5

 

“What?” Charie pressed her hand to her throat. Shock speared.

Domitri sighed, transferring his gaze to the window. “I knew him as Nap Rheyev. That’s why I failed to connect him to the name Chervenkof. Nap—Anapol—lived with his unmarried mother in a room over the baker’s shop a few blocks down the street from my boyhood home in St. Petersburg. He was a few years older, and all the young boys looked up to him.

“When he was about a score and two, he joined a group of revolutionaries and quickly moved up through the ranks. He enticed many a young boy into leaving school and joining the ‘cause.’ He even approached me.” Domitri shook his head and chuckled bitterly. “Nap wouldn’t take no for an answer—no one refused Nap. We fought—with fists—and though I was younger, I came out with sore knuckles. He had a broken nose. After that, he left me alone. The last I heard of him, he’d managed to turn his revolutionary activities into a healthy source of income.”

“How?”

“Through the extortion of innocent citizens. They are frightened into giving their hard earned rubles to support Russian freedom. It’s been going on for years. My mother’s country is filled with those who think violence is the only way to achieve reform and change. Not that there isn’t a need, but there are better ways to approach the situation. Apparently, Chervenkof has decided to direct his attacks on citizens of another country using his trademark blackmail and intimidation.”

“This Chervenkof should be in prison. Why don’t you go to the Paris authorities and tell them what you know?”

“Tell them what? I believe that my former tormentor is possibly a Russian revolutionary posing as an American entrepreneur and is up to no good? They might want me to be more specific and provide proof.” There was no missing the sarcasm in Domitri’s voice, so Charie fell silent. He made perfect sense.

“I don’t see what he stands to gain if he becomes patron of the Ballet Eleganté.”

“Nor do I. But my mind doesn’t work like his.”

The carriage slowed and looking out her window, Charie noticed they were passing the Arc de Triomphe, completed ten years ago as a symbol of Napoleon I’s military victories.

It seemed ironic to her that the city would complete a monument for a man who ended up in exile. Monuments in the United States were built to honor heroes and Founding Fathers of the country.

“We’re here.” The carriage halted before a four-storied, unimposing brick structure that looked as though it may have once served as a warehouse.

Domitri helped her alight, and then grasped her hand as he led her towards the door.

There wasn’t so much as a speck of light shining through any of the windows. It was clear that her mother and Count Stanislov were not within.

“I shouldn’t go in. Not until my mother and the count arrive.” She intentionally pulled back, unwilling to pass through the door he’d just unlocked and opened.

“Muzette is upstairs, though most likely asleep. She will be our chaperone.”

Was Muzette Domitri’s mistress? If so, the woman would not be a suitable chaperone. What should she do?

“Muzette is my housekeeper and cook and just turned three score and two.”

Now he was reading her mind, Charie thought, feeling sheepish and silly.

As if Domitri Auberchon had any designs upon her person. He’d once been in love with the incomparable Sophia Stanislovna.

Charie could never compete with her.

Somewhat reassured, she passed through the door, and then allowed him to guide her up a narrow flight of stairs.

“My living apartments are upstairs, and I use the lower level as my dance studio. I’d like you to see it sometime. I instruct some of the young men I teach at the Academie in the evenings and on Saturdays. Even though I retired from the stage, the love of the dance is still in here.” He tapped his heart.

“But now you’re out of retirement,” she reminded. “You’ll be performing again before hundreds of people. It will help you move on.”

“It won’t help me forget Sophia.” His words were uttered harshly as he paused on the steps.

She couldn’t see his face, but she knew he was angry. “I didn’t mean that you would forget her. I simply meant that it would give you a chance to share your talent.”

“You’ve never lost someone you loved more than life itself. There isn’t any way you could understand my grief.”

“Perhaps not.” Why did her voice quiver and the liquid pool in her eyes? She was grateful for the darkness. “But I know that God wants you to go on living. And I do mourn for someone—for a father who is as lost to me as though he was dead. My mother made the choice that I was never to know him without ever asking me how I felt. So, I do understand how you feel, to some extent. I didn’t mean to offend.”

