“All the good brandy is in the parlor,” he said. “I must tell Natalia to have the servants begin serving Scotch at dinner—I don’t care how ill-mannered it is.”
He walked through the door and left the room, leaving his daughter staring dumbfounded after him. For a fleeting moment she wondered if she should go after him and make some continued attempts to find something to talk about that would distract him. But she thought better of it. She dismissed the maid, then left the dining room with heavy step.
In despair she dragged herself back upstairs to her old quarters. Anna had been busy freshening up the rooms, although they had been fairly well kept up during the year of Katrina’s absence. Even the warmth of Anna’s presence, however, could not console the princess. For Viktor Fedorcenko to lose the grip on his sanity was tantamount to nothing in this life being strong and sure enough to trust in or depend upon. If a man with his fortitude could break, then what else in life could be relied upon to stand?
Anna placed an arm around her mistress and tried to offer her what comfort she could.
“Oh, Anna, it’s awful to see him so weak. It takes my very heart away.”
“You must not give up, Princess, even if it seems that is what your father has done.”
“But it is destroying him, Anna!” wailed Katrina softly and tearfully. Anna sighed deeply, softly stroking Katrina’s hair. “I mean no disrespect, Your Highness,” she said after a moment, “for I know how painful your father’s losses are. But it would seem to me that he is making a choice not to face reality.”
The words hung in the air a moment; then Katrina turned to face her maid with a serious expression on her face.
“What are you saying, Anna?” she asked.
“Only that no matter how terrible the circumstances that come upon us, we still must choose what will be our response. I must admit sometimes I do not think I am doing well in the matter of your brother. But I nevertheless realize I cannot lose heart, and must go on living, and serving you as well as I am able.”
“And you think my father has given up?”
“That is not for me to say, Princess. I only know that you mustn’t—no matter what grief you feel for him. You have too much to live for.”
Even as the words fell upon Katrina’s ear, the unborn infant within her gave a vigorous kick. The present physical reminder jarred Katrina’s natural resiliency back toward the surface.
Of course she couldn’t lose heart. And not only for herself, but also for the sake of the next generation she was carrying in her womb. Besides, giving in to adversity wasn’t her way.
Even if that part of her nature had come from her father, she could not deny it or hide from it as he now seemed to be doing. Even if mother, brother, and father were taken from her, somehow she had to face what life was left to her with head held high.
There was no other way to triumph over painful circumstances in the end.
57
Alone later in the evening, Katrina’s despair began again to sweep over her spirit.
It was only about seven in the evening and early, by her normal custom, for retiring. Yet she was exhausted.
Anna had gone to the other wing of the house to visit her former friends and acquaintances, particularly in the kitchen. Katrina undressed and got herself ready for bed. She was sitting at her dressing table brushing out her hair when a knock sounded on the door of the sitting room.
“Come in, Anna,” she said without looking up.
She heard the door open, and at last she finally glanced toward it. “Dmitri!”
As Dmitri approached, Katrina felt a thrill of joy and yearning almost like she had before their marriage. She needed him just then—perhaps more than she had for months, even if just the feel of his strong arms around her. Oddly, she hadn’t thought much about her husband throughout most of the very difficult day. But now that he was at her side, she wondered how she could have survived it without him. She dropped her brush on the table, jumped up, and went quickly to meet him.
“I came as soon as I got your message,” he said, embracing her.
“I am so glad . . . thank you.”
“I would have been here sooner, but I was in Tsarskoye Selo, and the message was long in reaching me.”
“Oh, I don’t mind how long it took. Just that you are here means so much to me.”
“I saw Anna downstairs,” Dmitri went on. “She told me you and your father argued.”
“You did not see him when you came in?”
“No, he had retired to his rooms.”
“He looks awful, Dmitri. He is drinking heavily, carrying on as if my mother is still alive, and ready to fly off angrily if anyone crosses him. He actually struck one of the servants.”
“I am sorry, dear,” he said tenderly, running his hand through her hair.
“What am I going to do, Dmitri?” said Katrina, sobbing again. “He has become like a stranger.”
He continued to hold her tight, as if for now the only answer he had to give was his embrace. After a moment, suddenly she winced slightly as the hilt of his sabre jabbed her side. He pulled away quickly.
“I’m sorry—how thoughtless of me,” he said. His voice displayed a deeper concern than she had heard from him in what seemed many months. For the first time she realized there was no odor of alcohol about him.
She smiled through her tears. “There’s the army,” she said, “coming between us again.”
He chuckled, and they both felt the healing touch of the brief moment of levity between them.
Dmitri unfastened his sabre, slipped off the belt, and rested it against the wall in a corner. He then stripped off his jacket before taking his still-weeping wife into his arms once more.
“My poor Katrina,” he said in her ear. “How I wish I could make all this pain go away for you. Don’t forget, Sergei was my best friend, and I miss him, too. If I could, I would bring him and your mother back. And I will try to talk to your father if you think it might help. But—”
“Just hold me, Dmitri. Just now I need nothing more. Father would not listen to me or anyone else right now.”
