Silver Nights

by Jane Feather

  The image of Prince Golitskov rose before him. Just what was the irascible old man going to make of this tangle?

  “You may leave the explanations to me.” Sophie spoke softly, and he realized that at some point in his reverie she had diverted her attention to him.

  “How did you know what I was thinking?”

  “It was not difficult.” She smiled. “Grandpère will make no difficulties for us. It is not in his nature.”

  “I must go to Mogilev,” he said slowly. “The empress gave me leave to visit my family. There would be no satisfactory explanation for my failure to do so.”

  “But not for a while,” Sophie said. “There will be no couriers between here and the capital until the spring. Paul will not know of my survival until then, and the empress will not look for you in St. Petersburg before March.”

  It was quite possible, Adam thought with a seeping joy. In snowbound exile, locked in love, they could, for a short, yet infinitely precious time, share lives, keeping a secret that need never leave the boundaries of Berkholzskoye, and building the memories that would inform and enrich all that came later for both of them. He smiled. “You are right. We will take a few weeks to ourselves.”

  “An idyll in the Wild Lands.” Her eyes sparkled. “Berkholzskoye is a magical place in winter. I will show you all its magic, Adam.”

  “Embodied in you, my Sophie, there is enough magic for one man’s lifetime,” he said softly.

  A delicate pink touched her cheekbones. “What a lovely thing to say to someone.”

  “It is but the truth.”

  The moment hung between them, intense and promise-filled. They had been given a gift; if the gift should prove only to have been a loan, then they would make good use of it for as long as they had it.

  The sleigh swished down the long, poplar-lined avenue to the circular sweep in front of the house. Sophie, with impetuous lack of caution, flung herself from the vehicle while it was still moving, catching the hem of her gown on a loose splinter of wood in the door.

  “Damnation!” She yanked roughly at the material, rending it heedlessly, before running to the closed front door. The whole house seemed sealed and shuttered on this gray afternoon; an air of desolation hung in the blind windows. She banged with the great brass knocker without pause until Adam came up behind her.

  “For pity’s sake, Sophie! You will wake the dead.” He laid a hand over hers, stilling it. “Give them a chance to answer.”

  “But suppose they do not.” She looked up at him, her face deathly pale beneath the dark crown of her hair. “I do not think there is anyone here.” She raised the knocker again.

  “Don’t be foolish.” He grasped her hand, holding it prisoner within his own. “Give them a chance.”

  The steady gaze, the firm voice, the calm good sense served to ground her. She took a deep breath, and the sound of bolts rasped in the stillness. Sophie whirled back to the door, her hand still gripped in Adam’s.

  “What ever is it?” The door swung open. Anna, pale and anxious, her rheumy eyes gazing fearfully, stood in the doorway. When she saw who it was, she grasped the door frame with one hand, crossing herself automatically with the other. “Oh, my goodness me. Is it you, Sophia Alexeyevna? Is it you? Oh my goodness, my heart!” She flapped her hand in front of her face.

  “No ghost from the Wild Lands, Anna,” Sophie said, her own equilibrium restored under Anna’s disarray. She hugged the woman fiercely. “See, I am flesh and blood.” She stepped past the housekeeper into the familiar square hall, warmed by a porcelain stove and a great fire in the stone hearth. “Where is Grandpère?”

  “In his library,” Anna fluttered. “Oh, Boris Mikhailov. Is it you?” She held out her hand to the muzhik who came swiftly toward her. “After Tanya Feodorovna told us—”

  “Tanya!” Sophie swung around to face the old woman. “Tanya! Here?”

  “Yes, bless you, Princess. Been here a month and more. Walked, she did, all the way from Kaluga. The stories she told. The prince hasn’t been the same since.”

  But Sophie was off, running down the corridor to the rear of the house. “Grandpère!” Flinging open the library door, she catapulted into the firelit, lamplit, book-lined room.

  Prince Golitskov started up from his chair by the fire, the calfbound book upon his lap falling to the floor. “Sophie!” Like Anna, he stared as if at a spectre from the steppes.

