by Jane Feather
Sophie felt his eyes upon her, as she always did, although, obeying instinct, she was careful not to meet his gaze. She did not know why he looked at her so secretively, she only knew that it gave her a little thrill of pleasure. There would be no repetition of that kiss. She had come to accept that, just as she had come to accept the inescapability of her present journey. They both behaved as if that glimpse of heaven had never happened, because, of course, such a thing could not have taken place between a young woman on her way to her husband-to-be and the man charged with the trust and responsibility of escorting her. But the ease she felt in his company could be enjoyed with a clear conscience, surely; with the deep pleasure that came from the friendship and companionship of a like-minded soul. Yet the one subject they both avoided was General, Prince Paul Dmitriev. Which was strange, Sophie reflected. Why did she not want to ask Adam about his general, the man who was to play such a large part in her own life? And why did he never volunteer any information or description?
The road they were taking wound across the Novgorod plain, stretching flat and immense on either side, the occasional gleam of sun on water indicating a river or lake, with which the plain was dotted. Khan raised his head and sniffed the wind.
“Adam?”
“Mmmm?” He smiled at her, the laugh lines crinkling around his eyes and the corners of his mouth.
“May we gallop?”
“So you can have the satisfaction of leaving me swallowing your dust, I suppose.”
“But of course,” she agreed sweetly. “What other reason could I have?”
“A nature that can’t sit still for a minute,” he retorted. “You are not at all a restful traveling companion, Sophie.”
She laughed. Taking the statement as permission for the gallop, she clicked her tongue against her teeth at Khan, who immediately gathered his great front legs and sprang forward. She turned him off the road and onto the grassy sweep of the plain. Adam made no attempt to follow; it would be pointless. She would come back when she had shaken the fidgets from her spirit.
He peered up the winding dusty strip of white road ahead. A cloud of dust rose in the distance, drifting toward him, indicating fellow travelers presumably coming from St. Petersburg. They were no more than half a day’s ride from the capital, even at the relatively slow pace set by the carriage in which Tanya Feodorovna traveled in solitary state.
The dust cloud drew nearer, and Adam stiffened suddenly at a premonitory flash. It would be both natural and appropriate for Dmitriev, as befitted an eager groom, to come to meet them. His runner had reached them the day before yesterday, and had stayed for no more than a change of horse before taking the news of their position back to St. Petersburg.
The Dmitriev livery on the front riders at last became clear, and Adam could make out the tall, erect figure of his general, commanding in his uniform, the silver of buttons and sword hilt glimmering in the sunlight. He was come to meet his bride. But where the hell was she?
Adam scanned the flat plain for a sign, but she had disappeared long since behind a screen of brush, leaving her escort in the awkward position of having to explain to his commanding officer, who also happened to be her anxious bridegroom-to-be, the unescorted absence in uncharted territory of a princess of the house of Golitskov.
Adam had given Sophie back her pistol several weeks ago, so he was not concerned for her safety, but how could he possibly explain such a situation to Dmitriev? The prince would have to see Sophia Alexeyevna and judge for himself. It was time for Adam Danilevski to bow out. His lips twisted in a cynical smile at the reflection that the prospect of bowing out of Sophie’s life somehow did not bring the sigh of relief he should have expected. This irksome escort’s task that he had assumed with such annoyed reluctance had taken on a different complexion. And gnawing constantly at the pleasure he took in her company was the knowledge that what he found delightful about Sophia Alexeyevna her designated husband would find objectionable.
When the two parties met up, the general saluted his aide-de-camp with impeccable formality, the martinet’s eye sharply inspecting the deportment and uniforms of the guardsmen, who had all come to attention in the saddle. The dullness of buttons, the wrinkles in jackets, the grubby linen were all noted.
“It is a long and uncomfortable journey from Kiev, General,” Adam said quietly. “Water, polish, and shoe blacking are not easy to come by in some of the places where we have been obliged to spend our nights.”
The general simply nodded. His eyes went to the carriage, which had come to a halt in the rear. “Princess Sophia has not endured too much discomfort, I trust?”
