Page 4 of The Storybook Hero (Intrepid Heroines #2)
Four
A great, shaggy bear was breathing down his neck, and try as he might, Alex couldn’t seem to make his legs move. Its stale, unwashed odor was filling his nostrils, and it seemed to be getting closer and closer …
With a choked cry, he lashed out a booted foot?—
“Have a care who you kick, my friend,” grumbled the burly peasant beside him, though he did shift his bearded chin from Alex’s shoulder and roll his considerable bulk to the other side, drawing a muttered complaint from one of the other passengers.
Alex rubbed at his weary eyes and tried to stretch out his cramped legs among the tangle of sleeping bodies. The other passengers seemed oblivious to the fetid air and hard wooden seats, having settled into the journey with a certain grim resignation. The only signs of life came from a country merchant snoring loudly in one corner and a short priest whose enveloping black robes that made him look like a rolled up carpet. From out of the wrappings of wool came a litany of whispered incantations and rumbled chants. Neither man was given much heed, save for an occasional elbow when the rasps and wheezes got too loud.
It was a rather motley assortment of humanity, Alex decided, his mood none too charitable after another long day on the road. But as he glanced down at his own rumpled coat and soup-stained pants, a rueful grimace tugged at the corners of his lips. No doubt he, too, must reek of garlic and sour rye.
Well, at least he must blend in!
Another rut in the rough road threw his neighbor’s knee into the side of his thigh, drawing a silent oath from Alex. If only his uncle had managed to get the name of the estate right, he thought in exasperation as he rubbed the bruised spot. Russian was not the easiest of languages, but a misplaced vowel had sent him nearly a week in the wrong direction. His relatives were owners of an estate named Polyananovosk , not Polyananovisk . And while the endless forests of spruce and pine had been magnificent, and the wooden villages and onion domed churches of great interest, he would have much preferred to arrive at his destination in a more direct manner.
And a more comfortable one.
He threaded a hand through a tangle of his hair. Damnation, it felt as greasy as the bowl of mutton stew served at the last stop. Perhaps it had been overcautious to take on the guise of a poor tutor, rather than travel under his real name in a spacious, well-sprung private carriage with all the amenities due a member of the English aristocracy. And yet, the rumblings he had heard in the various smoky taprooms along the way had caused him to admit that the precaution had not been unwarranted.
Unrest was in the air. Rumors of an impending invasion swirled around every village they had passed through. Any foreigner was eyed with suspicion—indeed, he had seen an older Danish gentleman dragged from his carriage and beaten to within an inch of his life just two days ago. The local peasants were not particularly concerned with the nuances of nationality and which country was the current ally of the Tsar. The threat to Mother Russia was from anyone not of their own blood That England had until recently been one of the enemy only exacerbated the potential for trouble.
So, as Alex scratched at one of the innumerable flea bites on his torso, he had to admit that the plan, however unpleasant, had been a wise one.
The coach finally lurched to a stop in the muddy yard of a small inn. Climbing over several prostrate forms—numbed into oblivion by the local brew at the last stop, if the smell of their breath was any indication—Alex pushed the door open and stumbled to the ground. A sharp gust of wind cut through his ill-fitting garments but the tang of larch and pine cleared the muzziness from his head. He stood for a moment, savoring the clean crispness of the air, before pulling the thick wool cap down over his ears and hurrying inside the inn.
Rather than stay in the smoky room, he carried his thick glass cup of hot tea back outdoors and walked toward a dense stand of birch, their silvery white trunks like drizzles of sugar against the darkening sky. A storm looked to be heading their way—indeed, Alex felt a snowflake catch on his cheek, then another. The temperature was dropping by the minute and behind him, he heard the horses stamp in impatience to be off.
One of the ostlers muttered an oath as he struggled with a buckle of the harness.
“Nasty weather,” remarked Alex, strolling to the other man’s side
A grunt was the only reply.
“Does it look like we will see snow?.”
The man shrugged. “Whatever God wills.”
Alex probed for a different sort of information. “Are we far from Polyananovosk? The estate of Count Scherbatov.”
The question was met by a blank stare.
“I was told it was near Kovrov.”
“Oh, that is at least twenty kilometers down the road,” answered one of the other men tending to the horses. The way he said it, he might have been speaking about a spot halfway around the globe.
A horn sounded, signaling that the driver was impatient to be off before the full brunt of the storm hit. With great reluctance, Alex climbed back into the crowded confines of the coach, consoling himself with the knowledge that the journey was near an end.
