The Frost of Springtime (11 page)

Perhaps Aleksender would deny his destiny and fate would no longer
claim the upper hand.

“Alek …” The surrounding tension might have been severed with a blade.
Standing mere inches apart, Sofia draped a hand over the ragged arch of
Aleksender’s shoulder. He jerked from her touch as though it had burned.
“Alek?
What—”

“We can’t see each other anymore. Not like this. Not for a while.”

Sincere confusion crossed over her features. She tucked a loose curl
behind each ear and shook her face. “What? What are you even saying?”

Aleksender inhaled a strained breath. “The other night at Voisin—it was
a mistake.
An impulsive mistake.
We mustn’t go any
farther down this road. We weren’t thinking clearly. And it’s my fault and mine
alone. Sofia … I should have never come to you that night. I was lonely and—”

Sofia fought back tears as the slender expanse of her chest shook with
evident shudders. Aleksender gripped onto her shoulder blades and aligned their
bodies. She stared at the pavement below her heels, unable to meet his eyes.

“God, I … I’m so stupid. I thought—”

“Sofia, you did nothing wrong. Please, you must understand—I care for
you. I care for you far too much.” Aching from her nearness, Aleksender reached
out, attempting to stroke the smooth bend of her cheek.

Sofia flinched out of his grasp with a strange and strangled sob. “No.
Just … don’t.”

The vast blue sky seemed to darken as clouds overhead swelled and
dimmed. The serene backdrop had been painted over and wiped clean out of existence.

Likewise, Sofia’s lovely face mutated into a mask of
agony.
Aleksender felt his heart clench as various degrees
of pain crept over her muddled features. The sapphire of her eyes became tarnished,
abandoning their customary glow, her ivory complexion whitening to a ghostly
pallor.

She fought—
bless
her dear heart, she fought
like a true flesh and blood warrior—to hide her emotions and conceal her pain.

Aleksender searched her eyes for answers, for hidden secrets of the
heart. The truth was cleanly etched in her gaze. She believed they could be
together. And Aleksender could only assume that he was to blame for her skewed
perception of the world. He had raised her on the enchanting romance of fairytales.
Now, as Sofia stood before him, the genuine prospect of hope flickered from her
blue eyes. And, much like
himself
, her head was
bursting with fantastic thoughts and romantic ideas.
Things
that could never be.

Sofia trembled from head to toe, shuddering like a leaf in La Havre’s
summer breeze.

Aleksender stroked her arm with an exquisite deftness as he attempted
to sedate her nerves. But she found no relief in his caresses. His touch only burned.
And she found that it ignited her spirit with a multitude of flares.

She freed herself from the circle of Aleksender’s arms. His fingers
slid away, almost in slow motion, that green gaze alive with feeling. Destined
tears pricked the corners of her eyes and threatened to spill down her cheeks.
She summoned an inner strength, holding them back.

“Sofia? I—”

“Please—no. Just don’t touch me. It’s too much …”

A guttural sound erupted low in her throat. Sofia swallowed, cupping
her heart in vain. Alas, the very source of her affection was strong and
willfully determined against her palm. It thundered in a deafening roar. She
inwardly cursed herself, convinced that he could hear the godforsaken drumming.
“You promised. Only days ago you said I’d never lose you.”

Aleksender inched toward Sofia, both palms outstretched as if he were
coaxing a spooked horse into submission. “Sofia—”

She continued to slink away.

He was closing in on her. Their fate was closing in on the both of
them. A glorious landslide of possessed emotion was destined to crush their
souls. And what more was a landslide than the accumulated pressure of stress
and time?

Two steps later and Sofia slammed against one of the garden’s stone
columns. Aleksender hovered high above her, all darkness and torn emotion, the
magnificent curve of his form casting her within shadow.

“I have waited for you. In my heart, I have waited.” Her voice was
nearly inaudible. “And I know it’s wrong. It is wrong and sinful in every way,
but I can’t shake this feeling. And I know that you feel it, too.”

Fate had brought them together. Now fate was to keep them apart.

The epiphany, the full extent of their inability to be together, burned
Sofia’s soul. The fantasy had been shattered. And now, she would forever be
lost—lost with no hope of returning to the life she’d once known and loved.

