Silver Nights (17 page)

“Oh, that is too strong a word,” protested the empress. She had not deemed it necessary or wise to mention Sophia's wish for an annulment. “I think she is a little confused, that is all. You have so much more experience of the world than she; it is all too easy to assume that knowledge is shared. It is a very common error,” she added with a kindly smile.

“I shall endeavor to ensure that Princess Dmitrievna fully understands things from now on.” Again the prince bowed low, his voice bland. Sophia Alexeyevna was most definitely going to understand. She was going to understand how a man disposed of an unsatisfactory, barren, deceitful wife who went behind her husband's back!

He left the imperial presence, and Catherine had no inkling of the ferocious need for vengeance now seething beneath his cool exterior. He had had enough of a woman who defied him with every step she took, although he could not pinpoint how or why he knew she was doing so; enough of a barren woman who lay beneath him like a corpse, somehow denying him any vestige of satisfaction in an act that should have salved so many past injuries; enough of a woman who did not understand what it was to be a wife—
his
wife.

Prince Dmitriev drew his sheepskin hat over his ears. If she did not care for marriage, then he would return her to Berkholzskoye. But he would do so in such a fashion that her chances of arriving would be minuscule. The cold was becoming ferocious, and snow now lay thick upon the ground. A sleigh, drawn by four horses, harnesses jingling, slipped past as he crossed a bridge over one of the canals intersecting the city. The water beneath was frozen, and in a few weeks the River Neva itself would be icebound. The conditions were
hardly ideal for traveling, although they could be mitigated. Princess Dmitrievna, however, would make the month-long journey without the comforts vital to health and security.

The revenge pleased him with its neatness. He would simply be giving her what she desired. The empress would applaud his consideration. To permit Sophia Alexeyevna to spend the winter with her grandfather was a kindly act; it would be granting her a respite in which to come to terms with her marriage. Only her husband would know the conditions under which she made the journey. And when she did not arrive at Berkholzskoye, he would be horror-struck, the very epitome of a bereaved husband.

Pleasure and satisfaction gleamed coldly in the pale blue eyes as he entered his house. “Where is Princess Dmitrievna?”

Nikolai bowed. “In the gallery, I believe, lord.”

Paul went up the stairs in leisurely fashion. Sophie was to be found looking out on the snowy city, over the now-deserted river. She turned as her husband came into the gallery. “Good morning, Paul.”

Rage burned within him at the submissive curtsy, the lowered eyes. He still could not fully grasp the horrendous depths of her deceit, the magnitude of his own blindness. Not a tongue of fire from the conflagration blazing within him showed on his face, however. “Good morning, Sophia Alexeyevna. There is to be a concert at Prince Stroganov's palace this evening. We have both been invited. I am unable to attend, but perhaps you might care to.”

Sophie could not hide her surprise, both at the unusual courtesy of his tone and at the suggestion. She was to go forth into society without his escort, accepting an invitation to a function that he would ordinarily have refused without even mentioning it to her. “Thank you, Paul,” she responded meekly, offering a hesitant, grateful smile. “I should enjoy it above all things.”

“Then you shall go, my dear.” He smiled. “I will see you at dinner.”

During dinner, her husband became again the charming,
attentive man of her betrothal. Sophie was at a loss. She responded in like manner, even as she was filled with mistrust, an apprehension that had no sticking point, but that would not be eased. His eyes were flat, expressionless, his voice pleasant, his smile flickering as always; so why did she feel he was regarding her rather as one would regard an exhibit at a fair, contemplating the performance it would eventually give?

He appeared in her bedchamber as she was dressing for the concert, sitting in front of the mirror in her peignoir while Maria did her hair. “Why do you not wear the aquamarines, my dear?” He selected the necklace from her gem casket. “They will go beautifully with the ivory satin gown.”

“I had thought to wear the amber velvet,” Sophie demurred. “It is such a cold night.”

“Nonsense. The ivory compliments your coloring,” he declared, touching her cheek. She shuddered at the extraordinary caress. He felt the repulsion and smiled. “There will be a brazier in the sleigh, and it will not be cold within doors.”

