Prince Of Dreams (18 page)

“Milbank didn't have to desert you. He had a choice.”

“Adam was afraid of you. And I don't blame him. You're a vicious, selfish creature, and the world would be a much better place without you!” Her voice lowered to a searing whisper. “I despise you for what you've done to me, Nikolas. You've ruined my life.”

In spite of his callousness, Nikolas recoiled at the look on his wife's face. It was the truth, he realized bleakly. She did hate him. It was all his doing…it had been necessary to push her away, to save himself…but still, the proof of his success didn't please him. He was more troubled than he had ever been in his life. His head pounded, and there was a sound in his ears, a jarring, high-pitched tone that seemed to worsen every minute. He rubbed his forehead in an effort to ease the ache. No more arguments for now—he would deal with his wife later.
Get the hell out of here
, he tried to say, but strangely, the words came out in garbled English and Russian. His mind wasn't straight, wasn't clear…everything was somehow tangled.

“What is it?” Emma asked sharply, but he shook his head in confusion.

In the charged silence that followed, Mr. Soames came into the library with the canvas he had been working on. “Your Highness,” he began, unaware of the scene he had interrupted. He smiled as he saw Emma there. “Princess Emma, I have uncovered the portrait. You must have a look. It's remarkable.” Carefully he propped the painting on Nikolas's desk and stood back. “You see?”

Nikolas focused on the portrait, of a man in his early thirties with golden-brown hair, amber eyes…high cheekbones…a hard mouth, and a sharp-cut jaw…

My God
…It was like looking into a mirror. It was his exact likeness.
That's my face, my eyes
…

All at once his head was filled with shooting pain. He tried to tear his gaze away, but he couldn't.

He was vaguely aware of Emma's shocked gasp. “It's you,” she said, and the last word echoed in his brain:
youyouyou
…

Nikolas made a desperate attempt to escape, but his body wouldn't obey. He stumbled and fell to the floor. The painting seemed to be pulling him inside itself, a magnet for his soul, drawing all the flickering life from his body. He was sinking into darkness, while color, sensations, time itself, shot past him in whirling updrafts.

He was dying, he thought, and he was flooded with panicked regret. What an empty life he'd led, with no one to mourn his loss. Suddenly he wanted Emma: he needed to feel her slim, strong arms around him, her warmth…but there was nothing…only the torment of his own extinguishing thoughts.

P
ART
III

My pulses bound in exultation
,

And in my heart once more

unfold

The sense of awe and inspiration
,

The life, the tears, the love of old
.

—P
USHKIN

Seven

1707 November, Moscow

S
OMEONE WAS SPEAKING
in Russian. “Your Highness, it is time to leave now. Your Highness…?”

The stranger was annoyingly persistent. Nikolas awakened slowly, groaning at the pounding in his head. The taste of wine was strong and sour in his mouth. Blinking painfully, he discovered that he was sitting at a tiled table, his head and arms resting on the hard surface.

“You drank all through the night,” the man's voice scolded. “There is no time to shave your face, or even to change your clothes before the bride-choosing. Please, Prince Nikolai, you must wake up
now
.”

“What are you talking about?” Nikolas muttered, groggy and perplexed. There was a comfortable and familiar scent in the air, not the sweet wool-and-starch smell of his English house, but one of birch wood and wax candles, and the citric tang of cranberries. It reminded him so strongly of home that he closed his eyes again and breathed deeply. Gradually he recalled what had happened…the argument with his wife, the portrait…“Emma,” he said, lifting his head with an effort. He rubbed his sore eyes. “Where's my wife? Where…”

The words died on his lips as he saw that he was in a strange room. A young man, his slim form neatly dressed in antique clothes, waited nearby. His dark eyes, the same chocolate shade as his hair, sparked with exasperation. “We'll get a wife for you as soon as you rouse yourself and go to the bride-choosing, Your Highness.”

Nikolas braced his head with his hands and gave the stranger a slitted glare. “Who are you?”

