Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

Now pointing to an elegantly suited Russian in one of the armchairs, Dorokhin added, “This is my brother-in-law, Kirill Matveyevich Kostrov, also of Irkutsk. He is the director of the Russo-Asiatic Bank here, though he grew up in St. Petersburg and cannot truly be considered Siberian.”

The banker, whose face was flushed and sweaty, rose unsteadily to his feet and greeted each of the two visitors with a limp handshake. At his elbow stood a half-filled bottle of Caucasian brandy and a nearly empty snifter atop a side table of cherry wood.

“Also with us tonight is Father Timofey Makarovich Ryumin, until recently our beloved parish priest, but now a man of the world, so to speak, having launched his own movement to foster a spiritual rebirth among the Siberian people. Father Timofey stems from the distinguished Ryumin family of Old Believers, who came to Siberia in the seventeenth century. The Ryumin family name is held in high respect by all in Transbaikalia except, perhaps, for the Bolsheviks.”

The latter comment brought a questioning smile to the long face of the priest, who looked about thirty years old and whose eyes blazed a deep lazuli blue. To Ned’s surprise, the cleric remained seated and Ned noticed no brandy glass beside his armchair. Even without rising to his full height, Father Timofey cut a striking figure, wearing an untrimmed black beard, long unkempt hair, and an ankle-length cassock of fine gray wool with black embroidery along its buttoned side flap and cuffs. As if suddenly noticing Ned’s attention, Timofey cast a questioning glance at the American and for a moment conveyed the impression of a panther crouched and ready to pounce.

Dorokhin continued.

“And I am honored to have as guests two distinguished Allied officers: Lieutenant Colonel John Neilson, of Her Majesty’s Middlesex Regiment, on assignment to Admiral Kolchak’s staff at Omsk; and Captain Edmund du Pont, of the American Expeditionary Force, who is traveling to Omsk with Staff Captain Ivashov. As always, we are deeply grateful to our foreign allies for their support against Bolshevism. So let us bring out the vodka and drink to the health of our guests!”

At this, Ned offered his host a respectful nod.

“Zhanna!” the Russian shouted down the corridor a moment later. “Can you hear me, girl? Come at once with a fresh bottle and glasses!”

Ned was exchanging greetings with Lieutenant Colonel Neilson, a tall, narrow-faced man whose eyes appeared unfocused and whose speech was slurred, when he heard the clink of glasses and a heavy bottle being deposited on the sideboard behind him. He turned to follow his host and came face to face with a slender teenaged girl, dressed modestly in a beige linen apron over a dark ankle-length woolen skirt and a long-sleeved pleated white blouse. Her face struck him as uncommonly handsome, with eyes wide apart and slightly protruding, a well-shaped nose, a resolute mouth with an ironic upturn at the corners, fair skin and thick jet-black hair that was pinned, twisted, and piled into a luxuriant roll atop her head. But there was something in her good looks that transcended mere form, for her violet-gray eyes conveyed such a childlike purity of spirit that, when she smiled at him and a blush rose to her pale cheeks, she exuded an effortless charm that put him instantly at ease.

“Ah, Captain du Pont, permit me to present my daughter, Zhanna,” Dorokhin stepped in. “She is my youngest, my infant, the only child living at home, now that her older brothers have left us for military service. In the spring, God willing, Zhanna will complete her studies and fill in for her brothers in the family business. A brighter girl you will not find in all of Siberia! When the war is over and her brothers return, God willing, they will have to look sharp or Zhanna will be the one giving the orders!”

Ned fixed his gaze on the girl, prompting her to blush even more deeply than before. Then she offered him a smile so bold and confident that she seemed to have grown inches taller.

“I am most pleased to meet you, captain,” the girl replied with a quick curtsey before removing from the sideboard the lacquered tray she had brought in.

“But not as much as I,” Ned replied, bowing politely. “Your father is indeed blessed.”

“You speak Russian well,” the girl observed, facing him again, her eyes showing a flicker of curiosity. “How did you come to learn it? Do they teach Russian in your schools as they teach French and English in ours?”

“My sister and I had a Russian nanny when we were children,” he answered, feeling self-conscious that his command of the language remained rusty despite practice and too-frequent resort to an English-Russian military dictionary. “Olga was like a second mother, though she was not much older than you when she came to America.”

“Oh, what an adventure that must have been!” Zhanna exclaimed, raising herself on tiptoes with enthusiasm.