“No…no, I am sure you are right, Paul,” Sophie managed. She had wanted to wear velvet and diamonds. Instead, she must wear satin and aquamarines. It was a small enough concession in the light of Paul's amazing behavior. The aquamarines were not particularly fine stones, though. Of all the contents of the gem casket, they were the least valuable. But then ostentation was hardly attractive. With that reflection, she submitted to her husband's attentions as he fastened her necklace, watched Maria help her into the dress he had selected, and then put around her shoulders the lynx-lined velvet cloak. He escorted her downstairs and into the waiting sleigh.

Dmitriev watched the elegant, richly furbished conveyance leave the courtyard before beginning to give instructions that were obeyed unquestioningly. Yet comprehending looks were exchanged among the servants hurrying to fulfill their orders. The two serfs designated to undertake the journey from which they did not expect to return accepted their lot with dumb
resignation. It was a better fate than torment on the scaffold, and no worse than being ordered to give their lives in some obscure battle for their lord. Besides, there was always the possibility that the Holy Mother was watching over them and death at the hands of brigands or the elements was not in their stars. In such fashion was comfort drawn from the peasants' contradictory yet interlocking beliefs in religion and inescapable destiny.

Any enjoyment Sophie might have gained from her evening was counteracted by her sense of puzzled apprehension. Something had occurred to bring about Paul's abrupt volte-face, and she had learned enough in the months since her wedding to distrust any out-of-character behavior. She now knew what constituted
in
-character behavior: polite conversation, encouragement to attend social functions alone, and concern over her dress were not components of it. If Adam were at least in the city, she would feel less vulnerable. He was her only prop, and she needed him…oh, how she needed him. Just to feel his eyes resting upon her occasionally, the firm grip of his fingers when he took her hand, the current that flowed between them, swift and strong—a vital force that was strengthened, if anything, by the facade they must maintain, so that every clandestine look, every apparently accidental touch, assumed the importance and passion of the most ardent embrace.

It was nearly eleven o'clock when she returned home, wrapped in furs, hands buried in her lynx muff, feet warmed by the little brazier in the corner of the sleigh. The sleigh came to a halt in the courtyard at the rear of the Dmitriev palace. Sophie descended, shivering at the icy blast sweeping in from the river, freezing the tip of her nose, solidifying her breath.

Her husband, in fur pelisse, hat, and boots, stood in the doorway. In front of that door stood a mean, black-painted sleigh of the kind and condition used by serfs on their masters' business. It was drawn by two scrawny horses, each one ridden by a well-wrapped muzhik.

“I understand from our most gracious czarina that you do
not care for your position as my wife,” Prince Dmitriev declared with frigid dispassion as she came to the door. “Therefore, my dear wife, you shall return to your grandfather.” He indicated the black sleigh. “Your conveyance awaits you. Pray ascend.”

Sophie was speechless, struggling to make sense of this. The empress had betrayed her—that was the first thought. She was going back to Berkholzskoye—that was the second thought, one that filled her with a dizzy joy. Then came the realization that he was sending her now, in the middle of a freezing night, clad only in a satin evening dress, her only protection the lynx-lined velvet cloak. She stared up at her husband, uncomprehending.

“Now?”

“Yes, my dear Sophia Alexeyevna. Now,” he replied, smiling. “You wished to leave, so there seems little point in delay.” He gestured toward the black sleigh.

“But my clothes…luggage…” she stammered, still unable to grasp that he really meant what he had said.

“You are not naked,” he answered. “And you have the aquamarines to furnish you with whatever you might require on the journey.”

The significance of his earlier involvement in her dress and ornament stood out, etched in clarity. Her only financial resources on this hideous journey were to be the stones around her neck. The other gems, even more precious, would remain here, in her husband's keeping. If she could not turn the necklace into currency through some jeweler in the city, and at this time of night such a thing was impossible, she would be obliged to expend it, stone by stone, on a night's lodging, a crust of bread, a mug of mead. It would be the most profligate waste.