“You didn’t offend me,” he said, and then sighed. “This week I’ve thought less about Sophia and more about my dancing. I feel disloyal because I pledged to never dance on the stage again. Now, I am breaking that promise.”

“Which is my fault.” Tears filled Charie’s eyes. “I never meant for you to do something you didn’t want to.”

“That’s not the problem. I’m doing exactly what I want to do, and I’m partnering a beautiful, talented young woman possessed of a remarkable gift. And I’m beginning to enjoy her company.” He paused, reaching out to tuck back a straying curl. “Far too much.”

A gasp died on her lips as Domitri cupped the back of her head. Could he mean to kiss her?

She might be a score and one, but her mother’s sheltering and the count’s protectiveness had insulated her from men and their amorous pursuits. Not even Bauerhausen had managed a kiss; not for lack of trying.

A pleasant heat crept through her as her heart raced, and she tentatively rested her hands on his chest, aware of his thudding heart.

Unexpectedly, Domitri pushed her back as though she was loathsome to his touch.

Before she could manage a coherent word, light flooded the narrow stairwell and a head peeked out the door, gray braids swinging free from beneath a lacey mobcap. “Is that you, Monsieur Domitri?” came the elderly woman’s high-pitched voice, her words spoken in French. “Hurry up. I will prepare the hot tea that you like so much.”

That finished whatever had magically flowed, and then abruptly ended seconds earlier.

Domitri, now cold and aloof, took great pains to avoid contact as he motioned for her to climb the remaining steps ahead of him.

Something strange twisted about Charie’s heart as she brushed at irritating tears, and she wondered if it was hate—or something else?

 

****

 

It was a relief that Olar and Matilda arrived at his apartment not long after the disaster on the stairs because Domitri could finally focus on something besides Charice Marin’s shattering effect.

Muzette, now in her role of housekeeper, presented cups of the strongly brewed tea he preferred, the water boiled in the samovar his mother had insisted he take when he left home. The woman also brought in a tray of tiny sandwiches and cakes.

So while his guests ate, Domitri stood by the large window overlooking the broad expanse of the Champs Élysées pondering his foolish behavior.

I can’t have feelings for her, Lord. I simply can’t. What of Sophia? I was about to kiss Charie. What does she think of me? I should tell Olar that I can’t perform with her. What if these feelings grow stronger?

And what if they do? came the inaudible response.

Slowly, Domitri turned away from the window and gazed upon Charie, who accepted a steaming cup of tea from Muzette, chattering away in her non-stop French.

Charie glanced at him, and then quickly looked away, understandably angry.

There was no denying her beauty, her features nearly identical to her mother’s and her hair bearing traces of her mother’s vibrant red. But her chin was firmer and more pronounced, as were her nose and cheekbones. Though she lacked her mother’s brilliant blue eyes, hers were dark pools of ambergine, glistening at the moment as they reflected the low lamplight. The shadows that danced about her were strangely similar to those that highlighted Olar’s classically sculpted face.

A twinge of unease curled through Domitri, but he dismissed the sensation. His emotions and senses were unnaturally heightened.

“Join us, Domitri,” Olar said. “We may as well explore the issue and see where we stand.”

“This isn’t necessary,” Matilda protested. “Charie has had a fright, and the best thing for her right now is to go home. Olar, you are making far too much of this. You’re turning it into something akin to cloak and dagger.”

“Am I?” he asked tersely as he faced Charie’s mother, his jaw noticeably tensing.

Domitri joined them, taking a seat on an old, threadbare couch Muzette had long wanted her upholsterer brother to re-cover. Domitri simply saw no reason to do so. “I think it’s time you told Charie about your involvement with Chervenkof.”

“Involvement?” Charie asked as she set down her cup, fear robbing her lovely face of all color. “Maman, I thought he was nothing more than an overzealous admirer.”

