Golden Paradise

Chapter Sixteen

Five hours later, the chapel was filled with expectant guests, delighted to have been called away from previous engagements to witness the sudden and startling wedding of Stefan Bariatinsky to a beautiful young lady who'd been hidden away from society until short weeks ago. A lady who'd been introduced into society by no less a figure than the Tsar, a lady of the prominent Kuzan family, known over the centuries not only for their wealth but for their unconventionality…a polite word for what the less courteous called excesses. The scandal of his broken engagement to Nadejda, of course, only added piquant expectancy to the festivities.

Those more perceptive of the guests in the chapel noted the absence of all of Stefan's previous paramours.

"It must be love," they whispered to one another.

"But for how long?" the more cynical replied.

"She's a Kuzan," some others murmured, insinuation delicious as sin in their voices. "I'll give it a year."

But Stefan had never been noted for the longevity of his infatuations, and Kuzan or not, no one risked their money on a day more.

Countess Lazaroff's suitors weren't invited, either, they noted. He was jealous. Stefan jealous? The thought was novel. Stefan had always been known for the number and variety of his women. The unspoken comment was in everyone's mind. Would one woman satisfy him?

The site of the wedding was an exuberant baroque chapel dedicated architecturally to an earthly approximation of heaven. Built of white marble, it was accented with tall polished pilasters of lavender amethyst rising to support a cornice leafed in gold under a frescoed ceiling and decorated with a profusion of statuary and gilded motifs. The luxury of material and style combined to give the sanctuary an intensely emotional appeal, like a flamboyant architectural melody. Incorporated into this variation of baroque grandeur was the very Russian addition of thousands of candles, votive and otherwise, in chandeliers and candelabra, in display cabinets of great beauty.

And as if the splendor of marble, amethyst and gold, of frescoes depicting the dazzling light of heaven gleaming on angels and cavorting putti, all illuminated by flickering candlelight, wasn't enough to suggest heaven on earth, orchids, large and small, stark white and delicately hued, were massed in great arrangements throughout the chapel. They tumbled in faultless disorder over the altar, twined up candelabrum stands and torchères, were tied into garlands with angel fern and hung in luxurious swags between pilasters. In contrast to the sumptuous display of flora, each row of gilded chairs in the nave was fronted by a tall basket of stately lilies. "For my wife," Stefan had said to the florist, "but I want colored lilies. The white ones are too funereal."

It was done.

As everything he requested was done. As was the customary procedure with Stefan Bariatinsky's wishes.

And now in white dress uniform, tall, dark and spectacular, he stood before the gratified eyes of Saint Petersburg's aristocracy, the Savior of Russia, the most decorated soldier in the Empire's history, the man who'd loved hundreds of ladies but never for long, waited to be married.

He seemed remarkably composed, the cynosure for three hundred pairs of eyes, chatting quietly with his priests, smiling occasionally, putting his hand out in casual greeting to a junior prelate who came in late, immune apparently to his guests' curiosity.

A small fanfare of muted horns announced his bride, and when he turned to her, it was plain for all the world to see that he adored her, and she him. The bride and groom smiled at each other, an intimate smile that ignored their guests, the avid curiosity and indeed the world. For that evanescent moment they existed alone, separated by only a white satin carpet strewn with rose petals.

And then in a curious gesture of tender welcome and intrinsic command, he held out his hand to her.

His priests, elaborate in embroidered silver on midnight-blue velvet vestments, flanked him like bearded robed shamans from an ancient time. Scented incense from thousands of flickering candles lent a perfumed ambience to the dazzling white-and-gold interior, muting the soft undertone of fragrant lily.

Lisaveta stood alone in the entrance to the nave, her pearl-encrusted gown and gold-embroidered veil shimmered in the candlelight, the diamonds at her ears and throat-a gift from her bridegroom-catching the light in brilliant display. She raised the small bouquet of white violets she held in one hand toward her bridegroom in silent, minute answer to Stefan-and smiled again, beautiful and assured.

