Silver Nights

by Jane Feather

  Sophie had been running the household since she was sixteen, and supervising these domestic matters brought her a measure of calm, but it was short-lived, as she realized when she returned after an hour to the library to bid the gentlemen to the dining room for supper. It had not occurred to her to change her dress or even tidy herself, and a flush of embarrassment crept into her cheeks as she saw that the count was out of uniform, dressed with plain elegance in coat and britches of gray broadcloth, lace ruffles at neck and wrists. Even her grandfather had changed his coat and cravat as a gesture of courtesy to their guest—for all that the visitor was uninvited and on what Sophie was convinced was a sinister errand.

  “You must excuse my granddaughter’s informality, Count,” said the prince smoothly. “We are not accustomed to standing upon ceremony in this house.” He raised an eyebrow at Sophie. “I am certain supper will wait for a few minutes, Sophie.”

  She left without a word, blushing in furious discomfort at having been caught at such a mortifying disadvantage before the count. She now felt like a rebuked child, all the advantage she had gained at their previous meeting quite dissipated. Why it was necessary to keep the upper hand in her dealings with this tall, lean aristocrat of the wide, intelligent forehead and deep-set gray eyes, she did not know; but she knew that it was.

  Her scanty wardrobe produced a blue woolen skirt, a full-sleeved, white linen blouse, and a sleeveless jacket of gray velvet. The outfit was at least clean, if not elegant. She washed her hands and face and tied her hair back with a ribbon. A critical look in the glass showed her a country girl in country dress. She shrugged defensively. That was what she was, when all was said and done, and it had never troubled her before.

  Adam, having decided that he must do something to improve matters between them, greeted her return with a low bow, raising her slim brown hand to his lips. She was taller than average, with a lissom, willowy figure accentuated by her simple attire, yet he was conscious of a muscular strength, the suppleness that was bred from physical exercise, that went with the pleasure he knew himself was to be derived from an active life and the peak performance of those activities.

  Adam Danilevski had never met a woman like Sophia Alexeyevna, and he was certain that neither had Paul Dmitriev. He smiled at her.

  It was a smile that transformed the stern composition of his face, set the gray eyes dancing, laugh lines crinkling around those eyes and at the corners of what Sophie recognized with a shock as a most beautiful mouth. Involuntarily, she returned the smile and he saw again the friendly, glowing creature he had first met on the steppes. He discovered a great desire to renew acquaintance with that young woman, and with quiet deliberation brought the full force of the well-known Danilevski charm to bear. He could not offer customary compliments on her dress or coiffure, since they would be hypocritical and he rather suspected that Princess Sophie would have no truck with hypocrisy. At the risk of exacerbating old sores, he spoke of what he could genuinely admire.

  “I must congratulate you on your marksmanship, Princess,” he said, as they crossed the square hall into the dining room. “I saw the wolf. You had placed your shot impeccably.”

  Her face radiated all the transparent pleasure a debutante at the court of St. Petersburg would have shown at a compliment on her dress or her dancing. No, not beautiful, Adam thought again, but most arresting. Amazing eyelashes, pure sable and thick as a paintbrush.

  “It was not difficult, Count, since I was prepared for him,” she said, smiling her thanks as he held her chair for her. “He had followed the same pattern of attack in the past few days, you understand. I had the advantage of knowing the pattern.”

  “Of course,” he murmured. “Unfortunately, I had no inkling of your skill, or of your knowledge, hence my chivalrous anxiety to forestall you in a matter that I so mistakenly considered to be more my province than yours.”

  Sophie regarded him with a hint of suspicion, but the face bent upon her exhibited only candor and a smile that seemed to invite her to turn the ridiculous squabble into a shared jest. “I do not tolerate having my bridle caught, Count,” she said carefully. “But I have a rather hasty temper, and I am afraid that I may have overreacted.”

  “Perhaps we should agree to forget the matter,” he suggested.

