Silver Nights (14 page)

“You will be in the drawing room to greet my guests at a quarter to two,” Paul informed her, marching to the door. “You will not dress yourself too elaborately—a morning gown will be sufficient for the modest part I wish you to play.”

“Yes, Paul,” Sophie dutifully murmured; then, as the door closed behind him, she picked up the brass candlestick beside the bed and hurled it at the paneling. There was a splintering crash, and she waited with bated breath to see if it would bring him back into the room. But the door remained closed. The violent gesture had so relieved her feelings that she could almost laugh at the thought of how she was to explain a bent candlestick and splintered paneling to her maid. At least it wouldn't be
Maria for a while longer, and the timid little girl presently allocated to her didn't seem to have the makings of a spy.

She pulled the bell rope with a surge of energy and flung open the door to her armoire. Maybe she had been forbidden to dress with any ceremony, but there was some pleasure in the thought that she was to lay eyes upon representatives of the outside world, and they would have to respond to her in some small way, just as a matter of simple courtesy.

A smile played over her lips as she dressed in a gown of apple green cambric over a very small hoop. She was remembering the first evening with Adam, when, in customary careless fashion, she had presented herself for supper in her dusty riding habit and boots, hair still wind-whipped. In the few weeks at court before her wedding, she had discovered some of the pleasures to be found in an elaborate wardrobe and the sophistication of ceremonial dress. Her present gown was elegant in its simplicity. The color brought out the deep highlights in the rich brown hair coiled heavily around her head to frame her oval face. A lace fichu at the neck of the gown bespoke modesty, but it exactly matched the froth of lace foaming at the edge of the elbow-length sleeves. Her forearms seemed to curve nicely, Sophie thought, examining them for the first time in her life with a frown of interest. She turned them this way and that, admiring the daintiness of her wrist, the smooth creaminess of her skin.

Her lip curled in sudden distaste. What was the point of admiring her so-called charms when they were laid to waste night after night beneath an indifferent husband? What did Adam think of her arms? Perhaps they were a little too muscular for true elegance…. Oh, stop it! She scolded herself vigorously for such pointless, potentially hurtful musings, as she slipped into the deep pocket of her decorative apron the letter to her grandfather she had written during her imprisonment the previous evening. It was possible she would be able to slip away to the stables, and she must be prepared to seize whatever opportunities arose. Armored with the decision, she went downstairs to the drawing room.

When Sophie appeared in the drawing room, curtsying politely to her husband and the two senior officers of the Semeo
novsky regiment of the Imperial Guard, Adam covertly, carefully, scrutinized her. There was nothing out of the ordinary in her demeanor, no indication that she had suffered unusual hurt as a result of her outburst over Khan. There was one moment when those dark eyes met his inspection. In their depths he read a glimmer of complicity, a glow of warmth, instantly extinguished when she turned from him to murmur some meek assent to a comment from General Arkcheyev.

She was not going to break, Adam decided. If anything, he thought he could sense a resurgence of the old Sophie, as if, instead of crushing her further with his cruelty over Khan, Dmitriev had had the opposite effect. She had gone beyond his power to hurt.

She did not yet know that Khan was safe and sound in Adam's stables. Boris had said the princess had not appeared since the previous afternoon. When she had that knowledge, it would augment her will to resist. But he could not stifle the slow burn of rage at Dmitriev's manner, which, by effectively excluding his wife from the conversation, implied that her presence was simply a necessary nuisance.

Sophie retreated into herself—a trick she had taught herself in the last two months. The pompous voices, the laughter growing louder, more immoderate, as the wine and vodka passed back and forth, drifted, unheeded, over her head. She was vaguely conscious that her husband had imbibed much more than was his custom, or, at least, his custom at this dinner table; what he did when he was with his friends was a different matter. A flush had appeared on his sallow cheeks, and his movements were not as precise. A knife clattered against a plate, wine spilled over the lip of his glass. His voice became, if not slurred, then a trifle thick. But this condition was shared by his two friends.

