“I tell you, she has already rejected my advice.”
“I have nowhere else to turn,” said Anna with a crestfallen tone.
Then suddenly, as if the thought had just occurred to him, Dmitri asked, “Does she still love me?”
“I can’t—”
Anna hesitated. How could she make such a judgment? How could she say what she might feel, even if she did know the answer?
“Tell me the truth, Anna Yevnovna. I must know.”
“She says she does not. But if she did not still harbor feelings of some kind, why would she have become so angry? In her confusion, it seems that perhaps she wants to hurt you as you . . . as she feels you have hurt her.”
“But I have always been clear that there could never be anything between us,” said Dmitri. “I was always so much older, and never said a word to lead her—”
He stopped himself. This was no time for denials or angry recriminations. Katrina was in trouble, and it appeared this servant girl was desperate to save her. Could he do any less? Perhaps it was time for him to look at his relationship with Katrina in a new light.
He turned his back on Anna and began pacing across Madame Dauphin’s fine Persian carpet. Images flooded his mind—images of the past several years, of his best friend’s little sister, so pretty and lively, so utterly bewitching even when he repeatedly told himself she was but a child who would always be too young for him.
The clearest image of all was the memory of a kiss. For one brief instant, he had realized she was no longer a child. Yet even in that moment, she was still Sergei’s younger sister and, friendship aside, Sergei would think him no more a fit lover for his sister than Basil was.
His own words came back to him. Had he ever led Katrina on, even unknowingly—by a glance, a word, a flash of his eyes? Might he actually have played a part in driving her into a relationship with Anickin?
Dmitri Remizov was not a man accustomed to worrying excessively about responsibility for his actions. Usually a smooth word and a charming grin had been sufficient to ease him out of the stickiest of situations. The case of his sojourn in Siberia was a notable exception. But even that turned out to be far less unpleasant than it could have been.
Now, however, someone else was about to pay a price—a heavy one that could only result in terrible suffering in the end. Was his glib irresponsibility indeed a factor to be reckoned with here? A clever response or winning smile would not spare him this time . . . and would not spare Katrina a lifetime of hurt.
Dmitri faced Anna once more. “Why should she listen to me?” he said again, almost as though squirming one final time to shake loose any sense of accountability in the matter. “I told you, she as much as spit in my face. Perhaps I deserved it, but what more can I do?”
“Perhaps if you told Princess Katrina how you feel . . .”
“How I feel? I have told her how I feel. I think the man is practically a lunatic—”
“I did not mean that,” said Anna with some trepidation, “but how do you feel about her—how you truly feel.”
Her bold words brought Dmitri up short. He gazed with greater intensity than before into the eyes of this most unusual servant girl. Finally he could not restrain a smile.
“That is rather an audacious remark for the servant of a princess,” he said, still smiling. “I don’t recall such presumption when I first met you. I think some of Katrina’s character must have rubbed off on you.”
“That would not be so bad, would it?” She smiled.
“And perhaps the opposite has occurred in Katrina’s case.”
“I would not know, Your Excellency.”
“I do not think that would be so harmful either.”
He resumed his seat, and much of the tension between them dissolved. “The two of you are closer than just servant and mistress, are you not?” he said.
“I would do anything for the princess.”
“That at least is obvious.” He grinned again, this time with more of his accustomed ease. “You must feel very strongly that my intercession would help.”
“I do.”
“She will likely have me drawn and quartered for my efforts.”
“And so you will do something . . . you will talk to the princess?” said Anna hopefully.
Dmitri sighed. “It may be too late. And I still doubt very much that she will listen to a word I say. But yes, Anna, I will at least make an effort to speak with her again.” He paused, then added, “Perhaps it is time, as you insinuated, that I take a new look at just how I do feel about all this. In any event, I will see if there is anything I am able to do.”
“Then I shall go, Count Remizov,” said Anna, rising. “Thank you for talking with me.”
Dmitri took Anna’s hand, and bowed as if to an equal.
“Thank you, Anna. Your care for your mistress is unusual in this day. I know that if she could see your heart, she would appreciate what you have done.”
He walked her to the door, then turned and faced her squarely. Dmitri’s usually glinting, laughing, mocking eyes reflected an earnest sincerity; his voice, as he spoke, held firm conviction.
“Anna Yevnovna,” he said, “I swear to you that if it is in my power, I will not hurt Katrina again as long as I live. At least I will not do so intentionally.”
“I believe that, Your Excellency.”
Again he tipped his head in a modest bowing gesture. “Thank you,” he said.
“Thank you, Count Remizov,” Anna responded. She did not exactly know why she had thanked him, except that she felt intuitively that his promise was directed as much to her as it was toward Katrina.
24
It was a long night for Dmitri Gregorovich Remizov—long not in span of hours, which were relatively few, but in anguish of mind. Always content to accept superficiality, he had never engaged in such unwelcome soul-searching in his entire life.
And this present quandary was unlike any he had ever encountered. As he tried unsuccessfully to sleep, he suddenly found his inner eyes riveted upon himself, and he did not like what he saw.