  “With pleasure,” agreed Sophia Alexeyevna. “Will you try a little of the braised pike, Count? It is caught in our own rivers.”

  Supper passed thus, in pleasant conversation and apposite compliments, while Prince Golitskov ate with the sparse appetite of the elderly and watched and listened in sardonic amusement as Count Danilevski set out to win the confidence of the princess. Golitskov was well aware that Sophie, although she responded with more than simple courtesy to their guest’s conversational sallies, was wary, was waiting for an explanation that she knew concerned her. But it suited the old prince to keep her in suspense for a while longer. He was interested to see how she bore up under the strain, whether the cool head that served her so well in the physical arena operated as well when the tensions were social and emotional. If it did, he would fear less for her when she was lost to him, swallowed in the political mire that had destroyed her parents.

  But Alexis had been naive, his father thought with the old stab of sorrow. He had trusted, had embraced causes with enthusiastic conviction, had seen none of the dangers inherent in this place and time for those indulging in intellectual and emotional commitment to people or ideas. Why else would a man of thirty put himself in an ambivalent political position, flee without thought, then kill himself because his wife died in childbed? For the old pragmatist, it defied understanding, now as always.

  With the benefit of hindsight Golitskov had brought up his granddaughter in a different way than he had her father. He had taught her to trust only in her own strengths, to believe only in the facts of her physical environment. Now he watched the girl, sensing her control, the way she weighed her words, never allowing herself the luxury of an ill-considered response. She was behaving as if she were astride a half-broken stallion whose next move must be anticipated. With an unholy glee, Prince Golitskov could also sense the puzzlement of his guest, confronted by this apparently country-bred young woman who spoke impeccable French, as if she were in one of the salons of Petersburg or Moscow, yet clearly fitted no conventional mold.

  How would the unknown General, Prince Paul Dmitriev react to his chosen bride and reward? The prince’s amusement died rapidly. It was one thing to take pleasure in observing his granddaughter’s behavior with a man who, apart from the briefest involvement, would have no say in her life; quite another to contemplate that behavior with a man he did not know, whose wife, and therefore chattel, she would become. Perhaps he should accompany her to St. Petersburg…. But he was old and stiff and tired and he had not been to court for forty years. What help could he be to a young woman starting out on her life?

  “Are you quite well, Grandpère? Something seems to be disturbing you.” Sophie spoke directly across the table, its polished wood glowing, the silver gleaming in the soft yellow puddles of light from the oil lamps. The sudden bleakness of her grandfather’s expression had brought the prickles of apprehension into full bloom, and she asked the question without thought.

  Prince Golitskov sighed and pushed back his chair. “Let us return to the library. It is time to have done with this, I think.” It was the count he was looking at, and Sophie’s own eyes went to the figure beside her.

  “There seems little point in procrastination,” agreed Danilevski, meeting the prince’s gaze before turning to Sophie, the gray eyes calm yet with a hint of something swimming beneath the calm. Was it compassion…regret?

  Sophie shivered, heard her voice as if from a distance, weak and almost pleading. “I don’t understand.”

  “Let us go into the library,” repeated the prince, moving with habitual stiffness away from the table.

  Spring nights on the steppes were chilly; a fire had been kindled in the hearth, and oil la
mps lit, curtains drawn. Sophie looked around the room in all its familiar warmth and comfort, and the cold shaft of premonition entered her soul.

  “I think you had better read the letter for yourself,” the prince said, handing her the document under the imperial seal.

  Sophie turned it over in her hands, studying the seal, for a moment not realizing what it was. She looked at her grandfather in confusion. He told her with slight impatience to open it and read the contents. She did so, but at first the words made no sense, seemed to deepen her confusion. The ticking of the pedestal clock was as loud as a church bell in the quiet room; the crackle of flame, a slipping log, as violently obtrusive as a forest fire. The words danced on the paper, as if they would elude her eyes as their meaning eluded her comprehension. She was aware that her hands were shaking, and she began to walk around the room as she read and reread the script. Activity always calmed her, and as the full import of the document finally became clear, a deep stillness filled her.

