Golden Paradise

by Susan Johnson

  Shifting slightly in his chair to accommodate his arousal, he glanced at the clock. Nine-thirty—four more courses to go. A brief half hour, he hoped, in conversation in the drawing room, and then everyone could retire. He was impatient and restless. Lisaveta was near enough to reach over and touch, but he couldn't. Because this stranger who was his fiancée had de­cided to spend several days in residence while her family vis­ited the Viceroy in Tiflis.

  Militza had to ask him twice whether Archduke Michael had returned to Saint Petersburg, and when she did finally gain his attention, his answer was brief. He didn't participate further in the conversation, and after all the discussion of his taste in food, he hardly ate, as though he were host by requirement but detached from the actual proceedings. Georgi, on an informal footing with his employer, coaxed him to try the sturgeon, which Stefan did to please him, but he wouldn't be cajoled to taste anything more until the sorbet—a lemon ice, Georgi re­minded him, he'd favored since childhood.

  He seemed very different here tonight, Lisaveta thought, a prince in his palace, familiar with deference, accustomed to being waited on, intent on his own interests, polite to his aunt with a genuine warmth but no more than civil to his fiancée, although he had every intention of spending the rest of his life with her. None of the casual intimacy she'd seen last week re­mained in his character; none of the animated banter or amused laughter she'd come to know was apparent. Not even a critical comment materialized to make him seem more human. And when Stefan rose directly after the lemon ice, she wasn't sur­prised.

  "Forgive me, ladies," he said, excusing himself, "but I promised Had some time after dinner. Thank you all for a pleasant evening," he added, then bowed politely and left the table.

  As the door closed behind him, Militza said, "He was bored."

  "Stefan isn't one for conversation," Nadejda retorted, as if she were the expert on Prince Stefan Bariatinsky after a week's acquaintance.

  Poor child, Lisaveta thought, remembering their heated conversations on subjects as esoteric as Kurdish shaman mythology or as trivial as the state of dressmaking in Aleksan­dropol. She'd found Stefan a charming conversationalist, but if today was any indication of his attachment to Nadejda, he'd treat his wife abominably. She felt a sudden sympathy for the Princess Taneiev.

  "If you don't mind," Nadejda declared, addressing Militza in a tone that suggested she didn't care if she minded or not, "I'd like to take charge of the dinner for my parents tomorrow night. Papa will not eat this—" her pouty lips curled upward in reproof "—native fare. I'll have a chef brought over from the Viceroy's palace."

  Lisaveta's sympathy instantly evaporated at Nadejda's in­sufferable tone and priggish demand. Stefan might not deal with his future wife affectionately, she reflected, but his wishes in turn weren't of the slightest interest to her. Their bargain for a marriage of convenience apparently was equally made. Prin­cess Taneiev didn't love Stefan, it was obvious. She didn't look at him with affection or longing. She seemed immune to his sensuality—a startling revelation to Lisaveta, who found his attraction so powerful it outweighed all perceptible logic. But Nadejda was very young and perhaps simply unawakened. Or more likely, as her prudish comments on a variety of subjects denoted, she was very much attached to her mother's primly artificial views on life. She would probably find the concept of love too emotional. Mama no doubt would have a homily to that effect.

  A shame when Stefan was so very easy to love.

  A shame, she thought with a flashing spontaneity of feel­ing, when she could love him so very much.

  "Bring over the entire staff if you wish, my dear," Aunt Militza replied, her voice suspiciously warm. "Stefan won't mind at all," she added with an innocence that was entirely out of character.

  "Very good," Nadejda replied in a tone one would use to a servant. "And if you have other plans, I'm sure we won't need you in attendance tomorrow night." It was a blatantly rude dismissal. Nadejda was extremely self-centered, a personality trait humored by her parents, who had allowed her whims in every instance save those that might interfere with theirs. She had been pampered, spoiled in a small-girl way and schooled in the normal studies considered proper for refined young la­dies, which meant that she was, in effect, uneducated. Her world was luxurious but narrow, and she considered her wishes preeminent because no one had to date disabused her of that notion. Stefan had a tendency, it seemed, to be abrupt and caustic, if today was any indication, she decided, but Mama had warned her of men's moodiness and told her it was best to ignore or simply smile it away and then later…do as you wished. She thought Mama's advice quite sensible, and cer­tainly everyone agreed her smile was radiant. She used it on Militza.

