My first instinct was to duck to avoid being so near his face. Instead I swept into another curtsy, the lowest I could manage, trying to stretch the moment so I might calm my trembling hands and determine what to do next. Our holy tsar had chosen to wield his infinite power. If his suggestion evolved into an explicit proposition, I was in no position to refuse. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I have not felt myself all evening and believe I will be ill.”
The tsar’s forehead wrinkled in annoyance, but his words remained smooth as honey. “What troubles you, dear lady?”
I cast my eyes down in mock embarrassment. “Pains in my stomach. I must make my way home before it gets the better of me.”
Though such matters were meant to be private, everyone knew I had suffered a miscarriage two years ago: the first night I had met Georges. On reflection, I should have seen this as an omen and known better than to pursue any relationship with him, no matter how seemingly innocent. I did not think even the tsar would risk a woman’s health under such circumstances.
Sure enough, the tsar paled. “As you wish. By all means, take good care of yourself and fetch a physician if need be. Why our little Pushkin need merely say the word and I shall send the court doctor to your flat. We shall renew our friendship at a later date.”
He took my hand, turning it over so my palm faced upward, and let his tongue slip between his lips. I repressed a shiver, feeling as though a reptile had slithered onto my wrist and caressed me.
“I look forward to seeing you again, my little vixen.” The tsar drew me forward, pressing himself to me in a hug. I tried to pretend this was nothing more than a platonic affection while simultaneously working my body away from his. “Remember to take care with the way you behave in public. People are talking and word might reach your husband. You would not want to arouse a great man’s jealousy.”
The tsar would not refer to Alexander as a great man. He was the “great” one whose jealousy had been inflamed. I had reached my darkest moment with the worst possible decision before me: betray my husband’s heart or risk my family’s safety by angering the tsar.
I didn’t know how much more I could bear. I only wanted Alexander.
* * *
When I arrived home, Alexander was locked away in his study once more. As I stared at the flicker and glow of candlelight in the crack underneath the door, I was torn between craving my husband’s arms around me after another terrible night and not wishing to disturb him at all so that he might work.
As I wavered at the door, a figure approached me, tall and thin in her nightdress, holding a candle aloft in a holder.
“Finally!” Ekaterina said. “I thought you would never get home.”
“I’m home earlier than usual.” I had no patience for my sister’s nagging, not tonight.
“You need to go in and see your husband.”
I intended to do just that, but wasn’t a field soldier at her command. “He’s working. I thought I would wait so as not to disturb him.”
“He has been in there all evening and will not let anyone inside. He will not eat. He even refused dessert.” Ekaterina tossed one long braid over her shoulder. “It’s hardly like him.”
I was in no mood to cede this truth to my sister. “You understand his profession? He is a writer. Writers need privacy.”
“If he is writing, why have there been no sounds of scratching nibs and the like?”
“Have you stood outside his door all night?” I said, exasperated.
“Listen to me.” Ekaterina used her free hand to take me by the shoulder, still holding the candle aloft. The light shone on her face. I saw the creases lining her brow. This was not some drama of her own invention; she was truly scared. “A letter arrived earlier. He would not let me see it. But he looked a fright after reading and has since locked himself away. Believe me, he isn’t working. Who knows what he’s doing?”
I thought of the pistols in Alexander’s desk and my body froze. I heard the light steps of Azya coming up behind Ekaterina, and sensed her terror, nearly as great as my own.
“You haven’t seen him all evening?” her voiced wavered.
“No one has. Not even the children.” Ekaterina leaned forward, right past me, and knocked on the thick wooden door. “Your wife is home,” she called. “Will you leave her out here to worry herself to death?”
After a moment, the chair scraped against floor, and I heard the heavy plod of Alexander’s footsteps, so different than the light steps he took when happy. The lock unlatched and Alexander stood before us, his black curls a mess and his eyes dazed. Behind him, atop his desk, the flame of his candle wavered, wax dripping slowly down the edges and into its copper holder. I spied a letter on his desk and an envelope with a broken red beeswax seal tossed to the floor. Though I could not make out the particulars, a few words stood out from the rest, as though they had been written in blood.
The Most Serene Order of Cuckolds.
My chest turned to ice.
“You had a good time with the tsar?” Alexander’s words were a monotone.
“Will you leave us?” I turned to Ekaterina, trying to control the tremor in my voice. “I need to speak to my husband alone.” I glanced over her shoulder at Azya. “Both of you.”
Alexander seemed to suddenly realize Azya was there and came alive with anger, storming toward her. “And you accompanied her? Did you have a good time? Did you watch the men drool all over her poor little hands and the women laugh behind their damnable fans?”
No matter the true nature of my sister’s feelings for Alexander, she was intimidated by his temper and stammered: “Well … I had a time…”
“How many men did you meet? Or were they all so captivated by my wife they made no time for you?”
“Alexander!” I cried as Azya turned stone white.
He stopped himself, hands bunching into fists. “Listen to my wife and leave us.” And then to Ekaterina, “You too.”
Ekaterina gave me one last irritated look before taking Azya by the arm and stomping away.
