Silver Nights (35 page)

“I will never forgive myself,” he whispered, kneeling beside the bed, taking her hand between both his. “To cause you so much suffering.”

“What a great piece of nonsense,” she scolded, then gripped his hand with a strength he could not believe she possessed as the pain wracked her anew. She made no sound though and, when the agony receded, sank limply back upon the pillow as if drained of all strength.

“How long must she endure?” Adam demanded of Tanya, who was again bathing Sophie's forehead with lavender water.

“Not much longer,” she said calmly. “It's all going beautifully, lord. The child is coming headfirst. It's just that the head is a little large.”

So cool and matter-of-fact she was! The image of the baby's head, too large for the slender body locked in its ele
mental struggle, filled his brain. It was his fault the child's head was too large. His mother always told him how large his own had been.

“Adam!” Sophie's voice was barely a whisper, but the urgency could not be mistaken. “Give me your hand.”

She gripped with that same superhuman strength, but something different was happening. He looked in amazement. Her eyes were again closed, but her face was contorted with effort, not pain, now, the veins in her neck standing out against the ivory skin. Tanya moved to the foot of the bed, throwing back the covers. One of the other women hefted a cauldron of boiling water off the fire, placed a fresh kettle upon the trivet.

“Push again, Sophia Alexeyevna.” The calm instruction came from the foot of the bed. Sophie's hand still gripped Adam's, but it was as if she did not know what she was holding. He was transfixed by the extraordinary transcendent beauty of her face, which reflected the effortful labors of her body, lending his hand to the struggle with a sense of joy that he could participate even in this small way.

There came the moment when a sleek, dark head appeared between her thighs. He held his breath, suspended in wonder at the eternal miracle. A piercing wail filled the room, and Sophie's hand went limp in his.

“Well, what a lusty lad,” Tanya declared a second or two later with undisguised satisfaction. “Crying before he's even out in the world.”

“A boy?” whispered Sophie.

“A fine boy.” Tanya placed the naked, blood-streaked scrap of humanity in her arms.

Adam looked down at his son, wondering if more could ever be added to the sum of human happiness. He touched a tiny hand, wrinkled like an old man's.

“Sasha,” Sophie said softly. “Do you like the name, Adam?”

Alexander, Sasha in diminutive. “Yes, I think it suits him,” Adam said solemnly.

“Now, lord, you go down and tell the prince he has a fine,
healthy great-grandson,” Tanya instructed, taking the baby from Sophie. “There's more work to be done here. You can come back when the princess is comfortable.”

Thus dismissed, Adam bent to kiss Sophie's damp brow, running his fingers through the lank strands of hair. “I have never seen you more beautiful or more radiant.”

“She'll be more beautiful still if you'll let me get at her,” Tanya scolded, pushing him away from the bed. “Get along with you now. Men in the birthing chamber! I've never heard of such a thing.”

Adam walked on air out of the room filled with its own joyful bustle. At the foot of the staircase stood Prince Golitskov, his expression a mask of apprehension.

“I have a son,” Adam said dreamily as he came down the stairs. “I have a son, Prince.”

Golitskov embraced him with tears in his eyes. “And the mother?”

“Radiant,” Adam said in the same tone of bemused wonder. “After enduring so much, she is radiant. Such strength women have, Prince.”

Enough to endure maternal separation from the child so newly separated from her body? wondered the prince. “Come, we shall celebrate. I have been keeping a superb claret for just such an occasion.”

In any other circumstances, the birth of a Golitskov great-grandson would be heralded with the pealing of bells for leagues around. For a week, barrels of wine and beer would stand on every street corner, in every courtyard, replenished when they were emptied. Thanks would be given in every church, and neighbors between here and Kiev would come bearing congratulations.

But not for this great-grandchild, thought Golitskov with sorrow in his heart. Not for this illegitimate son of a Polish count and a Russian princess, whose birth must be kept a Berkholzskoye secret, preserved from the outside world.

“Katya Novikova is a strong, healthy girl, Princess. She will make a fine wet nurse.” Tanya Feodorovna smoothed the patchwork quilt on Sophie's bed a shade nervously.