Her mother released a deep sigh, bringing her gloved hand up as she rested her chin on the back of it, her elbow propped on the arm of her chair. It was a theatrical pose, but Domitri surmised it came naturally to Matilda Marin.

“Two years ago, Charie, when I spent the summer in London during the Shakespeare revival and you were with the ballet company in Italy, I met Anapol Chervenkof. He claimed to be an American of Russian descent, a New York businessman on holiday in London. Chervenkof was kind, considerate, and generous. We spent a lot of time together, and he asked me to marry him.” Here she paused and flicked a nervous glance at Olar, whose jaw still twitched. “I believed God was gifting me with another chance at love so I seriously considered his proposal.

“Then Fitz discovered that Anapol was a Russian national obtaining arms and weapons in America illegally, and then sending them to Russian revolutionaries. I realized it was I, not our Lord, who was encouraging the relationship so I explained to Anapol that I could no longer see him. He was enraged, but I truly believed that once he calmed, he would be gentlemanly enough to honor my request.

“I never said anything to you, Charie, because I didn’t want you to worry. I thought the matter resolved until last year when Anapol presented himself at my dressing room after my first performance of Helen of Troy. He asked me again to marry him, and I declined his proposal. He flew into a rage, frightening Lizzie so badly she went for help.”

“And you didn’t tell me?” Charie asked, unshed tears pooling in her eyes.

Domitri fought the urge to comfort her.

“I didn’t want you dragged into something so unpleasant. After all, it was of my own making. When he threatened me, I was angry. When he made threats against you, I was frightened. I finally confided in Olar.”

“What sort of threats?” Domitri asked, the old animosity resurfacing with a jarring force.

So Nap had graduated from harassing the corner baker to intimidating a woman who rejected his advances. It sounded as though Rheyev’s—Chervenkof’s—few remaining principles had vanished. While his greed intensified.

“He said he’d see that I never acted in another play, and that he would make sure Charie never danced again.” Matilda shuddered.

The blood pumping through Domitri’s veins boiled—the mere thought of anything happening to Charie filled him with fury. He clenched his hands into fists.

“I can’t believe he’s here in Paris.” Matilda sobbed. There was nothing pretend in her anxious, tear-filled eyes.

“I can,” Domitri said. “We lived in the same neighborhood in St. Petersburg, but our lives took very different turns. Chervenkof joined a group of malcontents bent upon overthrowing the Russian monarchy while terrorizing local shop owners. He went by the name Nap Rheyev, then.”

“What about my father?” Charie asked.

Matilda and Olar exchanged uncertain looks.

“Where is he, and what is his connection to Chervenkof? Ernest Altby, the man who accosted me at Maman’s theatre, said that his employer—Chervenkof—wanted to speak to me and my father about the ballet company. My father needs to know this criminal is making things difficult for us. My father hurt you, Maman, but surely if he knows we’re in trouble, he’ll help.”

“I’ll worry about that, chaton,” Olar spoke gently, using the French endearment for kitten. “Do not trouble yourself.”

“But I want to speak with him. Surely no harm can come from that.”

“The hour is late, and everyone needs their rest,” Olar insisted as he stood. “And don’t forget that practice begins at seven o’clock in the morning, Charie. We can talk more about this later.”

“No.” Charie came to her feet, facing Olar and her mother. “I’m tired of the secrecy. Why don’t we report Chervenkof to the Parisian authorities?”

“Charice, it is not so simple, and it will take time to work things out,” Olar said. “In the meantime, you must avoid Chervenkof. I will make sure you and Matilda have a companion at all times. I don’t want you to be alarmed.”

“How can I not be alarmed? Why did we scurry away from the soiree so quickly if there was nothing to worry about? Why did Altby tell me I should speak to Chervenkof if I cared about my mother’s welfare? You’re not telling me everything.”

Another worried look passed between Matilda and Olar, who almost imperceptibly nodded his head.

