Silver Nights

by Jane Feather

  “But I want—”

  “Not tonight, Sophie,” he repeated in the same level tone.

  Prince Golitskov’s shoulders began to shake. Sophie, with her boundless enthusiasm and restless vigor, had always had a passion for sharing her treasures, and very little tolerance for delay in the imparting of these delights.

  “But there might not be such a perfect night again for days.” Frowning, she sipped her wine. “I said I would show you all the magical places at Berkholzskoye.”

  “And I said something about magic also,” he responded as evenly as before. “Do you not recall?”

  Sophie did. That delicate blush that Adam loved crept over the smooth, pale complexion. “If you are fatigued, I daresay it would be better not to skate tonight,” she murmured, burying her nose in her goblet.

  “Traveling is a somewhat fatiguing business,” Adam agreed placidly, catching the old prince’s eye. Golitskov was clearly deriving huge enjoyment from the exchange.

  Looking up, Sophie intercepted the glance. Her flush deepened, but she only reached for the big bowl of caviar standing in the middle of the table, spooning a generous portion onto her plate. “Adam, will you have some? It is very fine caviar.” She passed him the bowl.

  They did not linger long in the library after supper. Sophie, her former ebullience somewhat subdued by the checks it had received, made no demur when, her grandfather announcing that he was going to seek his rest, Adam rose too, reaching down his hand to draw her to her feet. His eyes smiled at her with a mixture of amusement and pretended reproof as he slipped his arm around her waist and escorted her up the stairs to the west wing.

  “I cannot help feeling, Sophia Alexeyevna, that you need to get your priorities straight,” he said, once the door of the large bedchamber, its walls decorated with painted frescoes, was closed behind them. “Skating! In heaven’s name! We have a feather bed in a warm chamber, complete privacy, clean skin, no journeying to do on the morrow, and the woman wants to go skating!” He flung his hands up in affected exasperation.

  “It was just so exciting to be home,” Sophie mumbled. “And I do so want you to love all the things I love.” The dark eyes lifted to his face. “But I do see that it was perhaps a little premature.”

  “Just a little,” he agreed, drawing her into his embrace, burying his face in the rich shining hair, the chestnut highlights glinting in the candlelight. “How often I have dreamed of being able to do this,” he whispered. “The scent of you used to drive me to the edge of distraction, spring flowers and lavender.”

  “Not recently,” she corrected with a little chuckle, lifting her arms to encircle his neck. “Kiss me.”

  There was silence in the room. The candle flickered in a draft from the window. The wood in the blue-tiled porcelain stove in the wall blazed merrily. “Love me,” Sophie whispered, drawing back from him for the barest instant. “Love me now, Adam.”

  Within a week, Sophie’s complexion had regained the healthy glow of an outdoor life, and soon her bones began to be a little better covered under the combined influences of an appetite sharpened by exercise and Anna’s cooking. She swung through the house with her long stride, carrying the freshness of the steppes with her as she took over the household reins again. Her garden was buried under snow, but she took Adam through it nevertheless, telling him what would be coming up with the first spring thaw.

  Such enthusiasm she had, he thought. She threw her heart into whatever interested her, be it the settling of some domestic dispute, an ailing serf on the estate, the choice of paint color for one of the parlors, a litter of puppies, the chess board, or a card game.

  To his enormous amusement, Adam had discovered that Sophie was an inveterate cheat when it came to cards. It was such a wonderful paradox that this utterly straightforward individual should stoop to sly little tricks, none of which deceived him for a minute.

  “I won again!” she announced one evening after supper, laying her cards upon the table. “See, I have an ace.” She gleefully rubbed her hands together. “You owe me a fortune, Adam.”

  “I owe you nothing,” he said. “Do you really think I didn’t see you slip that ace onto your lap when you were dealing?”

  “I did not!” she protested, but a telltale pink showed against her cheekbones.

  “You are no better at lying than you are at cheating,” Adam declared. “Which is why I do not take the reprisals to which simple justice entitles me.”

