Jane Marlow - The Yellow Ticket (Petrovo Book 3)

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either a product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. With the exception of well-known historical figures and events, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Published by River Grove Books

Austin, TX

www.rivergrovebooks.com

Copyright 2019 Jane Mahlow

All rights reserved.

Thank you for purchasing an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright law. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the copyright holder.

Distributed by River Grove Books

Design and composition by Greenleaf Book Group

Cover design by Greenleaf Book Group

Cover image: Two women iStockphoto.com/clu. Old birdcage with open door and passport used under license from Shutterstock.com. Yellow ticket photo courtesy of Altenmann, Wikimedia.

Cataloging-in-Publication data is available.

Print ISBN: 978-1-63299-219-2

eBook ISBN: 978-1-63299-220-8

First Edition

NOTE TO READER

IN 1843 , RUSSIA followed the example of continental Europe and regulated prostitution. According to the autocracys Ministry of Internal Affairs, males required safe outlets for their natural sexual energy (energy that, in women, was considered depraved). The regulations remained in place until the collapse of the Tsarist regime in 1917.

MONSIEUR SHELGUNOV S CIGARETTE case is buffing to an elegant shine when I halt my rag in midstroke. I tilt my ear toward the whine of the hinges struggling under the heft of the mahogany front door. Boot heels snap across the marble floor of the foyer.

No footfalls trail after him. He has come home alone, once again depositing Madame and the children into someone elses care.

My throat clamps against the rising nausea. During my early employment at the Shelgunov household, the click of his boots was horrifying. The sound is no longer frightening; its merely loathsome.

The first time he abused me, I had freshly turned sixteen and been living with the family only a few weeks. After the beast took what he wanted, I stripped the soiled sheets from the mattress and retched into them.

During the past year and a half, the soul-crushing task has become part of my list of unofficial duties in this house built of stone and vanity. But Shelgunovs lechery no longer paralyzes me with fear and shame. I, Anna Vorontsova, have built a protective wall of hatred around myself.

The footfalls draw closer until theyre clicking the kitchens pine boards behind me. I drop the polishing rag and cigarette case into the pocket of my apron. Nikolai Osipovich Shelgunov grabs my shoulder with one hand. The heel of his other hand slams against the back of my head. He thrusts me forward at the waist, jamming the side of my face into the raw chicken juice that coats the butcher block. My teeth cut into my cheek.

The hand on my shoulder moves down to the skirt of my servants dress, which he tosses up and across my back. As he fiddles with his trousers, I brace for the tearing pain, the feeling of being ripped open.

He bores into me. My insides feel like theyre being gashed. Oh, Mother of God! The hurt is fearsome! Please make it quick! Quick!

The cutting pain ebbs to raw chafing as he pounds me like the cur dog that he is. I sink into my trustworthy response of separating myself from the body he defiles. My thoughts focus on my afternoon chores.

His boots. He wants all nine pairs oiled before the cold sets in. Even as my hands grip the edges of the chopping block, my fingertips rehearse rubbing in the lanolin, then buffing the leather.

I glance through the French doors to the blue milk-glass vase on the glossy breakfast table. The maroon chrysanthemums are starting to droop. Madame will expect the sagging blooms to be replaced. I wonder which flowers remain in the garden after last nights hoarfrost.

As he grinds into me, I call upon every morsel of my imagination to climb the stairs to the twins bedrooms and tidy the toy-strewn disarray.

Nikolai Osipovich Shelgunov humps in earnest, and my thoughts go to this evenings meal. Before Sveta left for her monthly Sunday afternoon off, she set aside most of tonights supper in the lardercrayfish soup, apple bread, preserved datesleaving me with only the chicken to prepare.

As my thoughts braise the imaginary chicken, my employers breathing becomes ragged. Hes close to finishing.

You despicable bastard! The female screech rattles the freshly polished silverware.

I bolt upright, pitching Shelgunov off-balance. He grabs the chopping block with one hand and his trousers with the other.

At the kitchen door, his wife twirls her drawstring reticule above her head. Once it gains full momentum, she cuts the purse loose. Its strands of shiny beads whiz past her husbands ear and smack into the white Dutch tiling of the new stove.

I slink toward the safety of the cranny between the cupboard and the pie chest.

Rozaliya, I thought He grapples with the buttons on his pants. I thought

I know exactly what you thought! Her heaving chest must be close to ripping the hooks and eyes off her beaded silk bodice. You thought I was securely stashed away at my sisters while you enjoyed a little afternoon tryst! You thought I was too stupid to figure out what was happening in my own house! You thought

His hands reach out, slowly fanning up and down. Calm down and allow me to explain.

Shut your filthy, lying, stinking mouth! You promised on your very soul that this would never happen again! Her eyes blaze as they seek me out in my narrow hideaway. Scanning me from head to toe, she snorts. At least the last one was pretty!

Madame snatches off her blue velvet hat and, with a strong backhand, launches it at her spouses head. He ducks, allowing it to soar safely past, its satin ribbons casting fluttering trails. Tell me, she snarls, are you exercising your cock with Sveta also?

Shelgunov squares his shoulders. Certainly not. Sveta is old and fat.

Shifting her searing eyes toward me, Madame flings her head like an irate mare. Her hairpiece comes loose from its auburn up-sweep and catches on her silver earring, where it dangles like a one-sided pigtail. And you, Anna! Youre nothing but a tramp! Thats why your village ousted you to Moscow. To think I allowed an unscrupulous trollop to live in my home and help raise my children!

She rears back an open hand and steps in my direction.

Her husband catches her arm. Roza, darling, lets discuss this in private.

Madame throws off his hand and brings forth words from deep within her throat. Never. Touch. Me. Again.

Shelgunov grabs both her wrists and brings them to his chest. I want to talk to you, husband to wife, in a mature fashion.

She yanks loose from his grasp and points a menacing finger at me. And you, you little whore! Out of this house immediately!

Yes, yes, my love, of course. His voice drops to its most silky, cajoling timbre. But whats most important right now is you and me. Come with me, and well sort this out. He places a hand on the small of her back and presses her toward the French doors and the breakfast room.