3

“It’s all right, Mirushka, it’s only a temporary thing.” He turned to the footman. “Help her! Take her to her room.”

The man reached in and picked her out of the coach as if she was a bouquet of flowers. She was overcome by an unpleasant odor that she soon realized came from her. Flushing with shame, she remembered Sasha’s remark about diapers. “I want a bath immediately,” she said.

“Rest assured it’s already drawn and waiting for you,” he laughed, realizing her discomfort. “Your legs will begin to work after a good hot soak. I will see you later, Mirushka.”

The footman hurried into the house, moving so quickly she had no time to get her bearings. He carried her into a steamy square tiled room where they were greeted by half a dozen pretty young women who immediately took over, cooing and clucking at her as they stripped off her clothing, and, to her mortification, the foul-smelling diaper. She couldn’t understand a word they were saying. They motioned her down two steps into a lovely warm square pool that obviously served as a bath. Two of the girls were by her side, and they gently drew her through the water to a corner of the pool where an array of crystal bottles sat neatly in a row. Quickly they uncorked them, and presented them individually so she might choose the scent she preferred. She waved away the attar of roses, the gardenia, the jasmine, the lily of the valley, the musk, and gillyflower. There were three bottles left. The first was a violet fragrance, the second orange blossoms. Sighing, she sniffed the last, and a smile lit her face. “Sweet stock!” she said, and nodded at her escorts. Smiling back, they generously poured the scented oil into the pool, and each took a bar of matching soap preparatory to washing her. Miranda snatched up her own soap and, shaking her head, began to wash herself. They nodded their understanding, but then handed her a bristled brush.

“No,” she said, thinking it would ruin her skin.

She was grasped and held firmly by two girls while the others leaped into the tub. While she protested noisily they went about the task of vigorously scrubbing her. Next her hair was thoroughly washed, and then she was hurried from the water to be gently dried. Her protests were ignored again as her entire body was massaged with a thick stock-scented cream by four of the girls while the other two toweled and brushed her long hair until it was soft and fluffy and it gleamed silvery-gold in the candlelight that lit the room.

It was then that one of them pointed to her eyes and hair, and said something excitedly. The only word she could understand, however, was “Lucas.” The others nodded vigorously, then they led her naked from the steamy bath into a delightful room with a view of the sea. One of the girls handed her a filmy rose-colored robe to put on, and as she helped Miranda into bed, the others left the room. The girl curtseyed brightly and then departed, closing the door behind her.

Miranda sighed, and wiggled her toes delightedly. She felt better than she had in weeks. She hadn’t had a real bath since she had left England several weeks ago. Suddenly two things dawned on her. Her legs had actually worked! They were a bit weak from her enforced inactivity of the last few days, but they worked! The other unusual thing was the girls who had waited on her. They were all blondes, blondes of varying shades, but blondes nonetheless. She must remember to ask Sasha about that, and as if in answer to her thought he came into the room without knocking.

“Do you feel better?” he asked pleasantly.

“Yes, thank you, but I’m hungry.”

“Marya will bring your supper shortly. She’s an upper house servant, by the way, and can speak French, so if you need anything you have but to ask her.”

“The servant girls who bathed me … why were they all blondes? They could almost be sisters.”

“Some of them probably were half-sisters at any rate. They’re from the farm. Being able to bathe a person properly is an important skill in Mideastern life. They usually practice on each other. The reason they were all blondes is because we raise blondes. Fair-skinned, preferably light-eyed blondes are the most valuable slaves sold. Oh, occasionally one of the women whelps a redhead, and they bring a great deal of money too, but it’s the blondes that the pashas and the sheikhs want the most. What the hell difference it makes in the dark I’ll never know, but how those golden heads sell!”

Before she could reply the door opened again, and an old woman entered carrying a tray. “Good evening, Miranda Tomasova. I have brought your supper,” she said. “Plump those pillows up, Sasha! How can she eat on her back?”

Sasha grinned at the old woman, but hurried to do her bidding. “Marya is the real ruler at the farm,” he said. “Even Alexei Vladimirnovich obeys when she scolds.” He fluffed the pillows, and helped Miranda to sit up.

Marya gently set the tray on Miranda’s lap. “Can you eat by yourself, dearie, or shall I feed you?” she asked in French.

“I can manage, thank you.”

“Very well then, I will leave you. If you need me, just pull the bell cord by your bed.” She shuffled out, and Sasha pulled a chair up to the bedside.

“I’ll keep you company while you eat, Mirushka,” he said. “Then a good night’s sleep will help you to feel more yourself.”

Miranda began to lift the covers on the dishes. Absolutely tantalizing odors were issuing from the tray. There was a bowl of red soup with a blob of something thick and white in it. “What is that?” she asked.

