The Man from St. Petersburg (23 page)

The men were mowing hay in the South Acre. Twelve laborers made a ragged line across the field, stooped over their scythes, and there was a steady
swish, swish
as the tall stalks fell like dominoes.

Samuel Jones, the oldest of the laborers, finished his row first. He came over, scythe in hand, and touched his cap to Walden. Walden shook his callused hand. It was like grasping a rock.

“Did your lordship find time to go to that there exhibition in Lunnun?” Samuel said.

“Yes, I did,” Walden replied.

“Did you see that mowing machine you was talking about?”

Walden put on a dubious face. “It’s a beautiful piece of engineering, Sam—but I don’t know …”

Sam nodded. “Machinery never does the job as well as a laborer.”

“On the other hand, we could cut the hay in three days instead of a fortnight—and by getting it in that much faster we run less risk of rain. Then we could rent the machine to the tenanted farms.”

“You’d need fewer laborers, too,” Sam said.

Walden pretended to be disappointed. “No,” he said, “I couldn’t let anyone go. It would just mean we need not take on gypsies to help around harvesttime.”

“It wouldn’t make that much difference, then.”

“Not really. And I’m a bit concerned about how the men would take to it—you know young Peter Dawkins will find any excuse to make trouble.”

Sam made a noncommittal sound.

“Anyway,” Walden continued, “Mr. Samson is going to take a look at the machine next week.” Samson was the bailiff. “I say!” Walden said as if he had been struck by an idea. “I don’t suppose you’d want to go with him, Sam?”

Sam pretended not to care much for the idea. “To Lunnun?” he said. “I went there in 1888. Didn’t like it.”

“You could go up on the train with Mr. Samson—perhaps take young Dawkins with you—see the machine, have your dinner in London, and come back in the afternoon.”

“I dunno what my missus would say.”

“I’d be glad to have your opinion of the machine, though.”

“Well, I should be interested.”

“That’s settled, then. I’ll tell Samson to make the arrangements.” Walden smiled conspiratorially. “You can give Mrs. Jones to understand I practically forced you to go.”

Sam grinned. “I’ll do that, m’lord.”

The mowing was almost done. The men stopped work. Any rabbits would be hidden within the last few yards of hay. Walden called Dawkins over and gave him the gun. “You’re a good shot, Peter. See if you can get one for yourself and one for the Hall.”

They all stood on the edge of the field, out of the line of fire, then cut the last of the hay from the side, to drive the rabbits into the open field. Four came out, and Dawkins got two with his first round and one with his second. The gunfire made Aleks wince.

Walden took the gun and one of the rabbits; then he and Aleks walked back toward the Hall. Aleks shook his head in admiration. “You have a wonderful way with the men,” he said. “I never seem to be able to strike the right balance between discipline and generosity.”

“It takes practice,” Walden said. He held up the rabbit. “We don’t really need this at the Hall—but I took it to remind them that the rabbits are mine, and that any they have are a gift from me, not theirs by right.” If I had a son, Walden thought, this is how I would explain things to him.

“One proceeds by discussion and consent,” Aleks said.

“It’s the best method—even if you have to give something away.”

Aleks smiled. “Which brings us back to the Balkans.”

Thank Heaven—at last, Walden thought.

“Shall I sum up?” Aleks went on. “We are willing to fight on your side against Germany, and you are willing to recognize our right to pass through the Bosporus and the Dardanelles. However, we want not just the right but the power. Our suggestion that you should recognize the whole of the Balkan Peninsula from Rumania to Crete as a Russian sphere of influence did not meet with your approval: no doubt you felt it was giving us too much. My task, then, was to formulate a lesser demand: one which would secure our sea passage without committing Britain to an unreservedly pro-Russian Balkan policy.”

“Yes.” Walden thought: He has a mind like a surgeon’s knife. A few minutes ago I was giving him fatherly advice, and now, suddenly, he seems my equal—at the least. I suppose this is how it is when your son becomes a man.

“I’m sorry it has taken so long,” Aleks said. “I have to send coded cables via the Russian Embassy to St. Petersburg, and discussion at this distance just can’t be as quick as I should like.”

“I understand,” said Walden, thinking: Come on—out with it!

