Flight From the Eagle Read online

  'Not much of an invalid diet,' commented Kusminsky. 'We really need plenty of good nourishing broth, though the men seem to be thriving on what they're getting and I don't suppose a few more days on short commons will hurt.'

  All through the meal, Orlov had been conscious that Countess Barova was very quiet and when the other two had gone off to see to their responsibilities in preparation for the day's journey, he turned to her and scrutinized her face with some anxiety. She was sitting in her usual straight-backed manner, but her head drooped a little and she looked very pale and tired, with dark smudges under her eyes. He felt a pang of concern for her—poor little Sparrow! She looked worn out and unhappy.

  She looked up suddenly and met his gaze. 'What is it?' she asked, puzzled.

  'I was about to ask you the same thing,' he replied and suddenly understood why she looked so tired. 'I'm afraid you haven't had much sleep these last few nights. Have I been a great nuisance?'

  'It was all right last night but the two nights you were ill, I was too worried to sleep. Oh, you weren't a nuisance!'

  She looked so distressed that Orlov moved closer to her and took hold of her clasped hands in what he intended to be a comforting grip, but he underestimated his returning strength and she winced slightly. What with concern about her appearance and annoyance at his clumsiness, he was suddenly reduced to a state of self-conscious uncertainty such as he had not experienced since his first love affair.

  He wondered what on earth his friends would think if they could see him now—the gallant, urbane, self-possessed Major Orlov, reduced to blushing incompetence by a thin, plain, provincial little innocent without an ounce of coquetry in her slender body! With a wry smile, he pulled himself together and made her a charming and very sincere little speech of thanks for her kindness in nursing him.

  She bent her head to look down at his hand, still clasping hers, and her colour rose a little. Orlov went on talking to her, gently and very kindly, praising her courage and endurance in standing up to the hardships and tribulations of the journey. Eventually she looked up at him, and he saw that her eyes were brimming with tears. He broke off in mid-sentence, and regarded her with some perplexity. 'Don't cry, Sparrow,' he said. 'Everything will be all right.' He leaned towards her and would have kissed her, but Kusminsky suddenly said drily from behind him, 'Are you accompanying us today, or waiting here for Bonaparte?'

  Orlov scrambled to his feet too quickly and had to cling to Kusminsky for support during the resulting spell of dizziness. By the time it had passed and the surgeon had made a few acid comments about his slowness to learn what he could and could not do, the Countess had recovered her normal air of quiet composure and resumed her old place on the box of the second cart. Sergeant Platov made way for her with relief as two days' driving had made his injured shoulder ache.

  The sergeant and the corporal stood beside the cart, clearly waiting for Orlov to say whether he intended to ride inside it and to help him up if he did. By the time he reached the vehicle, he too had recovered his normal self-possession, and hauled himself up on the box beside the Countess in the matter-of-fact manner which usually served to take him wherever he wanted to be without exciting comment. It seemed to work this time as well. The two NCOs climbed into the back of the cart, the Countess gave him a little smile, and the procession bounced across the grass onto the road and started the day's journey.

  This section of the road seemed to be in a particularly bad state of repair and the thickness of the dust made it difficult to see and avoid all but the largest of the potholes and projecting stones on the surface. The consequent jolting made it necessary for Orlov to hold onto the bar which ran along the front of the cart and made a rather uncomfortable backrest for the driver. He was sufficiently self-critical to be aware that there was no real necessity for him to extend his right arm along it so that if the Countess leaned back he would in effect be sitting with his arm round her. She did not lean back—clearly her aunt had been particular in the matter of deportment—or was she perhaps embarrassed by his nearness? He twisted a little sideways so that he could see her face without being too obvious about it, but she was gazing straight ahead between her horses' heads and presented him with a charming but unreadable profile.

  What did she think of him? Sometimes she seemed afraid of him, but at other times she seemed quite easy and friendly, even snubbing him gently once or twice. She was quite unlike any other woman he had known. He knew a number of ladies —wives and sisters of his friends mostly—with whom he indulged in a little harmless mild flirtation from time to time, and there were a few others who were ladies in the sense of having social position but whose moral attitudes made them available for a more intimate relationship.

