12

 

Novgorod, Russia

Late December

 

Cold, biting sleet slashed Domitri’s face as he knelt before the tomb of the Stanislov family, one marker noting that a Stanislov ancestor had been laid to rest here as far back as 1483. The most recent interment, nearly eight years ago, was that of his wife, Sophia Nadina Stanislovna Auberchon.

Doves, etched into the marble of her marker, soared as majestically as she had when she’d danced. But for all her beauty and all the magic she’d created on the stage, there’d been very little of either in her heart. Sophia had never fully embraced the saving grace of Christ. And her life had reflected that, from her selfish willfulness to her insensitivity.

Had he not been so determined to prevent her attendance at a weekend affair devoted to gaming and revelry, they would not have been on that train. And Sophia would still be alive. He would still be married. Would Sophia be a different woman, now? Or would he be a different man?

But that was the past, and on this day, two days after Christmas, which Domitri had spent with his parents in St. Petersburg, he was at Sophia’s grave, praying for her. Telling her goodbye. He knew it was time to let go.

Falling in love with Charice Marin had opened his eyes to so many things. And even though there would never be anything more between him and Charie than brief, sweet memories, Charie had unknowingly freed his heart. And for that, he would be ever grateful.

Placing the lilies before Sophia’s marker, Domitri came to his feet. If he hurried, he could make the afternoon train back to St. Petersburg even though he’d told his parents he might stay in the country overnight.

In two weeks, he’d be leaving for Paris, just in time for classes to resume at the academy following the celebration of the New Year. A sudden coldness clung to his cheek, and he realized he was crying. Hastily, he wiped away the moisture with a gloved finger.

“Were you going to come and go without so much as a word?”

Startled, Domitri turned to see Olar standing a few feet away, his gloved hands overlapping the top of his walking stick. The sleet attached itself to his black cloak, forming fantastic patterns.

“I didn’t know you were in residence at the palace.”

Sophia had always laughingly referred to her home as “the palace,” never failing to add it was a huge, drafty cavern that she abhorred.

“Matilda and I thought that Charice might want to meet some of her Russian relatives and see the ancestral home. We finally convinced her to come. I believe she has enjoyed the visit thus far. I haven’t had a chance to thank you.”

“Thank me?” Domitri asked in surprise. “For what?”

“For keeping her and Petrov off the streets that night after the last performance of Long Ago In Bethlehem.

Matilda’s housekeeper told us where she’d gone, and I feared Petrov would believe it his duty to try to make it home. Charice explained how you arranged with the sisters to permit them to stay the night.”

“I didn’t want anything to happen to her—or to Petrov,” Domitri quickly added. “I attended the performance that evening.”

“And what did you think?” Olar prodded.

“That Charie was wonderful, and Ullavich’s performance was flawless if somewhat lacking in emotion.”

Olar chuckled. “Spoken like a man who wishes he’d been dancing the role. We were fortunate that Ullavich’s commitment altered, allowing him to take the part of Joseph. Aren’t you curious as to how things went with Giselle?”

Domitri still had no idea who’d taken his place as Albrecht for the final weeks of the ballet’s run. “I am,” he admitted.

“Rubenevski located Valmiere, who’d been dismissed from another role for throwing a tantrum.”

Domitri almost smiled at that.

“He agreed to come back with a huge increase in pay. Things turned out beautifully and every performance sold out. I sent you several messages and an invitation to join me for one of the performances.”

Again guilt assailed him as he recalled throwing those missives into the fire unread. “I wasn’t in the mood for socializing. But I thank you for thinking of me.”

“Come with me to the house. There’s going to be a grand dinner for my brother will be joining us. It’s rare that Jakob leaves the peaceful confines of the monastery.”

“I planned to take the afternoon train to St. Petersburg. I’ve been with my parents since Christmas Eve.”

“I would certainly enjoy having you spend some time with us. Why don’t you stay overnight and leave in the morning?”

“I brought very little with me.”

“I think I can provide whatever you don’t have. Domitri, I fear we parted on bad terms, and that isn’t right. Something urged me to come out here today. I believe God is providing a way for us to heal our wounds.”

“There’s only one way to find out,” Domitri said and managed a smile, though his face felt frozen. “You’ve convinced me to stay.”

 

****

 

Charie never tired of the gallery, filled with the faces of countless Stanislov ancestors, some of the men possessing an uncanny resemblance to the count—her father—she mentally corrected. Or was it that her father possessed an uncanny resemblance to his male ancestors?

