Silver Nights (5 page)

He looked up and saw Sophia Alexeyevna's face, pale in the starlight, framed in the long brown hair falling forward as she leaned out of a casement. “Come down here and open this door, at once!” he demanded with a parade ground crackle that she found herself obeying without thought.

Sophie flew down the stairs, wondering what disaster could have struck. She wrestled with the bars, but they were too heavy even for her wiry strength. “I cannot,” she called. “Just a minute.”

A couple of minutes later she appeared from around the side of the house, huddled into a thin wrapper over her nightgown, her feet thrust into a pair of skimpy slippers. “Whatever is the matter?” She pushed her hair away from her face, tossing it over her shoulders, her eyes showing him a mixture of indignation, anxiety, and bewilderment. “You will wake the entire household, and it is not just. They rise much earlier than we do.”

His jaw dropped. What on earth was she talking about? “How dare you lock me out!” he spat out furiously. “A piece of childish spitefulness—”

“Lock you out!” Sophie exclaimed. “Why would I do such a thing?” The candid dark eyes stared in shocked con
fusion. “The front door is always kept locked from sundown. There are brigands on the steppes.”

“I left it open,” he said, but uncertainly now.

“Then Gregory would have locked it again,” she replied. “He is the night watchman. He checks the doors every hour.”

Adam sensed the shadow of his inevitable discomfiture. “How did you enter?”

“Through the side door. That stays open until Boris Mikhailov comes in. It is a small door, not easily seen. Did you not ask Boris Mikhailov to let you in?” She shivered as a gust of wind tipped with the cold of the flatlands whistled around the corner of the house.

“No, I did not,” Adam said, feeling foolish. “You will catch cold in your nightgown.”

“You did not give me time to put my clothes on,” she said with utter truth, still standing on the gravel path, regarding him gravely in the milky starlight. “Did you really imagine I would serve you such a stupid, pointless trick?”

He wished with all his heart that he could deny it. Not only did he feel foolish, he was overwhelmed with guilt, as if he had committed some appalling solecism. Indeed, he knew that he had. What little he knew of Sophia Alexeyevna should have told him that she was incapable of such a mean-spirited act.

“I ask your pardon,” he said a little stiffly. “I cannot imagine what I was thinking of. But you must go inside now, before I have your sickness on my conscience in addition to my injustice.”

Sophie looked at him steadily for a minute. “I want no part of your world,” she said, before swinging on her heel and walking away from him.

Adam followed, recognizing that he had done his cause yet further disservice. The thought that had been nibbling uncomfortably on the edges of his mind crystallized. He did not doubt his ability to deliver up Sophia Alexeyevna to the czarina, and thus to Prince Paul Dmitriev. But if she had not achieved at least resignation when he did so she faced a bleak future. Prince Dmitriev did not tolerate opposition or the un
conventional. He would permit neither in a wife—particularly one thirty years his junior. And if she did not fit his mold, there was no reason to believe that the methods he would use to reshape her would be gentle.

Sophie slept little until dawn, when she fell into a heavy slumber disturbed by a confused dream tangle of flight and pursuit. A pair of deep-set gray eyes drew her inexorably toward a tall man with a wide, intelligent forehead dominating a lean, aristocratic face, a beautiful mouth now set in stern purpose as he plucked her from the freedom she knew lay beyond her, drew her body backward even as her soul strained ahead; then she was looking into a pair of yellow wolf's eyes, bared fangs, a spare gray body gathered to spring. She woke, her nightgown clinging damply to her skin, when Tanya Feodorovna, bustling in with hot water, drew back the curtains to let in the spring sunshine.

“It's a beautiful day, Princess,” declared the peasant woman who had been Sophie's constant attendant since Boris Mikhailov brought the infant princess to Berkholzskoye. The young mother of a newborn son, Tanya had cheerfully accepted another babe at her breast, where the milk flowed plentifully, and when her own child died she had transferred all her maternal energies to her nursling, caressing and scolding through childhood hurts, scrapes, and temper tantrums, steering her through adolescent confusions with her own brand of practical, no-nonsense wisdom. It was the latter with which Tanya was armed this April morning.

“By all the saints!” she exclaimed, examining the heavy-eyed Sophia. “You'd best not show such a long face to your husband on your wedding morning! A man likes to feel he's pleasured his wife, not subjected her to the torments of the
fiery kingdom!” She bustled over to the armoire, saying over her shoulder, “Of course, a woman's chances of being pleasured are not very high, but a man still likes to feel he's succeeded.”

“If they were made aware of the fact that they hadn't, then perhaps they would try harder.” Sophie found herself responding in usual fashion, despite her wretchedness. “Anyway, Tanya Feodorovna, I am not getting married.”

