Finding the house was not easy, and then it turned out to be little more than a hovel on the edge of a village a couple of versts from the town, a log-built izba, with a dirt floor and a stove in one corner. There was a table in the middle of the room with a couple of benches. The beds were on the stove.
Lydia had never been in such a place before, but she was so numb she hardly took it in. Tonya’s parents welcomed her with hugs and kisses and brought out the bread and salt to bid them welcome. They had not seen the count and countess, they said. Ivan wondered whether to keep their daughter’s death from them, but that would be cowardly, and so he told them what had happened in his gruff, straightforward way.
They wept, of course they did, and when the weeping stopped, they began to question him. What had happened, who were the horsemen, why were the count and countess visiting them? Were the Reds coming? He answered as best he could, anxious to be on his way back. If those horsemen had been Reds, forerunners of the army, then they would soon be at Petrovsk, and he had left his wife and children there. He had obeyed his instructions in so far as he had brought Lydia Mikhailovna to Simferopol, now his duty was to his family.
He looked across the room, where Lydia sat silent and blank-faced. Poor little mite. ‘May I leave the little one with you, Stepan Gregorovich?’ he asked. ‘The count and countess will be here soon, God willing. I am surprised they are not here ahead of us, but no doubt the weather in the hills delayed them. I have to return.’
The couple were alarmed at the prospect and would have liked to refuse; if the Reds were getting close, harbouring an aristocrat would cost them their lives. On the other hand, the money the big man was offering was more than they had ever seen at one time before and would enable them to move into better accommodation. And it was only for a few hours. They agreed and, having shared a meal of boiled mullet and fish soup with them, Ivan set off back to Petrovsk, leaving behind a child so traumatised, she was barely alive.
‘I don’t know how to entertain a countess,’ Marya Ratsina said between sobs for her dead daughter. ‘What would a countess expect? Where can I get food good enough for them?’ She looked at the money Ivan had given her. It was made up of gold and silver coins, not Kerensky’s paper money. Spending it would invite questions and they had to think of a good reason for having it. ‘Should I go and buy some food? And plates. You cannot expect them to eat out of wooden bowls.’ She went over to Lydia and peered into her face. ‘You, girl, what shall I do to make your mother and father welcome?’
She received no reply and set about cleaning the house with frantic haste, taking the rugs outside and banging them against the outhouse wall, choking on the dust. She swept the floors, cleaned the one little window, stoked up the stove, shook out the blankets and squashed a few bugs, none of which made much difference. The place was still a hovel.
‘For God’s sake, woman, leave off fussing,’ Stepan told her, filling his clay pipe with strong-smelling tobacco. ‘They will probably not even come through the door, they are only coming to fetch the child.’
‘What’s the matter with her? Why does she not speak? I offered her soup and bread but she took neither. I shall be glad when they come and take her away, she is giving me the shivers, sitting there so still and staring. What is she staring at? Is she ill? Oh, I hope she is not going to be ill. I have no idea what to do…’
‘Do nothing. Get on with your usual chores. Feed the chickens, milk the goat, and be thankful we still have them. If the Reds come, they will have them off us in a twinkling.’
‘And if they find her here…’ She jerked her head towards the corner where Lydia sat on a small stool. ‘We will be arrested and probably shot for harbouring her. Do you think they really are coming? It must be very bad in the north. I saw hundreds passing by when I went to the market this morning. They have bought up all the supplies, inflating the prices so I couldn’t afford a thing.’ She sat down, suddenly deflated like a pricked balloon.
They waited the rest of the day. Stepan went on with his chores and Marya would sit for a while, trying to persuade Lydia to talk, and then would jump up and go out into the road to peer towards the mainland, hoping to see the Kirilov carriage. It did not come. They put the child to bed on the floor. She refused to allow them to undress her, struggling silently, and when it looked as though they might succeed, she opened her mouth and screamed so loud and long they gave up and let her sleep as she was, which she did from sheer exhaustion.
The next morning Stepan went into Simferopol to see what was happening for himself. The town was milling with strangers, soldiers in tattered uniforms, civilians riding in an assortment of vehicles or making for the railway station on foot. Some were in furs, having come from the colder climate of the north, and they had servants with them. Others were less well clad and carried their own cases. They all looked desperate. There was a larger police presence than usual, looking at people’s papers, afraid Red soldiers might have infiltrated themselves among the refugees. The grand square in front of the railway station was packed with people, as was the station itself when Stepan managed to push his way through to it.
‘Your Excellency,’ he said, addressing a gentleman in an astrakhan coat and a shiny top hat, who was directing porters loading his luggage onto a trolley, while his wife, in a sable coat, and a boy in warm knickerbockers and belted wool jacket, stood watching. ‘Why is everyone leaving? Are the Reds coming?’
‘I fear it is inevitable,’ the man said. ‘If you have any reason to fear them, then I suggest you make your escape.’
‘No, I have no reason to fear them. I am a poor peasant, I have nothing but a few chickens and a goat. They can come, it won’t bother me, except that I have a child in my care, the little daughter of Count Kirilov. She was supposed to meet her parents at my house and they were going on to Yalta, but they have not come. I don’t know what has happened to them, but what am I to do with her?’
‘Can’t you keep her?’
‘No. She is a little aristocrat, dressed like one too. What would I do with one like that? She isn’t used to work…’
‘I should think not!’
‘Her brother and nurse were shot dead in front of her eyes.’
‘Oh, the poor thing,’ the lady said.
‘The nurse was my daughter and my wife is grieving for her. Even if she were not, she would not know how to look after the child. Can you take her? When her parents come I can tell them you have her. She will be better with you.’
They looked at each other doubtfully, while he waited, cap in hand, looking from one to the other hopefully. ‘She is so sad, the little one,’ he added. ‘She has lost everything…’
‘Where is she now?’
‘At my place, less than two versts away. If you do not take her I shall have to take her to the orphanage.’
‘No, don’t do that,’ the man said, his voice sharp. ‘Fetch her here.’
Stepan darted off before the man could change his mind.
‘Pyotr, what are you thinking of?’ his wife asked him. ‘We have problems enough getting ourselves away without taking on someone else’s child.’