The Lost Season of Love and Snow

by Jennifer Laam

  I grabbed a pen from Alexander’s writing table and dipped it into ink to compose a letter to my eldest brother, Dmitry, who was officially charged with our family’s finances even if Mother still held the purse strings tight. If worse came to worst, I would get Ekaterina and Azya on the next train to St. Petersburg, meet them there, and make proper introductions. If one of them found a wealthy suitor, our troubles would end.

  And then I stopped cold. I was thinking as Mother had before my marriage. Her only concern had been Alexander’s financial situation and she hadn’t given a second thought to my happiness. I would not turn into Mother. I wanted my sisters to find love—even Ekaterina. Perhaps love would change her personality for the better; she could pursue that soldier she so desired. I hoped Azya would have better sense than to marry into the military, instead finding a gentle nobleman whose interests lie in breeding sports dogs or collecting French art.

  I began to write, scratching the nib of the quill onto my grandfather’s elegant paper. If it did so happen that one or both of my sisters made brilliant matches, money would no longer press so heavily on our minds. With such pressure relieved, Alexander might start to write again.

  * * *

  “Desperation has a sour scent, like spoiled milk.” Aunt Katya straightened the lace ruffles at the back of my gown. “This is true in both romantic and professional matters. If one gets the sense of it about a person, one moves on.”

  I had hired a carriage to take me to St. Petersburg to go shopping with my aunt. It felt good to be out on an adventure. We stood now in her small formal parlor, a quaint and distinctly feminine space filled with knickknacks and handmade lace doilies. Aunt Katya and her adolescent maid, a nervous girl whose face was still spotted with pink pimples, helped me try on a gown before a full-length mirror. The gown had fashionably puffy “leg-of-mutton” sleeves and an equally fashionable low neckline, along with elegant bows on each shoulder. I thought the name for the sleeves ridiculous and their shape impractical, but it would keep me apace with the stylish Alix Rossets of the world.

  “I understand,” I told my aunt. “I want to make sure we are prepared for the season.”

  “The balls in Moscow are intimidating, and yet imagine a thousand times that in St. Petersburg. You will be evaluated not as a young maiden, but the wife of a prominent man. That is a different matter entirely.”

  Something sharp poked my thigh and I yowled. My aunt’s maid had accidently jabbed me with a pin while adjusting a seam. I wished I had brought Liza with me. Aunt Katya slapped the poor girl on her wrist and then said, “I’ve heard Alix Rosset has been to visit.”

  “She is one of Alexander’s readers.” It was not purely a coincidence that I had timed my trip to take place exactly when Alix had declared she would be back in St. Petersburg. If she wished to visit my husband alone, she would have to be clever about it; I would not open the door for her. “She says she is an admirer of his work.”

  “The empress sent her?”

  “She suggested we might become friends.”

  “Are you friends?”

  “I confess we are not.” And then I blurted: “She takes far too much interest in Alexander and too little in me, but I am attending to that and assure you she has been put in her place.”

  “Perhaps.”

  I caught my aunt’s eye in the looking glass. “You do not think I am capable of defending myself from women who take too much pleasure in my husband’s company?”

  Aunt Katya turned to the still pouting maid. “Find some drapes to clean. If you prick them, they will not bleed.”

  The girl scuttled away. Even so, Aunt Katya spoke in my ear. “Be careful. The tsar takes an interest in women and sometimes has them scoped out prior to his advances. His wife … she learned long ago to turn the other way.”

  You would allow us the honor of a visit even if your husband were indisposed. I remembered the sensation of ice in my chest when the tsar looked at me. If Aunt Katya was right, and the empress had no compunctions about the tsar’s affairs, Alix might have been sent to see whether or not I might be a willing mistress to the tsar. And that would mean she could spend all the time with Alexander she pleased. If our marriage dissolved, she might even step into the role of scandalous yet revered poet’s mistress, all with the approval of Tsar Nicholas.

