by Jane Feather
Sophie opened her eyes, wondering why he sounded so annoyed. “I do not feel like making love.”
“Then we will not,” he said matter-of-factly. “Was that why you would not answer me when I knocked?” When she did not reply, he sat on the bed, catching her chin between finger and thumb, turning her face toward him. “I trust that was not the reason, Sophia Alexeyevna. I am not some client in a whorehouse.”
Color flooded the pale cheeks. The dark eyes sparked anger. “How could you say something like that?”
“Was it the reason?”
“No, of course it was not.” She sighed. “Why are you so annoyed?”
“Because something is troubling you, has been all day, unless I much mistake the matter, and you would exclude me. Now sit up and tell me all about it, before I become extremely annoyed.”
“I wonder what that would be like,” Sophie murmured, a thoughtful gleam in her eye.
“You are about to find out.”
It was banter, but there was a base of gravity. Sophie sat up, pushing her hair away from her face. “I suppose it is just that we are about to reach Kaidak and this magical voyage will be over. It makes me gloomy.” It was half the truth, at least.
“But from Kaidak we will be crossing your beloved steppes,” Adam said. “Sleeping in tents beneath the stars. Come, sweetheart, it is exactly the sort of thing you love.”
“Carriages,” Sophie said glumly. “Carriages and Paul. He will not be so occupied once Prince Joseph joins us.”
Adam frowned, wondering which of the two concerns was causing the greatest anxiety. “I’m sure you will be able to ride most of the way, if you explain your malady to the empress,” he said. “And where you may not, you may travel in an open carriage. It will not be so bad.” Seeing that she looked a little more cheerful, he said, “I do not know about your husband. I have not seen anyone’s orders for the next stage of the trip. But you remain with the imperial suite, and he remains with the working officers. It will be no different from Kiev.”
“I suppose so.” Sophie sighed, her head dropping to his shoulder. “Hold me, love. I feel all weak and vulnerable, as if I’ve shed a skin.”
“Then take mine,” he said gently, sliding into bed beside her, wrapping her tightly against his body. “All I have is yours, sweet love, blood, bone, and sinew.”
Two days later, the party, augmented by Joseph II of Prussia, left the galleys and took to the steppes. Sophie, mounted on a neat, spirited mare as the procession set out, felt her heart lift on a surge of joy. Gliding down the river in the spring sun had been wonderful, but nothing could compare with being on horseback, even if she was obliged to ride sidesaddle. The czarina had presented not the least difficulty when told of her lady-in-waiting’s distressing weakness when it came to wheeled travel, merely telling her that she should not ride far from the imperial carriage.
Prince Dmitriev was not so accommodating, however. At the sight of his wife on a caracolling horse, laughing with pleasure, he thundered up to her on his own steed. “What is this? Why are you riding?”
“I have the czarina’s permission,” she said, trying to make her voice conciliatory. “She understands that I suffer acutely from travel sickness.”
“I will not have you riding like some hoyden when the rest of Her Majesty’s suite are traveling decently in carriages,” he said with icy fury.
“I do not ride like a hoyden,” Sophie said mutinously, although she knew she should not. Her husband’s hand tightened around his riding whip and her heart jumped. But the general was a master of control.
“My dear, I am sure you must understand that it is not seemly. I will speak with the czarina.” Wheeling his horse, he rode to the imperial carriage.
Utterly dismayed, Sophie sat her horse. Would he persuade Catherine that a husband’s wishes were owed precedence over the mere megrims of the wife?
“You look as if you have lost a fortune, Sophia Alexeyevna.” Prince Potemkin, bubbling with exuberance at the sight of his beautifully organized caravan, rode over to her. “Come, I will not have sad faces on such a day. It is not to be permitted. I command a smile.”
Sophie offered a wan attempt. “Indeed, Prince, I would oblige you if I could, but I fear my husband is going to compel me to travel in a carriage.”
“How should that be? I understood you do not travel well in such fashion,” declared Potemkin, his eye gleaming fiercely.
“My husband does not consider riding to be seemly,” she murmured, lowering her eyes.
“Never heard such nonsense!” Potemkin galloped off in the path of General Dmitriev.