Adam, alone, remained as cool and distant as ever. Sophie's eyes slid across the smooth, polished surface of the table, around the heavy silver serving dishes, over the delicate delftware, the cut glass goblets, to lift in a secret whisper of a glance to his face. His lips moved fractionally, yet she felt the kiss they gave as a vital force, as real as if it had been planted upon her mouth,
now tingling in response. Desire, invincible, swelled within her, filling every corner of her body. There was a moment when it shone, naked, from her eyes, glowing now as they looked openly at him, meeting a hunger to match her own. Then sharp warning sparked in his eyes, dousing passion, and she lowered her gaze to her plate.

Filled with a secret joy, Sophie left the dining room the minute she could decently do so. The drinking was continuing, and three of the four seemed set fair for an afternoon that would vanish into the mists of bibulous unremembering. The jubilant memory of that clandestine look and promise buoyed her as she made her way to the stables, intent on sharing a moment of silent memory with Boris Mikhailov, before telling him he must depart for Berkholzskoye to explain to Prince Golitskov the full wretchedness of her situation. But when she saw Boris, saw his shining eyes, the radiance of his expression, she gathered up the soft cambric of her skirts and ran across the cobbles toward him.

“Hush!” he cautioned in a whisper as she reached him. “You are too impulsive, Sophia Alexeyevna! There are eyes and ears everywhere.”

“I forgot for a minute,” she said with a return to somberness. “You looked as if you had good news.”

“I have. Khan is safe with Count Danilevski…. No, control yourself!” he said sharply as tears suddenly filled her eyes and her face shone with wonder and joy. “If I can slip away from this place this evening, I will go and check on him, but the count says he is calm, eating well—”

“Listen, Boris,” Sophie interrupted in an urgent whisper, controlling her joy and relief until the time when she could savor them. “I have decided that my grandfather must know of these things. He will know how to help. You must go to Berkholzskoye.”

Boris nodded slowly. “The prince told me what I should do if you felt the need. He gave me money for a horse and for the journey. Have you a letter?”

Sophie turned her back on the yard, beginning to saunter toward the gate, stealthily drawing out the paper from the pocket of her apron, holding it at her side, concealed in a fold of her
skirt. “It explains everything…about Tanya Feodorovna, Khan…and…oh, so many other things.” Things Boris knew nothing about, all the hurts and humiliations that she could not bring herself to talk about, although writing about them had put a distance between herself and the wounding memories.

Her lips barely moved as she spoke; the muzhik's hand covered hers for the barest second, and the document changed owners. Without another word or glance, Sophie strolled from the yard, fighting to keep the skip out of her step. Khan was safe. Adam had saved Khan. Boris would reach Berkholzskoye in two, maybe three, weeks of hard riding, and Prince Golitskov would not ignore her plea. What he could do, Sophie did not know; but she knew that he would do something. The bars of her prison seemed to be widening, offering a glimpse of a possible future other than the drear withering of her soul beneath the tyrant's yoke.

She reentered the house, finding it as dark and oppressive as ever, yet, for once, the atmosphere did not deaden her uplifted spirits. There was a distinct spring in her step as she passed the dining room, from whence came the muffled sounds of voices, a low rumble of laughter. She would go up to the long gallery and look over the river. At least there was to be found light and airiness. The river symbolized freedom, a highway to the outside world.

She turned a shadowy corner at the head of the stairs. “Adam!” Her urgent, joyful cry was a little too loud for caution, but her heart had speeded at the sight of the tall figure striding down the tapestry-hung corridor ahead of her. He turned, and she ran into his arms. “You saved Khan!” With blind recklessness, she flung her arms around his neck, reaching up to embrace him, initiating a passionate kiss that for a moment he could not help but respond to, so sweet were her lips upon his, the eager darting of her tongue as she took possession of his mouth, the lithe slenderness of her body molded to his, the fragrance of her skin and hair.

