Free Midnight in St. Petersburg by Vanora Bennett Page B

lined flesh above a straggly beard; unfriendly eyes.
    Suddenly the eyes opened wide, and Inna was relieved to see that pale-blue blaze of recognition, the kindness dawning again in his face.
    â€˜Why, it’s my young friend from the train!’ he exclaimed warmly. Then a slight frown crossed his face.
    â€˜I was passing…’ she stammered. ‘And there was something I wanted to ask you…’
    Her voice died away as he glanced back into the dark vestibule behind him. His eyelids lowered till his gaze was lost in deeply lined flesh.
    â€˜I’d ask you in. It’s just that these fools have all turned up.’ He sounded vexed.
    Inna’s heart sank. He hadn’t really meant it when he’d invited her to visit him. He’d just been saying something polite. Her cheeks flamed. She was about to whisper, ‘If it’s a bad time,’ and flee, when he shrugged.
    â€˜Well, let them share,’ he said, almost to himself. Then, looking directly at Inna, he added, with a determination she couldn’t doubt: ‘Come in, come in.’
    The room she followed him into was very basic: a big window curtained in cheap yellowing lace, a table and stools on one side and a screen hiding a bed on the other. But it was full of people. There must have been a dozen of them sitting at the table, murmuring together.
    There were no other peasants: no apple-cheeked Dunyas or little ragamuffins giggling under the table. All these guests were in city clothes. Very good dark clothes, too, with none of the darns and patches she’d seen on the Leman children’s elbows (though with none of the Lemans’ arty dash either).
    For an instant, Inna was appalled. She’d never be able to talk privately to the peasant with them here. She’d walked uninvited into a party.
    But, almost at once, she began to wonder who they were. Almost all were women (although there was a stout, pompous young man in a dark morning coat hovering behind the stool of a young, pretty woman with a flower of a face and the most beautiful oyster-coloured silk blouse Inna had ever seen). And, grand though they clearly were, almost all had a look in their eyes that suggested life hadn’t treated them as kindly as they might have hoped.
    They should have been intimidating to a provincial schoolgirl. But they looked so helpless that Inna couldn’t find it in herself to be scared.
    When they became aware of her, the buzz of talk stopped.
    It wasn’t quite a party after all, Inna realized. They were all staring at her, furtively, jealously, as if each one was privately assessing a potential rival.
    The only exception was a middle-aged lady in a feathered hat above her modest robe, who was at the samovar, pouring out tea.
    â€˜Father Grigory, may I offer your guest some tea?’ she asked.
    Father Grigory? So he was some sort of religious man? The peasant didn’t seem pleased by the honorific, and just nodded.
    Handing Inna a glass, the lady said, ‘I’m Lyubov Vassilievna Golovina, my dear … and that’s my daughter, Munya.’ She indicated a girl scarcely older than Inna, with timid blue eyes, a sweet, plain face and a shawl.
    Inna felt tempted to bob a curtsey in gratitude for Madame Golovina’s well-bred graciousness. ‘My name is Inna.’ She paused and then added, ‘Feldman,’ omitting her Jewish patronymic. The Golovinas were clearly nobility even if their clothes weren’t grand; and if ‘Munya’ were enough of a name for the daughter to go by, then ‘Inna’ without ‘Venyaminovna’ would do for her.
    â€˜How do you know each other?’ Inna asked Munya, indicating the peasant with a nod.
    â€˜Oh, I was introduced to him by my cousin’s wife – Sana, over there,’ Munya replied, nodding at the pretty young lady in the expensive oyster-silk blouse. ‘Sana thought he would help me come to terms with my