She usually spent afternoons walking along the stone paved hall while her mother napped before tea. Her walk always ended at the small chapel overlooking the garden, now blanketed in snow. The stone walls were adorned with centuries old Russian icons depicting events in the life of Christ, from his birth to his resurrection. Painted in that style in which the figure was in no way realistic, the images surprisingly inspired and instilled peace.

As she slipped within, she was stunned to see a man kneeling before the stained glass, his head bowed. She nearly turned around until something about the set of the man’s broad shoulders struck a chord of painful familiarity. Domitri?

As though he sensed someone’s presence, he stood and turned.

Waves of hot and cold swept her, weakening her knees. Wrapping her arms around her, she hoped to still her violent trembling. How could he be here? Was her mind and eyes playing some terrible trick?

“Charice,” Domitri said softy, his stance statue-like.

Charie remained motionless. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“Olar found me half frozen in the family cemetery. He invited me to dinner and to stay the night.”

“What were you doing in the cemetery?” Ah—Sophia, she silently answered her own question.

“I brought flowers to Sophia. I didn’t know you and your mother planned to spend Christmas with Olar.”

“They both thought it would be good for me to meet the Russian half of the family.” She gave him a wobbly smile. “Have you seen your family?”

“I arrived in St. Petersburg on Christmas Eve to visit my parents. I decided to travel here before returning to Paris. I have two more weeks before classes resume.”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she offered apologetically. “I like to come here—it’s peaceful and comforting. I’ll be on my way.”

“I was about to leave myself so there’s no need for you to go. I’ll see you at dinner.” She nodded as he passed.

He paused at the door and looked back. “I apologize for my inexcusable behavior the morning after our stay at the hospital. I behaved boorishly and selfishly. I know that you had nothing to do with the fact that Olar withheld the truth of his relationship to you. Yet, you suffered my anger.”

Charie wanted to tell him how badly he’d hurt her, but she remained silent.

“I can forgive you for everything except the fact that Antoine Valmiere was so distracted during one performance, he trod upon my toes. They still ache.”

Domitri smiled ruefully. “I trust the burn on your leg has healed?”

“Completely.”

“I’m relieved to hear that.” His eyes conveyed genuine concern.

She was touched. “That night at the hospital when you asked me to stay and talk—”

Domitri interrupted, “You told me you had nothing to say to me.”

She almost stopped him so that she could finish her sentence — I was as rude and unfeeling as I’ve accused you of being. Something in his eyes—aloofness; dismissal—halted her words.

He continued. “It appears that our emotions ruled our conduct that evening. I would hope it would not be that way with us now and in the future.”

That comment surprised Charie.

“Was Chervenkof ever linked to your mishap?”

“The count—my father—says no.” She paused wondering how much she should tell him. What could it hurt? “Something else happened the same day after my visit with you. When Petrov delivered me to the townhouse, Ernest Altby was waiting for me. He made more threats.”

Domitri’s eyes darkened with emotion. “What do you mean?”

“He hinted that Maman had done something—questionable.” It was difficult to say the word. She still hadn’t spoken to her mother of the incident. Though she wanted to know the truth, she was terrified of discovering more secrets. Her world was already up-ended. Yet, she couldn’t avoid the matter forever.

“But I’m hoping he’ll leave us alone.” Domitri frowned as though he didn’t believe that would happen.

“Monsieur Robert assures me that my mishap was just an unfortunate incident, for there are buckets of water scattered throughout the theatre in the event of fire. Someone could have unknowingly knocked one over.”

“Perhaps,” Domitri said, his gaze still disbelieving.

Charie swallowed back the fear that threatened to consume. Only recently had she been able to bring herself to dance near that part of the stage where the gaslights were positioned. She now required that her skirts not be so full or quite so long. When she and her mother returned to Paris, rehearsals would begin for the spring production of The Pearls of Esther. She hoped to be completely recovered by then—emotionally.

“I wish I’d partnered you for the Christmas ballet,” he added softly.

“I wish you had, too.” Embarrassed by her honesty, she hurried forward and knelt before the altar, clasping her hands tightly in prayer while Domitri slipped out of the chapel. Lord, in Heaven, help me, she silently pleaded as Domitri’s steps faded down the hall. I’m in love with my sister’s husband.

 

****

 

Domitri came upon Yuri, Olar’s personal valet, in his guest room, brushing off a coat that looked vaguely familiar. He could have almost sworn it was his own.

