14

 

The next morning, Charie found Domitri sitting at the scared kitchen table, the stone floored room lit with winter white sunshine.

Olga hummed and stirred something with a cinnamony scent in a huge pot over the wide hearth, but paused to bid her good morning in Russian.

“Do you think this could be posted,” she asked as she extended the letter she’d written last night to her mother and Olar after retiring for the evening. She’d tried to explain the confusing situation and assure them she was safe and well in the home of the Auberchons.

Coming to his feet, Domitri took the letter from her and gave her a smile. “I’ll ask Rukov to do so first thing. I trust you slept well?”

“I did.” Charie returned his smile. “But I fear I must be directed to a dressmaker today in order to replenish my meager wardrobe.”

“Nonsense,” came Ekaterina Auberchon’s voice as she moved gracefully into the kitchen, bestowing a kiss upon Domitri’s cheek, hugging Olga, and then taking hold of Charie’s hand. “I have plenty of things from which you could choose. I am a bit thicker about the waist but we are about the same height, are we not?”

“I couldn’t possibly impose upon you in such a manner.”

“Of course you can. I will turn you into a Russian gospoja for a few days, and Domitri will lose his heart all over again.”

Charie knew she blushed, but she nearly laughed aloud when Domitri colored.

“So we will eat, and then we will dance with the children. Afterward, Domitri will show you about our lovely old city.”

It appeared the matter was settled and as Olga was now filling bowls with what looked to Charie to be oatmeal, she took a place at the table.

Monsieur Auberchon soon joined them, and talk turned to plans for the day. It appeared that both Monsieur and Madame Auberchon would conduct dance classes until early afternoon.

Then Monsieur Auberchon was to pay a visit to the Imperial Ballet to work with Christian Johansson on his new ballet.

Charie knew of Johansson, who had once partnered Marie Taglioni, and then chose to remain in Russia. Charie wondered if she dared ask if she could accompany Monsieur Auberchon. As though reading her mind, Dominic spoke to her directly.

“Would you and Domitri like to join me? I believe Katra”—Charie knew this was Dominic’s pet name for Ekaterina—“said she wanted you to see something of the city, Charie.”

“I would love to watch Monsieur Johansson rehearse,” Charie said eagerly, drawing a dark look from Domitri. Could it be he was jealous? “I’ve heard he is an amazing danseur.”

“So they say,” Dominic replied, trying hard not to smile. “I’ll let you be the judge. Now, I must have one more slice of Olga’s wonderful bread, and then I’m due downstairs.”

“As am I,” Ekaterina said as she hurriedly finished her tea. “Charie, you will join me?”

“Of course. Might I ask to borrow something more appropriate to wear?” She had donned her same wool gown, which would never do for practice.

Ekaterina released a silvery laugh. “Let’s see what I can find among my things.” Ekaterina stood.

Charie did, as well, excited and amazed that she was actually enjoying this unexpected adventure in the home of such warm and gracious people.

If only Domitri could be so approachable.

 

****

 

“Were you as impressed as you expected to be?”

Charie looked over at Domitri, who was driving a borrowed sleigh through the wintry Russian twilight, and considered his question.

They’d just left the theatre, Dominic still working with Christian Johansson whom Charie had found to be charming and technically excellent. But he fell far short of Domitri’s intensity. Why did she always find herself comparing other male dancers to Domitri? And found all lacking.

“You saw him—he’s competent and conscientious.”

“The sort of danseur who would make a good Ahasuerus?”

Charie noticed that a muscle twitched in Domitri’s jaw as he awaited her response. “My answer would only lead to an argument.”

They were passing the Alexander Column, erected in honor of the Russian defeat of Napoleon and positioned in front of the Winter Palace. The monument was surmounted by the angel of peace and also served as the entry to the General Staff building, opposite the palace.

“I have no wish to argue. There’s a little daylight left. Why don’t I take you to Decembrist’s Square?’

“Isn’t that where a revolution took place?” Charie asked, trying to recall Russian history lessons from at least eight years earlier when she routinely sent her governess into fits of despair.

“You might say that.” Domitri grinned, and then launched into a more detailed explanation about the officers who tried to oppose the accession of Nicholas I to the throne and ended up either executed or banished.

After passing the square, they headed towards the Peter and Paul Fortress, erected to protect the Neva River delta, and the cathedral. Domitri explained how Peter the Great had chosen this site on the Gulf of Finland to erect his grand city; a man who had tried not to be a tsar and often labored alongside his men as they built what became St. Petersburg. As they traveled past his bronze statue, erected by Catherine the Great, darkness descended quickly.

