The Lost Season of Love and Snow

by Jennifer Laam

  “And I wanted to wear the tiara,” Ekaterina hissed at me. “You had no right.”

  I tried to slam the journal shut, but the paper was thin and the sound not particularly satisfying. I glowered at Ekaterina, but she had tossed her long braid behind her shoulders and returned her attention to the looking glass, satisfied she had upset me enough for one night.

  “You could ask Aunt Katya for help,” Azya said in a small voice. “I heard Mother say she is visiting tomorrow afternoon to speak with the boys.”

  I turned to her sweet face, squinting out of habit.

  “If Alexander Pushkin is under government surveillance or in danger of future exile … well, Aunt Katya is acquainted with everyone who is anyone. She would know. Or at least she could find out.”

  I tossed the blankets aside and the journal to the side of our bed. “Azya, you are a marvel.” I rushed to give her a hug.

  “She’ll only verify what we suspect.” Ekaterina shrugged. “Either way, Alexander is still a man of letters. How much income can a poet hope to earn?”

  “Now you do sound like Mother,” I said, exasperated.

  “I’m only speaking common sense. His fortune will always rely on the whim of the public’s taste and the tsar’s censors. And what kind of life would you make for yourself at court with such a man? Under scrutiny and worried about whether or not you’re in favor. Why the tsar could decide to send you to Siberia if it so pleased him. No, thank you.” Ekaterina gave a firm shake of her head. “When I marry, it will be to a man in the army or civil service at the least, with a stable family income and a reliable pension.”

  I hadn’t the energy to taunt Ekaterina further, so I settled for a frustrated sigh. Let my sister dream of a bland military man to buy her baubles; I wished for more. If there was a chance I could allow Alexander to pursue my heart, I would give him the opportunity to do so.

  Four

  The next few weeks were a torment, or at least what one considers a torment when but sixteen years old. I spent mornings over glum breakfasts, listening to Ekaterina and Mother attempt to outdo one another with their endless complaints about life, and afternoons in our musty parlor, bent over yet another embroidery project. I had no talent for handiwork, and maintained my sanity only by clinging to hope of the future, recalling the sensation of Alexander’s hand on mine and the velvety sound of his voice. While in the sitting room with my sisters, darning socks on a cold but cloudless winter afternoon, I indulged in schoolgirl fantasies of balls, concerts, even a lavish wedding. I dreamed of evenings spent in salons, listening to Alexander present his latest work to a rapt audience.

  “Get your head out of the sky,” Ekaterina snapped. “I can’t carry on a conversation with you at all these days—not that you were ever so keen on talk that requires common sense.”

  I tried and failed to remember what my sister had been saying when my thoughts wandered. I stuck my tongue out at Ekaterina, just as I would if Sergey were heckling me. She tilted her square chin up in disdain and unleashed a frustrated sigh of disapproval.

  When Aunt Katya finally arrived at our door, I endeavored to find a moment to approach her alone and learn what she knew of Alexander’s standing with the tsar. I was constantly foiled. My brothers launched a torrent of queries about various military or civil appointments. My romantic fantasies seemed shallow in comparison to their future careers, and so I allowed my brothers’ needs to take precedence over mine. Besides, I understood the pressure on my brothers to leave our household and earn incomes of their own. Even Sergey, always such a practical joker, approached Aunt Katya to see if she knew of anyone in the Ministry of Navy who might have need of a seaman. I tried to picture little Sergey making his way across Alaska and Siberia on his own, as Tolstoy the American had, but could only summon an image of him irritating his senior officers when he made noises.

  Of course the boys were not the only ones compelled to make their own ways in this world. Once Aunt Katya had finished with them, she had a cedar trunk brought in from her carriage. The trunk had been filled to the brim with extra silk and lace and even entire hand-me-down dresses. She helped us gather stiches around the waist, so as to better fit into gowns that once belonged to grander and stouter ladies.

  “It is still becoming,” Aunt Katya told me after apologizing that the dress she offered was five years out of fashion. “Of course it is too short, for you are wonderfully tall, but we can add length with more silk gauze to the hem.”