Yuri answered his unspoken question. “The count had your things moved from the room you once shared with gospoja Sophia. Will this coat be acceptable for dinner this evening?”

“Of course. I’d forgotten I’d left clothing here. But my late wife was always shopping for me, trying to polish my appearance.” The joke was lost on Yuri, who continued to brush the garment.

Domitri noticed that the man had also laid out trousers, shirt, vest, and cravat on the bed. He was going to look the dandy—as the Americans called fashionable dressers—tonight with his gold brocade coat, buff trousers, paisley vest of hunter green and dark blue ruffled shirt, and cream cravat. He wondered if the ladies present would realize his garments dated back ten years.

After soaking in a wonderfully hot bath, also provided by Yuri, Domitri turned his attention to dressing and within an hour, presented himself downstairs. He was early, so after receiving directions from the Russian butler—Jules was still in Paris with Madame Orenska—he joined Olar in his study.

His former father-in-law looked out a large window that revealed the wintry gardens, a frosted fairyland of snow and ice. Olar turned at the sound of his approach.

“You should dress up more often,” Olar commented wryly. “You cut a very dashing figure.”

Domitri chuckled. “I suppose I should thank you for holding on to my things. I’d forgotten they were here. Who knew I’d need them?”

“That’s the beauty of a large home. Plenty of places to stash and store things. The ladies will join us shortly. I asked Enriv to send you to me for I have some matters I’d like to discuss.”

“And I with you.” Noting the dismay in Olar’s eyes, he quickly shook his head. “No, I’m not going to ask you why you didn’t tell me Charice was your daughter and Sophia’s sister. I understand why you did what you did, though I don’t agree with your reasoning. That’s over. But I spoke with Charie in the chapel, and she told me her accident is still a mystery.

“You know very well that someone dumped the water exactly at that spot so that she would fall towards the gas lamps. Or fall into the orchestra pit and break her neck. If Chervenkof is seeking revenge upon Matilda, that would have been a devastating blow for the woman.”

“Which seems logical.” Olar said. “I have men watching Matilda and Charie at all times, day and night. There’s been no further communication from Chervenkof. Matters most likely transpired exactly as you say, but there’s no way to prove it.”

Domitri had a brief flashback to that moment when he realized water was on the stage and how the outside curtain had swayed as though someone had been hiding behind it. There was the guilt gnawing at him again. Could he have investigated and prevented the catastrophe?

He should have worked with Olar to find the one responsible for Charie’s near brush with death. What if something worse had happened? Lord, thank you for protecting her, and please forgive me for allowing my anger to rule my heart and mind. I was acting as though I was the one suffering when actually I was only angry with myself for falling in love again. Falling in love with my own wife’s sister.

“It’s all right, you know,” Olar spoke softly, as though reading Domitri’s mind. “You had a right to be upset. As did Charie.”

“If I had paid attention to the things I saw, I would have known Charie was your child. You were so protective and nurturing. And there’s her nose and that stubborn chin that is a feminine version of yours. I should have seen the connection long before that moment on the stage. When I look back, I feel like a fool because I couldn’t see what was right before my eyes.”

“Then rejoin the company. Robert and I are still searching for the perfect Ahasuerus. Ullavich wants the part. He did well enough as Joseph in Bethlehem, but he’s not a powerful enough presence to fill the role of the king. And he is far too full of himself.”

“I hardly think I’m the one for the part. I’m sure Charie wouldn’t want me, and I can’t blame her.”

“Charie is a woman of quiet, but strong faith. Why don’t you let her decide?”

“It would be difficult for me to dance with her again and conduct myself professionally. I’m,” Domitri hesitated, wondering if he should confess to his wife’s father, “emotionally involved.”

“Forgive yourself, Domitri. I know you suffer guilt over Sophia’s death. Sometimes we humans have a hard time forgetting or forgiving, but, fortunately, we have a Savior who does that when we ask, without question or reservation.”

“Olar, I don’t know if I should tell you this. I know how important Sophia was to you—how much you loved her.” He sighed then continued. “I was deeply in love with her, but Sophia was never happy with me. After the newly wedded bliss faded, I fear she realized she married beneath her station. She loved the attention and adulation, and was verbally resentful whenever I received accolades.

“I attributed it to an unavoidable competitiveness, but more and more she’d go out in the evenings and after performances with a new set she claimed as ‘friends.’ I often returned to the hotel alone. Sophia was drinking heavily, and I blamed myself for that.

