Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

“Stop troubling yourself,” he replied, taking Ned’s free hand in his and holding it tight. “We all grieve for Zhanna Stepanovna. People like you and me, who were closest to her, sometimes think that, had we only acted differently, she might have lived. But that was not God’s will, captain! Zhanna met the end that God intended for her, and it is not for us to question whether it could have been otherwise.”

“Then there was no betrayal?” Ned pressed, finding Ivashov’s words difficult to accept.

“None that I have found. At Kazan, the S-R’s tried every trick they knew to kill or capture her. In the end, it seems, they succeeded by sheer doggedness.”

“And the woman…?”

“The wife of a Kazan merchant who sought the Maid’s blessing for her sick child,” Ivashov replied with a smile that made his gray eyes sparkle. “They prayed together and the child recovered the next day.”

“And what of the sable hat and jacket that made Zhanna stand out so?”

“Gifts from Madame Timiryova, delivered at Samara by a mutual friend, and meant to thank Zhanna for curing the Admiral of his nightmares.”

The Russian officer paused to take a sip of brandy under Ned’s expectant gaze.

“Who can fathom it?” Ivashov continued with a look of wonder lighting up his gray eyes. “One child of God snatched up in place of another, mere hours apart. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away…”

Ned swallowed hard and offered only a silent nod.

“Now lighten your heart, my friend,” Ivashov added, “and let us tend to the living.”

* * *

Five days after the party at the Metropol, Ned and his family sat in their private compartment aboard a first-class sleeper at Moscow’s Nikolayevsky Station, awaiting departure for Petrograd. Ned heard a knock on the door and opened it, expecting to find the conductor. Instead, standing in the narrow passage, he saw a tall, strongly built, middle-aged workman wearing blue overalls and a military-style peaked hat. Though the bearded workman stared intently at Ned, his face showed no expression. Corinne gripped her husband’s arm tightly and the girls shrunk back timidly in their seats.

“Timofey, could that be you?” Ned ventured at after a standoff lasting several seconds.

The man’s lapis lazuli eyes softened into a smile as he stepped into the compartment, shut the door behind him, and lowered the shade facing the corridor.

“You always had a good eye, captain. Yes, it is I,” the former cleric replied. Turning to Corinne, he added, “Forgive me, madam, but might I have a word with your good husband?”

Without thinking, Corinne grasped Ned’s arm tightly above the elbow, at which he offered her a reassuring smile.

“Corinne, this is Father Timofey, an old friend of mine and of the Maid. He is also one of the great unsung heroes of the Russian Civil War.”

The former priest waved off the compliment.

“Madame du Pont, I remember hearing Ned speak of you fondly many years ago and am delighted to meet you at last,” he said politely as he shook Corinne’s hand, for Ned had indeed mentioned Corinne once or twice to the cleric in passing. “A pity that the occasion must be so brief. I also regret that I could not attend your gathering at the Metropol. I received the invitation, but it would have been unwise of me to join you, under the circumstances.”

“Why not ride with us for a stop or two?” Ned insisted. “Are you in a hurry?”

“It is a matter of security rather than time,” the Russian answered. “There are certain men in the government with long memories who wish me ill. I plan to travel abroad until the matter is settled and it is safe for me to return. But first, I have something of yours that I wish to restore to you.”

At this, he dug deep into a buttoned breast pocket and pulled out a small leather pouch. He untied the drawstring and dropped a gold signet ring into Ned’s upturned palm. It was the ring bearing the du Pont family coat of arms and the motto “Rectitudine Sto” that Corinne had returned to him before he left for Russia in 1918, and that he presented later to Zhanna in Kazan.

“You lent it to Zhanna at a time when she was in need. I know that your confidence in her was always a source of great comfort. By the time she returned the ring to me at Ryazan, her Voices had returned. She wanted me to thank you and tell you that you were as dear to her as any brother.”

For a moment, Ned’s vision blurred and he feared he might collapse from a sudden wave of pain and grief. He glanced at Corinne and she reached out to steady him. With grim resolve, he held up the ring for inspection.

“Yes, it’s the same one,” he confessed to his wife in a strangled voice. “I’m so sorry, Corinne.”

Without speaking, she closed Ned’s hand around the ring and raised her head to give her husband a gentle kiss on the cheek and an all-knowing look.

“You keep the ring, dear. I don’t need it any more. I have you.”

---END---

Author’s Biographical Note