The Lost Souls of Angelkov (27 page)

Antonina looked at him quizzically.

“Let us dance,” he said.

“Here, in my bedchamber?” Antonina smiled. “So late at night?”

He didn’t answer but stood in position, his arms extended, and Antonina went into the circle of his embrace.

He led her about the room to the music, easily sidestepping the furniture. The fire cast wavering shadows on the walls. “I remember the first time I saw you dance,” he said. “It was at a party at your parents’ estate. You were probably thirteen or fourteen. You were a fetching child.”

Antonina looked at him. He was only a few inches taller than she—not an imposing height, but he held himself proudly.

“I noticed you a number of times after that, as you grew older. How lightly you moved, and yet warily, as though you might at any moment dash away from your partner.”

Antonina laughed at his description. “Depending on whom I was dancing with, indeed I may have been imagining myself a wild animal from the dark continent of Africa, trying to escape my captor.” They took another turn about the room. “I have a book on Africa, Konstantin, with drawings of the most amazing animals and strange, dark-skinned people. I would like to venture there someday. Do you suppose we could ever go all the way to Africa?”

“Africa? You’re a funny girl.”

The smile left her mouth. “Please don’t call me a girl. I’m your wife. A woman.”

“You’re right,” he said, letting go of her so she could wind the music box again. “You are an accomplished and clever woman.”

There. The apology Antonina had wanted for almost a full month. Again he took her in his arms. In the dim glow, the lines around his eyes and mouth were softened, and suddenly Antonina saw what he would have looked like as a young man. It pleased her, and she kissed his lips, a small, light kiss. “Thank you, Kostya,” she said, and at the use of his diminutive he lowered his head and kissed her back with passion.

Antonina kept her eyes closed, pretending it was Valentin who held her, who was pressing his lips against hers. She saw the violinist’s face as he stared over her mother’s shoulder at her from the bed.

She imagined herself sitting atop him as she had seen her mother do, and kissed Konstantin back. Encouraged, he moved his lips to her cheek and then her neck, pressing against
her. Still she didn’t open her eyes, imagining Konstantin to be the young and handsome Valentin Vladimirovitch.

“You see, my angel?” he said, his lips against her neck. “It’s not so difficult.” Gently, he directed her to the bed. When the back of her thighs touched the mattress, Konstantin easily lifted her and laid her down.

“Yes, husband,” she whispered back, keeping her eyes closed, hearing Konstantin wind the music box again. Yes, Valya, she thought.

With her eyes closed, she imagined it was Valentin who now touched her breasts through the thin nightdress, and her nipples rose. She imagined his delicate hands and strong yet slender body, and it was Valya who lifted her nightgown and positioned himself over her as she wrapped her arms around his back and held him closer.

And at last Konstantin was able to move into her, very slowly.

“I don’t wish to hurt you,” he whispered.

“It’s all right,” she said, willing him to remain silent.

There was a brief, searing pain; Antonina tightened her lips so as not to cry out. Soon the pain dulled to a discomfort, as endlessly Konstantin continued his rhythm, his breathing growing heavier and heavier. And then he began to move faster, his breath rasping in his throat. Finally he stilled, then shuddered, letting out a muffled groan. After this he lay so heavy on top of her that for one brief moment she wondered if he had died. But then he stirred and lifted himself off her, getting out of bed.

With a slight intake of breath, she cautiously pulled the bedcovers over her and drew up her knees. She was sore, and longed for a hot bath.

Konstantin still stood beside the bed. The candle had burned low, and she watched as he smoothed his nightshirt and patted his hair and beard. “Thank you, my dear,” he said. “You are all right?”

“Yes, I am well,” she answered, and at this he smiled.

“Good,” he said. “Yes, it was a successful night.”

She nodded. The silence became awkward.

“I shall retire to my room, then, shall I?” There was something—perhaps reluctance—in his voice. Did he think he would stay here with her? Sleep in her bed? She wouldn’t be able to sleep with him beside her. She had never slept with anyone, and couldn’t imagine it.

“Yes, of course,” she said, “you must find comfort in your own bed, husband.”

He immediately performed a small bow from the waist, as if he had just brought her back to her chair after a lively mazurka.
“À demain,”
he said, with the hint of a smile.

To please him, Antonina replied,
“Oui, mon cher. À demain.”