  I should not let my imagination run away, yet the theory remained lodged in my mind. “I will avoid the tsar as best I can, and take care not to signal interest, no matter how slight.”

  My aunt managed a tight smile, her lips rosy and powder impeccable, though tiny creases at the corners of her mouth were starting to betray her age. I knew what she was thinking. After all, she was a lady of the court and had no doubt spent a great deal of her time avoiding the advances of powerful men. If the tsar wished to have something, neither of us could stop him.

  Ten

  “I miss Paris in the autumn,” Alix was saying one afternoon in early September. She continued to make weekly visits to our rented home in Tsarskoye Selo. As was her practice, she sat between Alexander and me while the luncheon china was cleared and Alexander’s favorite dessert of gooseberry jam took its place. “It is the only way to learn French properly and to absorb the culture as one should.”

  My husband had never seen the great cities of the west, so I’m not sure what this comment meant to accomplish other than to intimidate me. Alix cast a pitying glance in my direction, though she had not mentioned whether or not I should see Paris. As I sipped tea, I checked the rage seething inside of me.

  “Alexander, you must travel there someday,” the tiresome woman continued. “You would be the darling of the salons.”

  “Sounds grand.” Alexander beamed at the compliment and dug into the gooseberries. Unlike me, he relished the hint of bitterness in the fruit and his mouth puckered with positive delight; whether this was from the dessert or the praise, I couldn’t say. I smashed the tart berries deeper into the sugared preserves while Alix’s eyes shifted about, taking note of the housekeeping, as though this might somehow bring to her mind the exact state of our marital affairs. Any neglect she spotted in our home was due to the fact that I still spent every night with Alexander in bed and woke too tired and happy to oversee the housework properly.

  “Of course the foliage is quite lovely in Moscow this time of year,” I prattled, smoothing my white day gown, needing them to remember I existed. “The park across from Mother’s house appears on fire for a while in autumn. Do you remember, my love?” I gave Alexander a coy smile and then addressed Alix politely. “You speak of the French capital with such love, but how much time have you spent in Moscow? The very heart of Ancient Muscovy? I was born and raised in the ancient city, shepherded about its winding streets.”

  Alix looked at me as though I were an intruder who had appeared at the door with a pistol in each hand. I tried to swallow my contempt, but observed that somehow her chair had maneuvered closer to Alexander’s. A stranger would assume she was the wife and I a mere visitor in my own house.

  “I’ve seen Moscow many times,” she said coldly. “With the tsar’s family. When they are in town, I stay in the Kremlin.”

  “Oh, of course.” I imagined how much fun I might have gossiping about Alix with Ekaterina. I could see my sister’s stout jaw jutting with disdain and a queer pain struck me then. How I wish Ekaterina were there to subtly comment that the shade of Alix’s dress did not flatter her skin tone or that she had been particularly sloppy with the rouge so obviously applied to her cheeks. “By the way, do you think it might be a particularly mild winter? Why, I stroll in the gardens late into the afternoon and not even a hint of snow touches the air.”

  “Really?” Alix said. “I had heard those from the country had a peculiar ability to remain in touch with the weather and such.”

  “From the country?” I raised my eyebrows innocently, trying to capture the polite disdain my aunt was so practiced at conveying with this expression. Alix had just made a fatal mis
step and I wondered if she would be clever enough to see it.

  “Muscovites are countrymen to you?” Alexander said lightly.

  “Of course not, only having been born and raised near St. Petersburg, I don’t have such talents.” Alix’s voice stammered a bit, but she soldiered on. “I was raised to spend my days discussing paintings and my evenings at the opera and ballet. I’m sure you understand, Sasha. You were raised the same.”

  Sasha. I took a sip of raspberry tea to hide my smirk.

  “I even heard you’ve made a joke of it,” she continued, oblivious to Alexander’s—or should I say Sasha’s—souring mood. “The Gates of Moscow? You said the city should adopt a slogan: abandon all intelligence ye who enter here.” She laughed for effect.

