Anne looked concerned. ‘It is a pity that something like that should come between you,’ she murmured.
‘Oh, Olga is being perfectly unreasonable! She and my aunt have been stirring each other up, and attacking me in the most absurd way. My uncle, being childless, was entitled to leave his estate where he liked. And if he wanted to leave it to me, why shouldn’t I accept it?’ Anne could not answer that, of course; but Tchaikovsky evidently didn’t mean her to. He was smiling at some pleasing inner landscape, and went on with a chuckle. ‘The best part about it is that it makes me independent of my father! Now I may do as I please, instead of being forced to toe the line so as not to jeopardise my allowance!’
‘But I hope you will be able to make it up with your sister,’ Anne said.
‘I don’t care if I do or not – and neither should you. She’s no friend of yours, Anna Petrovna – but I suppose you know that?’
Anne was upset. ‘I’m sure I have never done anything willingly to offend your sister–’ she began.
‘You didn’t need to,’ Tchaikovsky interrupted, smiling at her in a way that made her begin to blush. ‘You put poor Olga’s nose out of joint the first time you were ever in company with her. Mine too, I must confess. I shall never forget the way you looked at me – so coolly! – when I exercised my wit on you! I was used to Kirov laughing at me, and I thought he had corrupted you to his cynical view of the world, but of course, it was just you and your superior intelligence.’
‘Please,’ Anne said, hardly knowing where to look, ‘you shouldn’t be talking to me like this.’
‘Why not? It’s the truth– you are superior, though it took me a while to acknowledge it. I had been used to being regarded as the leader of intellectual society, and I didn’t care to be unseated! But I’m wise enough, at least, to acknowledge myself bested.’ He eyed her averted profile. ‘I must say, that colour becomes you, Anna Petrovna.’
‘Please,’ she said in confusion, ‘don’t say any more. I can’t bear – at a time like this–’
He was instantly contrite. ‘No, of course not! How thoughtless of me! I beg your pardon. I have allowed my tongue to run away with me. I’ll say no more – only I beg you to remember that you have no more sincere admirer in the world, and to regard me as your friend to command. Now, don’t turn your face away any longer – I shan’t embarrass you again! What a jolly band this is! Did you know Orlov, the conductor, is a very fine violinist? I heard him at Princess Arsineva’s in Moscow. He doesn’t give public performances, so it’s considered a great coup for any hostess who can persuade him to play for her guests.’
He chatted in a light and pleasant way about music and Society in general, allowing Anne to recover her countenance, and neither said nor did anything else to embarrass her. This evidence of tact and genuine consideration made her like him more than she had thought possible; and when, after the concert, he asked permission to escort them home, and to be allowed to take Anne out riding the following day, she accepted on both counts. She had been lonely in her grief, and it was good to have someone whose sympathy was particularly her own.
But it was more than that: she had been lonely for a long time, simply as a woman. The unfortunate incident with Sergei had been precipitated by that loneliness. The dreadful tragedy which had followed had driven any thought of courting her from his mind, of course; and Anne was confident that when they next met, he would have forgotten all about it, and would regard her again as his father’s employee, his siblings’ governess.
Over the next few days, Count Tchaikovsky proved himself both kind and sensitive, placing himself at Anne’s disposal, escorting her, arranging diversions for her, talking amusingly to distract her from her sadness. He did not flirt: he behaved like a friend; and though she did not understand why he should go to so much trouble on her behalf, or even, indeed, why he was here at all, she found herself eased and comforted, and was grateful to him. He was, she thought, a better person than she had ever given him credit for.
Anne had walked into the town on an errand for Galina, and as she was returning along the dusty road, she heard a carriage coming up fast behind her, and stepped up on to the grass to be out of the way. It went past her very fast, and then to her surprise slowed and came to a jerky halt up ahead of her. She started towards it doubtfully, thinking it must be some lost traveller needing directions; but before she had gone more than a step, the door opened, a hand appeared and then a boot, and Count Kirov jumped down into the road and strode towards her through the swirling dust, his hands outstretched.
She must have run to him, though she didn’t remember covering the distance between them. She had one vivid, confused glimpse of his face, white under his tan, his eyes burning with emotion, and then she was in his arms, being strained against his lean, hard body. Her own arms were round him, and such joy and relief and love fountained up in her that she could not have spoken just then, even had the force of his embrace allowed her breath enough.
It lasted only seconds. She was released, swayed a little, found her balance. She looked up at him, and saw the intense, troubled look in his eyes, the marks of grief and anxiety in his face, and realised that she was probably revealing all too much in her own expression – and in a public place! Shocked at herself, she looked down and conducted a brief, desperate struggle to control her feelings.
‘Anna Petrovna,’ he said hoarsely, as though the dust had got into his throat. ‘It’s so good to see you! I hadn’t expected… Dear God, what you must have been suffering, all of you! I came as soon as I got the letter. I couldn’t believe it. My poor little Natasha!’
Anne felt her eyes hot with tears, and tried to blink them back. She was ashamed of what she had felt, when he must be riven with grief for his child; ashamed that she had not thought first of that.
‘I’m so glad you’ve come,’ she said, and tried to mean it only as she was allowed to mean it; but her treacherous heart kept on singing with his presence, and yearning towards him with almost a physical tug.
‘Thank God they had you!’ he said, and at the warmth in his voice, the tears spilled over helplessly, and one awkward, sobbing gasp escaped her control. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said, taking her hand – oh, the touch of him! – and leading her towards the carriage, ‘I know how much you will have supported them all! I did better than I knew when I rescued you in Paris! How is she? How is Irushka?’
They were at the carriage door, and she was able to let him help her to climb up, and to settle herself on the seat before being obliged to answer. By then she was calm, the rushing, flooding love for him quelled; duty, propriety rolled like a boulder over the mouth of the spring to keep it down.
‘Far from well,’ she answered him as he closed the door and the carriage rolled forward again. ‘She grieves terribly, but she’s so withdrawn it’s impossible to comfort her. I’m glad you’re here. I hoped you would come. Nothing else can help her – but you will bring her back.’
She kept her eyes forward, not allowing herself to look at him again. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him put his hands over his face, and rub it wearily.
‘It’s so hard to believe,’ he said. ‘Little Nasha! How could it happen? I can’t make myself understand that she’s dead, that she won’t come running to me when the carriage stops, and look up at me in that way–’
He stopped abruptly, and said nothing more until they reached the house. The carriage stopped, but he sat still for a moment, thinking. Then in a low voice he said, ‘What in God’s name can I say to her? I can’t even comfort myself.’