I said nothing.
Georges continued to hold the pistol to his temple, but his lip started to quiver. “You cannot say it! Even to save my life you will not speak the truth of your heart.”
My silence might condemn this man to his death. I wondered what tortures might await me in hell, but I would not risk hurting Alexander.
The door clicked open once more and tiny footsteps pattered. The footfall was too light to be Ida. A little girl, nearly the same age as my Masha, popped her head around the doorway, her blond hair twisted into braids tied with pink bows on either side of her head. “Are you Natalya?” she cried merrily. “Mamma said we might have visitors, but she made me stay upstairs.”
The little one ran forward, not even noticing Georges or the pistol, and hugged my legs. “I have new dolls from France. Would you like to see them?”
I squeezed her back, never so grateful to see another human being in my life. “Dolls! How lovely.” I glanced across the room. Georges had withdrawn the pistol and was now opening and shutting his mouth as though unsure what to do next. It seemed he had enough sense left to stay his hand rather than blow his brains to the floor in front of a child. I muttered a silent prayer of thanks. For so long I had resented Mother’s piety and the limitations it placed on us, forever trudging behind her on the way to church. Now, I was grateful for the faith she had instilled in me. It would grant me strength.
Georges had lowered the pistol, but not put it away. I made a quick gamble. “Speaking of France, do you know your mamma’s friend, Georges? He is from that land.”
Intrigued, the little girl turned to Georges who quickly placed the pistol back in the pocket of his uniform coat.
“You are?” She said, with reverence. “Have you seen Paris?”
Georges still looked confused but kept his voice charming. “I have, little friend.”
“Perhaps Georges could talk to your dollies,” I suggested. “I’m sure they might want to meet one of their fellow countrymen.”
“Oh!” She clasped her hands together. “I’m sure they would enjoy that.”
“Are you up for such a discussion, Monsieur d’Anthès?”
Georges was not about to disappoint this child. “I could manage,” he stammered.
“Very well then.” I pressed her hand. “Georges will keep you and your mamma company.”
Ida’s daughter nodded and released my hand. I brushed past her without so much as looking at Georges and made my way out of that house as quickly as I could manage.
Seventeen
I managed to steady my hands during the bumpy ride home, but once I was safely back at our flat, and approaching Alexander’s study, my fingers trembled once more. Ekaterina and Azya had taken it upon themselves to accompany the children on a walk, leaving Alexander to his own devices. The furious scribble of his quill against vellum gave my battered heart some reason for hope. If he had conjured inspiration to revise his poems from the Stone Islands, and abandon his card tables at the club for the comfort of his own study, perhaps he might return to the Alexander I once knew: the Pushkin who marched across St. Petersburg and Moscow, pounding his silver-tipped walking stick on the cobblestone and tossing his hat in the air solely for the pleasure of catching it once more in his hands.
I felt a sudden pang in my heart. How terribly I had missed that person and how badly I wanted him back. My hand hovered near the doorknob, and I considered keeping the entire sordid incident with Georges to myself, so as not to disturb him. To create, his mind must remain free of worry. And yet word of the drama would reach him; Ida would never keep such a secret. Besides, Georges had put enough distance between Alexander and me already. I would not allow him to create further havoc in our marriage.
I gathered my courage and rapped my knuckles against the door.
“Who is it?” Already he sounded irritable. “I asked not to be disturbed. Come in only if it’s important.”
“Is your wife important?” I whispered.
The door creaked open and Alexander stood before me, eyes wide. “Natasha! I thought you were busy with your costumes, determining how best to break all men’s hearts…”
When he saw my expression, his brow creased. “What happened? Are you hurt?”
“No, but…” I clasped his hand. “Please let me in. Please let me hold you.”
He drew me first into his arms and then we moved to the large sofa he kept in his study for relaxing and pondering, as he put it. For the next quarter hour, as he stroked my hair, I told him of what transpired at Ida’s house. Hot tears began to flow and when I related the appearance of the pistol, my shoulders convulsed and Alexander’s body went rigid beside mine.
“Tasha,” he whispered, devastated. “I am so sorry.”
“I shall never go there again. I was tricked into the meeting, but I should have known not to trust either of them.” Alexander handed me his monogrammed handkerchief and I blew my nose before sinking my head onto a worn velvet pillow. He had the sofa placed before one of the shelves in his library, as though the sight of so many words bound in old leather might inspire him. I stared blankly at the shelves upon shelves of books and elaborate folio volumes that took up nearly half the room. Why had I started thinking of costume balls again? Why hadn’t I been content to stay here with him, curled up in a corner of the study on the deep burgundy leather cushion of his armchair? I could have read quietly and withdrawn from the world. At one time, hadn’t that been all I desired? “I will never see this man again.”
“I have no objections, only our holy tsar awarded me his little post at court as a token. We can hardly avoid society, which means we can’t avoid this scoundrel.”
Alexander was right. We had numerous obligations to appear at court functions and we still owed the tsar money, but I shuddered at the idea of facing Georges. “The man is mad!”
“Mad with love.”
I slapped Alexander on the arm. “Do not take it lightly. He held a gun to his head.”