  “And yet I was born in Moscow.” Alexander’s voice shook with hurt feelings. “I hope this doesn’t mean you think my talents are better suited for weather divination than the arts to which I have devoted my time.”

  Alix opened her mouth into a simple oval and I smothered a triumphant smile.

  “I guess that is all we are,” I told her, wondering if now Alexander might be persuaded to lie to Alix, saying we had an engagement this afternoon so she would have to amuse herself elsewhere. “Two country mice from Moscow trying to make our way as best we can.”

  * * *

  Country mice. Despite Alexander’s efforts and initial bursts of creativity, nothing could be further from the truth. As Aunt Katya predicted, life in the country did not suit Alexander long. For all he might praise the clean air or the crisp pine trees, he found excuses not to write. He rose later and later in the morning and summoned numerous reasons to stroll in the palace gardens or take his horse for a ride before his ten daily pages had been completed. He stopped asking me to transcribe drafts and I feared this was because he had no new words to offer. While I sat downstairs after yet another late breakfast—bent over a needlework pattern of birds and flowers meant to edge table linens or pillowcases—I kept my ears perked for the scratch of Alexander’s nib from his quill on fresh paper.

  All I heard was the click of metal against metal as Alexander cleaned his pistol. He had not yet shot holes in the wall as he had in our house in Moscow, but I knew we could not stay in our dacha much longer. Alexander was growing too restless. Truth be told, I was restless as well. I had escaped Mother’s house knowing a better life awaited me, and much as I adored Alexander’s company, I wished to venture out in the world more often.

  And so, together, we took up residence in St. Petersburg, and I made my first appearance as a woman of the capital’s society at the palace of Count de Ficquelmont, the ambassador from Austria. The night we arrived, it was ablaze with light from dozens of candelabras and chandeliers. The scent of wax and cologne and the savory late-night buffet of wild mushroom soup and beef croquettes filled the heated air inside as a haunting and lovely tune by Mozart played in the background. Eine kleine Nachtmusik. The composer had hailed from Salzburg and I assumed this a nod to our Austrian hosts, though I fancied it had been timed for Alexander’s appearance, in honor of his story Mozart and Salieri.

  We stood in the entranceway, under a vivid fresco of Persephone abducted by Pluto, flowers spilling from her arms as she was dragged down to the underworld. While we awaited our formal introduction, I smoothed the folds of the pale pink gown Aunt Katya had helped me choose. It had been delivered earlier in the week so that I would have plenty of time to let out the stays. I had gained a little weight in my stomach and harbored a secret suspicion as to why my waist widened and I felt woozy in the mornings. I wished this was a costume ball, for I would have preferred to slip into another persona for the evening rather than be stuck with mine. I felt insignificant and uncomfortable at once, as my corset pinched so tightly I was forced practically to stand on my tiptoes while I struggled to breathe.

  “I am more nervous than I anticipated,” I whispered to my husband. “Perhaps I should have pleaded a stomachache and stayed at home.”

  Alexander kissed my hand. “How can I keep such a ravishing creature all to myself at home? It wouldn’t be just.”

  I smiled, but it sounded more like something the tsar would say than Alexander. “You wouldn’t be content with a simple wifekin then? I suppose the poet of our time needs an elegant lady of society at his side.”

  Alexander stared at my hair, which I had dressed atop my head with curls near my ears. I did not think the tiara I had worn when I first met Alexander was appropriate for a married woman, but I wanted to give some reminder to my husband of that magical first night when we met, so a tiny diamond circlet rounded my forehead, with one tiny diamond dangling in the center. No one who saw us this evening would think for a moment we needed to concern ourselves over money. Aunt Katya would be proud.

  Alexander extended his hand—sheathed in a silver-colored silk glove—and pressed the jewel until I felt its smooth, cold surface against my forehead. “I love you as you are, my angel. If only I could take you home right now and show you what I mean.”

