“I believe he will do it.”
“Even if Georges agrees to such nonsense, Alexander will assume it’s a ruse and fear seeming the fool once more.”
“Your husband may fear seeming the fool, but he is no fool. Ultimately, he’ll see the sense of it and be glad enough to let your sister live elsewhere.”
Guilt gnawed at my chest. I could not stop thinking about Georges’s handsome features distorted as he held a dueling pistol to his head. If he were willing to turn on himself in such a violent manner, he could turn on my trying sister as easily. “It wouldn’t be fair to Ekaterina.”
“Ekaterina will be over the moon. She is sick with love for that boy, anyone can see it.”
“But Georges has shown he is … unstable.”
“I am confident your sister can handle herself.” My aunt leaned forward. Her voice lowered to a whisper, as though we were in a crowded ballroom, rather than alone in her parlor. “You don’t know everything that happens underneath your roof.”
“What?” I shook my head vigorously and found myself unable to control the trembling of my own hands. “What is happening? What do you know?”
“I know this arrangement is best for everyone involved.”
Aunt Katya’s features were set and I realized she had already decided the matter in her own head. I could not stop her from setting this plan in motion. The baron would do anything to save Georges, and Ekaterina had already proven she was too far gone in her infatuation to heed any warning about Georges’s temperament. Alexander had backed himself into a corner by issuing the challenge, but I did not think him so melancholic he would risk his own life in a duel when he had an opportunity to withdraw and still maintain his honor.
I had only one person left in this world I thought might help save my sister.
* * *
“Your husband doesn’t look well,” Mother told me, nodding toward Alexander’s study. “He should be under the care of a physician.”
The betrothal happened quickly. Though Alexander grumbled, the baron met with him personally to swear this was a love match Georges had made of his own free will, and that he had declared his love for Ekaterina long before this foolish note had been circulated about town. My husband remained unconvinced, but eventually—after several private meetings with my aunt and the baron—withdrew his challenge. Even as I spent the Christmas and New Year holidays helping Ekaterina sew petticoats and delicate lingerie for her trousseau, shame haunted my every thought. My husband was no longer in danger, but my sister was about to make the biggest mistake of her life and no one seemed willing to stop her.
In early January, our mother came to town for the wedding. She was my last hope.
Mother looked stern and stoic as ever, dressed in black from head to foot, a large silver crucifix dangling from her neck. One could easily have mistaken her for a nun. She towered over my children, who were so intimidated by their grandmother that once obligatory kisses had been bestowed, they quickly scampered off to hide out with their aunts in their back bedroom. After a perfunctory greeting, apparently a fresh wave of inspiration struck Alexander and he moved to his study, closing the door with a thud.
Now I wondered if he’d heard what my mother said. Even though the challenge had been withdrawn, Alexander looked gaunt and haggard from lack of sleep. The letter still wounded him, no matter what he might say. And though he was but three years from forty, he stooped at the shoulders and groused like a much older man.
“He’s under tremendous pressure,” I told Mother. “As you may have heard, he has started an almanac in the English style—the first of its kind in Russia.”
“Then why doesn’t he seem happy?”
“Well … he is limited in what can be written on political topics since everything is subject to censure. So he has not attracted as many subscribers as he hoped…”
“I think his pressures extend beyond the financial. I think he experiences the pain of a beautiful wife who is careless with his feelings.”
So many years had passed since she could intimidate me, since she could pressure me to live the same bitter, cold life she had endured. And yet the tender little girl inside of me felt hurt and ashamed because I had displeased my mother, the most important person in the world.
“Surely you know I exchange frequent letters with your aunt,” she continued, “or are you such a part of the high Petersburg society now that you believe you are out of my reach?”
I tapped my fingers on a piece of glasswork hanging over our mantel, steeling against her, forcing my heart to turn to stone. “I am only surprised my mother would believe such blatant and evil lies.”
Mother pressed her lips together. I had never spoken sharply nor contradicted her before, at least not to her face.
