Kate Furnivall - The Jewel of St Petersburg

“Yes.” The boy blinked hard. “Thank you, Uncle Jens, for…”

Jens ruffled his hair. “Go and say good-bye to Hero while I have a word with your mother.” Briskly Jens walked out to the carriage. She was sitting inside, dressed in green, her eyes sad and solemn. “So you are leaving Russia?”

“Yes.”

“For Paris.”

She smiled at him and shook her head. “That’s what I’m telling people. But actually we’re heading east.”

“That’s a long journey.”

“But far safer than trying to skirt around the war front in the west.”

“Nowhere is safe now. Take care.”

She put out her hand and fingered his where it rested on the carriage door. “Listen to me, Jens. I’ve heard there is a plot among the aristocracy to oust Tsar Nicholas.”

“Good God, have they come to their senses at last?”

“No. Six of the grand dukes have gotten together with Prince Georgi Lvov from the Duma to offer the throne to Grand Duke Nicholas Nikolaevich instead.”

“To swap one Romanov for another! They are insane. Prime Minister Golitsyn is far too weak to keep order for them. Can’t they see it’s too late?”

“No, Jens, they love their country. They don’t want to give it up, and they know they would have to leave immediately if the Romanovs lose the throne.”

“You love Russia too, but it’s not stopping you from going.”

Her gaze swept away from him, focusing on the stables at the side of the house where Alexei had just emerged, sprinting toward them. She dropped her voice to a whisper. “His father is a Romanov. If ever it came out, Alexei would be in extreme danger.” She shivered. “That’s why we’re leaving.”

Jens turned, seized the boy’s arm, and hurried him into the carriage. He slammed the door. “Go quickly,” he urged. “Go today.”

“Tomorrow,” she murmured.

“I shall come to say good-bye in the morning,” Jens promised.

The boy smiled at him. “We could go for one last ride.”

THAT DAY WAS THE START OF THE END. VALENTINA WOKE early, uneasy, too restless to sleep. She could hear the city even in their quiet leafy avenue, breathing hard. Her bones ached with tension, as if she had been running too fast and too far. There were stories everywhere of workers turning on their bosses, of postal workers who had beaten to death the man they had obeyed for ten years, a couple who ran a jeweler’s shop thrown out of it by their employees. She was frightened for Jens. She had visions of workers underground rising up like blind moles from their tunnels and savaging their Direktor in his flimsy office.

Instinctively her hand stroked him beside her to ensure itself he was whole and safe, and immediately he pulled her on top of him. She made love to him fiercely, leaving her mark on him, small nips to his chest and the taste of blood in her mouth where she nicked his lower lip with her teeth. Today she needed more of him, more than just his muscles and his skin and the thrust of him hard inside her. She needed the blood from his veins. She needed the beat of his heart. And when finally she lay exhausted in his arms, he lifted himself up on one elbow and looked down at her.

“You seem hungry this morning,” he laughed.

She sat up, tucking her knees under her. “Don’t go in to work, Jens. Not today.”

“Why not today?”

“I have a bad feeling about it. Stay home today.”

“I have to, my love. I must say good-bye to Alexei. And there are big problems at the moment.”

Her heart clattered in her chest. “With the workers?”

“No, though it’s true the unions are shouting their demands in my ear. No, it’s the old wooden water pipes. They are rotting. The water is contaminated in places and typhoid has broken out again. I’ve announced that people must stop drinking it. But what else can they do?” He swung his legs from the bed, his mind already on the day ahead.

She had lost her chance.

JENS DIDN’T RIDE WITH ALEXEI. THOUGH IT WAS STILL EARLY by the time he reached the Serov mansion, the countess’s carriage was standing packed and ready outside the door, and Alexei was slumped on the front step. He leapt to his feet at the sight of Jens on Hero, but their farewell was brief.

The countess was irritated. “He wouldn’t get into the carriage until he had said good-bye to you.”

Jens shook hands with the boy, a formal recognition that he was an adult now. “Look after your mother, won’t you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Write to me. Tell me what you decide to do with your life.”

“I’ve already decided. I’m going into the army.”

Jens’s heart sank. “You’re still young yet. Good luck in your new life. We’ll meet again, I’m certain, when all this mess is over.”

The boy held back his tears. “I’d like that.”

Jens hugged him close, kissed his mother’s cheek, and promised to see that Alexei’s horse went to a good home. Then they were gone in the black carriage with its golden crest removed from the door. Jens watched it until it was out of sight and could not suppress his anger at a nation that drives its fine young men from its soil. He felt the loss of Alexei keenly and swung up into his saddle, urging Hero into a brisk canter down the gravel drive. An ugly mean-eyed horse was waiting outside the gates and on its back sat Popkov, scratching his beard like a lazy bear.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Jens demanded.

“Your wife sent me.”

“Why?”

“To keep you safe.” He grimaced sourly.

“To hell with you.” Jens kicked his horse into a gallop.

EIGHTY THOUSAND WORKERS DOWNED TOOLS AND CAME out on strike that day in Petrograd. There were riots on Vasilievsky Island and violent marches that barged their way through the city’s streets. Plumes of smoke rose like fingers of hatred across the skyline, as trains and transport and production lines were paralyzed. Shops and factories boarded up their doors and windows as their workers took to the streets with banners. Jens rode through the heart of Petrograd, and he could smell it. The animosity and the anarchy, the desire to destroy. To burn. To break. To tear down and to rip apart.

Motorcars lay on their sides, fenders and windshields smashed; shop doors hung on broken hinges, and goods were flung into gutters, where they were scavenged. Crates of vodka stolen from liquor stores fueled the tempers of the marchers; the men with red armbands and bloodshot eyes clutched at Hero’s reins and tried in vain to unseat its rider. Jens experienced an overwhelming sense of sadness. This was the country he loved, and it was slicing open its own veins until its lifeblood made the streets slick and slimy with grief. A thousand or so wealthy families had held this vast country in the palm of their hands for hundreds of years, but they had squeezed it dry. Now the whole of Russia would pay the price.

Jens rode toward his office, dismayed as he passed factory after factory being ransacked. It would not take much for a group of his workers to bring a tunnel roof crashing down. Workforces were running riot everywhere, destroying machinery and stripping glass from windows. And as he rode, all the time he heard the sound of Popkov’s horse behind him.

“Go home,” Jens shouted.

But the horse remained like a flat-footed shadow. When he turned into Lizhkovskaya Ulitsa, the street was crowded with men wearing red ribbons on their chests and carrying iron bars in their fists. It was the Raspov foundry, its strikers pouring down the road, shouting “Fight for justice” and “Death to the Oppressors.” Beneath him Hero edged sideways, unnerved by the smell of hatred in the narrow street. Jens patted the animal’s neck, felt the oily sweat on it, and started to swing him back the way they had come. But at that moment the screams started.