Saint-Germain stared at her. "I did not know you are married. Heer van Hoek has not mentioned it."
"He knows very little about it," said Ludmilla. "Though he knows I have a husband."
His curiosity piqued, Saint-Germain asked, "Is your husband on campaign with the army? Or is he at Court in Moscow?"
"No. Nothing like that. Neither war nor politics interest him, except when they touch him directly. He is a boyar, like my father, and he likes to stay on his land."
Saint-Germain found it challenging to form a question that would not offend her, so finally he said, "It must be difficult for you to be here, away from him."
"Daniela Grigoreivich and I have lived apart for nine years. He remains in Simbirsk, on his estate. He has two mistresses with him, I'm told by my cousin." She looked away from Saint-Germain. "I don't know why I'm telling you this--except that you are listening without judgment." She frowned her mystification, then decided to go on. "The Czar may have changed the rules of marriage, but my father is a man of tradition, as are most of the boyars. He and Daniela's father arranged the marriage, and Daniela Grigoreivich and I met at the altar, in the old way."
"That does not always turn out for the best," Saint-Germain said.
For over a minute Ludmilla stared out the window. "It is starting to blow," she remarked, then continued, "Unfortunately, Daniela and I took each other in immediate dislike, and we had no more dealings with each other after two months under the same roof. He gave me my portion back and sent me away. My father was too proud to take me back, so I cast about for something I could do other than enter a convent."
"Does either your father or your husband know what you are doing?" Saint-Germain met her eyes, compassion in his gaze.
"I doubt it. I haven't informed them, if you're wondering about it. They would not approve." She took a deep breath, then spoke in what was barely more than a whisper. "All they know is I have put myself in service to Piotyr Alexeievich. They probably think I am one of his mistresses."
"I am sorry they do not know you," said Saint-Germain, keeping his voice low so that they would not be easily overheard.
"Thank you." She stared at him in astonishment. "How kind of you."
"Kindness is little enough, under the circumstances," he told her, and kissed her hand.
Her stare turned to bemusement. "Why would you do that, Hercegek?"
He considered his answer. "You deserve some tribute, and a sign of admiration is a small enough recognition."
"Then thank you again," she said, and turned away. "I am going to get some wine. Do you want any?"
"No, thank you. Heer van Hoek has advised me to abstain for a while longer, so that my recuperation is complete." He had noticed some minutes before that they were being watched by one of Menshikov's assistants; he went toward the man, his manner gracious and forthcoming. "Good afternoon to you--I do not believe I know your name."
The young man blushed at being directly addressed; he was lanky and pale, as if he had been out of the sun for most of his life. He was dressed in European fashion: a coat, waistcoat, chemise, and knee-britches with leg-hose, all in an unflattering shade of rose. "I am Ioakim Avtamonovich Miloslavsky; I am Alexander Menshikov's aide."
"A plearure, Ioakim Avtamonovich," Saint-Germain said at his most urbane. His bow was refined and practiced.
"Most ... genial," the young man made himself say; the nearness of this foreigner flustered him, as if he had been discovered at a secret sin.
"I hope I might ask our host a moment of his time before we sit down to dine," said Saint-Germain.
Arranging such things was something that Ioakim understood. "What is your concern, Hercegek?"
Saint-Germain managed not to smile at this tacit admission that Ioakim had been watching him deliberately. "About the care-house Ludmilla Borisevna and Heer van Hoek run. They could do so much more with a larger building and a better staff. With so many workmen, a better care-house may be essential, now that Swamp Fever is
on the rise." As if to lend emphasis to this observation, the wind made a sudden, moaning gust.
Ioakim nodded as if satisfied in regard to the exchange between Ludmilla and Saint-Germain he had witnessed. "I will mention it to him, and arrange a time for you to have a proper conference with him. This is not the time and not the place for such a discussion."
Bowing slightly, Saint-Germain said, "That is very good of you, Ioakim Avtamonovich. I thank you for any attention you may bring to the difficulties the care-house is confronting, and my concerns for the future of its usefulness. Ludmilla Borisevna and Heer van Hoek gave me as much care as they could provide shortly after I arrived, and I feel beholden to them."