But for now, the count was right. It was time for Charie and her mother to return home.

Domitri almost chuckled in despair. He would be the least likely of them all to get any sleep as he replayed in his mind those moments with Charie on the darkened stairway.

“We should do as Olar asks,” Domitri said, and the count looked at him thankfully. “We can’t accomplish anything tonight, nor can we resolve the Rheyev-Chervenkof problem. The important thing to remember is to not go anywhere alone—either of you.” He looked pointedly at Charie, whose face reddened at his obvious referral to her flight from rehearsal a week ago.

There was no need to minimize the severity of the situation. Chervenkof couldn’t be trusted. And though Domitri knew of Nap’s criminal tendencies, the frequent and frightened looks Matilda directed at Olar indicated there was more than a thwarted courtship fueling Chervenkof’s ire. If he was to help Olar, Domitri needed to know the entire story. And he would learn the truth.

“I agree.” Matilda stood, drawing her cloak around her. “Thank you for your hospitality, Monsieur Auberchon. Please compliment your housekeeper on the cakes. They were delicious.” She walked to the door, Olar behind her.

Charie didn’t follow. Silence slipped over the room, and then Charie, huffing in frustration, snatched up her cloak and proceeded to the door.

Domitri took advantage of her departure, coming to his feet and hurrying to her side to assist her with her garment.

She glared up at him as she reluctantly accepted his help.

“I’m sorry,” Domitri whispered.

“You should be,” she retorted under her breath, but loudly enough for him to hear.

By then, Olar and Matilda were waiting, and there was no time for further conversation, not that such would have helped.

He’d ruined their tenuous friendship. Opening the door for his guests, he watched them descend the narrow stairs, Charie behind her mother and Olar.

She paused a moment and looked back at him. Tears glistened on her lashes.

 

****

 

“Charie, are you asleep?” Matilda’s voice intruded into Charie’s restlessness, and she lay perfectly still upon her bed, torn between feigning sleep so that her mother would go away or responding and inviting her mother in.

She opted for the latter and sitting up, called out. “No, Maman. I’m awake.”

The door swung open and her mother entered, clad in a simple ivory dressing gown. She made her way across the room lit by a single lamp, and then took a seat on the edge of Charie’s huge bed, much as she had during Charie’s childhood when she would read her a bedtime story.

“Perhaps I was wrong to keep you in the dark in regards to your father.”

“It seems I’ve been left in the dark about many things.” Cherie regretted her tone, but it couldn’t be helped. She was hurt. And angry. “Why didn’t you tell me about Anapol Chervenkof?”

“I’ve been so careful to avoid entanglements,” Matilda said sadly. “After my relationship with your father failed, I found solace in you and my acting. That worked well until you grew your wings and flew away. Now, we’re often apart—I’m here and you’re there. And it’s lonely. That summer in London was the first time we’d been separated. I knew those times would occur more frequently.

“Then I met Anapol after one of my performances. He was much younger than I, but I was flattered by his attention. He was charming and congenial, and,” here she paused as though gathering her thoughts, “attractive. When Fitz uncovered Anapol’s illegal activities, I was ashamed and embarrassed. It wasn’t something I wanted you to know.”

“You always worry about me. Why can’t I do the same for you? That’s what people do for those they love.”

“And you must know how very much I love you.”

Charie smiled at her mother and reached out to take her hand.

Matilda folded hers over Charie’s.

“I want you to know how much I appreciate what you’ve done for me. You took me with you, no matter where you went. You raised me and educated me and showed me a world I would have never seen had I been one of those little girls sent away to boarding school. You encouraged my love of ballet and supported me. You’ve always been there for me. I will always be here for you.”

“I have been very foolish, Charie. I’ve brought this disaster upon us.”

“The count will aright matters.”

“Ah, yes. Olar to the rescue.” Her mother uttered a sad laugh. “As badly as I hate to admit it, he does have a way of stepping in just when he’s needed.”

