Miss Blaine's Prefect and the Golden Samovar, page 13
The princess peered at Old Vatrushkin through her lorgnette. “No! Beyond belief.”
The countess smirked and the young wives reared up again, ready to see me crash and burn.
The princess’s lorgnette swivelled in my direction. “What a splendid idea! Princess Tamsonova, you are ahead of me at every turn. I have only just transformed all my doormen into footmen, and now I must reallocate my coachmen. I try to imitate you and I find you inimitable.”
“I’m sure you’re inimitable in your own way,” I said.
The countess glowered and subsided in her chair, the animated floormop scrambling up to sit beside her.
“And that thing’s going on the floor,” I said, seizing Tresorka. It did its best to sink its gnashers into me, but I was particularly careful how I gripped it, given the absence of anti-tetanus injections.
The countess was about to protest when the princess launched forth. “My coachman informed me that the field-marshal’s widow is not known to have left a will. But since the imbecile failed to tell me about the admiral’s widow’s demise, I do not know about her testamentary circumstances.”
I shot a meaningful look at Old Vatrushkin, who gave me a quick nod: the princess’s coachman would be warned to have his story ready.
The wife who had broken the news to the princess chirped, “Like the other ladies, she has no family, and nobody has heard of a will. So her estate will go to Our Little Father the Tsar.”
“Ridiculous!” snorted the princess. “That man has more than enough already.”
There was an uneasy murmuring. The princess and the tsar were family, so she could say what she liked, but nobody else wanted to be accused of treason and summarily executed.
“Have you made a will?” I asked to change the subject.
There was more uneasy murmuring.
“Indeed I have, as is well known. My estates will go to the deserving rich. Each palace will go to the first aristocrat to complete a year of self-flagellation in my memory in the nearest monastery or convent. In case my cousin the tsar gets religion, I have added a codicil that he is excluded from the competition.”
“Won’t the tsar challenge it?” I asked.
The princess’s eyes flashed. “Let him try. My will has been drawn up by Kirill Kirillovich, the best lawyer in town.”
The guests were getting increasingly agitated by the anti-tsarist sentiments, so I signalled to Old Vatrushkin to start serving the tea. In an undertone, he instructed Sasha on what to do, rather brusquely, I thought.
The princess examined the trays being presented to her.
“Ah, my dear Princess Tamsonova! There is no need to tell me what these are,” she said. “I know all your traditional Scottish dishes through the great works of Sir Walter.” She pointed at a plate of flat scones. “Ladies, these are bannocks.”
She introduced the cheese and pickle sandwiches as kebbock and cockaleekie, the gherkin sandwiches as bashed neeps, and the Victoria sponge as sheep’s heid. The young wives dutifully parroted the unfamiliar words. But whatever they called it, Old Vatrushkin’s fusion cuisine was a sensation. I would have to replicate these recipes when I got back to Morningside.
“A cup of tea with your bannock?” I asked the princess. “Would you like the milk in first or afterwards?”
The young wives squawked in alarm. “A cup?” quavered one. “Milk?” squealed another.
The princess drew herself up. “I have been reading about your Prince Charles Edward Stuart in Sir Walter’s enchanting novel Waverley. Did the bonnie prince take his tea in a cup?”
“Certainly,” I said.
“And he added milk to his tea?”
“Never drank it any other way,” I said.
“And did he add the milk first or afterwards?”
“First, every time.”
“A princess must follow the lead of a prince.”
Sometimes I doubted if I would ever make a good feminist of her.
The young wives watched in alarm as I poured some milk into a cup, added tea and passed it to the princess.
“It’s the wrong colour,” said one.
“It’s a different colour,” I corrected.
The princess, with the air of a French aristocrat approaching the guillotine, lifted the cup to her lips.
“And if you want something to sweeten it, how about a wee piece of tablet?”
I proffered a plate of buffalo milk and sugarloaf squares.
The princess popped the tablet into her mouth and took a sip of tea. There was a pause.
“Sublime,” she pronounced.
