“He wants you to attend official court functions and has contrived to assign me this lowered position as an excuse to see you more often. He has handed me the cuckold’s horns and asked me to place them directly on my own head. After the display I saw a few moments ago, I suppose I can’t blame the man. He likely feels he has been led to believe he can have what he wants from you.”
I focused on the smirking cherubim along the thick crown moldings, trying to calm myself for the sake of the child growing inside me, but my anger demanded expression. “That’s ridiculous.”
Alexander rubbed his hands together again and then, realizing what he was doing, thrust them behind his back. “Do you find Nicholas attractive? It is said he is a handsome man…”
“You can’t imagine my casual compliments anything other than flattery.”
“You encourage his advances.”
“I have done nothing wrong. If you wanted a drab wife you should have married one of the women you count among your admirers.”
“I do not flaunt myself in front of my admirers.”
“You do! You bask in attention and yet you would deny me the same pleasure.” My voice was rising, but now I scarcely cared who heard us. “You dangled Alix Rosset before me. Even in your own proposal letter, you could not help but mention that foul Karolina.”
Alexander looked as though he thought I might strike him. “I only wished to be honest with you and your family.”
“At what cost? Do you not think that wounded me? Did you not think it would enflame my jealousy?” I began to feel dizzy and the floor seemed to slip out from underneath me, but I kept my footing and continued. “You were the one who encouraged me to be a part of the social life of this city and now that I take pleasure in it, you wish me to be holed up at home, as your prisoner. Then you should never be troubled with another man desiring what is yours.”
Beads of perspiration began to glisten in his black side whiskers. “That is not the point. Tell me plainly. Has Nicholas asked you to be his mistress?”
“Alexander!” I cried. “Shame on you.”
“I suppose you’re a victim in all of this as well. If the tsar asks to take you to his bed, how could you refuse? You would never share the affair with me. So I will forever be doomed to uncertainty.”
I could not control my words. “Our child … the one inside of me now. Do you wish to upset me to cause it harm? Would you have me miscarry?”
That was the moment the villain of St. Petersburg was born in her first incarnation: cruel and vainglorious wife. Alexander loved Masha and tiny Sasha beyond reason and I had accused him of trying to murder his next child. Yet my pulse raced so hard, my words had merit. He should never try to upset me, particularly not in my current state. The base of my temples throbbed and the back of my throat ached. “I don’t feel well. Take me home.”
His eyes hardened as though he had summoned the powers of Medusa to turn me to stone. “You are the queen of the ball. Surely you don’t want to disappoint your admirers.”
“I do not wish to remain in this place any longer.”
“You will embarrass us.” He inclined his head toward a group of women clustered near the dance floor, leaning in to one another and holding fans before their mouths so they could whisper to one another. “People will think we had a fight.”
“We did have a fight.”
“Even so, better to keep it to ourselves.”
It seemed a wife was expected to stand proudly by her husband and ignore his female admirers, but a man might glower and pout whenever his wife was praised. I was proud of my costume, which I fancied a tribute to the powerful women of a great ancient culture. I had hoped my husband would take pride in it as well. Instead he had ruined the night. I stepped away, determined to find my own way home without his assistance.
The tsar could not destroy our marriage, but I feared Alexander’s jealousy could.
* * *
After our fight, some of Alexander’s usual circle gathered around him. Though the men looked me up and down, this crowd seemed far more interested in gaining proximity to the poet than flirting with me. Alexander was accepting pieces for his new journal and no shortage of struggling writers and artists sought paid assignments.
When I asked Alexander to take me home, I had exaggerated my symptoms, but now my mind and body conspired and my stomach turned so violently I feared I might vomit all over the glossy floor. I did not know what effects the grippe might have on the baby growing inside me and I endeavored to find a place where I might rest for a bit. I spotted a long sofa along the opposite wall, heavily carved with rosewood cornucopias but inlaid with an inviting, floral cushion and matching pillows where a woman feeling faint might rest her head.
