Her mother waved her hand in the orchestra’s direction. “Give them the order, then.”
They stood near the violinist. Antonina looked at him. “Excuse me,” she said, stepping up to the low platform.
The violinist put down his resin and stood. He studied her, and then her mother, with a steady, cool gaze. “Mother,” Antonina said, “I believe the two of you have met. Isn’t this so?”
Neither her mother nor the violinist answered her, but the young man bowed to Antonina. “I am Valentin Vladimirovitch Kropotkin.” He lifted his head and looked into her eyes. It was the same look he had given her over her mother’s shoulder.
Antonina’s breathing quickened despite her efforts to control it. “I told my mother that I wished the orchestra to play Glinka’s Separation in F Minor. Would you play it for me?” Standing so close to the violinist was making her heart pound. Without waiting for him to answer, she looked back at her mother. “I’m sure, Mother, that you can persuade him to do anything you wish. Can’t you?”
Galina Maximova frowned, glancing at the violinist and then back at Antonina. “What do you mean, Antonina?”
“You know what I mean, Mother. Haven’t you already asked him to do your bidding?”
“Mademoiselle, it is of course up to you,” the violinist said, ignoring Galina Maximova and speaking directly to Antonina. “It is your party, after all. I will talk to the maestro about the change.”
Antonina’s mother stopped a server, taking a glass of champagne from the tray.
“It would be a great pleasure to play something special for you at your name day celebration, Princess Olonova. We have all of Glinka’s music. We shall play it as the finale, if that is to your liking.”
Antonina liked the sound of his voice. She also liked that he was ignoring her mother. “Yes. Thank you,” she said, unsmiling. “Valentin Vladimirovitch,” she added, giving him the respect of calling him by his proper name.
As the orchestra finished their last waltz at three in the morning, the guests, damp with perspiration, moved to leave the ballroom. But the conductor loudly tapped his stand, calling out, “Ladies and gentlemen. If I may, we have one last piece. It is not a dance, but a special performance for the Princess Antonina Leonidovna, our gift to her in celebration of her name day.”
He looked at her, and Antonina bowed her head in thanks. The rest of the guests stopped where they were, a few still talking, and watched the orchestra.
The conductor turned back to the men and lifted his baton. Antonina smiled openly at the violinist. He smiled back at her.
She pressed her fingertips to her lips as she watched his face, intense and expressive as he accompanied the pianist. She thought again how she had seen his hands so loosely set on her mother’s slightly fleshy hips, and wanted to feel them on her own bare skin.
When the last note of the nocturne had faded, she, along with the others, clapped enthusiastically. The orchestra rose as one, bowing deeply. Still Antonina watched the violinist. As he straightened, he tossed his head to swing a lock of hair from his forehead and looked directly at her.
The guests left the ballroom, but still Antonina lingered as the orchestra began packing up their instruments. As she hoped, the violinist came to her, a sheaf of music in his hand.
“I have asked the pianist to allow me to present you a copy of a number of Glinka’s pieces,” he said. “Although they are well used, and you may already own some of them, perhaps, when you play—I assume you play?” he asked, and when Antonina nodded, he added, “—you will remember your name day.”
I will remember you, Antonina thought.
“May I inscribe them to you?” he asked, and she nodded again, flustered.
“There is pen and ink in the vestibule,” she said, “near the guest book.”
“If I may …?” Valentin asked, and Antonina turned and went into the huge, echoing hallway, with the violinist following.
There he bent over the top page, writing. As they waited for the ink to dry, Antonina read what he had written: To Antonina Leonidovna on her name day. With great admiration and respect, Valentin Vladimirovitch. Dated March 14, 1849.
“I know this gift cannot in the smallest way match any of your others,” Valentin said, gesturing at the table with its riches of celebratory presents Antonina had received from her guests.
She picked up the pages. “I believe this music is the most special,” she said, shocked at her forwardness. “Every time I play it, I will remember who gave it to me.” His handwriting was very fine.
