Golden Paradise

by Susan Johnson

  Lisaveta laughed with delight, pleased with Stefan's effu­siveness and the staffs warmhearted reaction. "I mustn't dis­appoint them then."

  "I wouldn't recommend it. I believe they've begun assem­bling a list of appropriate baby names. Stefan said they can se­lect one of the names."

  "He is pleased, isn't he?"

  "He's enormously excited, although he's taking pains to appear placid. You've brought him more joy than he'd ever hoped for."

  "I don't know how I lived before I met him. I only hope…I hope it never ends."

  Lisaveta's tone was so melancholy at the last, her thoughts plain. "Stefan's always been a very lucky man, my dear," his aunt assured her, "and his bodyguard will protect him with their lives. You mustn't worry or fret for his safety. It might harm the baby. Now come," she said, taking Lisaveta's hand, "Chef has insisted on greeting you with a royal repast and if you don't at least taste his numerous dishes, he threatens to cut his wrists."

  "He wouldn't," Lisaveta whispered, startled out of her de­spondency, unfamiliar with the tempestuous personalities of the south, "would he?"

  "We've never dared tempt his stability, my dear." Aunt Militza's smile was bland, as though servants threatened sui­cide every day. "You needn't eat much," she added with a mildness that ignored the drama of the event. "A taste will do."

  After Lisaveta refreshed herself briefly and changed into a comfortable frock, dinner was served: an incredible spectacle, a sumptuous procession of twenty-two courses, colorful, ar­tistically served delicacies that had obviously been all day in the making. Lisaveta tasted each dish carried in on gold plate while Chef stood beside her, beaming. When the last sweet had been admired and sampled, she said, "Thank you, Josef, I must write my husband and tell him of your genius. Everything was superb."

  Josef's smile widened, his red cheeks glowed. "The Prin­cess is most generous."

  "Now, Josef," Militza declared, her voice both cordial and firm, "you've intimidated Princess Bariatinsky enough for one night. Kindly have another bottle of Stefan's special golden-white wine brought up and you may all go to sleep."

  "Yes, Your Excellency, of course," he replied docilely, as if he hadn't acted the prima donna for the past hour. "As you wish." He bowed himself out with elaborate ritual, followed by the rest of the footmen.

  "The staff adore you," Militza said. "You don't know how pleased I am, since Stefan considers them all his family. Thank you, by the way," she added with a smile, "for humoring Jo­sef."

  "It wasn't any great sacrifice, Masha, his talents are su­perb… although at the moment I feel I won't need to eat for a month."

  "Some mint tea will help." She raised her hand in an almost imperceptible gesture. Immediately four servants appeared from behind ostensibly closed doors, and Lise marveled both at Masha's casual assumption that someone would come at her small movement and at the servants' hovering presence.

  "Mint tea for Princess Bariatinsky. The baby has eaten too much."

  Lisaveta colored a soft pink from her throat to her eye­brows.

  Masha smiled benignly and four servants beamed down at Lise as if she were the first woman in the universe to have a child.

  When the tea and wine were served the ladies retired to a small alcove overlooking the twinkling lights of Tiflis and talked of the war. Militza told Lisaveta the topic was promi­nent subject matter for the entire population of the city. Word had come yesterday to the general public that Hussein Pasha was advancing toward Kars and the possibility those rein­forcements would get through struck terror in the hearts of Tiflis's citizens. If the Russian army was defeated at Kars, the Turks could march on Tiflis; every coffeehouse and café were undoubtedly crowded with patrons discussing the morbid pos­sibilities, and every private conversation and public debate centered on the need to hold Kars.

  "How was Stefan?" Lisaveta asked.

  "Rushed and distracted," Militza said. "He didn't even have time to eat."

  "Was he worried?" Terrified for his well-being, Lisaveta wanted reassurance.

  "No," Militza lied. "Stefan's been fighting the Turks for years."

  "Will he get there in time?" It was everyone's fear.

  Sitting across from Lisaveta on a white satin loveseat, Milit­za replied, her dark-eyed gaze direct, "Stefan has never failed."

  "I didn't want him to go." Lise's voice was almost a whis­per.