Adam swallowed. “She is remarkably resilient, General.”
Dmitriev looked at him in surprise, thinking what an odd choice of word that was. He urged his mount forward to the coach and Adam spoke hastily.
“Sophia Alexeyevna is not traveling in the carriage, sir. She suffers acutely from motion sickness.”
The general stopped in his tracks. His eyes swept the column of twelve men, the carriage with its coachman, Boris Mikhailov stolidly astride his mountain horse. He looked at Count Danilevski, not bothering to articulate the question.
Adam scanned the plain, then saw to his relief a figure emerging from the brush. “Here she comes now, General. Perhaps we should ride and meet her.” Without looking to see what response his statement and suggestion received, he set off himself.
Sophie saw the two riders coming toward her, both in the dark green tunics with red facings of the Preobrazhensky regiment. But she saw immediately that Adam’s companion was not one of his guardsmen; as the distance lessened, she saw that he was a lot older than Adam, distinguished, with graying hair and the erect posture of the career soldier. Then, with a sudden jolt in the pit of her stomach, she realized who he must be.
She drew rein and sat, waiting for them to reach her.
“Princess.” Adam spoke almost distantly. “Permit me to introduce General, Prince Paul Dmitriev.”
Dmitriev looked in stupefaction. He had noticed first that she was riding astride, then the quality of her mount. Now he absorbed the divided skirt of her shabby, dust-coated riding habit, the wind-whipped tangle of her hair, the candid gaze of her dark eyes meeting his in fearless appraisal. He became aware of the energy that seemed to radiate from her, the restless vigor of some wild creature of her native steppes; he took in the sun-browned health of her complexion, the lean muscularity of her body. And he was filled with a great rage. This was no Sophia Ivanova of an exquisite, delicate beauty; this was no fragile daughter of the naive, trusting, softhearted Alexis. This was a woman to be reckoned with, one not easily broken to his will.
He bowed. “I have been awaiting this moment with the utmost eagerness, Sophia Alexeyevna.”
“I also have been curious, Prince,” she replied bluntly. She took in his immaculate dress and smiled her crooked, quizzical smile. “I trust you will excuse my untidiness, but we have been long upon the road.”
“That will soon be remedied,” replied Dmitriev with another bow, impervious to the charm of that smile. “We are but four hours from the gates of St. Petersburg. Her Imperial Majesty is most anxious to welcome you.”
Sophie felt a tremor run through her. Instinctively she looked toward Adam for some sign of comfort. There was none forthcoming, however. He seemed to have withdrawn from the scene, his eyes cool and distant. “We should perhaps rejoin the troop, Princess,” he said.
So she was to be “Sophie” no longer, she realized with a desolate stab. His task of escort now completed, he would withdraw, having handed her over to her prospective husband. Would he not even stand her friend? A panicky shiver prickled along her spine. She was to go friendless into this new world? Then she stiffened her shoulders, lifted her chin. “Yes, indeed, Count. I would be done with this wearisome traveling.”
“I see you carry a pistol, Sophia Alexeyevna,” commented the prince, his tone neutral, hiding his shock and outrage at this scruffy
hoyden he was to make his wife.
She shrugged. “I am accustomed to doing so, Prince. My grandfather taught me to be an excellent shot, so you need have no fears of an accident.”
“You will not find it necessary to go armed around the imperial court,” he pointed out, thinking acidly of the elegant fans, the dainty tortoiseshell combs, the lace-edged handkerchiefs, the embroidered gloves he had provided as appropriate welcoming gifts for an unsophisticated young woman from her eager, considerate fiancé.
“Of course not,” she replied, hiding in her turn the apprehensive quiver at the thought that perhaps he was neither impressed nor reassured by her declaration of prowess with a firearm.
