The Lost Souls of Angelkov (24 page)

The silence stretched. She thought that maybe Konstantin had fallen asleep. She listened to his breathing, but didn’t know what he would sound like if he was asleep. She eventually closed her own eyes, and felt her anxiety ebbing. Her itchy ankle annoyed her. Sleepily she reached down to scratch it, and at the same time there was a movement and rustle of the bedclothes. Konstantin found her face in the dark, and put his lips against hers.

His moustache tickled, and the fruity smell of the wax was strong. Konstantin moved his lips, opening them slightly. She kept hers firmly shut, and let him kiss her. More than anything, she was afraid the smell of the wax would make her sneeze.

Finally he stopped kissing her, moving his lips to somewhere between her cheek and her ear, and gently put his hand on her breast. She froze. He left it there for a long moment, squeezing it a bit as though testing for something, and then his fingers grew still.

“May I?” he said, and she didn’t know what he was asking permission for.

When he waited, she said, “Yes.”

He slowly moved to lie on top of her. “Is that all right, my dear?”

It wasn’t all right. He was heavy, but again Antonina said, “Yes.”

Konstantin did everything slowly, tentatively, as if Antonina was very fragile, or he was very uncertain.

He planted his lower body between her legs, forcing them apart, and fumbled to pull up her nightdress to just above her
knees. She drew in her breath at the sensation of the hair on his legs, scratchy against hers. And then she stayed immobile, hardly breathing, as if by her held breath and stiff body she could preserve herself. His stomach pressed her further into the soft mattress as he rhythmically moved against her, and she also felt the warmth from his flesh between her thighs, even though the fabric of their nightclothes was between them. This rubbing through their nightclothes seemed to go on and on; she kept her eyes closed and took small gulps of air when she could no longer hold her breath.

But at one point, she opened her eyes. What she saw made her close them again immediately. Konstantin’s face was so close that even though the room was dark, she could make out his features. His eyes were closed, and there was a look of concentration on his face, as if he were contemplating a deep philosophical question. For that moment, in the dark, strange room, she was suddenly frightened—not exactly of Konstantin, but more of a sensation of imprisonment, of this intimacy with a near stranger.

A distressed moan forced itself from between her clenched lips, and she struggled, pushing her hands against Konstantin’s chest. His eyes flew open, and his expression changed, becoming familiar. He rolled off her with a sigh that was weighty.

“I’m sorry, Antonina Leonidovna,” he said quietly. His apology confused her. “We are both tired. I’ll let you sleep. Good night,” he said, “my angel.” It was the second time he had addressed her in this way. He rose and pulled down his nightshirt. Slipping on his heavy robe, he left the room.

Antonina was at first relieved that she hadn’t been made a true wife; the thought of the act with Konstantin had
worried her. But once he was gone, and she was alone and able to turn over and let sleep come to her, she felt a stab of sadness. She had wanted to feel something. She had dealt with her wedding night the way she had learned to deal with the physical pursuits her brothers had forced onto her as a child. Perhaps the closest she could come to describing her feelings for those long, unpleasant moments was being held under water, holding her breath and waiting to surface.

She thought of her mother, moving atop the violinist with such obvious satisfaction. She thought of Valentin Vladimirovitch’s face as he had stared at her over her mother’s shoulder.

She wondered whether Valentin ever thought of her.

Antonina found it awkward to greet Konstantin the next morning in the private dining room reserved for the newlyweds, but he acted as though all was normal. He questioned the server about the freshness of the thinly sliced veal, then smiled at her across the table. She forced herself to return his smile.

Later, after the morning Mass, as they were walking through the pretty
allée
of ornamental trees in the Pskov Gardens, Konstantin said, “As a gentleman, it’s probably not best that I bring this up, but I’m sorry that last night was … as it was. Although I suppose the blame can be placed on the fact that you are young.”

“It was my fault?” Antonina said, trying not to sound too indignant. The air smelled peppery from the many marigolds still in bloom.

“You’re pleasant-looking enough, but too slight, too fair. I prefer a taller, stronger woman, like my late wife.”

Antonina stopped, so surprised that she didn’t have time to be hurt. She thought of his mannish, raw-boned wife.

Konstantin stopped as well, pulling a small knife from his pocket. He opened it and looked down at his fingernails. “You are not yet very interesting, Tosya.” Antonina stiffened at the insult. “Although I know that you are highly accomplished at the piano”—he paused—“you are still inexperienced and empty.” He pared the nails of his left hand, speaking as casually as if he had just announced that he didn’t like horseradish. “One can only hope you’ll become less ordinary as you mature.”

Antonina stared at him, heat spreading through her, slowly at first, like fire under moss. But then it caught, flaring up with a kind of relief, and she moved from beside him to in front of him. “How can you say this to me?”

