-blades and there seemed to be a bruise on his right buttock as well. Where on earth had he collected all these bruises? Presumably when Grushchev knocked him over and he hadn't noticed them before because they had been swallowed up by the pain of his arm.

The thought of Grushchev gave him a sick feeling of failure as if he were in some way to blame for the man's breakdown. Certainly, he should have realized sooner what was wrong. His own dread of mutilation should have given him insight. He began to blame himself for the sergeant's suicide as well but common sense intervened and told him that he could hardly have prevented it when he was unconscious himself.