  In truth, I would never have known the difference, though the gown did retain the sweet woodsy scent of my aunt’s cedar trunk mingled with feminine perspiration. Intricately patterned crimson lace and metallic needlework lined the deep round neckline and the dark green shade brightened my dark eyes. As we peered together at my image in the looking glass, I discerned the pride in my aunt’s smile and knew I would find no better opportunity to speak to her. I caught her eye as she fussed with a smudge on the fabric. “May I have a private word?”

  Aunt Katya must have sensed the solemnity in my tone, for she glanced over her shoulder at my sisters riffling through the remaining hand-me-downs in the trunk. Mother always made sure I had first choice, making it no secret she thought me prettiest and thus most likely to make a lucrative match. I knew I should have felt guilty over this—and more generous to Ekaterina and Azya—but the gowns were so beautiful it was hard to refuse the privilege.

  “As though we don’t know what Natalya will ask.” Ekaterina smirked, picking at some thick brown dog hair stuck to a velvet frock. “It was Azya’s idea.”

  “Never mind,” I said quickly. “They can stay.”

  Azya appraised me now with her wide eyes. “Natalya wishes to ask about her suitor? The poet? I knew it!”

  “Alexander Pushkin.” Aunt Katya swung back to look at me, one delicate eyebrow arched. “He has been here since the dance master’s ball?”

  “Alexander … Monsieur Pushkin came to call on us the next day,” I explained.

  “You enjoy his company?”

  “He is darling, but you see I have a concern…” Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Ekaterina raise an eyebrow, parroting my aunt. “I mean we all had concerns, really.”

  “Regarding his intentions? You are concerned he is not the marrying sort.”

  This caught me by surprise. Though I had only a vague notion of what Aunt Katya meant, I suspected it had something to do with the tales I’d heard whispered behind gauze fans, of men who cared naught but for their own pleasure. With all the wisdom and experience of a sixteen-year-old, I told my aunt: “Well, I certainly do not desire to find myself alone and with child!”

  My sisters tittered, but Aunt Katya remained poised. After twenty-five years at court, no comment ruffled her composure. “My dear, I trust all of you to behave well enough that it will never become an issue. Now, what is it you wish to ask?”

  I straightened my shoulders, hoping good posture might add gravity to my words. “I know Alexander had trouble with the tsar due to his former association with the Decembrists. I couldn’t in good faith allow a courtship if I thought his attention endangered our family. Do you know anything more? Is Alexander still under the tsar’s watch?”

  Aunt Katya held my gaze but I could ascertain nothing from the blank expression on her pretty face. I imagine this look served her well at the court’s gaming tables. “I have no idea.”

  Azya sidled next to me and took my hand. “I suggested Natalya ask you.”

  “I can ask some subtle questions here and there, I suppose, but the only person who knows the reality of this matter is Pushkin himself.”

  “That’s not true,” Ekaterina said.

  “I’m lying?” Even though Aunt Katya and my mother were only half-sisters, I heard the same imperious tone in her voice that Mother used with us.

  Ekaterina had sense enough to soften her approach. “I only meant that perhaps he is under watch and doesn’t know it. You know the creative types: daydreamers lacking in comm
on sense. Pushkin might not be aware of his true standing. In that case, Tsar Nicholas himself is the only person who knows the truth.”

  At that, my heart fell, for how would I ever find myself in a position to ask the tsar about Alexander? I might as well ask for the moon to fall from the sky.

  Aunt Katya gave a sly smile and I saw her dimples. “You find the poet attractive?”

  Azya stifled another giggle and Ekaterina emitted a loud snort, but I had grown weary of their foolishness. We were old enough to marry, after all, so why must I pretend to feel embarrassed that I found a man handsome? “I do and I believe Alexander has taken an interest in me as well.” My confidence lasted only a moment before I remembered my conversation with Mother that first night, after the ball. “Though I’m not sure Mother thinks a poet’s income sufficient to provide for a proper household.”

