The Golden Sabre. Jon Cleary
not at its highest. The Palladian-fronted house in itself was attractive; he had just not known enough to complement it with the appropriate surroundings. Plane trees threw shadows that softened the grey drabness of the barns and cow-sheds, and a few lilacs, faded now by the summer sun, added a touch of colour in the yard between the main barn and the house.
The Gorshkov estate covered fifteen thousand acres. It had been founded originally by a Prince Gorshkov who had been one of Catherine the Great’s lovers; he had lasted three months and had been known as the Wednesday Man, that being his day to perform. Arriving one Wednesday and finding he was in a queue, he had decided his time was up and left St Petersburg, exiling himself before Catherine disposed of him more permanently. He had come east, established himself and died here on the estate, leaving a wife, a son and two daughters. Following generations had built up the estate and in 1860, in the reign of Alexander II, they had moved back to St Petersburg and built themselves a small mansion just off the Nevsky Prospekt. The young princes had been educated in the Cadet Corps; the princesses went to the Smolny Institute. Though their names were never entered in the livre de Velours, they were close enough to flutter like loose addenda to that almanac of nobility. Princess Gorshkov, the children’s mother, whose family had been in the Livre de Velours, had impressed all this on Eden when she had first arrived in St Petersburg. Eden, who had not even met the Mayor of Croydon, had been suitably impressed at the time, though her awe had since worn off.
Far out on the rear boundary of the estate Eden knew the farm workers would be bringing in the harvest; tomorrow the traction engine in the threshing yard would be started up and today’s somnolent peace would be gone. This would be the first harvest since Prince Gorshkov had gone off to fight with General Denikin’s army. She wondered if the workers would demand it as their own property. No one knew these days what the workers were going to demand next.
As she got down from the carriage Nikolai Yurganov came across from the stables and took the horses’ heads. ‘Miss Eden—’
She turned back as she was about to follow the children into the house. ‘What is it, Nikolai?’
‘There’s a man in the big bam – I think you should see him—’
‘A man? What sort of man?’
‘A foreigner, Miss Eden. He has a motor car—’ Nikolai Petrovitch Yurganov was a young man convinced already that he would not last to be old. He was a Cossack from the Don who had come east to avoid the fighting and carousing that had been his family’s main pursuits. He had pale brown hair, already starting to thin, a long bony face, a body to match it and a soft girlish voice. He had a pathological fear of horses and one small glass of vodka stunned him like a blow with a rifle-butt. At his birth he had set the Cossack tradition back a millennium. ‘He drove in here a while ago. His tyres are punctured—’
Eden stood irresolute. In the nine months since Prince and Princess Gorshkov had gone off to Georgia she had had no major problems to face; the war was a long way from here and even General Bronevich’s soldiers had not come out of town to worry her and the children. Once she had been myopic to consequences, the essential talent for any sense of adventure; she would, if she lasted long enough, stand gasping with admiration for the sunrise on Judgement Day. But today’s letter from Princess Gorshkov had brought a sense of foreboding.
‘Can’t you get rid of him?’
Nikolai shook his head. ‘He won’t take any notice of me, Miss Eden – no one ever does—’
‘Oh damn!’ she said under her breath and, carrying her parasol, stalked across to the main barn and into its cool dim interior. She saw the strange truck at the rear of the barn, next to Prince Gorshkov’s car under its big canvas cover; then she saw the man in a blue shirt, bib-and-tucker overalls and a flat-crowned cowboy’s hat sitting on the running-board of the truck. ‘What are – Oh, it’s you!’
‘Well, well, if it isn’t the old handbag whirler—’ Cabell felt his bruised ear. ‘I’d like you beside me some time in a bar-room brawl.’
‘Just the sort of place where I spend most of my time.’ Why am I sounding so tart? She should be welcoming this man, whoever he was; he was the first non-Russian she had spoken to in over two years, ever since the Gorshkovs had fled St Petersburg for this estate. ‘I’m sorry, Mr–?’
‘Cabell.’
‘What are you doing here?’
Somehow he had suggested to her that he would be garrulous, as long-winded as Trotsky, whom she had once heard speak; instead, in what seemed to her no more than half a dozen sentences, he told her who he was and how he had arrived here in the Gorshkov barn. But even his brevity landed like a weight on her.
‘You can’t stay here! I have the children to think of—’
‘Miss Eden.’ Nikolai stood like a trembling shadow in the doorway of the barn. ‘There are horsemen coming up the avenue!’
‘Oh Jesus,’ said Cabell. ‘I better be going—’
‘Going where?’
‘I’ll try and make it out there to the wheat-fields. Maybe I can hide—’
‘Stay where you are.’ Even as her decision was forming in her mind she wondered why she was making it. Was it just because the man spoke English? Did her charity lie only in her ear? She could not imagine herself being so impulsive about helping a Russian. ‘Put the horses away, Nikolai. And keep your mouth shut – you know nothing, you understand?’
She went out again into the glare, opening her blue parasol and raising it against the golden brightness. As the half-dozen horsemen galloped into the broad area in front of the house, Frederick and Olga came running out of the front door. ‘What’s going on? Why the soldiers? Are we being attacked?’
‘Be quiet,’ Eden said, and looked up at the sergeant leaning down at her from his horse. She recognized the men for Siberian Cossacks, the worst of all Cossacks. They wore their karakul hats, dirty grey uniforms and expressions that made her quail inwardly; sabres hung in scabbards from their saddles and all of them had rifles. The horses, crowding in around her, looked as wild as the men. ‘To what do we owe this honour?’
The sergeant peered and leered at her, split between appreciating this rich plum of a girl and wondering what she was doing here. A Turkic-speaking gentleman, he also only vaguely understood what she had said to him in Russian. He straightened up and nodded to one of his younger soldiers.
‘Question her.’
The young soldier pressed his horse forward, likewise leered down at Eden. She felt she was being visually molested as the horsemen crowded round her; Nikolai had warned her what might happen if these Tartars took it into their heads to come out from Verkburg and pillage the estate. Now here they were and if they found the man they were looking for, God help him. And, what was worse, God help her and the children.
‘I am in charge here—’ said Frederick.
Eden hit him with her handbag and the soldiers laughed and cheered. Frederick drew himself up and almost got another whack with the handbag. ‘Shut up, Freddie. What can we do for you, corporal?’
‘We are looking for an American in a motor car—’
‘That must have been he who passed us and covered us in dust,’ said Olga.
‘Children should be seen and not heard,’ said Eden, trembling inside, seeing two of the soldiers now leering at Olga. ‘Of course it was he, who else could it have been?’ She looked up at the young corporal. ‘He was travelling north at a great speed, out there on the Ekaterinburg road. He went by us in a cloud of dust and disappeared up the road.’
The corporal conveyed this information to the sergeant, who peered and leered again at Eden. She and the children were still tightly encircled by the horsemen. She felt more threatened now than ever before in her life; somehow she felt more endangered now than in the Revolution riots two years ago in St Petersburg; even the flight from that city had not