Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [466]
But Boris picked him up and tossed him across the room so that he crashed into a bench and lay there, half-stunned.
Damn Arina! Damn the witch! Having taken his boat a little way down-river, Boris had hidden it on the far bank, then doubled back and walked through the darkness into Russka. At dead of night, armed with his long hunting knife, he had crept around the edge of the town to the house where that accursed ginger-headed villain had been staying. It was a warm night. Two men were sitting outside the door of the house opposite; he had waited patiently, in the shadows, for them to go inside. At last they had slowly risen to go. One door had shut. Then another. He had let a minute pass in silence. He had smiled to himself. He would place his hand over Popov’s mouth, then slit his throat, whispering as he did so: ‘Remember Natalia.’ That would be it. Just so the devil knew – just so he understood, as he went down, into the depths. With a bit of luck, they’ll suppose one of Suvorin’s men did it and arrest him too, he thought cheerfully. Revenge – even if one had to wait thirty years – was so infinitely sweet.
And then, suddenly, two horses were pounding along the little road, one with a rider, the other spare. What the devil? The two horses were pulling up sharply by the very house where Popov lay, the rider springing down and hammering on the door.
‘Yevgeny Pavlovich! Popov, damn you! I know it’s you. You’ve got to get out. Listen, it’s Nicolai Mikhailovich. Come quick.’
Bobrov. How the devil did he know? Who tipped him off? And why should he save the fellow’s skin anyway? Damn them all. They were all in league. And now when would he get his chance at revenge again?
He turned back to his sister.
‘You traitor!’ he bellowed. ‘Do you know what you’ve done?’
‘Yes,’ she cried back with equal rage. ‘I asked Bobrov to stop you. What of it? You can’t go round killing people.’
‘Not if he killed my own sister?’
‘No.’
He glowered at her. ‘I see you’re a friend of Bobrov and the red-head,’ he said, suddenly quiet. ‘But I promise you one thing: I shan’t forget this.’
And both Arina, and the terrified little Ivan, knew that he would not.
It was two days later that an unexplained fire burned down a section of Nicolai Bobrov’s woods. People took it to be one more sign that the revolution was getting very near.
1906, May
It was early evening, and in the great Moscow house, preparations were under way. Indeed, there was more than the usual air of expectancy amongst the servants, for this evening, they knew, some very strange guests were due to arrive. But then, they reflected, after the extraordinary events of the last year, anything might be expected.
In the comfortable upstairs room, however, everything was quiet. Mrs Suvorin, in a long, mauve silk gown, her heavy, rich brown hair only loosely pinned so that at any moment perhaps it might tumble down her elegant back, was sitting writing letters at a little desk.
Her daughter Nadezhda was sitting on a French empire chair with a tapestry cover. In front of her was a small round table covered with a heavy, tasselled cloth upon which she was resting her elbows while gazing at her mother.
She is certainly a handsome woman, Nadezhda thought, but I should make Papa a much better wife. Which was, perhaps, a rather strange thought for a little girl of eight.
The first thing people noticed about Nadezhda Suvorin was her auburn hair. She was allowed to wear it long and loose so that it fell in lustrous masses over her shoulders to her elbows. In a taffeta dress, silk stockings, shoes with satin ribbons and a big, wide-brimmed hat from under which her hair poured down, she looked enchanting. And then people would notice her eyes. They were very fine, deep brown, and they knew everything.
It was amazing what Nadezhda knew. Yet how should it be otherwise? Fate had decreed that her brother should be older: by the time she was six, he was already studying abroad. It was natural, therefore, that her father should