Heart of Iron (15 page)

I took Wong Jun’s pale hand in mine and gave it as strong a squeeze as I could. “I promise I’ll do anything I can.”

“I believe you,” he said, gripping my hand firmly in return.

As Mishkin escorted me through the winding corridors in reverse order, I felt lightheaded and barely answered his prattle. Wong Jun’s letter nestled safely in the pocket of my jacket, and I could not help but brush my fingertips against every now and again, just to make sure the feel and rustling of the paper and the smell of ink remained real. I was still foggy on Wong Jun’s relationship to Qing dynasty, but the fact that he expected the emperor to know him made me feel optimistic. I had decided even before I left the Ravelin that the letter was a cause for celebration, and promised to take Eugenia to the opera as soon as it was practical, and before of course I had leave the country and start peace negotiations with China.

The excursion to the opera occurred sooner than I had expected. My bare mention of the possibility to Eugenia provoked a terrifying outbreak of enthusiasm and emotion. She was tired and disheartened, desperate for a distraction as the first snow, angry and biting, sifted from the clouds. Her fruitless daily visits to various offices and failure to make any progress were humiliating by themselves, but she was also not used to being rejected. She had always had access to the emperor, and now that it had suddenly taken away angered her. Her usual stubbornness left her no recourse but to continue knocking on locked doors. What she hoped to achieve, she never told me. I wasn’t the only one with secrets then.

So the opera seemed like a salvation, but preparations were needed. Usually indifferent to clothes, Genia insisted that we have new dresses sewn for the occasion. We found a seamstress she felt suitable, but the woman charged twice as much as others. Eugenia, contrary to her usual level-headedness, decided she would be the one. Her name was Maria Verbova, and she commanded an entire army of girls, all dressed in plain but well-made checkered dresses and white caps. Her atelier had appearance of efficiency and expensive simplicity.

Eugenia was usually thrifty, but the prospects of attending the opera excited her into ordering two very expensive dresses (although she did note they would serve as ball gowns as well). She kept to her usual widow’s black, and I wondered if she wore it on my mother’s behalf. I do not remember my mother wearing anything but pastels; she grieved for my father deeply when he passed away, but did not seem to think that changing the color of one’s clothing made a difference.

For me, we decided to go with a silver-gray taffeta, with just a hint of pearly sheen. I never understood how people could become so enchanted by fabric until that day — looking at that taffeta was like looking into the autumn sky over St. Petersburg, at clouds so low they tore on the cathedral crosses and the Admiralty spire; it was like gray river reflecting that sky. I asked for white lace, to remind me of the frothy water whipped by the rising submarine hulls. They made my skirts wide and flounced, and the bodice clung to my shoulders, while mercifully covering most of my chest with lace and ruffles.

“It’s very nice,” Eugenia said. “A good color for you — it reminds me of a sword blade.”

That week, I went to my usual classes and for fittings afterwards. By Saturday Eugenia and I had new dresses, and tickets had been procured. Despite Eugenia’s humiliation and disgust with everything, she made sure our tickets were for the balcony, to the right of the emperor’s private box.

Getting dressed took longer than usual — the dress required an unreasonable number of starched petticoats, and Anastasia had to spend a few minutes making sure that the lace of the hem lay evenly. I ruffled the lace at the neckline, making it looked even more like foam.

We arrived to a full house, and I was simultaneously dismayed and thrilled to see that Dame Nightingale, Mr. Herbert, and Jack were present as well. They were seated in a balcony across from ours, and I smiled and nodded to them. It was a perfect opportunity to point Jack out to Eugenia and I did so.

She squinted at the trio through her lorgnette, and whispered to me, “Is this the Englishman who always walks you home?”

“Yes,” I said. “What do you think?”

“A bit stringy,” Eugenia said. “Then again, I don’t suppose you’re intent on cooking him, so it shouldn’t matter all that much.”

I laughed and covered my face with my fan — I didn’t want Jack to think I was laughing at him, even though I was. “And that lady in pearls and a blue dress is Dame Nightingale,” I said to Eugenia. “She’s with their Secret Service.”

“She is one of the spies then,” Eugenia said and gave a slow, bitter laugh.

“She is,” I said. “I got the impression that the man next to her is the reason. She is doing it to help him.”

