The Jewel of St Petersburg (37 page)

“There was an emergency. An accident in one of the factories.” She wasn’t any good at lying.

He viewed her uniform with distaste. “So you cleaned it up with your apron, by the look of you.”

“No, Papa.”

She didn’t want to provoke him, not this time. The smile that wouldn’t leave her lips was not for him, but he was not to know that, so he advanced toward her with an amiable expression. His gait was unsteady.

“I have something for you.” He fumbled in his pocket and eventually produced a letter folded small. “From Captain Chernov.”

She wanted to turn, to run up the stairs, to fling herself on her bed and refuse to allow Captain Chernov anywhere near her mind. It was too full of someone else. Her fingers hung at her side.

“Take it, girl.”

“I don’t want it, Papa.”

“Take the damn letter.”

It hovered between them, pale and insistent. Her fingers didn’t move.

“I’ll read it tomorrow, Papa. I’m too tired tonight.”

“I’d like you to read it now, in front of me.”

She didn’t look at him. She stared at his black patent shoes, the spiky lights of the chandelier reflected back at her from their gleaming surface. She held out her hand and he thrust the folded paper into it. She let it lie there.

“Read it, please.”

Slowly she opened the letter and words in a bold black hand reared up in front of her eyes, but they remained a blur. She refused to focus on them.

“Well?”

She shook her head.

He took the letter and read it aloud. “
My dearest Valentina,
. . .”

“I am not his
dearest.”
Her voice came out low and disconnected.

Her father didn’t notice.

“
My dearest Valentina,

I took the liberty of calling on you today but you were not at home. I hope you are well and not inconvenienced by the military presence that is patrolling the city, dismantling street-barricades and breaking up unruly gatherings. Don’t worry, dear Valentina, I am making it my personal mission to keep you safe during these troubled and troubling times.

There is to be a grand imperial ball at the Winter Palace and I would be greatly honored if you would accompany me to it next Wednesday evening.

Thank you for the delightful pleasure of your company the other evening.

Yours devotedly,
Stepan Chernov.”

Her father nodded and his contentment spread pink streaks across his cheeks. His chest swelled. She could see he was pleased with her. “You’ve done well, Valentina.”

“Papa, I know every father wants his daughter to make a good marriage.”

He raised his glass to her. “Indeed they do.”

“So I understand that you intend the best for me.”

“Good girl.”

He stepped forward and draped an arm around her shoulders, and the image of her list flashed through her mind. She thought of how easy it would be to make her father forgive her at last.

“But Papa, please don’t force me into—”

He laughed and tickled her cheek with the corner of the letter. “Hush, child, hush.” He came close and kissed her cheek.

“Papa”—she moved away and pulled her cloak tight around her body, isolating herself from him—“please inform Captain Chernov that I’m sorry, but—”

“Nicholai, are you ever coming back in here?”

It was a woman’s voice, light and faintly slurred. It issued from the drawing room and was followed by a soft enticing laugh and the chink of a bottle against a glass. It was not her mother. But her father showed no sign of embarrassment, and his dark eyes gleamed with amusement as he observed his elder daughter. He patted the back of her wrist where she clutched the edge of her cloak, an affectionate fatherly touch.

“Don’t look so shocked, Valentina. It’s how marriages work. When you and Stepan Chernov are married, you’ll soon get used to the idea, like your mother did. No, don’t—”

But she was gone. Up the stairs two at a time, leaving him with his letter and his woman.

H
ER DIRTY CLOTHES LAY ON THE FLOOR, JUST AS SHE’D dropped them a thousand times before for the maid to pick up. But this time when she looked down at the soiled uniform lying like a dead person on the carpet and pictured the clean one hanging crisp and ironed in her wardrobe, she frowned. She stooped, picked up the dirty clothes, folded them, and placed the pile neatly on a chair for Olga to find when she came in. The little things. They made a difference. She was noticing them now.

It wasn’t until she was curled up in bed, hugging her knees, that she allowed her mind the luxury of slipping away. Her eyes closed and immediately she was on a different pillow, in a different bed, in a different life. Her body ached for Jens, a sharp driving ache that drew out a raw moan from her throat. The heat of him was still inside her, making her thighs restless, unable to keep still.

She had no idea it would be like this. The wanting. The recall of his every touch. His lips so tender on her breasts, his hands caressing and coaxing till her body became his instead of hers. The desire to please him, to taste him, to own him. Her lips claiming him. Her body and soul so in thrall to him that lying here on her own was like being only half a person, having only half a life.

“Jens,” she whispered into the darkness. “I’ll never be able to give you up.”

Not even for Katya.

Twenty-three

S
NOW FELL IN CURLING WHITE SHEETS, BILLOWING FORWARD in sudden bursts of violent energy, then retreating like an army gathering its troops before the next attack. The roofs and roads glittered white and the city that had been created out of a dingy swamp so many years ago by Peter the Great looked as graceful and elegant as one of the tsar’s own swans.

