Golden Paradise

by Susan Johnson

  "In about one minute, Prince Bariatinsky, you're going to be attacked." Lisaveta's voice was constrained and heated.

  "How nice." His drawl was unconstrained and mellow.

  "And you'll be forced to retract that damnable drivel."

  "And you're going to make me?"

  "Yes."

  "How nice," he said again, his smile wide.

  Her own grin suddenly matched his. "You don't mean it."

  He shook his head. "Please don't ever embroider for me."

  "I might be able to pick out a tune on the piano," she said playfully.

  He groaned theatrically.

  "So you don't mind, I gather," she went on in response to his groan, "I haven't any of the feminine repertoire."

  "Darling, you're perfect."

  "I am, aren't I?"

  "And modest."

  She grinned. "Like you." Suddenly she thought he might not have a son like him. Would he mind terribly? And how much would she mind if he minded if they had a daughter instead? "What if it's a girl?" she said.

  "She'll be Princess Bariatinsky-Orbeliani," he softly re­plied, "and the church bells will ring for days."

  "You wouldn't mind?" Her own voice was equally soft.

  "She will be ours, dushka, or he will be ours, conceived in love and born in love and raised in love."

  "Yes," she said, turning to slide her arms around his neck, wanting to always feel him close beside her. "In all the world…"

  "… our child," he whispered.

  Their kiss was fragrant with hope. and happiness and that special delight that comes so rarely in life between two lovers who have found at last the mirror of their souls. And when her mouth lifted from his long moments later, she briefly hugged him tighter as she thought how very close she'd come to losing him.

  "You're getting stronger," he teased.

  "What if Nikki hadn't heard Haci's name?" she said, ig­noring his levity, her thoughts touched with a nightmarish shiver. "He wouldn't have gone looking for you." Her brows were drawn together, her golden eyes pained.

  "I would have found my way back anyway," he quietly said, smoothing her creased brows with a gentle finger. He spoke with a quiet clear certitude.

  Yes, she thought, you would.

  "Although I'm eternally grateful," he said with a grin, "you were difficult enough to invite yourself along, and… grateful as hell—" his smile widened "—you talked me into marrying you."

  He rolled away just in time to avoid her swinging fist, and before she could follow to strike him a blow for his impu­dence, he'd pulled the drawer open on the bedside table and brought out two very small packages. "Peace offerings," he said quickly, sitting up and holding them out to arrest Lisa­veta's attack.

  She was on her knees beside him, her arm raised, and his smile touched the small golden flecks in his dark eyes. "Clever man," she murmured, her arms slowly lowering to her side. "I adore presents." She smiled. "This may just save your life."

  He grinned. "I know."

  "If they're sufficiently extravagant," she said facetiously, sitting down beside him.

  "It," he corrected. "The other's for baby." And he handed her a small wooden box tied with a red silk ribbon.

  Lisaveta slid the ribbon free and lifted the hinged lid on the sandalwood box. Inside, nestled in a bed of crushed green vel­vet, was a necklace of gold with two jeweled charms attached. The charms were exquisite miniatures of desert towns, walled and minareted and architecturally detailed. Cloisonné and pounded gold alternated for brickwork on the walls, jewels were windows, the crenellated towers were tipped with pre­cious platinum, the central gates opened on delicate crafted hinges. They were less than an inch in length and on the base of each a small plaque had been set. One read Bokhara—the other Samarkand.

  Lisaveta's eyes filled with tears. Like the lover in Hafiz's poem, Stefan was giving her Bokhara and Samarkand.

  "For the mole on thy cheek," he whispered, and when she lifted her head and smiled, he saw she was crying. "You don't like it," he teased, uncomfortable with tears.

  She shook her head, unable to speak with the lump in her throat.

  "You like it?" he said, uncertain of the exact meaning of her head shake.

  She nodded.

  "Good." He grinned in pleasure and relief. "Now if I kiss away all your tears and you give me a smile, I'll let you have baby's present, too." Bending over he took her hands in his, placed them on his shoulders and proceeded to gently kiss away her tears.

