Page 20 of The Storybook Hero
“A fine choice,” allowed the girl. “Fair or dark haired?”
“Oh, dark, of course. What gothic hero would dare be an insipid blond?”
Emma giggled. The rest of the walk home was spent in spelling out all the attributes needed for a man to meet their combined standards.
Hah! thought Octavia as they approached the door to the Renfrew’s house. There wasn’t a snowball’s chance in Hell that such a paragon of perfection existed.
Five
“What do you mean, he’s not here?” demanded Alex. Weariness and a wrenching sense of frustration had him perilously close to shouting. His momentary elation at having actually found his nephew made the new revelation even harder to swallow.
The steward gave an apologetic cough. “There were several incidents that might have proved fatal to the young master if we hadn’t had luck on our side. Ludmilla and I decided that it would be best to send him where he would be safe from that murderous cur of an uncle until we could make contact with someone we trusted.” Noting Alex’s grim expression, he added, “Of course, we were not anticipating your arrival.”
“No,” allowed Alex. He forced a thin smile. “I do not mean to appear ungrateful—I’m afraid all the traveling and other setbacks have me rather on edge. “ he push an errant lock of hair off his brow. “No doubt you have done the right thing to protect Nicholas from harm. But from whom did you seek help? We know that the countess wrote to her brother in England, but she must have been fairly certain help would not be forthcoming from there.”
“Yes, she had little faith in her own family. Only desperation drove her to contact yours. But I was also asked to send off a letter to Prince Yusserov, a close friend of the late count who has spent many a visit here at Polyananovosk. It is he who was named as the boy’s guardian, not his uncle.”
The steward gave a helpless shrug. “But he, like the late count, is a military man, and given the state of things, who knows when the news will reach him. After the countess’s death, I also sent word to the count’s man of affairs in Moscow. You see, the young master’s uncle somehow contrived to cut off funds and began to turn out our servants in order to replace them with lackeys loyal to him.”
He gestured toward the darkened part of the house. “You no doubt noticed how deserted the house is. I refused admittance to him and his men, and he dared not try to use force—yet. But it is possible the count’s man has been bribed to hold his tongue. Such a thing would not be uncommon in this country. So I have no doubt that Nicholas’s uncle will be back. That is why we decided that it would be best to hide the young master.”
Alex nodded, a grim expression tugging at his mouth. “You have done well. But just where is he?”
“With his old nursemaid, in the village of Bereznik.”
“And how far is that?”
Riasanov pulled a face. “Two—maybe three—days of hard travel. That is, assuming the roads are passable.
Alex muttered an oath, which needed no translation to convey its meaning.
So near yet so far.
Ludmilla set out three wooden bowls on the table with a deliberate clatter. “Time enough to discuss what to do in the morning,” she announced in a tone that brooked no argument. “Now it is time to eat.” She removed a huge copper cauldron from where it had been simmering and began to ladle out athick stew of potatoes, onions, carrots and chunks of wild boar, redolent with the scent of rosemary and parsley. “Things will seem better on full stomach,” she assured him.
Alex slumped into his chair without another word, suddenly feeling utterly drained. Exhausted from the arduous journey, depressed by this latest disappointment, he couldn’t help but think that failure seemed to hang about his neck like a cursed millstone. Perhaps he should stay away from the lad—he only seemed to bring bad luck wherever he went.
With such bitter thoughts in mind, he could barely do justice to the savory meal, which was the first decent food he had been served in weeks. With Ludmilla clucking over him, refilling his glass with yeasty beer and putting yet another slice of bread slathered with butter on his plate, he managed to swallow just enough to mollify her motherly instincts—though it might have been vinegar and chalk for all he tasted.
Riasanov guided him to chilly bedchamber. Lighting the meager pile of split spruce did little to take the edge off of the cold, but a thick eiderdown quilt promised a modicum of comfort. Shedding his travel-worn garments, he slipped between the icy sheets, giving thanks that at least they were clean. The warmth of the spirits and the hot meal gradually began to mellow his mood just a bit. At least he now knew where young Nicholas was, which was more than he could claim when the day began.
That was some progress, he allowed. So perhaps Ludmilla was right, and the situation was not as black as he had thought. After a good night’s sleep, and a much-needed bath and shave, things would no doubt look even brighter.
However, when he awoke, Alex found he was wrong. True, the situation was not black. Nor was it bright—it was white. A thick, enveloping white. The steadily falling snow of the previous night had turned into a raging blizzard which nearly obliteratedall signs of life. Gazing out of the frosty window, he found he could not even discern where land left off and sky began. Tugging on his coat, he hurried to the kitchen where Ludmilla was fiddling with the brass samovar, muttering dire predictions under her breath about being trapped all winter.
Riasanov appeared moments later, shaking a shower of thick flakes from his fur cap. A layer of snow coated his legs up past the knees, telling evidence as to the state of things outside. He brushed at the tiny icicles clinging to his shaggy moustache. “It is difficult to reach even the barn, and the storm shows no sign of letting up.” His lips compressed as Ludmilla pressed a glass of hot tea in his hands. “I fear that we are stuck here for some time, Alex.”
“God’s will,” said Ludmilla under her breath as she cracked a dozen eggs into her frying pan and added a dollop of butter.
Alex also muttered the Lord’s name, but in not so accepting a manner. Stifling the urge to cut the cloying sweetness of the Russian tea with a generous splash of the vodka he spied on one of the shelves, he glared out the window at the blanket of whiteness while his fingers drummed impatiently on the rough pine table. “Is there any news about the movements of the French army?” he inquired in an abrupt change of subject.
Riasanov shrugged, a gesture with which Alex was becoming well acquainted since his arrival in Russia. “News travels slowly here, but yesterday, while I was fetching supplies from town, the word was the French have crossed the border.” His gaze also went to the window, and a slight smile crossed his lips. “They will find they have to fight more than General Kutusov and his troops.” He gestured at the swirling snow. “Our greatest ally—a Russian winter, though it is unusually early this year.”
Alex grunted, and the tempo of his drumming increased.
“In Russia, we have a proverb, Alex. It says that patience is a virtue.
“Yes, we have a similar one in England.” Alex heaved a sigh of frustration. “Patience is not a quality with which I am well acquainted. However, it appears I have no choice but to wait.”