Arkin did not notice its beauty. It was the dark police uniforms that held his attention. They were gathering in twos and threes on street corners, their eyes watchful as wolves. He hadn’t expected them yet. They had moved fast, which surprised him, and they were nervous. The Raspov apprentices were on the march, stomping through the streets, noisy and rowdy as boisterous dogs let off the leash, chanting the slogans he had taught them, shouting and waving their handmade banners.

“Give us justice!”

“United we fight! United we win!”

“We demand a fair wage!”

“Victory for the workers!”

Again and again their united voices shouted out the words that were dearest to their hearts, “Give us bread!
Khleb!”

Scrawny skeletons, that was all they were, a jumble of skin and bones inside coats too thin to keep out the Russian winter. So young and yet so resigned to their fate. It angered his heart. It had taken all his persuasive powers to convince them that they could change the terrible conditions in their foundry if they worked together. Flat white faces had stared back at him at first with helpless, hopeless eyes.

The person who helped him put fire inside their hungry bellies was Karl, the engine driver’s young son who’d collected the crate from the train with him. Only sixteen and already he understood.

“Comrades, things can change,” Arkin had told them. He was standing on a box in the icy yard of the foundry, and he could feel their excitement mingling with the snow that blew in their faces. “You can change them. You workers are the ones with the real power—if only you have the courage to wield it.”

“Brothers,” young Karl had shouted out, “listen to our comrade. We are treated worse than rats by our masters. Yesterday Pashin lost half his hand, last week Grigoriev lost the skin on his neck. Who will be next?”

“The hours are too long,” Arkin declared. “Mistakes are made.”

“No safety at work,” Karl added.

“No right to complain.”

“No water. It’s hot as hell in there.”

“Do your masters care?” Arkin punched a hole in the white air with his fist.

“No,” the young voices shouted back.

“So let’s teach them to care,” Karl yelled.

That was when they started to march. Ivan Sidorov had stood at the foundry gates, eyeing him with respect. He looked a very different figure when he wasn’t drunk and sprawled over a table, a man Arkin could use. Sidorov was the one who’d gathered the apprentices together for him in the yard. They exchanged a look, that was all. It was enough.

W
ORD SPREAD FAST. As THEY SWUNG PAST THE SHOE FACTORY on Strechka Ulitsa a string of young boys burst out, still in their leather aprons, and hurled themselves into the Raspov crowd. Apprentices from the Tarasov toolmaking factory swelled their numbers to well over three hundred, marching shoulder to shoulder and shouting their slogans. Behind them strode Sergeyev, his arm still in a sling.

“Good work,” he commented to Arkin.

He nodded a greeting. “How’s your wife?”

“Concerned about how today will turn out.”

“Tell her we are rolling a stone downhill, gathering speed. Nothing can stop it.”

Sergeyev clenched his fist in agreement, but he looked tense and tired.

“Go home,” Arkin urged. “Your arm is clearly bad today, my friend. These apprentices hardly need us now that they can scent victory.”

“Hah! They are blind to the battles ahead.”

“This is just a skirmish, Sergeyev. It’s a beginning. Let them have their day of glory.” He studied him with concern. “You go home. Tend to your wife.”

To his surprise, Sergeyev clapped him on the shoulder, gripping it hard. “Good luck,
udachi,
comrade.” He peeled back from the line of marchers and was gone. Instantly the place at Arkin’s side was taken by the lanky figure of Karl, a grin on his young face.

T
HEY FLOODED INTO THE RAILWAY SIDINGS, AN OPENING windswept soulless place where rail carriages were shunted to die. Boots stamped on the ice-packed earth. Arkin listened to them and felt his blood quicken. It was the sound of the feet of Russia on the march. Not even the tsar on the imperial throne would dare to slaughter these innocents. He felt hope, hot and liquid, surge through his gut at the thought of the future for Russians.

“Arkin, good man, you’ve fired up their young minds.”

It was Father Morozov. He grasped Arkin’s hand. Snowflakes had settled in a halo on the priest’s tall black hat, diamond sharp, at odds with his shabby coat.

“This is my young comrade, Karl, from the Raspov foundry. He has already proved he is one of us, valuable to the cause.”

The priest held out his hand in welcome. The boy took it, dipped his head over the gloved fingers, and pressed them to his lips. “Father,” he murmured with respect.

The simple gesture annoyed Arkin intensely, but he gave no sign. Didn’t they realize? That was exactly the kind of automatic subservience the Bolsheviks were trying to eradicate. There was no place for religion in the future of Russia, where all would be equal. No obeisance, no knee bending. Not even to God.

“Are they coming?” Arkin asked urgently.

Morozov smiled.
“Da.”

“When?”

“They’re on their way now.”

“Good. They’ve kept their promise.”

Karl looked from one to the other. “Who? Who’s coming?”