“There is an area of about ten thousand square miles, from Constantinople to Adrianople—it amounts to half of Thrace—which is at present part of Turkey. Its coastline begins in the Black Sea, borders the Bosporus, the Sea of Marmara and the Dardanelles, and finishes in the Aegean Sea. In other words, it guards the whole of the passage between the Black Sea and the Mediterranean.” He paused. “Give us that, and we’re on your side.”

Walden concealed his excitement. Here was a real basis for bargaining. He said: “The problem remains, that it isn’t ours to give away.”

“Consider the possibilities if war breaks out,” Aleks said. “One: If Turkey is on our side we will have the right of passage anyway. However, this is unlikely. Two: If Turkey is neutral, we would expect Britain to insist on our right of passage as a sign that Turkey’s neutrality was genuine; and failing that, to support our invasion of Thrace. Three: If Turkey is on the German side—which is the likeliest of the three possibilities—then Britain would concede that Thrace is ours as soon as we can conquer it.”

Walden said dubiously: “I wonder how the Thracians would feel about all this.”

“They would rather belong to Russia than to Turkey.”

“I expect they’d like to be independent.”

Aleks gave a boyish smile. “Neither you nor I—nor, indeed, either of our governments—is in the least concerned about what the inhabitants of Thrace might prefer.”

“Quite,” Walden said. He was forced to agree. It was Aleks’s combination of boyish charm and thoroughly grown-up brains which kept putting Walden off balance. He always thought he had the discussion firmly under control, until Aleks came out with a punch line which showed that
he
had been controlling it all along.

They walked up the hill that led to the back of Walden Hall. Walden noticed the bodyguard scanning the woods on either side. Dust puffed around his heavy brown brogues. The ground was dry: it had hardly rained for three months. Walden was excited about Aleks’s counterproposal. What would Churchill say? Surely the Russians could be given part of Thrace—who cared about Thrace?

They crossed the kitchen garden. An undergardener was watering lettuces. He touched his cap to them. Walden searched for the man’s name, but Aleks beat him to it. “A fine evening, Stanley,” said Aleks.

“We could do with a shower, your highness.”

“But not too much, eh?”

“Quite so, your highness.”

Aleks is learning, Walden thought.

They went into the house. Walden rang for a footman. “I’ll send a telegram to Churchill making an appointment for tomorrow morning. I’ll motor to London first thing.”

“Good,” Aleks said. “Time is running short.”

Charlotte got a big reaction from the footman who opened the door to her.

“Oh! Thank goodness you’re home, Lady Charlotte!” he said.

Charlotte gave him her coat. “I don’t know why you should thank goodness, William.”

“Lady Walden has been worried about you,” he said. “She asked that you should be sent to her as soon as you arrived.”

“I’ll just go and tidy myself up,” Charlotte said.

“Lady Walden did say ‘immediately’—”

“And I said I’ll go and tidy up.” Charlotte went up to her room.

She washed her face and unpinned her hair. There was a dull, muscular ache in her tummy, from the punch she had received, and her hands were grazed, but not badly. Her knees were sure to be bruised, but no one ever saw them. She went behind the screen and took off her dress. It seemed undamaged. I don’t
look
as I’ve been in a riot, she thought. She heard her bedroom door open.

“Charlotte!” It was Mama’s voice.

Charlotte slipped into a robe, thinking: Oh, dear, she’s going to be hysterical. She came from behind the screen.

“We’ve been frantic with worry!” Mama said.

Marya came into the room behind her, looking self-righteous and steely-eyed.

Charlotte said: “Well, here I am, safe and sound, so you can stop worrying now.”

Mama reddened. “You impudent child!” she shrilled. She stepped forward and slapped Charlotte’s face.

Charlotte fell back and sat down heavily on the bed. She was stunned, not by the blow but by the idea of it. Mama had never struck her before. Somehow it seemed to hurt more than all the blows she had received during the riot. She caught Marya’s eye and saw a peculiar look of satisfaction on her face.

Charlotte recovered her composure and said: “I shall never forgive you for that.”

“That you should speak of forgiving me!” In her rage Mama was speaking Russian. “And how soon should I forgive you for joining a mob outside Buckingham Palace?”

Charlotte gasped. “How did you know?”

“Marya saw you marching along The Mall with those … those suffragettes. I feel so
ashamed
. God knows who else saw you. If the King ever finds out we shall be banished from the court.”

“I see.” Charlotte was still smarting from the slap. She said nastily: “So you weren’t worried about my safety, just the family reputation.”