  He prided himself to some extent on the fact that he had never seduced a woman. He had always found plenty of amusement offered by bored society ladies with complaisant husbands without any need to make much effort himself, or to upset anyone in the process, apart from the conventional tears at the ending of a liaison (and they usually dried pretty quickly if the parting gift was a handsome one).

  There were, of course, other ladies in his world to whom he was conventionally polite. Usually they were of plain appearance and narrow ideas of virtue. There were also the colourless, unnoticeable ones like the shadowy background figures of companions, among whom he supposed the Countess would have found her place had he met her under normal conditions—or would she? Surely there was a great deal more about her than that? Even in those first few minutes when she appeared on the steps of the inn, he had noticed her eyes and hair, despite his preoccupation with his responsibilities and the pain of his wound.

  Surely under any circumstances, even in the shadow of a domineering old lady in some provincial backwater, he would have noticed her?

  'I expect I'm becoming disgracefully sunburnt.' Her voice cut across his thoughts and he realized with a start that he had been staring at her face for some time and she had clearly become self-conscious about it.

  'Oh, Tatia will soon rid you of that,' he replied. 'She has an infallible recipe which restores her complexion to perfection in time for the Petersburg season, however much she rides and walks about the country all summer.'

  'But your sister is in Ryazan. Surely we are going to Kaluga?'

  Orlov suddenly realized that he was assuming that he would send the Countess to his sister, but he had no idea when the assumption had been made.

  'I thought you might go and stay with her for a while,' he said. 'Just until we've put Bonaparte back across the Niemen and I can come home and sort out your affairs.'

  'But that will be months!' she protested. 'I can't just descend on a total stranger and stay indefinitely! It would be a terrible imposition—I'm sure she wouldn't like it at all—and what would people think? You can't wish me on your sister without any reason at all. What would her husband say?'

  'Nothing. She's a widow. Tatia lives in my house while I'm away. She prefers it. We're very similar; we always like and dislike the same people. As for what people think—there'll be any number of folk uprooted by this invasion and going to live with friends or relations in other parts of Russia. You'll just be one of them. Tatia will be glad of your company because you're not the spineless, obsequious shadow that most companions seem to be.'

  'My aunt says—said—that I'm rebellious and difficult,' she informed him. 'I'm sure you mean to be very kind, but how can you just send me to your sister without even asking her and expect her to keep me, perhaps for months? I can't live on charity----'

  Orlov smiled at her with a touch of mischief in his face. 'I think we've had this argument before and if you recollect, it resulted in my becoming exceedingly ill-tempered and arrogant. I'm afraid that it's not the slightest use arguing with me once I've made up my mind. I've a very stubborn and self-willed disposition and you'll undoubtedly end up by making me say a great many things I shall bitterly regret afterwards if you persist in thwarting me. In any case, you certain
ly won't be living on anyone's charity! Tatia is a much nicer person than I am, but she'll make you work very hard and do all manner of horrid things, I've no doubt, just like her cruel and domineering brother.'

  She opened her mouth in what was obviously going to be a vehement protest, but his eyebrows rose in a quizzically warning look and he continued, 'Don't you dare deny it! Who made you bandage a very hideous wound, and drive a farm-cart like a peasant girl, and darn stockings, and sleep on the hard ground in a nasty draughty tent and—and—a number of other distasteful and unsuitable things?' He had suddenly become aware that the passengers in the cart were sitting close behind them, ostensibly and rather too obviously asleep. Orlov wondered what they would make of the conversation.

  Countess Barova still looked troubled. 'Oh, please don't be angry!'