  There was no adequate or comforting response. Militza wished there were. "He loves you very much; he'll be back." He would try, she knew; he'd fight his way through hell if he had to. She just hoped his strength and courage were enough.

  "I'm so afraid." Lisaveta's tea was untouched before her, her face pale with fatigue, her apprehension visible in her golden eyes.

  "You'll feel better in the morning. All the black melancholy seems worse somehow when one's tired." Militza wished she could offer some guarantees, something more substantial than platitudes, but it was a deadly game about to be played out at Kars and she couldn't bring herself to lie about that fact. "Drink your tea," she soothingly said, "and then go to sleep. Everything will seem less daunting in the morning."

  "I'm sorry to be so fainthearted." Lisaveta's smile over the rim of her teacup was rueful.

  "Your concern is natural, my dear. Very soon, though," she added, her smile bolstering, "the Turks will be defeated and we'll all breathe easier. You must sleep now." Lisaveta had faint lavender shadows under her eyes. "I'll have you shown up to your room."

  "Could I see Stefan's room?" Setting down her teacup, Lisaveta rose. "If you don't mind." She wanted to feel his presence before she slept, wanted to see glimpses of his spirit, wanted to touch his pillow and hairbrush, sit in his chair, smell the scent of him on his clothes.

  "Of course." And with the smallest gesture of her hand, a footman appeared. "Are you going to be all right?" There was solicitude in Militza's voice, for Lisaveta's desolation was ob­vious.

  Lisaveta nodded.

  "Would you like company?" Militza felt helpless to miti­gate her pain. Lise was so new to the warrior's culture, too swiftly separated from her husband, a stranger to so much in Stefan's life.

  "No, thank you," she softly replied, "if you don't mind." They were both being painfully courteous, anxious to please each other.

  Militza smiled and then chuckled. "Darling, this is your home. Please do exactly as you please."

  Lisaveta smiled back. "I see you must have had a hand in Stefan's upbringing."

  "One never actually had a hand on Stefan so much as sim­ply being there to pick up the pieces. He was a headstrong boy." Neither her tone nor her expression was disapproving. "He has in fact," she finished, "been the joy of my life."

  "He does that, doesn't he?" Lisaveta's features were less grave, her golden eyes taking on a warmth. "Without even trying."

  "He does indeed," Militza emphatically replied.

  A few moments later, Lisaveta stood on the threshold of Stefan's bedroom suite while the footman lighted several of the wall sconces. The gas flames shimmered and fluttered briefly before the crystal fixtures turned into a brilliant glowing white, and when he left she remained motionless just inside the door, her gaze taking in her husband's bedroom for the first time. One entire wall was curtained in white gauze, luminous now as the moonlight competed with the fitful shadow and light of the enormous interior space, glistening white against the green silk of the side draperies and valances.

  Walking slowly over to the windows, Lisaveta remembered a warm summer night scented with lily, and leaning her head against the gossamer curtains, she felt the coolness of the glass beneath her forehead. The warm summer was gone, their time in the mountains long past; she could feel the chill of fall in the air and the bleakness of fear in her heart. So recently married, she might as swiftly be widowed, she morbidly thought. And tonight when she wished Militza to offer her assurances, Ste­fan's aunt had instead been more subdued than expected. How did soldiers' wives cope? Was there some prayer for consola­
tion, some wish or hope one could petition for, some solace in this awful loneliness?

  She moved then as if drawn by invisible hands to Stefan's large bed. The balconies fronted all the bedrooms in this wing and this room was very similar to the one she'd stayed in last time, but Stefan's bed was different, larger, darker, more mas­culine, a mahogany-and-tulipwood marquetry cut on massive lines. Climbing up onto it, she sat in the middle of the forest green expanse of silk coverlet, looking like a flower blossom in her peach silk gown, her skirt in poufs about her, her glance surveying the immensity of the room.

  And that's when she saw it.

  A note directly in her line of vision, an envelope with her name on it propped against the mantel. Her heart stood still.

