‘I love you,’ she said, nudging closer to him. He knew what she was saying.
‘Anna, afterwards–’
‘There is no afterwards for us. We’re both married. This is all there is.’
‘Doushka, don’t. I can’t bear to be apart from you.’
She grew angry. ‘What do you propose? Let me hear your plans, then! How are we to be together, Nikolai Sergeyevitch? Tell me what you mean to do with your wife and my husband.’
‘I hadn’t begun to–’
‘You thought perhaps I would be your mistress? That might be a little hard to arrange, perhaps, for two such public figures – especially if we are not even living in the same city.’
‘Annushka, don’t tear at me,’ he said gently. ‘We must never hurt each other.’
Her eyes filled with tears. ‘You don’t know, you don’t know…’
He gathered her close. ‘Something will happen. I can’t believe that God gave us so much, meaning to deny us the rest. Somehow, we will be together.’
‘Nikolasha–!’
‘I’m not going away from Russia again. I’ve done my duty to the Emperor. In Petersburg or in Moscow, somehow we’ll be together. We must be practical.’
She wiped her eyes with her fingers, a childish gesture that disarmed him. ‘Practical,’ she said, and he didn’t know if she were agreeing or deriding.
‘Yes, love. I must be in Petersburg this winter, for various reasons. Can’t you come too? Do you have to stay in Moscow? You could persuade your husband to come for the Season, couldn’t you?’ It seemed strange to hear him refer to Basil like that, while she was lying in his arms.
‘It may be possible, provided he doesn’t guess the real reason. We have a house there.’
‘What are your immediate plans?’
‘We go to the dacha at the end of the month. Everyone will be going out of town, of course. We usually spend the summer there, entertaining and riding–’
‘You still have Quassy?’
‘Yes, of course – and her colt. He’s two years old, now. I meant to begin breaking him this summer. I wanted to do it myself. I had thought–’ She stopped. When Rose was born, she had thought of training the colt to carry her daughter; she had imagined herself and Rose one day riding together on Quassy and Image. It was a picture that remained locked away in the back of her mind, which presented itself now and then to torment her. ‘In the autumn, we go back to the city for the Season.’
‘Try to persuade him to make it Petersburg instead.’
‘But even if I do – how shall we see each other?’
‘Publicly, I suppose.’ Her pain was reflected in his eyes. ‘It is better than nothing.’
Is it? she wondered; but she didn’t say it aloud.
Now, at home again at Byeloskoye, she was alone with her thoughts of what had passed that day, with tormenting speculation, with fragile memories. The long day was ending. She felt almost dazed. There seemed no substance to her, as though she had left her real self in that bare bedchamber, and what had come home to walk about the house was a dry husk, like the discarded snake-skins she sometimes found on hot stones in the garden. She half expected the light to pass through her unhindered; she felt that if anything touched her, she would crumble into dust.
Did the servants give her odd looks? Would they wheedle out of Pauline what had happened? Russian servants were the worst gossips in the world, but Pauline was not Russian, of course, and held herself aloof from them. Miss Penkridge, stern Yorkshire virgin, would never stoop to gossip; and between Pauline and Mile Parmoutier there was the deep reserve of suspicion that you would expect between a Belgian and a Frenchwoman. No, probably Pauline would not gossip.
Provided she thought of some way to account for having sent the carriage home… She could not, just at the moment, make herself care. She knew that it was exhaustion, physical and emotional, and that she would care very much later on. To be discovered in her misconduct – recriminations from her husband – would be beyond bearing. Misconduct? Sin? How could it be that? She could not feel it to be wrong, and knew that it was. It seemed a thing separate from the flow of real events, but she knew intellectually that nothing one does is without its effect on others.
Her husband – his wife. Her feelings about Irina were a hopelessly tangled skein, beyond unwinding. She liked her, pitied her, was frantic with jealousy towards her. It was impossible, perhaps, to hate a woman whose children one had loved and cared for, and yet she wished those children had been hers, that Irina had never existed. Unwell, grieving, ignored by her husband… he should have hurried there at once! How cruel, no, how thoughtless of him! Irina… It was strange that she had so often felt racked with guilt when her crime was no more than a sin of thought, an imagination. Now, when the crime was of commission, she could feel no guilt at all, only a low singing of joy, and an intolerable ache of loss.
Would she see him again? They could never have another day like today, never again be lovers; but if she could just see him… But to see him without being able to touch him, talk freely to him, how could she endure that? It would be worse… better than nothing… unendurable… She wandered through the house, and the air felt dry and used, and the floor felt swollen under her feet, and the walls bulged softly like uncooked pastry, as if she were in a fever.
There was a little time before the dressing-bell summoned her to her bath. Tonight she and Basil were going to the Grand Theatre to see the new French comedy; a new actor had just arrived from Paris, who promised to become the succès fou of the year, a slender and apparently startlingly beautiful young man who portrayed women so perfectly that he could not be told apart from the real thing. If he were all he was reputed to be, she and Basil would have to make sure he was their dinner guest before anyone else’s.
The thought wearied and depressed her. Hollow! Is this what your life has become, trying to succeed at a game that isn’t even worth playing? To sustain an illusion when even the original would be worthless? She thought of Nikolai, and missed him dreadfully, like a physical ache. Half an hour to be got through before the dressing-bell; and all the rest of her life after that.
She walked across the hall and started up the stairs. On the first floor she met Miss Penkridge, who told her that a package had arrived for her from Fontenarde’s.
‘Yes, that will be the Count’s birthday present. Put it away somewhere, will you? I wish it to remain a secret.’
‘I conclude, my lady, that it is valuable? Should I put it in the safe-box?’
‘Yes – do.’
‘Also the Dowager Countess Gagarin called, my lady,’ Penkridge went on. Did her flat eye convey a warning? ‘She wished to see you, but she did not leave a message.’ Already, Anne thought. Of course, she must have been seen by many people, riding in Kirov’s carriage. She would have to tell Basil she had met him, that they had gone for a drive together. Would he ask questions? She didn’t want to think about that now. ‘Very well,’ she said, turning away. ‘I’m going up to the nursery.’ Aware of Penkridge’s eyes on her back, she went on slowly up the stairs, keeping her shoulders straight, though they wanted to slump forward wearily.
The nursery was on the top floor at the back, the nicest, sunniest suite of rooms in the house. Here the Countess Marya Vassilievna’s household lived their private and separate lives, all their needs catered for without ever encountering the rest of the world. Here, there were bedrooms and sitting rooms, a schoolroom and a playroom, closets and storerooms, even a large balcony on which to take the air. The views from the windows were lovely; the rooms were decorated in the best style, with light modern furniture and drapes. The meals that were brought up were of the first quality; there was no need for anyone ever to leave the upper floor.