Once the door closed, she rose and stripped off her soiled gown and tossed it over the back of a chair. She poured water from her pitcher into the washbowl. Then she slowly and carefully washed herself with the cool water, thinking about what had just transpired. She put on a fresh gown and spread a towel from the washstand on the sheet, covering the disturbing, pinkish wetness left there. She hated to think of the maid seeing it and her stained nightgown the next morning.

Was this what was called love in the novels?

Surely it wouldn’t be the same with her violinist.

As she climbed back into bed, the candle guttered with a slight hiss.

The next morning, Konstantin appeared very pleased with himself, laughing heartily at the smallest things and treating Antonina with casual affection. He came to her bedroom three more times in the next week, and each time he thanked her, telling her he was pleased at their success.

The fourth night, as he moved on top of her, Antonina pushed at him and he rolled to his side. “Have I hurt you, my dear?” he asked.

“No,” she whispered, and pressing on his shoulder until he lay on his back, she put one leg over to straddle him.

Konstantin sat up so quickly that Antonina fell to the side. “What are you doing?” His voice was shocked.

“I thought it might be …” Antonina stopped, propping herself on an elbow to look at her husband. It might be what? Each time Konstantin had come to her, she had managed to open herself to him by imagining she was with Valentin. This night she had wanted to pretend it was Valentin in the position she had seen him in with her mother.

But Konstantin sat up, shaking his head, his forehead wrinkled and the lines around his mouth deep. “You disappoint me. No, it’s more than that—you disgust me. What kind of respectful wife would act in such a common manner? Such behaviour is sordid.”

Antonina reached up to make sure her hair hadn’t loosened. “I didn’t know it was wrong. I thought it might please you.”

“And how, I ask you, would you even think of such a thing? In all my years with my first wife, Irina—a good and dignified woman—she took her wifely duties with quiet acceptance.” He shook his head again, thinking of Tania,
who, although common, still behaved with modesty. His voice rose. “Now I wonder at your innocence. Perhaps this is why your father was so anxious to have you married.”

Heat surged up Antonina’s chest, to her neck and into her face. “You know perfectly well I was pure when I married you, Konstantin Nikolevich. I cannot believe you could think such thoughts about me, when all I wanted was to give pleasure to you.”

“And who instructed you on the ways to please a man? Could it have been your mother? Everyone knows of her reputation.”

Antonina’s mouth went dry. “Get out,” she said, low and hard. How had Konstantin guessed the truth? “Leave me alone.”

“It would be my pleasure,” he said, and slammed the door as he left.

Konstantin ignored Antonina for days after that night. He used Grisha’s house to bed Tania more than usual, infuriating Grisha while pleasing Tania with the extra rubles she earned.

But then Antonina realized she was pregnant with the child who would be Misha.

A
ntonina didn’t see Lilya again until she was in the early stages of her pregnancy. In December, the empty fields covered in snow, Antonina rode through one of the villages. She came towards a group of women walking down the main street, carrying woven baskets of kindling on their backs, and recognized Lilya.

Lilya looked up at her, the weak winter sun on her face. “Good day, countess,” she said. The other women bowed.

Lilya didn’t bow. She seemed to have gained a bit of weight, although it might have been the padded coat and thick shawl wrapped around her. But she no longer appeared as exhausted as the first time Antonina had seen her. Her eyes were clear and her cheeks quite pink in the December chill.

Antonina wanted to tell her about her pregnancy. She had shared it with Konstantin, and sent a letter to her father. Of course, the house serfs knew—there was no hiding anything
from them. Varvara had witnessed her morning nausea and immediately recognized that the countess was with child.

Antonina had so many questions for Lilya about the last four years. More than anything, she wanted to beg forgiveness, to tell her what had happened in her father’s study. But they were no longer girls, they were married women, and as once Antonina had been the daughter of the man who owned Lilya, now she was the wife of the man who owned her. She could not demand, a second time, that Lilya be her friend. And it was clear that Lilya no longer felt the same way about Antonina as she had then. How could she? Antonina had betrayed her, and had her and her brother torn from their home and parents.

She nodded to Lilya and the women and rode on.

A few months later, Konstantin told Antonina she should be thinking of a wet nurse and a nanny for the expected baby. He had given her a list of suitable women who had worked on neighbouring estates, and expected her to pick one of them.

But Antonina set off down the snowy roads in a troika, to the village where she’d last seen Lilya. She asked a peasant on the street where she could find Lilya Petrova, married to Soso. She was directed to a hut at the end of the village. When the coachman helped her step down from the troika, she told him to wait for her. “You’ll enter the hut, countess?” he asked. “Alone?”