"Is Her Excellency ready to travel?" a young subaltern inquired with deference, his white uniform immaculate, his expression studiously reserved.
"Yes, thank you. Do I need a wrap?"
"His Excellency has seen to everything, Your Excellency." he replied, homage and awe in his tone.
Stefan wasn't a mere mortal to this young officer and she, by association, took on a similar distinction. Would she ever learn to be comfortable with such formality and pomp? She was used to building her own camp fire and cooking if necessary when she and Papa traveled with a minimum of guides to some of the more remote areas of the Trans-Caucasus. She certainly was familiar with seeing to her own comfort and care.
"Please call me Lisaveta," she said, in an effort to reduce the rigid deportment, her smile winning.
Her statement apparently stunned the three young officers who'd been entrusted by Stefan with "the most precious woman in the world," to quote their superior, and none of them was sure how to respond to such an irregular suggestion.
"I would prefer it," Lisaveta quietly said, as the surprised silence lengthened.
"Yes, Your Excellency…er…madame…that is…Lisaveta." The poor man struggled with his sense of protocol and Lisaveta's wishes.
"Stefan would wish me to be comfortable," Lisaveta added, and with her words, the supreme stamp of approval was assured.
All three officers smiled. Stefan's valet smiled.
"As you wish," their spokesman said, and all four bowed in precision.
Stefan's valet, dressed in blue silk robe and red turban of his Kurdish clan, stepped forward, a small wrapped parcel in his hand. "From His Excellency, Your Excellency," he said, his sense of propriety undiminished. His family had been personal servants to endless generations of Orbelianis and familiarity would be unthinkable, but his smile was genuine and his relayed message touching in its sensitivity. "His Excellency, the Prince, wishes you a safe and happy journey, Your Excellency." The package he placed in her hand was wrapped in blue velvet and tied with gold twine, and Lisaveta fought back her tears at Stefan's thoughtfulness even in the haste of his departure.
"Thank you," she said softly. Then, determined not to embarrass the man they all revered, she added in a voice steadied by sheer force of will, "I'm ready whenever you are."
Stefan's carriage was luxurious, a larger version of the conveyance she'd originally taken from Tiflis months ago. Extra springs had been installed against the primitive quality of the military road, the seats were padded in down and upholstered in silk velvet. Even the walls and floors were covered in thick carpeting to soften the rough jarring of the journey.
When she was alone and the carriage under way, Lisaveta opened Stefan's present. Inside a gold and enamel box, precious in itself, was a small gold locket displaying three oval compartments when opened. A hand-colored photo portrait of Stefan was framed in one compartment and Lisaveta was surprised to see her own image in another. She was wearing her wedding veil in the portrait and she marveled at the speed necessary to develop and tint her picture. And then she recalled Stefan's remark about "his" photographer, whom he'd brought along. She'd assumed the man was needed for the campaign in some way. He was essential instead for this gift.
The third oval was without a picture but its existence was explained in Stefan's familiar hand. "For Baby," he'd written on parchment cut to fit the frame, and a note was tucked into the box.
For a future mama from the proudest papa in the world.
All my love,
Stefan
A baby's picture would be fitted into the small empty frame someday, an astonishing thought in the current turmoil of her emotions. Tentatively placing her hands over her trim stomach, she waited to feel some sign. When would she first know for certain? How soon would she begin to see the changes occur? She wished she had the competence to judge like Alisa or Nikki, who seemed positive. Or even Stefan. But so swiftly had events occurred, she found herself still having to remind herself she was Princess Bariatinsky. She thought about all the new alterations in her life as the carriage rolled through the dark defiles and sunny valleys…about Princess Bariatinsky the wife, and Princess Bariatinsky the mother-to-be. How different they both were from the woman she had been before Stefan, when study and scholarship were her whole life. She had thought herself content then, looking forward to each new day of translation and learning, feeling often an actual friendship with the scholars of Hafiz who had preceded her, recognizing styles and handwriting patterns even in the anonymity of medieval times. But she had come to learn that serenity wasn't equal to passion or contentment commensurate with intoxicating happiness. And this awful and desperate sadness she was feeling now was the price for her loving.