  Aunt Katya thumbed through the dresses and found a mauve gown with fabric rosettes sewn into the sleeves. She held it up before Azya and stroked my sister’s chestnut braids. “This one will need a cleaning, but it flatters your complexion, dear.”

  “So I don’t know why I am even giving the matter further thought.” I allowed a note of hopefulness to counter my words.

  Her gaze still focused on Azya’s gown. “If you feel strongly for this man, I see no reason to reject him, at least not unless we have evidence he is in danger of exile.”

  “I agree,” I said, heart soaring. “Only Mother…”

  “I don’t believe she fully understands the honor of being courted by Alexander Pushkin. Your mother may act the sovereign in this house, but she cannot rule her daughters forever. Leave her to me.”

  * * *

  Aunt Katya played the angel, as she had so many times before and would so many times in the future. Early the following Sunday morning when we were all gathered for breakfast—Sergey once again kicking my shin—the footman entered the dining area with a calling card formally propped on a silver platter. The scent of Alexander’s cologne wafted past me as the footman passed the card to Mother. Sergey stopped kicking and twisted his chubby little lips, pretending to be engrossed in a prayer book. Though I wished to jump out of my chair, I needed to remain patient and let Mother take the lead. As she scrutinized the card with a frown, and the antique copper timepiece on the mantel ticked away every precious second, my heart felt as though it might leap free of my chest.

  “It seems this Pushkin is a man of God,” Mother paused. “He may accompany us to the service this morning.”

  Inside, I let out a cry of delight. Not wanting Mother to change her mind, I remained the picture of modest propriety on the outside, giving only a small smile. Mother pressed her lips together and I understood what had to happen next. I removed my spectacles and placed them in the beaded reticule I carried with me to church every Sunday. Even Mother couldn’t argue with the notion that I might be allowed to see well enough to enjoy the beauty of the gilt iconostasis under the candlelight, and besides, services were hardly the place for vanity. However, the tone of the morning had changed. Today I was to perform a role Mother thought even more important than devout Christian: the beautiful young woman of marriageable age.

  We devoured the last bites of our meal and then gathered our cloaks while the boys buttoned their overcoats. Once we finally burst out the front door, my heart danced when I caught sight of Alexander outside. I drew close enough to see the flush of color in his dark cheeks, the curve of his lips when he saw me, and a playful glint in his pale eyes. Now, I understood the joy and fascination of staring at a beloved gentleman’s face, bewitched. I wanted to make my mother and Ekaterina and all the rest of my siblings disappear, and for Alexander to lead me away from this place, to a home of our own where he would read to me in his silky voice and wrap his arms around me at night, kissing me until I felt faint.

  Of course the real world moved at a much slower pace than my conjured fantasies. Alexander tapped his heels together, but extended his arm to Mother. The best I could manage was to follow them down twisting cobblestones still damp with melting snow, trying to catch a snippet or two of their conversation while we walked to church.

  As we passed the park across from our house, I caught the scent of fried dough and smoke from a festival. I squinted to see better and cast a longing look at tables heaped with dumplings fried in butter, colorful bonbons, and toy bears situated between two wooden sticks; the bear danced when the sticks were squeezed together. From inside an enormous cage designed to emulate the elegant lines of a palace, doves cooed at one another. Farther afield, a headless doll had been stuffed with hay, tied to a long pole, and set afire. Flames danced, bright orange against the stark white sky, to represent the passing of winter to spring. We approached a red-and-blue-striped tent, where a handsome young man with a rosy countenance placed a wriggling bunny inside a compartment and then carefully positioned a stiff top hat on the table. When he caught me looking in his direction, he winked. I returned his smile before turning quickly away, cheeks burning.

  A hard shove from behind made me trip over my feet. I turned to find Ekaterina’s gray eyes glaring at me as she readjusted her fur muff. “Watch yourself,” she whispered. “Isn’t it enough to have the little poet’s attention? You have to flirt with the sideshow acts as well?”