  “I’ll never make a cardsharp,” Sophie said wistfully. “I have often thought what fun it would be to play in the great gambling houses, winning fortunes by tricks.”

  “You shameless creature!” Adam reached for her hands, pulling her around the table onto his lap. “What a disgraceful ambition.”

  “Yes, isn’t it?” She laughed down at him. “But we are all entitled to our sins.” With a burst of vitality, she sprang from his knee. “Let us go and skate at the Devil’s Punch Bowl. The stars are wonderful tonight.”

  Adam looked longingly at the blazing fire, the ruby wine in his glass. “It is so cold, Sophie.”

  “Oh, but you promised you would come one day.” She took his hands, tugging imperatively. “I swear to you it will be worth the cold. You have never seen anything so beautiful…never done anything so beautiful. Is it not so, Grandpère?”

  Prince Golitskov looked up from his book. “I sympathize with you, Adam, but Sophie is right. If you have any feeling for the steppes, then the Devil’s Punch Bowl on such a night can only bewitch.”

  “Then let us go.” Adam stood up, stretched lazily. “I know when I am defeated, but you are a shameless bully, Sophia Alexeyevna.”

  “But I only wish to give you pleasure,” she replied in simple truth. “Sometimes one must be led along the paths of pleasure.” That crooked smile quirked, and his heart turned over with the power of his love.

  “Oh, Sophie” was all he could say.

  Outside, where the air was so sharp and dry it seemed it could be shattered like crystal, they took one of the open sleighs, drawn by a high-stepping, powerful-chested gelding. Sophie tossed the curving metal blades that they would strap to their shoes on top of the lynx fur rug. Beside them went two pistols. “Wolves,” she explained, as if Adam were in need of explanation. Climbing swiftly into the sleigh, she settled the rug over them and took the reins.

  Adam sat back, content to leave this expedition in Sophie’s charge. The Nordic sky, black, with the depth and softness of velvet, tactile almost, provided the background for a profusion of stars, each one a separate entity, clear, defined, pouring light upon this glistening whiteness over which they traveled. The night sounds of the steppes were in the air, but they were intrinsic to the scene and could not be separated into their component parts. He turned his head sideways to look at Sophie, her profile etched against the horizon where white met silver and black. She had the air of complete absorption she wore when in her own element, at one with her surroundings.

  “What do you see?” she asked into the night, without turning her head.

  She was obviously not as absorbed as he had thought. Adam smiled. “You. In your own world.”

  “Yes, it is mine,” Sophie said, quietly matter-of-fact. “I do not think I could bear to leave it again.”

  And if you have to? But he did not say it; instead, he sat back again and wrestled with the demons of frustration and helplessness. How to reconcile this bone-deep love and its need to protect with the knowledge that in all essentials he was powerless. He could not take her to Mogilev. His family estates were now under Russian hegemony and a declared adulteress could be removed by her husband with the full force of law—moral, religious, and legal. He could not go into exile with her. To do so, he would have to desert from the Russian army, abandon his family and estates, renege upon every duty and responsibility entrenched since he could first stand. He would have to become a different person to do such a thing; and that different person, sullied by betrayal and deceit, could not
love and be loved by this bold, brave, honest Cossack woman.

  “Here we are.” Sophie drew rein. “You have been having sad thoughts, but you must not have them here.” She placed her gloved hand over his, her eyes seeking the truth as they raked his face. “For now you must lose yourself in the wonder, Adam. It is not in the nature of idylls that they should last. But they spoil, crumble, if put to reality’s test. We have what we have, and it must be sufficient unto the moment.” Her eyes held his until she read his acceptance, and he nodded, touching her lip with a caressing fingertip.

  Sophie stepped from the sleigh, tethering the horse to a scrawny, bare thorn tree. Adam picked up the skates; she took his hand. “Come. Close your eyes.” When he did so in laughing obedience, she led him across the snow, then stopped. “Now you may look.”