Once the young wives saw she had suffered no ill-effects, they each demanded a cup of tea with the milk in first, and seized squares of tablet to drink it through.
“These bashed neeps are delicious,” said one. “What is your secret, Shona Fergusovna?”
“I always cut the skins off the gherkins first,” I said, and they got out their pencils and notepads and wrote it down.
The only problem was that in turning Sasha into a waiter, I had undermined my own plan to get him sitting beside Lidia. I grabbed a plate of blinis à l’écossaise from him. “You’ve done very well, thank you. Have a seat over there, and I’ll bring you a cup of tea.”
The princess’s voice cut in. “No, no, no—sit here, by me.” She shifted very slightly from the middle of the sofa and Sasha obediently wedged himself in beside her. “I should like you to read to me. Princess Tamsonova, do you have some reading matter available? Ah, I see a book over there. Perhaps it is the educational novel you mentioned to us at the countess’s?”
I pride myself on my self-control, but I don’t mind admitting that I panicked. This was the first time I had ever seen the leather-bound book the princess was indicating, which lay on top of the pianoforte. What if it was indeed That Book? All I could think of was to trip as I brought it to the princess, and rip it to shreds as I fell. My muscles tensed in preparation as I picked it up.
I really should have had more faith. The spirit of Marcia Blaine moves in mysterious but helpful ways.
“I think you’ll like it,” I said, handing it over. “It’s the Russian edition of Sir Walter Scott’s The Bride of Lammermoor. A tragic love story.”
It couldn’t have been better. The tale of a manipulative older woman who was determined not to allow a perfect young couple their happiness. Sasha would be more than capable of applying it to his own situation.
He dutifully opened the book, and began reading to the princess in a quiet voice, not loud enough to disturb other conversations, but providing a pleasant obbligato to them. Periodically, I saw him snatch a longing gaze at Lidia, then return to his reading with an obvious effort. I had to get them together.
The room was full of contented chatter, tea slurping and scone scoffing when I heard another sound. Scuffling on the parquet. The animated floormop was slinking towards a set of ankles.
“No!” I said sharply.
The floormop flattened itself against the floor, but a few moments later began edging towards me.
“I’m warning you,” I said.
It gave me a contemptuous display of its fangs and leaped onto the sofa.
“Well, you can’t say you weren’t warned,” I remarked in the tone that had chilled the blood of hundreds of misbehaving third years. I picked Tresorka up by the scruff of the neck, deposited it on the floor, and plunged on top of it.
“Help! Murderer!” shrieked the countess. “The evil foreigner is crushing my darling Tresorka! Seize her!”
There was consternation. Evil foreigner I might be, but as a princess, I outranked the countess, and the young wives didn’t dare lay a hand on me. They squirmed around in their seats for a while and then took the only action they could under the circumstances: pretending they’d fainted from shock. I bet one or two of them also hoped that they would end up in Sasha’s arms while he administered sal volatile.
“Stop your caterwauling,” I said to the countess as I got up and went back to the sofa. The young wives revived slightly from their swoon, disappointed not to have been resuscitated by Sasha, but anxious to see what happened next.
“I wasn’t injuring the creature. I was using a recognised training technique,” I went on. “Dogs are pack animals and they have a strict hierarchy. All I was doing was showing Tresorka that it is not the pack leader. I am.”
“Most laudable,” said the princess.
There was renewed scrabbling on the floor. The animated floormop crawled up to my chair, and began quivering at one end. I deduced that this was his tail wagging.
“Good doggy,” I said. “Give me a paw.”
A small tangled mass extended towards me.
“Very good. Other paw.”
Another small tangled mass extended towards me.
“Now beg.”
Tresorka leaped up and balanced precariously on what were possibly his hind legs. I rewarded him with a piece of skinless gherkin, which he swallowed whole.
“And now, die for his Imperial Majesty the Tsar.”
Tresorka rolled over on his back and lay motionless.
The countess shrieked again. “She will rest at nothing until she has killed my precious darling!”