  "I love you," Lisaveta murmured as his warm mouth moved over her cheeks, wishing it were possible to define the extent of her happiness, her mind stumbling over all the pleasure words, searching for one adequate to her feelings. "Is it like win­ning?" she asked obscurely, her voice hushed against Stefan's mouth as he nibbled at her lip.

  "Mmm?" he said. She tasted like perfumed nectar or sug­ared sweets or both together, he thought, wondering if one lost one's mind when passionately in love. He'd never considered himself a fanciful man before.

  "Is love like winning a battle for you?" she asked with more clarity, and sat up straighter so Stefan's mouth slid over her chin and into nothingness.

  Leaning back on one elbow, he stretched out his lean body before answering. "It's better." His smile was the one his fa­ther had seen and his mother and few others—an open, con­tented, unblemished smile. "Is love like translating the perfect quatrain in Hafiz?" he asked then in analogous query.

  "It's better," she said.

  And they both smiled.

  "You know what I'm feeling," Lisaveta declared.

  Stefan nodded. "Exactly. I consider the sensations revolu­tionary and cataclysmic and also—"

  "Balmy."

  "How did you know?" He never used the word.

  Nor did she. Lisaveta shrugged, then grinned and said, "Perhaps the shaman drums are beating."

  "They have," he said with an answering grin, "done a damn good job of looking out for me. And for Haci. We both have futures again." Stefan's friend had recovered in the weeks since the journey to Kars and was back in his village, making plans for an April wedding. "And speaking of futures," he said, holding out the second present, "open this. I want to show you and baby something I hope you'll like."

  When she opened the small box wrapped in pale yellow pa­per, she found a key inside—a door key.

  "It's a surprise," Stefan said to her inquiring look. "Now, put this on and I'll show you." Handing her the cherry-red cashmere robe lying on the bed, he rose and, picking up his trousers from where he'd dropped them the previous night, slipped them on.

  "I don't like surprises," Lisaveta protested as he pulled her from the bed.

  "You'll like this one," he replied, drawing her with him across the room. "It's not for you anyway. It's a surprise for baby, but baby can't see it unless you cooperate." He grinned and put out his hand. "Give me the key."

  When she handed it to him they walked the few remaining steps to the door opening into the adjoining room and he slid the key into the lock.

  "We've been home only three days," Lisaveta said, be­mused and curious, her voice tentative.

  "I left instructions with Militza," Stefan said. Pushing the door open, he turned to watch Lisaveta's face.

  She stood transfixed on the threshold. A nursery had been installed in the room next door, in the room she'd once occu­pied, and the previous space was completely transformed.

  A lapis lazuli ceiling twinkling with diamond stars shone down on them.

  The floor was carpeted in a field of yellow daisies.

  The wallpaper was hand-painted with fairy tales.

  And in an embrasure near a sunny window stood her cra­dle—the one that had always graced her old nursery at Rostov.

  "My cradle," she exclaimed. The familiar swan shape was swathed in white gauze draperies suspended from a crowned canopy, exactly as she remembered.

  "I thought you might like the next generation to sleep where you slept," Stefa
n said, his smile benevolent. "Come see your silver rattle." And tightening his grip on her hand, he tugged her along.

  Her silver rattle, the one given as a gift, her mother had said, by Peter the Great and passed down in her family for more than a century, lay shining on the white silk coverlet.

  "Even though you don't like surprises, do you approve of the decor? Feel free to change anything," Stefan quickly added, when Lisaveta didn't answer immediately.

  "I like the stars," she said, turning to him with a smile.

  "A personal whim. I'm glad you approve."

  "And everything else, too," she added, slipping her arms around his waist. "You're incredibly sweet and kind and I love you so much my heart sings."

  "We could perform a duet then, dushka," Stefan softly whispered, holding her lightly in his arms, "because my heart sings, too…and soon we can harmonize in trio," he added with a grin. Although his voice was buoyant, his words were under­laid with earnestness. "Tell me, Princess Bariatinsky, how you can't live without me."

