Golden Paradise Part 12

"It won't be mine."

"Is this a contest?"

''Depends on the wager.''

"Say... loser bathes the winner for a week."

"You're on, mon general."

It was a wager that could have only winners.

Chapter Nine.

Now, while all this teasing bantering was taking place on the mountain rim of the world, Nadejda was saying to her mother, "Must we have the graceless woman over for tea? She has no manners at all."

"Yes, we must. She's his only aunt, and it's fortunate for you, my dear, that Papa and I talked some sense into you when we did or you might have done something foolish."

"I don't know how you can be so lenient, Mama. He ignored you and Papa, as well," Nadejda said, her face fretful with annoyance. She was still abed though it was past noon, the bedclothes scattered with crumbs from her breakfast tray.

"Darling, these things happen. Stefan was called back to the front." Although Princess Irina Taneiev was as swift to take offense as her daughter, her added years of experience cautioned her to prudence. One never, she'd reminded both her daughter and husband the day of Stefan's abrupt departure, risked losing a fortune such as Stefan's over something as foolish as temper.

"Well, he could have sent me a note, too. You'd think I'd have more importance than his old aunt."

"His only aunt, darling, which is the point. She has no children. Think of it for a moment, Nadejda. Where will all her fortune go? Remember, she's outlived two wealthy husbands in addition to being an Orbeliani with her own personal a.s.sets."

Nadejda brightened visibly. She'd been raised to consider her beauty a negotiable item and she understood the value of money. "Why, to Stefan and me of course."

"Exactly. And that's why we'll continue to entertain Stefan's aunt until your papa's business is finished here in Tiflis." Nadejda had moved into the Viceroy's palace with her parents after Stefan left, but her mother had seen to their continuing relationship with Militza. Although once Vladimir and the Viceroy had completed the details of their arrangement to supply artillery to the army, Irina had no intention of spending an additional minute in this sleepy provincial capital.

"In that case, I'll be polite to the old b.i.t.c.h. Is Stefan really her only heir?" Nadejda asked the question as if verification were required for the nasty task ahead.

Her mother nodded significantly.

"Oh, very well," her daughter distastefully agreed.

So when Militza came for tea, Nadejda was as civil as her mother's promptings could make her. Spoiled from a young age, however, she found it difficult to instill any warmth in an endeavor she found tiresome. Had Stefan seen her outside the ballrooms and formal dinners of their brief courtship, he would have noticed her very narrow focus of attention-herself. But in the short days of their acquaintance he'd only played the courting male. Nadejda was at her very best as the center of attention; she played well to an admiring throng; it was her favorite role-her only role. In it she was without peer.

"Did Stefan give you any indication in his note when he might next have leave?" Princess Irina was saying to Militza, and Nadejda yawned without any attempt at concealment.

"I'm afraid the war is in great flux now," Militza replied, noting Nadejda's discourtesy. She did not mention the real purpose of Stefan's note. Although he had made use of Haci's return to Tiflis to make apologies to Militza for leaving so abruptly, he'd wanted most to see that Masha would open his town house to those of his men who weren't going to their villages on furlough. Haci, for one, was looking forward to the female pleasures available in Tiflis, the capital city of the Caucasus.

"It's such a shame Kars is proving recalcitrant. I do hope it falls soon so all the young men will be back for the season." Irina saw the war as an obstacle to her social activities.

"I'm sure the Tsar's officers agree with you," Militza ironically replied. Another afternoon in company with the vacuous Taneiev women was reinforcing her conviction she must intervene in Stefan's disastrous marriage plans.

"I really don't understand what's taking so long," Irina continued complaining, as if the war were a personal affront to her standards of speed. "Surely the Muslim rabble will capitulate soon. Vladimir says Grand Duke Michael is going down to investigate."

