Page 6 of The Storybook Hero (Intrepid Heroines #2)

Six

A lex pulled the fur blanket up a bit higher. His feet felt like blocks of ice and his cheeks were so stiff with cold that he could barely speak. “How much farther? Or are we meant to turn into snow statues, like some cursed characters in one of your wonder tales?” At least the interminable hours of travel had allowed him to improve his command of the language to the point where he was conversing quite easily in Russian.

Riasanov grinned, crackling the tiny icicles on his mustache and beard. “Russian winter, Alex.” He thumped his chest. “Suffering! Hardship! Is good for the soul.” He then slapped the reins against the traces. Bells jangled as the sleigh crept through the snowdrifts. “It makes us poets.”

“It makes you madmen,” grumbled Alex. He slapped his mittens together and thought longingly of the cracking fires in his favorite haunts in London, the bottles of brandy and the willing warmth of some voluptuous beauty. Hell’s teeth, what had he been thinking! He was as mad as any Russian to have set out on such a harebrained adventure.

“Another few miles and there is an inn. We shall stop for the night.”

Recalling the last two nights, with the abysmal food and flea-ridden bedchambers, he was not sure the news would serve to improve his mood. As if to further dampen his spirits, the wind picked up and snow began to fall once again. With a muffled oath, he buried his chin deeper into the upturned collar of his coat, and watched the ghostly white fir trees drift by.

The inn was even worse than he had imagined. It was a wretched affair of rough logs and loose shingles, the common room nearly as frigid as the outdoors, despite the fire. Alex pushed aside the rancid stew after several bites. Even the vodka was nearly unpalatable, harsh and greasy as it burned down his gullet. But at least it created a semblance of warmth in his insides. Lapsing into a brooding silence, he poured another glass for himself, ignoring the sidelong glances from his companion. He drained it with a grimace, then picked up the bottle and bade Riasanov a curt good night.

With nary a thought to removing more than his overcoat and boots, Alex slipped under the dirty blankets. Repressing a shiver, he took a long pull at the bottle for good measure. Slowly the vodka began to dull the worst of the cold. It could not, however, dull the feeling of emptiness inside him. Good Lord, was this what his life was coming to—day after day of nothing to look forward to but an endless night, with nought but a bottle of spirits to drown his loneliness and despair.

His eyes pressed closed. Of late, he had begun to realize that the copious amounts of brandy, the reckless gambling, the blatant risks and the frequent bedding of virtual strangers were no longer allowing him to hide from himself. Quite simply, he was getting tired of such behavior. If he wanted to put a period to his existence, mayhap he should put a pistol to his head. It would be faster, and, in some ways, cleaner.

Is that what he truly wanted?

He thought for some time, staring up at the cobwebbed ceiling. He used to have hopes and dreams, though it was so long ago in the past he could hardly remember what they were. Silly ones, no doubt, for he had been nothing but a raw youth. Still, perhaps it wasn’t too late to have new ones.

A rueful smile stole to his lips. Perhaps he had a touch of Russian temperament, for the winter seemed to be affecting his own soul as well. He wasn’t usually given to such introspection. In the past he had always managed to keep such disturbing thoughts at bay with whatever excess happened to be at hand. Alex regarded at the bottle in his fist with a grimace of disgust, then slowly let it drop to the floor.

Jack was gone, irrevocably gone, swallowed by the ocean. Perhaps it was time for him to stop drowning in self-pity.

The next morning he arose, his head for once not quite so fuzzed with drink, and his spirits a bit brighter than they had been in some time.

Riasanov’s bushy brow rose at the sight of Alex’s light step and sunny countenance. “Not feeling like a black bear this morning? I had feared you were on the verge of abandoning the journey and leaving the young master to his fate.” He gestured toward the drafty windows. “But look, the snows have stopped and the temperature is rising. We should reach Bereznik by this afternoon.”

“Oh, you’ll find I’m a rather stubborn fellow. I don’t give up so easily.”

Riasanov lowered his voice. “You may need that resolve, Alex. Word is the French have moved much more rapidly than expected. It is said they may even threaten Moscow.” He stopped to cross himself. “Though I pray the rumors are wrong.”

“What of Kutusov and his army?” asked Alex in some surprise.

The other man lifted his shoulders.

Alex bit back an oath. “Well then, let us be off at once.”

“Without my tea?”

“Suffering. Is good for the soul, remember?” he muttered, heading for the door.

