The Lost Souls of Angelkov (22 page)

A
ntonina fingered the smooth roundness of the globe on her father’s desk as she had done since first coming to his private study as a child. He sat behind the desk in his creaking leather chair.

Being summoned to her father’s study was never a good thing. As a little girl, she was chastised for being rude to her tutors or hiding from her nanny. When she was older, she had been scolded for riding her brother’s favourite horse without permission and for sneaking off to swim in the lake without a chaperone and for giving away one of her mother’s simple day gowns to a young house serf to be married in.

The last time had been the event with the icon.

Although no longer a child, she once again felt like one, standing in front of her father’s wide mahogany desk, imported from London. Was she to be reprimanded for
refusing to dance with the annoying Prince Khrutsky two nights before, or for attempting to humiliate her mother in front of the violinist?

“Sit down, please, Tosya,” Prince Olonov said.

“Thank you, Father,” she said, and lowered herself into the brocade chair. The seat sagged slightly: it needed restuffing. She realized there had been no new furniture or decor changes at the estate for some time, and the study had grown slightly shabby. The navy silk curtains were discoloured, the sun having created strips of lighter blue in the folds. One of the swags had loose threads hanging from it.

“You’re quite grown up now,” her father said. His forehead shone damply, and again she thought of that time, over three years ago, when he had exiled Lilya and Lyosha. The room was cool, a fresh March breeze blowing through the slightly open window behind the prince’s desk, lifting the faded draperies.

Then he stood; Antonina also rose respectfully. His behaviour was confusing. Antonina could almost believe, in a strange twist, that she was making him uncomfortable.

“And so I have arranged a marriage for you,” he said.

“What?” When her father didn’t immediately answer, still standing behind his desk, she licked her lips and spoke again. “But … who? And why? Why now?”

“It’s time,” he said.

Antonina walked around his desk and stood in front of him.

“You will be married to Count Mitlovsky.”

For a moment, Antonina thought she must have misunderstood him. “Count Mitlovsky?” He had been at her name day celebration; Antonina had seen him a few times
over the last two days, but she hadn’t done more than accept his gift and curtsey to him. “No … no, Father.” Her voice grew louder. “He’s an old man!”

The prince’s lips pursed. “He’s not yet fifty—six years younger than I am. And he’s an honest man. I’ve done business with him before.”

“Business? That’s what this is, then?”

Her father stared at her. “Antonina, you’re old enough to understand that these things—the merging of families—is for the betterment of all concerned.”

“How is it for my betterment?”

The prince shook his head in an impatient manner. “Konstantin Nikolevich is an influential man. He has a large estate close to the city of Pskov. He owns many versts and many souls. Most women would be thrilled to be married to him—there have been any number of interested widows. He’s willing …” He stopped. When he spoke again, it was as if he was weighing his words. “He has been a widower for the last few years, Antonina. He’s looking for another woman to share his life—and his wealth. His first marriage, although long and, according to him, happy, produced no children. His wife wasn’t a well woman for much of her life. And he would like children. The widows who have made their desires apparent aren’t young enough to ensure this.”

“He wants me to give him a brood of children?”

“Stop your foolishness. He finds you attractive and interesting, or he wouldn’t have made the offer.”

“
He
made the first offer? Not you?”

At this, the prince looked at her for a long moment, and then looked down at his desk.

Antonina noticed the bald spot on the top of his head. Was Count Mitlovsky bald as well? No. He still had thick, wavy hair, although it was grey.

She tried to summon memories of the count, who’d simply been one of her father’s guests who sometimes came for a weekend or a week-long visit. She vaguely recalled his auburn-haired wife, a rigid and rather disdainful woman with a bony frame. She had the faint scars of smallpox on her cheeks, which she tried to cover with a thick layer of powder. At some point Count Mitlovsky had come on his own, wearing a black armband, so Antonina had known his wife had died. Standing in front of her father now, she remembered the count arriving on a blustery January afternoon, just after their most recent New Year celebrations in St. Petersburg, and spending some hours with the prince in his study before Antonina was summoned to dinner. It had been only the three of them at the long, gleaming table.

The scene came back to her now in all its details. As she had entered the dining room to join her father and Count Mitlovsky for dinner, the prince had said, “And we are agreed upon souls—the full hundred?”

Count Mitlovsky stood, bowing over Antonina’s hand and then kissing it lightly. As he pulled out her chair for her, he said to the prince, “The time for discussing business is ended, now that your lovely daughter has joined us. Do you not agree?”

“Certainly,” Prince Olonov answered.

“Are you selling serfs, Father?” Antonina asked, and when her father didn’t answer, she turned to Count Mitlovsky. “I hope not. He feels he has the right to separate families, which causes great heartache.”

Count Mitlovsky opened his mouth to reply, but Antonina’s father spoke to her first. “Please, Antonina Leonidovna. Don’t show such disrespect in front of our guest. These are matters for those of us who have full understanding of the situation.”

But Antonina wouldn’t be silenced. “I hope you don’t agree with this barbaric practice, Count Mitlovsky.” She settled herself in her chair.

The count took his seat as well, and the door swung open. Servants entered carrying silver trays with bowls of soup and plates of thinly sliced onion and salted, pickled cucumber, and began to serve.