“What is this?” I pointed to the letter. “Who brought it to you?”
“The messenger is not the salient question, but rather the author: your tormented pursuer, Georges d’Anthès.”
I wished to believe Georges incapable of such foolishness, but his erratic behavior had proved otherwise. I could not forget the dead look in his eyes when he held the pistol to his head. “May I read it?”
My husband gave a hollow laugh and beckoned for me to enter the study. He pushed the letter toward me. Quickly, I read. The words were as terrible as I had supposed. I had betrayed him with another man. I had made a fool of him. Word of my time with Georges at Ida’s house must have spread across the city, just as the tsar had said. Nausea weakened me, but I refused to collapse. I needed to stay strong and read through the terrible missive. Just as I got to the last sentence, he snatched the letter from me.
“I changed my mind. This isn’t your problem.” He locked it away into the same desk drawer where he kept his pistol. “I should not have shown it to you.”
“We are husband and wife. We will deal with this together, only you cannot believe I have ever betrayed you.” My voice started to break. “I carried on a modest flirtation. That is all. I have already told you of my last meeting with Georges. He is not well. Now he’s trying to rile you. However…” I glanced at the drawer where Alexander had stashed the letter away and hesitated. “The writer may have meant to reference Georges, but this isn’t from Georges.”
Alexander didn’t miss a beat. “How do you know?”
“He wrote little notes … trivialities, no more. I ordered Liza to avoid them, but I did see a few … and then the invitation to Ida’s house. That isn’t his handwriting.”
Alexander slumped in his chair, head in his hands, looking defeated. Why was this happening? Why did I continue to hurt my husband? I felt like a beast. Worse than a beast. A devil. “I acted a fool. I’m sorry.”
�
��If this wasn’t written directly by Georges’s hand, I wager it is from the good Dutch baron, on behalf of his adored son.” Alexander sprang to life once more, startling me, opening the drawer and waving the letter in my direction. “Look at this paper. Have you seen anything of the like? Expensive stationery from a man of society, from a foreign shore.”
As Alexander worked himself into a greater fit, I found it easier to maintain my composure. One of us needed to keep their wits about them. “That is pure conjecture. I don’t believe the baron would ever facilitate something so rash. You have no evidence that the baron is involved at all.”
“Then I shall have the paper examined! I am sure enough of its provenance. Georges d’Anthès must get his way with that fellow even more than Masha gets her way with us.”
Alexander threw the letter on his desk and collapsed onto the large sofa he kept in his study. Clasping his fingers, he covered his face. I could not stand that he had been brought so low. I moved to his lap and wrapped my arms around him, needing to shield my husband from the cruelty of the world. Resting my head on his shoulder, I started to cry again. He stroked my hair and I cried harder, grateful for his gentleness.
“I must face him,” Alexander said.
“No.” I shook my head, dreading what was to come next.
“I must face him on the field of honor.”
“Alexander, please,” I said. “This is what they want you to do.”
“What who wants?”
“Whoever is responsible for this cruel letter. You once told me you are like Mozart and the court is filled with jealous Salieris. Could it not be that one of them wishes to plant foul suspicions in your head?”
“Or Georges d’Anthès wishes to make you a widow and the baron is willing to do his foul work for him.”
“Then why does Georges keep writing to Ekaterina?” I asked desperately. Even as the answer popped into my head, Alexander gave voice to it:
“He wants to be near you in a way that puts him beyond reproach. It makes me sick.”
“Georges will not marry my sister, and I will see to it that he doesn’t come anywhere near me. Please do not escalate this foolishness. It’s beneath you. Promise me.”
Alexander’s gaze fell past my shoulder, as though he didn’t hear me. “You have no idea the power you possess, the power of a beautiful woman over a man.” He pulled away, clasping my shoulders now. I was grateful for the weight of him holding me. “Don’t you see the lengths this swine will go to, to make you his? I must protect you. You are not safe around him.”
“You do not need to protect me. We must let this conjured controversy pass.”
Slowly, he shook his head. “I have already sent a response to the man who has declared his love for my wife and made a fool of us both. I only await his response to know the day and time he wishes to face me on the field.”
I saw the deep pain in his eyes and hated myself. That sensation has never left me, but lingers as a ghost to a tormented soul. Alexander was being pushed into a duel over my reputation. No matter what happened, I was to blame.
I recalled what the baron had spoken of before: sacrifice made for true love. Alexander had always said it would be cheaper to live in the country. I wanted nothing more than to leave St. Petersburg altogether. But first I needed to find a way to stop this duel, another pointless affair of honor among men, from ever occurring.
Eighteen
ST. PETERSBURG
NOVEMBER 1836–JANUARY 1837
Have you ever see a man so trampled by life he loses his appetite, his swagger, his very reason for being? I pray you never do, for this is what happened to my Alexander. When I look back, I see my husband in two frames: the time before the letter and the time following. The man who came before—mercurial, jealous, passionate—and the broken man forever after.
At first, I did not realize this damnable letter had also been delivered to Alexander’s friends, twelve copies in all. One of those same friends, having seen Alexander’s name on the envelope, and not understanding it to be a cruel jest, had forwarded the letter to him without reading the content; so not only had my husband read the devastating words, but knew he had been made the laughingstock of St. Petersburg.