  "I can't," Lisaveta said simply.

  "Nor can I without you."

  It was a revelation to them both, independent as they were, that they could so conspicuously and extravagantly savor that constraint.

  But in love, of course, it wasn't constraint but fascinating attachment, nor was it binding need so much as affectionate harmony.

  And ardent passion, as well.

  And fond desire.

  "I may not soldier for the Tsar so much," Stefan told her.

  "I didn't dare ask."

  "I need you more," he quietly said.

  "The Bariatinskys have served their share," Lisaveta said, tracing the deep scar running from Stefan's shoulder down his chest. His worst laceration wasn't completely healed yet and his arms were crisscrossed with saber scars. The two bullet wounds in his side would be permanently discolored because they'd been infected so long before adequate treatment. "And the peace treaty will be signed soon. Maybe there won't be any more wars."

  He opened his mouth to answer and then decided against his cynical reply. It seemed out of place in the sunny, toy-filled nursery. "I hope not," he said instead. "Haci tells me it's time for us both to sire children and race our ponies." His mouth quirked into a smile. "It's not a bad idea…if you don't mind."

  "And if I do?" Lisaveta replied, mischief in her eyes.

  His answering grin was wolfish, his dark eyes seductive. He had no intention of devoting himself exclusively to his ponies; the object of his devotion was in his arms.

  "We can talk about it," Lisaveta coquettishly said.

  "Yes, talk," Stefan agreed in a tone of voice suggestive of several things other than talk. "May I invite you into my bed­room for some preliminary discussion." He loosened her arms from around his waist.

  "I might be interested," she replied, affecting demureness.

  "Is there something that might further pique your interest, Madame Princess?"

  "Yes, as a matter of fact, there is." Her golden eyes were amused.

  "Is it something, perhaps, more accessible in a different venue?" His body exuded warmth as she stood beside him, his lazy intonation heated in another way.

  "In your bed, you mean."

  "How astute." His smile was gracious, as if he were famil­iar with offering paradise to young ladies. "But then your rep­utation as an intelligent woman is well-known."

  "As is yours as a libertine…." There was a rich cordiality beneath her drollery.

  "Perhaps we could merge our special…" He paused for a significant moment that seemed to raise the temperature noticeably. "… attributes in a mutually satisfying associa­tion," he finished.

  "Kiss me and I'll decide," she said with a provocative lift of her shoulder.

  He laughed. "You like to give orders," he murmured, one dark brow raised in speculation.

  "You should recognize the inclination.''

  He did, of course, after a decade of command. "We could take turns," he proposed suggestively. "Giving orders, I mean…."

  She smiled.

  He smiled.

  And on that sweet balmy Christmas Day in a shining white palace on the highest hill in Tiflis, they loved each other with exhilaration, joy and passion. Unlike the imperfect world out­side their windows, they had found in each other's arms per­fect unspoiled love, safe haven and bliss.

  Epilogue

  Their son, Zekki, was born that spring soon after the peace was signed. And when Stefan resigned his commission shortly after, to the Tsar in person, Alexander II understood.

  "Life is too short," Stefan said. "I've tempted fate too long."

  As have we all," Alexander II replied. His words came prophetically to pass when an assassin's bomb claimed his life three years later.

  By then Zekki had a sister to share the nursery with, and Stefan and Lisaveta thanked the shamans and benevolent gods for their own good fortune.

  Stefan had taken active steps to insure that good fortune, though. Immediately after they'd come back to Tiflis from the Tsar's funeral, he'd begun construction to add more rooms to his mountain lodge.

  Alexander Ill was going to be a reactionary emperor, Stefan said. "We may prefer the mountains more in the years to come," he declared.

  Lisaveta understood. "For when the troubles come," she posed, in question and statement both.

  "For that," he said.

  And in the following years the White General, the Savior of Mirum, the Victor of Kokand and Kars, tended his vineyards and his polo ponies and his growing family.

