Authors: Countess In Buckskin
Merline Lovelace (10 page)
Josiah’s arms came around her. Strong. Sure. Steady.
“Don’t fear.” His voice was warm and reassuring in her head. “After bringing you this far, I won’t let you come to grief now.”
Absurdly Tatiana believed him.
Several short, stocky men from a tribe Josiah identified as Porno met them at the base of the cliffs. They helped drag the great oceangoing canoe high onto the rocky beach. While the head Pomo conferred with the leader of the Wiyot crew, Josiah guided a still-shaky Tatiana to a set of wooden stairs. The steps switched back and forth across the cliff face, leading up... and up...and up!
Tatiana took the first stairs with a swift, eager foot. By the time she reached the top of the cliffs, her breath came in ragged gasps. Her sodden cloak dragged at her neck like a sack of stones and her slippery boots could barely hold to the treads. With a final boost from behind, Josiah propelled her up the last stairs and she stood at the top of the cliffs.
Fort Ross rose before her. A palisade of tall, straight redwood logs sharpened to spikes at their tops surrounded the entire fort. The small gate in its western wall was guarded by cannons bristling from the portholes of the eight-sided blockhouse and by sentries who peered through the rain to watch Tatiana’s approach.
Although the Russian inhabitants of the fort had coexisted peacefully for more than twenty years with the Spanish and the Pomo tribesmen who populated the area, it was readily apparent that its governor, Alexander Rotchev, allowed no slackness in security.
Tatiana drew in several gulping breaths, then marched toward the small gate. It opened while she was yet some yards away. A tall, thin young man in spectacles and a black frock coat came forward to greet them. His shoulders hunched against the rain, he ignored Tatiana and offered Josiah a courteous welcome. His English was broken but easily understandable.
“My greetings, sir. I am Mikhail Pulkin, acting
prikashchiki
to Baron Alexander Rotchev, the manager of this outpost of the Russian Fur Company. In his absence, I welcome you and your...” He gave Tatiana a tentative smile. “Your, ah, wife, to Fort Ross.”
prikashchiki
to Baron Alexander Rotchev, the manager of this outpost of the Russian Fur Company. In his absence, I welcome you and your...” He gave Tatiana a tentative smile. “Your, ah, wife, to Fort Ross.”
Belatedly she realized the picture she must present. Her wet, straggly hair, drooping fur cloak and buckskin leggings were bad enough. The turkey feather poking from the band of the hat that dangled down her back only added to her disreputable air.
“I am not this man’s wife,” she informed Pulkin in swift, flowing Russian. “I am Tatiana Grigoria, Countess Karanova, and I wish to speak with the Princess Helena immediately.”
The clerk’s pale blue eyes bulged behind his rainspattered spectacles. “Count...Countess Karanova?”
“Yes, it is L”
“But...but you were lost overboard!”
“Yes, yes, I was lost, and I am sure you all thought me dead. But I am here now, and—” she lifted a brow “—I am
most
chilled.”
most
chilled.”
Her aristocratic tone decided the matter instantly. Bowing up and down like a child’s toy on a string, the stammering, stuttering young factor ushered Tatiana to the gate.
Josh grinned. Although he hadn’t understood a word of the exchange, he’d caught the down-your-nose stare Tatiana had turned on this Mikhail fellow. The poor man all but fell over his feet to get out of her way as she swept into the compound.
Josh followed at a more measured pace. His trained eye cataloged the fort’s defenses, noting changes since his only visit years ago. The stockade was as well built as he remembered, with blockhouses in opposite corners to control every approach. He counted at least four cannons in each tower.
The high walls enclosed some seven or eight buildings, all constructed of redwood timber aged to a drab brown by time and the weather. A large two-story warehouse stood against the north wall of the compound, and a long barracks-type dwelling against the south. The chapel dominated all other buildings. Occupying a rise in the northeast corner of the compound, it lifted two squat, round towers to the rainy sky. Each tower was topped by the curious Russian crosses.
A fierce determination filled Josh as he surveyed the sturdy, well-maintained fortifications. Whatever it took, he’d keep them from falling into the hands of the British or French.