As daughter to a general, sister-in-law to a field marshal, wife to two military men and Stefan's aunt, Militza was well aware of the formidable opponents Russia faced. This war wasn't going to be a question of waiting patiently in dress uniform for the Turkish commanders to signal defeat. She'd heard enough from Stefan in his letters from the front and her own contacts with the Chiefs of Staff to understand the particular brutality of this campaign. "Michael will find his journey eventful" was all she said. Her faith in the Tsar's brother was faint; Michael drank and gambled better than he officered.

"Mama, I won't hear another word on this dreary war," Nadejda snapped, tearing a small piece from her macaroon in testiness. Her fifth macaroon, Militza noted. The girl would approximate her mother's girth someday and Stefan liked slender women. "I'll be glad when we're back in Saint Petersburg where every other word isn't about the silly war," Nadejda finished petulantly.

For a man who'd devoted his life to the army, Stefan apparently hadn't selected a wife inclined to view his profession with sympathy, Militza reflected, although she did have considerable affection for macaroons.

"And I wish Stefan would have taken my advice and had Melikoff rescind his orders back to the front."

Militza abruptly ceased contemplation of Nadejda's capacity for macaroons. Melikoff? Nadejda had suggested Stefan pet.i.tion Melikoff? Militza would have bartered a year of her life to have seen her nephew's expression at that recommendation. There wasn't a man he hated more than Melikoff. When they met in public as they did occasionally in the small world of Tiflis society, Stefan quite literally glared daggers at the man whose family had replaced his as Viceroy of the Caucasus. Only his promise to Alexander II, his Tsar, had kept him from challenging Melikoff to a duel. Alexander wouldn't have the scandal, he'd said, of Stefan killing Melikoff.

"He wouldn't?" Militza casually inquired, watching Nadejda's face for her response.

"He said he only takes orders from the Tsar, which I don't fully understand because Melikoff distinctly told me he was Stefan's superior."

"Perhaps Melikoff neglected to make that clear to Stefan," Militza sardonically replied.

"Well, he should then," Nadejda a.s.serted, tossing her chin up in an affected way that might have been charming in a four-year-old. "And everything would be much nicer. Stefan could come home from that ridiculous war and we could begin making marriage plans."

"If you'd like to write Stefan a note suggesting that, it seems sensible to me," Militza said, her face as bland as her tone. "I could have a groom deliver it to him."

"Mama, the macaroons are gone," Nadejda noted fretfully. Then, as if Stefan's future were secondary to her sweet tooth, she added, "I'll drop him a note on the subject before we leave."

"You're leaving?" Militza could have been on a treaty negotiating team for all her understatement and calm.

"Tomorrow or possibly the next day," Irina interposed. "Poor Nadejda is bored so far from Saint Petersburg, and I confess-" she smiled artificially "-although Tiflis is enchanting, I miss the stimulation of court."

What she meant was that she feared being away too long from the machinations of court politics. Stefan would also appreciate Nadejda's boredom with his native city. Militza dearly hoped Nadejda would include in her note an indication of her feelings on that subject, as well. "My wishes then for a pleasant journey," she said cheerfully. She chose not to mention she'd be following soon. Once Stefan actually returned to Kars, she also intended a trip to Saint Petersburg.

Leaving the Viceroy's palace after tea, Militza felt her years and, in the logical a.s.sessment of things, despaired whether she'd be successful in dislodging Nadejda as Stefan's fiancee. Her nephew was stubborn at times in his wishes and he hadn't lightly undertaken his choice of bride. His selection hadn't been whimsical but rather utilitarian, and her hope of discrediting Nadejda was minimized by that judgment. Stefan had made clear to her that the question of liking Nadejda was incidental to the usefulness of her family. Vladimir Taneiev controlled many of the ministers of state, although the army had always remained independent. It was actually Vladimir that Stefan was marrying and the power he wielded in the inner circles of government.

Tsar Alexander spent less and less time in the daily activities of government now that his young mistress and their three children were actually installed in the palace only a floor below his consumptive wife. Rumor had it the Tsarina was determined to hang on to life as long as possible to thwart her young rival. Although ravaged as she was by tuberculosis, she'd already outlived her physicians' estimates by five years.

