The Property of a Lady - Elizabeth Adler [38]
Sofia Ivanoff stopped her pacing and stared out of the window across the wide blue curve of the bay to the green hills beyond. She could not see the Ivanoff villa because of the trees, but she could remember it as clearly as if she were there: its white columned porticos and green tiled domes, its immaculate gardens and the marble terraces dotted with urns of brightly blooming flowers, the fountains and pools and the sprawling parklike grounds, thick with blossoming trees and shrubs and teeming with every kind of beautiful wild bird and animal. It was so close, just over there in the hills, and yet it might as well have been a thousand miles away. Closing her eyes, she imagined herself back there, happy again with her family. She could hear their carefree laughter mingling with the bird calls and the faint whisper of the sea; she could smell the springtime orange blossoms and the summer roses and oleanders, the autumn scents of mint and wild thyme…. Sighing, she opened her eyes again to reality. She would never enter the Ivanoff villa again.
A crackle of gunfire echoed suddenly across the quiet bay and she peered anxiously from the window. She never left the cottage, but Missie and Azaylee ventured out every now and again, in their new roles as the foreign widow Mrs. O’Bryan and her daughter. She jumped as the gunfire started again. It was coming from the hills near the old domed church where Missie had taken the child for a walk. Sofia’s hands flew to her face in horror. “Oh, no,” she prayed. “Not my little granddaughter, not Missie. Spare them please, God, they are so young. I beg you, take me instead.” And sinking to her knees, for the first time she wept.
The soft ripeness of the long Crimean autumn had faded, but the early December days were still balmy. Missie was sitting on an old marble headstone chewing on a blade of grass and watching Azaylee darting through the pretty little churchyard, kicking up her heels like a spring lamb in the warm sunshine with Viktor bounding at her side, barking with delight at his freedom.
She hoped that if any spirits still lingered in this peaceful place, the sight of the two enjoying themselves would gladden their souls. Yet though her father’s grave was here, somehow she knew his spirit was not, and she knew she would always think of him at home in England, working at his desk, waiting for her….
Yalta lay far below, a crescent of white buildings bordering the palm-fringed ink-blue sea. Sandy roads led steeply back into the green hills and the sumptuous holiday villas of the nobility, and here and there among the umbrella pines and acacias, tall cypress trees pointed like dark exclamation marks at the pale-blue sky.
The crackle of gunfire ripped suddenly across the peaceful scene and Viktor stopped his leaping; a tremor ran through his body as another burst shattered the silence. After grabbing Azaylee, Missie hurled her to the ground behind a large pink marble headstone. There was more gunfire and this time she heard a voice shouting orders, coming from the trees at the top of the hill only a couple of hundred yards from where they were hiding.
There was a burst of answering fire and suddenly she saw them. There were three men, Tartars in their traditional wrapped headdresses, wide-sleeved blouses and sheepskin vests, manning a machine gun. There was no sign of the Bolsheviks, but she guessed they must be hidden in the trees.
She knew that if the fighting came down the hill toward them they would be caught in the crossfire. They would have to make a run for it. “Azaylee,” she whispered, “we are going to play a game.”
Azaylee looked back at her confidently and her heart sank. The soldiers would shoot anything