He smoothed back her hair and gently kissed her forehead, then eased her gently toward her own bed. He set her down, then lay beside her on top of the coverlet, cradling her head on his shoulder. Katrina received his tender affection eagerly. Soon her tears were gone and they were talking freely. In one respect Katrina was very much like her mother. She was not made for the somber existence of perpetual mourning. Ongoing grief wore her down as much as whatever heartbreaking circumstance had caused it in the first place.
For the first time in weeks Katrina felt truly relaxed, and a few hints of a carefree spark returned to her tone. More than that, she felt in loving harmony with Dmitri for the first time in a long while. For months a tension had hung in the air between them. Yet now, emerging out of the desolation and loss the day’s events had brought so close, here they were talking spontaneously and unreservedly as they hadn’t during all the months of her pregnancy.
Was it possible their marriage still had a chance to be everything she had always dreamed it would be? Perhaps the birth of their child would be the key to unlocking their future as a family together.
58
Another knock came to the sitting room door.
Both Dmitri and Katrina would like to have ignored it. But with Viktor’s unstable condition they could not take the chance.
Dmitri gently pulled his arm out from under Katrina’s head, stood beside the bed, then strode into the sitting room and opened the door to find his valet. Their conversation drifted into the other room, where Katrina continued to lie dreamily on the bed.
“This had better be important, Andrei.”
“Forgive me, Your Excellency. I would not think of disturbing you, but the lieutenant seemed most urgent.”
“The lieutenant?”
“Yes, sir. Lieutenant Plaksa has come from the barracks with a message for you. It seems there has
been trouble.”
“What trouble? Tell him to come back tomorrow. There is trouble here too, and my wife and family need me now.”
“What shall I tell him, sir?”
“Tell him exactly what I said—no, wait,” Dmitri added quickly. “Go downstairs, Andrei, and bring him here. I shall tell him myself.” Dmitri’s voice revealed his clear annoyance at being disturbed like this. For the first time in a long while, he did not want his professional life to intrude upon his personal one.
The valet turned and disappeared. Dmitri walked slowly back into the bedroom, apologized to Katrina for the interruption, kissed her lightly, and assured her he would take care of it as quickly as possible. The valet was just returning with Dmitri’s fellow officer when the prince made his way back through the sitting room to the still-open door.
“What’s this all about, Plaksa?”
“It wasn’t my fault, Dmitri!” responded the lieutenant in an excited, agitated voice.
“Whoever’s to blame, it looks as if you got the worst of it. I would think you’d been through a war!” Dmitri scanned his eyes up and down the man’s bedraggled uniform.
“You’ve got to believe me—he asked for it, and that’s all there—”
“Hold on, Plaksa,” interrupted Dmitri. “What are you talking about?”
“The captain, sir. Sajachmetev.”
“I suppose from your appearance there’s hardly much need for me to ask what happened.” Dmitri sighed. “Well, I suppose you’d better tell me about it, Lieutenant.”
Plaksa took a breath so ragged Katrina heard it in the bedroom.
“I took all I could from the captain, sir,” he said. “Then I thrashed him. That’s all there is to it.”
“By heavens, man! You didn’t strike the first blow? He’s your superior officer!”
“You know as well as I do that the man’s a snake and deserves whatever he gets.”
“That may well be, Plaksa. But it will be you who suffers in the end. I told you not to let him goad you.”
“He went too far, I tell you!”
“I am surprised he let you go afterward,” observed Dmitri, knowing all too well the callous reputation of the captain in question.
“He didn’t exactly let me go . . .”
“Don’t tell me you bolted!”
When the miserable lieutenant nodded, Dmitri added, “Desertion will go all the worse for you, man! He could have you sent to fight the Turks, or even to Siberia for this!”
“You’ve got to help me, Dmitri,” pleaded the lieutenant.
The two young men had entered the regiment together. But even with all Dmitri’s close calls, scrapes, and foolish escapades, he had fared better than Plaksa, who lacked the count’s wit and intelligence. Sergei, too, had known the lieutenant, but had long since made it a practice to keep clear of him, warning Dmitri that his friend’s hot head and ready fists would be the undoing of him in the end. Now at last Sergei’s prophetic word—though he had gotten himself into far deeper trouble in the meantime—seemed about to be fulfilled. Plaksa was the illegitimate son of an ambassador, and only his family name had kept him from the stockade, or worse, till now. But even that protection seemed about to lose any remaining effectiveness to prevent him from facing the consequences of his temper.
“You’ll have to turn yourself in, Plaksa.”
“They’ll drum me out of the regiment. My father swore he’d not bail me out again.”
“You should have thought of that before you lost your senses.”
“Please, Dmitri!”
“Turning yourself in and losing your commission would be better than the stockade . . . or Siberia—one of which you’re sure to get if they catch you on the run and the captain brings you up on charges.”
“What am I going to do?” said the lieutenant in the forlorn tone almost of a wail.
“If you give yourself up and plead insanity or something, they will more than likely go easy on you. Maybe a demotion to ranks for a short while, but no worse.”