In Saint Petersburg Militza intended calling on all her old friends to inform them she might be in need of their favors.

Even though she wished Stefan to renege on his engagement for his own future happiness, she wasn't unaware of the possible consequences. Prince Vladimir Taneiev was known for his vindictiveness; many political rivals rued the day they'd opposed him. Several were spending their remaining years in Siberia thanks to his implacable vengeance, and while Irina and Nadejda might be foolish and superficial, it would never do to underestimate Vladimir.

However... she felt she had sufficient influence herself to oppose any possible obstacles Vladimir might establish, provided she could convince Stefan to sever his ties to Nadejda. And Stefan's personal relationship with the Tsar was a very strong advantage. To a point.

Through bitter experience they all knew there were circ.u.mstances where even the Tsar had bowed to pressure.

On the same July night that Militza sat at her desk composing a list of friends in Saint Petersburg who might be needed should Vladimir turn difficult, and Stefan and Lisaveta were dining alfresco under the dark whispering pines, Choura was the featured entertainment at a bachelor party in Tiflis at Chezevek's Restaurant.

The windows were all thrown open to the heated night air, and Captain Gorsky, the host for the night, was in shirtsleeves in the middle of the floor encouraging Choura with energetic hand clapping and smiles. The Caucasian music had a pulsing rhythm of drumbeats interwoven with melodies both plaintive and voluptuous. The sound seemed to tremble in an insistent, fevered undulation, angry at times, hypnotic at intervals, convulsive, monotonous and galvanic. And Choura danced in her own expressive way: languorous and slow, stamping and impetuous, in a stylized version of courtship, of pursuit and retreat and ultimate seduction. She was wild and untamed, her dark eyes flashing, the lamplight flickering and glittering off her necklaces and rings and bracelets as she whirled, her bare feet barely touching the floor, her red silk skirt fluttering like flower petals in the wind. Her black lace blouse barely covered her firm young b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and when she smiled in sensual invitation, Captain Gorsky wasn't alone in planning on spending a portion of his wealth on the beautiful Gypsy girl, now that she was back in circulation.

When the musicians fell silent on a flourish of drumbeats, a roar of applause erupted in the room as every man gave vent to his approval.

The party was in celebration of a junior officer's engagement, and all the high-priced courtesans in Tiflis were in attendance. Since Stefan was on cordial terms with many of them, and since Stefan rarely missed occasions of this nature, he was repeatedly asked for.

"He's with his new lover up in the mountains," Choura cheerfully replied to those interested parties, "and he paid me fifty thousand roubles for my time." She was proud to announce the amount of her new worth. Stefan's payment would serve notice her prices had gone up. And when the ident.i.ty of this newest paramour was demanded, her answer was equally cheerful. "Countess Lisaveta Lazaroff," she'd announce, a fact she'd discovered after her return to Tiflis, when one of the Gypsy grooms in Stefan's stables relayed the gossip from the villa on the hill. "He's taken her captive," she would finish with obvious relish.

"Captive!" the courtesans whispered with a particular breathy eagerness memories of Stefan induced.

"Captive!" the officers breathed, their imaginations running wild.

Had the lady screamed or fought or pa.s.sionately yielded?

Yes and yes and she didn't know, Choura would answer with a suggestive smile. But if she hadn't yielded eagerly, certainly she had yielded.

The scandal was delicious. Leave it to Stefan, everyone said, to abduct a lady. He'd always been a law unto himself. Like his father, they said.

She must be extraordinary in bed, the ladies all thought, for Stefan's transient interest in women was well-known. He'd never stirred himself to pursue a woman before; an abduction indicated staggering attention. They were incredulous. What does she look like? they asked then, intrigued by her unique success. And the men listened, too, because they wanted to visualize this unusual woman.

"She's pretty," Choura said blandly, seated on Captain Gorsky's lap like a dark and languorous kitten.