Sophie could only sit and wait, chewing her lip. If Paul were overruled, his fury would exceed all bounds, but it would simply be added to the list of offenses for which he intended she should pay in full measure. At this point, she would rather store up hell for later than endure the present torment of a carriage.
The caravan began to move forward. Neither Potemkin nor Paul had reappeared, so Sophie encouraged the mare into a long-strided walk. It was very decorous, she thought, really most boring, tedious in the extreme. Her knees pressed the mare’s sides. She broke into a trot. It was a little better, but not much. Sophie’s eyes skimmed from side to side. The carriages were rumbling along the road, behind them trailing the baggage train, which stretched to the horizon. She was surrounded by horsemen, officers mainly, and one or two of the imperial guests who preferred the activity to sedentary travel. No one seemed to be taking the least notice of her; ahead lay the glorious emptiness of the steppe; beneath her she could feel the mare’s eagerness, the speed and power she was reining in. What possible harm could it do?
Three minutes later, Adam, riding with Potemkin at the head of the caravan, heard the thunder of hooves, felt the air whistle past as a dapple-gray flash shot by.
“Holy Mother!” exclaimed Potemkin. “That’s Princess Dmitrievna…. What a magnificent seat she has.” He clicked his tongue against his teeth admiringly. “But I do not think her husband will appreciate such a flight.” He chuckled.
Adam, white-faced, could barely keep his voice steady. “Perhaps I should go after her, Prince. The czarina might also be displeased.”
Potemkin nodded. “Yes, I daresay you are right. Catch her if you can.”
Adam put his horse to the gallop. This time she was not riding the unbeatable Khan, and his own mount was a match for any ordinary beast.
Sophie, hearing the hooves behind her, looked over her shoulder. She waved a hand at him, then urged the mare to greater speed, inviting her pursuer to a race. Adam swore every oath he knew, desperately touching his horse’s flanks with his spurs. Unused to such an unkind prod, however lightly administered, his mount sprang forward, drawing level with the mare, who was beginning to tire. Sophie turned laughing to Adam as she eased back on the reins, then the laugh died on her face, faded from her eyes.
“You are completely devoid of the most basic common sense!” Adam exclaimed. “How dare you ride neck or nothing in your condition!”
“What condition?” Sophie said, having completely forgotten anything but the wondrous joy of her gallop. Then comprehension dawned. “Oh,” she said. “But why should it matter? I am not about to be thrown.”
Adam sent heavenward a swift prayer for strength and restraint, while contemplating a variety of ways of relieving his feelings.
“Oh, dear,” Sophie said, having little difficulty reading the white face and blazing eyes. “I think you are about to murder me and bury my body on the steppe.”
“Something like that,” he said tightly.
“I cannot help feeling that that would be even more detrimental to my condition,” she murmured pensively, regarding him through her eyelashes.
“It may strike you as strange, but I do not find this in the least amusing,” Adam said, a chill in his voice strong enough to strike to the marrow of her bones.
It would be clearly politic to withdraw. “No,” Sophie said humbly, hanging
her head. “It was a joke in very poor taste. It was just so exhilarating after being cooped up for so long.”
In silence, Adam swung his horse back the way they had come. Sophie followed, keeping a few paces behind him, wondering how long it would be before the ice melted. His wife was supposed to have died in a riding accident while carrying a child. The remembrance served to dampen her exhilaration, to produce an uncomfortable prickle of remorse for her flippancy.
They returned to the caravan, slowly winding its way across the steppe. Prince Potemkin, glancing at Sophie’s subdued expression, then at his colonel’s grimness, guessed that Count Danilevski had subjected the errant princess to the well-known rough edge of his tongue. Thoroughly deserved, thought the prince, deciding to leave well enough alone.
“You would be well advised, Princess, to take up your position with the imperial carriage,” Count Danilevski said in the same Arctic tones.
“Yes, Count,” replied the princess meekly.
She trotted off and Potemkin chuckled. “Were you harsh, Adam?”
“No more than necessary,” the count said shortly. “If her husband witnessed such an indecorous display, he would be justified in insisting she travel in a carriage.”