“Do you, Count Mitlovsky?” Antonina persisted. “Because when I ride through the villages, and notice how—”

Her father interrupted her, his voice smooth. “The count is our guest, dear daughter, and he has requested that we not speak of business during dinner. You will of course respect his wishes.”

Antonina sat back as the servant lifted the silver cover from the steaming soup in front of her. “Yes, Father,” she said.

They had finished the dessert, a tart of preserved berries with thick whipped cream, and the samovar had been brought in when Prince Olonov asked Antonina to recite part of Pushkin’s
Yevgeny Onegin
for Count Mitlovsky. “Just the opening of Book One, Antonina,” he urged.

“Please, Father,” she said, not wanting to stay at the table any longer. “I’m sure Count Mitlovsky has heard many, many stanzas of
Yevgeny Onegin
far too many times. It would be tiresome for him.”

“Oh, I can assure you, Antonina Leonidovna,” Count Mitlovsky said, “that I would indeed care to hear it. It’s been many years since a young woman recited poetry for my benefit.” He smiled. Although slightly stained from tea and tobacco, his teeth were straight, and his smile was almost charming. “I am sure you have a highly compelling voice.”

“Yes, come, Tosya,” Prince Olonov said, fixing his eyes on her.

She put down her napkin and stood, clearing her throat.

“Your hair, Antonina Leonidovna,” her father said.

She reached up, feeling long strands against her cheeks. She tried to push the stray locks into their pins.

To his guest, her father said, “You may be assured, Konstantin Nikolevich, that although my daughter lacks certain feminine understandings, she is very compliant.”

Antonina looked sharply at her father, both angry and shamed. Although her father was correct about her lack of interest in her hair and the latest fashions, the second part of the statement was an outright lie. He knew how stubborn she was.

“You have brought enchanting colour to Antonina Leonidovna’s face, my old friend,” Count Mitlovsky said then, and she clenched her hands and hid them in the folds of her skirt.

The ormolu clock ticked loudly, and there was the rasp of the swinging door and the tiniest tinkle of porcelain as a servant entered with a tray of cups and saucers and a pot of sugar chunks. Antonina stood in the almost silent room, waiting while the man put out the cups and saucers and sugar then bowed and left.

“Perhaps you will first pour the tea, daughter,” her father said. “We will enjoy it while you entertain us.”

As she’d set the cup and saucer on the heavy damask tablecloth in front of Count Mitlovsky, he’d unexpectedly taken her hand. “Do you not wear gloves when you ride, Antonina Leonidovna?” he asked, and she looked at him, then at her father, then back to Count Mitlovsky. What a peculiar and rather personal question. How inappropriate that he touch her.

“If I choose not to,” she said.

“Your skin is roughened by the cold.” He turned her hand over, looking at the palm. “My dear, such calluses from the reins. You should take better care of these young hands.”

Something about the way he held her hand, so lightly and yet possessively, unsettled her. She extracted her fingers from his and again looked at her father, wanting … something, some form of support—even an expression that told her she wasn’t wrong in being uncomfortable with the unwanted attention from this man. But her father wore a small smile.

“I’m terribly sorry, Count Mitlovsky,” Antonina said, “I cannot stay to recite for you. There is something I must do.”

She ran from the dining room and up to her room.

Later that evening, after the count had retired, her father came to her and reprimanded her for her rudeness. He went on, yet again, about appropriate behaviour. He also told her that it was particularly important that she display excellent manners while in Count Mitlovsky’s presence.

“Why do you care so much about him?” she had asked, but her father had simply shaken his head, frowning, and left her room.

Since then, she had pushed from her mind the disturbing thoughts of Count Mitlovsky’s hand on hers. She hadn’t thought of him again or paid any attention to his presence among the guests over the last few days. And now her father was telling her she would marry him.

Her father’s chair creaked as he sat down again, resting his hands on his desk. “The benefits of this marriage are great for you, Antonina. You will continue to live a charmed life, with the finest of possessions, opportunities for travel, and invitations to all the most influential events of each season. But it will be as a wife, not a daughter. Do you not see what a wonderful opportunity this is for you? Do you not see that your mother and I are thinking of your future?”

Antonina walked around to the other side of the desk again. “I’m not marrying him. You can’t make me.” Of course, this wasn’t true. Prince Olonov dictated Antonina’s life. He
could
make her.

Now he leaned back. “Have you a husband in mind, Antonina Leonidovna?” he asked. “I haven’t seen any suitors arriving at our door. The
bals blancs
your mother arranged last fall came to nothing. I’m not aware of you expressing much interest in going to dances or musical evenings when invitations from other estates arrive. In fact, you have refused all such invitations of late. Am I to believe that you think you will just stay on here, spending your time in idle pursuits, until … until when, Tosya? Are you not a normal woman who desires her own home, a husband and children?”

Antonina remained motionless.

“Well. This is an interesting turn of events,” her father said, reaching for a cigar. He clipped the end. “For once, my daughter has no opinion: Antonina Leonidovna Olonova,
with nothing to say for herself.” He lit the end of the cigar, puffing vigorously.