The Lost Souls of Angelkov Page 2

  “But Count Mitlovsky,” Grisha says, “it’s bleeding too—”

  “I said no doctor. There’s no time,” Konstantin says, grimacing. “Chyort,” he curses.

  “Madam,” Grisha says to Antonina. “His hand—please, madam. We await your orders.”

  “I give the orders,” Konstantin tells Grisha. “Keep your mouth shut.”

  Antonina focuses on Konstantin’s linen shirt: on its snowy surface is a spread of crimson. From Konstantin’s hand, she thinks. Not from Mikhail. The blood is from Konstantin’s hand. “Get something to stop the bleeding,” she says into the room, her voice steady. She hasn’t come undone. She sees a scrap of fabric protruding from Konstantin’s uninjured hand.

  “What is that?” She points. “What are you holding, Konstantin?” She goes to him and tries to open his fingers, but his is like the grip of a man already dead. “Konstantin,” she says, low and fierce. He uncurls his fingers. A strip of wool with a small insignia sewn onto it in tight stitches lies on his palm.

  “Cossacks,” she says. Now her voice is a stranger’s, hoarse and rough, as if she’s been screaming for a long time. Cossacks, cavalry in the tsarist army with their lances, carbines, pistols and sabres, are fierce and predatory in time of war. But there is no war. The Cossacks should be fishing and breeding cattle, as they do during peace.

  “Why would Cossacks take Misha?” she asks Konstantin. She thinks about the stories she’s heard, of Cossacks recruiting their numbers by kidnapping peasant boys in time of war. “They don’t need more boys now. And especially not a … Mikhail is of the nobility. Why, Konstantin?”

  Konstantin pulls away his hand, his lips pursed, the skin around them white. The insignia falls to the floor.

  Behind Antonina is the swish of skirts, the rasp and slap of heavy boots against the floor. The clock on the mantle ticks. There are murmurs. Then the old housekeeper Olga is wrapping a length of cotton around Konstantin’s hand. But the bleeding continues, soaking the layers of cloth.

  Antonina again clears her throat and swallows, tasting the sourness of her own saliva. “It’s for money? Is that it, Konstantin, a ransom demand?” Now her voice is hard. “All this unrest—they think they can just steal children and demand a ransom?” She looks at the crowd in the doorway, as if they, her own house servants, are somehow responsible. All of them except Lilya look at the floor; she comes forward, to her mistress.

  “They will demand ransom,” Antonina states, looking back at Konstantin. Her voice is loud in the eerie silence of the room. And suddenly she’s full of terrible energy; there have already been too many wasted precious moments. “Ransom! Ransom—we’ll pay the ransom. Of course.” Her hands reach out, trembling.

  Lilya stands beside her. “Madam,” she says quietly, and at her voice Antonina drops her hands.

  “Yes,” Konstantin says. “Yes. They will want money, and we will pay them. That’s enough,” he says to Olga, who is fussing over the bandages and a sling she is attempting to tie. “But we can’t wait to hear from them. We’ll go after them now. Grisha, round up as many men as we have horses. We’ll find them, Antonina. And we’ll take back Mikhail.”

  “Kostya.” She glances at his hand again. It is thickly bandaged and the cotton sling holds it against his chest, the index and middle fingers exposed, pointing towards his neck. “Is Misha—did they harm him? Tell me what happened to him. Tell me exactly what they said.”

  “They didn’t hurt him,” he says.

  She wants to believe him. “Hurry, then, Kostya,” she says, even louder, looking over her shoulder at Grisha. “Go, Grisha. I’m coming as well. Lilya, get my riding boots. Saddle my horse, Lyosha.”

  But Konstantin is staring at Grisha. “You,” he roars, abruptly standing and pushing Antonina aside, as if he’s taken energy from her. She loses her balance, but Lilya is there to catch her. Konstantin sways. “You gave him that damn horse. He couldn’t handle it. It was too wild for him. Why did you give the boy such a difficult horse? You idiot.” He raises his left hand as if to strike Grisha, but in the next instant he groans and falls back, sprawling heavily onto the settee, his legs wide.

  Grisha hasn’t moved. His face, as usual, shows nothing, apart from a slight flush. He doesn’t apologize, doesn’t drop his gaze.