The journey proceeded with little conversation, both men preoccupied with their own thoughts. Less snow had fallen in these parts and the way became easier going. After a bit, it thinned to a mere dusting, and the sun broke through the clouds. Riasanov gave a shake of his head at the sudden change. “Russian winter,” was all he murmured.

Rather than feeling buoyed by the passing miles, Alex couldn’t shake a sense of unease. In the past hour, several conveyances piled high with household belongings had passed them, going in the opposite direction. Even more ominous was the fact that the last small village they had passed through looked to be nigh on deserted, no smoke coming from the chimneys, no sign of life in the yards.

Riasanov muttered darkly under his breath. The whip cracked through the air, urging the horses to greater speed.

His lips thinning to a tight line, Alex shifted in impatience under the heavy blanket. Hell and damnation! He certainly hadn’t anticipated that the French would advance as quickly as signs indicated. With a start, he realized that if Moscow was indeed the target, then poor Miss Hadley was in even more danger than he was. He found himself hoping that she would come out of the panic and chaos of war unscathed. Then he forced such thoughts aside. He had enough of his own problems to worry about, and there was precious little he could do for her.

Besides, he thought with a wry smile, she seemed rather good at taking care of herself.

It seemed like an age before his companion slowed the team to a walk and pointed ahead. A number of dwellings, weathered a silvery grey from the elements, came into view, nearly dwarfed by a stand of towering spruce and fir behind them. The steward grunted something unintelligible, then guided the sleigh toward a simple cottage at some distance from the rest of the houses. He slowly dismounted and thumped his mittened fist on the door.

Alex held his breath. There was no sign of reply. Riasanov was just raising his hand to knock again when it opened a crack.

“Yevgeny! Thank God you have come.” The little old woman threw her arms around Riasanov’s neck, a feat made more difficult by the fact that her kerchiefed head came barely level with his chest.

“Of course I have, Svetlana. And I have brought … a friend.”

She stole a glance at the figure in the sleigh, then turned her attention back to the steward, tugging on his arm. “Come inside, both of you. The stove is warm and the samovar is hot. We have much to discuss.”

Alex climbed down from his perch, stiff with cold and followed the others into the cozy kitchen. A boy was curled up in a chair by the large tiled stove reading a book. At the sound of voices, he quickly looked up. He appeared to be rather small for his age, with rather delicate features and a thin nose that would likely be termed aquiline as he grew older. A shock of hair the color of a raven’s wing nearly obscured his large hazel eyes.

He broke into a smile at the sight of Riasanov, then his expression turned wary as he took notice of the tall stranger behind the steward.

Alex noted that the boy’s fingers suddenly tightened on the spine of the book and his gaze darted toward a small door hidden in the shadows behind a large pantry. A welling of sympathy caught in his throat as he remembered that within the space of several months, his young relative had not only lost both parents but had found his very life threatened by the only other family he knew.

Good Lord. And he had the nerve to feel sorry for himself!

Before anyone could speak, Alex stepped forward and stamped the snow from his boots, a tentative smile on his lips.. “I have been looking forward to making your acquaintance, Nicholas,” he said in English as he extended his hand. “I am your cousin Alex and I have come at your Mama’s request to take you back to England.”

The boy stared at him, as if uncomprehending what had been said.

Behind them, a gasp of surprise came as Riasanov whispered a translation to the boy’s old nurse.

Just as Alex began to phrase his greeting in Russian, the boy put aside his book and stood up. He took a few steps forward, then bowed with a formality that nearly brought a smile to Alex’s face. “I am most pleased to make you acquaintance, sir.” he replied in English. “My mother—” His voice caught in his throat for a moment. “My mother and my father used to speak often of our English relatives, as did my grandmother.” He took a deep breath, struggling manfully to control his emotions. “So her letter reached you?”

Alex nodded.

“I … I didn’t think you would come.” His toe kicked at the fringe of the thick rag rug. “And now I fear it is for nothing.” he added in a wavering tone. “The French army is fast approaching. You will be trapped here as well.”

Alex moved closer and placed an arm around the boy’s shoulders. “I have managed, against all odds, to find you here. I daresay I shall figure out a way to get us safely to St. Petersburg.”

Nicholas looked up, hope kindling in his eyes. “You … really think so, sir.”

“Indeed I do. Oh, and I would take it kindly if you will dispense with ‘sir’ and call me Alex.”