“Perhaps, after we perform at the final luncheon tomorrow, you will do the honour of playing for me,” Valentin said.
Antonina smiled at him.
She didn’t see her mother studying her, her brow slightly furrowed.
The sheets of Glinka music sat on her dressing table. Antonina thought of the young violinist while she fell asleep. She slept deeply, and arose happy at the thought of seeing him again that day. She gave much thought to which piano composition she would play for him.
When she went downstairs, she avoided the guests enjoying breakfast in the huge dining room, slipping into the breakfast room for a quiet cup of tea. She was surprised to see her mother and father sitting together, talking quietly, in the sunlit room. They stopped when she came through the glass doors. Antonina wondered why they weren’t with their house guests for breakfast.
It was odd to see them together, looking strangely pleased, Antonina thought. As if they had, for once, agreed upon something. While she ate a sweet roll and drank a cup of tea, her parents spoke briefly of the success of the evening before.
“What time is the luncheon and performance scheduled for today?” Antonina asked, hoping the question appeared nonchalant. She reached for another roll.
Her mother’s eyelids lowered slightly. “Actually, I have dismissed the orchestra. They left an hour ago.” Then she smiled at Antonina, an open, careless smile. “The luncheon will be at one o’clock.”
Antonina pulled her hand back from the plate of sweet rolls and opened her mouth to protest. Staring at her mother, she closed it again. What could she protest? She hated her at that moment.
“I want you to come to my study,” her father said then.
She rose, avoiding looking at her mother.
Antonina fingered the smooth roundness of the globe on her father’s desk as she had done since first coming to his private study as a child. He sat behind the desk in his creaking leather chair.
Being summoned to her father’s study was never a good thing. As a little girl, she was chastised for being rude to her tutors or hiding from her nanny. When she was older, she had been scolded for riding her brother’s favourite horse without permission and for sneaking off to swim in the lake without a chaperone and for giving away one of her mother’s simple day gowns to a young house serf to be married in.
The last time had been the event with the icon.
Although no longer a child, she once again felt like one, standing in front of her father’s wide mahogany desk, imported from London. Was she to be reprimanded for refusing to dance with the annoying Prince Khrutsky two nights before, or for attempting to humiliate her mother in front of the violinist?
“Sit down, please, Tosya,” Prince Olonov said.
“Thank you, Father,” she said, and lowered herself into the brocade chair. The seat sagged slightly: it needed restuffing. She realized there had been no new furniture or decor changes at the estate for some time, and the study had grown slightly shabby. The navy silk curtains were discoloured, the sun having created strips of lighter blue in the folds. One of the swags had loose threads hanging from it.
“You’re quite grown up now,” her father said. His forehead shone damply, and again she thought of that time, over three years ago, when he had exiled Lilya and Lyosha. The room was cool, a fresh March breeze blowing through the slightly open window behind the prince’s desk, lifting the faded draperies.
Then he sto
od; Antonina also rose respectfully. His behaviour was confusing. Antonina could almost believe, in a strange twist, that she was making him uncomfortable.
“And so I have arranged a marriage for you,” he said.
“What?” When her father didn’t immediately answer, still standing behind his desk, she licked her lips and spoke again. “But … who? And why? Why now?”
“It’s time,” he said.
Antonina walked around his desk and stood in front of him.
“You will be married to Count Mitlovsky.”
For a moment, Antonina thought she must have misunderstood him. “Count Mitlovsky?” He had been at her name day celebration; Antonina had seen him a few times over the last two days, but she hadn’t done more than accept his gift and curtsey to him. “No … no, Father.” Her voice grew louder. “He’s an old man!”
The prince’s lips pursed. “He’s not yet fifty—six years younger than I am. And he’s an honest man. I’ve done business with him before.”
“Business? That’s what this is, then?”