“Borscht beet soup,” he said. “The topping is sour cream. Taste it! It’s good!”

She did, and it was. The borscht quickly disappeared. The next dish she lifted contained two flaky pastries stuffed with a spicy chopped meat, sweet onions, and a grain. It was kasha, he told her, and was buckwheat that grew on the estate. There was a small dish of peas, and a tiny peach tart with cream. The entire meal was delicious, and as she licked the last crumb from the corner of her mouth she sighed with regret.

“You have a good appetite, Mirushka,” he approved. “In a few days you will be recovered from your trip. The prince suggested that you have time to acclimate yourself. You will rest, and perhaps we will walk in the gardens and on the beach.”

“And then?” Dear Lord, why had she asked that question?

“Then you will begin your visits to the breeding hut with Lucas.” He stood up. “I will take your tray now. You must rest. I will see you tomorrow.”

He was gone, and she lay alone and quiet. She was warm and well fed, but not one bit lulled by the kind treatment. Of course, they were all being kind. She was a valuable commodity, but she was not going to sit meekly by and cooperate, be led to the slaughter like an innocent lamb. She needed time to get her bearings. He had said they would walk on the beach tomorrow, and that would give her an opportunity to see the harbor and the coastline. Perhaps if she could trick him into pointing the way to Turkey she could simply follow the coastline in that direction when she made good her escape. Trying to obtain a compass might prove dangerous.

She was going to be a terrible disappointment to Sasha, but then he and his master had obviously never come up against an American before. They were unimportant, the prince said. Obviously the Russian understood nothing of the world outside his own rather backward country. America is simply young, she thought, but someday we will be a power to be reckoned with, for our people are vital and ambitious, and it is these things that make a great nation.

She was beginning to relax, and she glanced about the room curiously. It was medium-sized with wide casement windows to her right and a small tiled fireplace opposite the bed. The walls were rough plaster, whitewashed. The ceiling had dark open beams, and the floor was of red tile. There were only three pieces of real furniture, a tall painted oak wardrobe, its matching bed, and a chair with a woven seat. There was a candlestand with a chamberstick and flint on it. Over the bed was a wooden crucifix that seemed totally out of place, Miranda thought, considering where she was.

The windows, which were hung with simple, natural-colored cotton curtains embroidered in gaily colored threads, had been left slightly open, and she could smell the garden flowers. The bed was marvelously comfortable, with a good mattress topped with a featherbed. The sheets, cool and scented with lavender, were topped by a lovely red satin quilt, an oddity in the rustic room. She was grateful for the warmth of the quilt, however, as the evening was becoming quite cool. Outside her window she saw the twinkling of courting fireflies, and heard the chirrup of an early chorus of crickets. It seems like home on Wyndsong, she thought, and a tear slipped down her face, quickly followed by a minor flood that soaked her pillow. Angrily she scolded herself for this indulgent weakness, but she felt strangely stronger, relieved of her tensions, and quickly fell into a dreamless sleep.

The fireflies scattered to the woods to play their games of hide and seek among the trees and brush; the cricket chorus gave way to the soft and sibilant sounds of night wind; and a late moon rose to silver the fields, the beaches, the woods, and the sea. Miranda slept peacefully, not stirring when the casements creaked wide to admit the figure of a large man into the room. The bright moonlight made a candle unnecessary, and the man walked to the bed to stare down at Miranda.

She lay on her back like a child, her legs half drawn up, one arm straight, the other flung over her head. She had thrown the covers off, and he reached down to draw her sheer robe open, his breath hissing sharply at the sight of her full, round, moon-silvered breasts and long torso. She stirred slightly, and he carefully drew the covers over her. Noting the tear stains on her face, he tenderly touched her cheek in a sympathetic gesture, gently fingered her soft gilt-colored hair, and then, turning, left the way he had come.

Miranda was awakened by Marya the following morning. “Arise, dearie, the sun is up these past two hours.”

Slowly she opened her sea-green eyes and, for the briefest moment, she imagined herself back on Wyndsong. Jemima was calling to her to get up. But as her vision cleared she saw the tiny, white-haired woman. Her heart sank. “Good morning,” she murmured.

The old lady smiled. “Good, you are awake. Today I am going to pamper you, dearie, and let Marfa bring you breakfast in bed. Tomorrow, however, you must rise and breakfast with our Sasha. He would not tell you himself, but he likes your company.” She drew on the bellpull. “Did you like your supper last night?”

“Yes, it was delicious!” complimented Miranda.

“You must tell me the foods you like, Miranda Tomasova, for it is my duty to help make you happy. If there is a special dish you want prepared, you have but to ask. If I do not know the dish I shall learn it.”

