Splendor (47 page)

"But we must reach Moscow!" Marie-Elena cried. "My poor mother is there, and she is dying.'*

Carolyn gasped, wanting to strangle Marie-Elena. And she was afraid. Why had Moscow been abandoned? Was Napoleon advancing upon her? Would not the Russians resist?

But Marie-Elena did not hesitate. "Perhaps you can escort us to the city, Major?" she asked with a seductive smile-He was grim. "I am very sorry, but I am on state business, and I cannot escort you to Moscow, although I wish I could. If it is dire, you must detour. At the next village, there is an old bridge where you can cross the river. There is another road, slightly longer, and not as convenient or well kept, that will take you to the city."

"Must we detour?" Marie-Elena asked, pouting. Making Carolyn want to reach out and shake her, hard.

Verenko was flushed. "Princess, if you continue as you are, you might very well ride into a battalion of Napoleon's soldiers," he said flatly. "And I cannot allow that to hap-pen.

He swung the door closed. Abruptly ending the conversation.

Carolyn had not been able to believe her ears, in truth, she was appalled with Marie-Elena's selfishness, and now she flung open the carriage door and stumbled outside, reaching the major from behind. "Major! I beg your pardon," she said in a rush as he turned. "Please. Borodino. What news? Was there a battle?''

He faced her. "The battle is over, my lady. We continue to guard the road to Moscow. We have won."

But his expression was so severe that Carolyn again detained him as he began to mount his sweaty steed. "Why are you so grim? And if we have won, why has Moscow been abandoned?"

' The French are also claiming a victory, my lady. Truthfully, I do not think either side has won." He swung up into the saddle. "Many died in the battle. Many." He gathered up the reins, causing his horse to snort and dance. "Look behind me," he said.

Carolyn did. And she saw a large blur on the horizon, one she did not understand. But it was colorful, and it was approaching them. Slowly the forms began to take shape. Carolyn realized it was a mass of slowly moving wagons and people.

"Those are the wounded," Verenko said grimly. "The wounded and some of Moscow's citizens. Refugees, all of them." Suddenly his eyes were sheened. "Thousands have died on both sides, my lady, and never in my life did I dream I would ever see such a thing."

It took them another full day to reach Moscow, which they did at mid-afternoon. They had taken the detour, which proved to be a narrow, terribly rutted road, but before doing so they had seen firsthand some of the devastation wrought by the war. Hundreds of wagons filled with bandaged soldiers had passed them, many of the wounded more dead than alive. Other soldiers, vacant-eyed, had hobbled by with the help of crutches or their comrades, their uniforms stained with dried blood. And of course, wagons filled with household possessions, with chairs and pianofortes, with old men, grim matrons, and young children, with maids and grooms, as Moscow's residents also ran away from the war.

They were the only ones going against the human tide. There was no changing Marie-Elena's mind. Carolyn damned her selfish stupidity.

The sun was still high when their group of wagons and the single carriage plodded across a canal bridge and through the city's outskirts. Carolyn's eyes were wide. While she almost expected to see French soldiers bearing down upon them at any moment, she could not help but be seized by the exotic appearance of the city. Moscow in no way resembled St. Petersburg or any other city she had ever seen. Churches were everywhere, with distinctly Russian motifs engraved upon the stone walls, the woodwork more often than not brilliantly painted, with high, ornate bell towers and tent-shaped steeples. And of course, buildings with those odd, onion-shaped domes abounded. Now Carolyn

glimpsed a huge Gothic cathedral with numerous bell towers and needlelike spires, in the distance, toward what had to be the heart of the city.

And the city was vacant.

"There is no one here," Carolyn whispered fearfully, holding Katya's hand. She did not see another carriage in the street, or any pedestrians on the sidewalks. Her heart beat hard. "Princess, it is not too late to turn back." Her tone sounded desperate even to her own ears. She did not like being here. She was clammy with sweat; she was dread-filled, afraid.

Marie-Elena glared. "We are not far from the house."