Tatiana’s progress across the grassy compound caused a great stir of interest. Clerks and artisans and one or two women in long dresses and aprons spilled out of buildings. Heedless of the rain, they were as anxious as any isolated settlers to greet visitors. They gaped at Tatiana, evidently unused to the sight of a woman in native garb regally striding ahead of men. Mikhail Pulkin’s whispered asides as he hurried along behind her raised a buzz of exclamations in Russian.
Mounting the shallow steps to the front entrance of the single-story dwelling, Tatiana rapped on the door. Some moments later, the wood panel opened to reveal a short, slender blonde in an elegant gown of blue wool. Her eyes rounded at her first sight of her visitor. They rounded even more when Tatiana sank into a graceful curtsy and uttered a soft, flowing phrase in Russian.
“Ta...Tatiana?”
Rising, the younger woman essayed a shaky smile. “Da, Helena.”
With a shrill screech, the blonde threw herself through the doorway. Laughing, sobbing, exclaiming volubly in Russian and French, the two women fell into each other’s arms.
Josh and the clerk stood patiently, the rain pounding down on their heads and shoulders as they watched the joyous reunion. Fnally a laughing Tatiana pulled free.
“Come, let us get out of this wet,” she said in English, including Josh in the conversation for the first time. “And then I shall introduce you to my escort. He brought me from the mountains, Helena, where I was taken after I washed into the sea.”
Chattering like a magpie, she went inside. In her excitement, she didn’t notice that her friend’s initial, spontaneous joy had faded. Her eyes now troubled, the older woman followed the countess in buckskin through the open door.
With the clerk a half step behind him, Josh stepped over the threshold into a room that might have been transported from a stately town house in one of the world’s capitals. Gold velvet draped its glass-paned windows. A thick Turkish carpet in brilliant jewel tones covered the plank floor. Heavy furnishings in a dark wood were arranged before an ornate brass fire screen that caught the sparks leaping from a bright fire. A pianoforte took up one comer of the room. In the other corner, gilt-edged books filled floor-to-ceiling shelves.
“This is the Princess Helena Palovna Rotcheva,” Tatiana announced, claiming Josh’s attention. “Niece to the Tsar of all Russias, wife to Baron Alexander Rotchev, and a most particular friend of my youth. Princess, may I present Monsieur Josiah Jones.”
Josh propped his Hawken against a wall and crossed to the dark-eyed, stunningly beautiful woman. Her face grave, she held out her hand. He took it in his, bowed at just the proper angle and dropped a light kiss on the back of her fingers.
Helena didn’t appear the least surprised at the smooth, polished gesture from a man in travel-worn deerskins. Tatiana, on the other hand, stared at him in some indignation.
“Why did you never accord me such courtesy?” she demanded tartly.
Josh shot her a brief, slashing grin. “Maybe because you never earned it.”
“Pah!”
With a flip of her wet hair, she turned her back to her friend, who’d listened to the brief exchange with some surprise.
“Despite this...this seeming lack of respect, Monsieur Jones provided me safe escort through the mountains, Helena. It was the most fantastical journey, but now it is done. I’ve brought the Tsar’s Treasure with me. What I could salvage from the sea, that is. My father will be saddened to hear so much was lost.”
The princess’s face tightened into stark lines. “Tatiana...”
“No, no! Do not fear. I know my father wrote your husband that he was sending many bundles of cuttings, enough to propagate a full orchard. I saved only a small portion of the treasure, it is true, but even these few will show the tsar how we can increase the yield here. We can yet save Fort Ross, and lift the yoke of his vengeance from my own and my father’s neck,.”
“Tatiana, dearest.”
The concern in the princess’s voice communicated itself to Josh, if not to the bedraggled younger woman. Something was wrong here, and he sensed that it didn’t have anything to do with fruit trees.
Making her own interpretation of her friend’s worried countenance, Tatiana rushed on. “These cuttings shall take, Helena, I swear! My father knows whereof he speaks. He sent some of the same cuttings to the Royal Horticulturist at the court of King Rudolph and the king himself—”
“Your father is dead.”
Silence dropped over the room like a hammer. Stunned. Disbelieving. Anguished.
