“Where is here? Ah, I don’t know your name. Mine is Katherine, by the way.”
“Ekaterina?” the woman smiled. “That is a fine name, an imperial name—”
“Yes, so I have been told,” Katherine cut in, exasperated with yet another version of her name. “And your name?”
“Parasha, and you are in the village, in my home. Rodion carried you down yesterday. He was most concerned. It seems the Princess had assigned no one to watch over you, even though she was aware of your fever. And with such deliberate neglect on her part, no one was willing to offer their services, leery of being associated with anyone in the Princess’s bad graces.”
“I see,” Katherine said tightly. “So in fact I could have died?”
“Goodness, no,” Parasha replied. “Your fever was just caused by the beating. It was not serious, the fever that is. Rodion, however, didn’t realize that. As I said, he was most concerned. He seems to think the Prince will be displeased when he learns what happened.”
At least something she had said made an impression on the man. But a lot of good Dimitri’s predicted fury had done to prevent the beating from occurring in the first place. And she was only assuming that he would be furious. What if he wasn’t? What if he couldn’t care less?
That possibility brought a tight knot to Katherine’s throat, which eased only with a concerted effort to direct her thoughts elsewhere. “Do you live here alone, Parasha?”
The woman seemed surprised by the question. “In such a big house? No, no, there is my husband, Savva, his parents, our three children, and room for more, as you can see.”
It was a big house, built of wood, since wood was so plentiful in this area. It was only one story, but spread out, and certainly larger than anything Katherine had seen in the many villages she had passed on the way here. She had assumed these log cabins would be one-room affairs, but this one had several rooms, she could see at least another room beyond the kitchen door, which had been left open. The kitchen itself was roomy, uncluttered; a large table was the focal point, as well as the monstrous stove. A finely carved cupboard, more beautiful than any she had ever seen, held an assortment of wooden utensils.
The house was quiet, no sign of anyone else around at the moment. “Is everyone working in the fields?”
Parasha smiled indulgently. “Until harvest, which will start soon, there is little to be done in the fields. There is still work, of course, weeding the vegetable patches, sheep-shearing, butchering, and preparing for winter, but nothing like planting and harvest time, when we are lucky if we work only sixteen hours a day. But today is Saturday.”
She spoke as if Katherine should know what that meant, and in fact Katherine did, thanks to the long conversations with Marusia on the way to Novii Domik. On Saturdays, all across Russia whole villages would converge on the communal bathhouse, where steam was created by throwing water on a large brick stove. Bathers lay on shelves lining the walls, the higher the hotter, some beating themselves and one another with birch twigs for greater effect, and to top it off, they then jumped into a frigid river or stream, or in winter rolled naked in the snow. Incredible, but Marusia had assured her the experience was truly invigorating; until she had tried it herself, she shouldn’t judge out of hand.
“You’re missing the steam bath yourself, aren’t you?” Katherine commented.
“Ah, well, I couldn’t leave you here alone when you had yet to wake from the fever, though it passed during the night. I would have had Savva carry you to the bathhouse, for the steam would have done you good. But the Prince’s brother Nikolai showed up last night and spent the night with his mother here in the village, so he will probably be there. And I didn’t think you would want to be pestered by him when your senses returned, at least not until you were more recovered.”
“Why would he pester me?”
“He pesters all women.” Parasha chuckled. “He is fast following in his brother’s footsteps where women are concerned. But he is not so particular as the Prince. Any and all is his motto.”
Katherine didn’t know whether to feel insulted or not. In the end she said nothing in reply. She knew who Nikolai was, Nikolai Baranov, natural son of Petr Alexandrov and one of the village serfs. His mother had been given her freedom on his birth, but she had never taken advantage of it, had stayed at Novii Domik and eventually married one of the villagers. Yet Nikolai, like all the other bastards of the Alexandrov men, was raised in the bosom of the family, with a whole bevy of servants to attend and spoil him.