“Surely there are other ways to help loved ones,” Eugenia said, frowning. “Besides, a little selfishness in certain people would be a blessing to the world.”

“I’m sure some are saying the same about you,” I said.

She laughed. “Indeed, I’m sure some people would be quite happy if I left the public sphere. But I am getting better — I have decided to only concern myself with matters that affect my blood relatives.”

“Funny you should mention it,” I said. “But I was going to ask you to interfere on behalf of Wong Jun.”

“I’ve been trying.”

“You haven’t been giving bribes or pulling favors.”

Eugenia looked shocked, and her lorgnette trembled. “Sasha! How can you even suggest that!”

I shrugged, feeing my shoulder slip out of the taffeta and then dip back again. “It doesn’t matter, Aunt Genia. No one is playing by the rules anymore, not the emperor, not the English. You’re the only one who perseveres.”

“Sometimes one’s integrity is the only thing one has left.” She turned away, sighing, and pointed her lorgnette at the orchestra tuning their violins in the orchestra pit. I thought the time was right to talk to her about my expectations for her help.

“Yes,” I persisted, “but let’s try to save more than our integrity alone. Jack may be able to obtain proof the English are planning a war — but you will have to do everything you can to get it in front of Constantine.”

“He would do that?” She laughed softly. “Just be careful you don’t put your trust in those who are not worthy of it.”

I was about to reply, but the first bars of the overture sent a hush over the theater. I knew from experience that Eugenia took her music seriously, and it would be wise not to annoy her by talking during the performance. Besides, I thought, it would be good for her to consider my request.

I sat back in my chair and watched the velvet-draped figures bumping against each other and singing in Italian. Someone jumped off a papier-mâché wall, and then they sang some more. I could never follow an opera (probably because I never bothered to read the programme that helpfully explained the plot), so I just tried to enjoy the music, while watching Jack out of the corner of my eye. Between studying and dress preparation I had not had time to talk to him of late. He also seemed preoccupied with concerns of his own. Exams were drawing closer, and I surmised he was working on getting the documents from Nightingale. I couldn’t wait to show him Wong Jun’s letter.

During the intermission, Eugenia and I went to the foyer, where unobtrusive waiters dressed in white weaved in and out of the crowd with trays of Champagne glasses. Eugenia and I nodded to a few acquaintances but kept to ourselves — primarily, to spare the Obolensky and Orlov families the embarrassment of finding excuses to avoid us. I had been so engrossed in the life of the university that I had not noticed how the position of my family had deteriorated; it wasn’t any specific misdeed or overt scandal, but a cumulative effect of Eugenia’s unorthodoxy and my own small and unwomanly trespasses, coupled with the withdrawal of the emperor’s support. We were now considered somewhat less than desirable company.

“So what,” I whispered to Eugenia. “We don’t need those people.”

“Those people used to be my friends,” she said, and drained her Champagne flute in one long swallow.

“Mishkin still is,” I said. “Look, Aunt Genia. You told me yourself that you get to know who your friends are when things are not going well.”

She shook her head, sadly. “This is how one learns that one has very few friends.”

The end of second quarter and exam week came quickly and unavoidably. Beyond them yawned the abyss of the unknown — China. I’d soon embark on an important mission, more dangerous but only slightly less terrifying than the season with its social visits and occasional ball. Still, I thought myself lucky to be given this opportunity. I did not concern myself with idle thoughts of from whence it came — God, or destiny, or some other unknowable entity.

By the time classes ended, I was feverish with excitement, and Olga and Dasha both insisted that I looked consumptive. I was less worried about the exams, although I did study, than about the approaching journey.

To my surprise, Eugenia had agreed to assist us, and did not argue with me going to China. I wished she had; I wish she had some of my mother’s irrational protectiveness that would make her cling to me and beg me not to go. But Eugenia only sighed, and wrote letters for me to carry to bureaucrats in Moscow and every major city east of it. She cried at night, when she thought I could not hear her.

Jack and I were supposed to take a train to Moscow and then proceed east. Anastasia insisted on coming along, but really, there was no point in dragging silly Anastasia with us. She was a good, hardworking maid, but I decided she would be better off keeping the place fit for my return a few months hence.

