Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [524]
As she went down the platform, Nadezhda could no longer see through her tears.
Since last evening, she had kept herself under rigid control. She had kissed her father when he came back, exactly as usual. She had made him supper. The following morning she had shown some factory workers round the museum, then in the evening, just as planned, she had locked the great house, dressed as a peasant, and slipped out to join Karpenko.
But she was not going with them, her father and his lover. She was not going to share that secret shame and betrayal, that opened like a deep, dark and terrible abyss before her.
It was a horror – worse by far than the financial ruin that had befallen them. Everything that she had believed in was shattered.
If Karpenko stayed with Vladimir in his carriage, they would not realize she had gone until they were at the Ukrainian border in the morning. Then it would be too late.
What would become of her? Perhaps she would be kept at the museum. Or Uncle Peter and Dimitri would help her. Or Popov might have her shot, for all she knew. She hardly cared.
She had reached the end of the platform. Dully, she heard whistles blowing. Then someone bumped into her, holding her. She looked up.
It was Popov.
Never, in after years, did she fully comprehend what happened next. Popov, the hateful Popov, with his arms firmly around her. Popov, surprisingly gentle, yet firm, turning her round, forcing her to walk, numb and uncomprehending, back up the platform. His voice in her ear.
‘Were you running away from them, pretty one? Because of what I told you, eh? Was that it? I think so. Don’t say a word. What else would you be doing?’ A squeeze on her arm.
‘Believe me – please believe me – there are many worse things. He’s not so bad, your father. Not so bad at all. Here we are.’
He was walking her up the train. He was walking up to the front, gazing in at the windows. He was going to discover them. Dear God! What had she done? She struggled to get away. He held her with ease.
‘Don’t fly, little bird. Don’t fly. Ah, there they are.’
He was pulling open the carriage door. She could see, as through a haze, her father and Karpenko. Popov was murmuring something now. What was he saying? Whispering something about her mother. Tell her … tell her what? That he loved her?
Then suddenly she was pushed inside the carriage, into her father’s arms, and the door slammed. For a second everything seemed oddly still. Then there was a jolt as the train began to move.
As it did, Popov watched with a wry smile.
For months now, he had been visiting the house to make sure the girl was safe and well. It was foolish of him to have been angry with her. When he realized that the Suvorins were making a run for it, he had certainly meant to stop them. When he entered Bemsky station, he had intended to arrest Vladimir.
But then he had changed his mind. Why not admit it? It was the sight of that foolish weeping girl. Moscow was no place for her. Let her go. Let her father take her away to where she belonged. To Mrs Suvorin.
Mrs Suvorin – the solitary island of love, the only one he had encountered in many years upon the great stream which carried him inexorably, now, high in its mighty flow.
Popov seldom allowed himself to be weak. Perhaps never again, he thought, would he step out from the tough, protective shell which grew, like a carapace, upon him. He turned. Mrs Suvorin and his last connection with her was gone. There was only the revolution now. It was, after all, what he had lived for for so long.
It was a strange business that no one could ever explain.
On a day at the end of July, Peter Suvorin had been seen at the town of Russka. From there he had gone to the village and asked the village elder if he might be let into the big house.
A few villagers, standing nearby, noticed that when he told Boris Romanov his name, the elder stared at him in complete astonishment. But then it was odd, perhaps, to realize this trim professor was the brother