"I will speak to Menshikov on your behalf tomorrow." He did his best to look reliable.
"What more could I ask?" Saint-Germain said, and left the young man to his task of observing the guests.
A half-hour later, as the wind was beginning to ululate around the houses like winter wolves accompanied by the drub of distant thunder, Menshikov left his place by the door and strode to the center of the room, a large glass of wine in his hand. He called for the attention of his guests, then spoke out in a strong voice used to addressing large gatherings, "To all of you from the Foreign Quarter, welcome to my home. Tonight we gather to honor Marfa Skavronskaya, who has gained the love of our Little Father, Czar Piotyr Alexeievich, and is come to live here in the Czar's city, as a sign of her devotion to him." He nodded to the door into the second room. "If you will drink to her, to make her welcome?" With that, he downed half the glass of wine, and watched while his guests did what they could to copy him. "Ah!" He bowed in the woman's direction, and again watched while the guests did the same.
Marfa, in a saque-back gown of puce damask, was clearly pregnant; she was a blocky woman with a pleasant, plain face with a ripe mouth and mischievous eyes, so young that Saint-Germain doubted she was more than twenty. She bobbed a curtsy and lifted her own glass to welcome the guests. "We have bread and salt at table," she
said loudly. When she spoke, there was a strong trace of Livonian accent in her Russian. "I am sure I will be happy here, with so many well-disposed neighbors to protect me from those who are not so well-disposed." This was clearly intended as a joke, and Menshikov led the expected laughter.
"May the Swedes not continue as neighbors much longer," cried one of the guests in clumsy Russian.
There was a general roar of approval. Marfa gave an enthusiastic whoop of approval and led the company in drinking. When she had finished with the wine, she held out her glass for more, her expression one of great satisfaction. "Let everyone eat and drink his fill tonight, and be merry. Let us all rejoice in our new acquaintance."
"What do you make of her?" Graf von Altenburg asked; he had come up beside Saint-Germain, two glasses in hand. "You need to drink the toasts, or at least pretend to. Menshikov won't like it if you refuse."
Saint-Germain took the proffered glass. "You may be right," he said, and hefted it as another toast was roared out. When he lifted the glass to his lips, he used a lace handkerchief to wipe the rim of the glass when he was through, and was able to soak some of the wine into the handkerchief in lieu of drinking; he had learned the trick almost sixteen hundred years ago, and although he disliked having to use it, he knew it would be useful this evening.
Von Altenburg watched him, a glint in his prominent eyes. "Very adroit, Hercegek," he approved. "It will spare you an unpleasant time later tonight, when there will be vodka in addition to the wine." He came a step closer to Saint-Germain. "What do you think of the Czar's mistress? A little back-stairs for my taste."
"Hush," Saint-Germain warned, and went on in French, "There are at least five men watching this gathering, and they will no doubt report to Menshikov on what they have overheard, as is their duty. At least three of them speak German, and two speak Dutch. I do not know if any of them understand French."
"How do you know this?" von Altenburg asked.
"Because I have been watching them, and I've seen how they listen,
and to whom." He lowered his voice still more. "Make a toast: that will please Menshikov, and he will not pay as much attention to anything reported against you."
Nodding repeatedly, von Altenburg raised his glass and his voice. "To the Czar's chosen companion: may she safely deliver him a son, and may she and her child set an example in Sankt Piterburkh for all the generations to follow." He drank copiously while Saint-Germain repeated his sleight-of-hand.
There was a cry of approval, and waiters were dispatched to refill empty glasses. The guests were milling now, and the aroma of roast pork filled the room. The noise of their mingled voices had grown louder, and the room rang with it.
"What do you make of this, Hercegek?" von Altenburg asked as quietly as he could and still make himself heard.
"I have not made up my mind," said Saint-Germain. "This is either a skirmish before a battle, done up to look like a party, or it is a celebration of more change; it has elements of both, I agree, but I doubt either of us will know what it truly is for some days, depending on how Marfa Skavronskaya settles in."
