Sergei took it very well, but seeing, out of the corner of her eyes, the disappointment in his, Anne felt she had been right to include the children in his plan.
Three hours later, they were riding in single file along the path which ran along the side of the hill for the whole length of the Valley of the Horses. As they wound in and out of bushes and rocky outcrops, they could see down below them the silver thread of the little river which tacked back and forth across the valley floor. In some places it ran brown and deep between green banks, and there were fish to be caught, flickering suddenly out of the overhang, or rising to snatch a fly with a faint popping sound; in other places it became shallow, and tumbled noisily over natural dams of grey rock, refracting the light into dazzle; clattered hollowly over smooth bare stones; and spread silver ripples over wide gravel beaches.
And scattered over the whole valley floor, everywhere they looked, there were horses, grazing on the good, rich grass, peacefully unaware of the muster to come on the morrow. They were mostly bays and greys and a few blacks, Karabakhs and Kabardas, highly prized throughout Russia and the Levant: intelligent, fast, and hardy. As they rode along, Quassy turned her head continually from the business of picking her path, to gaze intently at the grazing herds below, as if she recognised her kin; and now and then she would stretch her nostrils wide for the smell of them and make a little whickering sound of excitement. She had been born in just such a herd in such a valley, and her eyes were bright with the memory. Sergei’s horse, and the children’s ponies, being geldings, paced along unemotionally, their ears at the usual half-mast of indifference.
At the head of the valley, the flanking hills closed together, and met in a flattish headland, with a broad grey patch where the underlying granite broke through the thin turf. Behind it rose a rough cliff, topped with wind-bent thorn trees; but around the natural rock table was a pretty clump of birch which afforded shade from the noon sun, and relief to the eye. This place was called Picnic Point, for it was a natural place to stop and enjoy an alfresco meal, and admire the view.
Kerim had exercised his imagination in the matter of the nuncheon; perhaps enjoying the challenge, for much of his time hung heavy on his hands. He was under-occupied at Chastnaya, for the Kiriakov cook was even more fiercely autocratic than Kerim, and only grudgingly allowed him to help in the kitchen, except for the one day a month when he took a holiday on vodka and for twenty-four hours became incapable of anything but snoring. Then Kerim came into his own, not only cooking, but passing through the kitchens like a whirlwind, cleaning and reorganising everything along the lines he approved and had learnt from his Moscow master; only to see the new order overturned the following day when Bablash returned to duty with his temper soured by a thick mouth and pounding head.
A nuncheon to be packed in saddle-bags was beneath Bablash’s notice, however, and he had made no objection to Kerim’s being asked to prepare it personally. Had he been given sufficient notice – say, a day or two – Kerim would have put up a feast fit at least for a count; as it was he had done his noble best by assembling all the good things he could find that didn’t need cooking.
While Sergei unsaddled the horses and tied them up, Anne spread a cloth and the children trotted back and forth bringing the quail’s eggs, pickled mushrooms, cold roast duck, smoked eel, salads, strawberries, raisins and honey cakes with which Kerim had solaced his thwarted creativity.
‘Quassy’s very restless,’ Sergei reported as he came to join them, bringing the bottles which had been packed in his saddlebags. ‘We shall have to keep an eye on her, in case she breaks her rope.’
‘I expect it’s the herds down below upsetting her,’ Anne said, making room for him.
‘The other horses aren’t excited,’ Sashka pointed out.
‘Perhaps she can smell the stallion,’ Nasha said unexpectedly, and Anne and Sergei met each other’s eyes, and suppressed a smile.
‘Maybe so,’ Anne said hastily. ‘Sit down, Nasha, and have something to eat. What has Kerim given us to drink, I wonder?’
‘Buttermilk,’ Sergei said, making a face. ‘That must be for the children. And Rhenish for us, Anna.’ He smiled into her eyes. ‘It should have been champagne.’
‘Not in the heat of the day,’ Anne said.
Sergei seemed suitably chastened, and laid himself out instead to be pleasant and amuse the children. He told them tales of his adventures; described their father ‘being the arch diplomat, all lowered eyelids and inscrutable smiles’; even played guessing games with them while they ate Kerim’s delicious food. Now and then, to Anne’s amusement, he glanced at her for approval, but she kept her eyes on her plate and feigned not to see. When they had finished, the children, energy restored, jumped up to wander off to explore while Anne and Sergei made themselves more comfortable, gazed at the view and chatted.
‘I must say,’ Anne said, ‘I’m really looking forward to the muster tomorrow. It promises to be quite a day! And Grishka says there will be riding displays, and mock battles, and gypsy dancing, as well as the feast and the dance afterwards.’
‘Yes, they always make a festival of it, at Chastnaya,’ Sergei said. ‘People come from miles around to buy horses and sell other goods in exchange. It’s like a regular country fair. Not that I’ve ever been here before, but Papa has told me of it often. It was at the muster that he first met Irina Pavlovna.’
‘I didn’t know that. How did it come about?’
‘Well, he was serving with the Caucasus Highland Guard at Pyatigorsk, and they had an anonymous warning that the Tcherkess were going to attack Chastnaya in force during the muster, and steal the horses to sell to the Turks. So he was ordered to bring a troop down to guard the plantation; but the Tcherkess never came, and instead he fell in love with Irina Pavlovna, and married her and took her away within the month.’
‘So quickly!’ Anne said. ‘Was it love at first sight?’
Sergei shrugged. ‘I only know what Papa’s told me. The story is that he saw her coming in from riding with her hair in a plait and a scarf round her head, and took her for a peasant girl, and asked her to bring him some lemonade. Later when he was introduced to her as the daughter of the house, he didn’t realise it was the same girl, until she asked him if he wanted anything more to drink. It made a sort of joke between them, I suppose.’
Anne didn’t think this sounded like a sufficient reason for marrying anyone, but could hardly say so. Instead she said lightly, ‘So the Kiriakovs kept their horses, but lost a daughter.’
Sergei gave a quirky smile. ‘I wonder if that’s why Zina doesn’t take to me – maybe she’s afraid history is about to repeat itself, and that I’ll run off with Zinochka! Perhaps I should set her mind at rest.’ And he sang in his small but tuneful voice a verse of a popular local song:
The mountain girls are honey-sweet,
With midnight in their eyes,
But wind and sky and freedom
Are still the better prize.
So I’ll not wed, and die in bed:
I’ll save my cash
And buy a horse instead!
Anne laughed and said, ‘That’s a thoroughly reprehensible song, but I don’t know that I can find fault with the philosophy, feeling as I do about Quassy! Did I tell you about the offer of marriage I had from a Tartar Prince? If I had been willing to part with my horse, I could have been a princess by now!’