  Orlov saw that she was quite upset at the thought. He put his arm round her shoulders and gave her a brotherly hug— at least, he told himself defensively, it was meant to be brotherly, even if he did rather spoil the effect by kissing her neck just below her left ear; it was only quite a small kiss, and the two men behind them had their eyes shut. She neither pulled away nor leaned towards him, and he was struck by the thought that although she was clearly inexperienced in dealing with men, her natural dignity seemed to equip her to handle most situations, and she emerged from this one without having either encouraged over-familiarity or discouraged genuine friendliness.

  'I wasn't really angry before,' he said. 'That night I was tired and irritable, annoyed with myself for being clumsy. I don't really mean to order you about and I'm sorry if I seem to do so. I suppose I've had too many years of giving orders to others and it's become second nature—and after all, I am an Orlov!'

  'Have you always been able to do as you please?' she asked, quite seriously and with what sounded like a touch of wilfulness.

  He answered her equally seriously, 'To be honest, no! I find that I'm forever being forced into doing things I don't wish to do at all because I feel obliged to do them. Does that sound stupid? This journey's a good example. All I wanted to do when we started was to crawl into a quiet hole somewhere and be ill and miserable in peace, but instead of that, I felt under some peculiar obligation to collect these men together and take them out of the way of the French—and do you know why? For the utterly ridiculous reason that I happened to be with them during the attack in which we were wounded. Does it make any sort of sense?'

  She looked at him curiously for a moment and then said, 'I expect you were the sort of little boy who filled the house with fledglings fallen out of nests, jackdaws with broken wings and lame hedgehogs.'

  'I've never met a lame hedgehog,' he assured her gravely. 'It was a fox with a broken leg.'

  She began to smile. 'I expect I'm the lame hedgehog,' she said, and when he replied, 'Is that why you prickle up when I try to help you?' they both laughed.

  'Am I very prickly?' She was suddenly serious again.

  'No. In fact, I don't think you can be a hedgehog. I think you ruffle up your feathers a little, like an indignant sparrow.'

  'Sparrows are very dull little birds,' she said.

  'Have you ever really looked at one? They're charming, dainty little creatures with pretty markings, and a great deal of pluck. I've seen three or four of them mob a cat as bravely as you please. They're not in the least dull.' He was not flirting with her but speaking quite sincerely.

  'Now, Kusminsky's a rook,' he continued the train of thought. 'Wise, kind and cynical.'

  'One can't be kind and cynical!' she objected.

  'He is!' Orlov was quite unabashed. 'And Kolniev's a starling: brash, efficient and somehow both smart and untidy!'

  She laughed. 'And what are you?'

  'I'm a robin,' he replied. 'Cocky, confident, domineering, bold as brass! When I'm out of the army, I shall always wear a scarlet waistcoat—my tailor shall make them by the dozen!'

  'I think you're—' she hesitated, looking into the far distance with a curiously sad expression on her face. 'You're an eagle!' she finished, dropping her eyes to a point midway between the horses she was driving.

  Orlov was rather taken aback and sat silent for some time while he digested this statement. At length, the Countess asked him in a normal, polite conversational tone if his sister had been widowed very long. Orlov told her about his dull, middle-aged brother-in-law, who had died so tragically only a few months after the marriage and her questions led him on to talk about his sister, their childhood, and their home.

  He was surprised when Kolniev gave a shout which caused Josef to turn the leading cart off the road into a wide, grassy clearing where there was room for all the carts. He saw that they had reached another river, this time one which flowed through a steep-sided ravine lined with trees and bushes. The bridge, thank God! was intact. He realized with a start that he had spent the whole morning talking to the Countess without noticing the heat, the dust, the constant nagging ache in his arm or the jolting of the cart.

  He handed her down from the box after jumping down himself with a carelessness which cost him the usual spell of dizziness but it passed more quickly this time, and he strode off with Kolniev to look at the bridge with a great deal more vigour than he had shown for some time. The Countess watched him go with a look on her face which made Kusminsky bite his lip as he caught sight of it while he was swinging himself down from his saddle.

