25

By the time Midnight Mass was over, Cyril was in high spirits indeed. The governor-general had been playing up to him all evening, doing everything he could to win Cyril’s favor short of actually fawning. Cyril was quite certain, however, that if given half a chance the governor would have done that also. But Cyril decided to be generous and allowed the man to state his case before it went that far. The fellow felt his talents exceeded the position he now occupied and that his years of experience in the provinces had made him a prime candidate for a ministry position in the capital. Cyril let the man go on for half an hour, sniveling and groveling, before he said he’d speak to Count Sipiagin of him.

“Ah, but you must be prepared, Boris,” Vlasenko had said patronizingly. “It is not an easy matter to achieve a ministry position. I cannot promise anything.”

At that point, the governor casually mentioned a parcel of property adjacent to the Vlasenko estate that Cyril had had his eye on for some years. The governor left no doubt that it could be Cyril’s the moment a ministry position opened up for the governor.

Feeling quite high on himself upon his return to the house, Cyril accosted his son. Karl had retreated to his room immediately after Mass. He had always disliked large crowds, even more so tonight, since there were three or four eligible young ladies present and he was beginning to feel quite uncomfortable. The fact that they weren’t paying him much attention only made it worse; yet if they noticed him, their attentions would probably only compound his awkwardness.

Vlasenko didn’t bother to knock on the door. He barged right in. It was his house, after all, and he was master. Karl jumped, even though he was doing nothing more incriminating than sitting on the window seat, knees hugged to his chest, looking out on the freshly falling snow.

“There you are!” boomed Vlasenko, shutting the door behind him. “What in heaven’s name are you doing? There is a party going on, you know.”

“I—I thought it was over,” said Karl rather lamely.

“Some of the young people are going skating.”

“But it’s the middle of the night!”

“Who cares about the hour when you are young and have some gumption?”

“Must I go?”

Vlasenko shrugged and rolled his eyes with disgust. “No. As a matter of fact I have other plans for you.”

“Plans? For me?”

“Stand up. Let me have a look at you,” was all Vlasenko said in response.

Karl complied immediately. Vlasenko eyed his son carefully. The expensive suit that had been fresh and clean only a few hours earlier was now rumpled—or perhaps Karl just made it look rumpled and unkempt. Regardless, there was little that could be done about it now. Vlasenko didn’t have the patience to wait until Karl changed; a prime opportunity might be lost during the wait. Vlasenko believed religiously in seizing the opportunity.

“It’s time you made a man of yourself, Karl. You can’t spend the rest of your life cowering in some corner. You are a Vlasenko; you have reason to be proud.”

“I—I think the tour was quite beneficial—”

“Pshaw! Look at you! You can’t even speak without stammering. I should have taken you in hand long ago, but I always say, it’s never too late. Let’s hope so, at least.”

“But what do you want of me?”

“You need a woman.”

“Oh, Father!”

“Don’t worry. Even you should be able to handle what I have planned for you. She’s a mere girl, but she is a peasant . . . and you know how those peasants are. I’ll wager she can show you a few things.”

“What are you saying?”

“Do I have to spell it out? How else do you think a boy achieves manhood?”

“When I marry—”

“And what woman worth her salt is going to marry a milksop?”

“But—”

“Come along. Consider this my Christmas present to you.”

“Now?”

“Of course.”

Vlasenko nudged his son from the room and kept nudging him the entire five minutes it took to reach the study. It was in a quiet, isolated part of the house, even though most of the guests had by now settled into their rooms for the night. Karl looked increasingly pale as they went, and by the time they reached the study door, his complexion had taken on a greenish cast.

Before Vlasenko opened the door, he said sternly to his son, “I expect you to acquit yourself well tonight, Karl. This is your last chance. If you fail now, I am afraid there is no hope for you.”

Vlasenko opened the door and pushed his son inside. He paid no notice to the terrified expression on his son’s face.

Mariana had been told to wait in the study. It was a small room with only a few shelves of books, a desk, a chair and a divan. A fire burned in the hearth, warming the room considerably, and giving off light to augment that of a small oil lamp on the desk. The only redeeming quality of the room was a set of French doors that opened out onto a garden at the rear of the house. The view was rather dull now, with snow covering the ground and all the trees’ and bushes’ bare branches. Mariana occupied herself by gazing out at the falling snow.