She wished, hoped, yearned to have Stefan's child, a child born of this very special love, a child she hoped would bear a strong resemblance to its father. The next unbidden thought slipped past her defenses. If… if the war didn't go well—a euphemistic phrase for her darkest fears—if…something were to happen to Stefan, he would live on in their baby, he would be with her still.
She needed Masha for support, she thought, frightened and fainthearted; she needed her for reassurance against the nameless terror inundating her soul. Masha would assure her in her blunt straightforward way that Stefan was always victorious; she would reaffirm the fact Stefan was never wounded, he had a guardian angel. Masha would give her courage.
Glancing out the window she saw the snow-covered peaks rimming the distant horizon, noted the numbers on the black-and-white road marker, estimated the number of hours left before they reached Tiflis and prayed in a simple plea, simply put, for strength to withstand all her tormenting anxieties.
Stefan and his men traveled at a full-out gallop, changing mounts regularly from the reserve horses that had been left saddled and ready at all the post stops on the military road.
Everyone understood time was precious, any delay could mean the difference between success and defeat. Hussein Pasha might somehow overcome all of nature's obstacles and bring his army to Kars before them, so they rode as if devils from hell were pursuing them. They arrived in Tiflis an astonishing eight hours later, sweat-streaked and dirty, the afternoon sun almost tropical in the sheltered valley.
While his troopers were served a hasty meal, Stefan left to meet with Militza and his solicitor, who were waiting for him in his library. He'd telegraphed from Vladikavkaz before leaving to arrange for Gorkov's presence and sent two additional messages from forts en route so they could estimate his arrival time.
After brief congratulations on his marriage were given and accepted, they immediately concentrated on the business Stefan wanted conducted. Time was at a premium, everyone understood, each minute potentially costly. Gorkov was settled with dispatch at a writing table. Militza had a fresh uniform for Stefan laid out on his desk and without modesty he began stripping off his filthy jacket and issuing instructions. "My will is to be changed in favor of my wife and child," Stefan stated, tossing aside his tunic and bending to pull his boots off.
Gorkov, who hadn't been warned of Stefan's prospective fatherhood, manfully concealed his surprise. "Very good, Your Excellency," he managed to reply in a neutral tone, although his cheeks flushed red at the startling news.
"Do you have time to eat?" his aunt asked as Stefan slid off his breeches. His men were being fed in the morning parlor by a staff on alert since Stefan's last telegram.
"No." He shook his head briefly. "I'll eat on the road. In the event of my death," Stefan briskly went on, stepping into clean leather riding pants, "my wife will inherit everything, my child's portion to be held in trust until its majority." His tanned fingers efficiently buttoned his breeches as he continued. "I think that's fairly simple. In the event the Taneievs attempt to extort more than their settlement share, I'll rely on you and Masha to protect Lise and my child from their depredations." He shrugged into his tunic and swiftly began closing the fas
tenings. "Fight them in court, but see that Lise and the baby are guarded. I don't trust Vladimir… he's not above the most perverse machinations."
Tugging on his boots, he continued, his voice as crisp as his actions. "Haci will stand as foster father in my place for whatever duties you feel, Masha, are required."
"If he lives," his aunt softly said.
"Yes," Stefan acknowledged, his hands steady, no sign of emotion evident as he strapped on his pistol belt over his immaculate white tunic. Looking up, his voice suddenly husky and an octave lower, he said, "You'll see to things for me, Masha," and opened his arms to her.
She went to him as she had so often in his youth and held him close. He was much larger now than he'd been all those years ago, and poised and assured. She'd seen him overcome much in his young life with equanimity if possible and fighting spirit when necessary. He towered above her, his arms wrapping completely around her now, but he depended on her strength, too, and she'd never fail him. "I'll protect them, Stefan," she said, steadying her voice against her own strong emotions, "as you would yourself."