“That’s a good thing.” Charie hesitated, and then drew a fortifying breath. “Maman—did you love my father?”

A ghost of a smile touched her mother’s lips as her eyes looked beyond Charie into the past. “What was there not to love about him? Handsome and courtly, just like a prince from a fairytale. I fell in love hard and fast, and when he asked me to marry him I couldn’t say ‘yes’ quickly enough.”

“What happened?” Charie was absolutely amazed that her mother poured out her heart in a way she never had before.

“His family ‘happened.’ There were certain expectations of him and specific responsibilities he was required to fulfill. Marrying me was not in keeping with those expectations and responsibilities. He chose to follow his family’s wishes.”

“He didn’t try to save your marriage?”

“He did. He asked me to give up acting and live at the family estate. There was a young child by his first wife. That wife died in childbirth. It was understandable he’d want to be with the child. But I didn’t want to give up the stage.”

“By then you were—” here Charie paused as she sought a delicate way to say her mother had been pregnant. “—in the family way.”

“I was. And I was overjoyed. But even so, I didn’t want to abandon the stage and move far away to another country. I know now that I was selfish. I should have been more willing to compromise. I erroneously believed he should give up everything for me. But that’s all in the past. This is the here and now, and we must be happy with what we have.” She shook Charie’s hand in emphasis to her words.

“But this Chervenkof—?”

“Olar and I will work it out.”

“If you’re willing to let him help, have you put aside your hate?”

“I’ve never hated him—we just see things differently. Under the circumstances, we can work together. Now, get some sleep.”

“I don’t think I can. Something else happened tonight that is most disturbing. Domitri was very attentive and protective towards me when he helped me escape Chervenkof. He completely changed when we reached his apartment; cold and unfriendly. What do you know about him?”

“He is a superb dancer, and Olar considers him the son he never had.”

“He was married to his daughter so that’s understandable.”

“It has more to do with his strength of character. It was difficult for Domitri to accept Sophia’s death, and Olar said Domitri entered a period where he blamed God for taking her from him. I cannot say where he stands at this time, but as he’s dancing again, I believe he is moving past the tragedy. I fear, however, if he found himself attracted to another woman, he would struggle with guilt.”

“Could he be attracted to me?” Charie knew she shouldn’t care, but there was no denying she was both hopeful and frightened by the possibility.

“I’d say he’s interested. But you should pray about this. The last thing I want is for you to be hurt or make the mistakes I’ve made.”

“Isn’t that part of life, Maman? You can’t protect me forever. I am of an age to make my own choices and decisions. But I will pray. I always feel better sharing my burdens with the Lord.”

“You know what we should do?” Matilda asked, and Charie shook her head. “We should take a holiday in the spring and visit Virginia. Your grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins haven’t seen you in five years. What do you think about that?”

“I’d love to. But Maman, what I’d really like is to meet my father. Would you mind that so terribly?”

“No, dear. You have a right. Just be patient with me and give me some time. There are things I need to work out first. Your father’s life is complicated, as is our relationship. May I ask patience of you?”

“Of course.” Charie squeezed her mother’s hand. “Thank you for allowing me to dance. I can’t imagine doing anything other than what I’m doing right now.”

“I know how important it is to be able to follow your dream, but don’t rule out love and marriage, and perhaps, children.”

“I haven’t, Maman. This probably sounds silly, but I want to be truly, deeply in love with a man and he with me. That would be the only way I’d give up the ballet.”

“It’s not silly. It’s what every woman hopes and prays for. You’ve a good head on your shoulders, Charie.”

“I get that from you.”

“And your father. He’s a good, decent man, dear. You must not harbor the man any ill will. One day I hope to make you understand why things happened as they did.”

“But until then, I’ll be patient,” Charie promised.

Then, just as she had many a night during her childhood, Matilda leaned over and kissed the top of her head, erasing Charie’s fears and uncertainty.

It was a good feeling.