“Sophie! This is madness!” At last he drew away, pulling her arms from around his neck.

“They are all drunk,” Sophie declared with a dismissive
gesture, a gay laugh. “I wish to kiss you, because you saved Khan and because I love you!” Smilingly importunate, she raised her arms again.

Adam could not prevent his own delighted laugh at her words, but he caught her hands. “At least let us get out of the corridor, you foolhardy creature!”

“I do not care anymore!” Sophie declared, although she allowed him to pull her into the gloom of a small, rarely used parlor.

“You
must
care enough to take reasonable precaution,” Adam chided, pushing the door half shut behind them. “Do you wish to spend the rest of your life in the cloister?”

Sophie paled. “He would not do such a thing.”

“His second wife died in the Convent of Suzdal,” Adam informed her bluntly. “He forced her to take the veil and she died five years later. It is a man's prerogative with an unsatisfactory wife.”

“One who is barren and looks upon another man,” Sophie said slowly, hugging herself in a fierce gesture of self-protection. “
Grandpère
would not allow him—”

“Prince Golitskov has not the right to prevent him,” Adam interrupted with harsh truth.

“He will do something,” Sophie declared with intense conviction. “I have given Boris Mikhailov a letter, telling him of…of the way things are, here. He
will
do something.”

Adam looked down at the pale oval face, the dark, glowing eyes where lurked a glimmer of hope, and he could not bring himself to stifle that hope. “How is Boris to leave here?”

“I do not know,” she replied. “But he has promised that he will. I do not know when he will find the opportunity, but he will keep his promise.
Grandpère
gave him money for a horse and travel expenses in case…” Her voice faded, the light dimmed in her eyes. “It is a long way to Berkholzskoye, I know.”

Adam, unable to bear the resurgence of despondency, took her in his arms, smoothing a loose strand of hair from her forehead. “Sweetheart—”

The sound of footsteps in the corridor outside stopped his
words. Sophie went rigid, her eyes darting wildly around the room. “Behind the tapestry,” Adam whispered, pushing her roughly toward the far wall, where hung a Gobelin tapestry. She slipped behind it, holding her breath, sucking in her stomach, trying to flatten herself against the wall.

“Count Danilevski, is there something you wish for?” It was the butler's measured tones, although the surprise he clearly felt at the count's presence in this dim little chamber was apparent in his voice.

“No, nothing, thank you, Nikolai,” responded Adam smoothly. “I was passing this parlor and heard a scrabbling in the wainscoting. I think you may find a mouse. It would be as well to inspect the woodwork, I think. One mouse usually means more. They have such prolific breeding habits.” He smiled, gently benign, and strolled past Nikolai, whose expression exhibited great alarm at the prospect of such a disorderly infestation in Prince Dmitriev's regimented household.

Sophie waited, breathless behind the tapestry, until she was sure that Nikolai had left, presumably to bring reinforcements to attack the mice. Despite the heart-thumping danger of the last minutes, she could not help a little chuckle at Adam's improvisation. The idea would have the servants in an uproar, turning this forgotten parlor upside down in search of something that wasn't there.

Slipping out of the room, she continued innocently on her way to the long gallery, there to spend the afternoon gazing out at the sparkling river, now coming to life again as society returned to the capital, and to daydream of what might have been…of what might yet be….

“Disappeared! What the devil do you mean, Boris Mikhailov has disappeared?” Prince Dmitriev brought his cane down in a vicious swipe across the top of his desk, although his voice did not rise above a normal pitch.

The head groom trembled, flinching, knowing that his shoulders could well be the next target. “Sometime in the night, lord,” he stammered. “It must have been…when he went.”

“It is now the middle of the afternoon,” announced the prince with deadly calm. “How is it that no one has noticed his absence until now?”