Without a word spoken, every guest understood the nature of their relationship. Prince Bariatinsky and the splendid Countess Lazaroff were not only in love, they were equally matched. In mesmerizing silence the inconceivable concept was absorbed, followed closely by the piquant speculation: how exotic, how accomplished, how brilliant was the Countess to have attained parity with the most lionized man in the Empire.

The organ chords of the processional broke out triumphantly and Lisaveta, arresting the endless possibilities rife in everyone's mind, moved in stately grace toward her bridegroom.

The ceremony was lengthy, protocol carefully observed; Stefan wanted no doubt to the legitimacy of his marriage or his intentions. Before the entire world of Saint Petersburg elite he was marrying Lisaveta, and if there was a child, he was acknowledging it as his. He believed her-and in her-implicitly.

His faith was all the more stunning because he had been a man so successful with other men's wives and lovers over the years.

He was being offered the glass of wine to drink by the priest, and taking it, he turned to Lise with a smile. Saluting her, he drank and waited while she in turn sipped from her wineglass. They were symbolically toasting to fertility and good fortune-a bit late, he thought, and she seemed to read his mind because she winked at him.

Scandalizing the priests, he responded to her mischievous gesture by pulling her close with his free arm and, bending low, said in a murmur near her ear, the poufed silk tulle of her veil brushing against his cheek, "I love you dushka, for a thousand years."

She smiled back her own pledge of love and kissed him gently on the cheek. "Only a thousand years?" she whispered, sweet teasing in her voice.

The buzz of comment rose in the perfumed air at the extraordinary show of affection; Stefan wasn't a demonstrative man.

"Till the mountains crumble into the sea," he whispered, and kissed her very gently. Then straightening, Stefan signaled with a nod of his head and the ceremony continued.

The seated guests looked at one another in silent comment. Now that was like Stefan, they thought, intimidated by neither man nor God nor scowling priests. His brief nod was understated authority from a man intent on his own prerogatives and spontaneity. And his bride hadn't even blushed. Of course, she was a Kuzan. They'd been recognized as beyond blushing several centuries ago.

Lisaveta and Stefan were able to kiss with the priests' blessing after the benediction some time later, and then, beaming with pride, Stefan escorted his bride to the Tsar, seated in the first row. Not only a gesture of courtesy, it was meant as a warning to Vladimir Taneiev; Stefan intended any report going back to Vladimir was perfectly clear on his position with Alexander II.

The reception was glittering and resplendent. Even the Tsar stayed longer than he intended, intrigued by Stefan's Georgian wines, the charm of his bride, the Gypsy dancers who entertained the guests through dinner and the Cossacks who performed acrobatic feats of great wonder after dessert. Alexander lingered until the orchestra began playing and he danced twice with the bride. In leaving he embraced Stefan, a public demonstration of his friendship.

The newlyweds were gracious for an hour more, mingling with their guests, accepting congratulations and facetious comment with equal good cheer. Stefan had never seemed so relaxed and approachable. The new Princess Bariatinsky, everyone agreed, was a good influence on him.

But Stefan's accommodating nature had its limits, although his guests were invited to stay and enjoy his wedding ball and hospitality as long as they wished. His cellars were at their disposal, he informed them, his chef committed to their gustatory pleasure, the musicians willing to play for a week. He smiled from the bandstand and waved au revoir. He and his bride, he finished, her hand firmly in his, were off on their honeymoon. And so saying, he scooped Lisaveta up into his arms to cheering applause and carried her down the short carpeted range of stairs to the ballroom floor, across its length, down the corridor to the main staircase and thence down again and out the opened doors to his waiting carriage.

Acknowledged the good wishes of those of his staff in attendance at the main doors and at his carriage with a ready smile and cordial thank-yous, he deposited Lisaveta onto the carriage seat in a tumble of white lace and, climbing in behind her, signaled for departure.

"How is the time?" Lisaveta asked, since a suppressed agitation was evident beneath Stefan's composed exterior.

