Silver Nights

by Jane Feather

  The old prince came straight to the point. “We are drawing up the marriage settlements, Sophie. I wish you to hear what dispositions I have made.”

  There was to be no escape, she thought in dull despair. They were going to take her off to St. Petersburg and marry her to some complete stranger; only death offered reprieve. It was inconceivable, and yet she knew that it was not. It was the way such matters were conducted. She opened her mouth to repeat her point-blank refusal to go to St. Petersburg, then changed her mind. What was the point? She could only refuse to participate willingly in this selling of her body, soul, and fortune.

  “I am not interested,” she said, walking back to the door. “I do not consent to any part of this.”

  “Sophia Alexeyevna!” Her grandfather spoke with the sharp authority that he rarely used with her. “I insist that you remain here and listen to what I have to say.”

  With a little shrug, she obeyed, but remained standing with her back to the room, her hand on the door latch.

  Adam groaned inwardly again at the thought of how he was to manage her on a month-long journey of discomfort bordering upon hardship and immeasurable tedium. Clearly, he was not going to be able to trust her out of his sight, and that prospect filled him with gloom and trepidation. If there was no trust between them, how could he hope to help her achieve the acceptance of her lot that would, in turn, ease that lot?

  Prince Golitskov was speaking in the quiet room. He was telling her that she would leave under the count’s escort the following morning, that she would take Boris Mikhailov and Tanya Feodorovna with her as personal attendants. They were deeded to her as part of the marriage settlement. Her inheritance would pass into the control of her husband, with the exception of Berkholzskoye, which on her grandfather’s death would belong solely to her and her heirs. Thus would she retain some measure of independence.

  He fell silent, waiting for a response from the motionless figure. There was nothing, until Sophie raised the latch on the door and left the room.

  Golitskov looked at the count with that same slightly malicious gleam in his eye. “I have done my part, Count. Take her to St. Petersburg. Let her wed this Prince Dmitriev. But she will always have a home here, married or no.” He went to a rolltop secretair and took out a heavy metal strongbox. “I would give this into Sophie’s charge, but I do not think it will make your task any easier if she has the financial means to evade your escort.” A sardonic smile flickered at the corners of his mouth. “I did say I would not hinder you, did I not?” He handed Adam two weighty leather pouches and a sheaf of bills. “She will need wedding clothes…other things, too. Ensure that she receives this when she reaches St. Petersburg.”

  Adam took the money. “I will write you a receipt, Prince.”

  “That will not be necessary,” Golitskov said. “She will take Khan with her, also. Boris Mikhailov will have charge of him.”

  That thought brought to mind a major concern. Grimly, Adam broached the subject that had been uppermost of his worries since he followed Sophie onto the steppe the previous night.

  Golitskov heard him out. “I suppose if you feel you must, then you must,” he said slowly. “But I wish you would reconsider. She will be quite wretched.”

  “Show me an alternative.” Adam decided that he had had enough of the old prince’s games. On the one hand, with that uncomfortable gleam in his eye, Golitskov would tell him that he must now manage the affair himself; then, when the unpleasant aspects of that management were brought home to him, he implied that Adam was as callous as the harshest jailer.

  The old prince shook his head, and for a moment the deep sorrow he felt at the prospect of his loss showed on his face. He looked a tired old man, shorn of the power of decision and the armor of wit. “Do what you must,” he said, and shuffled wearily from the room.

  The lawyer cleared his throat, reminding Adam of his presence. “I will draw up the documents, Count, and give them into your charge before you leave in the morning.”

  Adam nodded. “We leave at cock-crow.” He strode from the room, going in search of the sergeant of his troop of soldiers. Sergeant Ilya Passek was to be found in the sunny courtyard at the rear of the house, smoking a pipe and engaged in light dalliance with a chubby-faced young kitchen maid. He came smartly to attention at the approach of his colonel, and it was clear from his nervous expression that he was unsure whether his off-duty demeanor was about to draw censure.

  “Playtime is over, Sergeant,” Count Danilevski said dryly. He flicked a dismissive hand at the young maidservant, who took herself off with a cheeky grin at her swain.