  "I did have plans for bridge," Militza said, her meekness so unusual anyone with half a brain would have been instantly alert.

  "Well, that's settled then," Nadejda said, pleased Stefan's aunt was eliminated from her family party. She had tried to like her but found Militza had very little conversation; she couldn't talk about fashion or the latest gossip from Saint Petersburg. She read, it seemed, and helped train Stefan's polo ponies and actually oversaw the farms and vineyards on Stefan's estates. Nadejda found her odd, and thought Mama and Papa would prefer an intimate evening alone with Stefan.

  "If there's anything you need…" Militza offered.

  "No, thank you, I'm sure the Viceroy's staff is adequate, and since tomorrow will be an enormously busy day," Nadejda said, rising, "I'll retire early. Have the carriage brought round at nine and I'll drive to the Viceroy's to gather the necessary servants." She could have been addressing her housekeeper. But then Nadejda viewed herself as a superior young woman from a superior family, and while the Orbelianis might be wealthy, they were, after all, not Russians but Georgians. She found it very satisfying that Stefan on his father's side was related to the Tsar.

  "Pleasant dreams, my dear," Militza responded, her expression wreathed in smiles. "I'll see to the carriage." When Nadejda swept from the room in a froth of lavender crepe, Militza leaned back in her chair, motioned to have her wine­glass refilled, took it from Georgi with a complacent sigh and said, "Thank you, Georgi, we won't be needing you any longer. Tell the staff to retire. All this will wait until morning." She indicated the table with a small gesture.

  Leaving the bottle within reach, Georgi stood for a moment at her side. He was a middle-aged man with the dark coloring of the region and a pleasant manner. "The Prince seemed—" He searched for the word, obviously used to discussing Stefan with Militza.

  "Bored, Georgi, there's no polite way to say it. Princess Taneiev is dismally boring and deplorably stupid. He's going to hate himself a week after the wedding."

  Too courteous to denigrate a female, Georgi mentioned in­stead, "The Prince won't want to see the Viceroy's staff, Prin­cess. Why did you allow her license?"

  "Because he'll be furious, Georgi, that's why." Militza's dark eyes, very much like Stefan's, gleamed with glee.

  Georgi beamed, an instant co-conspirator. "Ah…of course, and our staff is dismissed then for the day."

  "We wouldn't want you 'natives' to get in the way of those frogs from the Viceroy's, Georgi. Everyone has the day off." Sheer unmitigated cheer resounded in Militza's voice.

  His bow was sweepingly dramatic, indicative of his own agreement to Militza's plan. "Thank you, Your Excellency." Turning to Lisaveta he inquired politely, "Would you care for more wine, Countess, before I leave, or perhaps a sweet?"

  "No, thank you," Lisaveta replied, intrigued by the extent servant and mistress felt they could interfere in Stefan's life, "although Stefan's wines are exceptional."

  "We think so," Georgi returned. His family had been per­sonal servants to the Orbelianis centuries before Georgia was annexed to the Russian Empire. The vineyards, he felt, were as much a part of his family as Stefan's. In fact, his brother was head vintner for Stefan.

  "A shame Nadejda's family drink only French wines," Militza said very softly.

  D
irecting his attention back to his mistress, Georgi said in an equally soft voice, "She won't do."

  "Exactly."

  "If you need anything, Excellency, the staff is at your dis­posal." His tone was moderate, but aware of the warrior code so prevalent in this area of the country, Lisaveta wondered precisely what "anything" implied.

  "We'll begin by clearing the palace," Militza briskly said. "Please have everyone out by morning. Stefan should appre­ciate that interference from his fiancée."

  "Excellent idea, Princess." Georgi reminded her, grinning from ear to ear.

  "I know," Militza winked. "Have a pleasant holiday."

  "Won't he be angry with you?" Lisaveta asked as soon as Georgi left. She was unfamiliar with palace intrigue, her own tranquil life with her father insufficient education for the sub­tleties of manipulating people. As an only child with her fa­ther alone for company, Lisaveta was unaccustomed to the machinations of society. "'What if Stefan discovers what you've done?"