“Your pardon, lord, but he keeps to himself, that one, and since that great horse was sold he's kept apart even more. Just goes about his business. You don't notice he's there most of the time.” The man subsided, miserably aware of the inadequacy of his explanation.

“You realize that he has had perhaps a twelve-hour start, don't you?” inquired the prince pleasantly, caressing the smooth oak of the heavy cane.

The groom swallowed, taking a step backward. “Yes, lord.”

“Then I suggest you find him and bring him back.” The prince smiled his meagre smile. “By tomorrow morning. If you fail, then you shall pay his penalty for him—the penalty of a runaway serf.” The smile stretched thinner. “You understand me?”

“Yes, lord.” The groom backed to the door, bowing until his nose reached his knees.

“Take six of your strongest fellows with you,” the prince instructed. “He's to be brought back in chains.”

The door closed on the still-bowing groom. Dmitriev slammed the cane across the desk again. Did Sophia Alexeyevna know of this? In principle, Boris Mikhailov belonged to her, although in practice, as they would both discover to their cost, he belonged to Dmitriev, the man under whose roof he slept, whose food he ate, whose tasks he performed. The muzhik would be trying to return to Berkholzskoye; it was the only rational destination. He would seek he protection of Golitskov, and it would not be denied him because in theory he was still Golitskov property.

He had to be found and brought back to suffer publicly the fate of a runaway. Were such a flight to succeed, there was no knowing what precedents it might set. Dmitriev was well aware that he ruled his vast households with the scourge of terror. For such a rule to remain impregnable, there must be no perceived cracks in the system; one successful uprising, however insignificant, could lead to wholesale mutiny.

Cold fury filled him. Was this flight made with the connivance of Sophia Alexeyevna? He had prevented her from writing to her grandfather in the last two months by the simple expedient of failing to provide the means by which a letter could be carried. The two letters she had received from Golitskov were locked in her husband's bureau, unopened, and she had given up asking if the carriers had brought anything for her. But had she decided to provide her own messenger? What would she have said? Not that it mattered. Her grandfather had no jurisdiction, no possible right to come between a man and his wife. But Prince Paul Dmitriev did not like his affairs made public.

Leaving his study, he went to his wife's apartments. She was dressing for a reception at the palace, the czarina having returned from the country some three days earlier. Sophia Alexeyevna had been bidden to attend at court this afternoon, and even had he wished to do so, her husband could not refuse the invitation for her. Purely social invitations he could oblige her to accept or refuse as whim took him, but an imperial summons must be obeyed.

Sophie's surprise at this unexpected visit showed for a moment on her face, then disappeared as she smiled. “Do you accompany me to the palace, Paul?”

The cold blue eyes skimmed her expression. “But of course, my dear. You would not imagine that I would expect you to go without a husband's escort.”

“No, of course not,” murmured Sophie, bending her head slightly as Maria fastened the clasp of an emerald pendant.

“I do not think you should wear the emeralds with that gown, Sophia.” His fingers hovered over the contents of the gem casket on her dressing table. “Something a little less flamboyant, I think.” He selected a string of pearls. “Allow me.” With his usual flat smile, he unfastened the emeralds.

Sophie's skin crept at the brush of his fingers, even as she wondered what lay behind these unusual attentions. She knew that her sole possession of the Golitskov gems infuriated him, but it was one thing he could do nothing about, although he could prevent her from wearing the emeralds if he chose; that did not matter to her in the least. But what was he doing here? He only ever came into this chamber at night, and he left it the minute he had done what he came to do.

“I have just been informed that the muzhik who accompanied you from Berkholzskoye has disappeared,” he said now, casually, as he fastened the pearls around her neck, his eyes examining her reflection in the mirror. There was not a flicker of an eyelid, not a quiver of a muscle to betray her—if, indeed, she had anything to betray. He waited for her response with a politely interested expression.