  “I am not going,” she said quietly, folding the document, holding it out to her grandfather. “It is quite absurd. I am not a piece of property, to be moved, given away. I have never come across anything so ridiculous.” She looked at the prince for confirmation of her words, but what she saw on his face pierced her calm confidence. “You…you understand, Grandpère. You understand why I cannot go?” she said with sudden hesitation.

  “I understand only why you must go,” he answered. “Perhaps Count Danilevski would explain the realities to you.”

  “He?” Sophie turned on the count with undisguised contempt. “Why should he explain anything to me? He is a mere errand boy, but this is one errand he will fail to accomplish.”

  “My errand, Princess, is to take charge of you and deliver you in good health to the czarina in St. Petersburg.” Her angry contempt did not annoy him, since he was all too well aware of the truth of their relative positions. “I would, of course, prefer to do that with your agreement.”

  Sophie paled at the unmistakable implication in the flat, unemotional statement. She looked again at the prince. “I am staying here with you. Tell him, Grandpère.”

  The old man shook his head. “You are a subject of Her Imperial Majesty, the empress Catherine,” he said briskly, knowing that the slightest indication of his own sorrow and fear for her would do her the greatest disservice. “That document is an imperial command. You must obey it.”

  She looked at him as one would look upon a Judas. “No…no, you cannot mean that.”

  “But I do,” he said. “This summons was bound to come one day—”

  “But you have always said that the court is a place of intrigue and betrayal, that it destroyed my parents, that—”

  “Yes, I have said all those things.” He interrupted her in his own turn. “And they are the truth. If you remember those truths, then you will be better able to deal with that world than was your father. No, let me finish.” He held up his hand imperatively as she opened her mouth. “No one means you any harm. This marriage that has been arranged for you is intended for your good and the good of the Golitskov. It will reinstate the family, something that I am too old to do. You must have children, Sophie. The family will die with you otherwise; and you must have those children with a man of equal rank. It is time for you to enter the world. Her Majesty makes it clear that when you leave my house she will take personal responsibility for you until you pass under your husband’s roof. It is a great honor.”

  “It is no honor!” she spat. “It is tyranny, as you know. You would betray me and everything you believe in!” She swung on the count. “I will not go with you, sir.” The door banged violently on her departure; the fire hissed in the draft; the lamp flickered.

  Prince Golitskov sighed, trimming the wick until the flame steadied. “I expected nothing less. It is up to you now, Count.”

  Adam looked aghast. “You are not suggesting I take her away from here a prisoner? You can surely persuade her into acceptance. Or, at the least, use your authority to insist on her compliance.”

  The prince smiled. “My authority, Count Danilevski? I was under the impression that Sophia Alexeyevna is now under the authority of the empress, and you are the imperial representative.”

  “For God’s sake, man! What good is this going to do your granddaughter? If you have the slightest affection for her, you will make her see the reality of her situation.”

  “Do not question my affection for my granddaughter,” said the old man very quietly. “I have done all I can, and I will not hinder you in any way. You forget, perhaps, that I know Sophie rather well. Nothing will be gained by my repeating myself. She must come to see these things for herself. She will do so eventually, because she is a remarkably intelligent young woman. But I do not know how long it will take. If you have the time to remain here for a few weeks, then I am sure you and I together will succeed in persuading her to accept her destiny with good grace. But if you are in a hurry…” He shrugged, and walked to the door. “I am an old man, Count, and seek my bed early. I will see you at breakfast.”

  Adam looked in some disbelief at the closed door. Of all the stubborn, malicious, awkward old bastards! He could not possibly cool his heels in this wilderness trying to cajole that hot-tempered creature to come quietly. But he knew how she felt, had felt the same way himself twelve years ago when, under military escort, he had left his own home and all that was familiar for an unknown destiny in a place of which he had heard only stories to alarm. And Sophia Alexeyevna was going to become the wife of General, Prince Paul Dmitriev.