“You were not carrying on with your own sister’s fiancé?” Mother asked at last. “You wish to deny this? And if you are innocent, why is your husband so upset?”
I recalled what Aunt Katya had told me about Mother’s own experiences at court, how she had been driven from her position through no fault of her own, but by the unrequited love of a man and the whim of an empress. “You well know how easily a woman’s reputation can be damaged.”
Mother took a seat at the kitchen table and for a moment looked her old self, emotions impenetrable, like the Turkish fortress of Kars, just as Alexander had once told his friend Tolstoy. In another minute, however, her head was in her hands. She released a sigh that threatened sobbing, but managed to hold back her tears.
“Of course I do,” she said softly. “That is why I am so worried.”
“Then why harass me with accusations?”
“I had to be sure. I had to see your reaction. You wouldn’t be the first woman caught in an ill-advised affair of the heart.”
I joined my mother at the table, the sight of her so upset inclining me to forgiveness. Though my true feelings still made me sick to my stomach with shame, I decided to risk sharing with her. “I admit … I found Georges attractive. I thought about him. I was disloyal to my husband in that respect, but I love Alexander. I have always loved him.”
“Then you must protect him,” Mother said. “You know this.”
“By sacrificing my own sister to a man who does not love her?”
“Your sister is attractive enough, even if you cannot see it. She has had suitors in the past. This man must have some feelings for her or he would not have asked her to marry him.”
I looked at my hands. My normally impeccable cuticles were ragged. “He’s only trying to avoid a scandal.”
“He could have left the country. He’s a foreigner, is he not? If he wished to avoid a fuss then he could have returned to France or wherever his father might want him to go.”
“I think there is more to it than that.” I think he wants to ensure he remains near me.
“I hope your sister is not right in thinking you wish to block her path to happiness.”
“Georges is unstable,” I blurted. “I think he needs help.” At last, I shared with my mother the tawdry tale of what had happened when I saw Georges at Ida’s house in the barracks: his declarations of undying love, the pistol to his head, and the appearance of Ida’s daughter. By the end of the tale, Mother’s face had paled considerably.
“I cannot let Ekaterina marry such a man,” I said, “but she will not hear reason. And what would Alexander say if the wedding was canceled? Would he stand with me? Would he still believe me when I assure him I do not return Georges’s affections?” I thought of the tsar’s proposition as well. This I did not share with Mother; she had heard enough for one night. “I feel like a fly ensnared in a spider’s web. I fear there is no right answer.”
Mother rubbed her cheeks. My children’s feet thumped the floorboards at the back of the flat, punctuated by the merry sound of Ekaterina laughing. I hadn’t heard my sister laugh in such a genuine way since we were girls, yet her engagement to Georges had made it so.
“Koko is old enough to k
now her heart and determine the direction of her own life,” she said at last.
I blinked hard, unused to hearing this endearment for Ekaterina from Mother.
“Besides, you couldn’t stop the wedding if you tried.”
“You could.”
“Have you noticed anything … odd about Koko as of late?”
“She is always odd.”
“She does not look herself. She is pale, tired, complains of nausea…”
Slowly, the meaning of my mother’s words became clear to me. Aunt Katya’s words rang in my head: You don’t know everything that happens underneath your roof. “You think she…?” I could not bring myself to ask if my sister was with child, tried not to imagine Georges capable of such a crass seduction. But I didn’t know what to think about anything anymore. Besides, it made sense. If it were true, or at least if we were made to believe it was true, Alexander would have no choice but to relent in order to save Ekaterina’s reputation. Aunt Katya must have shared her suspicions with him. That is why he had finally called off the duel.
“For once in her life, your sister is happy,” my mother said. “She wouldn’t be the first woman with an unstable husband. Leave her be.”
“She doesn’t understand what she’s doing,” I cried.
“She is a clever enough girl. She will find a way to manage the situation.” Mother pressed her lips together and I knew there would be no further discussion of the matter. “Your aunt is right. This marriage is in everyone’s best interest.”
