The Red Staircase. Gwendoline Butler

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СКАЧАТЬ And she gave me a meaning look.

      I flushed. Bitch, I thought. And then: even she knows! ‘I wouldn’t have let him die,’ I said.

      ‘I too would have saved him, Miss Gowrie, if I could.’ She looked at me: there were tears in her eyes. ‘I nursed him day and night, did all the unpleasant duties a nurse must do, never flinched at inflicting pain. Could you do that, Miss Gowrie?’ She lowered her eyes. ‘But you would not have had to, one touch of your hand …’

      ‘What do you mean?’ I said sharply.

      ‘You know what I refer to, Miss Gowrie. Do you suppose Madame Denisov did not get a nice little character sketch of you before she engaged you?’

      I flushed again. ‘I suppose she did. Indeed, I know it.’

      ‘Oh, you have no need to worry. She finds you magnificent. You are quite the “new woman” to her, all that she wants Ariadne to be. Or so she thinks at the moment. She’s a sceptic, not one of these sensation-hungry, superstitious Russians. Changeable, you know. Fickle. Better be prepared for that. You’re the chosen one now, but you won’t last. I’ve been used myself by someone in this house, to my cost.’

      ‘Oh, I can’t believe it,’ I said, stretching out my hand to her. To myself I thought she was madly in love with Peter, and that was her trouble.

      She didn’t drag her hand away as she had done before, but her face softened a little. ‘Then you are truly unfortunate,’ she remarked.

      As this chilling comment was uttered, we both heard the voice of Madame Denisov outside. Quickly Mademoiselle Laure said: ‘Take a word of advice from me, if you are not too proud.’

      ‘I’m not proud at all.’

      She gave me a sweeping look. ‘Oh, you have pride. I can see it in the way you hold your head and in the stare of your eyes. Well, you’ve come to the right place to take a fall.’ She buttered a slice of bread and divided it into four equal segments, one of which she put into her mouth and ate carefully. ‘You have been with the Princess Drutsko.’ I made a quick movement of alarm. ‘Oh, don’t worry; I have said nothing to Madame Denisov.’

      ‘How do you know?’

      ‘I saw you come down the staircase. I have taken that walk myself, and know where it leads. Oh, yes, the Princess was my friend before she was yours. Don’t trust to her loyalty, will you? It does not exist. Come to my room when you can, and I will tell you a story.’

      There was no mistaking the bitterness in her voice, nor could I fail to understand what lay behind it. ‘You have no need to fear me,’ I said slowly. ‘I am not your rival. Nor will I listen to any tales.’

      She gave a short, incredulous laugh. At this moment, Dolly Denisov, accompanied by her brother Peter and followed by Ariadne, swept into the room. Behind, fussing and chattering in various tongues, came the little suite of attendants who seemed needed to get her off on any major expedition: French maid, Russian assistant and German secretary.

      ‘You will not be going,’ hissed Laure Le Brun in a whisper. ‘You’ll see.’

      ‘Oh, Rose, you are not to come with us,’ said Ariadne.

      ‘No, I know. Mademoiselle told me.’

      ‘We are too frivolous for you today.’

      ‘I should have enjoyed a peep inside a couture house.’

      Dolly dimpled. ‘You shall have one, but on another day. Today, your cousin Emma wishes to meet you, and wants you to see your godfather, Erskine Gowrie. She sent a message round early. It’s one of his good days and she wants you to take advantage of it. She is there herself today.’

      Everything had obviously been arranged in detail days before, and without a word to me. I was becoming increasingly annoyed, and puzzled, by the Denisovs’ habit of presenting me with ready-made decisions, careful faits accomplis. Was it a Denisov habit – or was it the way that Russians behaved in general? It made one feel awkward and helpless, particularly if one pretended to any kind of independence …

      But I accepted it without protest; I wanted to see my Gowrie relatives. Soon after Dolly and her party had left, one of the Denisov carriages came for me, and after a smart ten-minute trot, drew up outside a large house in another fashionable district of St Petersburg. The footmen took me up to the Gowrie apartment and there was Emma Gowrie herself waiting for me.

      Emma Gowrie was short, plump and elderly, with a frizz of grey hair and bright, bird-like eyes. I could just imagine the kindly relish with which she had prepared my little biography for Dolly Denisov. There was no doubt that she would love to have spent an hour with me now in interesting gossip about Jordansjoy, and my life with the Denisovs, but she plainly felt she had a duty to perform, and Erskine Gowrie must not be kept waiting.

      Erskine’s apartment was full of dark wood and dark leather, very masculine in tone, with no trace of a feminine influence. His style of furnishing was a mixture of Russia and Europe: heavy oak and well-stuffed tartan cushions side by side – or even in competition with – shiny baroque furniture clearly of local workmanship. There was even something Asiatic about the total effect, and this notion was reinforced by the appearance of Erskine Gowrie himself. My godfather, a tiny shrunken figure propped up on silken cushions in a great chair, with his slippered feet on a stool, and wearing a rich brocade robe, looked like some Chinese Mandarin.

      ‘Here we are, Erskine, then,’ announced Emma cheerfully. ‘It’s Emma Gowrie.’

      ‘I can see that,’ said my godfather. ‘I know you. No need to shout.’

      ‘It’s one of his good days,’ whispered Emma to me. ‘He knows me.’

      ‘I always know you, Emma Gowrie,’ announced the old man. ‘Only sometimes I prefer not to.’

      ‘Well, that seems wise,’ said Emma, in no way put out. ‘Only fair, too. There are many days I’d prefer not to know you, Erskine Gowrie, ill-tempered chiel you can be, but I promised your wife.’

      So there had been a wife, I thought. ‘Hardly remember her myself,’ said Erskine. ‘So don’t you bother.’

      ‘Oh, you old wretch, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Why, I’ve seen you weeping over her memory.’

      ‘Can’t say I remember,’ repeated the old man. ‘I expect you’re making it up. You always were a liar, Emma Gowrie. If you are Emma Gowrie; I’ve only got your word for it.’

      Looking at him, I thought he displayed the essential unpredictability of impaired old age, his rudeness, his disparaging remark about what had probably been a loved wife, were part of his sickness. Underneath was a man who did indeed still remember, but who had to struggle against an irrational disturbance of his feelings which he could no more control than we ought to mind. Perhaps Emma understood this as well as I did, because she remained unmoved.

      ‘I’m Emma Gowrie, all right,’ she said.

      ‘Of course you are. Know your face, know it anywhere. As I would know you, my dear,’ he said, turning to me and speaking with great tenderness. ‘A perfect amalgam of your grandmother and your grandfather. So lovely to see their sweet faces again.’ He pressed my hand. ‘My perfect Rose.’

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