"More than pretty for Stefan, I'd say," a woman remarked, her escort's head nodding in agreement.

Choura shrugged, not inclined to unduly praise her successor. "I suppose," she said.

"Is she small? He likes small women," a pet.i.te blonde reclining on a floor cushion noted, her waist hand-span narrow.

"She's tall."

"No!"

"With brown hair."

"Brown hair? She can't." This was not a paragon of conventional beauty; this was not a woman in Stefan's usual style.

"Well, she does," Choura complacently replied. She was now richer than a shopkeeper for her friendship with Stefan, and as a businesswoman who was secure in her own beauty, she was without personal jealousy for her replacement, although she was amused by the difficulties Stefan might encounter. "She was screaming at him, too," she said with a grin. "I mean screaming."

She must be good in bed, the men all decided, because surely her looks didn't appear remarkable. And screaming at Stefan? Normally he wouldn't have stayed a second in company with a vituperative female. Wherever had he found her?

"She was thrown away by the Bazhis," Choura added as if the men had spoken aloud.

Aha, everyone agreed, male and female. To have survived the Bazhis was superhuman. She was a superwoman, and the men hoped that when Stefan tired of her, as he surely would, the Countess would consider one of them to entertain her. No one contemplated love in their speculation on Stefan and his latest bed partner, but certainly, they decided, carnal pa.s.sion was the proper phrase-unique, spectacular carnal pa.s.sion to so fascinate Stefan.

Oblivious to the sundry contemplations of their relationship, Stefan and Lisaveta basked in a contentment rich with pa.s.sion and amity, their world insular, isolated by choice, their existence narrowed to two people and love.

They didn't worry about scandal and gossip; both were immune to the motives inspiring such concepts. Stefan, of course, was inured after a lifetime in the limelight, and Lisaveta, for exactly opposite reasons, was equally inured. She had lived too long in her own self-contained world, in which respect and personal choices and one's actions were determined without considering what other people thought. And both were intelligent enough to understand that wealth and position made most things possible in the world.

They entertained each other with openness of spirit and joy through the mult.i.tude of days. They slept when they wished and woke without schedule; they teased each other and smiled and made love, of course, in infinite variety. They lay in the sun in the afternoons sometime and swam then to cool off; they rode occasionally and walked the mountain trails and ate the Spartan meals prepared by the servants from the village nearby. Stefan frequently cooked for Lisaveta himself with a competence she should have perhaps expected.

He showed her, too, where the eagles nested on the rim of the escarpment, and they lay flat on their bellies overlooking the valley miles below, watching the adult pair teach their young how to fly.

The blue open sky was above and below them, the wind blowing their hair, the sun warm on their skin, the eaglets endlessly fascinating as they swooped and tumbled and steadied themselves on the cresting wind currents, soaring for lengthening distances.

"I envy them," Stefan said one day, rolling over on his back as he followed the flight of the fledgling, "that freedom. At times like this," he went on in a quiet voice, looking up into the sunlit sky, "I don't want to go back."

"At least not for a thousand years," Lisaveta agreed, her chin propped on her hands, the wind blowing her hair in tossing ringlets.

Some days they read to each other under the pines near the house or lying on the terrace, Stefan reading some of the verses he'd composed and surprising Lisaveta with the rich emotion in his poetry. She'd never glimpsed that intense and introspective side of him. In turn she'd read-or rather recite, because she knew them by heart-her favorite poems of Hafiz in the original Persian. Stefan would answer her in his mother's language, its melody sweet, he said, to his ear.

They never talked of the war or the days ahead; by unspoken agreement they conversed only of topics without contention. In silent understanding they wished to enjoy each other's company as if the days were numbered for eternity.

It was a tremulous balance of happiness-like a shadow or a dream, ungrounded and bound to dissolve when reality intervened.

Stefan resisted thinking of the pa.s.sing time or his furlough's end.