“I’m only teaching an old dog new tricks,” I said patiently. “Stop worrying. Dogs like this sort of thing. It gives them a purpose in life. They’re miserable when you only use them as fashion accessories.”
The animated floormop rolled the right way round, and scuffled over to my feet where he lay down, tongue lolling.
The countess, incensed, struggled out of her chair. “My poor Tresorka must be exhausted by all these terrible ordeals. We shall leave now.” She wobbled in the direction of the door and then realised that her little darling was still lying at my feet. “Tresorka!” she shrilled. “Come, precious, away from this dreadful place!”
Tresorka looked up adoringly at me. “Go on!” I urged. “Go to mummy!”
A small pink tongue emerged and licked my hand. I was so, so tempted to keep the wee creature. He wasn’t a bad dog, he just hadn’t been trained properly. But I had to accept that he didn’t belong to me.
“Offski!” I said firmly. He scampered across to the countess, who snatched him up as if to shield him from further harm.
“Darling princess,” she said, which surprised me until I realised she was talking to the other one. “I hope we shall see you at the concert before your party this evening. How we are all looking forward to seeing you grace the imperial box.”
“I may be occupied,” said the princess. “You don’t mind if I keep your…protégé for a little longer.”
It was a statement, not a question, and when she said “protégé” I definitely heard Sid James again.
“Of course not,” the countess fawned.
“My coachman will see you out,” I called after the countess as she left and the princess gave a delighted cackle. “What a splendid idea! The moment I return home, I shall give instructions for all my coachmen to see my guests out. And now, my dear Princess Tamsonova, I too must depart, taking this charming young man with me so that he can read me a bit more of the story.”
Nice try, I thought. But since she had hogged him during the afternoon tea, she wasn’t going to rob me of my last opportunity to get him together with Lidia.
“Sorry, Princess,” I said. “The price of him gate-crashing our girls’ get-together is that he has to do the clearing up. You can hear more of the story another time.”
The princess shot me a look of what I could have sworn was admiration. “So you have requisitioned the young man for yourself. Yet again, my dear Princess Tamsonova, you are one step ahead of me. It is not only the small dog who is learning that you are the leader of the pack.”
She stood up and kissed me on the cheek in farewell.
“I can’t be bothered going to the concert if the wretched countess is going to pester me. And it’s some modern German composer. I prefer classical music. If you’re not otherwise occupied, feel free to take my place in the imperial box. And I look forward to welcoming you to my little party tonight.”
The young wives were all open-mouthed. “Right, girls,” I said, “don’t you have husbands to go home to?” and they jumped up from their seats, thanking me profusely for the wonderfully exotic refreshments.
Old Vatrushkin was back at his major-domo-ing, and had organised Sasha to do the clearing up, so Lidia and I were alone.
“No need for you to rush,” I said. “After all, you don’t have a husband to go home to yet. Enjoy the freedom. You must come to the concert with me before the princess’s party, by the way. We can’t pass up the opportunity of being in the imperial box.”
And then I remembered what I’d been meaning to talk to her about. “Tell me,” I said. “Madame Potapova, the field-marshal’s widow and the admiral’s widow. Did you really visit them all on the days they fell downstairs?”
“I didn’t kill them!” she said.
I thought it was an odd thing to say.
“Of course you didn’t. They were just a bunch of doddery old wifies. But what were you doing there in the first place? Nanny didn’t even know you were out.”
“I didn’t tell Nanny,” said Lidia. “I thought it was all right to go because you had encouraged me.”
It was news to me. I hadn’t encouraged her to do anything. Except get together with Sasha. Sasha, who had been sent by the countess to call on Madame Potapova. And who had made arrangements to call round on Pillar Box Lady and Eye Patch Lady.
I looked at her with new eyes. “You and Sasha have been using the old dears’ houses for secret assignations?”