The man sighed. “You must have had even more to drink than I feared! When a man forgets the name of his favorite steward, it is safe to say his brains are pickled. I am Feodor Vasilievich Sidarov, as you well know.” He reached for Nikolas's arm to help him up from the table.

Nikolas shook him off with a soft snarl. “Don't touch me.”

“I'm trying to
help
you, Prince Nikolai.”

“Then tell me where I am, and what happened after—” Nikolas stopped speaking as he looked down at his own clothes. He was dressed in a velvet doublet, narrow breeches, and a white shirt with billowing sleeves, garments that looked as ridiculously old-fashioned as the steward's. He flushed in embarrassed rage, thinking that someone was playing a joke on him. As he took in his surroundings, however, his emotions dissolved in a wash of pure astonishment.

The room was an exact reproduction of one in the private Angelovsky house in Moscow. The parquet floor, intricately fashioned of inlaid wood to resemble a Persian carpet; the scrollwork on the furniture, thickly overlaid with gold; the carved panels on the walls—all of these were things he had known in his childhood. He had left it all behind after the exile.

Nikolas stood on unsteady legs. “What's going on?” he whispered. “Where am I?” His voice shot up several notches. “Emma, where the hell are you?”

Sidarov began to look alarmed. “Prince Nikolai, are you feeling well? Perhaps you need something to eat…some bread? Fish? Smoked beef—”

Nikolas strode past him in sudden haste, pausing with a startled jump at the threshold. He began to roam through the halls and rooms like an animal caught in a trap, disoriented, sweating heavily, his heart feeling as if it might burst from his chest. It was all here, the furniture, the wood carvings, everything he had never thought to see again. A few strangely dressed servants regarded him with confusion when they saw him, but none of them dared to speak.

“Prince Nikolai?” came the steward's anxious voice behind him.

Nikolas didn't pause in his headlong rush until he reached the front door and flung it open. A blast of excruciatingly cold air hit him, stinging his face, gnawing through his thin sleeves. Except for a shudder of surprise, he was absolutely still.

All of Moscow was spread before him, in a glittering carpet of gold and white.

The estate was located on a hill near the edge of the city, rising above a sea of shining church domes topped with gold crosses. In between the churches stood houses of wood and stone, their roofs painted with green, blue, red designs. Smoke from thousands of stoves spiraled into the air, mixing with the fresh bite of snow in Nikolas's nostrils. Numbly he watched as flakes the size of down feathers descended gently to the frozen earth. The light covering of snow on the city sparkled in billions of crystalline fragments.

Nikolas's knees shook so violently that he was forced to sit on the ice-laden doorstep. “Am I dead?” he wondered, not realizing he had spoken aloud until Sidarov's sarcastic answer came from behind him.

“No, although you don't look far from it. And you'll certainly catch your death if you sit out here with no coat.” Gently the steward touched his shoulder. “Prince Nikolai, you must come inside now. You've appointed me to look after your household and your personal affairs. I would hardly be worth my wages if I allowed you to become ill. Come, the carriage will be readied soon…and you will go to the bride-choosing, as you wanted.”

Nikolas stood and continued to stare at the city. He felt like weeping in fear and joy, and kissing the hard earth. Russia, his beloved country…yet this Moscow was younger, harsher, than he had ever known it. The dark, primitive forest around the city had not yet been cut back and cleared. The streets were filled with the clamor of carts, animals, peddlers, holy men, and beggars. There were no houses or carriages of modern design. The villages in the distance were sparse and isolated, unlike the thick clusters he remembered.

Perhaps this was just a dream. Perhaps it would end soon. How had he come here? What had happened to Emma and Jacob? Disarmed, uncertain, he followed Sidarov back into the house. The steward produced a coat for him, the same shade of dark blue velvet as the doublet. “Allow me to help you with this, Your Highness.” The heavy garment enfolded Nikolas in warmth, its line of covered buttons extending high on his chest and reaching to mid-thigh. Standing back to view him critically, Sidarov gave a grunt of satisfaction. “Not quite up to your usual glory, but I doubt the prospective bride will be displeased at the sight of you.”

