Free The Jewel of St Petersburg by Kate Furnivall Page B

HER DOWN. NOT IN THE STUDY. NOT IN THE drawing room, where serious discussions usually took place. Her parents sat her down in the music room, the room she had poured her hopes into for so many years. They sat her on the piano stool with its tasseled seat that she had frayed and picked at when the music wouldn’t come right. Her mother took a seat on the chair by the window. Though her face was under the usual control, her fingers held a handkerchief screwed into a tight ball in one hand. Her mother’s silence was almost worse than her father’s outburst.
    “Valentina,” General Ivanov said, “you must rid your head of this unpleasant notion at once. It astonishes me that you give such an idea even a moment’s serious thought. Look at the education you’ve received, the music lessons. Think about all that it cost us.”
    He was striding back and forth in front of her, the edge of his frock coat flapping with agitation. She wanted to put out a hand to quiet it. To quiet him.
    “Please try to understand, Papa. I can speak four languages and I can play the piano and I can walk well. What does that fit me for?”
    “It fits you for marriage. That’s what all young ladies are groomed for.”
    “I’m sorry, Papa, I told you. I don’t wish to marry.”
    Her mother’s intake of breath was too much. Valentina turned to face the piano, her back to them, and lifted the lid. Her fingers found a soft chord and then stretched to another, and as always the sound of the notes calmed her. The trembling in her chest grew less. She played a snatch of the Chopin piece and saw a flash of the flame-haired Viking lounging in the corner of her mind. Behind her all movement had ceased, and she imagined her parents exchanging glances.
    “You play well, Valentina.”
    “Thank you, Mama.”
    “Any husband would be proud to have you entertain his guests after dinner with a piece by Beethoven or Tchaikovsky.”
    Valentina clamped her fingers together to keep them off the keys. “I want to be a nurse.” She spoke quietly. Patiently. “I want to look after Katya. Nurse Sonya won’t be with us forever.”
    A sigh drifted across the room, and suddenly her father’s tall dark figure was standing right behind her. His hand stroked her hair and settled on her shoulder. She didn’t move. He hadn’t touched her in the six months since the bomb at Tesovo, and she feared that if she so much as shifted a muscle, he would retreat and not touch her for another six.
    “Valentina, listen to me, my dear child. You know I want the best for you. Nursing is a miserable occupation, full of whores and alcoholics. It is not suitable work for a respectable young lady.”
    “Listen to your father,” her mother urged gently.
    “They have lice. They have... diseases.” It was clear from the way he spoke that he didn’t mean just smallpox or typhoid.
    “But Nurse Sonya isn’t a whore or an alcoholic,” Valentina pointed out. “She doesn’t have a disease. She’s a respectable woman.”
    His hand tightened its grip on her shoulder, and she sensed it wanting to tighten its grip on her mind. “There is another way,” he said, “for you to help Katya. A better way to make it up to her.”
    “How?”
    “It’s not difficult.”
    “What is it, Papa? What can I do?”
    “Marry well.”
    She swung back to the piano, disappointment catching at her throat. She didn’t want to cross her father.
    “You heard me, Valentina.” The general’s voice was beginning to rise. “Damn it, girl, you must marry well. You must marry now. I insist on it. For the good of the Ivanov name.”

Seven
    E XPLOITATION! DEPRIVATION! STARVATION!”
    Mikhail Sergeyev was good. He knew how to work a crowd, how to spark the emotions in men and put fire in their empty bellies. Arkin assessed tonight’s crowd with satisfaction. Most were peasants like himself, simple workmen who had flocked from the rural provinces to find employment in the factories of St. Petersburg. Most