‘Another week, perhaps.’
Anne stared. ‘A week?’
‘A week or ten days,’ he said airily, enjoying the effect he was having. Then he grinned. ‘Russia is a large country,
Miss Peters. We have five hundred miles still to go, to reach Petersburg.’
Anne tried and failed to comprehend the distances involved. ‘In England it is impossible to be five hundred miles from home,’ she said with a rueful smile. ‘It takes a little adjustment of the imagination.’
Once again she looked out of the carriage windows with eager attention; and, whether or not it was her imagination, she seemed immediately to gain an impression of enormous space. The sky was an immense arc, deeply azure, with large clouds dazzlingly white above, bluish on their undersides; the horizon seemed to grow more distant with every mile; and the land stretched away all around as though it were actually uncurling as they moved towards it, like a cat waking from sleep. This part of Russia, she found, was mostly flat, with only gentle undulations, broken here and there by wooded ravines and numerous small streams. There were vast stretches of birch wood and pine forest, and between them lay the cultivated land, the spring seeds ripening fast under the hot summer sun. The roads were unmade, simply tracks of bare earth, and since the cultivated land was unfenced, they were very wide, where, in bad weather, travellers had moved further and further to the side to avoid the churning bog of the centre. The roads were dry and dusty now, but their width added to the impression of great space that was gradually filling Anne’s mind.
Space, and emptiness: they saw few other travellers, and, mile after mile, few other people of any sort. They might have been alone in the world. It was a strange sensation, rather unnerving at first, but exhilarating too, a heady sense of being unfettered and unobserved, of being free.
‘You must have felt so cramped in England,’ she said abruptly at one time, turning shining eyes on the Count. ‘Such small fields and narrow roads, and so many people!’
And he smiled sympathetically. ‘Yes, it’s true. I love to visit Europe – there is so much there, such riches! But I miss the prostor of Russia – the space. After a while, I feel as though I can’t stretch my limbs, as though I were in a cage; and then I know it’s time to go home.’
One evening they sat down to supper in the post-house in a town called Mzhinsk. They had been travelling for almost five weeks: French armies had already overrun Italy, captured Hanover, occupied the towns of Hamburg and Bremen, and closed off the Elbe and Weser trade routes, and Bonaparte was reputed to be building a thousand transport ships for the intended invasion of England. But for some time now, Anne had been able to think of nothing in the world so urgently as of getting out of the carriage and never getting back in it again.
They had finished eating when the Count said, ‘I have sent off a letter to Schwartzenturm, to warn them that we are coming, and telling them all about you. We will reach there tomorrow.’
Schwartzenturm was the name of the Count’s summer house near Kirishi, about twenty-five miles from Petersburg, where, as he had already told Anne, his family had been living while they waited for him to return.
‘Tomorrow!’ Anne said, and suddenly the thought that this journey was almost over was not as attractive as she had expected it to be.
‘Yes – one more day’s travel will bring us home. We may be rather late, but I intend to sleep in my own bed tomorrow night, whatever happens!’ He had been smiling, but now looked at her rather quizzically. ‘Is something the matter? You look troubled.’
‘No – nothing. I am very excited at the thought of seeing your house and meeting your family.’
‘They will make you welcome,’ he hazarded. ‘You cannot doubt it?’
‘Of course not,’ she said, managing a rather watery smile. ‘I am rather tired,’ she added, pushing back her chair, ‘and if we have a long day of travel tomorrow, I think perhaps I had better retire early.’
‘Of course,’ said the Count, rising courteously. ‘Good night, mademoiselle.’
‘Good night, sir,’ Anne said. She paused as she passed him, and looked up into eyes so full of sympathy, that she felt tears rising in hers, and was annoyed at her own weakness. The Count took her hands.
‘Don’t be afraid. Everyone will love you very much, Anna Petrovna,’ he said. ‘You must think of us as your family, now.’
Anne thanked him, withdrew her hands, and took flight before she was quite undone. Alone in her bedchamber, she tried to come to terms with the feelings that had been aroused by the news that the journey was almost over, and that her new life was to begin tomorrow. For nearly five weeks, she and the Count had been shut up in a small space together day after day, forced into close proximity, and with nothing to do but either talk to each other, or sit in silent thought. Like a plant in a greenhouse, intimacy was brought on rapidly and flourished in such conditions, and it was inevitable that Anne would emerge from the experience either loving the Count or loathing him, but at all events knowing him very well.
Their early approval of each other had proved to have been based on sound judgement. They both had a similar turn of mind, eager and enquiring, and a ready sense of humour; and while Anne had been well and thoroughly educated, the Count had a great deal more experience of life and the world. He enjoyed telling his adventures to one so appreciative, and she delighted in expanding her mind by all she learnt from him. She had listened with interest as he told her about his childhood and his early loss of his father, his time in cadet school, his army service, his first wife, whose marriage to him was arranged by his widowed mother, and his children; and even more eagerly when he talked of his experiences abroad. He had travelled extensively, both as a part of his Grand Tour, which had taken him to England as well as to France and Italy, and in the course of his services to the Tsar, both military and diplomatic – and, an intelligent and observant man, he had made the most of his opportunities. His expositions often provoked lively discussion between them, and Anne had enjoyed talking to him and being with him more than anyone since her father died.
But now, with the knowledge that tomorrow would bring them to his home, and him to the arms of his wife, Anne was forced to realise that the strong liking she had formed for him was different in a fundamental way from her love for her father. The Count was a vibrantly attractive man, and there had been times in the carriage when she had been intensely aware of his physical closeness. Once, towards the end of a long day, she had woken to the realisation that they had both dozed off, and that their heads were together, hers on his shoulder, his cheek resting against her hair. She remembered now, guiltily and with trepidation, how happy she had felt, and how she had continued to feign sleep so that, even when he woke and lifted his head, she had been able to remain resting against him.
She shook her head in a dazed way at the memory. Tomorrow she would meet the Count’s wife, her new mistress. He had told her a little about his second marriage. It had been a love-match: he had met Irina Pavlovna Kiriakova while he was on campaign, fighting the Turks in the wildlands of the Caucasian Mountains, the homeland of her family. They had fallen in love with each other almost at first sight, and he had brought her triumphantly back a bride at the end of the campaign. The Count spoke of his wife with great affection, talking freely of his longing to see her again, but he never offered any description of her. Anne could gain no impression of the Countess, except the inference that if the Count loved her, she must be a very remarkable and delightful woman.
But Anne did not long to meet her. Suddenly, at this late stage, she did not want the journey to end, did not want the Count’s attention taken from her and given over to all the other demands of life, and particularly to his wife. She stared out of the window at the black, moonless night, and gripped her hands together, and berated herself bitterly. Is there no end to your folly? Can you have allowed yourself to fall in love with this man, who can never be more to you than employer?