Page 29 of The Storybook Hero
The situation in the streets had become noticeably more tense since morning. Crowds had gathered on a number of street corners, shouting frantic questions at the detachment of Hussars who passed by at a hurried trot. As church bells began to peal, there were signs of incipient panic—the breaking of glassas a stone smashed through a shop window, the clatter of hooves as an elegant carriage raced by, its team galloping at a breakneck speed, heedless of the milling people.
Despite the confusion, Shiskov’s wagon managed to make its way to the outskirts of the city without mishap, and though the road leading north, away from the approaching enemy, was filled with other fleeing vehicles, progress was steady enough. However, even though the sack of grain provided a measure of padding, the constant heaves and jolts were beginning to take their toll. Emma’s excited observations had slowly ebbed away, and her lids began to droop. By the time the gilt domes of Novedivichey Monastery had disappeared from view, she had fallen into a fitful doze, slumped against Octavia’s shoulder.
Though she was exhausted as well by the dizzying turn of events, Octavia found her mind was in too much of a whirl to allow any sleep. She couldn’t help but wonder whether her decision, made on the spur of the moment, would prove to be a rash mistake. What if the threat had been nothing but exaggerated rumor and the Renfrews returned to the capital to find their governess had gone haring off with their young ward? She grimaced. It didn’t do to think about it, especially considering the purse of gold coins tucked inside the bodice of her gown.
No doubt she could be charged with robbery as well as kidnapping.
A glance around served to calm such anxieties. It was clear that the danger was not imagined. Conveyances of every description jostled past the plodding wagon, haggard expressions on the faces of the drivers and their passengers. On more than one occasion, a mud-spattered officer, his once resplendent uniform in tatters, his horse lathered with sweat, galloped past, shouting curses at the slow-moving vehicles to move aside. Even now, far back in the distance, she thought shedetected a thin haze of smoke rising from the direction of the city.
The wagon stopped long enough for Shiskov to dismount and come around to hand up a wedge of sour rye and a jug of cider. “I’m sorry, but there is no time to step down and stretch your legs. We had best keep going until nightfall,” he murmured, trying to ignore the disapproving glare of his wife.
Octavia nodded as she gratefully accepted the food. “Of course. Please don’t give it a second thought. You have been more than kind already.”
Emma stirred and looked up, blinking sleepily as the wagon started up again. “Are we there yet?”
Octavia couldn’t help but smile, despite her own gnawing worries. “My little lamb, I’m afraid it will be many more stops and starts before we are there.”
The girl sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Oh—of course. What a silly goose I am.” She looked around at the dense forest of larch and spruce, nearly black in the fading light of late afternoon, with great interest. “It’s very unlike England, is it not, Miss Hadley?”
“Very.” Octavia passed her a piece of the bread.
Emma wrinkled her nose at the sight of the plain crust. “I’m not that hungry. I shall wait for teatime.”
“Emma,” counseled Octavia in a low voice. “There will no such thing as teatime or the sort of meals you are used to at home while we are on this journey. In fact, there may be times when we have little or no food at all. You must get used to accepting what there is.”
“But it’s dry. Is there not some butter or jam?”
“There is not.” At the sight of the mouth turning downward into a pout, she tried a different tack. “If the hardships seem too great, we can always turn back and wait meekly for what Fatehas in store for us in Moscow. I would certainly understand such a decision—adventure and danger frighten most young ladies.”
Emma reached for the bread and ate it without further complaint.
It was past dark when the wagon finally pulled into a clearing by the side of the road where the snow was only a dusting on the stubbled grass. Shishkov and his son began to unharness the horses while his wife set down several iron pots, taking care to make her displeasure with the situation known through a series of loud bangs. She stalked off to gather wood, leaving Octavia to help Emma down by herself.
“Come, let us try to be of some help,” whispered Octavia as she led the girl toward the edge of the woods. “Pick up whatever small branches you can manage.”
They both returned with an armful, earning a brief smile from their erstwhile cook.
“I think it best that you leave us off at the first place where we might catch a coach going in the direction of St. Petersburg,” said Octavia in a low voice as she dropped the wood by his side. “We do not wish to be any more of a burden on you and your family than necessary.”
Shishkov pulled a face. “You must excuse my wife. It is the shock of being uprooted from her?—”
“Of course. She has good reason to be upset. All the more reason why we should not impose on your hospitality past tomorrow.”
He flashed her a look of gratitude, though it was quickly replaced by one of concern. “How will you manage the … expense?”
“I have funds enough,” she assured him. Her lips quirked upward. “You were not the only one to explore for what items might be of use.”
He nodded in approval. “Well, I see I shall not have to worry overly for you, Miss Hadley.”
His wife was slightly mollified on hearing that the unwanted guests would soon be leaving them. She unbent enough to offer a thin smile as she passed a bowl of bean soup to Octavia and even went so far as to pat Emma on the cheek. “You and the child may sleep in the back of the wagon for tonight.” The family’s bedding had already been spread out on top of a thick felt pad by the fire, leaving a small sliver of space by the high wooden sides.
Octavia made to protest, knowing it was where the woman would normally have slept herself, but was waved to silence. “Take it and be happy,” she said in a doleful voice. “It will likely be the best spot you have for some time to come.”
The next morning Octavia couldn’t help but think that if such a prediction were true, she might indeed wish that she had stayed in the city and suffered whatever the French had to throw at her. Her back ached from the hard planks and every joint seemed stiff with cold. With movements as jerky as those of a marionette, she tried to tidy her gown, then bring some semblance of order to her unruly hair. Shishkov had fetched a pot of water from a nearby stream and offered her what was left from brewing a kettle of tea to wash up. It was only lukewarm, but a quick splash at least took away the dust of yesterday’s travel, leaving her feeling somewhat better.
Emma peeked out from under her blankets. Displaying no adverse effects from a night on the hard boards, she scrambled up and bounced to the ground. “Did you see the stars, Miss Hadley? Every time I opened my eyes, the sky was aglitter with countless points of light!”
In truth, Octavia had been too tired to notice much of anything, but she nodded anyway. “Yes, quite magnificent, wasn’t it.”