Marfa entered with the breakfast tray and Miranda sat up, eager to see what delicacies Marya’s kitchen had contrived this time. The white wicker tray was set with delicate porcelain sprigged with pink rosebuds. “What is this, Marya?” Miranda pointed to a little round bowl filled with a creamy pale-gold substance the top of which was dotted with a few fat green grapes.

“Yogurt flavored with fresh honey, and just a touch of cinnamon,” was the reply.

“What is yogurt?”

“It’s made from milk, dearie. Try it. I think you will like it.”

The tangy sweet flavor at first surprised Miranda and she wasn’t sure she was going to like this yogurt, but before she realized it the dish was empty. A small plate of fluffy scrambled eggs and two flaky croissants followed the yogurt. There was a pot of delicate pale-green tea that she drank greedily from an eggshell-thin cup.

Chuckling her approval, Marya removed the tray while Marfa aided Miranda in dressing. She was given several white petticoats, a black skirt, a short-sleeved white peasant’s blouse, and a pair of simple black slippers for her feet. The skirt came to just below her knee, which seemed dreadfully immodest. She had been given no stockings, so her legs were bare. She had also been given no drawers, but when she protested this omission in sign language to Marfa the girl raised her own skirt to reveal a bare bottom. Miranda was horrified, but Marfa just giggled.

Miranda plaited her long hair into one braid and, moving on stronger, surer legs, went off to join Sasha, little Marfa showing her the way. He waited for her in a comfortable sunny room of painted tables and overstuffed chairs and settees. There was a short, spare man with him.

“Come in, Mirushka,” he said genially to her. “Did you sleep well? You have had breakfast?”

“Yes, and yes,” she said. “Are we to go for a walk now? My legs are much stronger and I am not used to inactivity, Sasha.”

“We will walk, but first you must meet Dimitri Gregorivich, the overseer of the prince’s farm.”

“Miranda Tomasova, I bid you welcome,” said the overseer in careful French. “You are going to be a valuable asset to us.”

“I am not here willingly,” she answered him shortly.

“ But you are here ,” he said, “and so like the rest of us you will do your duty by our master.” He turned to Sasha, and spoke again as if she weren’t even there. “If she were in my charge a good beating would cure her impudence. There are ways it can be done without leaving a mark on the skin. But Alexei Vladimirnovich has put this in your hands.”

“Mirushka simply needs time to adjust, Dimitri Gregorivich,” soothed Sasha. “She is quite different from any of our other women. She is a real lady.”

“She will be trouble for us, Pieter Vladimirnovich. If she is really a lady how can she possibly adjust to such a life as we offer? Look at her! Educated, I will wager! Proud and,” here he looked at her again, “rich! You are rich, aren’t you, Miranda Tomasova?”

She nodded. “I am an heiress, and my husband is also quite wealthy.”

“A poor girl would accept her fate, but she will not adjust,” the overseer said flatly. “Alexei Vladimirnovich has made a mistake. He saw only her coloring.”

“He is right, Sasha,” taunted Miranda. “Let me go! Say that I took my own life rather than face the kind of life you offered me.”

“You will accept everything,” said Sasha positively. “How long,” he taunted back, “how long, Mirushka, since you last made love to a man? You told me your husband had been away for several months, and you had just had a child. You have not known a man in a long, long while, Mirushka. Do you not desire to make love with a strong, passionate man? I have stood outside the breeding hut with the prince many times, and heard the cries of rapture that Lucas’s mastery of the sensual arts can wring from a woman. Unless you are cold and I do not for a moment believe you are you too will soon cry out your joy. Come now, let us go for a walk.”

Furious, she wanted to refuse him and return to her room, but instead she meekly followed him, much to Dimitri Gregorivich’s surprise. She had to see the beach, ascertain the way to freedom, escape at all costs. She kept her temper in check and chatted with Sasha about the flora and fauna of the Crimean area, a subject on which he was quite knowledgeable. Finally they stood on the beach gazing out at the Black Sea.

“My home is an island,” she said. “I do so love the sea!”

He was lulled. Good, he thought, she can accustom herself to being here because it is like her home. Next Lucas will make her forget her husband.

“Which way did we come from,” she queried. “I mean, where is Odessa? I am sorry we slept going through it.”

“Odessa is a bit over twenty miles back up the coast,” he replied, pointing to the left. “We are about six miles from the border with Bessarabia in the other direction. The few bands of Tatars still left occasionally raid the small farms around here, carrying off the livestock and an occasional girl or two. Then they scuttle back over the border to Bessarabia, and we can’t touch them.”

“Have they ever raided this farm?”

“Bless me, no! Remember Prince Cherkessky is half Tatar himself. They have never dared to come here. Besides, we are too big for a little band of raiders to deal with.”