  When he had given his horse into the charge of one of the men, he strolled over to the Countess and said gently, 'He wouldn't hurt you intentionally, I'm sure. He's a good man, but he's attractive to women I should imagine and rather takes their interest for granted. Will you help me with some of the dressings? I'd like to look at some of them while the cooks are getting the water boiling.'

  Countess Barova made no comment on the first part of his speech and went with him to attend to some of his patients with her usual air of calm composure. Orlov joined them in a few moments to ask Kusminsky how the men were progressing. The surgeon asked him to wait a minute while he finished what he was doing, then he would give a full report. While he waited, Orlov noticed that Countess Bat-ova's smooth coronet of plaits had slipped a little and he said, 'Are you running very short of hairpins?'

  She put her hand to her hair and said, 'Yes, I am! If I lose one more, I shall have to stop putting it up.' She looked hot and tired. Orlov noticed for the first time that day how hot and oppressive the atmosphere had become—even more sultry than on previous days, and they had been bad enough.

  'I think we're in for...' he began, and quickly altered what he had been about to say to 'a hot afternoon', remembering her fear of thunderstorms.

  'Now then!' said Kusminsky, in his incisive voice. 'Thank you for your help, Countess. I expect you'll be glad of a chance to wash off the dust before we eat.' The Countess smiled and went away while Kusminsky strolled away from the carts and the men with Orlov following. When they were out of earshot of the others, he gave a brisk run-through of the condition and progress of his patients, finishing, 'Apart from the pigheaded ones like you, they're doing as they're told and healing pretty well. I'm not particularly anxious about anyone and, barring accidents and infections, I think they'll all survive.'

  'You're a damned good doctor!' said Orlov.

  'Hm. I can strap up a broken leg and let nature take its course,' the surgeon replied. 'I doubt-if I could do much about a broken heart.'

  Orlov gave him a puzzled look, and Kusminsky sighed. 'My charming assistant is not one of your Petersburg princesses,' he said. 'Neither is she an opera-dancer or anything like that.'

  'I know that,' said Orlov stiffly.

  'I dare say you're fairly well acquainted with the first two at least? A man in your position is bound to be. I merely observe that the Countess is ... otherwise. I suppose you're aware that you're very attractive to women?'

  Orlov frowned and looked put out.

  Kusminsky sighed again and said, 'I'm hot, dusty, tired and short-tempered. Perhaps I sho
uld go and stand on my head in the river for a while.' With that, he walked away towards the steep bank, leaving Orlov scowling after him and feeling vaguely ashamed of himself.

  Josef roused him from his abstraction by coughing discreetly and indicating the bucket of water and towel he had brought. His master asked him with an assumption of jocularity if he was enjoying the journey. Josef allowed himself an expressive glance which conveyed a great deal more than his restrained, 'It has a certain novelty,' and raised a genuine smile of amusement from Orlov.

  The quality of the cheese served with the hard bread and coffee for the midday refreshment did not seem to have improved and Kolniev said disgustedly, 'It was a mistake eating the poor stuff first. This was quite decent cheese when we started, but the heat has ruined it.'

  'I wonder it hasn't melted altogether,' Kusminsky observed, mopping his face with a large handkerchief. 'I don't know when I've been so hot. I wish to God we could have a storm to clear the air a bit.'

  Countess Barova said nothing but Orlov almost felt her stiffen, although she was sitting on the far side of the table of boxes. He looked across at her and met her eyes with his steady gaze, trying to convey sympathy and understanding and after a moment she relaxed, looking down with a little colour in her pale cheeks. Neither of the others noticed and Kolniev rambled on about an extraordinarily hot summer he remembered in his childhood, which Kusminsky dismissed as tepid compared with the oven-like heat of the present. The two of them fell into a mock-ferocious wrangling which amused them both a great deal.

  This eventually died away after Kusminsky suddenly changed his tone, saying that Kolniev was too young to remember what real summers were like and settled himself down for one of his catnaps. Kolniev threw an acorn at him, missed, and then rolled over onto his stomach, propping his chin on his folded arms.