  The image of his general rose in his mind’s eye. Prince Dmitriev was a martinet, feared and loathed by those under his command. A man who exercised his power without compunction, and who heard no one’s voice but his own. Yet he won battles, and so long as he did so no one questioned the gratuitous waste of life, the methods he used to send terrified troops into certain death. But Sophia Alexeyevna was to be Dmitriev’s wife, Adam reminded himself, not a member of his army. He quashed the uneasy thought that the general seemed to lose wives, rich wives, as indifferently as he lost soldiers in the interests of glory.

  The vodka bottle remained on the side table, and he helped himself, certain that sleep would not come easy this night. He was a soldier under orders. It was not a soldier’s right to question those orders. This princess of the house of Golitskov was going to St. Petersburg under his escort. Apart from any other considerations, it was manifestly absurd that such as she should spend her life in this forgotten outpost of the civilized world. Once she took her rightful place in the imperial circle, she would forget quickly enough the uncivilized steppes. She would discover there were other pleasures to take the place of riding half-broken Cossack stallions and shooting rabid wolves.

  He drew aside the curtain over the long French window looking out onto the garden. Was it really possible for dancing, gossip, obsession with one’s wardrobe, the inevitable round of salon visiting, for these city pleasures to supersede the elemental glories of…

  His musing was abruptly shattered. A figure was hastening across the dark garden, a mere shadow, yet an unmistakable shadow with that long stride, the flowing hair. Where was she going? To the stables, of course. Once astride that horse, there was no knowing where she would go.

  He struggled with the bolts of the French window, cursing as his fingers slipped in his haste and bolts that had clearly not been drawn throughout the frozen winter months refused to budge. Giving up, he ran from the library and crossed the hall to wrestle with bar and bolts at the great front door. How the hell had Sophie got out of this fortress? Why were there no serfs to help? Surely they were not all permitted to retire, leaving none awake to attend to whatever needs or whims their masters might have in the night?

  No one came to his assistance, but he managed to unbar and unbolt the door eventually. The night was cold and still as he stepped outside. He stood listening. A wolf howled, the wind rustled in the long grass of the steppes, a rhythmi
c swishing sound that was curiously menacing. It was near as bright as day under the canopy of a silver sky, so pure and bright that for a moment it took his breath away and he forgot the urgency of his errand. Then he was running again, reaching the stables as the clatter of hooves on the cobbles signaled the departure of his quarry.

  “Your pardon, lord. Can I help you?”

  Adam found himself facing a giant of a man dressed in a peasant’s fur-lined skin jacket and baggy linen trousers, wearing the long hair and beard of a muzhik, yet carrying himself with the power and authority of a master.

  “Saddle me a horse,” Adam said shortly. “One to match the speed of that Cossack stallion.”

  “We do not have another such, lord,” the giant said stolidly. “Khan is one of a kind.”

  Adam faced the man squarely. The gray hair and beard were belied by the powerful physique and the sharp black eyes; the peasant dress and manner by the assured speech and the intelligence in the broad planes of his face. Adam recognized the type of man with whom he was dealing. They were a rare species, the servant who had been treated as friend, singled out for honorary membership in the ruling class. And the loyalty they gave in return was of an awesome tenacity that not even the knout or the strappado could break.

  Adam spoke quietly in the clear, silent night. “If you would do service to the princess, you will find me a mount that might afford me at least the chance of coming up with her. I mean her no harm. But her world is changing and she cannot run from it.”

  Boris Mikhailov examined the courtier in his lace and broadcloth, and saw the soldier. He looked into the deep-set gray eyes and saw calm purpose and no deception. He thought of the babe he had brought to Berkholzskoye, to whom he had given the allegiance he had given her father. He knew the world from which this gray-eyed man came, and he knew, as did the entire household, why he was here. Boris Mikhailov knew that his princess’s destiny was not to be evaded, as he knew that until she accepted that fact only misery would lie before her.