  I hadn’t thought an innocent smile disrespectful to anyone, but before I could snipe back, we were distracted by a silver-haired woman in a flowing red gown. She sat before a clear globe perched on a black pedestal in her booth. I wanted desperately to hear my fortune. I caught Ekaterina gazing wistfully into the distance—a few random snowflakes drifting past her ears in the chilly air—and figured she wanted a few moments with the fortune-teller as well. Of course we would learn who we were to marry, for no fortune-teller would believe a young woman wished to hear anything but the identity of a future husband. But I had so many other questions regarding my future: would I journey to foreign lands, be received at court, receive credit for my translations, or perhaps even write the type of poetry that had made Alexander famous? Nevertheless, when the question of my future husband arose, I assumed she would see Alexander in her magical ball. How could she not?

  It would not do to leave Alexander to Mother’s camaraderie now though, even if that was the conventional course of action. I quickened my steps so that I might better overhear their conversation.

  Mother spoke slowly, voice husky in the cold air. “Of course, I avoid setting foot in shops, for you never know what rabble you will encounter on the streets these days. I send my most trusted men out with a complete list of our family’s needs for the week…”

  “Mmm,” Alexander said and I rolled my eyes. Mother had the most prestigious writer in Russia at her side and she could find nothing more fascinating than her errands to discuss? And “the most trusted” man in our household was also the “only” man in our household, our poor footman, the last of our male servants. She just didn’t want Alexander to know of our financial troubles.

  “Every week the price of bread rises, and I wonder if we’ll soon have to make do with half the amount we purchase now. The tsar in his wisdom might grant an order of some sort to fix the price and ease the burden on good Russian families.”

  I pitied Alexander for remaining trapped in such banalities; likely he was accustomed to far wittier conversations at salons and readings, but I adored him for putting up with Mother for my sake. As she prattled on, I dared extend my arm and patted Alexander on his back, where the light snowfall had dusted his overcoat. He flashed a quick grin over his shoulder that made me giddy.

  “Now that we’re outside, I can better appreciate the red in your hair. You look beautiful this morning, my auburn-haired Madonna.”

  I didn’t think this comment wholly appropriate, particularly considering we were on our way to church, but Mother let it pass and I simply basked in the compliment. And then Alexander winked, just as the magician had a few minutes before. This time, however, I didn’t look down and blush, but
winked right back.

  Alexander’s eyes widened in surprise, and I bowed my head, shocked at my own boldness. I needed to appear serene and proper. I didn’t want Mother revoking her permission for Alexander to walk with us. My sister Azya, however, had no such restrictions placed on her behavior for she wasn’t the object of a man’s pursuit. She saw the looks we exchanged and then immediately piped up: “Alexander, would you care to stop and have your fortune told? They’ve set up a booth and it looks wonderfully intriguing.”

  Mother’s eyes were hard in her stern face. “We’re on our way to worship. There is no place for such frivolous pursuits on a Sunday morning.”

  Azya just rolled her eyes. Despite her modesty, I believe of us all, she was least afraid of Mother. “Perhaps after the service, then.”

  Alexander turned his attention away from Mother to the tents. “Fortune-telling is not for everyone. Those women abide by an impenetrable code of ethics and must remain honest at all times. You may not care for what you hear.”

  “You see? Don’t be a boor, Azya.” Mother allowed Alexander to take her arm once more and we proceeded on. His mysterious air made me wonder what destiny had been predicted for him, but Mother had trapped him into another conversation about the price of bread, so I cast one last longing look at the festival before hurrying on.

  * * *

  I had hoped Alexander might ask me to join him on one of the sleigh rides scheduled to tour the city at the end of Shrovetide, with a succulent pancake breakfast to follow. Unfortunately, Alexander seemed to time his arrivals to coincide solely with our weekly walks to church. I grew accustomed to watching the back of his head, the mass of unruly black hair curling in Moscow’s early spring drizzle. I came to know his gait by heart, the restrained spring in his step as he kept pace with Mother’s trod, and the tapping of his cane against the cobblestones.

  He and Mother must have reached some understanding, but I couldn’t imagine such limited contact would hold his interest for long. His visits remained regular, but their frequency didn’t increase and I couldn’t shake the feeling that grander ladies competed for his attention.