She seemed so much smaller and more frail each year, he thought, and he wondered when that gradual change had altered their relationship, but he knew she had the courage and the power to protect his family. Swallowing to suppress the lump forming in his throat, he tried to deal with his deep-felt feelings: his childhood memories both happy and sad, never forgotten, only buried for a time; his overwhelming love for Lise, joyous but clouded, too, with loss and all the ominous considerations contingent on the battle for Kars. "Our Kurdish warriors will stand guard, as well," he reminded her. "Rely on them." There wasn't time to deal with emotion.
He moved his aunt away at arm's length and with an attempt at a smile said, "Wish me luck."
"May all the gods watch over you," Militza whispered, gazing at the formidable soldier who had replaced the young boy she'd once consoled. "And don't worry about Lise," she added in a more forceful tone. "I'll see that she and your child are well cared for."
Bending low, he kissed her gently on the cheek and then his hands dropped away from her shoulders. Turning to his counselor, he put out his hand. "Thank you, Gorky, for coming at such short notice." His grip was strong and his natural courtesy brought a smile to Gorkov's face.
"It was my pleasure, Excellency."
Stefan smiled, glanced in swift survey at the papers on his library table that Gorkov had arranged in neat succession and began moving toward them. "I'll sign the papers now and you fill in the particulars. If you have any questions—" he looked over to his aunt "—Masha will make any decisions I may have forgotten."
Militza nodded, unable to speak. His words were too final this time. A new restlessness invested his mood and behavior, although anyone less familiar with Stefan might not have noticed. He was seriously aware for the first time of the impermanence of life. This stop to meet with Gorkov wasn't husbandly efficiency, it was dark premonition.
Stefan reached for the pen Gorkov was holding out for him and a few moments later his task was completed. "Thank you, Masha; thank you, Gorky." He gave a brief flash of his dazzling smile. "Au revoir." And he was gone.
Charged with poignant feeling too new and dear to discuss with Militza, Stefan sprinted up the staircase to the bedrooms on the second floor. Entering his room, he walked directly to the small traveling desk that had been his father's. Sitting down, he drew out paper from the gilt-mounted drawer for what might be his last message for his family. Writing to Lise first, he told her how much he loved her, that no superlatives however profound could ever adequately convey his feelings. She was his entire happiness, his world, and he missed her terribly already. His thoughts were brimful with her enchanting image and he'd write every night—if possible. "If I shouldn't return," he wrote at the very last, the words reluctant to be formed by his pen, "I'll always be at your side. From my heart, Stepka."
Folding the page, he slipped it into an envelope with Lisaveta's name boldly scripted on the outside and propped it on his mantel so she'd be sure to see it.
Returning to his desk, he began the most difficult letter he'd ever written, because the simple act of writing meant he was acknowledging his mortality in words, and acknowledging the foreboding shadows of doom that had been plaguing him since Moscow. He wrote slowly, each word melancholy in its implications, for he was addressing his unborn child in a letter the child would only receive if he himself died at Kars.
All his life, Stefan had been conscious of an illusive spirit, a guardian jinn protecting him. Now, in the past few days, he'd experienced curious sensations, elusive shivers of gloom giving warning his charmed life might be over—just as his father's had so suddenly been cast away—and he'd relied on intrinsic luck too long to ignore his feelings.
"Dearest one," he wrote, trying to imagine what his child would look like—chubby and pink and precious as a king's ransom.
I wish you welcome on your day of birth and kiss your sweet face. If I could have been with your mother holding her hand today, I would have been the happiest of men. I love you, dearest one, with all my heart. Kiss your mama for me and hold her close.
Watching over you,
Papa
He would have liked to say so much more; he would have liked to tell his son or daughter of the pleasures life held in store, of the joy the birth would bring to the house of Bariatinsky-Orbeliani and to himself; he would have liked to leave a note for every day of his child's life so it might know him, too, and love him. But the desktop clock seemed to be talking to him as its small pendulum swung before his eyes, the soft ticking echoing in the silent room. Hurry, it was admonishing, or all might be lost; hurry, it warned, Hussein Pasha is on the march; hurry… hurry… hurry.
