by Jane Feather
Sophie curtsied in acknowledgment. “And my husband?” she asked as if it were the most ordinary question in the world.
“Of course, you have not seen him for some time,” said the countess. “He will have his own duties beside Prince Potemkin, but whenever he is able to visit you, I am certain he will do so.” She looked shrewdly at the young woman, but could see nothing untoward in her expression. The countess, who was in the empress’s confidence, was well aware of the czarina’s benevolent plan to bring husband and wife together in the relaxed, holiday atmosphere of this magical tour.
“You will be shown to your apartment now,” she continued calmly. “You will wish to change your dress before presenting yourself to Her Imperial Majesty.” She pulled the bell rope beside the hearth. “General, Prince Dmitriev had your belongings brought from St. Petersburg. And you will find your maid also.”
The faithful Maria, Sophie thought sardonically. Well, that servant was going to find some considerable changes in her mistress. Paul must have gone through with the elaborate charade, all the while believing that the clothes and jewels so solicitously brought from the capital would find no real woman to adorn. Just how was he going to react to the living, breathing proof of his failure?
She followed the lackey through a series of passageways and up a flight of stairs onto a broad landing. He flung open a carved oak door. The chamber beyond was hung with velvet and tapestries, richly carpeted, furnished with a large four-poster, a silk-covered divan, a marble-topped dresser, and a huge armoire. In the corner of the chamber stood the obligatory icon, a candle burning before it. Ladies-in-waiting did well for themselves, thought Sophie, nodding her thanks to the lackey. The familiar maid bobbed a curtsy, but it lacked the previous insolence, as if, on this unfamiliar territory, Maria was unsure of her position or that of her mistress.
“Good day, Maria.” Sophie’s greeting was cold and distant. “Lay out the cream velvet gown.” She threw her muff onto the divan, tossed back the sable-lined hood of her cloak, and went to the window. Below flowed the River Dnieper, except that in its present icebound state it could not be said to flow. It was in use as a thoroughfare, however, by skaters and sleighs, the busy scene carrying the same carnival air she had noticed in the streets.
“It seems, my dear wife, that you are to be congratulated on a safe journey. I bid you welcome.”
Sophie controlled the instinct to whirl from the window. Instead she turned slowly, drawing off her gloves as her husband softly closed the door behind him. “Why, thank you, Paul. I am most happy to be here.”
Chapter 14
Her laugh mocked him. Every toss of her head implied defiance. Every quirk of that crooked smile, every fluid movement invited flirtation, and in the gay, pleasure-oriented court at Kiev her invitations were happily accepted. Sometimes Paul Dmitriev could not contain his rage, and he would have to leave the room to compose himself. The woman who had come back from Berkholzskoye was in essence the woman he had sent to her death, but there was a sureness about her, an impregnable confidence that had not been there before. She now took her place at court as naturally as if she had been bred to it, and she was received with the most flattering attentions from foreign diplomats and courtiers alike. The czarina looked upon her with a fond and pleased eye, congratulating the husband on his wife’s blossoming in such a gratifying fashion. And Paul Dmitriev, ungratified, would smile and murmur his own satisfaction, while the black fury built within.
He watched her now across Prince de Ligne’s crowded salon. The envoy of the Prussian king, Joseph II, was one of Catherine’s favorite ambassadors, one of the most popular of the distinguished members of the select group around the empress. Prince de Ligne found Princess Dmitrievna utterly enchanting. He made no secret of this, and the princess, in response, lived up to the reputation he accorded her of intelligence and vivacity, of an unusual beauty, with that crooked smile and clearly defined features, deep, dark eyes glowing in an oval face radiant with health.
The pale, subdued prisoner had vanished; she made no pre tense, even in the private presence of her husband, of submission. Under the umbrella of the court, she was effectively removed from her husband’s jurisdiction, and he could visit none of the subtle deprivations with which he had accomplished her appearance of subjection in the past. She rode, took sleigh rides, went to balls and card parties. At times his fingers would curl around his cane and he would toy with images of a cruder form of domination, but she could not appear in public with the marks of brutality upon her. He could only bide his time until life became normal again, when his wife would be returned to the marital roof.