  His low voice called to mind all the pleasures I took in his company when we were alone, yet something was wrong. As Alexander took my elbow to guide me up the steps, I sensed the fidgeting and shifty glances. “I overstated my case of nerves,” I whispered, pausing to catch my breath once more as we ascended. “You needn’t worry.”

  He gave a high laugh, as though he had been caught in an illicit act and needed to talk his way out of it. His next words struck me as false. “I’m not worried.”

  “Then why are you fidgeting?”

  “I only hope you are happy with the company you find here tonight. There is not as much talk of fashion at these affairs. The chat takes a more political bent, as at a salon.”

  “Do you feel I cannot keep pace with such talk?”

  “I only wish you not to feel bored.”

  I hesitated. It occurred to me that Alexander never would have imagined Alix Rosset bored by politics. He had been trained at the Impérial Lycée and no doubt Alix, Karolina, and other women he attracted had the female equivalent: poor in quality compared to the education given to men, but far superior to my sporadic lessons at the hands of governesses who taught me French and dancing, along with the proper way to hold a cup and saucer in polite company and a bit about the dramatic arts, but beyond that left me responsible for my own endeavors at learning. I wondered now if this bothered my husband.

  “Are you embarrassed by me?”

  He opened his mouth in mock shock. “Madame Pushkina! You wound me!”

  I lowered my voice. “Do you think I lack the sophistication needed in St. Petersburg? I haven’t seen Paris, after all. Unlike…” I could not bring myself to say Alix’s name, afraid I might unwittingly summon her presence.

  “I have not seen Paris either.” Alexander pulled his hand to his chest with dramatic flair. “I said as much.”

  “You are well educated. Your French puts mine to shame.”

  “You have a charming wit,” he said.

  “That is not the same as a formal education.”

  For a moment, his features reminded me of Ekaterina, for Alexander was pouting. His voice took on an injured tone. “You are well-read. Familiar with the classics.”

  “You’re still evading my question,” I said. “Are you embarrassed by me?”

  “How could Vulcan ever be embarrassed by Venus?” He kissed my hand again. That was as direct an answer as I would receive, but must he still bring up that tired comment? I supposed his self-doubt might account for his anxiety and the concern I had regarding my own lack of education was a mere reflection of my own insecurity. It was our duty now to learn to live with these foibles and support one another. By the time our names were called, we entered the white-and-gold ballroom hand in hand.

  I knew all eyes were on me. The faces were fuzzy but their stares weighed heavily on my exposed shoulders and back. I was prepared for this, however. Aunt Katya had warned me of what to expect.

  “The
goddess of love herself,” a voice in the crowd muttered. Near the back of the room, I spotted a tall man with a drooping mustache speaking to other men in uniform. With a sudden flush, I recognized Tsar Nicholas. I didn’t see the empress.

  The tsar caught my eye and his face lit like the dawn. I could not avoid his gaze, nor pretend I had not seen him, but I didn’t want to approach him. Alexander was determined to say hello, so we proceeded forward, his hand still firmly in mine.

  “Here’s the beauty we’ve all waited for,” Nicholas said. “I thought I would see more of you in the gardens at Tsarskoye Selo but I haven’t caught sight of you since.”

  “Most unfortunate,” I murmured.

  “I hope you have not chosen to avoid me.”

  “I would never.” In truth, I had been avoiding a second run-in with him.

  Alexander squeezed my fingers. “We were quite busy during our final months there, and then, of course, we came here, and with all the moving and what have you…”

  Fortunately, the tsar changed the subject, focusing his majestic attention on Alexander. “How goes your writing?”

  Now it was Alexander’s turn to look embarrassed, his face growing splotchy. I thought of the verse he had read for that strumpet Alix Rosset and how I had neither seen nor heard anything new. Perhaps a gentle nudge from the tsar would be just the thing to set him in motion. Something positive might yet be gained from this awkward encounter.