She sighed. ‘Yes. It’s just hard that having good things to eat should involve destroying something so lovely. When I was a child, I remember crying dreadfully the first time I realised that the lamb I ate was the same as those dear little knock-kneed creatures on the hillside.’
‘Where was home? Tell me about it,’ he said eagerly as they rode on.
‘I was born in Hampshire–’
‘Is that a city?’
‘No, a county – a region. I was born in a house by a stream in a small village.’
‘And what is Hampshire like?’
‘Green, and fertile – soft hills, a little like these, but smaller and closer together. You would think it very small and cramped, I expect. And rivers full of fish, and woods full of birds. Narrow lanes deep with mud in the winter and dust in the summer. Flowers in the hedgerows and sheep on the hills.’
‘I should love to see it some day,’ Sergei said. ‘I’ve always wanted to go to England. When this war is over, I shall go.’ He glanced at her sideways, shyly, from under his thick lashes. ‘It would be wonderful to go there with you, and then you could show me everything.’
‘To see England again,’ she said softly, and then she sighed. ‘But it doesn’t seem as though this war will ever end. Your father has been away so long already, I don’t suppose Sashka would even recognise him.’
Sergei had nothing to say to that. They rode in silence for a while, and the path climbed higher, towards the blue sky and nearer the sun. They came to a place where a tiny stream of clear water fell down the face of a rocky outcrop, making a miniature waterfall, and Sergei jumped down and helped Anne to dismount, and held Quassy while she knelt on the springy turf to drink. The water was icy cold in her cupped hands, and tasted delicious. At the foot of the rock the stream ran away between deep, narrow lips of peat. They offered the horses a drink, but they only blew at it.
‘Shall we stop here and eat?’ Sergei said, looking around him. ‘It seems as good a place as any.’
They tied the horses to a thorn tree, and spread the blanket beside a rock, to give them something to lean against. Anne pulled off her hat, and felt the smooth heat of the sun against the top of her head; and after a moment, she took off her jacket too. Sergei did likewise, and rolled up his shirtsleeves, and flung himself down gracefully full length, to lean on one elbow and gaze at her while she unpacked the food.
Anne found herself not quite at ease with that bright stare, so disconcertingly like the Count’s, and yet so unlike; and to distract him she engaged him in conversation. Once begun, it continued quite naturally; they were of a similar turn of mind, and the difference in their ages was not as great as before. They chatted comfortably while they ate, about horses and hunting and food, and the war and foreign travel and paintings, like old, tried friends.
When they had finished eating and drinking, a pleasant, mid-day somnolence came over them. Now Anne, too, reclined on one elbow, listening to Sergei’s inconsequential account of a long-ago picnic with his cousins, gazing out into the distance towards the mountains, lilac in the heat-haze, peaked and spired and fantastic.
He was lying on his back now, his arms folded under his head, staring into the blue zenith. ‘Anna, look there,’ he said suddenly, breaking into his own narrative, releasing one hand to point upwards. She craned her head back.
‘Where? What is it?’
‘An eagle – look, he’s wondering what we are, and whether we’re good to eat.’
‘Where? I can’t see.’
Sergei laughed, and caught the arm that was supporting her and pulled it away, so that she fell on to her back, and then wriggling close to her held her hand up with his, pointing her forefinger directly above her head.
‘There,’ he said. ‘Don’t you see now? See his wings, like spread fingers? He flies so effortlessly.’ He allowed her hand to drop down, but somehow, absently, kept hold of it. His body was resting against hers for its whole length, his head so close to hers that she could feel the warmth of his cheek.
Staring up at the black speck of the circling eagle in the deep blue, Anne felt a little light-headed. Suddenly she had the strange feeling that the sky was below her rather than above her, that she was somehow suspended face downwards, looking down into the crystal depths of space. What kept her there? She might tumble off at any moment! She pressed her back up against the earth, and tried to cling on to stop herself falling. The fingers of her left hand hooked into the short turf beside her, while her right hand clenched round Sergei’s, and her head seemed to spin.
‘Wouldn’t you like to be able to do that?’ Sergei murmured. His face came closer, was resting against hers now: she felt the softness of his skin, and the light prickle of golden hairs. ‘To ride the air like that – he never beats his wings, look, just drifts–’
She tore her eyes away from the dizzying depths, and found herself looking instead into the hypnotic shine of Sergei’s gold-green gaze.
‘Anna,’ he said softly. He turned over on to his side, facing her, moving very carefully, as though not to frighten her, never releasing her gaze. His free arm passed across her body, and at the touch of it, though it was so light, she shuddered. ‘Annushka,’ he whispered. His face was close to hers, she smelt his sweet breath, lightly fragranced with wine, his sun-warmed skin, the young-man smell of his body. His hand came up to touch her face, stroke the hair from her brow, trace the line of her jaw, her lips.
Stop: you must stop him, her mind protested; but from so far away, the warning was almost inaudible. She was held, mesmerised, by the warmth, the wine, the familiarity, the friendship, the natural longing of her body for love. His strong, gentle fingers brushed her lips and then took hold of her chin, holding her face still. His face came closer, blurring, and she closed her eyes as something inside her gave a desperate lurch, and his mouth was on hers, kissing her.
Tenderly, then avidly: young, passionate, impatient. She lay as though stunned; and then all the feelings that had been so long held in check – terrible, potent mixture of different affections, longings and desires – rose up in her, and she yielded to him, her lips parting in response, her hand fluttering up to touch the back of his head. Sergei said something against her lips, and then he was pressing against her, out of control. She felt the young hard strength of him – a boy’s strength allied with a man’s desire. And then she was struggling, her dizziness gone as if she had been plunged into icy water.
What was she doing? This was Sergei, the Count’s son! The son of the house, her mistress’s step-son, her charges’ brother, and therefore, surely, almost himself her charge? This was wrong, wicked, almost incestuous! She struggled madly against him, and after one moment of resistance, he allowed her to push him back, and looked down at her with a flushed and puzzled face, his hand still resting on her shoulder.
‘What is it? Annushka!’
‘No, no, you mustn’t! Let me go!’ She pushed at him, struggled to sit up, feeling her cheeks burning with distress. He stared, evidently not understanding, seeing nothing wrong yet in anything they had done.
‘Did I hurt you? I didn’t mean to, Doushka,’ he said.
She felt her heart contract. ‘You mustn’t call me that.’
‘What? Doushka?’ He laughed, and tilted his head quizzically. ‘But why not? You are my darling! You must know that by now! What’s the matter, did I startle you? It’s all right, you know – it isn’t wrong if we love each other. And I would never do anything to harm you.’
‘Seryosha, stop! Don’t say any more! This is all wrong – you must see that it is!’