  “For God’s sake, Konstantin, never mind the horse. Go on, Grisha,” Antonina says. “Immediately. We can’t wait. Every moment that passes … Mikhail, he’s a child. He had a fever, only yesterday. He shouldn’t have been out in this cold.” She knows she’s speaking too quickly but can’t stop. “He needs to be kept warm, doesn’t he, Lilya?” She looks at her maid, and the woman nods. “Soon it will be dark. We can’t wait,” she repeats.

  Lilya picks up the countess’s hand and chafes it between her own.

  Konstantin stands again, his face chalky. “Hurry, you bloody fool,” he yells at Grisha. “Gather the men and get moving.”

  Grisha stares directly into Konstantin’s face as if he wants to speak. His face is even more flushed, his jaw tight.

  “Which direction will we—”Antonina starts, pulling her hand from Lilya, but Konstantin grabs her wrist.

  “You’re not coming. Stay here and wait.”

  “I’m a better rider than most of the men. I’m going with you.”

  Konstantin grips her wrist tighter and leans into her face. His voice is low but carries through the room. “You’re drunk. You can’t ride the way you are. Stay here and sober up. Do you hear?”

  Antonina draws her head back, blinking. There isn’t a sound from the servants, not a cough, not the shuffle of a boot. Antonina lifts her chin. “Don’t speak so, Konstantin. What is important right now is the safety of our son. I want to come.”

  “No. You will not.” Konstantin strides past her, and the huddled group of servants in the doorway parts.

  Lilya puts her arm around Antonina’s shoulders. “Come. Come, madam. We will bring you tea.”

  Antonina looks at her as though she’s speaking a foreign language. Tea? Why would Lilya think tea would be of any use? Lilya lowers her eyes—although not before Antonina sees something in them. Some great sorrow. Sorrow, and something else Antonina doesn’t recognize. Nothing makes sense.

  Antonina can’t think of tea. Instead, she goes out to the wide front veranda. Grisha is there, his back to her. She sees a fresh slash, beaded with blood, across the back of his neck. He turns at her footsteps and, as she comes closer, puts his hand on her forearm in an unfamiliar gesture. “Madam,” he says. “About the horse …”

  “It was foolish of you, as my husband said,” she says, her voice rising. “You know he’s not yet a strong rider.” Blood from the back of Grisha’s neck stains the collar of his white tunic, and she knows Konstantin has done this.

  What good would it do to punish him further? She needs him to help find her son.

  Grisha is still looking into her face. When she says nothing more, he nods. “We’re waiting for everyone to be saddled. We’ll spread through the trees in many directions, and we’ll find the Cossacks, countess. We’ll return with your son, unharmed.”

  At his words, spoken with such confidence, a tremble goes through Antonina. She looks down at his hand on her sleeve. For the first time since the servant’s hysterical screaming in the yard, she feels she’s not alone. “Thank you, Grisha,” she whispers. “Thank you.” To hear him say these words of comfort—and to believe him, as she stares into his face—is what she needs. Grisha is much younger than Konstantin, and strong; he would not be cowardly and weak, as Konstantin must have been.

  It has been no more than two hours since Mikhail was taken. As Grisha has said, they will find the Cossacks, of course they will. Misha will be returned to her, cold and frightened, hungry, but unharmed.

  I will have the Cossacks sent to the far reaches of Siberia. Antonina straightens at the thought. She always felt a certain pity for the prisoners sent east, across the country to the great stretches of barren land. She h
ad, at times, studied their faces as she passed a wagon loaded with chained, bruised and wretched-looking creatures on the road, and wondered what crimes they had committed to be sentenced to such an exile. She will no longer feel pity.

  Grisha takes his hand from her arm and hurries down the steps to the horse Lyosha has led from the stables.

  Antonina watches the men leave, Konstantin in the lead. She isn’t wearing a coat but doesn’t feel the cold. Only a few hours earlier she had stood in the same spot and watched her son ride away with his father.

  Olga is gently pulling at her arm and Antonina allows the old woman to lead her into the house, and then to the drawing room, where Lilya is setting a tray with a glass of tea and a crystal bowl of jam on the table. Antonina stares at the tray as if it contains unknown objects, then sits on the burgundy velvet sofa, across from the bloodstained settee. Olga drapes a wool shawl over her shoulders. Tinka, Antonina’s tiny Maltese lapdog, jumps up and lies quietly beside her, licking her front paws.