“That's not what I heard,” said Tanya, shaking out the folds of a flowered muslin dress. “The sooner you stop fighting it, Sophia Alexeyevna, the happier you'll be.” She laid the gown on the bed. “Hurry up now. The prince is waiting for you in the library. You've slept right through breakfast.” She poured water into the washbasin. “What clothes do you want to take with you? I'm sure I don't know that you've anything suitable for St. Petersburg. I haven't, either…nor Boris Mikhailov…”

“What are you talking about?” Sophie swung herself out of bed, standing groggily in a patch of sunlight. “You and Boris—”

“Why, we're to come with you,” Tanya said cheerfully. “Bless your heart, you didn't think the prince would let you go off all that way without us?”

Sophie closed her eyes on a nagging thump behind her temples and a welter of confusion. A great many matters seemed to have been decided in the few short hours she had been asleep. “I am not going to St. Petersburg, Tanya.”

Tanya humphed. “Hurry with your dressing. I'll fetch you up some coffee and biscuits.” The heavy door closed with the emphatic snap that generally expressed the opinion that her erstwhile nursling had better stop talking nonsense and gather herself together with all due speed.

Sophie began to have the frightening sense that events were moving too fast for her to grasp them. She had parted with her grandfather the previous evening stating that she would not comply with the imperial command. But it seemed as if he was proceeding without paying any attention to her statement; as if there was no question of discussion. If Tanya
Feodorovna believed that the princess was about to depart for St. Petersburg and a husband, then the entire household would believe it. The first shaft of genuine panic loomed. Until now she had not truly believed that this could happen. Her grandfather would see her position—he had to. Of course, he would support her. Now a niggle of misgiving rippled across the surface of certainty, threatening to develop into a full-blown storm of doubt. Could it be that no one was on her side?

Tanya brought her coffee and sweet biscuits to compensate for her missed breakfast. She drank the coffee, made as strong as Tanya knew she liked it, hoping that the powerful concoction would haul her clearheaded into the waking world. It helped a little, but she was still heavy-eyed and pale when she went downstairs to the library.

Prince Golitskov was with his lawyer and Count Danilevski, conferring around the leather-topped desk. He looked up as his granddaughter came in, subjecting her to a grave appraisal that missed nothing. “You do not look as if you slept well, Sophie.”

“I did not,” she replied. “Tanya Feodorovna said you wished to see me.” She nodded to the lawyer, whom she knew well, and offered a cool good morning to the count, who had risen at her entrance. He was in uniform once more, his black hair confined in a neat queue at the nape of his neck. The gray eyes held hers for a long moment, the inexorable eyes of her dream, and the spectre of the wolf slid confusingly into her internal vision. Why were the two somehow inextricable? There was nothing remotely wolflike about Count Adam Danilevski.

He was bowing, smiling as he drew forward a chair for her. “I am sorry you passed a bad night, Princess.”

Sophie dismissed the polite platitude with an impatient gesture. He was perfectly aware that he was more than partly responsible for her troubled sleep. Disdaining the chair, she walked over to the French window to stand in a patch of warming sunshine. The light accentuated her pallor and the smudges under her eyes, even as it brought out the rich chestnut highlights in the dark hair massed on her shoulders.

Adam's lips tightened at this clear discourtesy. He had hoped to make amends for his error of the previous evening, but obviously Princess Sophie was having none of his conciliatory smiles and friendly expressions.

The old prince came straight to the point. “We are drawing up the marriage settlements, Sophie. I wish you to hear what dispositions I have made.”

There
was
to be no escape, she thought in dull despair. They were going to take her off to St. Petersburg and marry her to some complete stranger; only death offered reprieve. It was inconceivable, and yet she knew that it was not. It was the way such matters were conducted. She opened her mouth to repeat her point-blank refusal to go to St. Petersburg, then changed her mind. What was the point? She could only refuse to participate willingly in this selling of her body, soul, and fortune.

“I am not interested,” she said, walking back to the door. “I do not consent to any part of this.”

“Sophia Alexeyevna!” Her grandfather spoke with the sharp authority that he rarely used with her. “I insist that you remain here and listen to what I have to say.”

With a little shrug, she obeyed, but remained standing with her back to the room, her hand on the door latch.

Adam groaned inwardly again at the thought of how he was to manage her on a month-long journey of discomfort bordering upon hardship and immeasurable tedium. Clearly, he was not going to be able to trust her out of his sight, and that prospect filled him with gloom and trepidation. If there was no trust between them, how could he hope to help her achieve the acceptance of her lot that would, in turn, ease that lot?

Prince Golitskov was speaking in the quiet room. He was telling her that she would leave under the count's escort the following morning, that she would take Boris Mikhailov and Tanya Feodorovna with her as personal attendants. They were deeded to her as part of the marriage settlement. Her inheritance would pass into the control of her husband, with the exception of Berkholzskoye, which on her grandfather's death
would belong solely to her and her heirs. Thus would she retain some measure of independence.

He fell silent, waiting for a response from the motionless figure. There was nothing, until Sophie raised the latch on the door and left the room.