* * *
I claim no powers to foresee the future. Still, I have come to believe human beings capable of intuiting how events might unfold not with the rational reasoning so beloved of philosophers, but only a queer feeling in one’s stomach. The heart feels what the mind might not yet know or accept. Alexander had withdrawn his challenge, Georges and Ekaterina were wed on the tenth of January, and yet still I dreaded what was to come.
Alexander hoped to avoid any contact with Georges and Ekaterina. Once my sister had moved out, he declared they were no longer welcome in our house. Yet, St. Petersburg society was a complex thing, and we both knew we could not avoid them entirely. A mere week after the wedding, we were all invited to a lavish supper party at Count Shuvalov’s mansion, where the tsar was to be counted among the honored guests. My mind ran in circles. Despite everything, the vile order of cuckolds was still the talk of both St. Petersburg and Moscow; that the letter to my husband had been filled with lies and libel was irrelevant. After the wedding, Aunt Katya had confided to me that the empress herself asked one of her maids whether she thought Georges married for love or to save the honor of the woman he truly loved. Even if Georges was my brother-in-law now, I wished to avoid him. Yet I could well imagine the vicious rumors were Alexander and I to avoid social functions with Georges and Ekaterina: that he was gambling and I was home crying, pining over a lover I gave up to my own sister.
Unable to sleep, I placed a tender kiss on Alexander’s still cheek, and tossed the covers aside. With no fires yet lit in the hearths, I laced my flannel robe tight around my neck to fight off the chill in the air, and then lit a candle in a wide holder so I might wander our flat.
As I walked, the shadow of dancing flames cast about me, landing on the statue of Catherine. She was tucked into an alcove in the corner of our main hallway, beside potted ferns Azya had bought from a passing vendor. Catherine’s stout bronze figure called to me and I held the candle higher to better see the subtle hint of a smile tempering her stern expression. I thought of what Catherine might do in my place, what my grandfather Afansy would have done when he was a younger man: hold their heads high.
I determined to do the same.
The evening of the supper party, the four of us stood at the foot of the palace’s ironwork staircase, waiting with the other guests for the announcement to enter the dining room. I hadn’t seen Georges since the wedding, and though he held my sister’s hand, he would not tear his gaze from me. Alexander could witness this plainly enough, as could everyone else in the foyer. I took care to keep my features amicable and conversation light, commenting on the beauty of a marble nude, a woman reclined seductively with her arms outstretched, at the entranceway, and the portraits of Count Shuvalov’s esteemed ancestors hanging on the wall above the hearth. I tried not to stare openly at Ekaterina’s belly, nor wonder whether it had grown larger. Meanwhile, Ekaterina thrust her left hand forward to show off her ring at every opportunity. She babbled about wedding gifts, still sailing on a cloud over her good fortune.
“The most generous gift came from Tsar Nicholas himself,” she declared to an elderly countess, who wore an emerald-studded tiara over her gray hair and held a lorgnette to her weak eyes. “One thousand rubles! Can you imagine?”
When Alexander heard that, he smirked and rolled his eyes, but held his tongue. A slow burning irritation churned in my stomach. Ekaterina had not the wits about her to realize the countess would see this gift for what it was: the tsar viewed our family as a charity case. In fact, the thousand rubles had been delivered to me with instructions to purchase a suitable wedding gift for my sister, but I did not view myself as the tsar’s private servant and had just given her the money instead.
“I always fancied the mahogany divan in my sister’s parlor,” Ekaterina prattled on. “Why, with this generous gift I can decorate our entire flat with such finery.”
Couples in elegant evening coats and gowns stared blatantly, quickly looking away once I caught their eye. I would not let them view Alexander, nor even Ekaterina as figures of pity, even if I came across as empty-headed in the process. I would not give them the satisfaction of watching our family fall into disgrace. My sister’s unchecked words made matters worse, but somehow I would salvage the situation.