Those first few nights I knew nothing of this and still hoped we might contain the problem to our own household. The baron himself arrived at our flat the morning after Alexander issued his challenge to Georges. His normally impeccable clothes were in disarray and his features sallow, as though Alexander had already shot Georges straight through the heart on a ghastly field of honor. I was not privy to the conversation, but stood near the door of Alexander’s study, gently rocking my little namesake in my arms. I heard the gist well enough. The baron had lost all sense of pride. He was crying, a muffled wail, as he begged Alexander to grant an extension and give Georges a week to determine how to avert the duel. After the baron left, Alexander calmly told me he had given him two additional weeks.
“You still believe the baron is responsible for the letter?” I asked Alexander. “After seeing him this way?”
“I don’t know what to think anymore.” He rubbed his hands together, but even this nervous affect was slow, as though his body went through the motions of living, his mind elsewhere. Drawing two fingers to his mouth, he kissed them, and then bestowed that kiss on our baby’s sweet forehead. “I only know I could not be so cruel as to deny a broken man’s request. Two weeks makes no difference.”
Alexander was wrong. Two weeks could make all the difference. I had time now to determine how to end this sordid mess.
One portion of the letter still puzzled me. The unknown author had mentioned by name the grand master of this obscene order of cuckolds: Naryshkin. I did not see how this man was connected to the business, but doubted his name had been dropped by chance. Not wishing for Alexander to fall deeper into melancholy, I decided to call once again on Aunt Katya.
As my aunt sat sipping hot tea in her posh flat, I related the contents of the letter. When I mentioned Naryshkin, her face instinctively wrinkled, and she set her saucer down hard on her fine French table, causing her little pot of elderberry jam to quiver.
“You know why the author would mention this man?” I asked.
Aunt Katya smoothed her hair over her ear and straightened her shoulders. “His wife was the mistress of Nicholas’s late brother.” She hastily crossed herself. “It is said the last tsar paid him handsomely for the privilege of bedding his wife.”
My thoughts clicked into place like jigsaw puzzle pieces. “Then this affair may not be over Georges at all. Whoever wrote this letter wants Alexander to believe I am the tsar’s mistress?”
Aunt Katya’s lovely features clouded with worry. At first, I thought she was being sympathetic. As the minutes ticked by on her grandfather clock, I realized she might be waiting for a confession. I should not have to do this. I should not have to plead innocence to my own mother’s sister. She was family and should know me better.
Yet what choice did I have? She still held sway at court. I needed her on my side.
“It is not true,” I said flatly. “It is the worst kind of lie.”
“I needed to hear you say it. Even if everything in the letter is a lie, sometimes such matters have a kernel of truth exposed as a result of the gossip. I know it’s difficult, but if I am to help, I must know the extent of the matter.”
“I flirted with Georges, as you know,” I spat, hating every word. “It was foolish. I have put a stop to it. He is the one who keeps pressing the matter.”
“And you have flirted with Tsar Nicholas?”
“No more than any other woman at court. What else can we do? Ignore him?” I felt pressed into a corner and spoke plainly. “I believe the tsar wants to make me his mistress.”
She didn’t even blink. “How do you think he might go about making this so?”
“It is only an implication at this point. I intend to avoid him.”
“Forever? How?”
/> I dropped my head into my hands, wishing I might disappear. I was so tired. “Someone is ruining my reputation and driving my husband mad. They hate Alexander so much they wish him to duel.”
“Does Alexander believe you have been unfaithful?”
“No, but he still believes he must defend my honor. He has already issued a challenge to Georges. Should I now worry he will challenge the tsar himself?”
Aunt Katya tucked a stray lock of hair under her ear. “I doubt even your husband is so rash and challenges can be withdrawn with no loss of honor. We now have two weeks to convince Alexander to do so. We can divert Georges easily enough. After all, your husband is known to be a keen shot.”
“Georges is mad!” I said. “I told you, he threatened to shoot himself. He doesn’t care about his own life.”
“Monsieur d’Anthès may not care about his young life, but the baron cares for him deeply. Don’t you agree?”
“He adores Georges, no doubt.”
Aunt Katya’s pretty features remained placid, but I fancied I could see gears turning in her clever brain. “Our family must be as transparent as possible. We must declare any rumors about you and Georges to be rubbish as quickly and loudly as possible. The baron wishes for Georges to avoid this duel at any cost, so he will help. Plus, we have an additional ally.”
I bit my lip. “Who?”
“Your own sister.”
“Azya?” I thought of my sister’s feet dangling over the edge of Alexander’s sofa and the tips of my ears burned.
“My namesake, Ekaterina. I believe she would be thrilled to receive a proposal of marriage from Georges.”
“Wait … what?”
“He must be encouraged to propose to Ekaterina. As quickly as possible.”
A brass samovar hissed and my stomach lurched as I processed what my aunt had said. “Why would he do that? He doesn’t love her. He’s only playing with her affections the way he accused me of playing with his.”
The Lost Season of Love and Snow Page 24