Lidia gasped. “No! How can you think such a thing? I never met Sasha. I never met anybody. When I got to Madame Potapova’s, she already had a visitor. I waited in an anteroom, but before I could speak to her—God have mercy on her soul.” She crossed herself. “I was also waiting to see the field-marshal’s widow, and the admiral’s widow, but they too already had a visitor and I never had the opportunity to speak to them either. God have mercy on all their souls.”
“But if you weren’t meeting Sasha, why were you there?”
“I was following your inspirational advice that I become a professional floor-covering technician. I wished to seek out parquet floors in need of repair. To ensure that I did not damage my reputation, I approached only elderly ladies who lived alone. Of course, I did not do anything so improper as to approach them as an unannounced visitor—I went to the tradesmen’s entrance. But I realise now that their untimely deaths are a sign.”
I was about to agree that it was a sign that we should all do muscle-building and balancing exercises every day, but she went on: “I have been guilty of the sin of pride, and cannot expect to become a professional floor-covering technician immediately. So I have decided that when the general asks me to marry him, I shall accept, and hone my floor-covering technical skills on his dilapidated home. Then when, God willing, he dies, I shall return to town as a respectable widow and ask if anybody requires some woodwork.”
At this critical moment, Sasha emerged from the pantry where he had been washing up. He looked particularly enticing after his exertions, with a healthy glow and slightly damp hair. I had to move fast to stop Lidia getting engaged to the general.
“Why don’t you sit and relax with Sasha, and he can read you a wee bit of The Bride of Lammermoor? I’m sure you’d find it an interesting story.”
Sasha’s smile was like the radiance of the sun after a spring shower. “I will read to Lidia Ivanovna with the greatest of pleasure,” he said.
But Lidia had retrieved her shawl and was moving towards the stairs. “Thank you so much for a wonderful afternoon, dear Shona Fergusovna,” she said. “But I must go and change my dress for the concert.”
I rushed after her. “Can’t you stay for another half-hour?” I said in an undertone. “Sasha reads very well, you know.” I could almost detect a Sid James timbre in my own voice.
Lidia put a hand on my arm. “Please, Shona Fergusovna, it would not be proper. I must go.”
I summoned Old Vatrushkin to drive her home. That left me and Sasha. I marvelled at his lustrous blond hair, his beguiling eyes, his tantalising mouth. If only I had got him sitting beside Lidia, the magic would have begun. But at least this was a perfect opportunity for me to find out more about him.
“Let’s go and relax in the salon,” I said.
“There is no further work for me, Princess Tamsonova?”
“Please, don’t bother with that princess nonsense. Call me Shona.”
As soon as I’d said it, I panicked. Since he was a serf, was he going to try to cut his tongue out the way Old Vatrushkin had?
But instead, he breathed “Shona” in such a thrillingly hushed way that I felt slightly light-headed. “Shona,” he breathed again, and then “Sasha,” lingering on the unvoiced fricatives. “Our names are so strangely similar, as though there were a mystical union between us.”
I think I might have blushed a bit. “Come and have a seat,” I said. “I’d like to get to know you better.”
“I would like that too,” he murmured.
But rather than sit down, he came round behind me and kissed my shoulder. This was definitely not the deferential kind of kiss Old Vatrushkin had given me. And now he was kissing my neck, my ear…He smelled fabulous, heady male pheromones mixed with a light citrus cologne. I found myself melting against his muscular torso, my eyes drawn inexorably to those dark-lashed eyes, those chiselled cheekbones, those kissable lips…
And then I heard Miss Blaine’s voice as clearly as if she was in the room. “You’re on a mission, girl! You’re not there to enjoy yourself.”
This was utterly wrong. I jabbed an elbow in Sasha’s ribs. He gasped, then imprisoned me in his arms and bore me down onto the floor. It was like being in the coils of a hyperactive python. Every time I wrenched one of my limbs free, it was immediately recaptured. My martial arts expertise is pretty impressive, but Sasha seemed even more proficient. We rolled over and over, crashing into the pianoforte, knocking over occasional tables, the fine Sèvres porcelain shattering around us.