Domitri suggested they return to the theatre to see if his father was ready to leave, and deliver the sleigh Domitri had borrowed from the ballet’s director.

Dominic was awaiting them and after turning the sleigh and horse over to a stable boy, they transferred to the Auberchon wagon.

Domitri guided the horses home.

Upon arriving, they found dinner ready and waiting, Ekaterina looking beautiful in native garb; a heavily embroidered blouse covered by an intricately ornamented sarafan. Her dark hair was braided and looped festively.

After exchanging greetings, they took their places at the more formal dining table.

Domitri was asked to say grace before Olga began serving.

Looking about the room, Charie realized it was equivalent to the dining salon in the Paris townhouse she shared with her mother. The furnishings were less ornamental and more practical in construction. Fashioned of heavy, dark wood, the grained surfaces gleamed from polishing. Drapes of burgundy damask, tasseled in silver, hung at the four long windows and the seat coverings were of a burgundy and silver toile.

A small icon of Mary and the infant Jesus was centered over the sideboard and on the opposite wall hung two beautiful paintings of ballerinas, reminding Charie of Mira’s talented beau, Pierre.

He had promised to have Mira’s painting completed by the first of the year, and Charie could hardly wait to see it.

Matilda had easily persuaded Olar to find better accommodations for the young man, and he now resided in a habitable flat with a good north light not far from the theatre district.

Olar had commissioned him to paint Charie in a costume from The Pearls of Esther, and Pierre was beside himself with delight.

As Olga ladled and scooped generous portions into each plate, Charie couldn’t help but note how different dining with her mother was, where one course was delivered and eaten, and then another brought out in tedious succession. She much preferred this more informal and unpretentious serving manner. It allowed the diners to begin eating sooner.

“So, what did you think of the classes?” Ekaterina asked, directing her question to Charie.

“Your pupils are very talented,” Charie said, and then smiled at Olga, who filled her goblet with cold milk. “I enjoyed working with them.”

“Then you must help me again tomorrow. They were much more attentive with you present. Although they’ve heard of you, they never expected to meet you. I am sure that is all they talked about after class.”

“I should like her to help with my classes on the morrow,” Dominic said, a mischievous light dancing in his eyes. “Should not the young men have the privilege of dancing with so pretty a partner?”

Charie nearly choked on a bit of cabbage in her soup, and Domitri laughed.

“Those lads would do well to focus on their ballet and not a pretty ballerina,” Domitri said. “From what I saw today, many of them need more focus.”

“As does Christian Johansson.” Dominic sighed. “His head is too full of how wonderful and incomparable he is and how he danced with Taglioni. He could do with a come down to earth.”

“If anyone can help him do that, it would be you, Nici,” Ekaterina said affectionately.

There was no mistaking the deep love these two shared, and Charie envied them. If only her parents had managed to work through their differences and not divorced. But there was no need to wonder what if—she’d been most blessed by God and had always known how much her mother loved her. And now she knew her father loved her just as much.

“What did you think of him, Charice?” Ekaterina asked, her gaze cutting quickly to Domitri, who was pushing the food about his plate.

“He was most charming upon our introduction, and quite the accomplished danseur,” Charie admitted. “But he reminds me of a preening bird, his feathers spread to reveal all their glory with little substance behind the display.”

“My thoughts, exactly,” Ekaterina agreed. “But I am biased because I believe no man can dance as well as Domitri.”

“Maman, you are truly blinded by your devotion. There are many fine danseurs. What of Perrot?” Domitri asked.

“What of him?” Ekaterina scoffed. “He, too, struts and preens. Of course, he’s good, and he knows it. Now you, my son, dance from the heart. You should be back on the stage before you are too old.”

“Son, she’s right,” Dominic said, his eyes serious and his brow wrinkled. “You are wasting your talent teaching Russian to those unruly, undisciplined boys who have been indulged and pampered by wealthy parents. You should be sharing your joy of dance with the world.”

“You both sound like Olar.” Domitri shook his head, the natural curls at his nape brushing his collar. “My recent attempt at a comeback was less than successful. I am more suited to teaching. Let’s not speak of this.”

Honoring his request, talk turned to other things, but Charie couldn’t help but dream of dancing again with Domitri. The few times they’d partnered had been so marvelous it was difficult not to desire the experience. But that was impossible, so she would have to be content with memories of how it had felt to be in Domitri’s arms.