Golitskov looked at the count with that same slightly malicious gleam in his eye. “I have done my part, Count. Take her to St. Petersburg. Let her wed this Prince Dmitriev. But she will always have a home here, married or no.” He went to a rolltop secretair and took out a heavy metal strongbox. “I would give this into Sophie's charge, but I do not think it will make your task any easier if she has the financial means to evade your escort.” A sardonic smile flickered at the corners of his mouth. “I did say I would not hinder you, did I not?” He handed Adam two weighty leather pouches and a sheaf of bills. “She will need wedding clothes…other things, too. Ensure that she receives this when she reaches St. Petersburg.”

Adam took the money. “I will write you a receipt, Prince.”

“That will not be necessary,” Golitskov said. “She will take Khan with her, also. Boris Mikhailov will have charge of him.”

That thought brought to mind a major concern. Grimly, Adam broached the subject that had been uppermost of his worries since he followed Sophie onto the steppe the previous night.

Golitskov heard him out. “I suppose if you feel you must, then you must,” he said slowly. “But I wish you would reconsider. She will be quite wretched.”

“Show me an alternative.” Adam decided that he had had enough of the old prince's games. On the one hand, with that uncomfortable gleam in his eye, Golitskov would tell him that he must now manage the affair himself; then, when the unpleasant aspects of that management were brought home to him, he implied that Adam was as callous as the harshest jailer.

The old prince shook his head, and for a moment the deep sorrow he felt at the prospect of his loss showed on his face.
He looked a tired old man, shorn of the power of decision and the armor of wit. “Do what you must,” he said, and shuffled wearily from the room.

The lawyer cleared his throat, reminding Adam of his presence. “I will draw up the documents, Count, and give them into your charge before you leave in the morning.”

Adam nodded. “We leave at cock-crow.” He strode from the room, going in search of the sergeant of his troop of soldiers. Sergeant Ilya Passek was to be found in the sunny courtyard at the rear of the house, smoking a pipe and engaged in light dalliance with a chubby-faced young kitchen maid. He came smartly to attention at the approach of his colonel, and it was clear from his nervous expression that he was unsure whether his off-duty demeanor was about to draw censure.

“Playtime is over, Sergeant,” Count Danilevski said dryly. He flicked a dismissive hand at the young maidservant, who took herself off with a cheeky grin at her swain.

“Beg your pardon, Colonel, but we hadn't any orders—” began the soldier.

“Now you have,” interrupted Adam. “You will post the men in the house and around the estate to ensure that Princess Sophia does not leave the immediate boundaries of the estate between now and tomorrow morning. If she wishes to go farther afield, you will prevent her with all courtesy, before escorting her to me.”

Sergeant Passek saluted and marched off, leaving a moody Count Danilevski to wander through the gardens, absently noting the efficient husbandry that produced flourishing currant bushes and vegetable plots, and well-pruned fruit trees in the orchards. The steppes did not provide the most hospitable soil for such fruitfulness, so it was to be presumed someone was a skilled gardener.

He came across Sophia Alexeyevna, in gloves and apron, pruning shears in hand, on her knees in a rose garden. She did not seem to be aware of him, and he hesitated, unwilling to disturb her absorption, yet drawn toward that lissom figure almost without volition. Maybe he could produce some soft
ening of her intransigence, something that would make unnecessary what he must otherwise insist upon during their journey.

“I was thinking that someone around here must have a great love of gardening,” he said pleasantly, stepping toward her along the narrow path between the rosebushes.

“Were you?” She did not so much as turn her head.

It was not encouraging. He tried again. “I am surprised in such arid soil you are able to produce so much.”

“Are you?” The shears clicked and a green sprouting offshoot fell to the earth, separated from the thick gray stem from which it would otherwise have drawn away strength and sap.

Stubborn, arrogant bitch! he thought with a surge of fury. Well, if that was the way she wanted it, on her own head be it. “Your pardon for disturbing you, Princess.” He saluted, spun on his heel, and returned to the house.

Sophie sat back on her heels, dashing the back of her hand across her eyes. Why did she have this feeling that in any other circumstance she would enjoy the count's company very much? And why was she bothering with this pruning of roses that she would not be here to see flower? Why was she doing anything today? Every sight, sound, action of the daily life so familiar to her was another turn of the knife, and she was bleeding enough.

Rising to her feet, she made her way back to the house, to be met by old Anna, wailing over the loss of a dish of pirozhkis prepared for dinner and ready for the pot. One of the dogs had stolen both dish and contents from the kitchen table.

Sophie could summon up no interest in the fate of meat dumplings, or in that of the guilty dog whimpering pitifully in the corner of the courtyard after Anna had wielded her broomstick to good purpose.

“Well, what are we to have instead?” demanded the housekeeper, flinging up her hands. “There's dinner to be made for the dining room, dinner for the soldiers, dinner for the kitchen…and no pirozhkis!”

After tomorrow, Anna would have to deal with such matters without guidance, Sophie reflected. But then there would only be the old prince to care for…. Tears stung her eyes and she ran from the kitchen, leaving Anna muttering and shaking her head.

“Sophie!” Prince Golitskov appeared in the library door. “I must talk with you,
ma petite
.”

She showed him her tear-wet face, and he held out his arms to her. They clung together in the doorway, then he drew her into the room, closing the door quietly.