  He may have missed on occasion the inexplicable exhilara­tion of the charge or the intoxication of victory gained against enormous odds, but he'd seen his father die a useless death af­ter numberless victories for the Empire and Tsar, and life had taught him in the end to hold dear the precious minutes of each day. And he intended now—with that particular strength of purpose that had taken him victorious across the battlefields of Russia—to defend not the borders of the Empire but the sanctity of his content.

  * * * * *

  Author's Afterword

  Two fascinating men inspired Golden Paradise. Born a gen­eration apart, they were living legends in their own time, their deeds and accomplishments surpassing those of any fictional­ized hero.

  Prince Alex Bariatinsky was handsome, wealthy, the privi­leged scion of the only noble family directly related to the Ro­manovs, a childhood companion of the Tsarevitch and the object of his sister's, the Grand Duchess Olga's, girlish love. By eighteen he was an established figure among the jeunesse dorée of Saint Petersburg, notorious for his good looks and dissipa­tion. Scandal piled upon scandal until the Emperor at last showed his displeasure, banishing him to the Caucasus in dis­grace. Alex Bariatinsky soon won military glory, and battle by battle his name became synonymous with victory, culminating at last in Shamyl's final surrender. The subjugation of the Caucasus by Field Marshal Bariatinsky was complete.

  Throughout this time, his amorous personal life was legend­ary, but at thirty-five the Prince's amours were brought to a standstill by the wife of one of his officers. It was a fatal pas­sion leading eventually to his ruin.

  Stefan's childhood and family background are based largely on the events surrounding Alex Bariatinsky's liaison with Princess Elizabeth Orbeliani. Damia was substituted as Eliza­beth's name in my story to distinguish her more completely as a Georgian princess. And in contrast to the events in Golden Paradise, the child born to Alex's and Elizabeth's union was a daughter not a son.

  Which brings us to the inspiration for Stefan.

  Michael Skobeleff, the son and grandson of a general, him­self won his general's epaulets at thirty.

  As a youth at university his eccentricities were so expensive and his debts so enormous that his father refused to aid him anymore. He entered the Guards, but again his extravagances exceeded his father's good nature and he was obliged to leave the capital. He entered the Turkistan army, and the Asiatic frontier became for Sk
obeleff what the frontier of the Cauca­sus had been for Bariatinsky a generation earlier: a place to either find himself or lose himself.

  His expedition to Khiva, however, where with only three Turkoman guides he reconnoitered three hundred and sev­enty-eight miles of hostile enemy territory in August heats of one hundred and forty-nine degrees, never knowing where they would find water, made him a sensation. Promotions were rapid for him. Asia was the perfect training ground for auda­cious young officers, and thanks largely to his superlative tac­tical and strategic abilities, the Khanates of Khiva and Kokand were annexed to the Russian Empire.

  He was rewarded with the Governorship of Kokand.

  Skobeleff actually did ride into battle on a white horse, dressed in his white dress uniform, covered in perfume and carrying his sword with the diamond hilt, in order, he said, that he might die with his best clothes on. Less facetiously, he wore white in battle so "my fellows can see where I am and know, therefore, whither to follow."

  He was called Akh-Pasha by the Turks, meaning the White General, and Osman Pasha, the Turkish commander in the west, predicted that one day Skobeleff would be the Com­mander-in-Chief of the whole Russian army.

  Michael Skobeleff died instead at thirty-seven in a Saint Petersburg brothel under mysterious circumstances.

  He had begun to become politically active once the war was successfully concluded, speaking out in Russia and abroad in support of Pan-Slavism. He was perhaps too powerful and too popular to be allowed such exposure and he'd acquired many enemies on his rapid rise to fame, influential people who took issue with his brash style and immense popularity.

  I was devastated the first time I read of his death. He was a man of profound courage and abilities: a poet; a linguist (he spoke several languages including many Asiatic dialects and an unaccented English); a scholar of the classics (Horace, Schiller and Byron were his favorites); a kind commander to his hum­blest soldier; a brilliant general who compared in stature to Alexander the Great and Napoleon. What a waste, I thought.

  With literary license I could offer a kinder fate to Stefan. Michael Skobeleff's spirit lives in him.