Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [366]
By noon, Alexis was gone. With him he carried a letter that he had written late the night before. It was addressed to Count Benckendorff.
Did she still love Sergei? She was fond of him, of course; but could one love a man so self-centred? The quarrel with Alexis had been so unnecessary and his insults unforgivable. The next morning, when he took Misha out fishing, she ignored him.
All morning, she was occupied with her two babies. Old Arina was unwell that day, but young Arina helped her.
It was in the early afternoon, while young Arina was putting the two infants down for a sleep, that Olga, strolling towards the birch wood above the house, noticed the white uniform of Pinegin alone in the alley. Feeling she should speak to him, she followed him and soon came to his side.
‘I owe you many thanks, Fyodor Petrovich,’ she said quietly, as they walked along.
He gave her a quick look. In the flickering light and shadow of the alley his eyes looked a deeper blue than usual. ‘I am always at your service,’ he said, and quietly puffed on his pipe.
They went slowly up the alley. Despite the fact it was high summer, the short grass in the shade was still green and springy. There was the faintest breeze. ‘I am very angry with Sergei,’ she sighed.
He did not reply for a few moments. Then, taking his pipe out of his mouth, he said calmly, ‘If you will forgive me, he is still a child.’
‘Yes, I suppose you’re right.’
He glanced at her again. ‘Even children, Olga Alexandrovna, can be dangerous though.’
Sergei? Dangerous? Yet that was what Alexis had said of this man. They walked on in silence. What did she make of him? she wondered. If a man is to be judged by his actions, she must think well of him. It was certainly restful to be in his quiet presence. She looked at his hard, impassive face and remembered how he had danced with her, then smiled to herself. Perfect control: she could imagine him as a patient hunter, biding his time.
Yet still there was something distant about him, something she could not fathom. And, emboldened by the sense of intimacy they shared at that moment, she suddenly turned to him and said: ‘You told me something of your life once, Fyodor Petrovich. But may I ask you – what do you believe in? Do you believe in God, for instance? And what guides you when you are in danger?’ She stopped, hoping she had not offended him.
He puffed on his pipe for a moment, then shrugged. ‘Fate,’ he said at last. ‘When you never know if a tribesman’s going to put a bullet in your head, you start to believe in fate.’ He smiled. ‘It’s restful.’
‘You’re not like my brothers, are you?’
‘No, that’s true.’ He nodded thoughtfully. ‘Your brothers are always hoping for something. If they can’t hope, they get angry – or give up, like Ilya.’
‘You don’t hope?’
He turned towards her. ‘As I said, I believe in fate. Things happen as they are meant to. We just have to recognize our destiny.’
She was conscious of his pale blue eyes, watching her. Yes, she thought; she had a strange sensation of being safe with him, yet also in danger – and she found it rather fascinating. ‘I think,’ she said, ‘that I understand a little.’
He nodded. ‘Yes, Olga Alexandrovna,’ he said quietly, ‘I think we understand one another.’
And sensing that this was a compliment, and not knowing quite how to respond, she reached out and lightly touched his arm.
Then they walked back.
And why not, after all? Pinegin was alone. After leaving Olga, he had decided to walk along the lane to Russka; and now he was sitting on one of the little burial mounds beside the path, enjoying the view of the monastery as the afternoon sun glanced off its golden domes.
Why shouldn’t he? He was a gentleman, wasn’t he? And this woman was special: she was not like the others.
He had had his share of women. There had been that Jewish girl, when he was stationed in the Ukraine. And the Circassian, down in the mountains. Pure beauty. There he had lived far from the clinging dross