  “Lilya,” Antonina says. “Please. Bring me a glass of wine.” But isn’t this the reason Konstantin took Misha away from her that afternoon? Isn’t it her fault that Konstantin took her son out riding? If she hadn’t been drinking, she and Konstantin wouldn’t have fought. You disgust me, Konstantin had said. I don’t like the boy seeing you like this.

  She had been in the music salon listening to Mikhail play, her eyes closed as she sat in a small armchair near the piano. She’d sipped her wine, letting the music wash over her.

  The music came from him effortlessly; even though she too had the gift, her son was more advanced than she had been at his age. What pleasure he brought her, not only when he played but in their daily lives together. He was the first thing she thought about when she awoke each morning and was in her final prayers as she fell asleep. As she listened this day, she remembered the first duet they had played together, when Mikhail was four—Schumann’s Kinderball duet—and how he had looked up at her when the final notes were played. He still looked at her like this when he completed a complicated piece and was pleased with himself and wanted to share the pleasure with her.

  Today he was playing Glinka’s Separation in F Minor when Konstantin’s voice, loud and near, made her jump, spilling a few drops of the rich red wine onto her skirt.

  “I’m taking the boy for a ride,” he said.

  She stood, clutching her glass. Mikhail continued playing. “Let him finish the piece,” she said. “He hasn’t been at the piano for a few days because of his fever.”

  Konstantin met her gaze. “So early, Antonina?” he said.

  She lifted her chin. “I’ve been very worried about him. You know that.” She lifted the glass to her lips and slowly drank, her eyes not leaving his.

  She saw his lips tighten and then he raised his hand and knocked the glass from hers. It shattered against the stone fireplace, and sheets of music fluttered to the floor, some falling into the wine and broken glass. Mikhail stopped abruptly, jumping up and putting his hands over his ears. “Look what you do to him,” Antonina cried. “Why must you upset him?”

  “It’s not me who upsets him,” Konstantin said, his voice raised. “I’m ashamed for even the servants to see you in such a state.”

  Mikhail ran to Antonina, putting his arms around her waist. “Father, don’t. Please don’t make Mama sad.”

  “It’s all right, darling,” Antonina said, smoothing his hair. “I’m fine, really. Go back and finish the nocturne. It’s lovely. You haven’t forgotten a note. Go on, dear, go and finish it.”

  But Konstantin shook his head. “You’re coming for a ride, Mikhail. You spend too much time indoors. You need exercise after you’ve been ill. Grisha has the horses readied. Come along.”

  As he strode away, Mikhail pulled away from her and looked up at her, then at the piano, distress on his face.

  Antonina wanted him to finish the nocturne. A piece of music unfinished was like a sentence left hanging, half spoken, in the air. She hadn’t always felt like this, so anxious, so easily undone. The trembling began just under the surface of her skin. And yet she couldn’t bear the terrible look of confusion on her son’s face.

  “Go then, my darling. Do as your father says.”

  He nodded, but still looked troubled. She fought not to pull him back to her and hold him tightly. She wanted to feel the graceful bones of his shoulders, put her face into his thick blond hair and breathe in his scent.

  She will always remember this: she sent him with his father. What if she had called him back, had said, No, no, Misha. I won’t allow it. You will stay here, safe, with me. What if she had said this? Could she have stopped Konstantin from taking him?

  Mikhail had grabbed his little leather music composition booklet from the piano and ran after his father. As Antonina took a step, glass crunched under her foot. She looked down at the sheet of music.

  To Antonina Leonidovna on her name day. With great admiration and respect, Valentin Vladimirovitch. Dated March 14, 1849.

  The page was spattered with brilliant crimson from the broken glass of wine. Seeing how Konstantin had ruined even this—her lovely Glinka score, a gift so special to her—made Antonina go to the sideboard and pour herself another glass from the decanter. She swallowed it in one draft, then set the glass down, wiping her lips with the back of her hand.

  “Lilya,” she called. “Lilya! Fetch Misha’s jacket and hat. He’s going riding.”

  But of course Mikhail didn’t wear his hat.

  And this is the last image Antonina has of that moment: her son riding away from her, her hand raised as she called out to Konstantin, Wait, please wait. Mikhail needs his hat. She saw how his hair blew back from his ears and she knew they would be cold.