I bit my lip, trying to recall the countess’s name. When it came to me, I cut into their conversation: “Countess Burlova! How marvelous to see you.” I kept my tone modest, but my voice grew louder than intended. The countess turned her lorgnette to me, nose wrinkling. “I am so sorry to interrupt, but I only now remember that I wished to ask my good sister about a podiatrist she once recommended.”
Ekaterina looked as though she wanted to tear off her new jeweled brooch and throw it at me. “Whatever are you talking about?”
“It is only that my feet are not as fine as they once were…” This sounded like the smallest of small talk, even to my own ear. Alexander crooked his head and gave me an incredulous look. Hopefully, he found this nonsense amusing at least. “… and yet I cannot recall the gentleman’s name.”
“And you must have his name right now?”
“Yes,” I insisted. If my grandfather, Afansy, could have seen me, I think he would have been proud of the effort I made for the sake of our family’s reputation. Perhaps after my mother’s disgrace, my father’s descent into madness, and this newest scandal, there was still time to redeem the Goncharov name after all.
Georges turned to me, seemingly intimate but in a voice that let anyone who cared to make an effort overhear our exchange. “Yes, what is this doctor’s name? Perhaps he can confirm something that has been troubling me.” He whispered the next words in French, but I was certain everyone could hear. His voice seemed to roar in my ears. “I know your feet are more beautiful than my wife’s.”
A bead of perspiration trickled down my forehead. He had spoken in French to play on the similar sound of cor for feet and corp, the word for body. Georges was a newlywed and still he could not contain himself. Not even when my husband stood at my side, his anger seething like a living presence among us.
When Georges tried to catch my eye, I cast my gaze elsewhere: the silver tinsel draped around the banister of the staircase, an exceptionally large emerald on the countess’s tiara, the head of a deer mounted above the family portraits and the poor creature’s vacant gaze.
Georges raised his voice to tell Ekaterina: “I see I am not well received. Perhaps my conversation is more welcome elsewhere. C
ome, my légitime.”
My stomach turned so violently I thought I would be sick. Georges had used a derogatory expression for my sister’s status. From the corner of my eye, I spotted a young man, stifling a laugh, then making the cuckold’s horns, two fingers held over his head like antlers, to the delight of his friends.
I pulled Alexander closer. He felt stiff as a statue. Everything else happened quickly and yet I saw every movement drawn out slowly before me: Ekaterina’s scowl, Georges’s intense glare, and the sagging of Alexander’s shoulders right before he straightened himself up again. Alexander dropped my hand, crossed the room, and then stopped abruptly before the mounted stag. He reached up to tap the horns with one finger.
“This is the right place for husbands, is it not? Next to the cuckold’s horns? Some in this room would see it as a perfect position for married men such as me.”
Some of the couples giggled, while others looked at their feet. For all of their finery, I imagined them a mob in rags, gathered around a guillotine as crowds once had on the streets of Paris. Yet as my pulse calmed, I realized this was only my imagination. Given the drama playing out before them, the reaction of the other guests seemed fairly subdued.
Several people turned their gaze from Alexander to the top of the staircase. I looked up and froze. Before the entrance to the dining room, stood the tsar in a formal white uniform coat ablaze with medals that glittered in the candlelight of a high chandelier. He did not look at the red-faced Ekaterina, nor the oblivious Georges, nor even me. He glared at Alexander.
“Might we speak?” Tsar Nicholas requested, his tone a command. “You and your wife.”
We glanced at one another and then turned to the staircase. Without a word, Alexander and I reached for one another’s hand, clasping them together tightly as we ascended. The buzz of ordinary conversations resumed and this mitigated the humiliation somewhat, but my face felt afire.
“I don’t know what strange affairs take place within the confines of your own home,” the tsar admonished, before we had even taken the final step to the top, “but when you are engaged in a public space I expect your behavior to reflect that of a seemly Russian family.”
The Lost Season of Love and Snow Page 25