Several hours later, the horses paused before a cluster of wooden huts. “You! The fellow looking for Polyananovosk,” shouted the driver from his perch. “You must get out here. And be quick about it. I haven’t got all day.” Already the reins were twitching in his mittened hands.
No further directions were forthcoming and Alex dared not risk any questions. He grabbed his bag and stepped over his neighbors, drawing more than one tired curse. The door felt shut, the whip cracked, and the wheels creaked forward. With nary a regret, he watched the dark, lumbering shape disappear around the bend.
After hoisting his bag to his shoulder, he turned to make inquires of just how he might continue on to the count’s estate. The few errant flakes had become a steady fall of powdery snow. Already his toes were feeling the seep of a numbing chill through the worn leather of the second hand boots. Hell’s teeth , he muttered to himself. This time, his information had better be accurate or he might well end up a meal for the roving wolves of the forests.
A gnarled old babushka, her head so heavily wrapped in a gaily patterned wool scarf that her words were barely audible, waved a scrawny finger in the direction of a faint cart path. From what he could understand, he was meant to follow it until it crossed the drive leading to the main house. When he asked how far, she merely shrugged.
Alex shifted his weight from one cold foot to the other, debating whether to leave the only signs of civilization for the yawing darkness of the looming forest. However, the sound of muffled hooves and creaking leather interrupted his thoughts. A small wagon approached, then slowed at the sight of the lone figure by the side of the cottage.
“What business have you around here?” demanded the driver, a tone of authority shading his deep growl.
“I seek the house of Count Scherbatsky.”
“For what reason?” The man leaned down from his seat, his narrowed eyes sweeping over Alex’s shabby garb with undisguised suspicion.
Alex hesitated only a fraction. “I’ve been engaged as a special tutor for the young count.”
The other man pursed his lips. “I have heard nothing of any new tutor. The Countess did not say anything of it before she—” He stopped abruptly and fixed Alex with a suspicious stare. “What sort of tutor?”
“I speak English.”
The man tugged at the corner of his mustache in some indecision. After lengthy consideration he finally gestured to the seat beside him. “I suppose you had better come with me,” came the gruff order. As Alex scrambled up, the man added, “I am Riasanov, steward to the Scherbatov estate.”
He made no offer of his hand, giving only a brisk shake of the reins as soon as Alex’s feet cleared the ground. Further attempts at conversation proved futile as each simple inquiry was rebuffed with no more than a rough grunt. Alex finally gave up, and the journey continued on in an eerie silence, save for the swirl of the wind and the whoosh of the wheels in the drifting snow.
Turning his collar up to ward off the icy gusts, he tried to focus his attention on the countryside and what sort of lands his relative possessed. But even that proved impossible in the fading light and thickening flurries. It was with great relief that he finally heard the crunch of gravel under the lumbering cart and was able to discern the outline of a manor house not too far ahead.
As the horses trotted into the courtyard, a groom emerged from the barn, swathed in such layers of wool and fur that he appeared some strange creature conjured up from one of the fanciful wonder tales of the region. The sound that emerged from where his mouth should be was equally bizarre, bearing no relationship to any words Alex had ever heard. His companion, however, seemed to have no difficulty in understanding the fellow. He barked out a series of orders then gestured for the tutor to follow.
Stiff with cold, Alex managed to dismount and trail after the steward. But any hopes of a respite from the biting cold within the main house were dashed as the heavy wooden front door was thrown open. It was nearly as chilly inside. The other man stamped the snow off his boots, leaving a shower of flakes on the stone floor. Alex did the same, unconsciously pulling the knitted wool scarf tighter around his neck.
Hell’s teeth. He hoped the fellow wouldn’t expect him to remove his coat!
Drawing in a deep breath, Alex darted a glance around the dimly lit entrance hall, taking in the heavy pine furniture, gaily painted with bright colors and swirling motifs that looked very foreign to his English eye. A shaggy bearskin was stretched out in front of a massive sideboard, above which hung two portraits.
With a start, he realized that the man bore a striking resemblance to his uncle.
The father of young Nicholas ? he wondered.
He had little chance to see much else, as the steward indicated they were to continue along a dark hallway that led off to the left. Every door they passed was shut tight, no hint of light coming from beneath them. No voices were evident either. In fact, there was no sign of life at all. Nothing but a dark, ominous silence. Alex could feel the knot in his stomach tighten with each step …
Riasanov came to a closed door and shouldered it open. Alex tensed, half expecting some fur-clad giant to swing a cudgel at his head. Instead, it was a long handled cooking spoon that cut through the air.
“Ah, Yevgeny! Thank the Lord.! I was afraid you might be trapped in the blizzard.”