Glancing across the room, Sophie met the cold blue stare, read the loathing it contained, and in spite of the impregnability of her present position, a shiver of fear quivered her spine, crawled across her scalp. Why did he hate her so? He seemed repulsed by her. That first night in Kiev he had come to her bed, and she had lain like stone, untouched because she now knew the glory of loving, and this hideous travesty was not worth suffering over. But he had failed to achieve his own release and had left her with a violent execration, telling her she was unworthy to be his or anyone’s wife—cold and barren, she was a disgrace to womanhood. She had said nothing, and her silence had driven him to greater fury, but he had not since touched her with the coldness of his vengeful lust.
“I understand Count Danilevski has arrived in Kiev.” The light voice, accompanied by a pleasurable titter, came from a young matron engaged in gossipy conversation with another of her kind in the circle behind Sophie.
Unobtrusively, Sophie took a step backward so that she was half in her own circle and half in the one behind. A smiling, complimentary comment to pretty little Countess Lomonsova and she was a part of the other group.
“I find him so intimidating, do you not?” chattered Natalia Saltykova, the young matron. “He smiles and says just the right things, but you feel as if he is looking right through you.” She turned, laughing, to Sophie. “What do you think, Princess?”
“About what?” said Sophie, smiling blandly.
“Why about the count, of course. He is your husband’s aide-de-camp. You must see much of him.”
“Not really,” Sophie said indifferently. “My husband conducts his business in the barracks, in general.”
“Oh.” Natalia returned her attention to more rewarding conversationalists, dropping her voice confidingly. “It is said that he does not care for women. Ever since that dreadful business with his wife.”
Wife! Sophie felt the color drain from her cheeks even as she swallowed the exclamation. She took a glass of champagne from a passing lackey. “I did not know he was married.” Was there a squeak in her voice?
“Oh, he is not anymore.” Natalia, gratified by this apparent interest from one who had appeared indifferent to such juicy whispers, and not loath to display her own knowledge, spoke eagerly. “She died just over a year ago, I believe. Some say the count was heartbroken, but some say…” Her head bent into the circle, and other heads followed, like so many hens pecking in the dust. The words rustled in the enclosed space. “Some say that she was carrying a child at the time, and it could not have been her husband’s.” She stood up in smiling triumph, examining the faces of her audience for evidence that her whispers had impressed.
“How did she die?” The question came from Countess Lomonsova, sparing Sophie the need to ask.
Natalia looked mysterious. “It was a riding accident, I believe, but no one is certain. It happened in Moscow.”
With a smile and a soft word, Sophie moved away from the group. How could he not have told her something so fundamental, so basic in his past? Why had she never asked? Because, in her naïveté, it had not occurred to her to probe. The present was so all-absorbing, nothing else had seemed relevant. She knew he was experienced with women, but that was only to be expected. Of course, he had had lovers. But a wife…weddings, honeymoons, shared names, commitment…children. Did he have children? Ca
red for by the mother and sisters he had told her about on the family estates at Mogilev? And what of the child his wife was said to have been bearing?
The fabric of the world she had constructed for herself was disintegrating, crumbling like a skeleton exposed to the air after centuries sealed in the tombs. It was not extraordinary that she had not heard the gossip before. She had been afforded no opportunity for gossipy congress with her peers in St. Petersburg; her husband’s isolationist policy had ensured that. But how, in all the weeks she and Adam had spent in the closest contact, had he failed even to refer to such a fact? Such failure had to be deliberate, Sophie thought, moving blindly through the salon, a smile fixed to her mouth, meaningless words of greeting on her lips. If it was not deliberate, an accidental reference would have been inevitable.
“Sophia Alexeyevna. I have not yet had the opportunity to welcome you to my…our…grand parade.” Prince Potemkin, resplendent in full field marshal’s uniform, smothered in diamonds and lace, his hair powdered and curled like a nobleman at the court of Versailles, stepped into her path.
