‘It’s useful to everyone,’ Anne reproved automatically. ‘It opens up a whole world of experience, such as you can hardly imagine.’
‘Maybe you shall teach me one day,’ he said generously. ‘But now read.’ Anne complied, and at the end, he nodded. ‘That will do. Give it to me. I’ll go at once, Little Mistress, and I’ll find which is the best man in Petersburg, and bring him back as soon as possible.’
‘What if he won’t come?’ Anne asked.
‘I’ll offer him gold,’ Adonis said with a quick nod. ‘And if that doesn’t move him,’ he added with a grin, drawing out the knife he always carried, a long, slender blade with a well-worn ivory handle carved at the end into the shape of a snarling tiger’s head, ‘I’ll think of some other way to persuade him.’
When Adonis had gone, Anne went out on to the terrace again. The Count’s eyes were closed, but when she drew near him he opened them and looked up at her unsmilingly. He looked worn with pain.
‘He is leaving at once,’ Anne said. ‘Does it hurt you?’
‘It aches all the time; and when I move, the pain is like a knife,’ he said shortly.
‘You should have said something before now,’ she said.
His mouth was wry. ‘I hoped it would heal on its own. You know what this means? If the surgeon decides there are bone splinters, he will want to probe the wound again to extract them. There,’ he added, meeting her flinching eyes, ‘I am a coward. You know about me now.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘No. It is not cowardice to be afraid of pain. God knows–’ Her mouth was dry, and she could not go on. His sound hand reached blindly for hers, and she did not think it improper, in the circumstances, to give it. They sat in silence for a while. ‘Adonis was right,’ he said at last, obscurely.
‘He’s a good man,’ Anne said. ‘I’m glad you have him.’
He gave a rueful smile. ‘I rather think he has me. Anna–’
‘Yes?’
‘If – if it has to be done, will you – could you–’
She met the fear in his eyes and strove to thrust her own down out of sight, out of knowing. The thought of being obliged to witness such an operation – to witness his suffering – filled her with horror. But she answered almost without pause, ‘Of course I will stay with you. I wish to God,’ she added in a low voice, ‘that it could be me instead.’
He shook his head at that, but he looked comforted.
The operation was performed two days later, in the early hours of the morning, as soon as it was fully light. The surgeon Adonis had chosen was a firm-faced, soldierly man of middle years, with a quiet bearing and expensive, but not elaborate, clothes. He was evidently quick-witted and had gathered enough on the journey from Petersburg in Adonis’ company to understand that nothing short of death would have prevented the ex-soldier from assisting at the operation; but he looked askance at Anne’s presence and only agreed to allow her to help if someone else were there as well.
‘If you faint away, mademoiselle,’ he said abruptly, I shall not be at leisure to attend to you.’
‘I shan’t faint,’ Anne said, with more defiance than conviction. But Nyanka offered her services and privately to Anne gave her opinion that it was Adonis who was more likely to faint away. In her home village in Georgia, she said, most of the doctoring was done by the women, because the men were too squeamish and could not bear the sight of blood.
Anne was glad of her presence, boulder-like, holding basins and handing towels as if she were presiding over the bathing of a baby, rather than the bloody and disgusting spectacle it really was. Anne did not faint, but again and again she had to think hard about something else to prevent herself from retching.
When it was all over, and the surgeon was sitting quietly beside his unconscious patient with a hand over his heart, and Nyanka and Adonis were clearing up the mess, Anne slipped away and climbed to the top of the black tower. Out on the leads, the air was clear and cool. It had not taken so very long, all in alclass="underline" the day was still new and unused, and below, where the shadow of the tower had only just withdrawn, the dew was still thick on the grass like gossamer. Anne rested her hands on the cold stone of the parapet, and tried to clear her mind of the images which were as sharp and jagged as the bone fragments the surgeon had drawn out from the wound.
The liquid thrilling of wren’s song rose from the wild pear tree which grew at the foot of the tower. ‘It will heal soundly now,’ the surgeon had said. ‘The arm may always be a little weak, but he will have the use of it, at least.’
I wish it could be me, Anne had said. But that was before. Could one really, really wish to suffer another person’s pain? Easy to say; not so easy to mean. She felt troubled, ill at ease with herself. It is not cowardice to be afraid of pain, she had said. Surely that was true? Then the image of what she had just witnessed jumped again into her mind. Perhaps it would almost have been easier to suffer than to witness: the Count had lost consciousness quite soon after it began.
There was a sound behind her, and she turned to see Adonis standing near. ‘He said you would be up here. He is awake and wants you.’
‘Have you told the mistress that it is all over?’ Anne asked quickly.
‘The old nurse told her. She has been to him. Now he wants you.’
‘Very well, I’ll come,’ Anne said, starting for the hatchway.
Adonis took her arm as she reached him. ‘It is good that he has you,’ he said, unconsciously echoing her words. ‘The outsider sees most of the battle. I know who is really mistress of the house.’
‘You mustn’t say that,’ she said uncomfortably, pulling her arm free.
Adonis nodded. ‘Aye, I know. It is bad for you, Little Mistress. He doesn’t yet understand himself. It’s her he loves, with his head, at least – but it’s you he turns to.’
‘You’re wrong,’ she said, gripping her hands together. ‘He loves her truly. Please don’t talk like that. It’s improper and – and untrue.’
Adonis gave a sardonic smile and stepped out of her way. ‘Have it your own way. But it was not her he called for in Konigsberg, when he was delirious.’
Anne shook her head, frowning, and hurried away.
The difference was astonishing. For a day or two, the Count was groggy and in pain from the new wounds; but within a week he had begun to mend, and his spirits were returning to normal. Though he felt so much better, the surgeon insisted on his resting as much as possible and spending his days upon a couch. Like a child, he grew restless with boredom and needed to be distracted. Irina and Anne read to him, played chess or picquet with him, conversed with him, begged the neighbours to come and visit him, and even had the children play spillikins with him, but still he sighed and fidgeted.
Then, to amuse himself, he resurrected a scheme of which nothing had been heard since Anne first arrived at Schwartzenturm, and had Grigorovitch in to paint Anne’s portrait. The sittings took place in the small drawing-room so that the Count could watch. He decided everything, from the gown Anne was to wear, to exactly how she should place her hands, and what was to be painted in the background. He observed and criticised every brush stroke, and thus distracted, Grigorovitch took a week to finish the job; and when it was done, the Count was far from satisfied.
‘It doesn’t do, somehow. It doesn’t capture you,’ he said critically, moving his head restlessly to get the best light on it. ‘We will have to have it done again – outside perhaps. Yes, that is a better idea. Grigorovitch is excellent at horses. We shall have you taken on horseback, in front of the house – in a blue habit, I think. Oh, if only I were allowed off this wretched sofa!’