Von Altenburg ducked his head. "If the Czar continues to favor her, I will be surprised. He can have any woman he sets his sights on."
"Yet he has set his sights on her," Saint-Germain said. "That is something to consider."
"As a gift from Menshikov," von Altenburg scoffed, then looked up uneasily as the wind wailed. "The storm is almost upon us. Who would have thought it would rise so quickly." With a suggestion of a bow, he drifted away toward the center of the room, joining those thronging about their host.
Menshilkov stamped on the floor to command the attention of the guests, then hollered to be heard. "Dinner is ready. Let each of you find a place at table, and sate your hunger." He waded through the gathering to the door into the adjoining room, where he took Marfa by the arm and guided her ahead of the rest of the company to the head of the long dining table laid with dishes, glasses, and utensils for sixty guests. He made a show of seating her in a high-backed chair, then
took his place beside her. He then struck a small gong to summon the waiters, and all the while the guests jostled for places at the table.
"Would you prefer me to sit near you, or not?" Saint-Germain whispered to Zozia as they shuffled forward in the midst of the guests.
"If you can contrive to sit across from me, I would be most grateful. There is a Hessian engineer who has been pestering me tonight." She smiled as she said this. "I don't want to give him false hope."
"Certainly not," Saint-Germain agreed. "I will do my utmost to guard you unobtrusively."
"You are beginning to understand me," she said, patting his arm. "This evening promises to be a long one."
He started to reply, but the sudden salvo of thunder drowned out all conversations; the windows rattled and the roof shuddered. The guests went silent, and one of the waiters began to pray aloud in Russian.
Menshikov had turned pale, but he managed to maintain his composure. "The lightning is still far off. We can eat, confident that Russian guns guard us in the heavens." It was not a very clever remark, but it gave the assembly an excuse to start talking again. What laughter there was, was jittery and high.
"Tell me where you want to sit," Saint-Germain said to Zozia.
"Toward the end of the table. It will make leaving easier," she responded. "If you take the fourth seat from the end on the near side, I'll take the sixth from the end on the far side." She giggled. "Look at the scramble to get near the front."
Lightning flickered in the single window at the far end of the room; a number of the guests crossed themselves and tried to pay no attention to it.
"It is to be expected at such a gathering," said Saint-Germain. "No one wants to be ignored."
"They are being--"
Thunder roared over the rest of her remark, and this time, the very walls of the house thrummed. A half-dozen of the servants shouted, and Marfa looked about in distress, casting a nervous glance at Menshikov, who was clinging to the back of his chair.
Another flash, a loud pop, and almost immediately on top of it, the crash of thunder. This was followed by the sound of the bell in Sankt Piter and Sankt Paultje ringing not the hour, but the alarm.
"God and the Saints!" shouted Menshikov. "Urvan Jeronimovich, go out and see what is the matter!" One of his aides hurried out of the second room.
The guests wavered in their seating now, some hanging back from the table, some rushing it as if to find safety. One of the women was weeping, and half a dozen of the men fretted, not knowing if they should pretend nothing had happened or if they should withdraw from the festivities entirely.
More lightning and thunder, and with it now copious rain that sounded like a giant's drum-roll as the wind shrieked. In the street, shouts of alarm and dismay, and then a tumultuous knocking on the door and the scream of
"Fire!"
while the bell continued to sound.
Menshikov rose and went into the main room to the door; his guests whispered among one another, their speculation enhanced by the storm. In three minutes Menshikov was back in his dining room, calling out, "Ludmilla Borisevna! Heer van Hoek! You are needed! At once! There is a fire in the main barracks of the fortress. There are burned men, and others with injuries from the falling building. If you would be willing to--"
Before he finished, both Ludmilla and van Hoek were on their feet, moving their chairs out so they could leave. From his place at the table, Saint-Germain signaled a kind of apology to Zozia, then stood up, prepared to join them. "If I may be of assistance?"
