Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [354]
The pain of her husband’s death, terrible though it had been, was passing; and in the huge, silent, Russian summer, she felt a sense of healing.
Indeed, there was an atmosphere of particular gentleness in the house that summer. Alexis, too, had suffered a loss and it had softened him. ‘I’d always supposed,’ he confessed to her, ‘that if I were killed – as I may be this autumn if we go to war with Turkey – Misha would at least have his mother. Now, I’d leave him an orphan.’ And though he did not care to show it, Olga knew that he treasured each day that he spent there with the little boy.
There might, perhaps, have been more laughter. Often as she sat with old Arina, she thought of Sergei, and his infectious gaiety. She had not received his usual letter for several weeks now, and she wondered idly what he was up to. But she was grateful, all the same, that he was not there.
It was eighteen months ago, at her father’s funeral, that the relationship between Sergei and Alexis, always strained, had reached breaking point. The attempted coup of the Decembrists was, at that time, only two months past. And when the family, all in black, had gathered in the salon, Alexis had gravely remarked that he thanked God, at least, that the conspirators had been so easily rounded up. Why Sergei could not keep his mouth shut, Olga did not know, but he had replied quite cheerfully: ‘I knew several of those fellows. If only they’d told me what they were up to I’d have joined them at once.’ And then, almost plaintively: ‘I can’t think why nobody told me.’
Despite the occasion, Olga had found it hard not to laugh. She could see exactly why the conspirators hadn’t told her indiscreet brother their secret.
But the effect upon Alexis had been terrible. His already pale face had gone completely white with anger, and after a second’s pause, he had said in a voice which, had it been more than a whisper, would have been shaking: ‘I scarcely know, Sergei, why you are here. And I am sorry that you are.’ The two had not spoken after that.
No, much as she loved him, she was glad Sergei was not there to disturb the tranquillity of this precious summer.
And perhaps because it was so peaceful, she did not see the danger.
His name was Fyodor Petrovich Pinegin. He was a friend of Alexis’s – an acquaintance perhaps, rather than a friend – whom her brother had brought down to stay with him. Pinegin was a quiet man, still in his twenties she supposed, with a thin, hard face, sandy hair, and pale blue eyes that seemed to have no particular expression. ‘He’s a good fellow, a bit lonely,’ Alexis told her. ‘He’s seen a lot of service but never talks about it.’ Indeed, he would sit quietly while others talked, just sucking on a short pipe, expressing few opinions. He had one peculiarity: he always wore a white military tunic and trousers – though whether this was from preference or because he had no other clothes, Olga did not know. When asked what he liked to do best he mildly replied: ‘To hunt.’
Since Alexis was busy with the estate and Ilya seldom moved from his chair, she found herself often in his company when she went for walks; and he made a surprisingly pleasant companion. He would only talk a little; he listened well; and there was a kind of quiet strength about him that she found rather attractive.
Olga knew that she was beautiful. She was twenty-four now, with a long, elegant build, large and luminous blue eyes, flowing brown hair and a high-spirited grace that reminded any horse-fancier of some pure-bred Arabian. Marriage