In the neighborhood they now traversed, huge stone mansions lined the street, all of which were barred from the public by high iron gates, through which cobbled courtyards could be seen. Many of the mansions boasted columns and pediments, having been done in the Classical style, while others seemed very Russian with odd, nearly flat or sloping roofs, some with upwardly pitched ends or even statuary carvings. This second style of home was, more often than not, as gaily painted as the most ornate and colorful churches.

And Carolyn saw several mansions that were not yet abandoned, with relief. Across the street, in front of one palatial home, servants were rushing to and fro from the house to the street. Belongings were being taken outside and loaded up onto a dozen waiting wagons. Carolyn espied every manner of thing, from trunks that surely contained clothing to Venetian mirrors and mahogany secretaires.

Smug, Marie-Elena smiled at Carolyn. "Not everyone has left."

Carolyn did not reply. She looked at Taichili and Raf-faldi, but neither one of them seemed to wish to reply, either, and pretended not to hear. "We have nothing to gain by staying here," she began.

Marie-Elena's gaze swung to Carolyn. "Enough! Do not tell me that everyone has run away from Moscow! We won, did you not hear that young major? No one is leaving the

city. Miss Browne. That was an ugly, vicious rumor!"

They drove through a set of open iron gates and a stone archway that soared many meters into the sky, boasting minarets and domes and steeples, finally pausing in a square cobblestone courtyard. Carolyn remained in the carriage staring out at Nicholas's Moscow palace while the rest of her party alighted. With its many gilded domes and spires, its ornate moldings, its heavily tiered blue bell towers, and fabulously engraved and decorated stone walls, painted blue and gold, it was as different from the Vladchya Palace as night was from day. Gone was any trace of European influence. She felt as if she had stepped either through time or backward in it, only to arrive at some exotic oriental place. Carolyn sighed and stepped out of the carriage, following the group to the pitch-black front doors. One of the servants was banging on it, announcing Marie-Elena's arrival.

The house had not seemed deserted, and a bewigged, liveried servant appeared. He gaped at Marie-Elena then bowed. "Princess! We did not expect you." He was flushed.

"Obviously not," Marie-Elena said, shoving past him and inside.

Carolyn followed alongside Katya, and found herself standing in a huge foyer painted pale blue and white with fabulously carved, whitewashed wood moldings. Round white plaster colunms, carved in upwardly ascending spirals, supported the ceiling overhead. It was painted with a fresco in the rococo style. The sight of angels and trumpets above her head in such a frankly Muscovite setting made Carolyn smile despite her tension.

"Princess, forgive us, we thought you were at Tver," the fellow continued.

"Kerinsky, we have five wagons to unload."

His heels snapped together. ' 'Yes, Your Excellency. But Princess, most of our neighbors have left." His color deepened.

"And why is that?" Marie-Elena's tone dripped ice.

"Did we not win at that nameless village no one has ever heard about until a day or two ago?"

"Yes. We have claimed a victory, Princess. But we have been told to leave the city. An official proclamation was issued. Those who remain do so at their own jeopardy. Everyone has gone except for Kazan across the street, and he is leaving now." • Marie-Elena stared. As did Carolyn.

"This must be rubbish, a misunderstanding," she finally said, stamping one foot. "What does the army intend? To flee Moscow—abandon it for Napoleon?"

"I am afraid I do not know," the servant said uneasily. "But we have been preparing the house the best we can to obey the proclamation."

Marie-Elena whirled and scowled at Carolyn. "Do not say I told you so!"

Wisely, Carolyn held her tongue. Please, she thought, let her be sane. Obviously they must return to the carriage and depart Moscow. Immediately.

"Very well," Marie-Elena said. "I shall get to the bottom of this. Only unload what we need for a brief stay. If we must leave, we will go to Tver, which is less than a day from here. In the meantime, I am going out. I shall find out exactly what is happening." She smiled. "After I bathe and dress, of course."

Another evening had fallen. Twilight was becoming to the countryside, casting a pale, mellow glow in the encroaching darkness over the many canvas tents and camp fires spread across the rolling land. The birches whispered in a night breeze, and not too far away, a wolf howled. From a distance, the scene was serene and peaceful. No one would ever guess at the bloodshed, the mutilation, the death, which had transpired just six days ago.