  “Beg your pardon, Colonel, but we hadn’t any orders—” began the soldier.

  “Now you have,” interrupted Adam. “You will post the men in the house and around the estate to ensure that Princess Sophia does not leave the immediate boundaries of the estate between now and tomorrow morning. If she wishes to go farther afield, you will prevent her with all courtesy, before escorting her to me.”

  Sergeant Passek saluted and marched off, leaving a moody Count Danilevski to wander through the gardens, absently noting the efficient husbandry that produced flourishing currant bushes and vegetable plots, and well-pruned fruit trees in the orchards. The steppes did not provide the most hospitable soil for such fruitfulness, so it was to be presumed someone was a skilled gardener.

  He came across Sophia Alexeyevna, in gloves and apron, pruning shears in hand, on her knees in a rose garden. She did not seem to be aware of him, and he hesitated, unwilling to disturb her absorption, yet drawn toward that lissom figure almost without volition. Maybe he could produce some softening of her intransigence, something that would make unnecessary what he must otherwise insist upon during their journey.

  “I was thinking that someone around here must have a great love of gardening,” he said pleasantly, stepping toward her along the narrow path between the rosebushes.

  “Were you?” She did not so much as turn her head.

  It was not encouraging. He tried again. “I am surprised in such arid soil you are able to produce so much.”

  “Are you?” The shears clicked and a green sprouting offshoot fell to the earth, separated from the thick gray stem from which it would otherwise have drawn away strength and sap.

  Stubborn, arrogant bitch! he thought with a surge of fury. Well, if that was the way she wanted it, on her own head be it. “Your pardon for disturbing you, Princess.” He saluted, spun on his heel, and returned to the house.

  Sophie sat back on her heels, dashing the back of her hand across her eyes. Why did she have this feeling that in any other circumstance she would enjoy the count’s company very much? And why was she bothering with this pruning of roses that she would not be here to see flower? Why was she doing anything today? Every sight, sound, action of the daily life so familiar to her was another turn of the knife, and she was bleeding enough.

  Rising to her feet, she made her way back to the house, to be met by old Anna, wailing over the loss of a dish of pirozhkis prepared for dinner and ready for the pot. One of the dogs had stolen both dish and contents from the kitchen table.

  Sophie could summon up no interest in the fate of meat dumplings, or in that of the guilty dog whimpering pitifully in the corner of the courtyard after Anna had wielded her broomstick to good purpose.

  “Well, what are we to have instead?” demanded the housekeeper, flinging up her hands. “There’s dinner to be made for the dining room, dinner for the soldiers, dinner for the kitchen…and no pirozhkis!”

  After tomorrow, Anna would have to deal with such matters without guidance, Sophie reflected. But then there would only be the old prince to care for…. Tears stung her eyes and she ran from the kitchen, leaving Anna muttering and shaking her head.

  “Sophie!” Prince Golitskov appeared in the library door. “I must talk with you, ma petite.”

  She showed him her tear-wet face, and he held out his arms to her. They clung together in the doorway, th
en he drew her into the room, closing the door quietly.

  “You think me harsh, I know,” he said. “But, in truth, ma chère, you must go. If this prospective husband does not please you, you must talk to the empress. In many ways, she is an enlightened despot.” He smiled with a tinge of irony. “It is said that she rules with a scale of justice in one hand, a knout in the other. I do not know how true that may be when it comes to personal matters, but I do not believe her to be utterly tyrannical. I do not think she will force you into a marriage you find repugnant.”

  “Then why must I go at all?”

  “Because you are the last Golitskov. You cannot remain in obscurity. I have always known it, and the empress has been watching you from your earliest years.” Seeing her puzzlement, he told her of the secret agents and their surveillance.