“Well, it is unlikely that Prince Dmitriev will be overseeing his wife’s behavior for a while.” Potemkin peered into the shimmering distance. “He is going ahead to Bakhchisarai to ensure that the Tatars are prepared to welcome their sovereign with all due ceremony and respect.” Potemkin rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Her Imperial Majesty insists upon entering the Crimea without the escort of Russian troops. She is convinced that if she trusts in the loyalty of the Tatars, she will receive it. It is but four years since the Khan yielded to Russian governorship. I trust Her Majesty’s instincts are as true as always, but just in case I thought an advance force, arriving in peace, of course, might be a wise precaution.”
Adam made the right noises in response to this confidence, but it required some effort to concentrate. His anger with Sophie dropped miraculously from him. In the absence of Dmitriev, the freedom of the steppes would truly be theirs. Sophie would be relieved of the niggling anxiety that he guessed occasionally hovered on the edge of panic; he would be free to contrive the scenarios for their loving in a spirit of play and adventure, liberated from the shadowy tentacles of a vengeful husband.
An hour later, Sophie, riding decorously beside the imperial carriage, engaged in conversation with the English ambassador, Lord Fitzherbert, who had also chosen to ride, became aware of a large troop of cavalry coming up from the rear of the caravan. At their head rode General, Prince Paul Dmitriev. He came over to her.
“I must bid you farewell, Sophia Alexeyevna. We will be reunited in Bakhchisarai.”
Her heart leaped in her breast; she lowered her eyelashes, knowing the spark of excitement would shine from her eyes. “Do you go on a military exercise, Paul?”
“I go to ensure a peaceful reception for the empress,” he said, the pomposity of his tone failing to disguise his pride in such a mission. He gestured to the troop of cavalry. “A show of strength should be sufficient to ensure compliance, but we are prepared should more be necessary.”
“I do commend you, Paul,” Sophie said demurely, conscious of the British ambassador beside her. “It is a mission for which you are supremely fitted.” She turned to Lord Fitzherbert with an affected shudder. “The Tatars are such a violent, unpredictable race, sir, and they have only recently been made subject to Her Imperial Majesty. It would not be extraordinary if there were to be some demonstrations of disaffection.”
“Indeed not,” agreed His Lordship, eyeing the magnificent general and his troop. “You have some experience in the Crimea, I understand, General Dmitriev.”
“A certain amount.” Paul bowed in acknowledgment. “I fought with the field marshal during the annexation and have dealt with several insurrections since.”
“Then our reception is in good hands,” the Englishman said politely. With courteous delicacy, he urged his mount forward, leaving the general and his wife to make their farewells in a degree of privacy.
“Enjoy your riding, my dear,” Paul said softly. “It is not a pleasure you will have for much longer.” He rode away from her without waiting for a response. That clammy miasma settled over her, spoiling what should have been a moment of triumphant joy. She was wondering if she dared ride up to the head of the caravan to engage Count Danilevski in an unexceptionably neutral conversation that might serve to warm the temperature a little and dissipate her unease, when Lord Fitzherbert dropped back beside her. She returned to her duties.
In late afternoon the caravan halted. The passengers descended from their carriages to wander the green, flowery land. The sun had lost some of its earlier power, and the air was fresh with the scent of grass and flowers. Soon wood-smoke rose from braziers, then the heavy aromas of roasting meat. Samovars bubbled, servants ran from group to group, while crews put up the city of tents that would accommodate the enormous party. The tents of the distinguished guests were elaborate structures, richly decorated with silver braid and precious stones that winked in the dusk as the sun disappeared beyond the horizon.
Sophie found herself assigned to a tent with two other members of the suite. It was not unexpected, but she could not help wrinkling her nose at the inconvenience. No husband, but two chaperones! However, Count Danilevski had made no attempt to exchange so much as a glance with her since the contretemps that morning, so she was obliged, in some disgruntlement, to assume that pardon had not yet been granted. He presumably knew that Paul had left the procession, so it was to be hoped it would not be withheld overlong.