Alexander leaned back on the sofa. “I did not mean to make it so. I wish to protect your honor at all costs. I simply do not know what to say.”
“An illness of the mind must be no different than an illness of the body,” I said.
“Surely there are doctors who could help. Treatments that might be administered.”
“It is difficult for a man to admit to such shortcomings.”
“An illness is no shortcoming.” I thought of my father roaming my grandfather’s estate. Dmitry had taken charge of my father’s care, but a sanitarium had never been discussed, for we all feared such places. I wondered now if that fear was misplaced. Babette did her best when Father visited. She made sure he was fed and at least somewhat clean, but I wondered how much differently my father’s life might have unfolded had he been under the care of professionals.
“Perhaps,” Alexander said, “but diseases of the mind are rarely admitted. When a man is committed to a sanitarium or some other course of treatment, it is often at the behest of the person who loves him most.”
It might have been too late for my father, but perhaps there was still hope for Georges. I remembered the baron’s tender eyes as he looked at Georges. He would want what was best for him, no matter the personal cost. “I know just the person.”
“Let me guess.” Alexander tapped his mouth with a closed fist. “Our friend, the baron? I could confront the man, I suppose, in the interest of your honor. I don’t care how old this Georges d’Anthès is, his father needs to give him a proper thrashing.”
“That was not my thought.” I felt his arms and shoulders tremble beneath me. I squeezed his hand to steady him, already imagining Alexander and the baron screaming at one another in a crowded ballroom, while ladies whispered and giggled behind their fans, no doubt blaming me for the entire tawdry scene. “I have caused the damage. I shall solve this problem and speak to the baron myself.”
* * *
First thing the next morning, I called on Aunt Katya and
impressed upon her my need to speak with the baron. She proved quite useful, for she had chatted with Georges’s adopted father at a recent supper party and learned he was to escort the ambassador from Bavaria to a performance of La Sylphide the following night. I wished to keep the business between Georges and myself private, at least for the moment. So, I made vague references to Alexander’s struggling new journal and the possibility the baron had useful connections in Europe. With a suspicious tilt of her head, my aunt finally agreed to ensure two tickets for the ballet awaited me at the box office that evening.
For the occasion, I chose a pale pink chiffon gown with a modest neckline. Alexander found himself conveniently ill and unable to attend, while in a twist on the usual state of affairs, Ekaterina declared herself content to stay home and care for the children so that Alexander might rest. Though she did sneak in a rude comment that she must fill this role since no one else seemed to take interest in them of late.
I wanted to slap my sister, but liked the idea of avoiding her company for the evening and didn’t want her to change her mind. Azya, usually the one to stay at home, seemed glad enough to go, but she gave Alexander a sad look as we left our flat.
Even in my agitated state, the ballet entranced me. I held a lorgnette to my eyes so I might see every detail. The dancers wore loose skirts that hit just below their knees to better showcase their impressive work en pointe, a feat I thought I would never grow tired of watching. I felt sure Alexander would get tickets for himself after he heard how ravishing the ballerinas looked, although I didn’t think he would like the character of the fortune-telling witch.
When the red-and-gold velvet curtain dropped after the first act, we left our seats and entered the crowded lobby for intermission. Despite the crush of people, I immediately spotted the baron near a crystal bowl filled with punch and sliced oranges, and a lavish cake ornamented with graceful miniature sylphs. He was speaking with a bearded man I assumed was the ambassador. Assuring my sister I wouldn’t take long, and giving her coin to purchase an iced sherbet if she so desired, I worked my way through the people gathered in the crowded lobby to the spot where the baron stood and gently tapped him on the shoulder.
The baron spun around, startled. When he saw me, his expression remained neutral, but his shoulders hunched underneath the thick fabric of his uniform coat. The Bavarian diplomat stopped talking and took a pinch of snuff from a silk pouch.
“Madame Pushkina,” the baron said, between gritted teeth.
“Madame Pushkina?” the diplomat exclaimed, huffing through the words as he stifled a sneeze. “Of course! I heard you were the most beautiful woman in this city or any other and now I see you do not disappoint. A pleasure!”
“The pleasure is mine. I’m sorry to interrupt, but might I steal the baron for a moment?”
“Your wish is my command.” He bowed gallantly and kissed my hand. Though I was in no mood to flirt, I appreciated the Bavarian’s good manners and he left of his own accord, stuffing his pouch of snuff back in his pocket and helping himself to a glass of the fruited punch before crossing the room to examine a collection of posters advertising the season’s ballets.
“What do you want?” The baron asked coldly. I took a step back. He had always regarded me with subtle contempt, but this was the first time he actually seemed angry to see me.
I steeled myself and pressed forward. “I must speak to you about Georges.”
“The man I last saw at home weeping with a broken heart?” he said. “You see, he grew infatuated with a beautiful woman, and when he was led to believe she felt the same, this infatuation turned to love. Yet it seems he was but a toy to amuse this same woman’s ego and now that she has no further use of him, she left him devastated and alone.”
In my heels, I was as tall as the baron so I looked him straight in the eye. Hopefully, he still held his adored ward’s best interests at heart. “Is that the story he has told you?”