  "I expect he will first thing in the morning. Actually I'm counting on it, but then I'm only accommodating his fiancée," Militza replied, her sweet tone one of unalloyed delight. "The one," she reminded Lisaveta, "he picked out in three days because she best met his requirements for stability."

  "I see," Lisaveta said when she didn't see at all, when she envisioned instead a tangle of complications and disorder. "You can't mean stability," she added, as the word registered. "Not for Stefan. He lives his life on the brink."

  "As did his father before him." Militza expelled a small sigh: "Which is the basic problem." She looked into the golden liq­uid in her wineglass for a brief moment before her gaze came up and she went on, "You must know of Stefan's father's lengthy liaison with Princess Davidow and the scandal."

  "Only vaguely," Lisaveta answered. "Father was reclusive after Maman died. His studies absorbed him increasingly—to fill the void of Maman's loss, I suppose. As I grew older, they occupied me, as well." It was natural she'd adopted her fa­ther's field of study since she'd always traveled with him. "The only scandal I'm fully aware of," Lisaveta added, smiling a small rueful smile, "is Stefan's reputation for amorous in­trigue."

  Militza shrugged. "A young man's normal interest," she said. "His father's scandal, though, is going to ruin Stefan's life." She looked at Lisaveta across the remnants of dinner. "He hasn't said anything to you of his family?"

  "Nothing except you wouldn't mind me as a guest. As you saw earlier today," she went on, her fingers tracing the pattern of the tablecloth in a nervous gesture, "he hadn't even men­tioned he had a fiancée."

  "He didn't expect her to be here, although that's no excuse, only an explanation… and in a way, perhaps that omission is typical of Stefan. Because of his background, he rarely con­fronts emotion directly."

  "Do you think so?" Lisaveta's question was contemplative more than inquiring, for in many ways Stefan was an intensely emotional man.

  "In terms of his family, at least," Militza said, and Lisaveta had to agree. In those terms he'd been extremely reticent.

  "There was a love affair, wasn't there," Lisaveta said, trying to recall the exact circumstances, "between Field Marshal Bariatinsky and—"

  "My sister." Militza's words seemed suspended for a mo­ment in the quiet of the room.

  "Stefan's mother?"

  "Yes. They shocked society by living together openly all the years of the Field Marshal's Viceroyalty of the Caucasus, al­though my sister, Damia, was married to another man. When Stefan was born, our parents adopted him to ensure the conti­nuity of the Orbeliani line and fortune. I had no children, there was only Damia and myself, and if Damia's husband wished to, he might have laid claim to the child. Indeed, he would not al­low a divorce, vowing to fight a divorce action to his last rou­ble. The potential for complications, as you can see, was enormous." Her explanation was rapid and direct, as though the words had been said a thousand times before.

  "I knew of the Field Marshal, as every schoolchild does, but not—" Lisaveta hesitated, searching for a polite phrase "—of… the entire background." How extreme were the con­trasts in their childhoods, she thought. Stefan's life had been led in the glare of publicity from birth while hers had been almost a country hermitage.

  "You knew, then, that Stefan's father was forced to resign the Viceroyalty. Damia's husband, after opposing divorce for years, suddenly instituted proceedings, naming the Field Mar­shal as correspondent. After twenty-five years of valorous ser­vice to the Tsar, his career was over.'

  Militza must have been a young and elegant lady then, Lisa­veta thought, as diminutive and darkly beautiful as a Persian miniature. "How devastating for him… for everyone," Lisa­veta said, and how wretched, she thought, for a young boy trying to understand.

  Militza sighed again, recalling the heartache and sorrow. "The Field Marshal and Damia were married in Brussels after the divorce, but I'm afraid the example of what overpowering love can do to a proud man had a profound effect on Stefan. At the time his father was relieved of his viceregal post, Alex was at the zenith of his career, and while the Tsar still sought his advice, for they had been companions since childhood, his hands were tied. As Viceroy, Alex embodied the Emperor and as such couldn't be correspondent in a divorce proceeding. He had no choice but to step down. He was forty-five."

  "How old was Stefan?"

  "Ten."