How Lady Anne, a proud Englishwoman, could have tolerated such blatant proof of unfaithfulness, was beyond Katherine. Nikolai was in fact only seven months younger than Dimitri. And yet, according to Marusia, Lady Anne had never complained, had loved Petr faithfully until the day he died.
Katherine knew she couldn’t be so understanding. However, she was realistic. She knew men were governed by their bodies, that even the most adoring of husbands were bound to commit indiscretions. That was a fact of life. She had seen and heard too much to doubt it. She had always firmly believed in the old adage that what you didn’t know couldn’t hurt you, and had believed that when she eventually married, as long as she didn’t hear about her husband’s indiscretions, she would blissfully ignore the probability of unfaithfulness.
That was how she had thought she would feel when she eventually married. Now she wasn’t so sure. She hadn’t counted on falling in love. She wasn’t so sure she could blissfully ignore anything Dimitri did, and she would have to assume that he would be unfaithful if he was away from her for any length of time. The possibility hurt. A confirmation would be devastating. How could she deal with that when they were married? How could she deal with it now?
He was gone, supposedly to court another woman. She didn’t believe that for a moment, but he was still away in Moscow, where any number of women would attract his eye. Of course she was assuming that he cared for her. She was assuming a lot.
Blast, why did Parasha have to remind her of the Alexandrov men’s predilection for womanizing and siring bastards? Marusia had never mentioned that Dimitri had any, but that didn’t mean he didn’t or that he wouldn’t in the future. Look at Misha, thirty-five when he died and his oldest bastard eighteen years old now.
She ought to just forget Dimitri. He was too handsome, too enamored of women in general, according to Anastasia. He wouldn’t know how to be faithful to any one woman, even if he did love her. Did she need that? Certainly not. She needed to get away from him before what she felt became so overpowering that she wouldn’t care what he did as long as he gave her a few crumbs of affection. And if she was going to leave, she had better do it while he wasn’t around and while Vladimir wasn’t there to watch her every move.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Katherine crouched in the shadows beside the house and took a moment to absorb the pain that just a little movement caused her. But she had made it this far. She had a sack of food she had hastily gathered, and she wasn’t about to let a little thing like painfully bruised muscles stop her now.
She had waited impatiently while Parasha and her family had prepared for church this morning. There had been a moment of panic when the kind woman had started to insist that Savva would be happy to carry Katherine to church, that it was unthinkable to miss Mass, but Katherine had moaned and groaned so much when Parasha had tried to help her from her bed, which was still atop the stove, that she had given up the idea.
Katherine had met the rest of the family yesterday, and they had spent the evening singing the praises of their Prince and his family, who they considered part of their family. She came to realize that the happiness and welfare of the serf depended entirely on the character and wealth of his master. Under a good master he felt as if he had a home and was protected against bad fortune in a relationship that was almost like the feudal system of old. Under a cruel master his existence was more like a living hell of beatings and forced labor, in which he lived in constant dread (or hope, for that matter) of being sold, traded, lost on the turn of a card, or worse, sent off to military service for the next twenty-five years of his life.
Dimitri’s serfs were all content with their lot and fully aware of their good fortune. The thought of freedom was abhorrent to them because they would then lose the protection and generosity that allowed them to prosper as well as the land they thought of as their own. In their behalf, Dimitri sold the goods they made over the long, idle winters. In Europe they fetched a much better price than in Russia, and it showed in the higher standard of living here at Novii Domik.
Fine clothes were donned for church, a custom the same everywhere it seemed. The men wore colored shirts, red being the favorite, instead of the loose shirt belted round the waist worn on ordinary days. The trousers were of finer cloth, but still baggy in the style inherited from the Tartars centuries ago. Top boots of a good quality were worn instead of the summer wear of most peasants, which was bare feet or the typical birch-bark boots. The Russian high hats of felt completed their outfits, and for some, the long overcoat, or caftan.