Sophie shrugged, raising one hand to adjust the tortoiseshell comb in her hair. “His only task was to care for Khan.” Her eyes met her husband's in the mirror. “I expect he felt he was no longer needed.” Behind the mask of indifference her mind was racing. It had been a week since she had given Boris the letter, and she had been waiting in ever-growing impatience to hear that he had made his escape. He would have planned it with meticulous care, she knew; but the knowledge could not mitigate the dreadful anxiety for his safety, now that the waiting was over.

His hands slipped to her shoulders, rising in soft ivory from the low neck of her gown. Fingers curled like spines as he continued to smile at her in the mirror. “My dear wife, it is not for a serf to decide where and when he is needed. He will be brought back. And when he is, he will suffer the punishment of a runaway.” Did he imagine that minute tremor in the skin beneath his fingers?

Make no response, Sophie told herself. There was no reason to suppose they would catch Boris, and she must show only the most casual interest in the affair. Were her hands trembling? She smoothed down the skirt of her turquoise taffeta gown, lowering her head as if to concentrate on the task. When would he take his hands from her creeping flesh?

“If you are to accompany me, Paul, had you not better change your dress?” It was unusual for her to make such a definite statement, but she could think of nothing else to do. To her relief, he appeared to show no surprise at such directness.

“Yes, you are right, my dear. We should leave within the half hour.” He went to the door. “I will join you in the drawing room at half past four.”

The door closed on his departure, but still Sophie must maintain the impassive front before the spy, Maria, who had become both more vigilant and increasingly hostile since her whipping. Sophie could hardly blame the woman, but now, when she wanted to pace the bedchamber, giving vent to the agony of apprehension for Boris, and for herself, she must dab perfume behind her ears, flutter her handkerchief, check the contents of her reticule. At least, at a thronged court reception she could perhaps let her guard relax just a little. Paul could not watch her constantly. She would be able to talk naturally, to laugh, even to dance; and in these ordinary activities she would find momentary surcease from this overpowering apprehension.

Maybe Adam would be there…maybe he would dance with her. It would not look strange for him to do so, quite the reverse. And during the dance, words could be exchanged without audience. She rose from the dresser stool. “Thank you, Maria.” Her voice was cool, distant. “I do not know how late we shall be, but you will wait up for me.” With that slight, but
satisfactory exertion of authority, Sophie swept from the room. Maria would wait up for her anyway, just as she would sleep across the door to the corridor, but it still gave Sophie the illusion of control.

All evening, she was on the watch for the tall, lean figure, immaculate in dress uniform, for the deep gray eyes that would rest upon her for a second of warmth and complicity. Her ears strained through the chatter, through the melodious plucking of strings, to identify the light tones, carrying just the faintest hint of accent, yet it was so faint one could hardly call it an accent. It was more of an intonation, more noticeable when he spoke Russian than French. But then, of course, French was the language of the aristocracy in Poland as well as Russia, so he would not have had to learn that language when he had been transplanted to St. Petersburg all those years ago.

These irrelevancies flitted in and out of her head throughout the evening, yet they were not really irrelevancies, because they related to one of the two subjects that absorbed her, body and soul. In Adam's presence, some of her anxiety about Boris would be relieved simply by sharing it.

But he did not come to the Winter Palace that day.

The czarina greeted her former protégée kindly, but the sharp eyes noted the absence of the previous glow and vibrancy. The early days of marriage were a cross all young women had to bear, Catherine reflected. Perhaps the princess was pregnant. That would account for the slight listlessness, the pallor. Her husband, on the contrary, appeared mightily pleased, and kept a most flatteringly close and uxorious eye on his bride. If she were carrying his long-awaited heir, it would certainly explain such care and attention.

Catherine dismissed the question when she dismissed Sophia Alexeyevna with the instruction to enjoy herself amongst the friends she had made at court before her marriage. Before her instruction would be obeyed, however, Prince Dmitriev took his wife home.