They turned to walk back toward the villa, and Miranda’s spirits were soaring. She had her information. If Odessa was to the left, then freedom was to the right. She had seen an elegant sailing yacht moored in the cove. She assumed it belonged to the prince. She could not steal it, but drawn up along the beach had been several boats similar to the dories with which she was familiar. The difference was that these boats had a mast and a single sail. She smiled to herself. No one can sail a small boat like I can, she thought. Just a few days to gather her strength, and she would be gone. She had already observed that there were no guards of any sort protecting the estate. Obviously no one had ever considered escaping. Why would they? Most of the inhabitants of Prince Cherkessky’s farm probably knew no other life. And compared to the serfs and even the small Russian middle class, the slave population of the prince’s farm lived lives of comfort and luxury. Why would they want to leave?

It would be easy to slip out from her ground-floor room at night. First, however, she must become familiar with the villa’s kitchen, for she would need food and vessels for fresh water. Lack of proper preparation could cost her her life.

The next two days passed pleasantly enough with Marya stuffing her full of marvelous food and Sasha offering her pleasant companionship between their walks and games of chess. Her peasant dress had been replaced on the second day by a long loose-fitting gown that Sasha told her was called a caftan. It was a Middle Eastern garment, quite comfortable, and she felt less on display than in the short skirts and low-cut blouses.

On her third evening they walked a different route, not on the beach but through a nearby orchard. The fruit trees were heavy with ripening apples, and she could smell their faint perfume. She sighed. “Autumn is coming,” she said, almost to herself, and thought of Wyndsong. Sasha said nothing. Before them stretched a field of wild flowers. They walked on toward it, and then she saw on the edge of the field a small, low building. “What is that?” she asked him.

“Come, and I’ll show you,” he said as they reached it. He opened the door, and stepped back politely so she might see inside. The cabinlike structure consisted of one room with a fireplace, and in the dimness was a piece of furniture she couldn’t quite make out. Stepping inside to investigate further, she turned to question him as the door behind her swung shut and a long bolt slammed into its iron holder.

“ Sasha! ” Her heart began to thump wildly.

“I am sorry, Mirushka, but if I had told you that tonight was to be your first visit to the breeding hut, you would not have come willingly.”

Anger replaced fear. “You’re damned right I wouldn’t have!” she shouted. “Open this door, you little bastard!”

“No, Mirushka, I will not. You are more than recovered from your trip, and the sooner we get down to business, the sooner I can leave this damned bucolic countryside, and return to Alexei Vladimirnovich. I am forbidden his presence until you are delivered of your first child. At the least it will be nine months before I can return to St. Petersburg.”

“I will not be violated by your damned slave stud!” she yelled. “If he tries to touch me I’ll fight! I’ll claw his eyes out! I’ll kick and scratch whatever I can! I warn you, Sasha, that I’ll ruin him for future service if you try and force him on me.”

“Mirushka, Lucas is big and strong and you cannot hurt him. Please cooperate.”

She began to bang frantically against the thick door, her fists beating a futile tatoo. She hammered and hammered until her knuckles were raw and bleeding, her face wet with tears. Suddenly she swung about, frightened and wondering if she were actually alone. She held her breath, listening for a moment to see if she might hear the sound of another’s breathing, but the room was silent and as her eyes grew used to the dimness she could see that she was indeed alone. She called out, “Sasha?” and heard only silence. He had left her.

Miranda could make out the piece of furniture now. It was a low bed with rope springs, a thin pallet thrown over the ropes. She sat down on it wearily. The thing was hardly made for comfort, but then that wasn’t the bed’s function. She shivered. There were no windows in the room, but a little twilight came through the uneven boards. As night fell the room became darker and darker, and her fears intensified. She wept, crying harder and harder until she fell into an exhausted, nervous sleep.

She woke with a start. Through a chink in the boards she could just make out the rising moon. Suddenly she knew she was not alone. Her breath caught in her throat as she strained to listen, but all she could hear was the frantic beating of her own heart. She lay rigid. Perhaps if he believed her asleep he would leave her alone. She was very frightened and, despite her courage, unable to keep from trembling. Finally Miranda could no longer stand the tense waiting and a strangled sob escaped her.

“Are you frightened?” said a deep, warm voice. “I was told you were not a virgin. Why are you afraid? I will not hurt you.”

She saw a dark form in the corner by the door. It rose to an enormous height, and started toward the bed. “ No! ” Her voice was sharp with hysteria. “Stay where you are! Don’t come any nearer.”

He stopped. “My name is Lucas,” he said. “Tell me why you are afraid.”

“I cannot do what they want us to do,” she said, low. “I was stolen from my husband. Please understand. I am not a slave.”

“You were not a slave,” he corrected her gently, “but I’m afraid you are now. It will take some getting used to, I know.” His French was quite cultivated.