Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

After the party disbanded, Ned walked back to his flat through the darkness along the Om River. Golden summer lightning flickered in the moonless sky and reflected upward from the slate blue darkness of the river. From the steppe, a soft wind brought the honeyed perfume of flowering thyme. Ned felt the weight of regret slowing his steps as he pondered his failure to take Zhanna aside and express how he wished he were traveling back to Uralsk with her to resume her campaign. Was it mere coincidence that she eluded his every attempt to have a few minutes alone with her? Could Madame Timiryova have tipped her off about his dalliance with Yulia? Now that Zhanna was departing for Samara and he was returning to Beregovoy, he might never know.

In the meantime, the larger problem he faced was Yulia. As it turned out, she was not the stable and predictable person he had thought her to be. So, while one side of him eagerly awaited a quiet return to work on the wireless project, the other side feared becoming hostage to Yulia’s emotions. His misgivings were realized the next day upon arriving at Beregovoy to retake command of the wireless station from Colonel Neilson. Soon after the two men withdrew to Neilson’s office to drink tea and exchange news, the Englishman warned of a delicate matter that required Ned’s prompt attention.

“It’s Yulia again,” Neilson began. “She’s been acting more strangely than ever these past few weeks. But now it’s risen to the level where she could affect the security of our mission.”

“How so?” Ned asked as Neilson poured him a scalding cup of tea.

“Until lately, she hardly seemed to take notice of us. She came and went as she pleased and seemed not to care about equipment deliveries or the arrival of new men at all hours of the day,” the colonel explained. “But now she’s afraid to leave the house and frets about every horseman riding up the hill being a possible Bolshevik gunman. And she’s been asking for a lot more money. Lots more.”

“How much? And for what?” Ned asked.

“For one, she’s demanded double the monthly rent. And she wants an additional sum, payable upon our departure, on the grounds that she’s a target for Bolshevik retribution. It’s flight money, basically, for her and the servants.”

“Not an unreasonable request,” Ned replied evenly, taking care not to give Neilson cause for alarm that might find its way back to his superiors. “The price of everything is way up, and most goods not produced locally can’t be found at any price. As for her fear of the Bolsheviks, the truth is that the Siberian Army was in serious trouble until it won at Ufa. And the war could easily turn sour again.”

“So you’re not concerned about her mucking up our work here?” Neilson asked with a sideways look.

“Nah,” Ned lied. “She’ll be okay. I’ll find her the money.” But he knew that Yulia’s complaints were about more than money. And he was at a loss about how to remedy them.

“You’re a fine chap, du Pont. I wish we were working more closely together, instead of passing like ships in the night the way we do.”

“Perhaps we will. I have a feeling that things won’t stand still around here for long.”

* * *

When Ned had fully caught up on events at the wireless station and had finished his rounds there, he carried his haversack into the main house at Beregovoy and drank in the familiar scent that bore traces of wood smoke, cut flowers, and boiled cabbage. He called out for Vera and Genrikh, the elderly couple who managed the house, but received no answer. So he dropped his haversack and set off for the kitchen, his footsteps echoing loudly down the hall.

In the dining room, he found two places set at the refectory table, which seemed at that moment as long and empty as a snowy winter road. A votive candle glowed from a nearby antique table that held Yulia’s collection of religious icons. He stopped before the silver crucifix that hung beside the gilded icons and realized that he had not said even a short prayer of thanksgiving for his safe return since the fighting at Uralsk and Ufa. He had scarcely bowed his head and closed his eyes to remedy this when he heard a woman’s footsteps behind him on the wood floor.

“Edmund?” Yulia asked softly.

Ned turned around to find Yulia standing in the doorway to the kitchen, dressed in her usual long woolen skirt topped with a white linen blouse embroidered at the neck. Her blonde hair was gathered into a chignon and her penetrating blue eyes examined him with an odd expression that appeared to combine resentment and relief. For a long moment, they stood opposite each other in the stillness of the late afternoon, immersed in silence. In that moment, he remembered the special reality that had sometimes prevailed between them, a private place as rich as the Siberian harvest, that only the two of them shared.

Yulia took a few hesitant steps forward and Ned did the same. But when he reached out to touch her, she recoiled as if from a venomous snake.