“It is the tale I have seen unfold before my own eyes.”
“He received no encouragement from me. We did nothing but flirt, trifling coquetry at that. He lives in a fantasy of his own making and now cannot leave it.” I glanced nervously about the lobby and lowered my voice. “When I saw him last it was a surprise to me. He pulled a pistol. He threated to shoot himself. Georges is not well. He needs help.”
“This is not the version he related to me.”
“It is the truth,” I insisted. “You are his father, in legal right if not in blood. Surely you could intervene so that his mind might settle and be well once more.”
“All Georges needs is a person who loves him for who he is and not for his pretty face or flattery.”
I didn’t know whether it was diplomatic, or even wise, to say what I truly felt in my heart. I only knew that when he spoke of a person who loved Georges for who he was, the baron spoke of himself. I had seen his longing gaze fixed on Georges enough times and heard whispers the baron preferred the company of men. “Surely he already has that. He has that in you. He will see your intervention for the true affection it is. You love him.”
The baron looked struck, even as his eyes grew tender and his voice softened. “It is not as simple as that. I wish it were.”
“Perhaps it could be,” I said. “You have heard rumors about the Goncharov family, have you not? You must know of my father’s troubles. We lived in denial for so long, but it has gotten so bad that my mother cannot tolerate his presence. Now he is shuffled back and forth between my late grandfather’s estate and the home of my brother Dmitry. It is a sad state of affairs. I wish we had done something sooner … sent him somewhere.”
The baron raised his defenses once more, shaking his head and looking at me as though I were a demon in female form. “Now we see the true nature of the matter. I will not send Georges away. To a sanitarium or whatever other ghastly place you suggest. That would be madness.”
“It is not a permanent situation. It’s what is best for him…”
“It’s what is best for you.” The baron’s words were like frost in the air. “Wouldn’t that work to your advantage? Instead of taking responsibility for your own actions, you would be absolved. Georges d’Anthès the madman. Poor Natalya Pushkina.” He waved his hand in disgust. “You are even more selfish than I imagined.”
My heart quaked from the shock of his words, wondering if there was not some truth to them and I truly did care more for my own reputation than Georges’s well-being. Perhaps that was why I had asked to speak to the baron alone, without Alexander present. Could I be so horrible? “That is not my motivation. I hope you will reconsider.”
“I will do no such thing,” the baron snapped. “You have reduced a splendid man to feminine hysterics. You think he might end his life over you? I cannot tell you differently. If you wish to help, abandon your husband and run away with Georges. Go to Europe, to the French countryside. Such affairs happen all the time.”
Cramps twisted my middle. I regretted the day I ever laid eyes on Georges, but still had one weapon at my disposal. The baron could not mean what he said. He couldn’t bear to lose the man he adored. “You would have me take Georges away from you? You love him.”
“You don’t know the meaning of love. When you love someone you want that which will make them happiest. You are willing to sacrifice your own happiness to make this so.” At that, the baron turned his back to me and I knew I had been dismissed.
I barely felt sensible and couldn’t see past the blurry veil of my own tears. Making my way across the lobby, I had no idea where Azya had wandered off to. I only hoped she would spot me and guide me outside to the courtyard, serving as my eyes as she had before I married. Once she saw my state, surely she would call for our horses and we would go home. I wanted nothing more than to be in my own bed with my children and Alexander for comfort.
Instead, I felt a strong hand grip my arm and found myself spun around and staring up at the tsar. He held me with one hand and a chilled glass of champ
agne in the other.
“My Lady Pushkina,” he said in his deep, booming voice. “Darling! You look a fright. Are those tears? What has happened to upset you so? A lovers’ quarrel?” His expression was subdued, yet I knew our tsar well enough now to detect the subtle smirk on his lips. No doubt he was laughing inside, laughing at me. Laughing at Alexander and Georges and the baron and our silly feelings, all of us merely entertaining players on a stage to him.
I could not summon words, only a tepid curtsy.
The tsar motioned for me to rise. “Georges d’Anthès is not here this evening. Such a shame. It seems the two of you are good friends.”
I gathered myself together. “We are acquaintances, nothing more.”
The tsar looked casually around the room, as though his next words would not destroy me: “Yet it seems you have set tongues wagging. Why even my wife has heard rumors from her ladies you took a secret meeting with this fellow. Rubbish, I’m sure.” He drew a step nearer, so the sheer mass of his body seemed to block any escape, as though he wanted to leave no doubt he could overpower me if he wished. He leaned in close. I could smell the mint sprigs he used to freshen his breath. “Still, if you’re in need of another ‘acquaintance,’ I can fill that role.”
No matter what anyone might say, or what Georges thought, I was not simpleminded. It was clear enough to me what the tsar meant when he said “acquaintance,” and the ghastly implication made me feel I was not a true being, but merely a physical body, good for one thing only. He knew I had been alone with Georges in Ida’s house, believed us once lovers. Now that this fictional affair had been torn asunder, he wanted to take me as his mistress. Anything I might say in my own defense would only make matters worse. And now the tsar hovered over me and I was trapped in every possible sense.
The Lost Season of Love and Snow Page 23