Dressed for dinner, she made her way to the czarina’s tent, easily identified by the crown and two-headed eagle surmounting the jewel-bedecked canvas structure. Catherine’s sleeping area was separated from a large reception room by a heavy tapestry. The reception area was furnished as if it were a salon in Czarskoye Selo, the summer palace outside St. Petersburg: chairs, divans, ottomans, rich rugs that covered the ground, filling the air with the scent of crushed flowers. Lamps glowed in elegant silver holders. Lackeys passed trays of champagne and vodka, olives, salt fish, and pickles.
Sophie joined the circle around the empress, her eyes skimming the throng for a sign of Adam even as she smiled, talked, gingerly sipped champagne. She felt him come up behind her. The little hairs on the back of her neck lifted. He brushed against her as he bowed to Catherine, who greeted him affably.
“May I procure you a glass of fruit syrup, Princess Dmitrievna? I have noticed you prefer it to champagne.” He spoke softly as he turned from the magic circle around Catherine.
“It is kind of you to offer, Count, but I am not really in need of either.” Her eyes questioned with a degree of anxiety.
“I do not know what is to be done with you, Sophia Alexeyevna,” he said in the barest whisper, but the gray eyes sparked amusement and she relaxed with relief. “I understand your husband is gone to Bakhchisarai.” He spoke casually, for all to hear.
“Yes, to ensure that all goes smoothly. It is a task for which he is most suited.”
Talking in this manner, they managed to extricate themselves from the press quite naturally. Sophie fanned herself vigorously. “It is very hot, is it not, Count?”
He gave her a sharp glance as if to satisfy himself that her remark was merely a ploy to get them to the door and not indicative of genuine distress. But her color was normal, her smile steady. “A breath of air,” he suggested, gesturing to the tent opening.
They stood for a moment looking out on the amazing sight of a canvas city imposed upon the wilderness. “Follow the north star,” Adam instructed in a voice that rose and fell in normal cadences as if he were saying nothing out of the ordinary. “There is a grove of trees. You will find me there.”
“When?” Her voice dropped involuntarily.
“Whenever you are able to leave your tent without remark.” His voice did no
t alter, and Sophie realized that the experienced conspirator recognized that words would not be noticed in the melee, whereas surreptitious attitudes and whispers might draw attention. She had not thought of Adam as an experienced conspirator. Perhaps it was just a skill growing naturally out of a military training.
Her own skills at extricating herself from her tent fellows were not well honed, she found. The empress had chosen carefully. Thinking to provide Princess Dmitrievna with congenial company of her own age, she had assigned gossipy Natalia Saltykova and the more gentle, sweet-tempered Countess Lomonsova to her tent. In the choice of Natalia, the czarina had an ulterior motive. The gossip missed little and was most conveniently indiscreet; the slightest prompting let loose the prattle like water from a dam. If Sophia Alexeyevna could be induced to confide in her friends, the czarina would hear what she needed to know.
As they prepared for bed, Sophie wondered fancifully whether Natalia would fade into thin air if she ever stopped talking. The ceaseless chatter pouring forth from a rosebud mouth seemed to define the person. She was just words, no substance at all. It seemed impossible that sleep would put an end to the flow, which was serving to put Sophie to sleep very effectively. She could hardly keep her eyes open as the words washed over her in the soft gloom. The exertions of the day took their toll, the fresh night air soothed and relaxed…
She woke with a jerk, wondering what had penetrated her doze. It was the silence, blissful silence disturbed only by the deep, rhythmic breathing of her companions. It was too dark inside the tent to see the time. She slid out of bed, reached for her cloak, slipped from the tent to stand in the moon-bright, star-bright silver night. Her watch said two o’clock. Was Adam still waiting for her? Drawing the cloak tightly around her, she ran on bare feet across the grass, following the north star. The grove of trees stood out in the boundless, dark expanse beneath the brilliant, shimmering sky. The grass prickled beneath her feet as she ran, filled with anxious expectation. Would he still be waiting?
He stood, a darker shadow in the shadows of the trees. Gasping, she ran into his arms, laughing and apologizing in the same breath, lifting her face for his kiss. “I fell asleep. I do not know how I could have done so. Unless it is that Natalia’s chatter is as soporific as laudanum.”