A short, stout, woman, nearly as wide as she was tall, wiped her free hand over a patterned apron. “Warm yourself by the stove while I fetch you a cup of tea.” Catching sight of Alex, her mouth cracked in a smile that revealed several missing teeth. “Who is this with you? By the way he’s dressed, he would soon have been a carcass for the wolves if you hadn’t found him.”
The steward removed his fur hat and stepped over to the huge tiled stove, holding out his stiff fingers to its heat. “A tutor, he says. For young Master Nicholas.”
The woman tucked a wisp of greying hair up under the kerchief knotted around her head. “Tutor,” she repeated, casting an appraising glance at him. “Well, best warm your bones, young man. You look as if you might like a cup of tea as well.” Her glance ran over his lean form. “And a bite of supper.”
Alex nodded gratefully as he unwound the scarf from his neck and shook the drops of melting snow from his hat. The kitchen was blessedly warm, with the smell of fresh baked bread and simmering borscht filling the air. He could feel the heat beginning to seep through his rough garments and the wet leather of his boots. Leaving a puddle on the spotless floor, he didn’t wait twice to be invited closer to the hissing stove. After several minutes, he finally felt able to remove his coat, though his fingers were still so wooden they let it slip to the floor in a heap.
The old woman thrust a glass of steaming tea in his hands, waving away his halting apology for creating a mess in her domain. “Sit! Sit!” she urged, motioning him to the long trestle table, still flecked with coarse rye flour and caraway seeds.
Alex obeyed. Riasanov was already settled comfortably in a chair, helping himself to a bowl of pickled beets and eggs. After a brief hesitation, the steward took one last morsel and pushed the bowl toward him, still without addressing a word in his direction.
“Where did you come from?” At least the woman was proving less taciturn.
“From Cheboksary,” he mumbled through a mouthful of egg.
She placed a crusty loaf of dark bread on the table and began to saw off generous slabs. Alex could feel his mouth begin to water at the rich scent. “What were you doing there? “
His mouth crooked in a rueful smile as he accepted a piece . “I’m afraid my directions were a bit unclear. The Scherbatov family I encountered there had no person under the age of sixty-five.”
“Hmmph. Bad directions, indeed.” She exchanged looks with the steward. “Who hired you? The Countess?” she continued, her tone growing sharp.
Alex paused in buttering his slice of bread. The mood in the room had become markedly chillier. “I was given the job by, er, an intermediary. I have never met the countess,” he answered slowly, deciding to stick as close to the truth as possible.
“Your accent,” she persisted. “Where are you from?”
He swallowed hard. “From outside of St. Petersburg.”
Suddenly, his head was jerked back and the bread knife pressed up against his throat. “What town, exactly?”
Alex didn’t attempt an answer.
“As I thought,” growled Riasanov, tightening his grip on Alex’s collar. “A stupid mistake, my friend. Did you really think that we would be so stupid as fall for such an obvious ruse? You may tell Vladimir Illich that it will not be quite so easy to steal Polyananovosk from the young master—that is, when you see him in Hell!”
“Wait!” cried Alex as he felt the serrated blade start to move against his skin. “You are mistaken! I can prove it!”
The steward gave a harsh laugh but the woman’s face betrayed a flicker of indecision. “Yes, wait, Yevgeny. Let us hear him out.” She put down the heavy iron frying pan that she had taken up from the stove. “Plenty of time to deal with him if he proves to be one of Rabatov’s men.”
The pressure of cold steel relaxed somewhat. “Very well. Explain yourself—and no more lies.”
Alex took a deep breath. “It is true that I am not what I said I was, but I come as no threat to Nicholas.” He gestured toward his shirt. “May I take out something that might help to convince you?”
Again the two of them exchanged glances. Riasanov growled an assent. “But slowly, and no tricks or they will be your last,” he added, giving a meaningful twitch of the blade.
Alex reached inside his shirt and removed a small oilskin packet that hung by a cord around his neck. First he unfolded several sheets of paper and pushed them to the center of the table. “I am Alexander Leigh, an English cousin of young Nicholas’s father. My late father, the Marquess of Wright, was married to the sister of Nicholas’s grandmother.”
The old woman eyed the gilt crest and elegant script in confusion. It was with some concern that Alex realized she could not read. “Yevgeny,” she said uncertainly, “Can you tell if what he says is … true?”
He fervently hoped that the steward could make sense of the letter of introduction from the Russian mission in London, verifying what he said.