  Adam opened his eyes. He was standing on the brink of a deep basin, snow-covered sides rising steeply from the glistening floor of ice. There was not a mark to scar the smooth virginity of it. It was as if they had stumbled upon a place never before penetrated by the crassness of mankind. For a moment he hesitated, stunned by the beauty, afraid to think of despoiling it. Then he knew he had to become a part of it. “How do we get down?”

  Sophie patted his bottom. “Simple.”

  “How do we get up?”

  “Not so simple. Come on.” Sitting on the edge, tucking her skirts tightly around her legs, she launched herself, squealing with a mixture of fright and exhilaration, down the slope.

  Adam sat down, raised his eyes heavenward, offered a quick prayer, and pushed off, holding the skates on his knees. The snow was so dry it barely clung as he tobogganed, with his body as sleigh, after Sophie. He heard his own involuntary cry, echoing, bell-like, around the basin as his speed increased, the air rushed past him, and he was engulfed in a terrified exultation. The slope ended, but his momentum carried him onto the ice until he came to a gentle stop somewhere in the middle, beside Sophie, who was still sitting upon the ice, gazing about her in wonder.

  “Look up,” she said, softly insistent, as he slid to a halt.

  He did so. They were encapsulated in a bowl of white, lidded with velvet black and silver starshine. There was not a sound. The life of the steppes continued above them, outside their bowl.

  “They call it the Devil’s Punch Bowl, but I think it has too much of heaven for that,” Sophie said. “Perhaps it is to remind Lucifer of the time before he became the fallen angel.” She took her skates from his lap. “I told you it was magic.”

  “Or is it God-given?” He strapped the blades to his boots.

  Sophie shrugged easily. “There is enough mystery in the Russian Church to allow for both.” She stood up on her skates, drawing in a deep breath of the pure air cutting clean as a knife through her chest. Pushing off with an apparently gentle, gliding movement, she slid away from him. But the power behind the push became clear as he watched her travel on a one-foot glide way to the other side of the lake. He watched, spellbound, as she curved around in a long slow arc, resting on the outside edge of the blade, changing to the inside, carving an elaborate design on the clean surface. She beckoned to him, and he skated across in the silence.

  “See if you can make your initials twine with mine.” she said, her voice muted as if in deference to the peace.

  He looked down at the S and A inscribed on the ice, frowning with concentration. Then he nodded, seeing how it could be done. The design flowered beneath his whispering blades until he stood to one side, examining his handiwork.

  Sophie slipped her arm into his. “See, we have a coat of arms.”

  “Until the snows melt,” he said.

  Chapter 13

  “I have it in mind to invite Princess Dmitrievna to accompany us on this state visit to the Crimea, Grisha.” The czarina finished the line she was penning as she said this. She looked up affectionately at her roaring, one-eyed lion. “You have gone to such pains to ensure that the journey will be an unqualified success, providing pleasure for all. I think it is time the princess enjoyed herself a little. I will appoint her lady-in-waiting.”

  “A position which will keep her more in your company than in her husband’s,” observed Prince Potemkin from the couch where he was lounging, nibbling on a dish of salt fish.

  “If some estrangement still exists between them after her visit to her grandfather, then this will give them breathing space in which to heal the breach,” said Catherine blithely. “It was wise of the general, I think, to send her to Berkholzskoye after that little…misunderstanding. But clearly the separation cannot continue; it would imply that Dmitriev has repudiated his wife.”

  Potemkin regarded his empress thoughtfully. “Are you certain he has not?”

  “Why ever should he have done so? Sophia Alexeyevna was guilty only of a little, very natural, dismay at certain…certain aspects of marriage.”

  Potemkin shrugged, lethargically putting his large, heavy body into motion. He stood up. “For which you took the husband to task.”

  “Would you have advised against such a thing, Grisha?” Catherine looked surprised.

  “Had I been asked, Madame, yes,” responded the prince, with the petulant flash of annoyance that the czarina knew well. Potemkin, in addition to being her most trusted and dearest friend, was her adviser in all matters, including who should be selected to occupy the favorite’s apartments. Since Potemkin had first entered the czarina’s bed, Russia had had two rulers, and although the fire of carnal passion had died down between them years ago, he continued to govern, albeit unofficially, at her side, and he could become extremely piqued if he considered his opinion had been slighted.