“You cannot go dressed as yourself,” Eugenia told me two days before my exams.

She did have a point: a young woman traveling alone with a man would surely attract attention. Moreover, if Jack was to succeed in his thievery, both the English Secret Service and the homegrown Nikolashki would surely be looking for us. Traveling as a married couple on a honeymoon was briefly considered but discarded because, rings or not, the police would not be fooled. However, Eugenia very sensibly suggested no one would not be looking for two men.

“But men’s clothes are so drab!” Anastasia exclaimed. “No offense, miss, but you have to glitter.”

Leaving aside that mysterious pronouncement, I considered the gist of her words. “I need a military uniform,” I said, finally. “A grenadier, perhaps.”

Eugenia shook her head. “Don’t be a fool, Sasha, you’re not built for infantry. You will pass as a young hussar, or a Guardsman officer.”

“Why not a dragoon?”

She sighed. “In our apartment, there’s a chest of old clothes. Your father’s guardsman uniform is in it still, as well as your uncle’s — he was a hussar. You can try them on, and see what fits best.”

“Uncle?” I asked, confused.

“My older brother,” Eugenia said. “Pavel Menshov. He was killed during the Napoleonic invasion, but he was a small man. His uniform is old-fashioned, but surely we can use his sword and insignia.”

Eugenia told me a little about my dead Uncle Pavel — he was young when he died, she said, barely more than a boy. His uniform, had it been wearable, would have fit me. It was strange for her, an old woman now, to think of him as her older brother. She told me how hard she cried on the day she realized she had forgotten his face.

Maria Verbova, my aunt determined, could sew me a uniform quite similar to my dead uncle’s; moreover, Eugenia predicted, since the woman charged so much she must be used to keeping secrets. My aunt was proven correct. When I stopped by the atelier and requested Madame Verbova make me a hussar uniform, the seamstress only nodded and asked me if I would need to have my hair cut too.

“Yes,” I said. “In a week.”

She smiled then, dark lids hooding eyes that seemed too old for her well-kept face. “If you let me cut off a lock now, I will have a mustache ready for you as well,” she said.

I laughed at the idea but conceded it was a good one, and with a swift clip of scissors she sheared a lock of hair near my temple. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” I asked.

She inclined her head. “As you can imagine, there are many reasons for women to disguise themselves as men and men as women. If you wish, I will make you a corset to flatten your chest and thicken your waist.”

“That would be helpful,” I said.

“Don’t worry,” Maria assured me. “You are paying me enough to take care of it personally — my girls are quite reliable, but sometimes it is better to be safe than sorry.”

The fittings at Maria Verbova’s atelier evoked an almost sinister but giddy mood. The hussar uniform was still wide in the shoulders, but the corset (a disturbing-looking contraption of satin, whalebone, and cork with metal grommets) was designed to widen my shoulders, and its weight, aided by a set of particularly strong hooks and laces, pressed my bosom until it was as flat as a boy’s. The cork-and-whalebone bodice surrounded my waist, thickening it. It had joints that allowed me to bend, and generous padding made the device surprisingly comfortable.

The breeches, white and tight fitting, took a bit of getting used to — I felt naked without my petticoats and skirts, but soon enough I discovered the trousers were quite comfortable as were the tall boots that squeaked with every step. The blue jacket, its chest stiff with gold braid, and a fur-trimmed pelisse completed my attire; a tall bearskin hat gave me much-needed height. My uncle’s saber hung off my belt, its sheathed tip knocking reassuringly against my left boot, and Eugenia and Maria both agreed that I made a youthful but convincing hussar: short, squat, and broad shouldered.

Maria kept her word and made a mustache out of my hair. I was secretly hoping for an elaborate concoction, like the one decorating Commandant Mishkin’s face. Instead, Maria produced several thin strips of sheer fabric covered in sparse hairs and a small bottle of glue. When she glued it to my face and held up the mirror, I laughed. As a woman, I was plain, but as a boy hussar with a nascent mustache, I looked… handsome. Maria nodded, pleased. “You look like you are about seventeen,” she said. “Don’t tell anyone you are older or no one will believe you. If your mustache gets dirty, replace it promptly; the glue dries fast. Now we need to work on your walk.”