Anne could not answer. The idea was too sudden and too dazzling. There was too much to think about. The Count watched her face sympathetically, and then said, ‘Of course, you cannot decide on an instant. It is a big step to take, and you will need time to consider. There will be questions you want to ask.’
‘It would be a great adventure,’ Anne said. It was the first thing that came to her tongue, and as she said it, she thought it sounded foolish, but the Count smiled approvingly.
‘I believe you have a taste for adventure. To go back to England would be tame. There is a wide world waiting to be explored.’
‘I hardly know, sir,’ Anne said hesitantly. ‘I think I may have something of my father’s nature. He joined the King’s service out of restlessness, I believe. I was brought up by him alone, and we were very close, and so I did a great many things that girls are not usually allowed to do. Adventure does not usually fall to the lot of females, but–’
‘Yes, you are like him. That is why you wanted to stay in Paris, rather than go back to England. Well, since you must now leave Paris, you must go forward, not back.’
She met his eyes, and hers had begun to shine with excitement. ‘You are right. It would be poor-spirited to be afraid. But shall I like it in Russia?’
‘Who can say?’ he shrugged. ‘But there is one thing you may be sure of – you will be treated as you should be, and not as the Murrays treated you. I have already told you on another occasion that we have the greatest respect for those to whom we entrust our children’s upbringing. You would not be regarded as a servant in Russia, Miss Peters, by anyone.’ He watched her face, waiting for her next question.
‘I don’t know any Russian. How should your children and I understand each other?’
He laughed. ‘In Russia we all speak many languages. Russian is the language of servants, and of the nursery, and for animals, and for the act of love. Adults speak mostly French to each other, although many older people prefer German, because it was the language of the Court while Tsarina Catherine ruled us – she being German by birth. For business we speak English, because all our merchants and bankers are English, and we read English novels, too. And we sing in Italian, of course. My children speak French and German fluently, Russian colloquially, and English sufficiently well – though I should like them to speak it better. So, you see, mademoiselle, I do not think you will have very much difficulty in making yourself understood.’
‘You mentioned a son earlier–?’ Anne said.
‘Sergei, yes. He is fourteen now, and away at school. I do not see as much of him as I would like. His grandmother likes to have him with her. He, of course, would not be in your charge. He and Lolya–’
‘Lolya?’
‘Yelena. We Russians are very fond of pet names,’ he smiled. ‘He and Lolya are the children of my first wife, who died many years ago. Natasha is my present wife’s first child.’
Anne was silent again, thinking of the step before her. If she went to Russia, probably she would never see England again. If she went, she would be dependent on the Count and his wife for their favour, for if they dismissed her, she would be really destitute, alone in a country incomparably more alien than France. If she were unhappy there, what chance would she have of remedying matters?
Yet what was the alternative? As the Count had said, she must go forward, not back; and what other opportunity would she ever be offered to travel so far and see so many new things? Her father’s spirit rose up in her strongly, and only her native English caution made her say, ‘Will she like me, your wife? Will the children like me? Do you really want me to teach them?’ He smiled broadly, as if he knew everything that had gone through her mind. ‘Yes, yes and yes. I was never more sure of anything, Miss Peters, than that this is the right thing for all of us. Will you come?’
She took a breath. ‘Yes, sir, I will come,’ she said.
‘Then we’ll drink a toast to it,’ he said triumphantly, filling her glass with such an impetuous hand that it lipped over and wet her fingers. ‘We’ll do it in Russian, for luck. Z.a vasha zdarovial! Your first lesson in Russian, Miss Peters! To your health!’
‘Za vasha zdarovia’ she said, and drank.
Later that day Anne met the Poliakovs, a pleasant couple perhaps ten years older than the Count. Poliakov himself was a short-necked, round, bald man, whose unremarkable face was betrayed by a pair of very sharp and humorous eyes. Madame Poliakov had a comfortable face and figure, wispy grey hair, and large, moist eyes, which grew ever more moist as she listened to the Count’s exposition of Anne’s plight, sympathising all through it in voluble German. The words ‘tragic’ and ‘orphan’ were uttered frequently with a wringing of hands, and when the story was told, she at once began offering various items of her wardrobe for Anne’s use, despite the fact that any one of her gowns would have fitted Anne twice over.
‘My dear Marya,’ the Count protested in amusement, ‘she is not destitute! She has a whole box of clothes of her own! And it will be high summer when we get back to Russia. There is nothing extra she will need until winter.’
But Madame could not be persuaded, and referred to Anne all evening in melting accents as ‘Das armes kleines madchen’, and continued to press gowns, shoes, pelisses, fichus and hairbrushes on her. The two gentlemen went off together to see the Ambassador about a passport, while Anne remained with Madame Poliakov, and when she managed at last to detach the kind lady’s mind from visions of destitution, discovered that she had some interesting stories to tell about the court of the great Catherine, where she had been a lady-in-waiting in her youth.
When the Count returned, he came into the room with a broad smile, and said, ‘Everything is settled. We leave tomorrow morning. The horses are ordered and the carriage will be here at eight. I have your passport, Miss Peters, made out in your new name. You are now officially my sister’s daughter, Anna. My older sister married a man called Davidov, whose first name was Peter, so with the addition of the patronymic, that makes your new name Anna Petrovna Davidova.’
Anne frowned in thought. ‘My surname, Peters, is a contraction of Peterson, you know. If you translated Anne Peters into Russian, presumably you would get–’
‘Anna Petrovna, yes,’ the count concluded with a satisfied grin. ‘A pleasant little coincidence, is it not? I knew you would see it!’
Chapter Five
In years afterwards, when Anne tried to remember that long journey through northern Europe to Russia, she found that the miles and days merged together in her mind, so that she could recall only broad impressions, and not a clear and accurate succession of detail. She began the journey eager to observe and remember everything, and for several hours at the beginning of each of the first few days, she sat well forward on the seat and craned out of the window, eyes wide and mind stretched for new impressions, aware that she might never have another opportunity like this.
But there was just too much of everything. In England, even a single day’s fast travelling would take one through many different sorts of landscape, with something new to see every mile. But on the continent, everything was so much larger, that the same sort of scenery would go on mile after mile for hours, perhaps even for a whole day. And then the sheer weariness of travelling overcame her. The roads at this time of year, though dusty, were not deeply rutted, and near large towns were often very good. But in the long spaces in between towns they travelled over roads that it was no one’s business to repair, and as they jolted and lurched along, every muscle was kept at the stretch all day to brace the body against the movement.