“But I have told you, there is no need for a wet nurse,” Sophie said tranquilly. “I have more than enough milk for this little one.” She smiled down at the babe in her arms. A shock of spiky black hair crowned the still slightly misshapen head nestled against her breast. His eyes were closed as he suckled greedily, one tiny hand clenched in a fist against the succoring breast.

“Oh, dear,” sighed Tanya. “You must be sensible, Sophia Alexeyevna. The longer you suckle the child yourself, the harder it will be for you.”

Sophie looked at her blankly. “To do what?”

Tanya sighed again, more heavily, and left the room. In the library she found the babe's father and great-grandfather, both of them in earnest conversation. “I do not know what's to happen,” she stated without preamble. “It is usual for a newly delivered mother to have some strange fancies for a few days, but Sophia Alexeyevna does not seem to be considering what is to be done. She behaves with the child as if they are in a world of their own. If there were a sign of fever I would understand.”

“There is none?” asked Adam sharply, these dread spectre of puerperal fever never far from his mind these days.

“Bless your heart, no, lord,” assured Tanya comfortingly. “The princess will be up and about in a day or two.” She dusted a corner of the table with her apron, shaking her head. “But what is to be done? I've found a good wet nurse in Katya No
vikova, but the princess will have none of it…says she has more than enough milk herself, as if that was the point!”

“Perhaps we should both talk with her.” Golitskov heaved himself from his chair. “This cowardly procrastination is not going to help.”

Adam nodded, giving the old man his arm. They went slowly upstairs to the west wing. Sophie's chamber was bright with jugs of autumn foliage. A fire crackled merrily, and buttery sunshine filled the casement.

“I was hoping for a visit,” she said, moving the baby to her other breast. “Your son has a hearty appetite, love.” She held out her hand to Adam. “Come and see. He is amazingly like you.”

Adam could not fight the joy and pride he felt in this child of his loins. “My head is a better shape,” he laughingly protested, tenderly touching the soft, pulsing spot on the child's crown where the bone was not yet formed.

Prince Golitskov moved closer to the fire, warming his rheumatic hands. Adam was as absorbed in his fatherhood as Sophie in her motherhood. Love was responsible for more tragic tangles than such a supposedly soft and productive emotion had any business to be! He turned to the lost couple at the bed.

“Sophia Alexeyevna, you are going to have to make some decisions.”

The harshness in his voice startled Sophie. “What do you mean,
Grandpère
?”

“Have your wits gone begging?” he said. “You know you cannot acknowledge the child as your own. The longer you continue to suckle him, the more devastating it will be for you.”

“Your grandfather is right, sweetheart.” Adam spoke with difficulty. “Let him be put to the wet nurse.”

“No!” She exploded with a violence that startled the child, whose mouth opened on a protesting wail. “Hush,” she soothed, holding him against her shoulder, rubbing his back gently. “I do not know that I will have to go back to St. Petersburg.” But she did know it. Paul would not let her slip away again. She took a deep, steadying breath. “For as long as I may, I will mother my child.”

“Sophie, as soon as you are able to travel, I will arrange for
you and the child to go into France.” Golitskov spoke decisively. “You will be well provided for, out of your husband's reach.”

Sophie looked at Adam. Slowly, she shook her head. “I cannot do that.”

“It is that or you must surrender the child.” The hard choice, implacable, dropped like stone.

“I do not have to surrender him yet,” she said in a small, broken voice. “Not yet, not until I must.”

“Sophie, you must go into France.” Adam, in his own anguish, said the only thing possible. “I will come—”

“No,” she interrupted quietly. “If you abandoned your family you would never forgive yourself, and I will not live with that burden. I will not go alone because I would never have news of you and I cannot live in such a desert. I will accept my destiny, here. Sasha will not suffer, I know that. I can endure my own affliction, but I will not hasten it. I would have what I may while I may.”

Defeated, Prince Golitskov silently left the room.

“At least let us make some plans, sweet love.” Adam sat on the bed. “Let me hold him.”

