Chapter Text
Spring, 1863
The serfs abandoned their work and streamed to the unpaved road where, one by one, they fell to their knees. Most kept their heads low until Nikolaj’s carriage swept past. Some, however, could not resist a curious look, which offered Nikolaj an opportunity to glance at the faces of the men, women and children newly added to his domains. A lean, haggard lot. The last two harvests were poor and the army had requisitioned much of what was gathered.
Nikolaj lifted his gaze past the kneeling serfs and to the fields that stretched toward the horizon. It looked to be mediocre land; the soil had a dull brown colour to it.
“This place might be more trouble than it’s worth,” Nikolaj said and shook his head at how ungrateful he sounded. The empress had granted him this estate — a reward for his service in the Jarimbran campaign. But he had already inherited three-hundred thousand serfs from his father and had enough experience to guess at the effort it would take to turn Kubaja into something other than a financial drain. “All the same, it’s my responsibility now.”
“My mother’s judgement has been questionable of late,” Maksim replied. “Am I the only one who sees that? Nonetheless, it’s not such a bad sight, is it? Some of them are pretty enough. I’ve definitely seen uglier collections of serfs.”
“It’s not a serf’s looks that matter.”
“But it doesn’t hurt either, does it? Maksim tucked an errant lock of his curly, dark-blond hair back behind his ear. He was still focused on the world beyond the carriage. “What exactly are they doing out there?”
“Trying to make up time,” Nikolaj said. It had rained all through April and the first weeks of May, turning half the country into a mud-pit. While spring deluges were expected in Belar, this year’s rains had been unusually heavy and had to have disrupted the planting. “Why the sudden fascination with fields and serfs? Did one strike —”
“One? I never took you for a stingy host, Radmilov.”
“Ah, Aksaev, how do I say this delicately?” Nikolaj said with a laugh, but made sure to stress Maksim’s family name just as Maksim had his. It was that familiar, derisive tone the drill masters back at the Page Corps used whenever they addressed cadets. “I look at you and I wonder: is this a man capable of entertaining two in a single night? I’m a kind master, I wouldn’t want to get the girls all excited only for them to end up disappointed when you turn out to be a tad… floppy.”
Maksim snorted. “This coming from a man who only ever gets hot and bothered when the cannon-fire gets going.”
“I had enough cannon-fire in Jarimbor to last me a lifetime.”
“I don’t believe you. You are a Radmilov; battlefields are your natural environment,” Maksim replied and after a pause, added, “The fields are ending. That’s a good sign, isn’t it?”
Nikolaj would not have phrased it that way. While Maksim would lounge around once they arrived, Nikolaj anticipated a full day’s work. But there was no winding back the hours. The fields gave way to a band of woodland and perhaps a quarter mile later, the carriage driver made the horses turn off the main road.
Someone had been on the lookout for the carriage. The household staff were already lined up out the front of the two-storey Kubaja Manor. As the driver hurried over to open the carriage door, they all went to their knees. Lord Above, not here too. Nikolaj motioned for them to get back to their feet. At least the household staff were better-dressed and had more meat on their bones than the fieldworkers.
A tall man with a wispy beard hurried over to Nikolaj and Maksim. “I am Arkadij Ivanovich, the house steward of Kubaja Manor. I’m at your service, sudari.”
“Thank you, Arkadij,” Nikolaj replied in the faint hope that repeating the man’s name now would help him remember it later. He expected to meet many unfamiliar people shortly. “I’m Duke Nikolaj Andrejevich Radmilov. This is my good friend — his imperial highness, the Grand Duke Maksimilian Aleksejevich Aksaev.”
The steward’s eyes widened and he bent himself in half, mumbling his apologies that Maksim had not been greeted with appropriate honours. That was unnecessary, of course. Nikolaj had not informed anyone in Kubaja that he would be bringing guests with him. But it was all part of the pageantry Belarian society demanded. Nikolaj waited a few moments, then glanced to Maksim, who motioned for the man to straighten up.
Nikolaj had planned to familiarise himself with the house and its surrounds first and foremost, but once the house steward suggested refreshments, Maksim firmly supported the proposal. After a lifetime of experience, Nikolaj knew not better than to waste his effort in trying to change Maksim’s mind and merely motioned for the house steward to show them the way.
Arkadij Ivanovich took them out to the manor garden. The air was sweet with the scent of blooming lilac. There were dozens of trees, bursting with flowers in every shade from snow white to the deepest of violet. For a moment Nikolaj felt as if he were in a forest of lilac, but then the trees gave way to a clearing where a table laden with food stood before a rickety-looking stage.