Sophie dragged herself back to full awareness of her surroundings. One must not appear lacking in concentration in the prince’s company. She curtsied. “Thank you, Prince. I have been looking for you since I arrived in Kiev, but I understood that you had gone into retreat in the Petcherksy monastery.”
“So I have, my dear Princess, so I have,” said Potemkin, smiling. “At times, I find all this”—he gestured expressively at the glittering, ceremonial throng—“a little too much confectionary for my tastes, and I must replenish myself with plain fare and solitude.” His gaze ran appreciatively over her. The dark hair was unpowdered, curling in soft, feathery ringlets to her shoulders. Her gown was of rose-pink taffeta edged with lace, her petticoat sewn with seed pearls. The diamonds at her throat were among the most magnificent the prince had ever seen. Catherine had not been exaggerating the transformation, he decided. His one eye gleamed seductively. His smile slashed the brown face. “You are enjoying yourself, I trust.”
“Indeed, I am,” Sophie replied. “I am awestruck, Prince, at how much planning and organization this orchestration of splendors must have involved. It is the work of genius.”
Potemkin’s smile broadened. “I am not averse to flattery, my dear Sophia,” he said. “I see you have discovered that.”
“There was no flattery,” she replied with another curtsy. “It was a statement of fact, Prince.”
He looked at her closely, and only an inexperienced babe would have mistaken the message he was transmitting. Prince Potemkin was Paul Dmitriev’s superior, Sophie thought. Such a friend would be invaluable when this carnival was done and life had returned to normal. But how to ensure the friendship while refusing this unmistakable invitation to his bed?
She was unaware that the frank speculation in her candid, dark eyes was easily read by her companion, who was hugely amused and not a whit offended. “Will you do me the honor of visiting me in my humble abode tomorrow?” He bowed as he made the request, raising her hand to his lips. “I will show you the plan of the route we will take when the ice melts.”
“I should be most interested. At what hour do you receive?”
He chuckled and sighed in mock resignation. “How prudent you are, Princess. I would much prefer to receive you alone, but if you must come with the hordes, then my cell door is open between eleven and noon.”
Sophie simply smiled. “Excuse me, Prince. Her Majesty appears to be leaving.”
“Until tomorrow then.” He watched her move through the crowd to join the czarina’s departing retinue. Such energy she had, he mused. It was obvious she had difficulty adapting her pace to the limitations of hoop and high-heeled shoes. Such energy expended between the sheets would be a joy to share. He’d lay odds it was not a joy her husband shared, but somebody had. Potemkin was convinced of it. Sophia Alexeyevna radiated the sensuality of the awakened, something conspicuously absent before her visit to Berkholzskoye.
Sophie spent a wretched night, tormented with doubt and misgiving. Her faith in Adam, the implicit trust she had placed in his integrity, and in the integrity of their love, was cracked, something she had never believed could happen. She had to confront him with her knowledge. It was impossible to forget it, or to pretend to forget it, yet she dreaded what she would hear. What possible acceptable, unhurtful explanation for his silence could there be? And this anxiety was confused by excitement at the thought that he was in Kiev, sleeping somewhere in this city; it was inevitable that they would meet in the next day or so. They would have to meet as cool, indifferent acquaintances, but just to be in the same room had to be joy.
The czarina had smiled knowingly when her young lady-in-waiting asked for leave to attend Prince Potemkin’s reception on the morrow. “I trust you will not find him in morose mood, my dear,” she had said. “It is often the way that after an evening’s enjoyment Prince Potemkin will become gloomy, and those upon whom he smiled in the evening receive only frowns in the morning.”
“I will take my chance, Madame,” Sophie had replied in the same light tones.