Dmitri had always enjoyed life, savoring it like a fine wine. Life was to be consumed for his pleasure, not scrutinized. He would simply pick it up and drink. More than once he had berated his best friend for his melancholy temperament. “You think too much, Sergei,” he had said to him many times. “There’s no future in it, man!”
He turned over restlessly in his bed. The tables had turned. Now he was the one lying sleepless, with his mind in turmoil! What would Sergei say to him now about the effect of morbid self-analysis on one’s soul?
Everything that had seemed so clear in his mind less than twenty-four hours ago had all at once grown murky and uncertain. Suddenly the future seemed to press in upon him with a force he had never known, impelling him to look with new eyes at much he had taken for granted.
Had he made mistakes? Had he drifted along with life’s comfortable flow without considering the consequences?
The question itself brought pain, for he knew the answer was yes on both counts.
And . . . what now? What was he to do now!
If he had made mistakes; if he had failed to think beyond the present moment; if he had hurt others in the process, then the decisions that lay before him would have repercussions far into the future. Not only his future, but that of others besides.
Dmitri was enough of a man of honor and conscience to recoil at the idea that his self-absorption might have harmed others, especially ones he cared deeply about.
Unpleasant as the idea was to face, he was going to have to make some changes. He was a soldier, and he knew that the fastest way out of a quagmire was to retreat out of the bog rather than to stubbornly march forward more deeply into it.
He threw the blanket off and jumped to his feet in frustration. He wanted to curse the meddling servant girl for her impertinent remark! How you feel about her . . . how you truly feel. Why couldn’t she have just left well enough alone?
> Dmitri walked slowly to the window. He stared into the void a minute or two, calming himself, realizing that Katrina’s Anna had put her finger directly on the source of his anxiety.
Slowly he turned, walked back to his unwelcome bed, and sat down.
To a deep, insightful thinker like Sergei, such dilemmas and questions were common. Sergei wrestled with the meaning of the universe all the time. But for Dmitri, his thoughts, and the decisions that might accompany them, were momentous. It was time he forced himself to examine his commitments on a level of personal integrity quite foreign to him.
With a groan, Dmitri let his body fall back onto the mattress. This was not going to be easy. But there was no one to turn to for help. If he wasn’t made of strong enough fiber to get himself out of the quicksand he had carelessly walked into, then he didn’t deserve to call himself a man.
With a weary sigh, he closed his eyes. He had to do it. There was no alternative. Manhood itself demanded it. The challenge before him held as much importance as his decisions on the field of battle, where life and death hung in the balance. He was about to face the supreme test of a man’s character and worth—first admitting, then being willing to stand for the truth, whatever consequences might follow.
He turned onto his side and drifted into an uneasy sleep.
25
Katrina awoke late, as she usually did. Anna, however, had not yet made her appearance.
Katrina glanced around from her bed. It was not like Anna to sleep so late. Now she remembered—Anna had not been in her room when Katrina had retired the night before. That was strange too, not at all like her predictable maid.
Katrina promptly rolled over and went back to sleep.
When she awoke again an hour later, she heard Anna stirring. She rose, dressed herself, and went into Anna’s room to question her about the night before. She did not mind Anna’s having been out late, but when Anna gave only vague replies to her questions, Katrina was annoyed. She had a right to know where her maid had been. “With Moskalev,” Anna had answered finally, only deepening the mystery from Katrina’s point of view. What could her Anna have in common with the old coachman?
Before Katrina could press the inquiry further, however, she was interrupted by a parlor maid with the news that she had a visitor.
“A visitor . . . who?” said Katrina. “Is it Basil?”
“No, Your Highness,” the maid replied. “It is Count Remizov.”
“Dmitri?” said Katrina, flustered. “What could he possibly want?” Her tone carried a strange mingling of hope and annoyance.
The maid who had delivered the message detected the latter. “I left him in the parlor, Your Highness,” she said. “I told him you would receive him there unless you were indisposed. Shall I tell him you are not yet dressed, Princess?”
Katrina had more than half a mind to be indisposed. Things were confusing and strained enough in her life right now. She did not need a visit from Dmitri to make it worse! And her irritation with Anna, coming on the heels of yesterday’s falling out with her parents, combined to raise her temper quickly with respect to Dmitri.
“Yes,” she answered, “tell him . . . tell him I cannot possibly see him.”
What was he here for? To extend a personal invitation to his wedding? The scoundrel, thought Katrina. I’ll go to his wedding when he begs me on bended knee!
Yet even as the angry thought formed, it suddenly dawned on Katrina Viktorovna, proud young princess of Russia, that the dashing count upon whom she had expended so many tearful emotions had come to her father’s home asking for her.
“Stop!” she called after the maid, who was already retreating down the corridor. The maid turned. “Tell him I’ll be down in ten minutes,” said Katrina.
No matter how miserable she was, no matter how much she hated him, she knew she could never refuse Dmitri Remizov.
That is, I could never refuse to see him, she thought, her anger rising again as once more she pondered the probable reasons for his visit. She’d refuse him fast enough if he tried to browbeat her again about Basil!