Her father stared at her. “Antonina, you’re old enough to understand that these things—the merging of families—is for the betterment of all concerned.”
“How is it for my betterment?”
The prince shook his head in an impatient manner. “Konstantin Nikolevich is an influential man. He has a large estate close to the city of Pskov. He owns many versts and many souls. Most women would be thrilled to be married to him—there have been any number of interested widows. He’s willing …” He stopped. When he spoke again, it was as if he was weighing his words. “He has been a widower for the last few years, Antonina. He’s looking for another woman to share his life—and his wealth. His first marriage, although long and, according to him, happy, produced no children. His wife wasn’t a well woman for much of her life. And he would like children. The widows who have made their desires apparent aren’t young enough to ensure this.”
“He wants me to give him a brood of children?”
“Stop your foolishness. He finds you attractive and interesting, or he wouldn’t have made the offer.”
“He made the first offer? Not you?”
At this, the prince looked at her for a long moment, and then looked down at his desk.
Antonina noticed the bald spot on the top of his head. Was Count Mitlovsky bald as well? No. He still had thick, wavy hair, although it was grey.
She tried to summon memories of the count, who’d simply been one of her father’s guests who sometimes came for a weekend or a week-long visit. She vaguely recalled his auburn-haired wife, a rigid and rather disdainful woman with a bony frame. She had the faint scars of smallpox on her cheeks, which she tried to cover with a thick layer of powder. At some point Count Mitlovsky had come on his own, wearing a black armband, so Antonina had known his wife had died. Standing in front of her father now, she remembered the count arriving on a blustery January afternoon, just after their most recent New Year celebrations in St. Petersburg, and spending some hours with the prince in his study before Antonina was summoned to dinner. It had been only the three of them at the long, gleaming table.
The scene came back to her now in all its details. As she had entered the dining room to join her father and Count Mitlovsky for dinner, the prince had said, “And we are agreed upon souls—the full hundred?”
Count Mitlovsky stood, bowing over Antonina’s hand and then kissing it lightly. As he pulled out her chair for her, he said to the prince, “The time for discussing business is ended, now that your lovely daughter has joined us. Do you not agree?”
“Certainly,” Prince Olonov answered.
“Are you selling serfs, Father?” Antonina asked, and when her father didn’t answer, she turned to Count Mitlovsky. “I hope not. He feels he has the right to separate families, which causes great heartache.”
Count Mitlovsky opened his mouth to reply, but Antonina’s father spoke to her first. “Please, Antonina Leonidovna. Don’t show such disrespect in front of our guest. These are matters for those of us who have full understanding of the situation.”
But Antonina wouldn’t be silenced. “I hope you don’t agree with this barbaric practice, Count Mitlovsky.” She settled herself in her chair.
The count took his seat as well, and the door swung open. Servants entered carrying silver trays with bowls of soup and plates of thinly sliced onion and salted, pickled cucumber, and began to serve.
“Do you, Count Mitlovsky?” Antonina persisted. “Because when I ride through the villages, and notice how—”
Her father interrupted her, his voice smooth. “The count is our guest, dear daughter, and he has requested that we not speak of business during dinner. You will of course respect his wishes.”
Antonina sat back as the servant lifted the silver cover from the steaming soup in front of her. “Yes, Father,” she said.
They had finished the dessert, a tart of preserved berries with thick whipped cream, and the samovar had been brought in when Prince Olonov asked Antonina to recite part of Pushkin’s Yevgeny Onegin for Count Mitlovsky. “Just the opening of Book One, Antonina,” he urged.
“Please, Father,” she said, not wanting to stay at the table any longer. “I’m sure Count Mitlovsky has heard many, many stanzas of Yevgeny Onegin far too many times. It would be tiresome for him.”