The atmosphere at the monastery was so different from that reigning in the palaces and salons in Kiev that Sophie felt as if she had arrived upon another planet. She was led by a robed monk through hushed stone passageways and shown into an ordinary monastic cell. It was filled with people, officers and dignitaries in court dress, all come to pay their respects to the field marshal. But no one was talking. Indeed, to Sophie the air held not only discomfort but a tinge of fear as these august personages attempted to reconcile the calm, meditative atmosphere of this holy place with the robust frivolity of the court. The man who had created the court at Kiev, who last night had appeared in a diamond glitter of full regalia, now lay sprawled upon a divan in the midst of a circle of officers. He was unshaven and unkempt, his legs bare beneath a half-open pelisse, under which it was clear he wore not even a shirt.
One of the officers standing beside the divan was Colonel, Count Danilevski. For Sophie, the extraordinary tableau lost the hard edge of substance; she saw just that one figure standing out, etched in his own three-dimensional reality. Sophie stepped into the cell.
“Ah, Princess Dmitrievna, I hardly dared hope you would remember your promise.” The languid figure extended his hand toward her without moving from his position on the divan. Sophie took the hand and smiled a greeting. Her entire frame seemed to be vibrating as if that silent presence were a tuning fork playing upon the instrument of her body.
“I always keep my promises, Prince.” Her voice sounded hoarse, shocking in the surrounding silence.
The prince looked vaguely around the room. “You are acquainted with Count Danilevski, of course. Was he not your first escort from Berkholzskoye?”
“Yes, that is so.” Sophie looked up at the count. “How nice to see you again, Count.”
The count bowed, but the strain of restraint was revealed in his eyes, in the lines drawn at the corners of that beautiful mouth.
“I have taken the colonel from your husband,” the prince informed her idly. “He is now on my personal staff.”
“My husband’s loss, I am sure,” murmured Sophie as she wondered hopelessly how long this could go on. How long could she stand here making these inane polite noises in this artificially silent monk’s cell under the burning gray gaze? Adam had been right. It required more than human strength to endure this perverted situation. Every sinew ached with the agony of holding herself away from him, and she knew it was the same for him.
“You promised to show me the route we shall take to the Crimea,” she reminded the prince, desperate to create a diversion, to make something happen.
“Ah, so I did.” Potemkin yawned profoundly. “I daresay the colonel will show you. The maps are upon the table.” He waved in the direction of a simple table against the wall and below the high slit of a window.
A sigh of relief rustled around the cell at this prospect of
activity to break the brooding awkwardness. They all turned toward the table, where Adam, his face expressionless, was opening maps. They listened, commented, murmured admiringly at the magnificence of the grand plan laid out before them, explained in the count’s calm tones.
Sophie stood as far from Adam as she could on the outskirts of the group. She heard nothing of what he said, but simply allowed his beloved voice to wash over her, purifying and revivifying. How could she contrive to be alone with him? Or would he do the contriving? Scurrying around, hugger-mugger, trying to contrive a word, a kiss, a touch in dark corners, a squalid tumble between soiled sheets. The dreadful word picture rang again in her ears.
“I must return to the empress,” she said, heedless that she had interrupted an exposition on how the southern sections of the River Dnieper had been widened for navigation by blowing up rocks and leveling sandbanks. “It is all most interesting, Count, but I cannot stay, I fear.” She hastily turned toward the divan, holding out her hand. “Prince, thank you for your hospitality.”
“Such as it was,” murmured the prince, a sardonic gleam in his one eye. He heaved himself from the divan, throwing off the appearance of affected disdain. “You have brightened my morning, Princess Dmitrievna.”
“If you are returning to Kiev, perhaps you will accept my escort, Princess.” Adam spoke casually, rolling up the map he had been using. “I have business at court.”
“I should be delighted.” The formal exchange, the ritual words, and it was done. She was sitting in the sleigh, Adam Danilevski beside her. The door closed, a whip cracked, and they glided forward over the snow.
Nothing was said. She turned within the circle of his arm, her lips parted, her glowing dark eyes consuming his countenance. Lifting one hand, she ran her palm over his face in curious wonder, feeling the living warmth of his skin, the firm moistness of his pressing lips, the silky flutter of his eyelashes.