The old woman could no longer restrain herself and began to speak in a rush. Riasanov stooped to whisper something in her ear. A rush of color came to her broad cheeks, and she set to preparing tea and a platter of thick sliced rye, radishes and smoked fish. Above the clinking of the glasses and the rattle of cutlery, the steward gestured for the three of them to be seated at the table. Svetlana joined them shortly, mumbling profuse apologies for her lack of hospitality. She placed the food in front of Alex and clucked at him until he had piled his plate with food.

Satisfied that he would not expire from hunger in the next few minutes, she took a seat herself and began where she had left off. “Radischev says that our troops have been thrown back at Tver, which means the French cannot be far from here. What are we to do?” She looked first to Riasanov, and then to Alex.

The steward scratched at his beard. “You will return with me to Polyananovosk, of course. I don’t believe they will push that far east.” He slanted a look at Alex. “But as for the young master and Alex …”

“I will need horses and a sleigh,” interjected Alex.

Riasanov pulled a face. “It will not be easy, especially now.”

“I can pay very well.”

The old woman thought for a moment, then thumped her glass down on the table. “My nephew Igor may be persuaded. If not, I will take a broom to his backside.”

Sometime later, as Alex surveyed the two mismatched nags and ancient vehicle, he couldn’t refrain from thinking that not only had he paid very generously, he had paid through the nose. At least the animals looked to have some stamina despite their ugly appearance, and the sleigh, on further inspection, did not seem in imminent danger of falling apart at the first bump. And no doubt Riasanov and Svetlana were right—he had precious little choice.

He handed over the exorbitant sum and climbed into the creaky seat. Though accounted a dab hand with the ribbons, he soon found that handling a vehicle on runners over slick ice and snow was an entirely new experience. No matter, he though wryly. No doubt he would have plenty of practice at it before he reached St. Petersburg.

Somehow, he arrived back at the cottage from the trial run without serious mishap. After he and Riasanov had put the horses away, they returned to the kitchen where Svetlana had laid out yet another meal.

Alex stared for a moment at the tumbler of vodka that the steward offered him, then waved it away. “We will need warm clothing and extra blankets.” His fingers drummed on the table. ”I suppose it would also be wise to take a supply of provisions, in case we must avoid the main roads.”

“Or in case the villages have been looted and burned,” added Riasanov in a grim voice. “You will also need to take a pistol.”

A ghost of a smile came to Alex’s lips. “You may be sure I have already thought of that. A brace of Manton’s best have been in my satchel since I stepped off the ship.”

Though he had no idea of who Manton was, the steward understood the gist of the reply and nodded in approval.

“I have plenty of spare blankets, and a thick fur robe which will serve well to protect you as you drive, sir,” piped up the old woman. Her face screwed up in thought as she slanted a glance at her pantry. “I shall fix an ample supply of food?—”

“Just remember, we do not need to feed an army—at least, we hope not,” interrupted Alex with a short laugh. “The horses must be able to pull the sleigh.”

Svetlana cast an aggrieved look at the grins around her. “You must be able to keep up your strength. It is a long journey, and who knows what awful dangers will be lurking behind every tree.”

“Let’s have no talk of Baba Yagar sweeping down to carry off the young master and his English cousin in her mortar and pestle,” admonished the steward. “We have enough real concerns without you frightening the boy with your lurid folk tales of ravenous wolves and evil witches.”

She fell silent, but the expression on her lined face showed that she considered such threats very real indeed. With a warning waggle of her finger, she stood up and shuffled off to get the supplies ready.

“I have been thinking,” said Riasanov as he listened to the dark muttering coming from the pantry with an amused smile. “It makes more sense for me to take the horses and sleigh that you purchased today, while you and the young master take ones from Polyananovosk.”

Alex made to protest, but the steward held up his hand. “No arguments, Alex. You have a much greater distance to travel. Besides, they belong to Master Nicholas.”

The sense of such reasoning made further discussion unnecessary. “Very well.” He turned to the boy seated by his side, who looked to be a bit dazed by all that was going on, and then glanced back at Riasanov. “Perhaps you might see if you can locate an extra lantern or two, then help Svetlana gather the blankets while I have a word with Nicholas.”

The steward nodded in understanding and left the room.

Alex took a deep breath, trying to figure out how to begin. He had little experience in speaking to children—with a prick of conscience, he realized he had never even met William’s two boys, who must be at least seven and five by now, or Thomas’s brood of three toddlers. How did one avoid sounding pompous—or worse, condescending?

The luminous dark eyes that looked up at him in expectation settled things quickly. He would just have to say what he honestly felt, and hope it was good enough.