She placed Sasha in his arms and he gazed in wonder at the bright blue button eyes, the snub nose; he examined each perfect miniature finger and toe, while his son blinked his unfocused eyes and yawned.

“The czarina gave me permission to stay here until the spring, if my husband permitted it,” Sophie said. “Paul has not communicated with me. If he waits until the onset of winter before sending for me, I may, in good conscience, refuse to make the journey until spring. The empress will stand my friend in such an instance.” She sat back against her piled-up pillows. “I am not concerned, Adam. It is already the middle of October. Paul would have to send for me by the end of the month. I have a feeling he is not going to do so.” Smiling, she leaned forward, tickling the babe's stomach. “Do not wear such a long face, love. Anything could happen between now and the spring.”

Adam tried to fall in with this mood of happy insouciance. But he could not dispel his foreboding, could not discount the feeling that Sophie was deliberately adopting a policy of self-
deception as shield against the harsh truths that in the deepest recesses of her soul she acknowledged.

 

In Kiev, General, Prince Paul Dmitriev was obliged to halt for several days. He needed to purchase and equip two carriages; three of his escort were sick of a fever and the horses needed reshoeing. But he was prepared to bide his time. Sophia Alexeyevna was going nowhere and could be left to enjoy her delusion of safety. Its violent shattering would be all the more devastating the longer she had enjoyed it.

A spy sent hotfoot to Berkholzskoye returned with the information that Princess Dmitrievna was said to have given birth to a healthy son.

Further questioning elicited the interesting information that a Polish count was staying at Berkholzskoye as guest of Prince Golitskov.

The inhabitants of the Wild Lands kept their own counsel, Dmitriev reflected sourly. Only by going to Berkholzskoye and ferreting out the information for oneself could one discover scandals that anywhere else would be shouted from the rooftops. Here in Kiev, a mere fifty versts away, no rumor of shameful happenings on the Golitskov estates was bruited. If he had not heard of her faithlessness from Maria, he would never have known.

But he had her now, helpless in her unknowing, waiting to receive the entirely legitimate vengeance of the deceived husband.

 

“Why so restless, Adam?” Sophie, curled in a big wing chair by the bedchamber fire, shook her head in mock amazement. “You were the one who said restfulness was the quality to be most admired in a woman. Here am I, perfectly reposed and contented, and you cannot sit still for a minute.”

Adam bent over the back of the chair and kissed her. “You do appear to have undergone some remarkable transformation,” he teased. “To tell the truth, love, I am trying to summon up the courage to ask your permission to go hunting.”

Sophie laughed. “You absurd creature! Why should you need my leave?”

He looked rueful. “I feel guilty about abandoning you. But Boris Mikhailov tells me that there is a pack of wolves terrorizing the village of Talma.”

“And you would go hunt them down.” She smiled wistfully, her eyes going to the casement, where the day blustered, cold and bright. “I wish I could come. I have not been hunting this age.”

“You know you cannot, which is why I will not go,” he declared with resolution.

“No, you must! I insist, Adam. Just because I am still so ridiculously lethargic does not give me the right to tie you to my bedside. I do not know why it should be taking so long for me to recover my strength,” she added, a mite disconsolately.

“It has not been much above a week, love,” Adam reminded her.

Sophie sighed. “I suppose so. It is just that I am not accustomed to feeling enfeebled.” A wail from the crib in the corner of the chamber brought her to her feet in a most unfeeble fashion. “Ah,
mon petit
, are you hungry again?” She bent over the crib, lifting the infant, kissing the firm, warm roundness of his baby cheeks. “Go with Boris, Adam. I have much to occupy me with a woman's work for the moment.”

He smiled tenderly. “Indeed, it does seem so. We will not be gone more than three days.”

“You will be gone until you have hunted down every last wolf in the pack,” she said with mock sternness. “Do not pretend otherwise to salve your conscience.” She sat down in the chair again, opening her bodice for the hungrily nuzzling babe.

That shadow of foreboding darkened his vision as he looked at the picture they presented—such perfect contentment could only tempt an unkind fate. It would take but the slightest touch to shatter the picture into myriad fragments of grief and loss. Resolutely, he put such futile ponderings from him, bending to kiss the top of her head, to stroke his son's cheek with a fingertip. “I will get my things together, then, if you are sure you will not be lonely.”