Despite the warmth of the room, Mariana felt a chill and hugged her shawl closer to her. She was beginning to wonder what her duties would be, since she had not been asked to help the guests settle into their rooms. Perhaps, realizing she could read, they had some clerical work for her to do. But in the middle of the night . . .?

She was puzzling over this, quite deep in thought, when the door opened suddenly. Her head jerked up with a start, and the young Count Vlasenko stumbled through the open door. The door shut firmly behind him.

“Your Excellency,” she said with natural grace and respect, “it seems I have made a mistake and am in the wrong place.”

“What . . . what do you mean?” Karl stammered, finding his voice with difficulty.

“You obviously were not expecting this room to be occupied.”

“Who told you to come here?”

“Your father, sir. At least I thought he meant for me to come here.”

“Then he was right. Did he say what he wanted?”

“Only that he had work for me.”

“You are very pretty,” said Karl suddenly.

Mariana frowned slightly. “Thank you, Your Excellency.”

“It would have been better if you had been homely.”

“I don’t understand?”

“You have no idea what my father wanted?” Mariana shook her head. He gave her a somewhat sympathetic appraisal, then a half-smile bent the corner of his lips. Her utter confusion and innocence seemed to loosen his own fear. “My father wants to make a man of me. I think he wishes you to help.”

“Me?”

“Y—You understand, don’t you?”

She shook her head briskly, although reality was, in fact, beginning to dawn upon her.

He took an awkward and uncertain step toward her. Mariana backed away.

“Please,” he said, “it won’t be so bad, really. I am a count, you know, and you are just a peasant. I would think it would be an honor—”

Suddenly all the proud and haughty blood from her mother rose up in Mariana, and every ounce of her became a noble princess as she glared at the pathetic man before her. “Just a peasant! How dare you! I wouldn’t care if you were the tsar himself, you have no right to treat another person as dirt!”

“I didn’t mean . . . that is . . . doesn’t this sort of thing happen all the time?”

“Never!”

“Look here!” His voice rose with some authority, but then, as if he was shocked himself at such an unnatural sound from his lips, he lapsed into his usual stammering uncertainty. “P-please, you must help me. If I fail now, my father will be finished with me.”

“Maybe you should stand up to him,” said Mariana, no longer feeling any reticence.

“Oh, no . . . no. That would never do. I will pay you. I will pay you a lot of money. I have it, too. You or your family will never have to worry about money again.”

“Nothing you can say will convince me to do this, Your Excellency. I think the only way you can become a man is if you stand up to your father.”

He laughed bitterly. “You don’t understand.”

“I wish to leave now,” said Mariana, stepping toward the door.

In his desperation, he suddenly found some boldness. Karl stepped to the side and blocked her way. “If you refuse, my father can make it very difficult for you and your family.”

Now she was angry. She had listened to enough of Stephan’s talk about the rights of man and human freedom to be disgusted by what she was hearing at this moment.

“The worst you can do is kill us,” Mariana spat. “And my family would consider it an honor to die for such a cause!”

“You can’t . . . you shouldn’t talk like that,” said Karl. “I am not asking for so much—”

Mariana shoved past him, knocking him off balance. It took him a minute or two to right himself in order to pursue her. Mariana was nearly at the door, her arm extended to grasp the handle, when Karl reached her. His hand caught the sleeve of her dress with far more force than he had intended, and she wrenched away. The seam of the sleeve tore with a sickening sound. Both stopped dead still, and for a single moment all their attention focused on the torn dress.

Mariana recovered from the shock quicker than Karl and grabbed the door handle. She pulled the latch down and jerked at the door. It was locked. But how? Karl had not locked it after entering.

“My father won’t let us leave until you comply,” he said, again with more pleading than threat. Mariana glanced at the garden doors.

“Those are locked, too. I don’t even think there is a key.”

Mariana shrank back against the door, her previous boldness fading. Karl pressed closer. If he chose to force her, she would be powerless to fight him. Tentatively he touched her cheek with his finger.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said.

“Please!” she begged, biting back tears.