Riasanov hesitated, then released his hold on Alex’s coat and reached for the papers. He studied them once, then again before laying them side. “Hmmph. Such things can be forged.” However, his fierce expression had tempered somewhat less. “Have you any other sort of proof that you are who you say you are?”
Alex removed another sheet from the pouch. It was a thin parchment, much wrinkled and stained from travel. “Are you familiar with the countess’s handwriting?” he asked. “This is the letter she sent to my uncle, the Earl of Chittenden, asking for our help in keeping Nicholas safe. That is why I am here. From what she said, I thought it best to be cautious and pass myself off as Russian until I could be sure of how things stood here.” He grimaced. “I see I was not very convincing.”
The steward put down the knife as well as the countess’s letter. “Not at all—we would have been suspicious of anyone.” He turned to the old woman. “I know the countess’s handwriting like my own. I am sure she wrote this, so what our friend here says must be the truth.”
She crossed herself as he turned back to Alex. With an awkward bow, he essayed a few words in heavily accented English. “Welcome to Polyananovosk, my lord.”
Alex breathed a sigh of relief at finding his neck was no longer in peril. “You needn’t bow as if I am the one with the title. I am merely a younger son, and it is best if you simply call me Alex.”
The steward shuffled his feet uncomfortably. “I hope you will forgive the rather rude welcome, Alex.”
“Yes, and you must be starving after all your travels,” added the old woman in a rush. Now that matters were cleared up, she was more than anxious to make up for the misunderstanding by plying their guest with food.
“Indeed I am, and judging by the heavenly aroma coming from your pots, I imagine I am a lucky man.” A note of anticipation crept into his voice. “But first, if you please, I should very much like to meet my young cousin.”
Riasanov cleared his throat. “Ah, I am afraid that is not possible, Alex. You see, Master Nicholas is not here.”
“Is it not one of the most fantastic buildings you have ever seen, Miss Hadley?” demanded Emma, straining to pull free from Octavia’s in her haste to get closer.
“Indeed,” she murmured, careful to keep her charge from dashing away across the vast cobbled square. “Do you know the interesting story behind its creation?”
That caught the young girl’s attention. She slowed her steps and looked up expectantly.
“St. Basil’s Cathedral was built by Ivan IV, known, I’m afraid, as Ivan the Terrible. On its completion, he was so pleased by its stunning beauty that he summoned the architect and asked the man if he could ever design anything as magnificent as the church again. Wanting to impress his Tsar, the man assured Ivan that of course he could, whereupon …” Octavia paused for dramatic effect. “Ivan the Terrible had the man’s eyes put out. To ensure that he never did.”
Emma’s own eyes widened, then crinkled in silent amusement. “Monarchs get to have all the fun.”
Octavia repressed a smile. In her experience, most children seemed to take a ghoulish delight in such stories rather than become frightened or upset. It was clear that Emma was no different.
“Henry VIII got to cut off the head of a wife that displeased him,” went on the girl, her expression conveying a touch of longing at being able to deal with unpleasant relatives in so decisive a manner.
“Oh, I doubt you would truly enjoy making heads roll,” said Octavia.
“Why not?” countered Emma.
“Too messy. I think I should make people walk the plank, like Bluebeard the Pirate.”
Emma stifled a giggle. “I like being with you, Miss Hadley. You never tell me I can’t think or say something because it is not the proper sentiment for a young lady. Miss Withers was forever telling me to hold my tongue. So does Aunt Renfrew.”
Octavia couldn’t help but be pleased with how far she had come in earning the young girl’s trust. Over the past several weeks, wary suspicion had turned into a cautious acceptance. In truth, she liked Emma as well. Her charge was bright, inquisitive, and eager to learn. And beneath the sullen, willful shell she had learned to affect in the face of a series of uncaring adults, she was a sensitive, vulnerable child, yearning for some real affection.
“People are always telling me the same thing, too. I’m afraid I never learned my lesson. But at least I have enjoyed the use of my brain, which is more than can be said for a vast majority of our sex.”
Emma’s mouth dropped slightly at hearing such mutinous thoughts expressed aloud. “Uncle Renfrew says that it is unseemly for females to think?—”
“No doubt he does. What could be more threatening to a man of such little intelligence or imagination?” she said rather acidly.
The young girl’s face became very thoughtful.
“But I trust you will not repeat such opinions in his presence,” continued Octavia quickly.
“There is a Mrs. Wollstonecraft who believes that females are capable of rational behavior and thought too, isn’t there? I have heard my uncle lecture my aunt about how she should be thrown in Bedlam because of a book she wrote.”
Octavia nodded.
“Do you have that book in your trunk?”
