The Auction House
The inside of the auction house smelled like dust and water damage, as if it had stood for a long time without occupation. That of course was not the case, as Mr. Olvak had said with assurance that this was a reputable business with a long-standing reputation in London for doing good trade. Still, the confines of the building did smell as if they could use a good scrubbing with strong cleansers.
Irina was lingering near the auctioneer's podium, her tally book open in her left hand. The purchase of a small country estate had gone smoothly, and she hoped today to find some decent horseflesh to stable outside of the city. She had sought private sales at first, but after being distinctly unimpressed with the quality of the animals she'd opted for attending auctions instead. The tally book would be turned over to Mr. Olvak once her purchases were complete. Her interest in her finances was limited to what to spend the funds on, not how to handle the details of it.
The Russian moved towards the chairs gathered near the lectern, rested a hand on one of the tall backs. There were to be refreshments served during the sale. This looked as if it would be an afternoon well spent.
John, who lingered by the door, wasn't certain whether to buy a horse or not.
On the one hand, it could be stabled easily enough and would eliminate the need to call for a carriage when a long trip was necessary. On the other, most of his haunts could be reached quickly enough on foot, and a horse was a responsibility that could slip his mind, the way going to scheduled lessons did, and even going to sleep. As with most things, he decided to partake in the auction and simply get the measure of the place. If a horse struck his fancy, he might make a bid on it; then again, he might grow bored and take a nap in his chair.
Arms crossed, he struck out for the chairs and entered the row at the opposite end from the woman. Once seated, he settled the notebook on his lap and stretched his legs, which were too long to be comfortably accommodated by the row. Deciding it was more than he wished to put himself through, he got up and looked at the woman who stood with her hand on one. "Excuse me, Miss? Do you plan to take the aisle chair, or might I convince you to switch with me?"
She'd been wool-gathering, listening to the talk of the small group of men behind her and pondering the next gathering she'd hold in her home when the man spoke, and she started out of her reverie when his black coat drifted into her peripheral vision. And then she looked up to see his face, because at five-two she was forever looking up at men. She tucked the now-closed book against the fabric of her dress.
"Forgive me, I was day-dreaming," she said in her heavily-accented English. His clothes were in fair shape, but there was something vaguely sloppy about him regardless. She stepped aside, into the aisle and out of his immediate path. A discerning eye was cast back up at his face. "You are a trainer?"
"Me?" As he side-stepped along the row of chairs, he poked a thumb into his chest. "No. I'm afraid on my best days of horsemanship, I'm fortunate to stay in the saddle." It was over-stating things, since he was an accomplished enough rider, but how well he fared depended upon whether or not he had drowned himself in ale prior to mounting up.
John took a seat on the end of the row, which afforded him the opportunity to leave a leg straightened in the aisle. He opened his book, briefly perused what was written there, and then began to darken the inner seam with the tip of his writing utensil. Though in his early thirties when vampire bitten, he had kept a boyish style of hair that contributed to his slovenly look, no matter how well-tailored his clothes. A mop of black curls covered much of his forehead and his ears, but his jaw and the stubble on it were marks of an older man.
It struck him rather belatedly that the woman's question had come from nowhere. He looked up for her. "Why did you think so?"
"I do not know," Irina replied, now looking at the hand that scribbled in the margin of the book. "You look as though you are a working man, not someone who practices idleness." Privately she also thought that he looked like someone who occasionally smelled of sweat and horseflesh, or of some other animal, but tact prevented her from saying so. Even as a foreigner, there were some lines she dared not cross.
Besides, on him the look was not entirely unappealing, for reasons she couldn't put her finger on. Tact prevented her from saying that as well. "You perhaps seek a gentle horse, then, one who will not trample you should you fall off?"
John's eyebrows registered surprise at being presumed a 'working man'. By that, he took her to mean manual labor, which, while not beneath him, had never been his cup of tea. He tugged his earlobe and considered the last time he had given his face a clean shave. Maybe he was overdue. "I am a professor," he said, using his former title loosely, because stepping down from the position to tutor privately wasn't a choice he made happily, but from necessity. "I suppose one could consider it idle."