“I’m sorry, Olar. I have often thought that if I had spoken to you, together we might have helped her. Perhaps I should have given her a divorce, but when I made my vows to her, I made a commitment for a lifetime. I’m sorry.”

Olar remained silent, lowering his head as though pondering the enormity of what Domitri had just shared. When he raised his head, his eyes glistened with tears. “I knew she was willful and spoiled. I suspected she was not living her life as a woman of faith. But I loved her and I hoped for the best. I thought you would be good for her—solid and dependable and possessed of a great love for our Lord. The past cannot be changed, Domitri. Do not withhold yourself from a chance at happiness. We can only hope that Sophia has now found the peace she sought in life.”

Silence slipped between them broken only by the hiss and pop of the wood burning in the hearth, each man absorbed by his memories of Sophia.

It was then Enriv entered, informing Olar that his brother had arrived.

Olar hurried out with the butler to meet his brother.

Domitri turned back towards the fire, aware that it was the beautiful visage of Charie who danced among the flames.

 

****

 

Charie hoped no one noticed how she stared at Domitri when they gathered for dinner. At first, she didn’t realize he was in the parlor as introductions were made to Jakob Stanislov, her uncle and Olar’s brother.

Jakob was about the same height as Olar, but his eyes were blue, and twinkled merrily. He was a bit thick through the waist, but given his loose fitting garments, it didn’t appear to be a problem. Once he moved past the shock of discovering a niece, he was eager to hear all about the ballet.

When Jakob directed his attention to Matilda, Charie spotted Domitri lurking in the shadows, as though unwilling to intrude upon the reunion.

Drawing a deep breath for courage, she walked towards him, and then stopped. Handsome and dashing in a coat of gold brocade, her breaths shortened. She was reminded of how she’d felt the first time they’d met at the theatre. Charie feared she presented a drab sight in her gown of gray.

“You look lovely tonight,” he said softly, and she blushed.

The gown was fairly new; the bodice sweeping off her shoulders but modestly cut and flowing out into a billowing skirt.

“And you look most dashing.” She hoped her comment came across as teasing banter, even though her heart was in her throat. “Who would have guessed you to be so cosmopolite when not leaping about the stage?”

“There are many sides to me you have yet to know,” he rejoined.

“Come meet my uncle. He is quite clever and very funny even though he spends all his days and nights behind the walls of a monastery.”

“I met him earlier, before you and Matilda came down. I like him—he’s much like Olar and is devoted to serving the Lord.”

“I don’t know if I could give up everything as he has for his faith. He could have been the count. After all, he was the eldest son.”

“But he followed his heart, as we all should. May I escort you into dinner? I see Enriv hovering at the door.”

“I’d like that,” she said and smiled, laying her hand upon his proffered arm. Happy warmth stole over her as they headed towards the others who were chatting lively while following the attentive butler.

 

****

 

It was nearly midnight when Olar and his brother announced they were calling it a night, leaving Domitri alone in Olar’s study.

Restless and not ready for sleep, even though he’d be up early to make his train, he aimlessly strolled halls and corridors. Passing the parlor, he noticed someone seated near the ceiling-high Christmas tree.

The woman read by the light of a single lamp, and there was no mistaking Charie. Clad in a velvet dressing gown, her glorious hair spilled over her shoulders.

“Charie?”

She quickly put the Bible in her lap and looked up.

“What are you reading?” Domitri took a seat adjacent to hers.

“Verses in Romans. Shall I read aloud?”

“Please.”

“‘Therefore being justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ: By whom also we have access by faith into this grace wherein we stand, and rejoice in hope of the glory of God. And not only so, but we glory in tribulations also: knowing that tribulation worketh patience; And patience, experience; and experience, hope: And hope maketh not ashamed; because the love of God is shed abroad in our hearts by the Holy Ghost which is given unto us.

“For when we were yet without strength, in due time Christ died for the ungodly…But God commendeth His love towards us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us. For the wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord,’” Domitri added softly, quoting a much—loved verse also from Romans. “Makes one rethink the important things in life.”

“Domitri, may I ask you something—something personal?”

He looked at her, aware that he could deny her nothing.

“Certainly.”

“Tell me about Sophia.” There was a deep silence as Domitri warred with his emotions—should he give her the sweet version or the truth? Something within him told him to be honest no matter how painful.

“We first met when she joined the Imperial Ballet as a member of the corp. I had been the danseur noble for two years.