“I couldn’t stand prison!”
“If you keep your wits, you won’t have to worry about it.”
“I’d kill myself.”
“You aren’t going to Siberia, I tell you. Just keep your head!”
“You might be able to talk your way out of a mess like this, Dmitri, but I’d fumble it for certain.”
“It is your only chance.”
“Would you come with me—speak for me . . . explain what happened?” asked Plaksa hopefully.
“Look, I’d help you if I could. But I have problems of my own. That’s why I left the barracks and hurried here earlier.”
“I am a dead man if you do not help me!”
“Was it really so bad? Perhaps you are overreacting.”
“You know Sajachmetev as well as I do. He hates me and is out for blood.”
Dmitri scratched his head in deliberation, then gave a quick glance back toward the bedroom.
He had to admit, the lieutenant was right. If he did not have help, he could only hope for the worst. Yet, Dmitri wondered, how much help could he truly offer? Captain Sajachmetev didn’t care that much for him either—as a man, at least, although he had always showed him the utmost respect as a soldier. Actually, as hard as it was to understand, the captain had from time to time displayed something like a regard for Dmitri. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that they had fought together in the Balkans and had forged a distant sort of mutual respect. Might that alone be enough to save Plaksa’s skin? Perhaps . . . though if it didn’t, he might be jeopardizing his own hide in standing up for him.
Even if he could help, was it worth abandoning Katrina again, just when she needed him? He had not done well by her. He knew that. And now, just when he had the opportunity to help in this new crisis within her family, was he going to leave her again?
Perhaps if he was gone only for an hour, just long enough to accompany Plaksa back to the barracks and convince the commander to hear his story tomorrow when everything had cooled down, then he could return to Katrina. He would spend the night here, offering what protection and solace his presence could to the deteriorating spirits within the Fedorcenko home. It was his duty as the man’s son-in-law and as Katrina’s husband. He would take care of his friend’s trouble, then hurry back.
Resolved, he told his valet and the lieutenant to wait for him in the parlor downstairs. He closed the door and returned to Katrina.
“There has been some trouble at the regiment—” he began.
“I heard, Dmitri.”
“I’m sorry, but I have to—” he began, sitting down on the side of the bed and taking her hand. But she interrupted him.
“I know. You need to help your friend.”
“I would not leave under any other circumstances, believe me.”
“I understand, dear,” she said.
“Do you . . . do you really?”
Dmitri found himself almost surprised by his young wife’s sincere response, but he tried not to let it show. He did not deserve her patience and understanding after all he had put her through.
“Yes, of course I do, Dmitri,” Katrina said softly.
“I won’t be long.”
“I shall have a nap while you are gone. But promise you’ll wake me when you return.”
“I promise.”
He bent over and touched his lips to hers in a long and heartfelt expression of his love. Slowly he rose.
“Look,” he said, grabbing up his jacket from the chair where he had tossed it, “I’ll be gone such a short time that I’m going to leave my sword right there.” He paused a second longer, blew Katrina a parting kiss, and added, “I’ll be back before you know it.” He turned again and disappeared.
Katrina lay contentedly on her bed, staring up at the ceiling, so happy at the brief interlude with Dmitri that she did not even question what change might have caused it. She did not stop to ask herself why his sudden departure had not angered her, nor wh
at change in Dmitri made him so apparently reluctant to leave her. It might need analyzing later, but in the meantime she did not want the encumbrance of logic to intrude upon the contented warmth within her heart. If her father was not doing well, it made all the difference in the world that Dmitri now seemed ready to share the heartache with her.
Her eyelids grew gradually heavy, and within moments she was dozing peacefully. She dreamed sweetly of Dmitri, and only once did the ugly figure of an insane man, who uncannily resembled her own father, wander across the otherwise blissful fields of her mind. But even this attempt to mar her happiness was unsuccessful, for when he was gone, there was Dmitri again, in the full brilliance of his uniform, a glowing smile upon his face, running toward her, ever closer, with arms outstretched. The only incongruity in the phantasm of her husband was that his sabre was missing from his side.
When she returned from the kitchen, Anna looked in upon her mistress. Katrina was sleeping peacefully, so she tiptoed in, retrieved a tray of tea things and left with only one final parting glance down at the dreaming lady on her bed.
It was wonderful, Anna thought, to see the princess wearing a smile again, especially in her sleep.
59
Basil Anickin had been watching the Remizov house for over a month. He had analyzed every movement of the servants, for they were chiefly the ones who came and went. The count himself was gone most days, and Katrina—both because of grieving for her mother and her physical condition—remained unseen behind high walls and closed doors.
Then had come the sudden moment of uncertainty when, shortly after a visit by the woman he recognized as the Fedorcenko housekeeper, Katrina and that servant girl of hers had boarded a carriage with their luggage tied to the back.
They could not be leaving town! Where would they be going . . . for what purpose? He had even cultivated a spy or two in the household, and he had heard no such rumors from them.
He had actually been hoping for some such activity. As soon as the carriage had pulled away from the house, he jumped into his own nearby rig and followed at a safe distance.
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