"The wedding set me back five hours, but we're still fine." He hadn't told her of the telegrams-three now since late afternoon-confirming Hussein Pasha's march toward Kars…or of his decision after the second one to leave as soon as possible after the wedding and not wait until the next day.

"I'm sorry," Lise teased, "for ruining your schedule." But under the playfulness of her teasing she was aglow with the wonder of her love. How impossible she would have thought the circumstances of her wedding short months ago, how inconceivable to be married to Russia's greatest hero, how strange she'd never dreamed of this eventuality when she'd fallen under Stefan's spell that first night in Aleksandropol. She'd thought herself a civilized female then, capable of participating in an amorous interlude, capable of saying adieu when it was over, never knowing intellect was insufficient against overwhelming feelings-against love. Hafiz had known it. Poets and past dwellers on this earth for a millenium had discovered that truth. And now she knew it, too.

His smile flashed white in the lamplit interior of the coach. "I wanted you to ruin my schedule, dushka. It was a perfect wedding." She was worth every minute of delay, he thought, taking his wife in his arms, feeling her close, the scent of her hair reminding him of their warm summer nights before Tiflis, when the fragrance of rose was on the air like perfumed seduction. His decision to come north and bring her back was worth every long frustrating hour of his journey. His grip tightening in a spontaneous gesture of assurance, he smiled down at her upturned face. "You belong to me," he said softly, the fullness of his need and love echoing in his voice.

"And you to me," she answered, her voice as quiet. "Do you mind?" she asked then, because Stefan was a man apart, a leader and overlord of vast tribal subjects and troops, and she'd felt his minute reaction to her words.

"I'd never thought of it that way," he honestly replied, possession always having been endowed by strength. This was new, this shared right, and he asked, "Is it in the order of things?"

"It's only fair."

His answer was in the simple kiss he gave her, his lips touching hers lightly, a butterfly kiss of affirmation and love. "Whatever makes you happy," he said, this man who'd stood alone since adolescence, this man who'd felt he never needed anything or anyone. "I'm pleased," he murmured, his mind and heart so filled with love he felt invincible, "to belong to you."

She kissed him then because no matter what his answer she loved him, but his reply had been tempered by her wishes, by his love for her, and she felt overwhelming happiness. "Do we deserve all this good fortune?" she teasingly whispered, her golden eyes like sunshine in the dark.

"I don't know about you, but I certainly do," he emphatically replied, his temperament familiar with life's largess. "I'd been looking for you for years."

"In other women's arms?" Her sarcasm was lighthearted.

"How else do you look?" he casually replied, his tone matching hers.

"Some people might consider 'looking' in another context."

"Really?" His grin was infectious.

"Your looking days are over, you understand."

"Really?" he said again in that same unconvinced tone.

"Really," she said in an inflection bespeaking her own emphatic views on territorial rights.

"Everyone has a mistress tucked away in a little house somewhere."

"Almost everyone."

"Think what it will do for my reputation," he said, stroking her hand lightly, "if I change the pattern."

"Think what it will do for the state of your health if you don't." She looked up at him from under her lacy lashes, her glance moderate but firm.

"Are you threatening me with bodily harm?" Teasing insouciance infused his words.

"Absolutely."

"How nice," he said with a smile.

"Don't use that charming smile on me, Stefan, I'm dead serious."

"In that case, dushka, I must mend my disreputable ways and start a new trend. We shall make love matches fashionable."

"You don't mind?" Her voice was tentative at the enormity of the change she was demanding, at the realistic application of her emotional requirements.

He thought for a moment of all the years he'd considered a love match the worst possible circumstance, a danger in fact to one's peace of mind. And now, by the grace of God, he was lucky enough to realize how wrong he'd been.

"No," he said very quietly, "I don't mind."

Nikki and Alisa were waiting in Stefan's railcar, having been invited to say their goodbyes in private, and they both rose from the comfortable parlor chairs to greet the newlyweds when they entered the door.