“My maid?” She asked the question, although she had already guessed the answer.

“You will manage without an attendant,” her husband told her. “I am becoming a trifle cold, debating issues with you, Sophia Alexeyevna.” Taking her arm, he pushed her toward the waiting sleigh. “Pray give my regards to your grandfa
ther.” His voice dripped sarcasm. “You may express my regret that you have proved so unsatisfactory a wife that I am obliged to return you in disgrace.”

The interior of the sleigh was dark and bare. There was no brazier, only a wooden bench and a ragged fur to offer comfort and protection. She was to journey four hundred leagues at the onset of winter in a satin evening gown, with no money, no provisions, her only escort two illiterate muzhiks with pistols. What defense could they put up against brigands? Her husband's imagination when it came to disguised death sentences was remarkable, Sophie reflected with brutal irony.

She climbed into the sleigh. There was nothing she could do at this point except obey. There was no one she could turn to; never had she felt so alone, so overpoweringly conscious of her friendlessness, of the isolation so carefully, so purposefully, created by her husband. But she had been brought up to rely upon herself, and maybe inspiration would come to her on the road, although persuading the prince's serfs to deviate from their orders would be a forlorn hope. They were too much afraid of their lord's long arm, which they would be convinced would reach as far as necessary to pluck out an unruly weed.

General, Prince Paul Dmitriev closed the door of the sleigh with a crisp finality, confident that he had just looked his last upon his objectionable wife. He had possessed her and in the doing had almost been able to imagine he was possessing Sophia Ivanova; he had the Golitskov fortune, the Golitskov gems. But as he turned back to the house, he could not extract the right degree of satisfaction from these benefits. He had not broken her to his will. Never before had he failed in such a task. The failure left a sour taste to spoil his complacence.

In the musty, frigid darkness, Sophie tried to keep from panicking. Standing in the courtyard had chilled her badly, and she had no way of replacing the lost warmth. She pulled the hood of her cloak way down over her face, so that her breath was trapped, warm and moist to keep her face from freezing. The ragged fur she used to wrap her feet. Her cloak
she pulled tightly around her. Then she buried her hands in her muff and settled down to pray for morning. It would be a little warmer then, and at least she would not be in darkness.

The city gate was closed, a winter precaution against wolves, who, becoming more intrepid when snow and ice cut down on their food supply, had a tendency to prowl within the city walls. The sleigh halted so that papers could be inspected, but Sophie made no attempt to look out and risk losing one iota of warmth. A troop of soldiers from the Preobrazhensky regiment, wrapped to their ears in fur, on their way back from Moscow, was also at the gate, their colonel engaged in discussion with the commanding officer at the sentry post. They all looked curiously at the black conveyance, and one or two of them felt a graveyard shudder. It was a gloomy vehicle with the air of death about it.

“Who was that?” Colonel, Count Danilevski inquired casually as the sleigh was waved through.

The officer shrugged. “Papers issued by General Dmitriev. On their way to Kiev, poor devils. But you know what the general's like.”

Adam quivered with a dreadful premonition, but he could show not the slightest sign. No connection must ever be made between the general's aide-de-camp and the general's domestic affairs. Hastily, he bid the guards officer farewell and signaled to his troop. They entered the city gladly, heading for the warmth and comfort of the barracks.

“I am going to report to the general,” Adam told his second-in-command. “Take over, Major.”

“Yes, sir.” The major saluted. It did not strike him as at all extraordinary that the colonel chose not to wait until morning to make his report to the general. Such diligence was expected by General Dmitriev.

At the Dmitriev palace, Adam was received and escorted to the general's study, where, despite the lateness of the hour, its occupant was perusing reports.

“Ah, Colonel, you made good time.” Dmitriev looked up. “I was not expecting you until tomorrow.”

“It is too cold for dawdling along the road, sir,” Adam said lightly. “Winter's come early and with a vengeance. Do you wish to hear my report now or in the morning?”

“Since you are here, I will hear it now.” The general pulled the bell rope. “You look in need of food and vodka, Colonel.”