Lisaveta pushed aside any feelings beyond their temporary enchantment, existing only in the golden glow of her happiness, refusing to think of tomorrow.

But one morning Haci rode into the courtyard and their underlying fear of time had to be faced. From the bedroom window they watched him dismount and brush the dust from his trousers and wipe the sweat from his upper lip with the back of his hand.

He glanced up to Stefan's bedroom window and saw them and waved. Their holiday was over.

Their trip down the mountain was quiet, partly because constant alertness was necessary for survival on the rugged trail and conversation was distracting, but primarily their silence was the uncommunicativeness of voiceless feelings. Both Haci and Stefan faced a return to the front; the Turks had had time to reinforce their defenses while the Russians were bringing in new troops. Their increased fortifications would be costly to the Tsar's army, and white one could briefly set aside the savagery of war with a beautiful woman on a mountaintop or in a Tiflis brothel, the return to battle and the imminence of death were prominent in both men's minds. Additionally, Stefan had to struggle with a feeling of loss. It was an unfamiliar melancholy directly related to Lise, a novel and unwelcome sensation he forcibly attempted to suppress.

Lisaveta, more open to her need for Stefan, wondered how she would survive without him. All she could hope for was to keep back her tears until he was gone.

Stefan's carriage was waiting at the military road, the same coach she'd been abducted from long days ago, her luggage all carefully in place as it had been left.

They stood politely on the road while Haci directed the drivers and postilions in unloading Lisaveta's few things from the pack horse, finding they couldn't conduct the ba.n.a.l social conversation that circ.u.mstances required.

For a man of Stefan's experience, the inability was striking.

For Lisaveta, who'd spent most of her life outside society, the lack of ready chatter was less unusual. But tears still threatened to well up in her eyes, and she was determined not to embarra.s.s herself with that ultimate navete.

They watched the driver tie the last satchel in place, the silence between them uncomfortable. When the man scrambled down and everyone took their places on the coach, Stefan turned back to Lisaveta and finally spoke. "Thank you for everything," he said in a quiet voice that wouldn't carry beyond their position. "I hope your journey to Saint Petersburg is pleasant." He was dressed in full uniform and his bearing was grave, as were his dark eyes.

Lisaveta tried to smile but didn't succeed. How nice it would be to have more experience in these matters, she thought, so one could smile convincingly, as if their casual leave-taking were as mundane as the parting of dance partners at a ball.

"Thank you" she replied, her own voice as grave as his, "for a delightful holiday." There. At least she'd accomplished the requisite words if not the precise nuance of tone. "And I'm sure my trip to Saint Petersburg will be uneventful," she added, pleased she was able to so calmly articulate the words.

"I've sent a message to Alexander," Stefan said, his tone brisker now, as if he were reiterating instructions to a subaltern, "since you'll be seeing him at your father's ceremony, and-"

"You needn't have," she interposed. "I'll be staying with Nikki. I haven't seen him since Papa's funeral, but I'm sure he'll see-"

"I wanted to," he interrupted, feeling he should do something for her beyond a casual goodbye. She was rare and precious and he felt this need to protect her and perhaps in the process protect the uncommon memory of their time together. Entree to Alexander II would guarantee her success at court. He could do that for her; Alexander's friendship would also offer her safety from Nadejda and her family. Stefan had no illusions of what their response would be should they discover his leave had been spent with Countess Lazaroff. She would need Alexander II and all of Masha's connections, as well, although Nikki was a formidable opponent. Nevertheless, he'd talk to his aunt when he returned to Tiflis, he decided.

"Well, thank you then," she said with what she hoped was suitable detachment.

He sighed, hearing but not really listening. He longed to take her in his arms and kiss her for a millenium, to take her home with him or to Kars or anywhere he went. But he couldn't. "Goodbye," he said instead, then opened the carriage door and put out his hand to help her in.

"Goodbye, Stefan," Lisaveta said with forced composure, trying not to feel the strength of his hand under hers, thrusting from her mind the memory of Stefan's powerful body.