“I won’t insult you by claiming I know how terrible things have been for you these past months,” he said gently. “Nobody but you can truly fathom the depths of your hurt. But I, too, know what it is like to lose someone very close to you. My oldest brother died in a boating accident and I … I still miss him very much. My family and I can never replace the ones you have lost, but we should like to offer you our love and a home where you may be safe.”

He bent lower, so that his eyes came level with those of the boy. “You may count on me as a friend, Nicholas. We have a difficulty journey ahead of us, if you choose to make it. One that may even be dangerous at times, but I’ll do my best to get us through it unscathed. What say you? Shall we make a go of it together?”

Nicholas blinked several times. “When do you wish to leave, Cousin Alex?”

He ruffled the boy’s dark hair. “You’re top of the trees, lad. We should be off at first light.”

“Top of the trees?” asked Nicholas in confusion. “Must we also climb trees?”

Alex laughed. “It’s an English expression. It means you are a great fellow.”

“Oh, I see.” The boy appeared to be making a mental note of it. “I imagine there will be many peculiar English sayings I will not understand.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be able to teach you more than a few before we reach St. Petersburg.” He grinned. “I shall try not to introduce too many unacceptable words into your vocabulary. No doubt my sisters-in-law will be boxing both our ears if I don’t watch my tongue.”

Nicholas gave the first hint of a smile. “Like what?”

Alex lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Well, to begin with, you are on no account to say ‘bloody bastard’ in proper company, especially if a lady is present.”

“What is ‘bloody bastard?’”

“The worst sort of evil fellow you can imagine.”

“Ah.” The boy fiddled with his fork. “Like Uncle Vasili?”

“Exactly like Uncle Vasili.” Alex pushed his chair back from the table. “Now, I think both of us had better get some rest if we are to leave at dawn.”

Nicholas got up as well.

Alex extended his hand, but the boy ignored it, gesturing instead for him to lean down. He did as he was bade and suddenly found himself enveloped in a hug, “Good night, Alex.”

Alex felt his throat constrict as he gave an awkward squeeze to the boy’s thin shoulders. “Good night, Nicholas.”

Octavia undid her the strings to her fur hat and laid it on the table, along with her thick muff. “The snow is starting again,” she said to the butler, who, aside from Mrs. Renfrew’s lady’s maid was the only other English servant in the house. “There appears to be an unusual amount of activity in the streets, and from what I can gather, a number of disturbing rumors are going around as well. Have you heard any further news from the embassy?”

He shook his head. “No, but when I was out this morning, I also noticed a number of carriages leaving by the northern route. Perhaps I should go and make some inquiries?”

“I think that might be wise.” She paused for a moment. “I had thought that Kutusov was accorded to be a competent general. Even though he had to fall back from Smolensk, it was said he inflicted severe casualties on the French army. Do you really think he has allowed the French to march on his country’s capital unopposed?”

The butler’s expression didn’t hide his opinion of foreigners in general. “Who knows what sort of cowardice these barbarians are capable of. Now, if Wellesley was in command, he would drive those Frogs?—”

“No doubt, but he is not. So let us try to discover exactly what is happening.”

The butler fetched his overcoat, still grumbling under his breath, and stepped out into the frigid air. Octavia’s brow furrowed in concern as she watched the door fall shut. She had not liked the mood of fear she had sensed in the streets. A number of people had brushed past her, arms loaded with staples like flour and potatoes, as though preparing for the worst.

The news from the front had not been good over the last fortnight. Each skirmish or battle had ended with a retreat by the Russian forces. If it was true that the French were moving slowly, inexorably, to within striking distance of Moscow, there was good reason for her to be worried.

Not for a moment did she think the Renfrews would give a thought to her and Emma being trapped in the capital. For all she knew, they might stand to come into Emma’s inheritance if anything happened to the child, and so would welcome any attack by the enemy.

If anyone was to look out for their safety, it would have to be her.

She quickly climbed the stairs to Emma’s attic quarters. The girl was reading a book in the schoolroom, but immediately laid it aside on seeing Octavia’s grave expression.

“Is something amiss, Miss Hadley?”

“I’m not quite sure, Emma, but it appears that the French army may be closer to the city that any of us thought.”

The girl remained silent for several moments, then asked in a tentative voice, “What will happen to us?”