“Oh, I can assure you, Antonina Leonidovna,” Count Mitlovsky said, “that I would indeed care to hear it. It’s been many years since a young woman recited poetry for my benefit.” He smiled. Although slightly stained from tea and tobacco, his teeth were straight, and his smile was almost charming. “I am sure you have a highly compelling voice.”
“Yes, come, Tosya,” Prince Olonov said, fixing his eyes on her.
She put down her napkin and stood, clearing her throat.
“Your hair, Antonina Leonidovna,” her father said.
She reached up, feeling long strands against her cheeks. She tried to push the stray locks into their pins.
To his guest, her father said, “You may be assured, Konstantin Nikolevich, that although my daughter lacks certain feminine understandings, she is very compliant.”
Antonina looked sharply at her father, both angry and shamed. Although her father was correct about her lack of interest in her hair and the latest fashions, the second part of the statement was an outright lie. He knew how stubborn she was.
“You have brought enchanting colour to Antonina Leonidovna’s face, my old friend,” Count Mitlovsky said then, and she clenched her hands and hid them in the folds of her skirt.
The ormolu clock ticked loudly, and there was the rasp of the swinging door and the tiniest tinkle of porcelain as a servant entered with a tray of cups and saucers and a pot of sugar chunks. Antonina stood in the almost silent room, waiting while the man put out the cups and saucers and sugar then bowed and left.
“Perhaps you will first pour the tea, daughter,” her father said. “We will enjoy it while you entertain us.”
As she’d set the cup and saucer on the heavy damask tablecloth in front of Count Mitlovsky, he’d unexpectedly taken her hand. “Do you not wear gloves when you ride, Antonina Leonidovna?” he asked, and she looked at him, then at her father, then back to Count Mitlovsky. What a peculiar and rather personal question. How inappropriate that he touch her.
“If I choose not to,” she said.
“Your skin is roughened by the cold.” He turned her hand over, looking at the palm. “My dear, such calluses from the reins. You should take better care of these young hands.”
Something about the way he held her hand, so lightly and yet possessively, unsettled her. She extracted her fingers from his and again looked at her father, wanting … something, some form of support—even an expression that told her she wasn’t wrong in being uncomfortable with the unwanted attention from this man. But her father wore a small smile.
“I’m terribly sorry, Count Mitlovsky,” Antonina said, “I cannot stay to r
ecite for you. There is something I must do.”
She ran from the dining room and up to her room.
Later that evening, after the count had retired, her father came to her and reprimanded her for her rudeness. He went on, yet again, about appropriate behaviour. He also told her that it was particularly important that she display excellent manners while in Count Mitlovsky’s presence.
“Why do you care so much about him?” she had asked, but her father had simply shaken his head, frowning, and left her room.
Since then, she had pushed from her mind the disturbing thoughts of Count Mitlovsky’s hand on hers. She hadn’t thought of him again or paid any attention to his presence among the guests over the last few days. And now her father was telling her she would marry him.
Her father’s chair creaked as he sat down again, resting his hands on his desk. “The benefits of this marriage are great for you, Antonina. You will continue to live a charmed life, with the finest of possessions, opportunities for travel, and invitations to all the most influential events of each season. But it will be as a wife, not a daughter. Do you not see what a wonderful opportunity this is for you? Do you not see that your mother and I are thinking of your future?”
Antonina walked around to the other side of the desk again. “I’m not marrying him. You can’t make me.” Of course, this wasn’t true. Prince Olonov dictated Antonina’s life. He could make her.
Now he leaned back. “Have you a husband in mind, Antonina Leonidovna?” he asked. “I haven’t seen any suitors arriving at our door. The bals blancs your mother arranged last fall came to nothing. I’m not aware of you expressing much interest in going to dances or musical evenings when invitations from other estates arrive. In fact, you have refused all such invitations of late. Am I to believe that you think you will just stay on here, spending your time in idle pursuits, until … until when, Tosya? Are you not a normal woman who desires her own home, a husband and children?”
The Lost Souls of Angelkov Page 14