  “Why would you say nothing of this before?” Sophie, in her bewilderment, saw only betrayal. “You made no attempt to prepare me for—”

  “No, I did not wish to spoil your pleasure in the life you led,” he said sadly. “I was perhaps in error, but I did it for the best.” He went to the secretaire and drew out the strongbox again. “I will not send you into that world without some armor. You will have Boris Mikhailov. If you are in distress, or have need of anything, you will send him to me with a message. He understands that. He will serve you, not your husband.” Sophie listened, feeling some measure of comfort. “Here are the Golitskov jewels. They also belong solely to you.” The prince laid upon the desk a silver casket, inlaid with mother-of-pearl. “If you have need of money once you are married, these will supply you, and you have my permission to use them however and whenever you feel the need.”

  She knew what the casket contained—gems worth some three hundred thousand rubles. They had been in the Golitskov family for generations, and this extraordinary blanket permission to use the inheritance as she saw fit destroyed her moment of comfort as it somehow underscored her own unfocused terror. She looked at her grandfather in blank distress.

  “Lastly,” he said quietly, “as I said to you this morning, Berkholzskoye will be yours. And it will always be here for you. But first you must go and try this new life, a world in which you should have a part.”

  “How does a wife leave her husband?” Sophie asked. “You tell me I have this option, but I do not know how it could be exercised.”

  “If you should find yourself in such desperate straits that that action should be necessary, you are resourceful enough to find the way with the tools that I have given you,” said the prince. “I have taught you to be resourceful, to look after yourself. Apply the rules of the Wild Lands to the imperial court, ma chère, and you will not go far wrong.”

  Sophie took up the casket. Her grandfather had given her all he could; the rest was up to her. As she walked to the door, he offered one last piece of advice. “Do not engage battle with Adam Danilevski, Sophie.”

  She did not turn, but replied simply, “I do not go willingly and I will not pretend that I do.”

  Prince Golitskov sighed. He had done his best. The two of them must fight it out. In fair combat, they would probably be evenly matched, but this was hardly fair combat.

  Sophie became aware of the soldier of the Imperial Guard as she crossed the hall for the stairs. He was standing beside the front door, his posture that of a sentry. Frowning, still clutching the casket, she went around the house. At every outside door stood a sentry. She went back into the hall. “Excuse me.” With a half smile, she pushed open the door, stepping out onto the gravel driveway. She was not prevented, and the sentry did not move from his post. But as she walked toward the stables, another soldier appeared, keeping pace behind her.

  She swung around on him. “Are you following me?”

  “Your pardon, Princess, but the colonel’s orders,” replied the guardsman impassively.

  Sophie stood still, feeling the sun warm on her back, the vast expanse of the steppes stretching on all sides, offering their freedom. Clutching a casket containing a not-so-small fortune, wearing a thin muslin gown, she was hardly equipped to taste that freedom and to challenge the man who would curtail it. She returned to the house.

  The great gong sounded from the courtyard, signaling the dinner hour over the entire estate. Craftsmen and laborers downed tools and went to their homes or the kitchens of communal houses; the domestic serfs gathered in the big kitchen of the mansion, the soldiers congregated in the parlor set aside for their use; Count Danilevski and Prince Golitskov came together in the dining room.

  “Where is Sophia Alexeyevna?” the prince asked Anna, who was placing a dish of sliced pork upon the table.

  The housekeeper sniffed. “Couldn’t say, lord. There’s borscht and salted cucumbers on the sideboard. The pirozhki went to the dog.”

  “What the devil are you talking about, woman?” snapped the prince.

  “One of the dogs stole the dumplings from the kitchen.” Sophie spoke distinctly from the door. “I beg you will excuse me from joining you, gentlemen. I find I have no appetite and would prefer to ride.”

  Both men turned in some surprise. She was wearing her riding habit, her hair twisted into a knot at the nape of her neck. She gave Adam a look of ineffable distaste. “Which one of your soldiers is deputed to follow me, Count? I will alert him to my departure.”

  The count’s gray eyes sparked sharp anger at her look and tone. “Excuse me, Prince.” He bowed to his host, then stalked past Sophie into the hall.

