The Amber Rooms

Chapter Ten

In due course, Saskia presented herself at a fine two-storey building on the Moika Canal. Its exterior was remarkable even among these grand residencies. The Imperial flag stood at full mast against the clouds, which rolled overhead like the cracked floes of the Neva. Below it was a second flag: Tsar Ivan’s double-headed eagle. A flight of marble steps lined with statues led to the entrance.

She did not wait long for the footman to hurry down to the steps. He wore scarlet trousers, a gold-embroidered jacket, and a white turban. The costume echoed that of the Tsar’s Abyssinian guards.

‘I am Ms Tucholsky,’ she said with studied aloofness. She passed him a letter of introduction from her warmer. ‘I would be honoured to wait upon the Countess.’

Saskia sat with a straight back, her knees bent and her ankles crossed. She held her wrist inside the warmer. She was in a library on the second floor of the building. In reaching it, she had passed through chambers and halls that marked every caprice of Petersburg architectural fashion. In one drawing room, she had counted forty paintings of the eighteenth century French School. Another held glass cabinets of porcelain. As for rooms, there could not be fewer than fifty. Most were arranged enfilade, without hallways. Saskia liked to know her spaces, particularly confined ones. The library room, unconfined by any standard, overlooked the Moika. It had the air of a museum gallery and the collections to match.

She let her eyes move over the library’s grey, monochrome ceiling to the emerald-green wall hangings and birch panels. She was seated at the first of three distinct arrangements of chairs. A fire had been lit for her. Saskia took a deep breath and held it. Pine. She needed to see the Count directly. The pretence of her employment here—as a tutor for the Count’s sickly child, Pavel—was a constant discomfort. With luck, she would be on her way before any real test of her prowess as a tutor could be made.

The eastern door was opened and Countess Charlotte Nakhimov entered. Saskia stood.

The Countess was no older than thirty-five. She wore a décolleté gown of cyan velvet. Her eyebrows were plucked to hawkish lines. Her smile, however, was warm enough, and she held Saskia’s hand a breath longer than etiquette required following their brief meeting of cheeks. The Countess did not appear to notice that Saskia kept her left hand in the warmer.

‘May I speak French?’ asked the Countess.

‘Of course, Countess.’

‘Please,’ she said, settling on the chair opposite. Her laugh was false but artfully delivered. ‘You must call me Charlotte.’

Saskia sat on the edge of a cushioned sofa. Her back was quite straight. ‘And you must call me Mirra.’

The two women sat without speaking for a moment. Charlotte did not move her eyes from Saskia, who felt that—to use the phrase of a Georgian bandit of her acquaintance—there was enough ambiguity to be unambiguous. Saskia tipped her head a fraction. The gesture invited the Countess to speak with candour.

‘The truth is,’ she said, turning to the sunlit windows, ‘you are rather more beautiful than I had wished.’

Saskia felt relieved. The introduction of another woman into the family unit would explain the Countess’s unease. Saskia had been worried that the Countess suspected her for a revolutionary. She leaned across the table and took her hand.

‘Let me be indelicate,’ she said. ‘I’m used to it.’ She weighed the Countess’s expression. ‘My love and I are separated by an ocean greater than all the Russias. “Never to let this lose me grace / But rather bring you back to me—”’

‘“Amongst all mortal women the one / I most wish to see,”’ Charlotte said. Her eyes had reddened with tears.

A look passed between the women. It was understanding, or its approximation. Saskia felt the ghost hand of her former mentor on her shoulder, and could imagine the Caucasian congratulating her on this flourish.

‘You are the perfect guest,’ Charlotte replied. ‘And I am failing as a hostess. Would you like tea?’

Saskia’s reply was interrupted by the appearance of no fewer than three manservants. These were costumed in an English Georgian style. Saskia watched them approach along the central carpet. They wore slippers and walked in step. The tea they presented was English in style: ornate tea pots, a selection of scones, jams, fruitcake, and iced buns. They assembled this into an ornate mountain and departed the room as one.

‘I apologise for their clumsiness,’ said Charlotte. ‘We’re holding a ball tonight. My best people are scattered about the city.’

‘Not at all.’

The Countess poured Saskia’s tea. ‘The Count will have told you that Pavel Eduardovitch has troubled several of his previous tutors. He has troubled them to the extent that they have left our service.’

‘I see.’

‘He does, however, have an interest in mathematics and wishes to enter the Imperial University. He is a special case and must pass an interview in three days’ time.’

Saskia sipped her tea. Despite her preoccupations, Pavel Eduardovitch was beginning to interest her.

‘I admire the piano. Does your son play?’

‘It was a gift from my father to my daughter, Ludmilla. She died before it was delivered. It is never played.’ The Countess turned. ‘Here is my son.’

Pavel Eduardovitch opened the door himself. He wore a grey frock coat with embroidered lapels, and white broadcloth trousers. His collar-length hair was swept back. He approached the two ladies but did not sit down. Neither did he look at Saskia or his mother. His eyes were drawn to the windows. Saskia did not judge his indifference to be affected. She knew him to be seventeen years old, but he might have passed for fifteen.

Charlotte looked at her son.

In soft English, she said, ‘Introduce yourself, Pasha.’

‘I am Pavel Eduardovitch,’ he replied. His English made him sound like a ventriloquist’s dummy. ‘I am plissed to make your acquaintance.’

Saskia took his hand. He did not look at her. ‘Look at me.’

He did. His eyes were restless.

‘Once more,’ Saskia said. ‘Pleased.’

‘Plissed.’

‘Again. Spread your lips more and keep your tongue high.’

He tried not to smile. ‘Pleased. I am pleased.’

‘I am Mirra Tucholsky. I am also pleased.’

‘Will you teach me English, Madam?’

Saskia said nothing. She looked Charlotte, who seemed amused by the exchange.

‘Darling,’ Charlotte said, returning to French, ‘it is time for your walk now. Three times around the garden. I will have Ivan watch you.’