Konstantin gave her no more than an unconcerned glance, then held his hand in front of him, surveying his fingernails.

“You believe I’m empty?
Empty
?” The word hit a sharp staccato note. A couple strolling by looked at them, then hurried on. “Empty as in a fool, as in stupid, with no more brains than a sturgeon? If you thought that, then why did you reward my father so handsomely for me? Why, Konstantin Nikolevich?” When he didn’t answer, she said, “I am sorry you feel that way, husband. That I am somehow to blame for what was clearly difficult for both of us in the bed.”

He put away his knife. “That’s enough, Antonina,” he said in a low tone. “Decent people don’t discuss such private details.”

But Antonina wasn’t finished. “You are the one who brought it up. I can no more change my physical self than
that statue,” she said, gesturing to a marble figure in the middle of a circle of begonias, “but you and I both know that you are very wrong about my intelligence. There’s no need to be mean-spirited simply because you’re disappointed.” Softer than before, she carried on. “As for how I felt while you lay on me last night, you might consider—”

Konstantin’s head shot up and he squeezed her forearm. “I have just requested that you don’t speak like a common woman, and yet you refute me. You are Countess Mitlovskiya. You will learn to behave in a proper manner, and set aside your wilful and childish ways. You’re no longer that child. You are a woman, my wife, and the new countess of my estate,” he said, letting go of her arm.

Antonina fought the urge to rub the tender area.

Konstantin wiped his forehead with his gloved hand. “Antonina, I believe we are both weary from the last few days. Don’t let us argue on our first day as man and wife. I only want us to be happy. Let us speak of more pleasant topics.” He smiled at her. “I am renaming my estate in your honour.”

His comments about her intelligence still stung, but she saw that he was trying to make amends, trying not to let his impatience with her spoil their day.

“Oh? To what?” She attempted to smile back at him.

“Angelkov. For my angel.”

She smiled again, pressing his hand between hers, although the heaviness inside her hadn’t lessened.

At Angelkov, it took Antonina over a week to learn her way about the house and gardens and surrounding outbuildings, and to memorize the names of all the house serfs.
Her husband had made much of his money from a private vodka distillery he had on his estate, complete with a cooperage to build the vats and barrels for the liquor, which he sold around the province and beyond.

She had chosen Tinka from a weaned litter before she and Konstantin left Pskov, and the little dog was a comfort to her in her new home.

Antonina didn’t miss her father; things had changed since the incident with the icon. Her mother—well, there had never been any love between them. As for her brothers, they hadn’t been part of her life for the last few years, apart from occasional visits. The only people Antonina did miss were a few of the servants from her home. When she left, she had kissed their cheeks, pressing rubles and religious icons into their hands as she said goodbye to them.

Other than the belongings from her bedroom, she had asked her father for one thing from home: the lovely rosewood Érard square piano she had played since she was four years old. He’d had it sent to Angelkov, and it was waiting for her when she arrived.

Konstantin gave her permission to see to the decor of her own bedchamber, a former guest room—not, he said pointedly, his late wife’s. Antonina unpacked her belongings, putting her books on shelves, setting out her small glass and china collections, and requesting that new bedcovers and draperies be sewn in her favourite colours, green and ivory. She liked to sit on the broad, cushioned seat built under the wide window, looking up from her book at the gardens below, and farther, at the countryside spread out before her. In October, the trees lost their leaves almost overnight, and the air was frosty in the mornings. Raisa, the cook, who was married to the head
stableman, Fyodor, was agreeable to her requests for meals, and Olga, the head housekeeper, was kind and patient as she tried to explain the ways of running a household.

The only servant Antonina had difficulty with was her personal maid, Varvara. The older woman was cold and pious, and Antonina always felt she was being criticized, even though the woman never openly said anything disapproving. Antonina knew she had been the first Countess Mitlovskiya’s maid.

Antonina didn’t see Konstantin during the day, although they ate dinner together most evenings. As well as the distillery, he was involved in a number of businesses that took him from Angelkov into the city of Pskov, and occasionally as far as St. Petersburg. And so she filled her days much as she had at her father’s estate, reading, playing the piano for hours and riding. Some evenings they had company for dinner—Konstantin’s friends—and Antonina took part in many lively conversations, and then played whist and
vint
with the guests after dinner. In most ways it was as though she were still living her former life, apart from the added responsibilities of running a household: assigning chores for cleaning and maintaining the manor, organizing menus, writing out invitation and calling cards, and arranging and coordinating small parties. But she was lonely in a way she hadn’t been in her father’s home, she realized, because she no longer had vague, undefined but somehow optimistic thoughts about a future.

This
was
her future. She was a married woman, with a husband who came to her from his own bedroom, down the long, wide hall, every few nights.

Antonina remained a virgin for a full three weeks, although not for her husband’s lack of trying.