Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

“And which prophecy would that be?” Ivashov probed. “I believe there are several.”

It fascinated Ned that Ivashov would be familiar with such legends and, even more, that he didn’t scoff at them.

“I know of only one prophecy that is relevant,” Timofey replied with equal seriousness. “It is the one dictated by the Siberian Cossack chief, Yermak, soon after he conquered the Mongol Khanate of Sibir in the sixteenth century. According to a legend familiar to every Siberian schoolchild, Yermak predicted that Russia would one day be lost by a mother on the shores of Lake Ladoga[21] and saved by a virgin from the marshes of Lake Baikal. The late tsarina would be the mother, of course, and Zhanna’s followers claim that she is the virgin.”

“And what does Zhanna think of those people?” Ned inquired. He couldn’t help wondering whether Timofey shared these beliefs or, as an educated man, remained a skeptic. But Ned also remembered his first impressions of Transbaikalia and the strong sense that primitive spirits inhabited the land. Timofey had spent his entire life among people whose atavistic beliefs and practices had withstood the onslaught of reasoning modernity. Why wouldn’t such a man also tend to believe?

“I welcome such people,” came a gentle womanly voice from the dining room.

Zhanna Stepanovna drew open the sliding pocket doors separating the parlor from the formal dining room and stepped forward to take her uncle’s arm. Tonight her slender figure was dressed much the same as it was months earlier in her father’s house, in a pleated white blouse over a long gray skirt, with her raven hair twisted and pinned into a chignon. But now Zhanna seemed somehow more mature, more restrained, with less of the childlike simplicity that Ned had found so charming. Upon catching sight of her, Ned felt an unaccountable optimism, a sense that all was right with the world. But he waited in vain for her to meet his gaze.

“The simple people who believe in my cause will help clear my way to Omsk,” she added, standing tall and with her chin slightly raised. Then she greeted each of the guests with a firm handshake rather than the usual Russian kisses on both cheeks.

“I believe my niece may yet prove right,” Kostrov added, giving a tender squeeze to the delicate hand holding his arm. “Governor Volkov has refused to meet us, but his refusal becomes more difficult by the day. All the while, small crowds gather along the banks of the Angara River outside the White House to demand that he send Zhanna to Omsk.” His voice seemed saturated with pride.

“The leading local newspaper has printed several articles about Zhanna,” Timofey added. “At first they mocked her, but now the editors seem to enjoy pitting Zhanna and her flock against the governor and his inner circle of stiff-necked Cossacks and factory owners. Indeed, the paper has made her into a sort of local celebrity.”

Kostrov gave a hearty laugh while the girl smiled demurely and peeled away to the dining room to put the finishing touches on a floral centerpiece.

“Of course, it helps Zhanna’s cause that the newspaper is run by the provincial council, of which I am a member. And, frankly, I might not have wielded my influence, but for the advice of your journalist friend, Mr. McCloud, who called on me last week at the suggestion of Staff Captain Ivashov while passing through on his way to Vladivostok. Mr. McCloud opened my eyes on a variety of matters. Tell me, Captain du Pont, have you heard from Mr. McCloud since he left for Paris?”

“No,” Ned replied with a frown that betrayed his irritation at McCloud’s apparent meddling. Turning to Ivashov, he added pointedly. “Igor Ivanovich, I didn’t realize you knew Mark.”

“I suppose I could say the same to you,” Ivashov replied with a twisted smile. “Mr. McCloud never mentioned your name and I thought it indiscreet to raise it, considering that he is a journalist and prone to talking.”

Before Ned could respond, a servant opened the door from the front hall and announced the arrival of Boris Viktorovich Borisov, the young rider who had been speaking to Kostrov on the street. Borisov, who looked about twenty-one or twenty-two years old, stood half a head taller than Ned and cut a handsome figure in his English-cut tweed suit. His face was pleasing, with a broad forehead, strong jaw, ruddy cheeks and a thick head of flaxen hair. Borisov flashed a boyish smile, first at Zhanna, who had rejoined the group, then at the others. But from Zhanna’s expression, she seemed to regard Borisov more as a slow-witted sibling than as a suitor. Ned let out a deep breath. Indeed, on reflection, there was something simple and open about the youth that one couldn’t help but like.

“I apologize for being late,” Boris offered breathlessly, as if he had ridden hard all the way to the banker’s house. “It was so kind of you to invite me, after all that has occurred between our families…”