 

****

 

Ekaterina took Charie into the bedchamber she shared with her husband on the morning of the New Year’s Eve and pulled articles of clothing from an old armoire, tossing them upon the bed. “Chose anything you wish. I rarely wear these things.”

Bright silk and intricately embroidered linen garments littered the bed’s patchwork counterpane, and Charie laughed in delight as she held up first one item, and then another, looking at herself in the long cheval mirror. There were sleeveless jackets of gold and scarlet and sarafans of a variety of colors and patterns. The blouses were festooned with embroidered flowers, hearts, and whimsical doodles.

“This you must wear for the new year,” Domitri’s mother announced as she drew a blouse, jacket, and sarafan from a silk wrapping. Of an ice blue fabric, the sarafan’s bodice and hem were decorated with silver leaves, petals, and vines. The blouse, of white silk, was also trimmed with silver and the jacket was of silver. It looked royal enough for a princess.

“I couldn’t possibly,” Charie gasped. “What if I mussed it somehow?”

“You will wear this,” Ekaterina announced firmly. “And this.” She withdrew a headdress from a large box, Charie oohing as Ekaterina placed it on the bed.

Tentatively, Charie reached out to touch the intricate confection of silk, pearls, and ribbons. “This is a kokoshnik,” Ekaterina explained. “I wore this when my parents announced my betrothal to Nici. Please say you will wear this tomorrow night.”

“I don’t think I can refuse,” Charie said and laughed. “This is like waking up one morning and discovering you are a princess.” Braver now, she took up the kokoshnik and placed it on her head, taking a look at herself in the mirror.

“You are,” Ekaterina said softly. “Has not Olar told you that his blood is mixed with that of Tsar Ivan III and that Stanislovs have been rewarded and honored in countless ways by many Russian rulers?”

Charie turned to the woman in surprise. “I knew that the Stanislovs were of the nobility, though I wasn’t sure in what way. But that doesn’t change who I am.”

“That is because you have a sense of direction and purpose and a deep love for our God and Savior in Heaven. Always hold on to that, no matter what. Now, it is time to go down to the studio and welcome our little girls. Change here and I’ll be waiting for you downstairs.” Ekaterina kissed her cheek then let herself out of the spacious room.

Charie couldn’t resist another look at herself, and then uttered a low, girlish squeal of pure delight.

 

****

 

Ekaterina left Charie alone to finish up a class that was running longer than its scheduled time while she moved on to the next class, directly across the hall.

Charie enjoyed working with these girls whose dream was to one day be chosen by the Imperial Ballet.

Most were the daughters of middle class parents with fathers who were merchants or professors or attorneys able to afford the lessons. A few were daughters of lesser nobles and one was the child of a third or fourth cousin of Tsar Nicholas I.

They all seemed eager to learn and improve, and as Charie watched the last two slip from the practice studio, she couldn’t help but recall her first days of training with Madame Erlaine.

A small smile crept across her face as she turned away and glided across the floor. The more she danced, the more she lost herself in the joy of the movements, slipping solo into the pas de deux from Giselle. Unexpectedly, she felt a presence behind her and when a firm, roughened hand grasped hers, she knew it was Domitri.

Neither spoke, moving in harmony with each other, perfectly mirroring the concentration and intensity the steps required. Charie soared among the angels and clouds, swept along on a wave of bliss. How much more wonderful was the pas de deux with Domitri than it had been with Antoine Valmiere. With Antoine, she had merely gone through the motions. With Domitri, each step brought her closer to a majestic peak from which she hoped never to descend.

Then, the end was upon them and just at that moment when they would have separated in the performance, Domitri lifted her in his arms and circled the room, bringing them both to a slow, gradual stop. Dropping to one knee, he still held her in his arms, his lips so close to hers she could feel the warmth of his breath brushing her skin.

Pulling out of his arms, she came up on one knee, facing him eye to eye, nervous anticipation curling inside her as she wondered if he would kiss her.

Gently, he cupped her face and tilted her head, her heart pounding frantically. Could this be—?

“Here you are,” Dominic Auberchon called out far too cheerily. “Charice, I want to present you to my young men.”

Charie and Domitri leapt to their feet, Charie self-consciously pushing back loosened tendrils.

“Yes, of course. It would be a pleasure.” Charie hurried towards the door, but paused momentarily to look back at Domitri.

He was smiling—that sort of smile that passes between a man and woman when they realize they have found their one true love.

And that made her smile.