He continued to look up at the Russian woman, though he needn't crane his neck much. She was small. However, something rigid in the set of her shoulders and her stance made him imagine an iron rod down her spine. "I seek a horse that will find its way home, even if its rider goes on mental larks from time to time. Do you suppose I could train it to do that?" He circled an index finger in the air. "Find its way back if I lose track of where I was headed?"
"Ah, you are a scholar." She thought briefly of Lord Balinbrooke - Henry - and found the outward differences between them almost comical. Still, the man before her had to be nearly thirty years Henry's junior, and it was almost the turn of the millennium. Times had changed, it only stood to reason that the ways of the people who lived within those times would change as well. "It is hardly idle to use the brain, sir, which is as much a muscle as that of the arms or legs."
She took a seat in the row ahead of him, her knees coming decorously together beneath her skirts as she folded her hands around her tally book. "Horses are remarkably intelligent animals," she commented. "It seems that it would be perfectly possible to train one to find their own way home should a reverie take hold of their rider's mind. I am often guilty of such myself." A self-deprecating smile, then; "Forgive me if I pry, but what subject do you instruct in? My English, it is not as good as I would like it to be. I am contemplating seeking lessons, perhaps you could recommend someone?"
He found himself laughing. In his private tutoring, he taught a variety of rudimentary subjects, but it was his post at the preparatory school that caused him to smile. "Literature," he said. "Though I must say, your grasp of the English language is a good deal better than some who were born here. I often give lessons... Though you might prefer someone else. A woman, perhaps, or a gentleman who can be bothered to shave."
He settled the pen between covers of his book and looked for a ring on her hand. A husband might have an opinion on her desire to study, or say so in whom she selected for a tutor. But then, married women weren't often sent to auction to bid on the family horses. From his seat a row back, it was difficult to see her hand.
She saw the look and pretended she didn't, the way any proper widow would. "I often confuse my words," she told the youngish professor. "Husband found it charming when I would converse with the wives of his associates, but now that he is gone and I am intending to live in England for the foreseeable future, it seems prudent to do what I can to correct my errors of speech."
Sergei would not like the man, of course, but possible complaints about muddy boots aside he would keep silent. The other servants were still a bit afraid of their mistress and her exacting ways about the house. In public, Irina behaved in such a way that no one could criticize her, up to and including the observing of the last of her mourning period. In private, there were few whose opinion she sought, and now that she was no longer under her father's roof, her life was her own. "I spoke with the headmistress of a ladies' academy when I first arrived. It seems as if they do not...lend out their instructors during the summer term. Their girls are fortunate to have such dedication, but it leaves me at a loss."
He nodded. "Well, I would be happy to provide you with a means of contacting me, should you decide I would do." He retrieved his pen and went to a fresh sheet of paper, where he scribbled his full name and the beginnings of an address. "Once upon a time, I taught at University College School," he murmured. The tip of the pen scraped the page. "I make my living as a tutor now. I can of course provide references."
Because it lent legitimacy to him, John put the names of two tutors he knew of at the bottom of the page. Their rates were exorbitant, and one of them was so old, he was crumbling to dust, but she would find them at least reputable, should she ask around. He let the ink dry a bit and then passed it to her. Yes, he thought, it would do him good to offer his services to someone who wasn't a child. "I'm John Abbott, by the way."
"Irina Kirmasov."
She was watching his hands out of the corner of her eye, the style of his writing. She wondered if he might be a secret drunkard, if that was why he looked so rumpled and as if he'd barely slept for the last few days. Still, intellectuals were like artists, which meant that John Abbott might simply be the sort to burn the midnight oil rather than sleep. The book tapped against her right knee through the dark blue cloth of her skirts. "In Russia, private tutors often travel from home to home to instruct their students. I imagine you do not have to go to such lengths."
"No, but I often do," he said, settling back in his chair. John returned the Russian woman's study of him with as much interest, though it was well-masked behind hooded eyes. He noted the severe style of her hair and clothing, the smart shoes under the hem, and her posture, which had him in a veritable slouch, by comparison. He wondered if she was priggish. If so, it could be an intriguing match of personalities, to say the least, if she chose him for a tutor. John hadn't been priggish a day in his life. Sullen, yes, and then inexplicably blithe. Infatuated constantly. How fortunate for him that his father's reputation and John's own intellect had made up for any character defects.
"After all, it isn't considered appropriate for young women to knock at the doorsteps of men, no matter their professorial merit, and I tutor the fairer sex as well." He folded his arms. "Why, do you not live in London?"