  Sliding off the bed, she approached it cautiously, dread and longing both prominent in her mind. Stefan had written it. Short hours ago he'd held that exact envelope in his hand, his words the closest she could come to having him near. She wanted to snatch the letter down and devour the words and feel for a transient moment as though he were here. But apprehen­sion held her hostage against that impulse and she stood be­neath the ornate and polished mantel, reluctant to know what her husband might have written her before riding off to war.

  She lifted it down finally because her longing was greater than her fear. But the weight of that fear crumbled her to the floor, where she sat before the small fire the footman had set before he left and read Stefan's letter. She cried as his words unfolded across and down the page; she cried for their beauty and tenderness, for his sweetness and devotion. He was more articulate in many ways than she in expressing the imagery of love.

  "When the war is over," he'd written, "we'll join the eagles in the mountains and show them our new baby… I can scent the wind and freedom even now."

  There was hope in his words and a love so intense she hardly noticed the menace of the closing phrase he had written so re­luctantly.

  She reread his scrawling script over and over, his strength evident in the rhythm and form of his letters, his spirit alive in his words. In the silence of his room, surrounded by objects familiar to his world, his cologne lingering in the air, photos from childhood displayed on the walls and bureau tops, she could almost hear him speak of his love for her. She could al­most hear his deep rich voice echo within the confines of his bedchamber, his love surrounding her, and she prayed to all the benevolent gods to protect him and bring him safely home.

  She slept that night in his bed with his note clutched in her hand, as a young child might cling to a cherished toy or a young woman ardently in love to her lover. She dreamed of moun­tain landscapes and moss-covered mountain pools, of starlit ceilings and a rain-damp bridegroom on a honeymoon night.

  It wasn't till morning that she found the second note. She was dressed already and wandering about Stefan's room, thinking as she walked: he sat here and stood here and brushed his long dark hair before this mirror and wore these slippers in his lei­sure and wrote at this desk—

  The small white envelope was addressed with the single word "Baby."

  It lay pristine and chaste on the red-embossed leather of the desktop.

  He'd left no instructions concerning its unsealing, although addressed as it was to their baby, the implication was perhaps to wait until its birth. And she intended to, she decided a mo­ment later, as if that punctiliousness would annihilate the panic beginning to creep into her mind. There was no need to write to their child now; he'd be home certainly—at some point—in the months before its birth.

  She moved back a step as though she were standing on the brink of an abyss.

  She found herself a moment later seated on a chair on the far side of the room, clutching the chair arms with undue force, her eyes trained on the stark white envelope. Why had he written?

  She poured herself a glass of water from the carafe on the nearby table and moistened her dry mouth, forcing herself to look away from the object of her terror. Catherine the Great's tall cypresses stood majestically against the blue morning sky, marching down the hill in solemn procession, immune to the years and her puny fears. She wished she could deal as tena­ciously with her emotional turmoil and persevere like Cather­ine's trees.

  In the end she rose, walked over to the desk and opened the envelope as perhaps Stefan had intended.

  No! she silently screamed as she read. No! No! No! She felt herself trembling when she'd finished, her heart beating in her chest as though she'd run ten miles. Stefan had written this note to his child because he wasn't coming back!

  "Masha!" she screamed into the sun-dappled silence of the room, struck with fright, unable to move. "Masha!" she cried. A bird sang its morning song somewhere beyond the window as though it were unaware shadows were beginning to cover the earth. "Masha," she whimpered, helpless against her pain, a great darkness overtaking her, and she crumpled to the floor.

  Lisaveta woke in Stefan's bed, Militza holding her hand, the room filled with hushed and reverent servants. She remem­bered instantly, and her eyes filled with fear.

  "You mustn't worry," Militza said, wishing she could soothe that trepidation. "Stefan wouldn't want you to worry."

  "I'm frightened, Masha," Lisaveta breathed, her voice so faint it was barely audible.

  "He didn't mean to frighten you, Lise. He only wanted to talk to his child before he left." Militza stroked Lisaveta's hand as one would a distrait child.

  "He'll be back?" It was a heartrending plea.

  "Of course he will," Aunt Militza firmly declared. "Ste­fan's invincible." But her own confidence was shaken by Ste­fan's note. His tone was almost prescient, alarming in a man who'd always felt indomitable. "Would you like to see the vineyards or Stefan's special Barb horses? We could take a small picnic with us and make a day of it." She could have been coaxing a small child.