And yet on the day of Aleksender’s departure, as the ship had whistled
impatiently and women wept their goodbyes, he had kissed her. He had
really
kissed her.

He had kissed her as though he’d loved her.

“I love you as my ward,” was his soft answer to her thoughts, “nothing
more.” Aleksender swallowed. “And she deserves better.” His voice was composed
and smooth, yet bore a jagged edge. Sofia dropped her chin and braced herself
for the inevitable. “I’ve already hurt Elizabeth far more than I can bear to
live with.” Aleksender glanced elsewhere, unable to stomach the sight of her
heartache.

She nodded and knotted both arms over her breasts. “I must go.”

Pinning her body against the column’s cool alabaster, Aleksender
blocked her steps and prevented any hope for escape. “Please.” He rested a hand
upon the slope of her neck, willing himself not to tremble. Visibly battling
some inner demon, he gave in and caressed her skin. Her eyes blinked shut at
the hypnotic ministrations. “I care for you. I care for you so much.
And saving you that night.”
Their gazes locked, souls
consummating.
“Was a godsend.”

“I … I don’t know. I’m not so sure.”

A fat tear rolled down her cheek and dampened Aleksender’s hand. It
burned, striking him like holy water. But he was possessed with demons that
could never be exorcised.

“What do you want me to say? What can I say?” Silence followed. Only
the wind’s breath penetrated the quiet. Indeed. There was nothing left for him to
say. In a single instant, their stars had realigned. And nothing could ever
again be the same.

“Nothing.
I understand.”
Sofia tucked a chocolate curl behind her ear and smoothed down the delicate
material of her skirts. “Farewell, my dear Alek.”

CHAPTER
EIGHT

Few things are
worse than being stripped of everything you hold dearest.

Drunk out of his mind, Christophe pondered this stale sentiment as he
stared down the sweltering remnants of his home. His chest clenched at the
sight. Alas, the vision was uglier than any battlefield.
More
disturbing than any number of dismembered limbs or decapitated heads.
Christophe medicated himself with a generous swig of alcohol, chased the liquid
with his cigar, and swept unkempt locks from his eyes.

Mon Dieu.
When had he last
bathed?
Days ago?
A week?
It
was impossible to say. But one thing was vividly clear—the stench was
inescapable and Godawful. He reeked of filth, sweat, sex, and brandies. Near to
suffocating and disgusted within
himself
, Christophe
unbuttoned a row of clasps on his blouse and urged the spring air to clear out
the musk.

What was that ridiculous saying? Ah, yes, some English fool—the great
Sir Edward Coke—had once said that “a man’s house is his castle and fortress,
and each man’s home is his safest refuge.” How very ingenious were the English!
Neurotically gnawing at the tip of his cigar, Christophe looked upon the
tangled mass of blackened planks and fluttering debris—the half complete
rosewood furnishings and whittled keepsakes, the gutted ashes of his home.

Everything was burning. And all that remained of his past was a rusted
Prussian dagger and a mangy pair of dog tags.

A handful of Versailles soldiers were to blame for the destruction. Christophe
was certain of it. Yes—the National Guard and France’s formal “defenders” had
been exchanging bombs within yards of Christophe’s humble abode. One of the
damned shells had slipped and tore through the walls. Thanks to Christophe’s
patriotism—thanks to his personal collection of chassepot rifles and gunpowder
kegs—the explosion had proved to be quite a spectacle. The very things that had
kept him alive out on the battlefield—those precise things that had once served
France’s formal military—had inevitably destroyed all he held dearest.

Aleksender’s words invaded his mind.
I daresay irony
at its finest.

And where was the great Comte de Paris now?
Sitting
up in his castle and fortress, locked away in a safe haven, a refuge—oblivious
to Paris’s destruction.
Comte Aleksender de Lefèvre had served “her
well” and wanted nothing to do with the war. And his wish had been granted on a
silver platter.

And what of his comrade, Christophe Cleef?
What of himself?
He’d gone bankrupt weeks ago (after all, few people purchase writing desks and
wooden benches during a siege) and had hit rockbottom ever since.

What were Aleksender’s words? What were those sparkling words of
wisdom? What else had Aleksender said in Cafe Roux on that fine Parisian
morning?