  Now Lilya, kneeling between the table and the sofa, puts a spoonful of jam to Antonina’s mouth. “No wine just yet, madam,” she says, and Antonina nods.

  “You’re right. No more wine today.” She swallows the jam and takes a sip from the steaming glass in the engraved silver holder Lilya puts to her mouth. The glass is thin and as silky as satin on her lips. She is aware of the sweetness of the jam, the heat of the tea, but tastes nothing.

  “When do you suppose they will find him?” she asks. “It will be before dark, certainly before dark. Don’t you think so, Lilya?”

  Lilya sets down the glass. “I’m sure of it, madam. There are a number of hours until dark.” Her face is tight, expressionless. She looks unfamiliar to Antonina. She is closer to her than any of the servants, and yet she looks strange and distant.

  “Don’t distress yourself further, madam,” Olga says now. “It might be best to sleep. If you rest—”

  “Oh, no. I must go and watch for them,” Antonina says, leaping to her feet, the shawl falling from her shoulders and Tinka jumping to the floor. Lilya, still on her knees, leans away so that Antonina’s full skirt doesn’t swing into her face. Olga treads on the dog’s paw. Tinka lets out a surprised squeal and scurries under the sofa.

  Antonina heads for the hallway, the door. Lilya scrambles to her feet and runs after her.

  “Madam,” she says, her hand touching Antonina’s. “Perhaps Olga is right. You should go to your bed, and take one of your sleeping tablets.”

  Antonina shakes her head, crossing her arms over her chest. “No. I must be here for Mikhail’s return. I want to be waiting when he’s brought to me.”

  “All right. Then come back and have more tea. You’ve eaten nothing since breakfast. If you drink another glass of tea, and eat something, you will be … yourself, more quickly. Then you can properly attend to your son when he needs you. Come,” Lilya says, and her voice lowers so that Olga can’t hear her. “Come, Tosya. Please.”

  Antonina licks her lips. She sees the woman’s crucifix and thinks of the icon of Saint Nicholas on a thin gold chain around Mikhail’s neck, beside his own crucifix. Did she once really believe that Saint Nicholas could protect her son? The shock is taking over, and she shivers. “
Yes, all right.”

  She goes back to the velvet sofa, wrapping the shawl around herself again. Lilya murmurs instructions to Olga as she pours another glass of tea. Tinka creeps out from under the sofa and Lilya picks her up and puts her on Antonina’s lap.

  While she drinks her tea, Antonina absently strokes the dog’s back.

  Olga reappears with a tray. Antonina looks at the cold mutton and the beet salad, the soft roll spread with creamy butter. She swallows. She can’t imagine eating.

  “Slowly, madam,” Lilya says. “Just take a little to start.” She breaks off a piece of the roll and hands it to Antonina.

  Antonina takes it and puts it in her mouth. Then she cuts the mutton and eats, chewing and swallowing very carefully, as though she has something blocking her throat, until the plate is half empty. She gives a sliver of meat to Tinka.

  Then she pats her mouth on the damask napkin. “Thank you, Olga,” she says. “I’ll keep watch at the front windows.” The old woman takes the tray and leaves. Still holding Tinka, Antonina goes to the tall windows that look onto the front yard and stands unblinking, her back straight. Lilya kneels beside her and clasps her hands in prayer. “He will return soon, Tosya,” she says. “And it will be as always. You, me and our Misha.” She closes her eyes and bows her head over her hands.

  Antonina puts her lips against the little dog’s head and whispers her own prayers.

  The men and horses thunder through the forest with Konstantin and Grisha in the lead. The back of Grisha’s neck still stings from Konstantin’s whip.

  Should the count turn on his horse now, he would be surprised at the hatred etched on the face of the man he relies on to help him run Angelkov. Grisha is not a serf but a free man who is paid a salary for his work. Konstantin considers his treatment of Grisha to be generous and fair. Konstantin also believes he had always been generous and fair to all his serfs—all the souls he once owned.

  But now everything is changing. The Russian world is tilting on its axis. The Emancipation Manifesto, handed down by Tsar Alexander II two months earlier, in February 1861, has changed life for both serfs and landowners. The serfs now owe the landowners nothing, neither obrok, the yearly tax they used to pay to the landowner for using some of the harvest to fill their own bellies, nor payment in goods.