Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [98]
And the nearest, smaller part, belonged to Milei the boyar.
When the boyar had encountered Yanka and her father he had said nothing of this. A single man and a girl were hardly such desirable tenants for the best land. Let’s keep them in reserve and see what turns up, he reasonably judged.
Meanwhile, he had decided to work a part of the good land for himself with some slaves he had been able to find.
‘Perhaps we could work some chernozem,’ Yanka suggested.
‘No. I already asked the steward. He only wants hired labourers like the Mordvinians. I’ll not sink to that.’
She put her arms round her father and kissed him, aware of the faint smell of sweat from his shirt and the deep lines around his neck. She hated to see him frustrated like this. ‘We can leave,’ she suggested. ‘We have money.’
The money they had brought was safely hidden under the floor.
‘Maybe. Not this year though.’
‘No,’ she agreed, ‘not this year.’ Winter was too close.
Yet despite the unsatisfactory life of the village, she felt a certain sense of peace in these new surroundings. ‘At least,’ she remarked to her father one rainy day, as she stretched lazily, ‘it may be boring, but we are a long way from the Tatars.’
The warm weather, surprisingly, continued until mid-October. Yanka became used to the quiet rhythm of the village. She went out with the villagers to collect nuts in the forest; and when the men killed an elk one day she helped the women prepare a splendid feast.
He moved along the track, letting the water pouring down from the trees settle on his fur collar or run freely down the creased back of his neck. Below him, at the bottom of the little cliff, the lucky spring burst from the bank and seeped through the ferns into the river. He did not pause except to glance across the river below. Twice he cursed out loud.
Damn the girl!
Her fresh young body – what did it smell of? Roses? The wild carnations in the woods? Nuts. Roasted nuts. Could it really smell of roasted nuts?
Damn her, doesn’t she see me? he almost said aloud. Perhaps she doesn’t know, he considered, but at once dismissed the thought. Oh, yes. She knows. They know everything, women.
So what did it mean? What did she mean by it? What did she suppose he felt in that room, alone with her, with the rain pouring off the eaves all around like a waterfall? What did she mean, arching those young breasts when she knew he was watching, and turning towards him – her whole, young body – and telling him in that soft voice that she was bored?
Is she teasing me? Does she despise me?
Pretending not to understand. That was her defence. And her weapon. She was good – oh, yes, she had been good to him. And she loved him. At least, she had once. It was as if she was his, yet not his; as if she understood everything, was ready to open herself to him, yet turned away whenever she sensed he might approach.
She was his daughter, of course.
Was that it? Of course that was reason enough, in theory. Forbidden. They both knew that.
But surely after all they had been through … They had a special bond, didn’t they? Was there not in her calm eyes that seemed to stare at the world with a kind of sad understanding – was there not a perfect understanding of how they were, he and she?
The way her mouth turned down, he thought – a little sad, a little cynical, and also, yes, sensuous: very sensuous when awakened. Those lips, those sad, obstinate lips with their hint of a pout – the pout that never developed because her strong mouth kept everything under control – were they going to refuse to part and open for him? Were they going to smile, and then open for another? The thought had become a torture to him.
He was her father. He stamped furiously down the path. He had heard of other fathers …
Besides, there was no one else for either of them. No one else in this God-forsaken place.
‘I’ll be a father to her. I’ll discipline her if she wants to play games with me,’ he muttered.
He had been so immersed in his thoughts that he had not noticed where he was going, nor realized