So he addressed an envelope simply "Baby" and slid his note inside. Should he leave it with Georgi to give to Lise later or send it to her in the coming months, or should it go with his will to be read… when necessary? He sighed, debating the options, uncertain, finding it too difficult in the end to reach a decision. Sealing the note, he left it lying on the desk and, standing, took a last look around the room that had been his since adolescence.
Touched by an overwhelming melancholy, he paused at the door for a final glance, then softly closed the door behind him.
Chapter Eighteen
When Lisaveta's carriage arrived late that evening, her drivers having been under orders from Stefan to travel slowly for the sake of his wife's "delicate health," the entire palace was ablaze with lights, and before Lisaveta could alight, the staff appeared en masse on the drive as if they'd been waiting behind the cypress and rhododendrons lining the raked gravel.
As Lisaveta was handed down from the blue-lacquered carriage, Militza hurried forward to embrace her. "Welcome, Lise, darling, to your home," Stefan's aunt declared warmly, her voice joyful, her smile beaming. "We are all ecstatic with Stefan's choice of bride."
"Thank you, Masha," Lisaveta replied, enchanted with the extent of her reception, wanting very much for Stefan's family and retainers to like her. "I'm happy to be here."
Militza was already leading her over to the line of servants. "You must say hello to everyone. We've all been on pins and needles since word of the wedding reached us. What a clever boy, Stefan is," she added like a doting parent, patting Lisaveta on her arm. "You're perfect."
Lisaveta couldn't have asked for more warmth and affection from Militza and all the staff. As she passed down the line of bobbing and curtsying servants she couldn't have felt more welcome at her own estate. Georgi had a brief speech after which he motioned forward a young child who was carrying a large bouquet of yellow roses. The little girl forgot her lines, but she blushed prettily and thrust the flowers toward Lisaveta with her eyes closed. Stooping down to her level, Lisaveta thanked her and asked her her name.
"Tamar," she whispered so only Lisaveta could hear.
And when Lisaveta hugged her, she immediately became
the darling of the staff. Their Prince had done well, they all agreed, exchanging significant smiling glances.
Lisaveta had cautioned herself on her long journey to be realistic about Stefan's participation in the war, to face it stoically as he would wish her to, and she hadn't intended bringing up the subject unless Militza did so first. But as they ascended the stairway into the palace, she found herself asking, "How did Stefan seem when you saw him?" At Militza's hesitation, she quickly added, "He passed through Tiflis, didn't he?" A tiny hope that existed beyond the limits of her logic wished Militza would say he was upstairs sleeping or at the stables organizing his gear or something equally prosaic.
"Stefan stopped briefly this afternoon," Militza said, relegating tiny hopes back to their dreamworld, "to change his uniform and allow his troopers a meal. He stayed no more than twenty minutes with Hussein Pasha on the move." She didn't mention the will, for she knew Lisaveta would find the subject distressing. "How was your journey from Vladikavkaz?" Militza said instead. "Did you find it tiring?"
Lisaveta glanced at the enormous bronze doors opening before them as two liveried footmen put their shoulders to their weight. She thought of Stefan riding somewhere across the high plateau under the same moon that illuminated Tiflis and said with a true weariness, "lam fatigued."
"It's the baby and natural. Stefan is vastly pleased," Masha added when Lisaveta's expression indicated her surprise. "He's telling everyone."
"Everyone's so certain," Lisaveta replied in a small voice.
"Stefan says he counts better than you do." Militza was smiling.
Lisaveta blushed.
"You've made him very happy." Her voice was unsteady for only a second before she stabilized it. "And I thank you for that, although," she went on, her mouth quirking into a smile, "I must warn you, the staff is taking this very personally, as well. A new heir to the Bariatinsky-Orbeliani family has been thirty-two years in the waiting."
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