Mama waved her hand as if batting away an unpleasant thought. Wrapping her colorful shawl around her, she meandered into the room and glanced around at the bookshelves and paintings dotting the paneled walls, careful not to touch anything.
“It’s a nice enough title. Dating back to the sixteenth century, did you say? The Dalsky titles were granted by Ivan the Great. Back then such honors were only given to those who performed memorable deeds in the name of Russia. Other countries seem to give them away like candy to greedy children.”
Constance smiled placidly. “How fortunate your family was to acquire one. Or rather, your husband’s family.”
Mama’s eye glinted at being outmatched. Outmatched perhaps, but not outdone. Crossing herself, she drooped onto the velvet settee angled in front of the fire.
“My poor husband. Whatever has become of him? A loyal man who stayed behind to fight to the death so that we might escape. My poor Dmitri. I fear I shall never see him again this side of Heaven.” She crossed herself again.
Svetlana came to her feet and clenched her hands together to keep from shaking her mother. “Mama, please stop doing that. We don’t know that he’s dead. Nor Nikolai. They are the best soldiers in the army.”
“The tsar’s army, which is no more thanks to those murdering zealots.” Mama touched a trembling hand to her head. “To think about it is more than I can bear.”
In a soft rustle of satin and swishing scarf, Constance glided to the bell pull hanging between two potted ferns. “You’re shivering. Allow me to ring for you a pot of tea. It does wonders for the constitution.”
“How kind of you. You do not know the comforts of having servants about once more. All manner of wild ways we’ve been forced to adopt since fleeing our beloved homeland.”
A few minutes later, a footman dressed in a liveried kilt carried in a gleaming tray with a porcelain teapot, cups, saucers, and a small plate of what the British referred to as biscuits. He poured the fragrant brew with expert precision, inquiring as to the preferred amount of sugar and milk, before passing a prepared cup to Mama with his gloved hand.
Mama took a sip and sighed. “How delicate you make your teas here. I suppose that’s to be expected from using those odd pots instead of a proper samovar.”
Constance shook her head as the footman offered her a cup. “Yes, but then it’s a practice from one of the many nations we’ve ruled over the centuries instead of isolating our traditions behind our frozen walls. If you’ll excuse me, I have a few letters to write. The Charity for Wounded Soldiers is meeting here next month and I’ve yet to make a guest list. Svetlana, dear, let’s plan a time after the rain to inspect those overgrown flowerbeds in the back garden. I think your idea for a dacha garden sounds intriguing.” With a twirl of her floating scarf, she left.
Svetlana dismissed the footman, watching the door close behind him with a weary sigh. She wasn’t in the mood for battle, but sensed it coming anyway.
Mama didn’t disappoint. “To think, my daughter has married into that family. How else must we demean ourselves? Dacha garden indeed. You are a princess, not a country farmer.”
“Perhaps I would like to do more with plants than arrange them in pretty vases with my pretty princess hands.” Svetlana took a deep breath. Mama always knew where to prick her. “Constance is a lovely woman who has done nothing but generously invite us into her family.”
“She’s American.” Mama gave her a pointed look as if to say that explained everything wrong in the situation.
“Half American, and it’s not as if we have much leg to stand on. Fugitives with no home.” Svetlana poured herself a cup of tea and moved to stand closer to the fire. The brew was fragrant and warm and tasted of comfort. Unlike that awful concoction she’d prepared for Wynn in Leonid’s apartment. She smiled at the memory. Did he ever think of that day when he’d held her hands?
“
“Russia was cold.”
“Yes, but we had furs to keep us warm. There it is a crystal cold that sharpens your lungs and brings you to life. Here it
wearies the soul to bleakness. Not that you would know much about my troubles. You spend more time with that woman and in
this library than you do with me. Even Marina has abandoned me for that old
“Mrs. Varjensky has been good to us. I will do no less by her.”