Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [383]
He had been busy in the district too. He had become an assistant to the Marshal of the Nobility – whose duties largely consisted of keeping up the registers of the gentry in the area. But it gave him a sense that he was participating in the province, and now, with time on his hands, he was making numerous visits to his fellow landowners – ‘To make sure I’m in touch,’ as he put it.
Above all, he had been pleasantly surprised by Sergei’s wife. It was amazing really, he thought, that such a sensible young woman should have married Sergei. He found they agreed about most matters, and though he was too well-bred to pursue the matter, certain hints she had dropped suggested that she had a sensible view of Sergei’s writing too. ‘I must confess,’ she had confided in him the previous week, ‘I didn’t realize when I married him that he just scribbled all the time. I supposed he did something else as well.’ It must be very trying for her, he thought.
It was a pity that Tatiana and Ilya didn’t seem to get on with her very well. But she certainly put herself out to be pleasant to him. ‘I really do think it’s too bad of Sergei to leave me in the country like this,’ she said to Alexis, ‘where there’s nothing to think about all day.’ And then she gave him a pretty smile. ‘I’m so grateful to have you for company.’
Alexis was in Vladimir that morning because he was on his way to spend a few days with a landowner nearby. He had just seen the governor and was planning to visit the great cathedral. And no person, certainly, could have been further from his mind when he suddenly paused, opened his arms, and cried out: ‘My dear fellow! What brings you here? Aren’t you coming to see us?’
It was Pinegin.
The house party was delightful. Misha was so happy to be home. He had arrived at Bobrovo a couple of days earlier than expected and been pleased to find Sergei’s wife Nadia there. She was only a few years older than he was and he thought her rather beautiful.
It was easy to see why young Misha Bobrov was popular in his regiment. Though he looked like his father Alexis, there were some important differences. Physically, he was an inch or two shorter, and more thickset. Intellectually, he was far more advanced. He loved to sit with his Uncle Ilya and discuss life. ‘And though I shall never read a hundredth part of what he has, I like to think a bit of his learning has rubbed off on me,’ he would say pleasantly. And lastly, by temperament he was optimistic and easy-going, so that even Alexis once remarked to Tatiana: ‘Frankly, he’s the best fellow this family has produced for a long time: I’m the first to admit it.’ He had the same little gesture as his grandfather, that gentle, caressing motion of the hand when he touched someone’s arm or ushered them into a room. Even Alexis’s occasional dark moods would usually dissolve at the sight of his son.
As was his habit, Misha spent the first day visiting all those he loved. He sat with his grandmother for an hour. The rest of the morning he spent with Ilya. He found his Uncle in a strange and excitable state, but put it down to the great book he was writing. He also visited the village, kissed Arina, and called upon his childhood playmate Timofei Romanov and his wife Varya. In short, Misha was home, and all was well in the world.
He was curious about the stranger, Pinegin. He had a vague memory of this man from his early childhood – a figure then, as now, in a white tunic and usually smoking a pipe. Pinegin was somewhere in his forties now, but scarcely changed except for a few more lines around the eyes, and the fact that his sandy hair had turned iron grey. He greeted Misha with a friendly, if slightly guarded, smile and Misha