comfortable velvet-covered chairs, tables scattered with bibelots, and half a dozen gold-framed landscapes breaking the plainness of the cream-painted walls. The footman brought the samovar and tea-tray, and when the cups had been filled and handed, Tatya said encouragingly, ‘Now tell me all about it.’
Nadya gave a hesitant, nervous account of her journey from Moscow, which had now assumed something of the quality of a remembered nightmare, choking with tears as she spoke of the loss of Luda. When she reached the point where Captain Valyev entered the story, she broke off and gave him an imploring look.
‘How did you come to be there?’ Tatya asked him, having seen the look.
He took up the tale, stating briefly how he and Sasha Tuchin came to be on the Ryazan road, and continued with the rest of the story, while Nadya drank her tea and looked from him to Tatya and back again. She had caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror as she entered the house—a dusty, disheveled scarecrow with a livid bruise on one cheek. It had done nothing to boost her morale, and she felt the contrast between Tatya and herself acutely.
Tatya was as beautiful as ever. Her black hair, caught up in a chignon, with ringlets hanging to her shoulders and adorned with the merest scrap of lace in deference to her widowed status, had a bluish sheen. The skin of her heart-shaped face had a translucent perfection, and her great clear grey eyes were set off by long black lashed, and eyebrows like swallows’ wings. Her tall, shapely figure was modishly dressed in pretty sprigged muslin, and her white, long-fingered hands moved with delicate grace as she re-filled the teacups.
When Captain Valyev finished his story, a movement drew their attention to the long window which opened on to a terrace at the side of the house, and Nadya realised that someone had been standing there for some time. She came forward now, a rather thin young lady with a neat rather than a pretty face, brown eyes, and a composed demeanour. Her long, straight brown hair was plaited and coiled in a small coronet on the top of her head, and she too wore sprigged muslin and a lacy shawl.
‘This is my brother’s fiancee, Countess Irina Arkadyevna Barova,’ Tatya said. When the introductions had been completed and Captain Valyev—Andrei—had made his bow and kissed Irina’s hand, he said, sounding puzzled, ‘I didn’t know Lev was betrothed—he didn’t say anything about it when I last saw him.’
‘It’s very recent,’ Tatya replied as Irina seated herself and accepted some tea. ‘When did you see Lev, then?’
‘In Smolensk. It was rather a hurried encounter, as there was a battle going on at the time.’ Andrei hesitated, the said, ‘Er—have you heard from him since then?’
‘Yes. We had a letter only yesterday, from Kaluga,’ Tatya replied. ‘We know about his wound, if that was what you were nerving yourself to tell us! It’s practically healed now.’
Andrei smiled with a sigh of relief, and said, ‘It was fairly fresh when I saw him! He was just about to set off for Kaluga with a convoy of wounded men. I’m glad to hear they arrived safely.’
‘He met Irina on the way,’ Tatya told him calmly, as if such encounters were quite commonplace. ‘She was fleeing from the enemy, like Nadya, but with her old aunt, who was unfortunately taken ill at an inn not far from Smolensk. Then everyone at the inn ran away, for fear of the French, leaving them alone, and the aunt died. Fortunately, Lev and his men arrived soon after, and carried her along with them. By the time they reached Kaluga, they were betrothed. Isn’t it a delightfully romantic story?’
She was smiling and her grey eyes looked amused, but Nadya saw that Irina looked decidedly apprehensive as she waited for their reactions.
“Very romantic!’ she agreed swiftly. ‘Why, it sounds just like one of those folk-tales your nurse used to tell us when we were children, before we went to the
Nadya gave a hesitant, nervous account of her journey from Moscow, which had now assumed something of the quality of a remembered nightmare, choking with tears as she spoke of the loss of Luda. When she reached the point where Captain Valyev entered the story, she broke off and gave him an imploring look.
‘How did you come to be there?’ Tatya asked him, having seen the look.
He took up the tale, stating briefly how he and Sasha Tuchin came to be on the Ryazan road, and continued with the rest of the story, while Nadya drank her tea and looked from him to Tatya and back again. She had caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror as she entered the house—a dusty, disheveled scarecrow with a livid bruise on one cheek. It had done nothing to boost her morale, and she felt the contrast between Tatya and herself acutely.
Tatya was as beautiful as ever. Her black hair, caught up in a chignon, with ringlets hanging to her shoulders and adorned with the merest scrap of lace in deference to her widowed status, had a bluish sheen. The skin of her heart-shaped face had a translucent perfection, and her great clear grey eyes were set off by long black lashed, and eyebrows like swallows’ wings. Her tall, shapely figure was modishly dressed in pretty sprigged muslin, and her white, long-fingered hands moved with delicate grace as she re-filled the teacups.
When Captain Valyev finished his story, a movement drew their attention to the long window which opened on to a terrace at the side of the house, and Nadya realised that someone had been standing there for some time. She came forward now, a rather thin young lady with a neat rather than a pretty face, brown eyes, and a composed demeanour. Her long, straight brown hair was plaited and coiled in a small coronet on the top of her head, and she too wore sprigged muslin and a lacy shawl.
‘This is my brother’s fiancee, Countess Irina Arkadyevna Barova,’ Tatya said. When the introductions had been completed and Captain Valyev—Andrei—had made his bow and kissed Irina’s hand, he said, sounding puzzled, ‘I didn’t know Lev was betrothed—he didn’t say anything about it when I last saw him.’
‘It’s very recent,’ Tatya replied as Irina seated herself and accepted some tea. ‘When did you see Lev, then?’
‘In Smolensk. It was rather a hurried encounter, as there was a battle going on at the time.’ Andrei hesitated, the said, ‘Er—have you heard from him since then?’
‘Yes. We had a letter only yesterday, from Kaluga,’ Tatya replied. ‘We know about his wound, if that was what you were nerving yourself to tell us! It’s practically healed now.’
Andrei smiled with a sigh of relief, and said, ‘It was fairly fresh when I saw him! He was just about to set off for Kaluga with a convoy of wounded men. I’m glad to hear they arrived safely.’
‘He met Irina on the way,’ Tatya told him calmly, as if such encounters were quite commonplace. ‘She was fleeing from the enemy, like Nadya, but with her old aunt, who was unfortunately taken ill at an inn not far from Smolensk. Then everyone at the inn ran away, for fear of the French, leaving them alone, and the aunt died. Fortunately, Lev and his men arrived soon after, and carried her along with them. By the time they reached Kaluga, they were betrothed. Isn’t it a delightfully romantic story?’
She was smiling and her grey eyes looked amused, but Nadya saw that Irina looked decidedly apprehensive as she waited for their reactions.
“Very romantic!’ she agreed swiftly. ‘Why, it sounds just like one of those folk-tales your nurse used to tell us when we were children, before we went to the
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