 

****

 

“You are wearing the look of a man besotted,” Dominic commented from his worn chair by the fire while rings of smoke curled up from his pipe, the rich aroma permeating the air. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything too terribly important earlier today?” There was a teasing note in his father’s voice.

Domitri forced his attention from the door to Dominic. Why did it take women so long to dress? He inwardly fumed. He’d been hoping that Charie would appear for what seemed like hours.

“You interrupted nothing other than a marriage proposal,” he said, causing his father’s brows to rise. “I was going to ask Charie to marry me.”

“You are a smart man. You’ll have another chance.”

“The moment was right—” Domitri’s words trailed off.

“And your inconsiderate father interrupted. I hope you will forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive. Perhaps, the time wasn’t as right as I believed it to be. Charie may still be uncomfortable with the fact I was married to her half-sister. When I learned Charie was Olar’s daughter, I struggled with a sense of wrongness—that it was a sin for me to be attracted to Sophia’s sister; to love her more than I loved Sophia.”

Silence slipped between them, Domitri focusing his gaze on the flames in the hearth.

“You know that isn’t so.”

Domitri nodded. “I’m praying that God will help me let go of Sophia. I want to know His will for me.”

“Perhaps He has placed Charice in your life for a reason.”

“I don’t know. I want to believe He has. I’ve sensed a change in Charie since coming here.”

“She has confessed her love?”

“No. But I’m sure she cares.”

“Have you told her how you feel?”

“Not exactly. But surely she knows.”

“What is the saying, Domitri—the Americans use it often—don’t count your hens before they hatch?”

“It’s ‘chickens,’ Papa,” Domitri corrected. “Not hens. Is this not the New Year when amazing things can happen? I will trust that God will open her heart to me.”

At that very moment, Charie and Ekaterina chose to enter the parlor, and though his mother was lovely in her sarafan of purple and gold, Charie robbed him of all thought and reason, a regal princess in her pale blue and silver.

Domitri came to his feet and met her, taking her hand and lifting it to his lips. “You are beautiful.” He was breathless.

She smiled and blushed.

“You look quite the Russian,” she said, smoothing her hand over his silk shirt of brilliant blue.

“So we are at last ready to go to the cathedral?” Dominic asked as he stood. “If the two of you had tarried any longer, we would not be able to find a seat.” He spoke gruffly, but his manner was teasing.

“Hush, Nici. We have plenty of time, and we will find a place to sit. Come, get your cloaks and hats. I’m sure Rukov is ready.”

They complied and a few minutes later, with Rukov driving and Olga seated beside him, the group set off for the cathedral in the Peter and Paul Fortress.

 

****

 

Charie wanted to giggle at the contraption on Domitri’s head, a fur hat of some sort with flaps that covered his ears.

As though he sensed her close perusal, he turned towards her.

“You don’t like my ushanka?” he asked in feigned hurt. “I’ll have you know this is the latest in Russian men’s fashion.”

“I see.” Charie shoved her hands further into her muff. “Well, if it’s keeping your ears warm, that’s all that matters.”

“Actually, just having you beside me warms me.”

Charie blushed.

Fortunately, they had reached the cathedral so she was spared a response to Domitri’s comment. Lamps and lanterns illuminated the soaring spire of the cathedral, which was topped with an angel holding a cross.

Charie tilted her head back so she could see to the very top of the spire. She almost lost her balance, but Domitri’s steadying arm saved her a spill and she smiled gratefully.

Even though most of Russia had already celebrated the New Year several days earlier in accordance with the Julian calendar, the church was filled to capacity.

Charie had never been inside any building as amazing as the Peter and Paul Cathedral, the final resting place of Russian tsars and their families; gold and gilt in abundance, a lofty interior that made one instinctively raise their eyes and lifted their spirits. She was speechless for the first few minutes after they took seats in a pew located at the rear of the cathedral, until Domitri whispered in her ear.

“You’re behaving like an American tourist.”

That brought her back to the moment at hand. “I am an American tourist. So I have every right to gawk and stare. I noticed that you did a bit of the same when we first entered.”

“I can’t help it. Every time I enter, I am struck anew by the architectural marvels. This place is amazing, but I feel a communion with the Lord in any house of worship.”

“So do I. But how amazing and unexpected to usher in the new year with you and your parents. I just hope Maman has gotten my note by now so that she won’t worry and will have a wonderful New Year with the count.”

“I’m sure she has, and I’m positive they will both have a marvelous celebration.”

Charie slipped her arm through his, and snuggled a little closer, willing to forget for the moment that Domitri had once been her sister’s husband. Could her love for him ever erase that fact?