Once I had settled myself on the soft cushions, and as I was staring at my husband’s tense back, a man stepped before me. He was quite tall. At first I could see only his broad chest: full silver-plated armor and a staff with ribbons tied to the top. Tributes from fair maidens, I supposed.
“My lady.” The Arthurian knight swept into a low bow that made the metal armor clank. He dressed from British mythology but spoke French with a lilting accent, like a native. “I’ve been admiring you from afar all night and finally have a chance to see you up close.”
“I hope I did not disappoint, Sir Galahad.” I knew this comment made me a coquette, but I was still furious with Alexander. I felt abandoned and hoped he might overhear.
The man drew himself upright once more: a fair-haired gentleman with a trim mustache and sparkling blue-green eyes. I confess I lingered on his face a little longer than I might have were it not so pretty, and temporarily forgot the pain low in my stomach.
“Sir Lancelot, actually,” he said with a smile that animated his handsome features. “Though you’re dressed as one of the ancients, I should like to think of you as fair Guinevere.”
I looked about, fervently praying Alexander couldn’t hear us after all. I had not meant to make him King Arthur—history’s most famous cuckold—by proxy. “Priestess of the sun, actually. My husband dubbed the costume such.”
The knight looked behind him, where my gaze had landed. “Your husband is the poet?” His tone couldn’t have been less impressed.
“The finest in Russia.”
“I suppose there is not much competition for that title.”
My smile collapsed. “That’s most unkind and nowhere near the truth.”
The knight swept into another bow, the mischievous glint in his eyes mitigating the rudeness. “Forgive me, but you see it is only that in France poets are as common as the air we breathe. We are inspired by the beauty of life.”
I suppressed a grimace as my stomach cramped. “If you feel Russians lack culture, you must find my company dull.”
“You do not lack beauty.” He looked at me intensely, even more so than the tsar dared. The last man who had looked at me that way on first meeting was Alexander.
I rose and extended my hand formally, hoping to break the tension. “Natalya Pushkina,” I told him. “A simple girl from this simple land.”
He kissed my hand softly. “Georges d’Anthès. Enchanted.”
When he spoke, another cramp wrapped around my middle. I groaned and doubled over. My legs felt weak beneath me and the floor was unsteady. The knight’s expression changed and before I could protest his strong arms broke my fall as my knees buckled.
“My lady…” His face, though hovering above me, had gone fuzzy and I felt another wave of sickness overtake me. Behind the knight, I could just make out Alexander’s form, rushing toward me.
“My husband,” I whispered, throat raw. It felt as though my insides were being turned out. “I need him. I need to go home. I need Alexander.”
Thirteen
Our third child did not survive to see life outside of my womb. The pain gripped me until I screamed and then the blood came, dark and smelling of death. And just like that it was over. A court doctor was called and I spent the night
in a delirium of fever. When the fever finally broke, the doctor chided me for nursing my first two babies. I had suffered from soreness and irritation in my breasts, which I had largely ignored. The doctor said my actions resulted in an infection. Though it was unclear whether or not this was true, he strongly advised a wet nurse for children to come, carrying on about the virtues of milk from a strong Russian peasant woman and the evils of following modern child-rearing notions from the west.
I nodded obediently, hoping the doctor would leave soon. Alexander paced on the opposite side of my boudoir, rubbing his hands together.
After another day, the children were allowed to visit. Masha and I played cat’s cradle with yarn while Sasha gurgled happily at my side. Alexander watched us from the other side of the room, still seemingly unwilling to touch me, as though he feared he might hurt me.
“You almost died,” he said despairingly. “I should have insisted on a wet nurse.”
I sighed. Though the fever was scary, I thought the doctor had greatly exaggerated my condition. “I feel much better. I only need to rest and then I’ll be fine.”
“It’s my fault,” Alexander blurted.
Masha paused our game, the yarn caught in her pudgy little fingers, and turned to look at him. “Papa was bad?”
“He wasn’t bad. He didn’t do anything. Alexander, you mustn’t say such things and especially not in front of…” I inclined my head toward Masha. “I will be fine.”