  She had been six when her mother died in a riding accident, and that loss had tempered her entire life. "How much did Stefan know…of…the events?" she inquired, trying to imagine him as a young child, coping.

  "He seemed to grow up overnight."

  And in those hushed words her question was answered. "How sudden was the change?" Lisaveta inquired, her own voice oddly muffled, and at Militza's expression she answered herself. "It was sudden. They lived abroad, didn't they…."

  "At first they retired to Alex's estate in Kursk, but he was restless, still raging with life. He couldn't stand the confining tranquillity of country living. He was a conqueror with noth­ing to conquer and he needed distractions." Militza had al­ways felt the wreckage of such an illustrious career could not have been the happiest foundation for a marriage, and the procession of half-lived days—then years—at Plombières, Ems, Baden-Baden, the capital cities of Europe, had to have been touched with regret along with the ennui. "They left Russia," she explained, "after just two months at Kursk, tak­ing only two servants and Damia's jewels. From that point on the family's aimless wanderings from spa to spa in Europe be­gan destroying Alex. Stefan watched his father turn to mor­phine, saw his health worsen until he died at Ems when Stefan was fifteen. Damia committed suicide two weeks later. I some­times think," Militza said, recalling the vivacious dark beauty of her sister, "Stefan blamed his mother for the loss of his fa­ther…or blamed love. He made up his mind then never to lose his soul to a woman, a principle he's adhered to for over a de­cade now."

  "And yet he's marrying."

  "For an heir. Both the Bariatinsky and Orbeliani fortunes require one, and I must confess my insistence may have had something to do with his decision. His style of soldiering does leave one holding one's breath."

  "He never spoke of…this," Lisaveta softly said. "How sad it must have been to lose both your parents so young." How terrible it must have been for Stefan, she thought, to see his fa­ther die so uselessly.

  "And yet in many ways he was very lucky to have parents who loved him so," Militza declared. "He was doted on from the cradle. Alex had led a life much like Stefan's has been the last many years, known for its searching the limits of sensa­tion in love and war. When he fell in love with my sister, Damia, many thought it inexplicable. But—" Militza half closed her eyes for a moment, against that memory and her own "—love is… mystifying, is it not?" She sat more upright abruptly, as if relinquishing hold on all the memories from her past. "Ste­fan was Alex and Damia's only child. He was the center of their world—which may both explain and condemn him to his pres­ent
path."

  "I don't understand how he can be so ruthless about his own marriage after seeing and experiencing such love. Surely the circumstances…"

  "Stefan was deeply scarred by the manner of his father's death. Alex had been Russia's greatest hero for a quarter of a century, yet he died in exile." She leaned her head against the chair back and briefly shut her eyes. How often had she won­dered what might have been if Alex's enemies hadn't per­suaded Davidow… "You can see," she said, opening her eyes, "Stefan's childhood was… unusual."

  "It certainly explains, in some ways, his choice of a wife. Nadejda and her parents appear on good terms with the cur­rent Viceroy. How does Stefan feel about the man occupying the position once held by his father?"

  "There is deep-seated animosity. Melikoff is the son of the man who replaced his father. He holds a post Stefan might have inherited."

  "Does Stefan know Nadejda's parents are visiting the Vice­roy?"

  "I didn't tell him, but he found out," his aunt said, blunt as a hammer blow, "from the servants."

  "You wouldn't have told him?" Lisaveta's words were blurted in astonishment. She had been reared to honor simple truth.

  "I wanted him to find out from his fiancée. She has such an irritating way about her."

  "He may not find her irritating."

  Militza treated Lisaveta to a candid stare. Her eyes were dark with kohl in the fashion of the Caucasus, and brilliant with derision. "He hardly notices her."

  It was unkind, but Militza's words consoled her; had Stefan adored Nadejda she would have been… what? Unhappy? De­jected? Jealous? Taking a serious grip on the reality of the sit­uation, Lisaveta reminded herself that her feelings were incidental to the facts. Stefan was engaged; Nadejda was his fiancée. Whether she or Militza envisioned problems in the marriage was irrelevant. But a niggling voice wasn't so easily acceptant of rational argument, and she found herself saying, "Have you tried to talk to him about…well…his feelings for Nadejda?"