Taking Tatiana’s hands in both of hers, the princess poured out the news in an agonized rush. “A ship sailed from Vladivostok just weeks after yours to bring you the news. It dropped anchor almost the same day we learned you were lost. I’m sorry, my dearest friend. I’m so sorry. I know how much you loved him.”
For long moments, Tatiana didn’t move, didn’t speak. Nor did Josh. He couldn’t help her. No one could, as he knew all too well. She had to suffer through this in her own way.
But at that moment he would have given his arm to spare her the pain he saw in her white, pinched face.
“How...?” She closed her eyes and dragged in a ragged breath. Her lids lifted slowly to reveal pools of torment. “How did he die?”
“We were told he had a cough.” Helena said brokenly.
“Da,”
Tatiana whispered. “He did.”
Tatiana whispered. “He did.”
“He started bringing up blood soon after you left. He died in his own bed. He...he used the last of his strength to call a blessing upon his daughter.”
With a small animal moan, Tatiana crumpled.
Josh caught her just before she hit the floor.
Chapter Ten
“B
ring her here!”
ring her here!”
Her face white and stricken, Helena shoved open the door to a room just off the central living area. Issuing a series of short staccato orders that sent Mikhail Pulkin scurrying, she hurried into the bedroom. Ruthlessly she swept a collection of dolls and toys from an elaborately carved sleigh bed and yanked back the feather-filled counterpane.
“This is my daughters’ room,” she said distractedly while Josh placed his limp burden on the bed. “They’re with their father and my son, and will return soon. In the meantime, I shall tend to the countess. Oh, the poor, poor dear! She’s so wet, and chilled.”
She bent over Tatiana and fumbled with the strings of her fur cloak. The tough, wet rawhide strands defied her efforts.
“I’ll do it,” Josh told her. Shrugging out of his coat, he edged the princess aside. “You’d best dry yourself before you take a chill, too. And stir up something hot to drink.”
“Yes, yes, it is already ordered.” Helena pushed her hair back from her forehead with a shaking hand. “I’ve sent Mikhail to rouse the servants from their quarters behind the house.”
“Go change,” Josh ordered brusquely. “I’ll take care of Tatiana.”
Helena stared at his broad back, as surprised by his curt instruction to a princess royal as by his use of her friend’s given name. At the tsar’s court, either could cost a man his tongue, if not his head. Even here, where everyday life demanded strenuous labor from princess and commoner alike, Helena was careful to maintain the distinction of her station.
Unaware of her scrutiny, the American pulled off Tatiana’s cloak and tossed it aside, then eased the hem of her fringed dress up to her thighs. Frowning in concentration, he went to work on the laces of her furred leggings.
Helena eyes widened. By Saint Sophia! Her friend wore nothing but those leggings under the dress! And this man’s hands moved over her body with a most startling familiarity.
Good! A fierce satisfaction shot through Helena as she turned and hurried to her own bedroom. Good! With all the grief the handsome, charming and so very irresponsible Aleksei had brought Tatiana these past years, Helena sincerely hoped that her friend had finally had a taste of a real man on this fantastical journey of hers.
Just a taste. Just enough to rid her once and for all of any memories of her despicable husband.
Helena slammed the door to her room, not a little shocked by the vehemence of her feelings. In love with her own husband to the point of idiocy, she had never once been tempted to break her vows. When her Uncle Nikolas had sent clever, loyal, hardworking Alexander to this farthest reach of the Russian Empire in an attempt to make it once again a profitable enterprise, Helena had packed up her babies, her servants and her belongings and accompanied him without a backward glance. Before she’d left St. Petersburg, though, she’d tried to warn a young, laughing Tatiana of Aleksei’s shallow character.
She’d failed, as everyone must fail who attempts to speak sensibly to a person in the passionate throes of first love.
Helena’s heart had ached when she’d learned of Aleksei’s part in the disastrous, failed plot against the tsar. She hadn’t spared a flicker of sympathy for the traitorous officer who lost his life as a result, but she’d known that Tatiana, too, would suffer for her husband’s acts.
Which she had. Holy Mother, she had. Word of the tsar’s vengeance had reached even Fort Ross.
Now her friend was here, without husband or father. And here she would stay, Helena vowed silently, throwing aside her wet dress. Here she would work out her grief and regain her strength and, the princess prayed, learn to laugh once more.