There was nothing further he could do for her, Adam thought. He had brought her to accept the card fate had dealt her, and the acceptance would ease matters considerably. Why should he imagine that she would not eagerly embrace the life ahead of her once the initial unfamiliarity dissipated? It was to be a life of pleasure, and if she behaved herself Dmitriev would have no cause for complaint. There was no reason why she should not conform; Sophia Alexeyevna was no fool. In that single realization lay his only comfort.
The evening sun caught the gilded cupolas of the cathedral of Kazan, shone gently golden off the flat waters of the River Neva as Sophie and her escort entered the city of St. Petersburg. All apprehension was vanquished as she gazed, fascinated, at this enormous, bustling place. Her only knowledge of cities was based on a visit to Kiev two years earlier. She had thought that city overwhelming in its noisy magnificence, but it was nothing compared to the majesty of this capital. They rode down the straight, paved thoroughfare of the Nevsky Prospect, and she stared, openmouthed, at the grandeur of the stone houses lining the road on either side. Did everyone live in a palace?
“Do you have a mansion in this city, Prince?” She turned toward him with the question and was surprised when he laughed.
This first indication of rustic innocence pleased him. “But of course, Sophia,” he told her. “My palace is on the river. When you have recovered from your journey, you shall visit it and tell me how you would wish your apartments decorated.”
There it was, Sophie thought; the plain statement that accepted as fact what she had known was going to happen ever since the night Adam had forestalled her escape. She did not wish to think of the events of that night. The memory seemed to create the most unwelcome disturbances in mind and body. No, wisdom lay in making the best of the inevitable.
“Oh, I will not need to recover, Prince,” she said, in tacit acceptance of the invitation. “I am not at all wearied. Riding does not tire me in the least. Perhaps I could see it tomorrow.”
He swallowed his annoyance at this additional evidence of her unmaidenly attributes, concentrating instead on the fact that she appeared to have no misgivings about the plans made for her. If he did not have to woo her, then matters could move much faster; and the sooner he had her under his roof, subject to the husband’s authority, the sooner he could set about eradicating those displeasing attributes.
“I will leave you here, General.” Adam spoke suddenly, gesturing toward a great gray building on their left. “We are at the barracks.”
“Ah, no, the empress wishes to see you,” Dmitriev said. “Your mission is not accomplished until you release Sophia Alexeyevna into Her Imperial Majesty’s charge.” He smiled at Sophie. “I am not yet permitted the inestimable pleasure of assuming charge of you myself.”
He had a meagre smile, Sophie reflected, but the statement was clearly intended to be flatteringly warm. He could not help having been born with thin lips and those very pale blue eyes, she decided with resolute kindness. He was not at all an unprepossessing figure. So she told herself, quashing the apprehensive prickle that she could not identify because she did not know what it was about the prince that disturbed her.
Then she had no time for reflection of any kind. They had reached a quay beside the river; a vast square lay before them, and beyond that the Italianate structure of the Winter Palace, with its great outside staircase. They were surrounded by servants and grooms, one of whom took Khan’s bridle. “No,” she said abruptly. “Boris Mikhailov will care for him.” She swung unaided from the great height of the Cossack horse just as Prince Dmitriev moved to assist her. “Only Boris knows how to handle him,” she said with a worried frown. “Will you make sure that these people understand that, please, Prince?”
Paul Dmitriev met the steady gaze of a giant muzhik in homespuns. “Do I not know you?”
Boris Mikhailov bowed low, hiding the flash of uneasy recognition in his eyes. He had been hoping so fervently, and so secretly, that the Dmitriev name was simply a coincidence. But nothing would be gained by telling an old story, or sharing what had to be an unfounded unease, with Sophia Alexeyevna. “I served Prince Alexis Golitskov, lord.”
“And he has served me ever since,” Sophie explained. “He and Tanya Feodorovna, who was my nurse, have been deeded to me by my grandfather as part of the settlements.” She colored slightly. “This is not the time to talk of such things, I beg your pardon. But I am anxious for Khan.”
The horse would have to go, decided the prince dispassionately. No lady could be seen riding him, even if he could be ridden sidesaddle. The muzhik and the nurse would have to go, also. The less she had to remind her of her past life, the easier it would be to make an amenable wife of her. But time enough for that when they were all under his roof and authority.