“I was so angry with you…”
“You were upset. We were both angry at each other. It happens.”
“But I was not even angry with you,” he cried. “I was angry at him and I took it out on you. How can I live with myself?”
“Who?” Masha cocked her head, black curls dancing.
“Tsar Nicholas,” Alexander spat. “The very ruler of this land. The man who can make all of us perform as puppets on a marionette string as he sees fit and if we question his authority—”
“Masha, why don’t you take your brother? You can help feed him.”
“Ooooh!” Masha cried while I rang the bell so that the nanny might meet them as quickly as possible. As soon as the woman entered I said, “Perhaps a snack for them both. Masha may help you feed the baby.”
The nanny pressed her lips together in a judgmental manner, reminding me of Mother. Masha could be a handful and empowering her was likely a bad idea, but I thought it better than allowing her to hear her father rant about the tsar. Who knew what Masha might say outside our home and how easily word could travel to the ears of the tsar’s secret police.
Once they left the room, I grabbed a brush and conditioning oil, for my hair was still tangled from the night in bed with fever. The motion helped calm me. “You can’t say such things in front of her. You know how she is. She might repeat something.”
“It’s just … it is like he wants to toy with me for his own pleasure … and the way he looks at you…” Alexander rubbed his hands together so hard they were sure to chafe.
“Promise me,” I said. “Promise you will stop saying such things to anyone but me.”
He looked down at the floor as though kicking something that wasn’t really there.
I stopped brushing my hair. “Promise me,” I repeated.
“There is more to it than flirting with you and assigning nonsense positions to me, though that is horrible enough. I have received word the tsar’s censor refused to allow publication of The Bronze Horseman.”
“What?” The brush fell from my hands and to the floor with a clatter.
“It has been deemed seditious.” Alexander still would not look at me. “They have agreed to allow publication of the prologue, but the rest of the work is to be revised if it is ever to see light of day in our fine country.”
“But it is brilliant as is.” I remembered the thrill of reading the words for the first time, how the carriage seemed to fall away and I stood in the middle of the flood and the madness of Evgeny’s mind. “It would be a crime to revise it. Do not change a word.”
“We think alike, my Natasha.”
“The tsar must be mad. Madder than Evgeny in the poem.”
Alexander turned to glance over his shoulder and then regarded me once more with a sly smile. “Now, who should watch their tongue? We wouldn’t want that last comment out in the world. We might even have spies in our household. Despite his little love affair with you, I doubt Nicholas would care to be called mad.”
I decided to let the comment about the love affair pass. Alexander’s poem should have sold well enough to keep us in the clear for months if not years to come. To have it stopped on a whim … the injustice made my head spin. Yet Alexander was right. I needed to guard my tongue. Even at home.
“So you see I cannot make a promise I won’t keep,” he told me.
“Promise you’ll try,” I said, exasperated.
“Anything for my Madonna.” Alexander kneeled at my feet and took my hands in his, caressing the inside of my palm. I shivered with pleasure, but knew he could not touch me more intimately, not in the way I liked, for weeks to come.
“I think time away would be good for your recovery,” he said. “You mentioned you wish to see your family in Kaluga. You could spend time with your sisters. Perhaps it will be good for me as well. Being near you and unable to fulfill my husbandly duty? It is a torture no man on earth should be forced to bear.”
I managed a faint smile. “How easily you turn everything to the dramatic.”
“Perhaps you can take this opportunity to deliver the great Catherine back to her rightful spot in your family’s basement.”
“Never. She wouldn’t have it.”
“I shall spend some time away from the city as well,” Alexander declared. “I can write.”
“I like that idea. We are a growing family after all. It’s only a matter of time until the next one.”
“Down, but not out.” The thought of writing once more seemed to chase Alexander’s melancholy away. He tapped his mouth with a closed fist and I could almost see the wheels turning in his mind. “By the time you are back in the city, I shall have new work to sell and your charm shall help me get the highest price possible for my labors.”