“Sophia was very good, but not necessarily better than some of the other female dancers. But when she danced, she conveyed this magnetism that drew the audience. Call it charisma, presence, drama—she lured those who watched her into her world, and those she snared were eager to stay.

“I was one of that number. And when she openly returned my admiration, I fell in love. We married three months after I met her. But it was only then that I learned her father was a count and that she descended from centuries of aristocratic Russians. I feared that her father would call me out, but Olar accepted and welcomed me.

“As I grew closer to Olar, Sophia seemed to distance herself. By then she was the principal female dancer for the Imperial Ballet.

“With fame, Sophia’s competitiveness escalated until we were at war with each other. She began to drink, assembling a group of friends whose morals and behavior I questioned.

“When I mentioned as much, she laughed at me and spent more time with them. I suggested we seek God’s path for our lives, which also amused her.

“Sophia threatened to leave me, but we worked through the discord. Late one night after a performance in London, I found her packing. When I asked her where she was going, she told me she’d been invited to a weekend house party by one of her new acquaintances.

“Angry, I told her she wasn’t going; we were going to spend the weekend together and that we would both be on the midnight train out of London—bound for Cornwall. The ballet master had previously offered use of a family cottage in the area whenever we needed some time away. I had turned down the offer until I made that impulsive decision.

“My temper placed us on that train, which wrecked. You know the rest.” Domitri pressed his thumb and index finger to the bridge of his nose, fighting back tears.

“How sad,” Charie whispered, “for both of you. “Olar rarely mentions Sophia, and I assumed it was because the memories are too painful. He must have ached over her choices.”

“He wasn’t aware of everything. I didn’t want to burden him. I failed Sophia.”

“How can you say that?” Charie asked as she reached out and grasped his arm. “It was an accident. You didn’t fail her.”

Silence slipped between them—not uncomfortable, but one that allowed them both time to make sense of their thoughts.

Finally, Charie spoke. “When you look at me, do you see her?” There was a catch in her voice, which told him it was paramount that he answer truthfully.

“I see a hint of her smile in yours, in the way your eyes light up when you dance. You have her grace and élan. But when I watch you perform, there is no comparison. You dance for the love of it and it shows. Sophia danced to garner acclaim and adulation. That makes all the difference.”

“Do you visit her grave often?” Her words were practically whispered, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

“I loved her. A part of me still does and always will. But I realize I married her without asking God for his guidance in my choice of a mate. Had I done so, I would have seen that she did not possess her father’s faith, nor did she have any desire to. I pray that with time my heart will heal; that God will keep me strong and help me to move forward. I know I shouldn’t blame myself for something I was powerless to prevent. I long for the day I can put that behind me. Next time I will allow Him to guide me to the woman I should wed.”

“There will be a next time?” Charie gave him a hesitant smile.

He laid his hand atop of hers. “Before I answer, what of you and the baron?”

“I told you—we are friends. Nothing more. I’ve seen a different side to him since he’s been working with Maman. He’s very knowledgeable in matters of the theatre. He will travel to Frankfurt with Maman the first of February to begin rehearsals for her new play. She’s been practicing her German so that she can perform Das Fraulein ein der Berg in the country’s language.”

“The Miss of the Mountain,” Domitri correctly interpreted. “And what is the play about?”

“A young heiress wishes to avoid an arranged marriage with a young nobleman whom she’s never met and flees to the Alps to live as a simple peasant girl. She falls in love with whom she believes to be an unpretentious mountain man, who turns out to be a prince who’s fled from an arranged marriage. You can imagine the problems that ensue when they realize they are running away from each other.”

“Your mother should be perfect for the part. But back to Bauerhausen—he has much to offer a woman.”

“I don’t love him.” Her gaze met his, her eyes a shimmering, pale violet that touched something deep and vital within him.

Relief wrapped about his heart.

“I, too, am praying that God will help me find the one with whom I should spend the rest of my earthly life.”

Her words gave Domitri hope.

The moment, charged with unspoken desires and dreams, created a companionable silence that apparently, neither wished to break.

Charie shifted her gaze to the windows, and she gave a cry of delight. “It’s snowing again. Doesn’t it look like sugar drifting from Heaven?” Coming to her feet, Charie hurried over to the long windows.

Domitri followed and stood behind her. The last thing he wanted to do was ruin the sweetness of the moment by succumbing to his desire to kiss her, so he kept his distance and offered up a prayer thanking God for His grace and mercy.