Read Online The Lost Souls of Angelkov by Linda Holeman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Linda Holeman
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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the time they started the second bottle, Soso was talking about his burning resentment towards the count, citing recent incidents that still angered him: selling two of the storeroom workers to another estate, which put an extra workload on Soso, and berating and humiliating him about a spilled bag of oats—even cutting his wages over it.
“He acts as though we’re of less importance than his bloody horses,” he ranted.
And Grisha agreed. Count Mitlovsky was pig-headed and cruel. Some landowners treated their serfs with kindness and patience. Mitlovsky did not: to him, they were, as Soso said, little more than animals. “He thinks,” Soso said, throwing down his cards, “that tossing us a handful of extra rubles at Christmas and a few bottles of vodka a year—the man has his own distillery, for God’s sake—makes him a saint.” He spat on the floor.
Grisha drained his glass, feeling his own anger growing. “I’m the one who runs Angelkov, who makes sure he understands the accounting. He asks my opinions on matters dealing with his finances. Was the estate this successful under the last steward? No. He has much to be thankful to me for, and yet he acts as though I’m the one who should be thankful.” He didn’t mention that the count used his home—andGrisha’s own bed—for his trysts with Tania. Yes, the blue-shuttered house belonged to the count, but that he would take this liberty was, to Grisha, the most despicable affront.
He reached for the bottle and filled their glasses, then raised his. “To honesty,” he said. Aware that it was inspired by the vodka, he nevertheless felt camaraderie with Soso as they sat in the chilled dimness of his room in the servants’ quarters. Soso was one of Angelkov’s hardest-working serfs. He looked after the storehouses, ensuring they were properly stocked with food to supply the huge estate. Grisha had known him since he’d come to work on the estate with Lilya and her little brother a decade earlier, just before the count’s son was born.
Grisha had always had a grudging admiration for the man. Soso was a few years older than him, strong and tireless. He worked without complaining—usually—and so to hear him talk so freely about the count made Grisha feel that Soso also trusted him enough to confide in him.
“Freedom is coming, and I’m not going to walk away from a lifetime of work with nothing,” Soso said, his glass raised towards Grisha’s. “If Mitlovsky thinks he can get the same amount of work out of us once we’re free men, he’s wrong.” He drank. “I’m working on a plan, something that will give us—you and me—what we deserve. Something to help start a new life.” He stared at Grisha, frowning, his eyes almost disappearing under his heavy, short-lashed eyelids. He dug his little finger into his ear and rotated it. “We’ll get money from him, a lot of money. You don’t plan to stay and work for the old bastard, do you?”
Grisha shrugged. “I’m not a serf. It’s different for me.”
“He treats you like one. I’ve seen it. You want to keep taking it? Eh? Are you in?”
Grisha didn’t respond for a moment, thinking of Tania emerging from his bedroom with the dirtied linen. “It depends,” he finally said. He knew he was drunk, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “What are you thinking of?”
“I haven’t worked it out yet,” Soso said. “But if I know you’re with me, it will make it easier. And I have some friends … they’d help us.”
Grisha shrugged and rose, leaving the servants’ quarters and walking unsteadily back to his own house down the road.
The next day, his head sore, Grisha remembered the conversation as simply the drunken solidarity of men puffing themselves up with random thoughts of revenge.
But when Soso came to him after emancipation had been declared, and asked if he had been serious about extorting money from the count, Grisha told the man he would have to think about it.
“I
“He acts as though we’re of less importance than his bloody horses,” he ranted.
And Grisha agreed. Count Mitlovsky was pig-headed and cruel. Some landowners treated their serfs with kindness and patience. Mitlovsky did not: to him, they were, as Soso said, little more than animals. “He thinks,” Soso said, throwing down his cards, “that tossing us a handful of extra rubles at Christmas and a few bottles of vodka a year—the man has his own distillery, for God’s sake—makes him a saint.” He spat on the floor.
Grisha drained his glass, feeling his own anger growing. “I’m the one who runs Angelkov, who makes sure he understands the accounting. He asks my opinions on matters dealing with his finances. Was the estate this successful under the last steward? No. He has much to be thankful to me for, and yet he acts as though I’m the one who should be thankful.” He didn’t mention that the count used his home—andGrisha’s own bed—for his trysts with Tania. Yes, the blue-shuttered house belonged to the count, but that he would take this liberty was, to Grisha, the most despicable affront.
He reached for the bottle and filled their glasses, then raised his. “To honesty,” he said. Aware that it was inspired by the vodka, he nevertheless felt camaraderie with Soso as they sat in the chilled dimness of his room in the servants’ quarters. Soso was one of Angelkov’s hardest-working serfs. He looked after the storehouses, ensuring they were properly stocked with food to supply the huge estate. Grisha had known him since he’d come to work on the estate with Lilya and her little brother a decade earlier, just before the count’s son was born.
Grisha had always had a grudging admiration for the man. Soso was a few years older than him, strong and tireless. He worked without complaining—usually—and so to hear him talk so freely about the count made Grisha feel that Soso also trusted him enough to confide in him.
“Freedom is coming, and I’m not going to walk away from a lifetime of work with nothing,” Soso said, his glass raised towards Grisha’s. “If Mitlovsky thinks he can get the same amount of work out of us once we’re free men, he’s wrong.” He drank. “I’m working on a plan, something that will give us—you and me—what we deserve. Something to help start a new life.” He stared at Grisha, frowning, his eyes almost disappearing under his heavy, short-lashed eyelids. He dug his little finger into his ear and rotated it. “We’ll get money from him, a lot of money. You don’t plan to stay and work for the old bastard, do you?”
Grisha shrugged. “I’m not a serf. It’s different for me.”
“He treats you like one. I’ve seen it. You want to keep taking it? Eh? Are you in?”
Grisha didn’t respond for a moment, thinking of Tania emerging from his bedroom with the dirtied linen. “It depends,” he finally said. He knew he was drunk, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “What are you thinking of?”
“I haven’t worked it out yet,” Soso said. “But if I know you’re with me, it will make it easier. And I have some friends … they’d help us.”
Grisha shrugged and rose, leaving the servants’ quarters and walking unsteadily back to his own house down the road.
The next day, his head sore, Grisha remembered the conversation as simply the drunken solidarity of men puffing themselves up with random thoughts of revenge.
But when Soso came to him after emancipation had been declared, and asked if he had been serious about extorting money from the count, Grisha told the man he would have to think about it.
“I
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