Mama looked hurt. Marya butted in: “We were worried about both.”

“Keep quiet, Marya,” said Charlotte. “You’ve done enough damage with your tongue.”

“Marya did the right thing!” Mama said. “How could she
not
tell me?”

Charlotte said: “Don’t you think women should have the vote?”

“Certainly not—and you shouldn’t think so, either.”

“But I do,” Charlotte said. “There it is.”

“You know nothing—you’re still a child.”

“We always come back to that, don’t we? I’m a child, and I know nothing. Who is responsible for my ignorance? Marya has been in charge of my education for fifteen years. As for being a child, you know perfectly well that I’m nothing of the kind. You would be quite happy to see me married by Christmas. And some girls are mothers by the age of thirteen, married or not.”

Mama was shocked. “Who tells you such things?”

“Certainly not Marya. She never told me anything important. Nor did you.”

Mama’s voice became almost pleading. “You have no need of such knowledge—you’re a lady.”

“You see what I mean? You want me to be ignorant. Well, I don’t intend to be.”

Mama said plaintively: “I only want you to be happy!”

“No, you don’t,” Charlotte said stubbornly. “You want me to be like you.”

“No, no, no!” Mama cried. “I don’t want you to be like me! I don’t!” She burst into tears, and ran from the room.

Charlotte stared after her, mystified and ashamed.

Marya said: “You see what you’ve done.”

Charlotte looked her up and down: gray dress, gray hair, ugly face, smug expression. “Go away, Marya.”

“You’ve no conception of the trouble and heartache you’ve caused this afternoon.”

Charlotte was tempted to say: If you had kept your mouth shut there would have been no heartache. Instead she said: “Get out.”

“You listen to me, little Charlotte—”

“I’m
Lady
Charlotte to you.”

“You’re little Charlotte, and—”

Charlotte picked up a hand mirror and hurled it at Marya. Marya squealed. The missile was badly aimed and smashed against the wall. Marya scuttled out of the room.

Now I know how to deal with
her
, Charlotte thought.

It occurred to her that she had won something of a victory. She had reduced Mama to tears and chased Marya out of her room. That’s something, she thought; I may be stronger than they after all. They deserved rough treatment: Marya went to Mama behind my back, and Mama slapped me. But I didn’t grovel and apologize and promise to be good in future. I gave as good as I got. I should be proud.

So why do I feel so ashamed?

I hate myself, Lydia thought.

I know how Charlotte feels, but I can’t
tell
her that I understand. I always lose control. I never used to be like this. I was always calm and dignified. When she was a little girl I could laugh at her peccadilloes. Now she’s a woman. Dear God, what have I done? She’s tainted with the blood of her father, of Feliks, I’m sure of it. What am I going to do? I thought if I pretended she was Stephen’s daughter she might actually become like a daughter of Stephen—innocent, lady-like, English. It was no good. All those years the bad blood was in her, dormant, and now it’s coming out; now the amoral Russian peasant in her ancestry is taking her over. When I see those signs I panic. I can’t help it. I’m cursed, we’re all cursed, the sins of the fathers are visited upon the children, even unto the third and fourth generation, when will I be forgiven? Feliks is an anarchist and Charlotte is a suffragette; Feliks is a fornicator and Charlotte talks about thirteen-year-old mothers; she has no idea how awful it is to be possessed by passion; my life was ruined, hers will be too, that’s what I’m afraid of, that’s what makes me shout and cry and get hysterical and smack her, but, sweet Jesus, don’t let her ruin herself, she’s all I’ve lived for. I shall lock her away. If only she would marry a nice boy, soon, before she has time to go right off the rails, before everybody realizes there is something wrong with her breeding. I wonder if Freddie will propose to her before the end of the season—that would be the answer— I must make sure he does, I
must
have her married, quickly! Then it will be too late for her to ruin herself; besides, with a baby or two she won’t have time. I must make sure she meets Freddie more often. She’s quite pretty, she’ll be a good enough wife to a strong man who can keep her under control, a decent man who will love her without unleashing her dark desires, a man who will sleep in an adjoining room and share her bed once a week with the light out. Freddie is just right for her; then she’ll never have to go through what I’ve been through, she’ll never have to learn the hard way that lust is wicked and destroys, the sin won’t be passed down yet another generation, she won’t be wicked like me. She thinks I want her to be like me. If only she knew. If only she knew!