Hugs and kisses were exchanged and pleased wishes accepted for a happy future; the wedding was briefly recapped, they commented on the Tsar's lengthy visit, discussed various guests in passing, and then Alisa went off to the bedroom to help Lisaveta change into a traveling gown.

Nikki and Stefan sat over brandy, their conversation turning to the newest problem in the war. Nikki, a colonel assigned to the Staff College, served as liaison between the Tsar's advisers and the General Staff. "How serious is Hussein Pasha's attempt?" he inquired.

"It's a deadly gamble," Stefan replied. He shrugged then, because both were familiar with the terrain Hussein Pasha was traveling through. "They could die or possibly succeed. But if they make it, will they be in any condition to fight? Even the mountain ponies need some water."

"It's a hell of a risk."

"But you can't help admiring him for trying. He's probably gambling his own colonelcy on it."

Nikki smiled. "There's always armchair caution at the top."

"Unfortunately it doesn't win a lot of wars."

"How costly do you anticipate the attack on Kars to be when it comes?"

Stefan had been asked that question too many times to count, the fortified city having withstood two major assaults already. But the words this time seemed to strike more personally, and he experienced a brief sense of vulnerability. "It depends," he replied, repressing his sudden precarious sensation of mortality, "on how much ammunition they've stockpiled inside the fortress." His shoulder lifted in the briefest shrug. "We simply don't know."

"You won't be leading the attack now that-" Nikki paused to select a diplomatic turn of phrase "-you're no longer a bachelor," he finished, deciding against reference to the coming child.

"Of course I will," Stefan replied. "My men expect it." He'd no more think of directing the attack from the safety of the Staff Headquarters behind the lines than he'd consider retreating from battle. His personal leadership was in large part what inspired his troops. He'd always lived with them in the field, undergoing the same hardships, understanding their fears, listening to them talk of their wives and children and lovers. They'd follow him to hell and back.

And in a few days' time, even if Hussein Pasha's reinforcements were added to the defenders of Kars, he'd be leading his men into a kind of hell devised by the Sultan's wish for an invincible fortress. That, too, was an enormous calculated gamble, but if Kars could be taken the Turkish territories in the East would fall and the Sultan's ministers might be forced to the peace table. If Kars fell, the war could be over. If Kars fell, he could be back in Tiflis in less than a month.

"I don't suppose it would do any good to say be careful."

Stefan smiled. "In my own fashion I'm careful." But he understood what Nikki was saying. "And I've reason to be more cautious now," he added. "Will that do?"

Nikki smiled back. "I know how ridiculous words of prudence are in wartime. As if caution ever won a campaign, but…" He sighed. "I know your style of command and it's based more on some goddamned guardian angel watching over you than on any even remote concept of discretion. Take care."

"I intend to."

Both men knew their platitudinous words, no matter how well intended, wouldn't last a second in combat. There one acted on instinct and experience. One did what one did best, and Stefan had always won by risk taking.

"You intend to what?" Lisaveta asked, walking back into the parlor, her traveling dress of forest green bombazine an attractive foil to her golden eyes and peaches-and-cream skin.

"I intend to love you till the end of time," Stefan chivalrously answered. "Are you comfortable now?" he went on, inclined to change the subject to safer ground.

"That wedding gown weighed thirty pounds," Alisa said, "although its dazzling splendor was worth the suffering."

Lisaveta smiled. "One never actually suffers in something that beautiful but, yes, I'm very much more comfortable now." She twirled around, her light silk skirt billowing out in a fluttering bellshape.

Nikki and Stefan had come to their feet when the ladies entered the parlor. Knowing how pressed Stefan was for time, Nikki took his wife's hand and said, "Since they're holding the train for you, we won't stay any longer. Bon voyage and all our best wishes."

"You'll let us know how you're feeling," Alisa said, her voice significant in its emphasis.

"You'll be the first to know," Stefan replied with a smile. "We'll telegram."

Hugs and kisses were once more exchanged amid promises to write and visit. No one mentioned the war, but when Nikki and Alisa stepped off onto the platform, the train began moving immediately. Stefan's orders were being obeyed.