"I have recently acquired a country home, where I will be stabling horses. But yes, I will be residing in the city for most of the year. Mr. Olvak, my husband's overseer, saw to the airing out of the apartments where I keep an address. It is simply that England is not as vast as my home country, nor does the travel seem to be as arduous." Irina shifted in her seat, studied the toe of one shoe before covering it again with fabric. If she was going to take up riding again, she would have to have some new boots made. Feet as small as hers required custom-made shoes.
"And I am not at your doorstep, Mr. Abbott, nor are you at mine." She gave him a suitably demure look, taking in the sight of his face before dropping her gaze back to his hands. "Certainly there can be nothing....disreputable about a public conversation."
He spread his hands wide. "Not in the least," he said. Then he laced them together on his lap, the thumbs twiddling as he watched the way Irina kept her head ducked. Quite the lady, was she not? Or perhaps he had spent too much time at taverns, as of late. He sometimes lost himself in an establishment for days at a time, grew accustomed to certain behaviors of its women, and came out to find the world a jarring place. And his hands continually slapped.
He was confounded over how frequently she employed the word 'husband', even though the man was dead. "How brave of you to relocate to a foreign country on your own," he said. "You must be very... independent."
"A woman alone does what she must. My family remains in St. Petersburg, close to Father's work. I could not very well take residence with them again, not when there is little time for other than court affairs." And not when Brother continued to lurk around corners, waiting for a moment's inattention from prying eyes. They'd had one fumbling encounter after Pyotr's death; Stavros' hands under her skirts, hers roaming beneath his unbuttoned shirt, and afterwards she had decided that it must stop. A return to the way things had been would be folly, and she had booked ship's passage within two weeks of the ill-advised occurrence. If she had to be strong for the both of them, then she would.
"Pyotr was generous and left me well-provided for, albeit with conditions. I saw no need to be ungrateful."
"So here you are, a London convert." John wondered how many household servants she brought with her abroad, considering the ownership of two dwellings, though he supposed she may have hired them upon arrival. "Well, I admire your bravery. I have spent my entire life in this city," he said, circling a finger to indicate the geography beyond the walls of the auction house. "I should not enjoy country life. It's far too quiet for me and I like having all the conveniences of the city at my disposal."
On the few occasions he had gone beyond London, he found the lack of entertainment and new acquaintances maddening. He did not have a natural love of social engagements, especially the formal variety. However, he found that too many solitary hours in which to think were toxic to his disposition. When he thought too much, he became maudlin. "How do you find London, after St. Petersburg?"
"I am still growing used to it," the Russian said with a very slight shrug. "But I find it agreeable on what short acquaintance I have with it. The language barrier is daunting, but it is also surmountable. I believe allowances are being made for me, which I appreciate."
She had changed her mind on at least one point about Mr. Abbott. It was unlikely that he was a drunkard, since he had none of the physical signs of dependence on alcohol that she recognized. As a younger woman, she'd had to have her Italian tutor dismissed because he developed the shakes to the point that the man nearly rattled himself to pieces right in her parlor. So whatever else the Englishman might be, drinking was likely not a permanent affliction for him.
"You are teaching privately at this time, with a current student?" She tilted her chin downwards at the book where he'd written the names earlier. "I should hate to pull some other girl way from the chance to learn."
"As luck would have it, my best student has just married and is no longer in need of formal education," he said. Considering Angela his 'best' student had little to do with scholastic achievement, because her capacity for complicated learning was low. Favorite would've been a better way of putting a polite spin on it. John reclined against the back of his seat. "If you decide I would be suitable, I'm sure we can arrange a regular time to meet. You can send word to my address."
Near the front of the room, there was a small fuss as the auctioneer took his place. All sorts of papers were shuffled about and then, with a hurried gesture, he beckoned a man closer and began to give instructions.
Irina turned her head at the commotion in the front of the room, then very slowly began to face forward in her chair. She would make contact with the other men Mr. Abbott had recommended for form's sake, then find a way to get in touch with the Englishman again. There was a way of going about things, after all. He might well be as proper a gentleman as she could hope to meet, but then again...perhaps not. Intrigue.
"We shall see, Mr. Abbott. Good luck this afternoon, also. It is supposedly a very good season for horse-buying."