The war has not ended. It has merely followed us home.

The war had followed Christophe home, yes—all while Paris’s noble
comte
blissfully hid himself away.

Alas! Had Christophe not been at the local brothel the previous night,
tucked snugly between the legs of some exotic whore, he’d exist as nothing more
than a pile of rubble and ashes.

And death was a welcoming thought.

His head spun out of control, drowning beneath a fiery lake of alcohol
and bitter thoughts. What absurdity! What spectacular wisdom! This man’s house
was a hellhole—and the only refuge to be found was at the bottom of this
bottle! Irony at its finest, indeed! Christophe laughed at the fantastic turn
of events until his stomach ached. He laughed until tears rolled down his
cheeks …laughed until he retched straight into the dirt … and he continued to
laugh until those tears lost all of their mirth.

•

The next afternoon Aleksender arrived at Cafe Roux fifteen minutes shy
of one PM. The lunch hour was as dead and as quiet as the grave. From wall to
wall, the place was empty and void of life. A small cluster of Prussian
soldiers were seated along the windowpane and engaged in heated conversation. A
masterfully sketched map occupied the whole table, its parchment wings fully
spread. Across the top,
Carte de Paris
was inscribed in
elegant calligraphy. At the opposite end of Cafe Roux, several National
Guardsmen drained a coffee pot, the morning’s edition of Le Père Duchêne
sprawled open across the tabletop. The situation at hand was almost comical.
Here sat Prussians and Frenchmen in civilized silence—both of whom had spent
the last year slaughtering each other.

Round-faced-jolly-bartender kept to himself as he whistled a dull tune
and wiped down the bar with a faded dishrag. Heavy with sweat from his brow, the
material was soggy and in need of a good wash. And that round face of his,
normally flushed and beaming, was anything but jolly.

Aleksender scanned the expanse of the room for any trace of Christophe
Cleef. His chest sunk at the sight. The silhouette of his comrade was tucked in
the furthest corner and cloaked in darkness. And all of Paris’s shadows
couldn’t hide the fact that he was stinking drunk and teetering on the edge of
sanity.

Clearly in the midst of some disagreement, the Prussians’ argument escalated
to a steady roar. Christophe rotated in his seat with an irritated groan. The
chair creaked in defiance, manipulated by the pull of his body weight.

He interrupted the Prussians.
“
Sie müssen nach
Rouen bahnhof fahren, von dort kommen Sie nach Versailles.
”
They
exchanged a glance, stunned into silence by the Frenchman’s flawless German
tongue. “
Die Fahrt wird einige Stunden dauern.
”

Aleksender’s mouth ticked at the corner. Christophe had prepared to
work as a spy shortly before the war broke out, which had been one of many
short-lived aspirations.

Aleksender released a long breath and crossed the room.

“Ah. So you made it.
How very good of you.”
Christophe said in a dry slur. Aleksender narrowed his eyes and examined his
friend’s disheveled appearance from head to toe. Each thread of his coat was
covered in dirt and only God knew what else. The auburn waves of his hair were
unkempt and weighed down with grease. His grin, normally bright and brimming
with good humor, was no longer starch white but tinted yellow. But hardest to
stomach were his eyes. Rid of their customary gleam, they were cold, insipid
and vacant.

The Prussians folded the map, climbed onto their feet, and stood next
to the table. Christophe downed his alcohol and tossed a hand in the air,
waving them off. They muttered a weak “merci” before proceeding on their ways.

“Christophe. What’d they want?”

“What do you think?
Directions to Versailles, of
course.
Now come take a seat. We’ve much to talk about.”

Aleksender straightened out his morning coat and warily sank into a
parallel chair. He folded both hands together in the form of a steeple before
he spoke. “You look like hell and you smell even worse.”

Christophe barked a humorless laugh, which resembled a hollow cry, and
inhaled a mouthful of brandy. With a strained chortle he swiped the dribbles
from his mustache. “Charming as ever, I see. Wish I could say the same ‘bout
you.” Christophe traced the rim of his glass in contemplative circles, staring
into the liquid. “But you were right. We haven’t returned home. We’ve merely
traded one battlefield for another.”