"Are you happy?" Stefan asked, his arms around Lise's waist as they stood by the train window, the bustle of the station passing by with increasing speed.

"Words pale," she softly replied, leaning back into the solidness of Stefan's body, all the pain and uncertainty of Nadejda in the past, Stefan's love for her wildly real, like his strength. She couldn't have been happier or more content.

"You must be tired." She seemed small and delicate in his, arms and the day had been grueling. They'd worked nonstop arranging the wedding, then entertained their guests for several hours more.

Lisaveta sighed. The evening had been so hectic and chaotic she hadn't had time to think about being tired. Until now. "I am," she said, letting her eyes drift shut for a moment.

"Anyone would be, darling. The schedule's been brutal. Why don't you take a nap?" he suggested. Slipping his arms from around her waist and taking her hands in his, he turned her to face him. "I'll wake you in, say, two hours." The color was gone from her cheeks and fatigue shadowed her eyes.

"You'll wake me?" She didn't resist, Stefan's soft bed temptation in her weariness.

"Promise." His smile was protective. "You and baby need rest."

Her fingers gripped his in a sudden tightening. "Do you…really think so?" She felt so normal; were other women as uncertain as she?

Stefan hadn't had time himself to dwell at any length on that possibility, or perhaps he'd suppressed those thoughts with so much at stake in the attack on Kars. The reality of a child could seriously curtail his style of soldiering, which had, until very recently, been his life. And the thought of having a baby was, in honesty, not completely joyous. It was in too many ways terrifying. It made him vulnerable in a precarious world; it increased the danger of his existence; it opened up long vistas of "tomorrow" when he'd always lived for today. And his responsibilities, which he'd learned to handle with a practiced skill, were now extended to a wife he loved and soon, perhaps, to a child.

Would he think of them as the charge was sounded? Would his emotional involvement temper his intuitive sense of survival?

Would his risk taking be impeded because he had too much to lose?

He was uncertain of the answers, and that in itself was disconcerting. He wasn't, as a rule, uncertain.

But to his wife, he said, "I hope we're having a baby."

Gazing up at him, she tried to gauge his sincerity. "Good," she said after a small pause, "because Alisa's probably right."

Stefan grinned. "Nikki certainly seemed sure. I was almost called out."

Her pale eyes widened. "You weren't forced into this marriage?"

"No, darling, I can't be forced into anything."

"You're not just being pleasant?"

He laughed out loud at the notion he'd marry someone "to be pleasant" after escaping designing women for years. "I don't think even my most fervent supporters would see me obliging as a bridegroom out of courtesy alone. You are truly loved, darling, make no mistake."

Lise smiled a contented Cheshire cat smile. "You say the nicest things."

He grinned. "Years of practice."

"Which have now come to a screeching halt."

"Of course." But his grin was still in place.

"Are you always this accommodating?"

"Years of practice," he repeated, amusement rich in the words, and he kissed her then to erase her small scowl. "Which," he added a moment later, his mouth still close to hers, his voice quiet and grave, "are now over. Have I told you that I'm looking forward to monogamy?"

His words warmed her heart, his dark eyes so adoring she felt a contented security as bucolic as a Lorrain landscape. "A novel experience," she softly murmured, her mouth lifted in a very small smile, "for you, I'd guess."

"But then," he replied, his voice a hushed suggestion, "I'm always open to novel experiences."

"Libertine." It was a whisper only.

"Former libertine," he quietly corrected her.

"You're a married man now."

"I like the sound of that with you in my arms, and," he went on, no longer jesting, "I didn't think I'd ever have those feelings."

"We've the Turks to thank for our meeting," she reminded him, touched by the peculiar fate that had taken a hand in their destiny.

"You're right." Mention of the Turks, though, effectively altered Stefan's sense of joy. He had enormous work to accomplish mapping his plan of attack before the train reached Vladikavkaz. "Sleep now," he gently said, kissing her tenderly, "and I'll wake you soon."