Perhaps even to love again.
An image of the tall, broad-shouldered American sprang into Helena’s mind. She remembered the heartstopping grin he’d turned on the countess, and their careless, somewhat shocking exchange. Despite his rough clothes and so great size, he possessed a smooth address. He’d kissed her hand with as much polish as any aristocrat Helena wondered who he was. She would instruct Alexander to find out, she decided, pulling on a dry gown.
But first she must tend to her friend.
After a swift detour to the kitchen to hurry the servants, she raided her husband’s private stock of spirits. Bottle and goblet in hand, she bustled back into her daughters’ room and shooed the American away from the bed.
“Go with Mikhail. He will take you to the men’s quarters, where you may change from your wet clothes. I’ll see to the countess.”
He relinquished his place with obvious reluctance. “She’s starting to stir.”
“So I see.”
“She needs something hot inside her.”
“Yes, yes, the samovar is already heating. I shall give her green tea infused with herbs. In the meantime, she shall have a touch of spirits.”
He hung over Helena’s shoulder. “What kind of spirits?”
“Kvass.”
Worry gnawed at Josh like a hungry wolf. With all Tatiana had endured on the long trek, she’d never fainted or shown the least physical weakness. Now she lay so still, and so damned pale.
The glass bottle clinked against the goblet. Helena poured a generous measure of cloudy liquid, then thrust the decanter into the American’s hands.
“Drink heartily yourself. It will warm you. Then, please, go with Mikhail.”
He tipped the bottle to his lips and took a long, deep pull. The colorless liquid released its fire halfway to his gullet. Suddenly Josh’s eyes widened. His throat seized, and beads of sweat popped out all over his body.
“Hellfire and dam-nation!”
He held the bottle out and regarded it with awe. He’d downed some potent liquor in his time, made from just about every substance that could be mashed, boiled or buried in a crock to ferment. None of those concoctions had a kick anywhere close to this one.
“What did you call this?”
“Kvass,” the princess replied. “Vodka, it is known here.”
“Vodka, huh?”
Cradling her friend’s head against her bosom, Helena poured several small sips into her mouth. Almost instantly, the fiery liquor produced a similar effect on the unconscious woman.
Tatiana swallowed. Choked. Jerked awake. She stared at Helena’s face for several seconds, then burst into tears. The princess dropped the goblet and wrapped her arms around the weeping woman. Soothing, rocking, sobbing herself, she comforted her friend.
Josh’s fingers gripped the bottle as a swift, irrational need rushed through him. He should be the one holding Tatiana, as she’d held him. He should be rocking and murmuring to her, as she’d had with him. He should comfort her.
Frowning, he gathered his wet coat and left the room. The young clerk met him in the hall, his blue eyes tragic behind the round spectacles.
“The poor countess, to suffer such loss! First her husband, and now her father.”
Nodding, Josh strode toward the rifle propped against the wall.
“At least she is once again with her own people to give her comfort,” Mikhail commented.
“Yes, she is.”
Josh wondered why that fact afforded him so little satisfaction. Tatiana was safe and warm and among her own kind. She’d reached Fort Ross, as she’d been determined to do.
Tucking the Hawken into its niche in the crook of his arm, he headed for the door. The clerk accompanied him out into the cold drizzle.
“Baron Rotchev should return before the dinner hour,” Mikhail said, pulling his collar up against the rain. “He will wish to speak with you.”
Mention of the baron brought Josh’s mission slamming back to the forefront of his mind.
“I wish to speak to him, as well.”
Some hours later, Mikhail Pulkin escorted the American to the manager’s residence once more.
Mikhail, Josh had learned, was the second son of an admiral of the Russian Imperial Fleet. Having shown little military inclination as a boy, he’d been sent to Fort Ross to make his fortune and his future with the Russian Fur Company. He’d started as a lowly company scribe and worked his way up to his current title of acting chief clerk.
“I fill this position only temporarily, you understand,” he confided to Josh as they crossed the compound. “If I prove myself, perhaps it shall be mine permanently.” His eager smile faded. “Or perhaps a similar position in Archangel, if we...if I must leave Fort Ross.”