  Adam, with a muttered exclamation, pushed past Sophie. He had not been able to prevent her impetuous rush, although the dangers of shocking the old man in this way had been at the forefront of his mind. “It is Sophia Alexeyevna, Prince,” he affirmed rapidly, crossing the room in three long strides. “Safe and well. Sit down again.” Gently, he eased the trembling, suddenly frail figure back into his chair.

  “Oh, Grandpère, I did not mean to frighten you.” Sophie ran across the room, dropping to her knees in front of him, looking anxiously up at him. She took his hands, chafing them. “Oh, you are so cold. Is it because I shocked you?”

  The old prince took a deep, shuddering breath, then sat back in his chair. “Let me look at you, petite. I was coming to St. Petersburg myself, once the snows melted.” He touched her hair wonderingly. “You did not answer my letters—”

  “I did not receive them,” she broke in swiftly. “And after he sent Tanya Feodorovna away…Oh, is she really here?”

  “Yes, she is here.” Anger burned in the faded eyes, and some of the fragility seemed to leave him. “An amazing journey she made. But she comes of determined stock. She came back to tell me of your…” A shadow passed across his face. “Of your husband. You have left him?”

  Sophie lifted his hand, rubbing the knuckles across her cheek. “It is a little more complicated than that.” She looked up at Adam, who still stood quietly beside the fire, watching the reunion.

  Golitskov turned to look at him also. “So,” he said, a smile enlivening the sunken countenance. “Having taken her away, you decided to return her, Count.”

  “You could say that.” Adam smiled back. “It has been an arduous journey, and I know Sophie will wish to tell you of it herself. I will leave you.” He bowed to the prince, then, very deliberately, bent to kiss the corner of Sophie’s mouth. “I shall see if I can charm a bath out of your housekeeper.” His eyebrows quirked. “You could do with one yourself.”

  The door closed quietly on his departure. “So that’s the way the land lies,” murmured the old prince, stroking his chin.

  “Yes, Grandpère, that is the way the land lies,” Sophie confirmed. “Without Adam I would have died…died in spirit many months ago, and in body but a short while since.” She stood up to unbutton her pelisse, not needed in this warm room, then began to tell her tale, leaving nothing out from the moment of her first meeting with Paul Dmitriev.

  At story’s end, there was silence in the room, save for the hiss and crackle of the fire, the sudden rattling of the casement under the wind blasting off the steppe. Then the prince spoke. “So, Sophia Alexeyevna, what do you intend doing now?”

  Sophie looked into the fire. It was right that her grandfather had not assumed charge of the matter, had asked her what plans she had made, instead of describing his own. She was her own woman, and her problems belonged only to her…and to Adam, she amended. “I had thought no further than reaching here,” she now said. “My husband will assume that I am dead. I must decide whether to leave him in that assumption or inform him of the truth.”

  “He will discover it for himself soon enough, Sophie. We may live in relative isolation, but it is not complete. When the snows melt, travelers will come and go in usual fashion.”

  She nodded. “But there is no need to concern ourselves until February. We may stay here with our secret until then.” Her eyes met her grandfather’s. He knew to what secret she was referring, and he knew she was asking permission, for all that there had been no question mark in her voice.

  “I stand much in Adam Danilevski’s debt,”
he said. “I do not know how much wisdom there is in your indulging yourselves with a happiness that can only be ephemeral. But that is a decision you must make for yourselves.”

  “Should one not grasp happiness when it is offered?” she asked, taking his hand, playing with the gnarled fingers with great concentration. “I have learned since I left here that there is little enough of it, and a great deal of its reverse.”

  “You and Adam are welcome to live here as man and wife for as long as you choose.” The old prince touched her face. “I wondered if I would ever see you again.”

  “And I you.” Her eyes were misty as she kissed his hand. “Boris Mikhailov will be anxious to see you. Shall I send him to you?”