“I shall miss you, but I have
Grandpère
.” Her eyes danced mischievously. “
He
does not become unpleasant when I cheat at cards.”

“Perhaps if he had been a little more unpleasant in the past, he might have cured you of such a deplorable habit,” Adam declared, going into his dressing room. “Do you know where the bootboy put my hunting boots?”

“Are they not in the rack?”

“Ah, yes, I have them.” The eagerness in his voice made her smile, although it was a smile tinged with envy. She could well empathize with such enthusiastic anticipation. A few days on horseback engaged in a battle of cunning and wits with a pack of wily wolves was a heady prospect, particularly after such a sedentary week of bedside occupations.

She went downstairs to see them off, waving from the open front door as the group—Adam, Boris Mikhailov, and four serfs to act as gun bearers—trotted down the drive.

“Such a long face,” Prince Golitskov gently chided. “Next time, you will be able to go.”

Gregory closed the door on the chilly afternoon as they turned back into the house. A curious dank emptiness seemed to hang in the air, and Sophie shivered involuntarily. It was absurd to feel so bereft, so…so defenseless, just because Adam had gone hunting.

 

It was dusk when the party of horsemen, two empty carriages bowling behind them, turned onto the avenue of poplars leading to the mansion. They rode in silence under the bare trees, over the mud-deep earth that in summer was a dustbowl. At their head, Prince Dmitriev bore an expression that would have been familiar to his soldiers. It was the anticipatory satisfaction of one about to accomplish a mission of duty—regardless of cost.

The mansion stood closed against the night. He signaled to one of his men, who dismounted and began to hammer on the great iron knocker. Casements flew open, startled faces peering down at the small army, threatening upon the gravel sweep. Within, Prince Golitskov came slowly into the hall, one hand held to his breast, where ugly premonition blossomed. Yet no one whose business was illegitimate would hammer so peremptorily upon the door. Sophie, the child in her arms, rushed to
the head of the stairs, staring wide-eyed into the hall below as Gregory, at a sign from the prince, pulled back the bolts.

General, Prince Paul Dmitriev stepped into the hall. He saw his wife first, hair tumbled about her shoulders, dressed casually in a loose print gown, a child clutched to her bosom. For a long moment, the cold blue eyes absorbed the sight while she stood impaled by his menace. Then he turned to the old man, who tottered slightly.

“I am come for my wife,” Prince Dmitriev said in his cold, dispassionate fashion. “Do not attempt to prevent me. You do not have the right, and a man is entitled to take charge of his adulterous wife.”

Prince Golitskov recovered himself. He stepped forward. “Prince Dmitriev, I will not allow you to remove Sophia Alexeyevna from my roof. The treatment she has received from you in the past—”

“She is my wife!” hissed Dmitriev in the same low voice. “Much though I may regret it, it is so, and I will have a husband's vengeance for her infidelity and her bastard.”

“No!” Golitskov, in appalled horror at the mire of hatred and venom revealed by this speech, raised a hand in protest. There was a flash of steel. Slowly, he crumpled to the ground, blood spreading untidily across his shoulder.

“You have killed him!” Sophie, heedless of even the child she held in her arms, flew down the stairs, dropping on her knees beside the still, ghost-pale figure of the old man.

“It is a shoulder wound. He will not die of it,” her husband told her carelessly. “You!” He beckoned to Anna, who stood moaning and wringing her hands. “Tend to your master!” He caught Sophie by the hair, jerking her upright. “Get upstairs to your chamber with your bastard, whore!”

Stumbling under the force of his push, she caught the child convulsively against her with one hand, putting out her other to grasp the banister. He shoved her again, his knuckles digging into her back, and she staggered up the stairs, biting her lip to keep the moans of fear from escaping.

Tanya Feodorovna, with a loud cry of outrage, sprang from
a doorway in the upper hall. She dropped to the ground, felled by an almighty blow to the side of the head from Dmitriev's fist.