  “I did not think the matter of sufficient importance to trouble you with,” the empress said placatingly, even as she thought with a quirk of irritation that this sublime politician could behave like a ten-year-old sometimes. It was an oft-recurring thought, but when one was in the presence of genius, and particularly temperamental Slavic genius, one was obliged to accept minor exasperations.

  “I am more familiar with General Dmitriev than you, Madame,” Potemkin replied with haughty dignity.

  “I should have asked your advice.” Catherine smiled winningly. “Do not be cross with me, Grisha, and tell me whether you approve of my plan to take Sophia Alexeyevna to the Crimea.”

  Potemkin smiled, his mood changing with customary abruptness. “Yes, as it happens, I do think it a good idea. Such an educational journey in the close company of such dignitaries as Prince de Ligne, diplomats such as Comte de Ségur, can only have a beneficial influence. She is an unusual and intelligent young woman. If her husband does not appreciate her, there is no reason why others should not.”

  “Yourself, for instance?” asked the empress with a wicked gleam.

  Potemkin laughed with sudden sensual mischief. “I will admit that my thoughts have strayed in that direction. It may well be that an intelligent and experienced lover will complete her education.”

  “It would certainly appear her husband does not come into that category,” mused the czarina. “Yet Dmitriev is no fool, and he has had enough experience in such matters, one would have thought, to know to treat a virgin with a little gentleness and consideration.”

  “Paul Dmitriev does not have a gentle, considerate bone in his body, Madame,” Potemkin informed her with an arid smile. “But he is no different in that regard from the majority of husbands. Gentle consideration is the province of lovers.”

  Catherine’s gaze rested softly on the door to the favorite’s apartments, and she smiled. “Yes, how right you are, Grisha.” Then she became all briskness. “Well, I shall put this matter in train by telling General Dmitriev of my intention. When we reach Kiev, I will send a messenger to Berkholzskoye, bidding the princess join our suite. You still intend to leave in the morning?”

  Potemkin bowed low. “If I am to ensure that only perfection awaits my sovereign on such a magnificent venture, I must leave within the hour.”

  Gene
ral, Prince Paul Dmitriev listened to his sovereign’s flattering intention to appoint his wife lady-in-waiting for the state visit to the Crimea.

  “You do my name great honor, Your Majesty,” he said with his thin smile. “Princess Dmitrievna will be overjoyed.”

  “You will be accompanying Prince Potemkin, I understand,” the empress said. “It will be an opportunity for you to become reacquainted with your wife.” She smiled benevolently. “In a holiday atmosphere, my dear Prince, I am sure your differences will be resolved.”

  “I venture to believe that they have already been so,” said Dmitriev smoothly. “Before Sophia Alexeyevna went on her visit to her grandfather.”

  “Oh, that is splendid.” The empress’s toothless smile widened. “It was wise of you to permit her to make a journey that I know she was most anxious to make. When we reach Kiev, where we must wait out the remainder of the winter before continuing to the Crimea, I will send for Sophia. I am looking forward to seeing her again.” She inclined her head in graceful dismissal, and the prince left the imperial presence.

  Sophia Alexeyevna would not be at Berkholzskoye to receive the imperial summons, the prince thought. She must now be a winter-bleached corpse somewhere under the infinity of snow covering the land. The czarina’s messenger would be told that Princess Dmitrievna had never arrived. Since, of course, she had not been expected, news of her failure to appear would not have been transmitted to her husband, who had spent the winter in St. Petersburg, secure, it was to be assumed, in the knowledge that his wife was safe and sound in her childhood home.

  It was all most satisfactory, reflected Dmitriev. He would appear the distressed widower and begin to look around him for another wife. At least he now felt purged of his rage and hatred for the Golitskovs. Revenge had brought him peace, in addition, of course, to that vast inheritance. The Golitskovs and all they owned would be subsumed under the Dmitriev name, the family ceasing to exist with the death of the old man. Yes, it was all most satisfactory.