  “Soldier!” He beckoned the sentry at the door. “Take Princess Sophia to the stables. If Boris Mikhailov is available to accompany her on her ride, then you may wait there until her return, when you will accompany her back to the house. If Boris Mikhailov is not available, you will escort Her Highness to me without delay.” He marched back into the dining room. “In such a circumstance, I will make some other arrangement to accommodate you, Princess.” He gave her a mocking bow.

  “You are too kind, Count. I am overwhelmed by your consideration.” She bobbed a curtsy, her lip curling. “I suppose I should be flattered that you consider twelve men necessary to guard me. I had not thought myself so fearsomely dangerous, I must confess. In general, I only shoot rabid wolves.” She whisked herself from the room.

  With a furious exclamation, Adam took a step after her, then turned back to the table. The old prince appeared unperturbed by the manner of his granddaughter’s entrance and exit. “I cannot help feeling, Prince, that you have sadly neglected your duties where Sophia Alexeyevna is concerned,” the count declared savagely.

  “Quite possibly,” agreed Golitskov with a placid smile. “She does have a mind of her own, doesn’t she? Allow me to pass you the pork.”

  Chapter 4

  The first jubilant, bragging crow of the farmyard cock was quickly answered by his fellows from farms for miles around. The hens began their gossipy gabble and the new day dawned.

  Sophie had been dressed for an hour. She sat on the window seat of her bedchamber, watching as Tanya fussed over the portmanteau, putting garments in, then taking them out again, grumbling to herself. The maid had long since given up expecting any decisions or assistance from Sophia Alexeyevna, and contented herself with this scolding mutter that made no impression whatsoever on its intended recipient.

  The awaited knock came at the door. Sophie, still determined that she would show no indication of consent to this forcible removal, had refused to present herself downstairs of her own accord. Tanya opened the door to Prince Golitskov.

  “It is time,” he said quietly. “Do not make it any harder upon either of us than it must be.”

  They had said their farewells the previous evening, and Sophie had cried all the tears she had to cry. Now, she rose and went past him, down the stairs to the hall, where the household was gathered in an atmosphere both solemn and excited. Sophia Alexeyevna was going to St. Petersburg, to the czarina. She would meet Russia’s “little mother,” and she would marry a great prince. Such a glorious prospect
brought vicarious exaltation to all those who had cared for the princess and been a part of her growing.

  Sophie bade them farewell amid their kisses and their tears. Her own well of sorrow was dried up and she was able to keep her composure until she went out onto the gravel sweep before the house.

  The twelve men of the Preobrazhensky regiment were mounted, drawn up in front of the door. Their colonel was on foot, his horse held by a guardsman. Boris Mikhailov was astride one of his little mountain horses, and he held the unsaddled Khan on a leading rein. A closed carriage, drawn by six horses from the Golitskov stables, stood awaiting its passengers.

  Count Danilevski bowed formally to the princess before moving to the carriage. “If you would be pleased to enter, Princess.” His face was expressionless, his voice even.

  Sophie went the color of milk, the dark eyes becoming even larger in the smooth oval of her face. “I will not ride in the carriage,” she said in stifled tones. “I cannot…you cannot insist…”

  “I am desolated to cause you discomfort, Princess, but I must insist,” he said in the same even tones. “Would you please ascend? Your maid will travel with you.”

  “But…but you do not understand.” Her eyes were wide with distress now. “I must ride. I become sick with the motion of a carriage. I cannot travel shut up in that manner.” She looked beseechingly at her grandfather, but although his heart was in his eyes, he had no help to offer. He had known since yesterday that this was the count’s intention, and realistically he could not blame him.

  “I cannot permit you to ride that horse,” Adam said. “You have made it clear that you come with me only under compulsion. I cannot put into your hands the means of flight.” He gestured to the carriage. “Please get in. We have many miles to cover today.”

  Still she stood on the sweep, making no move. She reminded him again of some small wild animal of the steppes, anguished in a manmade trap. The image was so painful, reflected so poorly on his own role in this abduction, which was what she was making it with her obstinacy, that he welcomed anger to his aid. He strode toward her, his voice harsh. “Must I put you in?”