At the time, I had no doubt Alexander could write another piece as great as The Bronze Horseman. This time with no content to which the censors could possibly object. Once again he would be the adored poet of St. Petersburg and even the tsar could not touch us.
* * *
A month later, I was strolling around the lake on my late grandfather’s property. The pathways were edged with fir trees and shrubbery formerly shaped into deer and rabbits, now neglected and grown wild. I drew in the fresh country air tinged with the scent of pine from the forest surrounding the estate, trying to ignore the rusting on the statues of the ancient gods that watched over the once-thriving English gardens.
I cannot adequately explain my feelings on returning to Afansy’s estate. I found comfort in the space from whence I came. However, with my grandfather’s passing, something was missing and I could not experience the wonder I had known when I spent time there as a small child. The looms that once ensured my family’s prosperity were too noisy and badly in need of maintenance. And after the grandeur of St. Petersburg, everything our family owned seemed insignificant. At least Dmitry had seen to it that our stables still housed a few well-fed mares. I wished we might have taken these fine Goncharov horses out to ride, but Alexander had explicitly forbid me from riding “spirited” horses during my convalescence.
Behind me, Ekaterina emitted a loud sigh. I turned. Masha clutched Ekaterina’s hand while Sasha bounced in Azya’s arms.
“They are only doing what they think is right,” Azya told Ekaterina. “They want what is best for you.”
“Who?” Masha asked, curiosity narrowing her eyes and making her look the spitting image of her father.
“Never mind,” Azya said gently. “This is a conversation for grown-ups.”
&nbs
p; I rolled my eyes. Azya could not have said anything to intrigue Masha more.
“They want me to perish an old maid!” Ekaterina moaned, her lower lip still jutting out in a pout. “They care more for their reputations than my happiness.”
I waffled between a gentle lie and my honest opinion on the matter. As a married woman and a mother now, I thought it my duty to stick to the truth. “You’re both right. They want what is best for the family, but they also wish to protect our reputations. You can’t marry him.”
Ekaterina had recently been bullied by Mother and Dmitry into refusing the hand of a perfectly lovely gentleman in Moscow. They cited the same reason that made me hesitate to marry my Alexander—he was said to have been involved with the Decembrists. I felt sorry for my sister, but had to agree with my family’s decision. Particularly now that my husband’s financial life had suffered at the hands of the censors, despite the tsar’s promises to the contrary. Besides, if Ekaterina was so in love with this man, she could have fought for him, the way I fought for Alexander.
A white hare crossed our path, leaning back on its hind legs and twitching its dainty pink nose. Masha screamed with delight, breaking free of her aunt’s grip and attempting to pet the little creature. It hopped away quickly at the sound of her scream, but this didn’t stop her from racing after it. Alexander would have gone crazy at the sight of his daughter tempting fate chasing a bad omen.
Ekaterina continued to mope. “My life is over. I shall have no more prospects.”
“Don’t say that,” Azya told her.
Baby Sasha squeezed his eyes together, face scrunched and red. I knew what was to come and extended my arms to take him from Azya before the full crying jag began, but my hands shook. I hadn’t slept much the night before and my nerves were unsteady.
“If only I lived somewhere with more opportunities to meet gentlemen.” Ekaterina raised her voice to be heard above Sasha’s wailing, as though the two of them were meant to form some sort of tragic Greek chorus. “If only I might be presented at court.”
Ekaterina was not exactly being subtle, and despite my rocking, Sasha would not calm down. I was supposed to be healing, and instead I found my heart racing as my mind worked itself into a fever of anxiety. While I was away, Alexander would get in trouble with the tsar, and my sisters would remain unattached their whole lives, growing dependent on us as our family’s estate fell into greater disrepair. I could not stop the panicked thoughts from rushing through my head, and at the same time, my darling child would not fall silent. I heard a loud “Ow!” from off the pathway. Masha had tripped over a rock and now picked at her bleeding knee.
The Lost Season of Love and Snow Page 17