“Show this man where to stable the horse,” he instructed one of the grooms. “He and the coachman are to receive the empress’s hospitality, so you will see to it. And you…” He beckoned to one of the servants. “The princess’s maid is in the carriage. Have her escorted to the apartments made ready for Princess Sophia.”
“Oh, thank you.” Sophie smiled up at him, radiant with relief and gratitude. “I would not know how to look after these things myself.”
“You could hardly be expected to, Princess.” Adam spoke, just a hint of impatience in his voice. Did she have to look at Dmitriev like a child who has just been given a sweet?
Sophie heard the impatience. She looked at him in puzzled indignation, but he had turned and was striding toward the staircase.
“Come,” said the prince. “You must make your curtsy to the empress.”
“Should I not tidy myself, first?” asked Sophie, laying her hand on the proffered arm.
“Her Majesty’s orders were that you were to be brought to her the minute you arrived,” he said, although the thought of presenting this tomboy scruff to the fastidious czarina was not a pleasant one. Then he bethought himself of the pistol and shuddered at the horrifying idea that he might have forgotten. “Give your pistol to Boris Mikhailov,” he said with sudden, urgent sharpness. “Her Imperial Majesty would not take kindly to such a thing on your person.”
Within ten minutes, Sophia Alexeyevna Golitskova was curtsying to a corpulent woman in a loose caftan of gray silk. A plump, white hand was presented for her to kiss, then she was bidden to rise. A pair of clear, untroubled eyes examined her with friendly interest. The czarina’s hair was lightly powdered, drawn back from her face to accentuate a broad, high forehead. She gave Sophia a toothless smile.
“I see you enjoy riding astride, Sophia Alexeyevna. It is one of my great pleasures, also. But it is a pleasure to be taken with discretion.”
Sophie glanced down at her divided skirt. “I would have changed my dress, Your Majesty, but—”
“No, no.” The czarina waved a dismissive hand. “I was not censuring you, ma chère, merely offering a piece of advice. But Prince Dmitriev will be able to offer you all the advice you might need in such matters, I know.” She smiled upon the prince, then turned to Count Danilevski.
“We owe you our thanks, Adam. I trust you found all well with your family.” She drew him to one side.
“Sophia Alexeyevna.”
Sophie turned and found herself face-to-face with a tall, heavy, robust m
an with unruly black hair. He had only one eye, and that one eye was gleaming at her with fiery warmth.
“Prince Potemkin.” He introduced himself with a smile that showed brilliant white teeth slashing the brown face. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance, my dear.”
She found herself responding instantly and unconsciously to that gleam in his eye, fluttering her sable eyelashes as she curtsied, murmuring her pleasure in the meeting.
The empress looked indulgently at her one-eyed lion. He had always had a taste for the young when it came to satisfying his tremendous physical appetites, and he had no scruples whatsoever about where he chose to gratify those appetites. His own nieces had all succumbed readily enough to the avuncular seducer once they reached puberty. However, Sophia Alexeyevna was not destined to receive that tutelage, gentle and pleasurable though it might be.
“Ma chère, you and I must have a private talk,” she said, gliding in stately fashion toward a door at the rear of the salon. “Gentlemen, you will excuse us.”
In the quiet privacy of the czarina’s bedchamber, Sophie was subjected to a skillful examination that convinced the czarina that, for all her odd appearance and unpolished manners, the princess was intelligent, well-educated, and evinced a pragmatic acceptance of the destiny the empress had chosen for her subject.
“Prince Dmitriev is a worthy husband for a Golitskova,” Catherine said at the close of the interview. “He is able to ensure your position at court, to provide you materially with everything you could either want or need. He will also bring you the wisdom of maturity, ma chère, and the experience of a longtime courtier. You will have need of such a counselor and mentor as you take your place in this world that is rightfully yours. You could not remain forever at Berkholzskoye, and, indeed, you have a duty to your family name.”