“Whose bride?”

Sidarov laughed, as if Nikolas had just made a joke. “
Your
bride, Prince Nikolai. Whomever you choose to be your mate.”

“I'm already married.”

The steward began to laugh harder. “I'm glad your sense of humor is back, Your Highness.”

Nikolas didn't smile. “I'm not choosing a bride,” he said, tight-lipped.

Suddenly Sidarov was flustered and upset. “But, Prince Nikolai…you said yourself that it is time for you to marry! You sent envoys to gather beautiful unmarried maidens from every village around Moscow. Now they're all here, waiting for you. Their families have brought them from Suzdal, Vladimir—some from as far away as Kiev and the Ukraine! Are you saying you don't even want to have a
look
at them?” He stared into Nikolas's pale face and clucked disapprovingly. “It's the wine talking. You hardly know what you're saying. As all Russians do, you require one day to get drunk, one to enjoy it, and one to recover.”

“I'm not enjoying it,” Nikolas muttered, hoping fervently that he
was
drunk. Stinking, filthy drunk. Maybe when he sobered, this would all be gone. In the meanwhile, there didn't seem to be much he could do about the situation.

“Come,” the steward coaxed, “we must go to the bride-choosing. At least favor them by walking along the line. Who knows? You may see a beautiful girl and fall in love at first sight.”

Wildly Nikolas dragged both hands through his disheveled hair. He didn't want to participate in this ridiculous farce. He had enough trouble with the wife he'd already married. But he decided he would play along until the dream was over. “Let's get it over with,” he said gruffly. “I'll go—but I won't choose any of them.”

“That's fine,” Sidarov soothed. “Just have a look. It's only fair, after they came so far.”

A small crowd of servants appeared to accompany Nikolas to the carriage, leading him down the slick steps. Efficiently they tucked fur robes around his legs and lap, placed hot stones at his feet, and pressed a goblet of wine in his hand.

“No more wine—” Sidarov began as he climbed into the carriage.

Nikolas silenced him with a gesture, and glared at him over the rim of the jeweled goblet. He needed a drink badly, and he'd had enough of the bossy little servant. The heated wine was strong and bracing, blunting the edges of his panic.

The gilded carriage was pulled by six black horses and mounted on runners that allowed it to glide swiftly over the carpet of snow. The Angelovsky crest was embroidered on the velvet cushions, and repeated on the ceiling and walls in patterns of jewels, crystal, and gold. “I'm an Angelovsky,” Nikolas said tentatively, placing his hand on the crest.

“You certainly are,” Sidarov agreed in a feeling tone.

Nikolas moved his gaze to the steward, who was beginning to look vaguely familiar. The Sidarovs had worked for his family for generations, had even accompanied him into exile, but Nikolas couldn't recall anyone named Feodor. Except…in his boyhood, he remembered the oldest Sidarov of all, whose name had been Vitya Feodorovich. Perhaps this was Vitya's father? Grandfather?

Then who am I supposed to be
? Nikolas gulped the rest of his wine to stave off the sinking coldness inside him. The servant had called him Nikolai…Prince Nikolai…but that was his
great-great-great-grandfather's
name.

The vehicle passed by the homes and markets of the
posád
, the area of the city between the fortress walls and the outer earthen ramparts that encircled Moscow. People swathed in long coats, bulky robes, and fur hats began to appear on either side of the street and cheer, waving the vehicle on to its destination. The scene reminded Nikolas uncomfortably of the curious crowds that had gathered to watch him depart St. Petersburg at the beginning of his exile.

“Where are we going?” he asked tersely.

“Don't you remember? Your friend Prince Golorkov is the only one in Moscow with a private home large enough to accommodate all the women. He very kindly offered the use of his ballroom and pavilions for the bride-choosing.”