Nicholas stood outside of his tent, listening to the hushed whispers of the weary, frightened voices of the First Army. He had only to look across the small distance separating his quarters from those soldiers in his command, to begin

to make out the individual faces of the men he was responsible for. Their expressions were far more weary than their voices, and worse even than that. No one, he knew, had recovered from the shock of Borodino. He had not recovered from the shock.

His stomach turned over and he had the urge to vomit, but as he had eaten nothing since the morning, it would be impossible. Nicholas turned and paced away, to stare out now toward Moscow, which could not be seen. More hills, jagged and dark, met his gaze, along with the very first'few winking stars. Kutuzov had ordered the First and Second Armies to withdraw another sixty miles to the east. Moscow herself lay a day's ride away.

He closed his eyes. There had been so much death. Never in his life had he thought an engagement could be so monumental and so indecisive. Estimates of the dead were just coming in. Perhaps one-third of the entire Russian force had been decimated, and the French had not fared much better. One-third. By God, that was about forty thousand men.

The field hospital lay two dozen miles to the north, in a safer band of territory. The wounded kept staggering in. Nicholas was afraid to learn just what that tally was, and knew very well that many if not most of those injured in battle would also succumb to death.

The high "command was claiming a victory, because they still barred Napoleon's path to Moscow. Nicholas was disgusted. That might be true, but he was quite sure that Kutuzov did not intend to make a stand before Moscow, and it sickened him, while the French had captured the Russian positions at Borodino, and they too were claiming a victory. The brutal truth was that both sides were the loser, and for what possible reason? Because of one man's determination to conquer half of the world

"Colonel Sverayov?"

Nicholas turned at the sound of his aide-de-camp's voice. *'Yes, Andrei, what is it?" he asked quietly.

"Sir." The young major saluted smartly. "A messenger has arrived from St. Petersburg."

Instantly, Nicholas thought of the two people in the world most dear to him—his daughter and Carolyn. His pulse thundered and he strode past the aide, wondering if he dared hope for a letter from Carolyn. But he kept recalling Carolyn's shock and hurt when he had so coldly left her standing in front of the house, and anguish filled his own breast. He had done what he had thought was right. Now, surrounded by agony and death, he knew he should have discussed the future with her instead of trying to force it on her, his way. He had already written her a letter of explanation, but knew it was too soon to expect a reply.

What if she did not understand? Did not accept his explanation? What if he had succeeded far too well in what had first seemed to be the only possible solution to their passion and their dilemma? He had known she would never be happy with a liaison, that it would ultimately destroy her and her feelings for him. He had thought about it all that night, and knew he could not be a party to such an erosion in her feelings. He had realized that he must give her up, maintaining a course of honor, rather than indulge in an affair that would inevitably break her heart. But he did not think Carolyn would, or could, accept a mere goodbye, or a falling back to the position of friendship. So he had played the cad.

Nicholas recognized the courier as one of his grooms. He was eating a hunk of bread and a bowl of watery soup ravenously, but he immediately leapt to his feet and saluted Nicholas smartly. "Excellency. I have been sent by Miss Browne."

His heart slammed. Carolyn had sent him a letter? He was afraid to see what she must have written him, not having yet received his own apology. Slowly, Nicholas tore open the missive—and stared in utter horror at the single scripted line.

''Your wife has ordered our departure to Moscow and

w^ are leaving as I write this.' ' It was signed ' 'Carolyn Browne," and dated September the fifth.

And Nicholas felt all of the blood draining from his face.

Carolyn paced, furious and frantic. Where was Marie-Elena?

An entire day had passed since they had arrived in Moscow. That morning, their neighbors across the street, the Kazans, had also left. Carolyn had awoken only to walk outside and watch their neighbors loading up the last of their possessions, climbing aboard their wagons, and driving away. The courtyard outside of Nicholas's palace had been filled with birdsong and silence. Carolyn had stood there for a long time, shivering in her thin dress and shawl, staring down the block. No one stirred, not a single soul, not behind the draperies of the adjoining mansions or on the wide, cobbled street. Only a stray mongrel trotted by. She realized that they alone remained in residence. The neighborhood was deserted.