  "When do they plan on attacking?" Lisaveta's voice was strained, her mind immune to the distractions Militza offered.

  Militza debated a moment the style of her answer and then decided on the truth. "Tomorrow," she said.

  Stefan rode into his cavalry corps headquarters at midnight to find his entire staff had been on the ready since word of Hussein Pasha's march had been received. When he walked into the large tent, a cheer went up and he smiled. "We're slightly pressed for time, I hear," he said, stripping off his gloves, his grin remarkably cheerful. "But we're conveniently ahead of Hussein." A collective sigh of relief went round his officers. Prince Bariatinsky was back in time.

  A magnum of Cliquot materialized, and while it was being poured, Stefan accepted all the numerous congratulations on his sudden and novel state of matrimony. He took the teasing good-naturedly.

  "So you're finally leg-shackled," one of his brigade com­manders said, his smile wide. "You're the last one we thought would succumb."

  Stefan's brows rose, his eyelids dropped marginally and he observed his grinning officers for a moment with a narrow-eyed smile. "I recommend it," he said.

  "In a bit of a hurry, Stash?" Loris Ignatiev sportively in­quired, friends with Stefan long enough to press for details.

  "I didn't want to give the Countess any opportunity to change her mind." Stefan's reply was mild, amused and un­mistakably untrue.

  "Was that all?" Loris apparently wasn't going to be satis­fied with evasion.

  The telegraph line must have been completed, Stefan drolly thought. "You may congratulate me," he pleasantly said. "I'm about to become a father."

  "Hip, hip, hooray!" Their cheer brought the dogs in camp into a second-round chorus, and Stefan had to sustain a great number of friendly back-slapping felicitations.

  "It'll be the richest brat this side of the Tsar if you're not careful tomorrow," one of the young captains said.

  "Don't worry, Karev, I'm going to do my damnedest to make sure my child waits a long time to inherit." Joking about death was common practice, a kind of relief for everyone's tension.

  "Speaking of death, how was Michael?" Captain Tamada
was a Daghestani Prince and as such found Grand Duke Mi­chael's military incompetence more exasperating than most.

  "Polite," Stefan softly said with a quirked smile. He'd stopped first at the tent of the Chiefs of Staff and had been treated with the deference he accepted as his right. Everyone realistically understood that not only was he an extremely competent and successful general for Russia but he also con­trolled most of the border tribes in the Trans-Caucasus. His name alone could muster a hundred thousand mounted war­riors. Not all were presently campaigning for the Tsar, but those not actually committed to Russia at least remained neu­tral. There wasn't a border tribe that would take arms against their Prince.

  "Now, then," Stefan genially said, as though time were not of the essence, "if we've covered all the gossip sufficiently, what say we get down to business?"

  Fresh tea was ordered and Stefan unrolled the maps he'd worked on during the train ride to Vladikavkaz. For the next hour he issued orders, explaining in detail what he wanted, what he expected of the cavalry in the attack, what he antici­pated as defense from the Turks. His officers took notes, asked questions when they needed clarification, their attention riv­eted on the tall dark-haired man with the crisp clear voice. Ste­fan's tanned hands moved gracefully over the maps, detailing the nine forts of Kars, its citadel and numerous batteries and redoubts, pointing out small features of the terrain or indicat­ing areas to approach with caution, stopping occasionally to punctuate his recital with a sharp stabbing finger. He was def­erential to his officers, asking for their opinions when he'd fully described the assault plan, listening to those opinions with courtesy and attention. He rubbed his neck from time to time to ease the tension and fatigue from his muscles. Or stood completely still for long periods, concentrating on the details of his officer's recitals, the lantern light modeling his face in dramatic chiaroscuro. When the discussion became repetitive, when mild arguments erupted as to technique, he politely said, "Any more questions, gentlemen?" and after a moment of si­lence, for they recognized his dismissive tone, he smiled and gently added, "Very good. Wake me in an hour." And lifting the tent flap, he walked out into the cold night air.