Aleksender tensed at his words. The shift in his friend’s attitude was
alarming. Little red flags emerged inside his mind. “What did you expect? We
were under siege only months ago. Give it time. You—”

“I’m not talking about that.” Christophe sobered and met Aleksender’s
eyes. “I’m not talking about Sedan or Wissembourg or even the camps.”

Aleksender paralyzed. Ah, yes, those damn camps. He cleared his
throat—feeling a blade buried deep inside his flesh. A chorus of cruel, mocking
laughter echoed his mind—

Christophe banged his bottle against the tabletop and startled
Aleksender from his trance.
“Alek?”

“A civil war.
You’re talking
about the beginnings of a civil war.”

“No.
No, not a civil war.”
Christophe shook
his head, lips hooking into a grin.
“A new revolution.”

Aleksender’s eyes darkened. “What you call a revolution I call anarchy.
And what you claim to be ‘justice’ Adolphe Thiers claims to be punishable by
death.”

“Some things are well worth dying for. Now don’t you agree?” Christophe
slid his brandy across the table and ushered it into Aleksender’s hand. “Here.
I believe you may need this as much as
myself
.”

Aleksender nodded his gratitude and downed a mouthful. The brandy
coated his throat with a soothing, slow burn. The glass skittered across the
counter as he returned it to Christophe.

“I wanted to tell you … ah—” Christophe’s voice broke off mid-sentence.
Unable to meet Aleksender’s eyes, he scratched at his neck and stared into the
bottle. “I’m not good with these
sort
of things.”
Christophe took a swig for courage. “Damn. I’m sorry ‘bout your father.”

“You and me both.”

“Paris could’ve used him right ‘bout now.”

“To hell with Paris.
To
hell with all of France.
I’m finished with her. And you …” Resentment
boiled inside of Aleksender. His head pounded, eyes seeing red. “You didn’t
call me here to wish your condolences. That much is obvious. So I suggest you
stop wasting our time. From the way of things, we may be on limited supply.”

The chair creaked as Christophe leaned against its wooden back.
Unblinking, he crossed both arms across his chest and studied Aleksender. “What
a fool I was, thinking you might give a damn.” Christophe smirked and shook his
head once more.
“Of course.
Why should you care?
You’ve never cared for anything.
Never have had any reason
to.”

His voice rose in volume with each word. The National Guardsmen halted
their conversations and narrowed their gazes upon Christophe.

“Christophe—you are creating a scene.”

Not seeming to hear Aleksender, he uttered a curse and slammed his fist
onto the table. “There’s nothin’ of your father in you. You only enlisted
because you couldn’t deal with your own desires. Ain’t that right,
mon
ami? You wanted that dancing ward of yours.” A severe
smile framed his lips. “Ah, don’t look so surprised. It was obvious enough between
your stories and the letters. Come now. I’m not that foolish. Tell me—what’s
her name again?
Hmm?
Sidney, Cecilia
… No, no.
Those aren’t right.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Take a guess. Go on.”
Silence.
“Ah, you never
were one for games. Truth
be
told … Paris is in great
need of your great and humble charity, Monsieur le Comte.” Each syllable
dripped with mockery. “Lives are bein’ stolen.” Christophe paused before
continuing. A look of severe pain marred his features. He adjusted his posture
and scrubbed a hand over his weathered face. “People are losing everything that
matters … their homes, loved ones—”

“A pity.”
Aleksender
absently stroked a hand through his hairline.
“But not my
concern.”

“Damn it, Alek. You could turn this around. I’d likely be shot to high
hell if I stepped within a mile of Versailles. But you … you are different. You
have the one thing that everyone else lacks.
A worthy name.”

Aleksender’s lips curved into a cold, almost triumphant smile. “That’s
where you’re wrong. None of us are worth a damn.” Aleksender pushed back his
chair as he prepared to stand.

“Sure, you’re all high and mighty now,” Christophe stuttered. “But just
wait. Wait till your darling wife is raped up against a wall, till your chateau
is burned to the ground and your father’s grave is pissed on—all while your
little Sofia whores herself for a loaf of bread.” Aleksender tensed at the
sound of his ward’s name. “This has always been your answer to everything. Run
away … run away and hide like a damned coward.
So very noble
of you, monsieur.
Your father would be most proud.”