Josh picked up the quick correction, but they arrived at the manager’s residence before he had time to probe further. A tall, balding man with shrewd gray eyes and a kind smile, Baron Alexander Rotchev greeted him warmly.
“Please, please come in, Monsieur Jones. You are most welcome in my home. My wife has told me of your great services to Countess Karanova.”
“How is she?”
The baron shook his head. “Most saddened. They were very close, she and her father.”
“Yes, she told me.”
“She sleeps now. My wife stays with her, you understand, in case she should awaken. If you please, let Augustine take your coat.”
Josh shrugged out of his coat and handed it to the waiting servant. He’d traded his travel-stained buckskins for his only cloth shirt and a pair of borrowed trousers. Several of the Russians had offered the loan of a broadcloth coat, but none of their garments would stretch across his shoulders. He settled for tying a white stock around his throat and knotting it in a neat fall.
The baron gestured courteously to the chairs arranged in front of the fire. “Come, join me for a drink. Then you must tell me how you came to serve as the countess’s escort on her incredible journey. Mikhail, you will pour, if you please, and join us.”
The clerk went to a tall, carved sideboard and returned with three goblets. Josh eyed them warily. He couldn’t take much more of the fiery vodka on an empty stomach. To his relief, the aromatic scent of fine aged brandy rose from his cup.
Baron Rotchev offered a toast to their safe arrival at Fort Ross, and to the tsar. Josh offered one to his host’s gracious welcome. The civilities out of the way and their bellies sufficiently warmed, they settled back in their chairs.
“So, Monsieur Jones...”
“Josiah, if you please, sir. Or, if you have a mind to it, just Josh. We don’t hold much with formalities east of the Sierra Nevadas.”
Rotchev smiled. “So I have discovered. You will tell me, Josh, how it was that you became escort to our countess.”
Josh figured he could answer that question any one of a dozen ways. He could relate Cho-gam’s determined efforts to sell off his unwilting, uncomfortable bride. Or Tatiana’s startling offer to share Josh’s blankets in exchange for his services as a guide. Or her desperate determination to haul her basket of twigs to Fort Ross, even if she had to slit Josh’s throat to do it. He settled for a shrug.
“I found her in the Valley of the Hupa, where she’d been taken after her rescue from the sea. I tried to persuade her to wait there until the snows melted before attempting the high passes, but she was determined to get to Fort Ross with her bundle of sticks.”
“Ahh, yes. The Tsar’s Treasure.” The baron swirled the brandy in his goblet. “Her father is... was a most renowned horticulturist. He wrote to me of his experiments with apple and pear trees. He believed that he’d developed a new, most hardy variety which would flourish in the sandy soil here.”
“His daughter believes it, too.” Resisting the urge to finger the fresh-healed cut on his neck, Josh added an offhand comment. “She seems to think that a more bountiful fruit harvest is important to Fort Ross’s future.”
Rotchev exchanged a look with his chief clerk.
“Well,” the baron admitted slowly, “I suppose it is no secret that the tsar is displeased at how much has been invested in this colony, with so little return.”
“Most displeased,” Mikhail put in unhappily.
“Those who sank great sums of moneys into the Russian Fur Company lost heavily when the sea otter population fell,” Rotchev continued. “The tsar among them.”
Josh probed with careful casualness. “I came through here some years ago. The otter had already played out, but there was talk of a shipbuilding enterprise to increase the Company’s transpacific trade. That should have brought in a tidy profit.”
Rotchev fingered his goblet. “Sadly, that enterprise also met with less success than was hoped. The forests here provided abundant materials, you understand. Our shipbuilders cut bay and oak for the hulls, and redwood for the crossbeams. Unfortunately, they didn’t cure the wood sufficiently. Or perhaps it is not curable in this damp climate. In any case, rot set in almost as soon as the ships launched. They still ply the coastal trade, but can’t be trusted for the longer sea voyages. Which leaves farming as our main enterprise,” he concluded.
“And ranching,” Mikhail added gloomily. “Not that our rancheros bring in much income. The tariffs imposed by the Mexican government make trade with us too costly for the Californios. Our tannery produces fine hides and much tallow, but...”
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