More food came out once Nikolaj and Maksim were seated: heapfuls of black caviar on rye pikelets, then rabbit pie served with cool beer. The beer was from Kubaja itself, the house steward was quick to say — the only industry of note in Kubaja. Everything was artfully presented and the bright sunshine gave the occasion a festive air, but Nikolaj barely tasted what he ate and drank. His thoughts kept flitting back on all the people he needed to meet before the day’s end and the many questions he needed to ask.
“Sudari,” the house steward said as he refilled Maksim’s tankard of beer. “We also have some entertainment ready for you if it so please you. A singer and a serf dance troupe.”
“Kubaja has a dance troupe?” Maksim said incredulously. “From what I remember of Shatunov, the old man was only interested in card games and cigars.”
“A fancy of the former mistress, not the master.”
“Go on then, as long as it doesn’t drag on too long,” Nikolaj said.
Musicians took up their positions by the stage. The stage itself was raised a little, but not so much that Nikolaj and Maksim would have to crane their necks. There was no curtain, but an artfully painted backdrop depicted a grove of birch trees. The singer, a stout woman with a dark complexion, strode into the middle of the stage. By her wrinkled face and dated dress, Nikolaj guessed she had either retired or had been dismissed from an entertainment troupe in Chernisej or Savograd. She had talent and training, but was well past her prime.
“If you want to stay here longer, I wouldn’t complain,” Maksim said, raising his voice a touch so he would be heard over the singing. “Stay the entire summer if you like. I’ll laze about in bed until noon, then gather up some men and go fishing. Or hunting. Or whatever it is people do out in the country.”
Nikolaj snorted. “They’re expecting you in Chernisej by the week’s end and I won’t make myself responsible for wreaking havoc on the preparations for your wedding. So let’s not—”
A trio of women leapt out from behind the curtains and onto the stage, spinning so wildly their unbridled hair could not keep up with the flurry of their movement. The music swelled and the singer backed to the very rear of the stage, allowing the three dancers to command the space.
And there were three, but Nikolaj was scarcely aware of the fact. He could not tear his eyes off the red-haired girl in the middle. He knew this dance. It was an extract from the Tale of the Golden Cockerel, which had delighted everyone in Chernisej two summers ago. Nikolaj had seen the entire performance thrice before. But not like this. She was not just moving through the motions, her every move was effortless, yet purposeful and perfectly to the mood of the music. Every flick of her hand was graceful, every jump seemed higher than a human was capable of.
Three male dancers burst onto the stage, their movements as heavy as the women’s were light. Nikolaj wanted to ignore the men, but the men and women soon paired off. A tall, lightly bearded youth claimed the red-head.
Nikolaj sucked in a breath as he watched the man’s hand glide over the thin fabric covering her abdomen and come to rest at her hip. She seemed tiny in his meaty arms. He spun her around twice, then lifted her in the air, her ankle-length skirt billowing.
The beat of the music grew more manic; Nikolaj had never heard such energy to it in Chernisej. The men and the women changed partners. This time the red-head partnered with a dancer who looked to be twenty years her elder and with hands as unrefined as a blacksmith’s. He spun her around, threw her high in the air, but then nearly fumbled the catch. She deserved better. Her every move conveyed more grace than that man could ever possess.
“It seems I was wrong,” Maksim whispered to Nikolaj. “There is something besides canon-fire that’ll leave you hot and bothered.”
Nikolaj flinched and found Maksim peering at him with a coy half-smile.
“You’re talking nonsense.” Nikolaj willed himself not to flush, but felt his cheeks betray him. And yet, as the singer’s voice rose in a crescendo and the men lifted her partners high in the air, he found himself fixed on the red-head once more.
“You’re a lousy liar, always have been.” Maksim threw his friend a condescending look, which was a peculiar feeling because it was Maksim who was usually on the receiving end of such looks from Nikolaj. “You should say hello.”
Nikolaj was sure his cheeks turned an even deeper shade of red. But he still could not take his eyes away from her. As the dance came to an end and the dancers moved off the stage, Nikolaj beckoned over the house steward. “The red-haired woman dancing. Do you know her name?”
“Veronika Demidovna, sudar,” Arkadij Ivanovich replied.
Veronika
“A pretty name.” Nikolaj said. “I’d like to tell her as much. Perhaps this evening after dinner. Would you please arrange that?”