Notwithstanding the words she spoke thus to herself, a strange warmth flooded her cheeks, a flush that anger alone could not account for. She hastened from her room a few minutes later without another word to Anna and walked down the hallway trying to calm herself.
Katrina flung open the parlor doors fully prepared for a fight. But the moment she laid eyes on him, that peculiar flutter she always felt when he was near assailed her. She felt her knees weaken. Then she snapped herself back to attention. She would not make a fool of herself again by giving way to flighty passions from the past!
“Why, Dmitri Gregorovich,” she said with mock civility in her tone. “This is an unexpected surprise.”
“I hope you do not mind my coming like this, without warning or invitation.”
“Of course not,” she replied breezily. “Do sit down.”
He did so. Roles were suddenly reversed for Dmitri. The little sister all at once became the intimidating matron of the estate, and he found himself inexplicably nervous as he obeyed her. He perched on the edge of the settee, unable to speak for the dryness in his mouth. His eyes were bloodshot from the fitful, sleepless night.
“Would you care for some tea?” Katrina asked, sensing his discomfort and relishing the superior position in which it placed her. What had come over him? Why was he behaving so strangely, almost like a boy?
“I, uh . . . do not wish my visit . . . to be an imposition,” faltered Dmitri, despising the frivolous banter, yet unable to force himself to plunge right to the core of what was on his mind.
“Oh, not at all—really.” Katrina pulled at the tapestry cord to call a servant. “My goodness,” she said, glancing at the mantel clock. “It is nearly time for luncheon. Perhaps you would like to join us.” Katrina didn’t know what was on Dmitri’s mind, but it was nice to see him squirming for a change.
“Thank you,” he answered, “but . . . but . . .”
His distracted mind could not quickly come up with a polite refusal. He had about come to the end of his restraint. “Katrina, please—” he began with a determined voice.
Before he could continue, the parlor maid entered and Katrina asked her to bring a tray of tea for herself and her guest. When the maid left, a moment of awkward silence followed.
It was no easy thing for Dmitri to find his courage to begin again. And once he did, he knew he could expect at least one more interruption with the arrival of the tea. But it was too late now. His hands were cold and sweaty. What happened to the days when he had been so cool and confident, when he had been able to shrug Katrina off as a child?
He glanced over at her as she sat so primly in the brocaded chair opposite him.
Her kiss at fifteen had disturbed him. But he had still been able to delude himself about her youth back then. However, all that had become absurdly futile on the evening of her coming out. He had realized it sometime last night as he lay awake. He had been stunned when he first set eyes on her. It had not been what he had anticipated upon his return from Siberia! The impact was not so much mere beauty, although the elegance of her ripened features was enough to take any man’s breath away. But with it, a mature charm, a gracefulness of movement, and even, if he could say it, a certain ruggedness of character in place of her previous tempestuousness—all this had combined with the splendor and radiance of her face itself to illuminate a very lovely young woman. One who could not help but grow more lovely as yet more time passed.
Last night he had wondered if that initial impression had not been merely induced by the separation of time and given heightened fervor in an imaginative brain by lack of sleep. But he saw all the same qualities now, even as he sat across from her. He saw too the impossibility of any longer hiding behind the little-sister-of-his-best-friend image.
“Katrina,” he began again with firm resolve, “you would have had every right to turn me away today—”
“Whatever
for?” she interrupted glibly. “You are an old friend of the family, and even I could never be so rude.”
“I know I don’t deserve your trust . . . ,” he began once more, but again she cut him off.
“Trust? I do not see what occasion there is between us to talk of such matters,” she said with stoic aloofness.
“Please, Katrina,” he went on, “this is difficult enough for me. I would hope that the years of friendship between us might have earned me more than this cold indifference.”
“You accuse me of indifference!” she suddenly flared.
“Granted, it was not a good choice of words,” he said humbly. “I am not much accustomed to opening myself up honestly like this.”
“No, you are not good at it. You would have done well to pay more attention to my brother.”
“I do wish I could be more like him. I wish he were here now. He could tell me what to do, and explain to you what I am trying to say.”
“What are you trying to say, Dmitri?”
“I am trying to tell you . . . that I am sorry.”
“Sorry? For what? Is this an apology, Dmitri?” By the chilly tone of her voice it was apparent that she would be hard pressed to accept one.
“Call it what you will. I have come to see some things . . . in a new light. . . . I see that perhaps I was insensitive in the manner in which I rebuffed your feelings in the matter of my engage—”
“What do you know of my feelings!” she shot back.
“Please, Katrina . . . there is a great deal for me to make amends for . . . and you are making it no easier.”
“Well, what has brought all this on?” she asked, cooling off but maintaining her distance.
“When I saw the disaster my callous behavior was leading to, I could not—”
“Just wait!” she broke in sharply. “If you are here to denounce Basil Anickin again, you can leave this instant!”
“Anickin is the furthest thing from my mind right now.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Katrina suspiciously.
“Well, it is true that the fact that you are about to ruin your life by marrying him prompted me to think about many things.”
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