She admitted that she did.
“Could we read a chapter of it tonight before bedtime?” asked Emma.
After her pointed words, it would have been nigh on impossible to deny the request. “Very well, but I suggest we make no mention of it to your guardians.”
The young girl shot her a withering look. “What do you think I am—a witless child?”
Octavia gave a slight cough. “Ah, why don’t we see if we might enter the cathedral and have a look at some of the icons there. Now, Andrei Tretiakov was considered the most brilliant painter of the genre …”
She launched into a detailed explanation of Russian art, while ruing her own rather precipitous tongue. She had spoken on impulse, forgetting that her listener was only twelve years old. Perhaps such views on a female’s right to independent thinking were a little too complex for a child to understand, but the look of self-doubt on the young girl’s face had wrenched the words out of her. How well she knew what it was like to be told it was improper to have ideas or feelings just because of one’s sex. She simply refused to let the obvious intelligence and spirit be stamped out in this young lady if she could help it.
They emerged from the candlelit cathedral sometime later, their senses still reeling. The combination of the sweet, cloying incense, sonorous chanting from a group of monks clustered in one of the naves, and rich colors at every turn had been a most singular experience. Octavia found herself wondering what Alex’s opinion would have been of the exotic spectacle. From what she had overheard on the ship, she knew he had a sharp eye for observing people and a pithy sense of humor when so moved. She felt sure he would have had something interesting to say….
“Miss Hadley?” Emma shook her arm, repeating her name for the third time.
“Forgive me. I fear I was woolgathering.”
Her charge smiled. “What were you thinking of?”
To Octavia’s surprise, a faint blush of color stole to her cheeks. “Oh, nothing.” Seeing the girl’s face fall at the casual brush-off, she added, “Actually, it wasn’t very important—I was merely wondering what one of the other passengers on the ship would have thought about St. Basil’s. He … he knew quite a bit about Russian history, and had a certain sense of curiosity, that’s all.”
“ He ?” Emma regarded her with great interest. “You hadn’t mentioned a ‘him’ before, just the odious Mrs. Phillips. Was he tall, dark and handsome? Did you like him?”
Like Alex? What a ludicrous idea!
“Perhaps we should limit your reading of Mrs. Radcliffe, young lady,” she replied dryly. “Come, let’s buy a bag of roasted chestnuts from the vendor for the walk home.”
Emma wasn’t distracted from that train of thought by the task of peeling away the hot shells. “All my other governesses have said that if I don’t learn to behave properly, no man will want to marry me and then I’ll end up an old maid.” She made a face as she popped a piece of the sweet kernel into her mouth. “They make it sound like a fate worse than having your head cut off by your husband.” She gave a shy glance at Octavia at her companion. “Do you never wish to marry, Miss Hadley?”
Octavia took her time in answering. “I have no objection to the idea of matrimony, Emma. In fact I should like very much to have a family of my own. But not at the expense of my … my self.” She paused for a moment. “So, if I should meet a man willing to listen to my thoughts with as much attention as he pays to those of his male acquaintances, willing to discuss things rather than issue orders, willing to be a … friend rather than a tyrant, then I should listen quite seriously to any offer that might come my way.” An ironic smile touched her lips and she endeavored to give a lighter note to her words. “Unfortunately, there do not seem to be an abundance of such admirable men in existence, so I am quite resigned to being, as your former governesses put it, an old maid.”
Emma peeked up shyly from under the fringe of her fur hat. “Perhaps, until you meet that man, we … we could be friends?”
“Why, that’s quite the nicest offer I have ever had!” She gave the young girl’s thin shoulder a big squeeze. “I accept—and not just until I meet such a paragon of virtue. I should be honored if you will always consider me your friend.”
Emma colored with pleasure and ducked her head to eat another chestnut.
They continued on in companionable silence for some way before Emma spoke again. “He would have to be very handsome.”
Octavia’s gaze jerked away from the bright gilding on one of the onions domes peeking out from behind the red brick walls of the Kremlin. “Who?”
Emma shook her head in exasperation. “Your future husband, of course. He would have to be tall as well. What color eyes do you favor?”
“Blue,” she blurted out before she had a chance to think.
“A fine choice,” allowed the girl. “Fair or dark haired?”
“Oh, dark, of course. What gothic hero would dare be an insipid blond?”
Emma giggled. The rest of the walk home was spent in spelling out all the attributes needed for a man to meet their combined standards.
Hah! thought Octavia as they approached the door to the Renfrew’s house. There wasn’t a snowball’s chance in Hell that such a paragon of perfection existed.