Only Prince Potemkin, with the sensitivity drawn from his vast experience of women and their ways, was uneasy. There was something about the lowered eyes, the set of her head, that
bespoke trouble. Potemkin knew General, Prince Paul Dmitriev better than did his empress. They were both soldiers, after all, and Dmitriev had served under Potemkin on more than one occasion. Potemkin did not care for Dmitriev's style of command, any more than did Adam Danilevski, but like Adam he was obliged to recognize success. He stood staring with his one eye and scratching his chin; then he shrugged. When all was said and done, a man's wife was his own. Sophia Alexeyevna had shown no reluctance for the marriage, and she had had time enough to become acquainted with her prospective bridegroom. No, it was probably the unfamiliarity of wedded bliss that had disturbed her…that and the heat. Whatever had possessed Dmitriev to keep her in St. Petersburg throughout the summer? Shaking his head, Potemkin went in search of vodka.

 

It was noon of the following day when the nightmare began. Sophie was in the mausoleum of the drawing room, made even darker by the rain scudding from a leaden sky beyond the windows, where, as in all St. Petersburg palaces, mica substituted for glass. She was seeking consolation and distraction from anxiety in her usual fashion. Her husband did not appear to find anything potentially subversive in reading and, indeed, ignored her pursuit of this leisure activity. She was now deeply absorbed in a volume of the letters of Madame de Sévigné when the sounds of disturbance came from the hall. Voices were raised—an unheard-of occurrence in this deadened house. The great front door slammed, footsteps scurried, clattering across the marble floors.

A cold sweat broke out on her forehead, trickled down her back; her hands began to shake uncontrollably; nausea rose in her throat. She knew what was happening even before her husband flung open the drawing room door and stood looking at her, silently, a mixture of rage and triumph in his eyes.

“I have managed to retrieve my property,” he said in his customary calm tones. “Unfortunately for him…although most fortunately for me…he met with some delay on the road so the pursuit was able to catch up with him without difficulty.”
The thin lips flickered in a snake's smile. “Come into the hall, my dear. Boris Mikhailov has something to return to you.”

Sophie wondered if her legs would bear her weight, if she would manage to swallow the nausea, or if she would collapse upon the rich Persian carpet, vomiting in helpless humiliation as the fear became uncontrollable. But strength came from somewhere. Slowly, tentatively, she rose from her chair. There was no point pretending she did not understand what had happened, that she knew nothing of the letter; and there was no point attempting to conceal her fear, even had she been able to do so. Her legs somehow obeyed the order to move. She walked past her husband, politely holding the door for her, into the hall.

Despite the leg irons and the manacles, Boris Mikhailov held his head high. His lip was swollen, crusted with dried blood. One eye was closed, purpling with a great bruise. His shirt was torn and bloodstained, drenched with the rain that dripped from his hair and beard.

“You have something that belongs to the princess, I understand, Boris Mikhailov,” came the silkily smooth tones of Prince Dmitriev. “Return it to her.”

Between his manacled hands, Boris grasped the letter. Now, painfully, he extended his hands toward her, holding out the paper. Moving as if through a blanket of fog, she stepped forward, unable to meet his eyes, which held a plea for forgiveness, as if the failure of his mission was entirely to be laid at his door. She took the paper, and for an instant her fingers closed over his.

“Perhaps you would read the letter to me, my dear wife,” requested the prince. “Just to refresh your memory.”

To be obliged to read aloud the catalog of hurts and mortifications to the one who had visited them upon her was a refinement of cruelty beyond belief, she thought distantly. “Have you not read it yourself already?” she heard herself say. Amazingly, her voice sounded quite steady.

“I would like to hear it from you,” he replied, looking at her with that snake smile, reminding her of one of those reptiles, which, having paralyzed its prey with venom, can take its time
before delivering the final blow, enjoying the victim's dreadful helplessness, the terror of anticipation.