“Very kind,” Nikolas repeated grimly, gripping the empty goblet in his cold hands. They drove through the city, built in rings like the layers of an onion, with the Kremlin at its center. Some sections contained clusters of noblemen's homes and small, perfect orchards. In others, bunches of gold church domes were gathered like exotic flowers, dwarfing the small wooden cottages nearby. The roads had not been paved or modernized, and the buildings were constructed of wood.

With a dreamlike sensation, Nikolas listened to the pealing of bells as Orthodox churches signaled the approach of morning Mass. No other city on earth rang bells so frequently, filling the air with joyful music. If this was a dream, it was more detailed and vivid than any he'd experienced before.

Finally the carriage-sleigh was pulled up to a great house fronted with slender wooden columns and an octagonal pavilion on either side. People crowded on both sides of the street and at the gates, cheering as they caught sight of Nikolas through the carriage windows. He sank lower in his seat, his face dark and brooding.

“You must be nervous,” Sidarov remarked. “Don't worry, Your Highness, it will all be over soon.”

“It had better be.”

A complement of shivering, brocade-covered footmen opened the carriage door and escorted Nikolas to the house. Sidarov followed close behind, carrying a wooden box with golden latches. Their host, presumably Prince Golorkov, waited in the wide, low-ceilinged entrance hall. Golorkov was a balding old man with a thin gray mustache that curved along with his lips as he smiled. “Nikolai, my friend,” he said, a sly gleam in his eyes. He moved forward to embrace Nikolas, and drew back to look at him. “You will be very pleased by the women inside, I assure you. Such an array of beauty I have never seen. Hair like fine silk, breasts like the choicest fruit—you will have no difficulty finding a girl to suit you. Shall we have a drink first, or proceed directly to the ballroom?”

“Nothing to drink,” Sidarov interceded hastily, ignoring Nikolas's glare. “I'm certain that Prince Nikolai, in his great eagerness, will want to see the women immediately.”

Golorkov laughed. “And who could blame him? Follow me, Nikolai, and I will lead the way to paradise.”

The hallways echoed with a roar of excited female chatter that grew louder as they approached the ballroom. Smugly Golorkov reached for the lion's-head door handle, and sent the door swinging open. There was a chorus of gasps, and then an anticipatory silence fell over the room. Nikolas hesitated before entering, until Sidarov and Golorkov pushed him inside.

“My God,” Nikolas muttered. There were at least five hundred women in the ballroom, maybe more. They stood in an uneven line, staring at him, waiting for his inspection. Most of them wore smocks and over-dresses of red, the favorite color of all Russians. Each girl wore her hair in the traditional maiden's braid, dressed with a ribbon or scarf, or with a diadem of gold or silver wire. A few of the boldest women sighed admiringly as Nikolas walked nearer.

Nikolas felt a tide of burning color rise from his neck. He turned back to Sidarov, who was close behind him. “I can't—” he began, and the steward elbowed him hard.

“Just glance over them, Your Highness.”

“Shy?” Golorkov asked with a mocking laugh.

“This isn't like you, Nikolai. Or is it that you're still reluctant to marry? I promise you, it isn't so bad. Besides, the Angelovsky name must be perpetuated. Pick a wife, my friend, and then we'll share a bottle of vodka.”

“
Pick a wife
”…uttered as casually as if he were offering a tidbit from a tray of
zakuski
. Nikolas swallowed hard and approached the beginning of the line. His feet felt as if they were encased in lead. Hesitantly he moved past one girl after another, barely able to look them in the eye. He was showered with timid giggles, smiling glances, encouraging whispers—and occasionally, a look of dread from a girl who clearly had no more desire to be there than Nikolas himself. As he walked along the line, spines straightened to display well-endowed figures, and slender fingers plucked nervously at scarves and skirts. For each girl whom Nikolas rejected and passed, there was a word of consolation from Sidarov, as well as a gold coin from the box he carried.