  “No, I think I will find him myself.” Golitskov pulled himself out of his chair. “Where is my stick? No…no, I do not think I have need of it.” He pushed the heavy staff away. “I find that I am not as old as I have been feeling lately.” He walked to the door with no more than his customary stiffness. “Go you to Tanya Feodorovna, ma petite. The count is quite right. You are in sore need of a bath.” He chuckled. “Your father and Sophia Ivanova always occupied the apartments in the west wing when they were at Berkholzskoye. They seemed to find them quite satisfactory. I am sure you will also.”

  Sophie stood in the library for a minute after her grandfather had left, absorbing the familiarity of home; a surge of elation, the most wonderful lightness of heart suffused her. She was back where she belonged, once more in charge of her life with the gates of heaven standing open before her.

  She danced from the library, running for the stairs, calling for Tanya Feodorovna at the top of her voice.

  “Goodness me, Sophia Alexeyevna, just look at you. What a sight!” Tanya bustled out of Sophie’s bedchamber at the insistent repetition of her name. Her face was wreathed in smiles and tears were in her eyes as she hugged the tall figure of her erstwhile nursling. “Gracious, but how thin you have grown!”

  “Oh, do not scold, Tanya.” Sophie kissed her, laughing and crying together. “I must have a bath, and you and Anna must prepare the apartments in the west wing. I am not going to sleep in my old room.”

  “Ah…” Tanya nodded sagely. “Well, Anna has put the count in the blue room.”

  “Oh, then I will go and see him. Will you have his things moved as soon as may be?” She pranced down the corridor, throwing open a door onto a blue-painted bedchamber. Adam lay in a large porcelain hip bath in front of a roaring fire. He turned his head as she came in, regarding his energetic visitor with sleepy lethargy and a degree of trepidation. “Do not be unrestful, Sophie. I have not enjoyed myself so much in a very long time.”

  Sophie pouted in mock annoyance. “That is not at all flattering.” Dropping to her knees beside the bath, she kissed him. “I think we had some most enjoyable times.” Her hand, wickedly knowing, slipped beneath the water. “You are sleepy, aren’t you?” she said with a frown. “Ah…now that is much better.”

  “You are less than sweet-smelling, Sophia Alexeyevna!” His hands went around her waist, and before she could guess his intention, he had pulled her down on top of him. “There’ll be no games until you are clean and fresh.”

  Sophie spluttered wetly, pushing against his chest in an effort to right herself. “Look what you have done! I am all wet in front.” She squeezed out her skirt in feigned indignation.

  “It’s a start,” he declared, heaving himself, naked and dripping, out of the tub. “Tanya Feodorovna has a bath waiting for you in your own chamber. Why do you not go and put yourself in it?”

  Sophie regarded him speculatively. “Shall I dry you?” She stretched out her hand for the towel, but Adam snatched it from her grasp.

  “No games!” He hastily rubbed himself down under Sophie’s mischievous, desirous stare, the tip of her tongue trailing lazily over her lips. He shrugged into his dressing gown, tying the girdle securely before stepping toward her with clear purpose.

  Sophie took a step backward. “Adam…Adam, no!” Squealing, she found herself slung unceremoniously over one broad shoulder.

  “It’s bathtime.” Adam strode with his noisy, struggling burden back to Sophie’s bedchamber, where a clucking Tanya waited.

  “Goodness gracious, lord. Just put her down there.”

  “Traitor, Tanya!” accused Sophie, set on her feet.

  Downstairs, Prince Golitskov smiled to himself as the old house came to life again under Sophie’s ringing accents and bubbling laughter. There was a different tone to that laughter, but he could find nothing amiss with it. When a woman was touched with love, it tended to be heard. On this sage reflection, he went down to his cellar in search of a celebratory bottle or two.

  On returning to the library, he found Count Danilevski, most elegant in a dark green coat and dove gray britches, the elaborate folds of a starched cravat at his neck.

  “Some transformation, Count,” observed the prince, going to the sideboard to pour vodka.

  “Yes, thanks to Anna’s skills,” replied the count, taking the proffered glass. “She managed to achieve miracles with the contents of my cloak-bag.”

  “I trust Sophie will undergo a similar transformation.” Golitskov raised his glass in salute.

  Adam chuckled, returning the salute. “I left her in the competent hands of Tanya Feodorovna, who was threatening any number of dire consequences if Sophia Alexeyevna did not stop behaving like an overexcited child on her name day.”