The rhythm of the train and the warmth of Stefan's body, the swaying comfort of being held, were all lulling supplement to her drowsiness. "You won't forget to wake me?"

The gold flecks shone briefly in his black eyes, brilliant like his smile. "Not a chance, sweetheart. This is my only wedding night and I'm not going to miss it."

While Lise slept, Stefan pored over the maps he'd brought with him, coordinating his cavalry with the infantry movements, measuring distances from the artillery positions, trying to estimate the weakest approaches to the city, guessing with calculated experience which defenses would be shored up against attack and which, perhaps, would not. He knew the Turks after all the years of border skirmishing; he knew how Mukhtar Pasha and Mehemet Pasha thought. What he didn't know was the extent of the munitions stored within Kars and, even more daunting, whether the reinforcements coming from the west would reach Kars before him.

He shouldn't have left, of course; he knew that now with a gut-level intensity. But at the time the risk had been minimal or no risk at all. He'd weighed it against his need for Lisaveta and decided he'd have more than a safe margin to accomplish his trip and return. And if Hussein Pasha hadn't decided on this suicide march he'd be well within his schedule. Unfortunately, he was racing against time now. The track to Vladikavkaz had been cleared so his train wouldn't encounter any delays, the engineer had orders to proceed at top speed-Stefan had been assured they could cut ten hours from their normal run-and he was relying on his intrinsic luck after that to carry him through.

Slightly more than two hours later he glanced at the clock on his desk, finished the southwest angle of attack by noting the cavalry regiments to be held in reserve and, setting aside his maps, leaned back in his chair and stretched. The muscles across his shoulders ached and he flexed his arms briefly to relax the tension. So much depended on the attack, so much depended on his assessment of their options. The western campaign in Bulgaria and Romania would be dramatically influenced by the success or failure of the attack on Kars.

And failure was unthinkable.

He'd never failed.

Standing, he pushed his chair back and strode to the windows. Lifting aside the heavy draperies, he stared out into the blackness rushing by, only an occasional twinkle of light in a distant dwelling evidence of another living being. He felt very much alone in the luxurious railway car, as though he stood a solitary figure in a dark void, as though the entire burden of the war's success were on his shoulders. He must be more tired than usual, he thought, to feel the depression so intensely. Much of the burden of the Tsar's wars had been his responsibility for years now and he'd never felt the weight so oppressively.

Perhaps the siege had lasted too long; perhaps they should have attacked sooner; maybe he was experiencing a sense of lost opportunities at not being more insistent in his views in the staff conferences. Shaking away his thoughts of what might have been, he walked to his liquor cabinet and poured himself a small cognac. It was futile to ponder days and weeks that were past, he reminded himself as the first draught of fiery liquor traveled down his throat. He'd never been prone to dwell on unalterable circumstance and he refused to be cast into gloom.

Tomorrow he'd finish the cavalry placements and then begin to deal with Suvarov's artillery sketches. He'd told the old general, who'd come up through the ranks on competence alone, that he could help him pinpoint some of the weaker areas in the Turk's defenses after his months of scouting Kars during the siege. Suvarov's artillery was critical in the period before the attack, and then Stefan's cavalry was the assault arm for the infantry. They had to break through the redoubts, they had to silence the cannon commanding the heights, they had to open the way for the foot soldiers… all possible with the right spirit and elusive, fickle luck. His cavalry had always triumphed in the past, for Russia, for his Tsar…and for his father's memory.

His own future, though, was measured in different proportions from the unstable impetuosity of his past, when time was reckoned by the next battle or the next pretty lady in the next convenient bed. His expanded future included a beautiful woman he loved with a passion that colored his every thought. And soon he might have a child to carry on the Bariatinsky dynasty, a child he cherished already when he dared to plan beyond Kars.

"For you, Mama and Papa," he softly said, raising his glass to the black night speeding by. "You would have loved them." Taking a deep breath, he added in a husky murmur, "And to luck."