Mariana had never pined over the loss of her real parents. She wondered about them occasionally, especially about her mother, of whom Anna always spoke with such love and admiration. But she had never known either of them, never even seen them. They were like names from a history book—to be respected and revered like St. Vladimir or Alexander Nevesky or Peter the Great. But they were not real. Her mama and papa, Anna and Sergei, were real, and they were the objects of her love and devotion.
She did not know what to think or say or do, then, when her mama introduced this strange man as her father, Count Dmitri Remizov. She stood before him silently, licking her lips once or twice and trying to encourage some response from her paralyzed vocal chords. Then the count gave her such a warm and affectionate look that she forgot her surprise and embarrassment and returned his smile.
“Oh, dear!” said Dmitri, clasping his hands to his heart, tears of sorrow and joy brimming his eyes. “My lovely Katrina has come back to me! I do not deserve such a blessing.”
Dmitri threw his arms around her in a tearful embrace, kissing both of her cheeks effusively. Mariana was a little ashamed that she had not thought to embrace him herself.
When he released her, she finally found her voice. “I am so glad to meet you at last . . . Count Remizov.” She did not know what else to call him, although he winced slightly at her formality. But what else could she do? Anna and Sergei were her mama and papa.
Over the next few days, Mariana had ample opportunity to get to know him. Dmitri stayed at the tavern in Katyk in a guest room. Sergei could not bring himself to offer his rustic barn to the count. Such a humble bed was fine for Misha when he visited, but it was clearly inappropriate for a man of Dmitri’s tastes.
The short distance from the village proper to the Christinin izba, however, did not prevent Dmitri from visiting his daughter every day. Some days Mariana went to the village to visit him. Once he even took her to Pskov in a coach borrowed from Count Gorskov. He bought her a beautiful dress of soft fine linen—a blue and white flowered design—with a white silk hat and gloves to match. He must have spent a fortune on it, but did not even wink at the price.
Mariana had never really thought much about wealth and riches. She had always believed, like her adoptive father, that the simple life was the best. As a child, she vaguely recalled, she once visited a fine estate in the south, and there met another stranger she was told was her grandfather. But the love and security of her adoptive family were much more real to her.
Now she had to admit—what girl wouldn’t?—that she was impressed by Count Remizov’s luxurious lifestyle. She whirled around with pleasure in the splendid dress and tried to catch a glimpse of her reflection in every window they passed in the city. And the food they ate in a restaurant was beyond description. She had never in her life eaten any food other than that prepared by her mama or grandmama or a relative or friend. And never in such a place! It looked more like a cathedral than a dining room. Even her best manners were woefully inadequate.
“Don’t give it a thought my dear, you will learn,” Dmitri said.
The days would have been splendid for walks in the woods, but the count was not enthusiastic about the idea. Most of the time they spent in old Katyk, visiting together in the tavern or in Anna and Sergei’s cottage or driving around the country roads, now in the full flower of springtime, in the borrowed carriage. Dmitri kept up a lively stream of conversation, telling about his youth in Russia, his life in the army, and his life with Katrina—a highly glorified version, even if it glorified Katrina as much as himself. He spoke of his travels in Europe and America, never mentioning his means of support.
Once the subject of their relationship came up when Mariana hesitated over what to call Dmitri.
“I suppose,” he said sadly, “that I do not deserve to be called father. I have been too derelict in my paternal duties.”
“If you wish . . .”
“Well, to tell the truth, it rather makes me seem like a wrinkled old banker, especially coming from such a lovely young lady as you.” He paused. “But Count Remizov is so very . . . inadequate, isn’t it?”
“There is batiushka,” said Mariana.
“Oh, that makes me seem a wrinkled old farmer.” He ran his finger thoughtfully along the thin line of his mustache. “But then it all makes a man seem rather old, doesn’t it?”
“You are not old at all,” said Mariana with quick encouragement. “Why, you look far too young to have a daughter of my age.”
He smiled benevolently at her. “What a sweet child!”
“How about père?” Mariana said in her best French.
“I did not realize you had such an education.”
“My mama taught me. I can speak and read French, and a little English, too.”
“That is marvelous, simply marvelous. Very convenient, too.”
“In what way?”
“Père,” said Dmitri, adroitly ignoring her question. “Yes, I like it. It is perfect, my dear, and I would be so honored for you to call me by such a term.”
“I would be glad to do so . . . Père.”
Dmitri leaned back against the seat of the coach and gave a dreamy sigh. “It’s almost as if . . . well, as if we were a real father and daughter.”
“But we are.”
“I mean, as if we could be together always. You don’t realize the loneliness I have suffered over the years; never a soul really caring about me, no one to love or to be loved by.”
“Surely you have friends.”
“None to speak of, I am afraid. Oh, there have been countless acquaintances, but I suppose I have never been the sort to make deep friendships. Your Uncle Sergei—I mean your papa—was the only true friend I ever had. I see I have had such an empty life. But now I suddenly have you—oh! I cannot tell you how full it makes my heart. I can hardly bear to think that it must soon end.”
“But why, Père?”
“I have responsibilities and duties back at the city. I must soon return. You did not think I could stay here forever.”
“I . . . I guess I didn’t know what to think.” Mariana looked at him closer, as if seeing him for the first time—a sad, lonely man, hungry for love and companionship. Her heart went out to him. He was her father, after all.
“Do not give it a thought, my child. I will manage somehow; I always have.” He gave another long, sorrowful sigh.
But Mariana could not keep from thinking of this conversation, especially since Dmitri seemed to mention his loneliness, his breaking heart, and his empty life every chance he got when they were alone. It never occurred to her to hate this man for abandoning her. Anna and Sergei had always emphasized the fact that Dmitri had been forced by circumstances to leave Russia, and that he had left her behind for her own safety.
Over the next two or three days, Mariana became thoroughly indoctrinated. So, when Dmitri casually mentioned the possibility of her returning to St. Petersburg with him, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to consider. She hated the idea of leaving her dear family and village, yet her mama and papa had not raised a selfish child. If she could bring some joy to this poor man’s empty life, was it not her duty to do so?
“He needs me,” she said to Anna and Sergei when she broached the matter with them.
Her papa could hardly speak, and Anna burst into tears. The subject was closed, although it was bound to be confronted again, and very soon.