  The prince smiled, a little absently, Adam thought. Then he said, “Tell me of this Dmitriev, Adam. Sophie cannot be objective, understandably enough.”

  “I am not sure that I can, either,” Adam said candidly. “But I have known him for many years. I will tell you what I can.”

  When he had finished his description, Golitskov said nothing for a minute. He poked the fire, staring into the surging flames. “In your opinion, how will he react to Sophie’s safe arrival here?”

  Adam frowned. “Dmitriev does not care for his plans to go awry. It is always possible he will repudiate her as his wife and be satisfied with leaving her here in disgrace. But…”

  Golitskov waited. “But he knows that far from hurting Sophie, such action would afford her the greatest pleasure,” Adam finished. “For that reason, I do not think he will take that course.”

  “She must not…Oh, Sophie, there you are, chère.” Smoothly, the prince broke off at his granddaughter’s entrance. “Hardly the first style of elegance, but an infinite improvement,” he teased, taking in her white blouse and simple skirt and bodice of amber corduroy.

  “They were about the only clothes I could find,” Sophie said ruefully. “I brought nothing with me but the two gowns Adam purchased for me in Novgorod, and they have seen better days.” She laughed. “I would be glad if you would have an accounting with Adam, Grandpère. He disbursed all the charges of the journey and would not permit me to sell the aquamarines to cover my own expenses.”

  “I will excuse such a nonsensical statement on the grounds of overexcitement,” Adam said bluntly. “The matter is not to be referred to again.”

  “But, Adam, I cannot possibly allow you to—”

  “Now, you just listen to me, Sophia Alexeyevna! For the last four weeks you have fought brigands, ridden through blizzards, taken exactly what action suited you at any time, however reckless and unnecessary, and I have barely remonstrated with you. I know you do not tolerate another hand on your bridle, but in this instance you will curb your tongue and respect my wishes.”

  Sophie gulped and began busily smoothing down her apron. Adam had not spoken to her in that tone before, but it was abundantly clear that even if she persisted he would not back down. The ensuing unpleasantness would hardly be consonant with a magical idyll. “I’ll just go and see how Anna is managing with supper,” she said, beating a prudent and orderly retreat.

  “I congratulate you, my dear Count.” Golitskov smiled dryly. “I will not echo Sophie’s error, but I will express my grat
itude.”

  “Could we have an end to this now, Prince?” There was a note of impatience in his voice. “If I have done anything to merit gratitude, I am amply recompensed by your hospitality.”

  The old prince bowed and deftly returned to the subject interrupted by Sophie’s appearance. “As I was saying, Sophie must not under any circumstances return to her husband. If he makes such a demand, then I shall send her out of Russia. We have relatives in France; she will be beyond his jurisdiction there.”

  “Let us pray it does not come to such a drastic move, Prince.” Adam went to the French doors, where he stared somberly out into the night. To be deprived of the right to offer her his own protection ate into him like a snail on a cabbage leaf, yet he had no rights, none whatsoever. He was merely the lover, a parasite of love, living off the host…

  “Supper is ready.” Sophie’s voice came cheerfully from the doorway. “There is duck! Just imagine, Adam, duck!”

  “I am not sure I can.” Resolutely, he put the dark moment from him and turned back to the room. “My palate has been so battered in the last weeks that I doubt it retains the ability to respond to refinement.”

  “Anna’s duck is the ultimate in refinement,” Sophie told him earnestly, linking arms with him as they went into the dining room. “It will heal the most maltreated palate.” She sat down, shaking out her napkin. “Linen! Amazing!” Her eyes danced across the table at him. “After supper, we will go and skate in the Devil’s Punch Bowl.”

  “We will what?” Adam was betrayed into something resembling a yelp.

  “Skate,” she said in wide-eyed innocence. “You can skate, surely?”

  “Yes, of course I can.”

  “Then I shall show you my favorite place. It is at its best at night, and tonight is full of stars.”

  “Not tonight, Sophie,” Adam said, slicing into his duck.