Octavia had no idea. But she wasn’t eager to find out. Though she had no firsthand experience with the ravages of war, she had read enough of both past and present conflicts to know that there would be terrible destruction and chaos if the enemy forces marched into Moscow. Perhaps it would be possible to take refuge at the embassy, but as England was also at war with the French, it seemed likely that would offer little real protection.

Emma was still looking at her, eyes clouded with apprehension.

“I’m not sure,” she admitted frankly. “However I think it best to be prepared for any emergency. I would like you to pack a small bag and have your warmest garments ready in case we must leave in a hurry. Can you do that, Emma, while I make some inquires downstairs?”

A slight smile came to the girl’s lips. “I’ll not throw a fit a vapors, if that is what you mean.”

“Good girl.”

Octavia hurried toward the kitchen. The Russian cook had taken a liking to her on account of her interest in learning the language. As he spoke some English as well, they had enjoyed a number of pleasant conversations over a steaming cup of tea. With friends and family in the city, surely he would have some idea of what was going on.

Her hand flew to her throat as she regarded an empty room, pots in disarray, the stove nearly cold. “Mr. Shishkov?” she ventured.

A grunt came from the pantry. He emerged a moment later, dragging a sack filled with turnips and onions. He added it to a growing pile of staples near the scullery door, then turned and wiped the sweat from his brow.

“Is the news that dire?” she asked.

“Miss Hadley, rumors are swirling everywhere, but from the best I can make out, our troops have suffered a grievous defeat at the village of Borodino. If that is true, the French may enter the city in a day’s time, if not sooner.”

She went very pale.

“Already there are fires breaking out in parts of the city, whether by chance or by Count Rostopchin’s orders, I don’t know, but it’s a very dangerous situation. Already there was a near riot at the market near the Kremlin when bread ran out. If I were you, I would not stay here in Moscow.”

Her jaw tightened. “Where might one have a chance of catching a coach for the north?”

The cook’s face betrayed his surprise. “The master has made no provisions for you and the little one to leave?”

She shook her head.

He muttered something in Russian she didn’t understand, which was probably just as well. “I suppose it should not surprise me. He and his lady are as cold as our Siberian steppes.” He hesitated as he placed several sharp cooking knives on top of the other items he had gathered. “My son will come around with our wagon in an hour. We are leaving the city to stay with my wife’s family in Gzhatsk. If you wish, you may travel with us for a way. It will be easier to find transportation to St. Petersburg once you are away from Moscow.”

Octavia took only a second to make her decision. “That is most kind of you. Emma and I will be ready.”

There was little time to lose. Her first stop was Mr. Renfrew’s study. Heading immediately to his desk, she began a careful search of the drawers. On finding one of them locked, she grabbed up the heavy iron poker by the fireplace and, without hesitation, smashed the brass fixture. As she had hoped, there was a leather purse hidden under a sheaf of documents. It was not quite as heavy as she might have wished, but at least the coins were all gold Imperials.

Tucking it into one of her pockets, Octavia continued to go through the rest of the contents, in case there was anything else that might be useful. She came across a wooden case at the very bottom of the drawer. Inside it was a pistol, along with a supply of powder and bullets. She relatched the case and tucked it under her arm. After a quick look in the rest of the compartments, which turned up a small brass compass as the only other item of interest, she hurried back up to her own room to collect a few extra garments and personal things.

Emma was seated on the edge of her bed, a small valise at her feet. Her face looked serious, but Octavia was glad to note there was no trace of panic.

“Mr. Shishkov has offered to take us out of Moscow, to a place where we might more easily catch a coach to St. Petersburg. But we must leave immediately.” Octavia crouched down so her eyes were level with those of the girl. “I think it the best decision, Emma. I don’t think we can trust that the Renfrews will give a thought to our being trapped here.”

Emma’s lips curled slightly at Octavia’s frank assessment. “I imagine you are right.”

“It may be a difficult journey, and mayhap even frightening or dangerous at times, but I truly believe it is our only choice.”

“If you think it is right decision, Miss Hadley, then you may count on me to do as you say.” The girl’s eyes took on a decided gleam. “Why, it sounds like we are embarking on some adventure just like out of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels. All we need is a tall, handsome hero to come to our assistance.”

Octavia was secretly relieved that the girl was excited rather than terrified at the idea of setting off alone and unprotected into a strange country. However, she sought to put a damper on such fanciful notions.

“Pray, do not count on that, Emma. Real life is rarely as romantic as the tales in those horrid novels.” A wry smile. “I’m afraid that I’m all you’ve got.”