The Frost of Springtime (10 page)

Brushing fallen locks from her eyes, he leaned forward and whispered
against her forehead, “Come, come.
Time to wake, chérie.”

A lush hood of lashes fluttered open, exposing the
piercing blue of her eyes.
She rubbed her
nose till it
glowed
a delightful pink. “Hullo.” Her
lips lifted into a lazy smile as their gazes merged together. Aleksender was
enraptured. “You know … I was just dreaming about you.”

Aleksender cleared his throat. His fingertips slid from her scalp and
landed in the safety of his lap. “Ah, is that right?”

Her smile melted away within the following silence. Tiny fists crawled
up the length of Aleksender’s chest and lost themselves within the coat’s thick
folds. She gave an urgent tug, drawing him several inches closer … closer …
dangerously close.

The heat of their bodies mingled as one. With each breath, Aleksender
drank in the sweet essence of roses and wintertime. His mind swam with
unorthodox visions and desires. He inclined his head, lost to the power of her
nearness, entranced by everything that was his beloved ward.

“Alek, my Alek …”

Each word infused Aleksender with a delicious and undeniable warmth.
Intoxicated by roses and wintertime, he found it difficult to speak, difficult
to think. Breathless, he swallowed and met the haunting blue of her eyes.

“Please,” she dreamily murmured, “I want you to kiss me again.”

CHAPTER
SEVEN

Several days had
passed since Aleksender and Sofia’s improper encounter, each one blurring
seamlessly into the next. And he found that the nights were no different. Alas,
it seemed that Aleksender’s existence had transformed into a single, suspended
moment.

Lavished in scarlet curtains,
rich upholstery and
rosewood furnishings, the master bedchamber was
fit for royalty. Decked
with exotic perfumes and dazzling jewels of all shapes and sizes, a vanity was
centered before the grand oversized mirror. A solitary candle glowed,
encircling the countertop in a ring of light, painting the walls with its
wavering shafts. Elizabeth sat in front of her lovely reflection, looking every
bit like a porcelain doll.

A solemn and bloodless porcelain doll.

With a distant look beaming from her eyes and a subtle frown at her
lips, she stroked her shiny hair and hummed beneath a hushed breath. Long
streams of candlelight complimented her beauty to perfection. The illumination
outlined her curves while a sheer chemise hugged her body like a lover, leaving
very little to her husband’s imagination.

Aleksender sat on the edge of the large canopy bed. A pair of leather
suspenders dug into his skin, straining against a firm slate of muscle. Fitted
trousers hugged each thigh and a cream-toned dress shirt swallowed up the
cummerbund waistline.

Studying the glamorous reflection with a haunting attentiveness,
Aleksender watched as Elizabeth embarked on her nightly ritual.

He surprised himself and thought of his mother.

Comtesse Victoria de Lefèvre had tragically passed away during
Aleksender’s tenth year. Her death had been painfully sudden, though he could
recall nothing of the accident. According to his father, a spooked mare and
unhinged carriage wheel had been to blame. Aleksender, too, had been in that
carriage—and had survived the incident by some twisted stroke of luck. Even in
Victoria’s absence, Philippe had expressed an endless devotion to his late
wife. First hand, Aleksender had witnessed the transcending power of love, a
fidelity that knew no boundaries, time and again.

Aleksender shook away the memories and returned to the moment.

Within Elizabeth’s emptiness he saw himself. And the cause of her
heartache was no great wonder. Yet, here she sat—radiating with the innocence
of a girl, daring to steal a glance of him every few brushes. Mimicking all of
the correct movements without any inspiration, she was a stunning shell of a
human being.

With a heavy heart, Aleksender imagined Elizabeth brushing her hair,
just like this, night after night … staring at herself with a vacant and
faraway look in her eyes.

Elizabeth surrendered to an uncertain smile as their gazes came
together in the mirror. A light blush tinted her cheekbones and steadily crept
down her neck.

Lowering her pale hood of lashes, she spoke through little more than a
sweet and serene whisper. “Come now, Aleksender. Must you be such a stranger?
Why … you’ve hardly said more than a few words these past days.”

Cued by her voice, Aleksender rose to his feet and came to the mirror.
She gasped as the heat of his body pierced her chemise. He towered over her
seated form, impossibly close, shrouded beneath penetrating silence and
wavering shadow.

He stole the comb from her hand and swept it through the long and
lovely tresses … admiring the way in which they tumbled down and over her slender
shoulders, curling just past the small of her back.

Her eyes whispered shameful secrets and forbidden longings. Things she
dared not pursue. Indeed, despite their fifteen-year partnership, she and
Aleksender had laid together only a handful of times. Their lovemaking had
always been consistently passionless—and the mutual intention to produce an
heir had been the sole driving force.

Elizabeth’s eyes twinkled as she smiled at him. And, a moment later, a
devious grin crept to her mouth. “I thought you were dead, you know. Thought I
would never see you. Never touch you again.”

Aleksender remained in his characteristic silence. He continued the
intoxicating ministrations, brushing out the glory of her hair—gently, slowly,
tremulously—eyes never parting from her reflection.

And when Aleksender at last spoke, the words were a tender and light
caress. “Sleep well, Elizabeth.” With a dejected sigh, he set down the brush,
pressed a kiss upon her brow, and went to bed for the night.

•

Chapel Saint Leonard’s bells tolled out, ringing their timeless melody
as they announced Sunday mass. The humble dwelling was one of the only places
of worship that hadn’t suffered considerable ruin from the siege and
revolutionaries. Two shattered windows and a jarring occurrence stood as the
sole traces of Paris’s demise.

Over the last months, most churches, chapels and sanctums had been torn
apart from the inside out. Roofs were ceremoniously caved in, windows broken,
and the interiors thrashed to high hell. And the greatest damage had resulted
from the citizens’ hands rather than Prussians’.

Never had a group of people felt so abandoned by God. It was no
coincidence that a large number of the Commune’s insurgents held a fierce
hatred for religion. Spoken prayer had been outlawed at many of the funerals.
In pained silence, mothers had wept as the caskets of their veteran sons were
lowered into that eternal dirt.

Chapel Saint Leonard’s priest had been greeted by a rather
unforgettable sight one morning. The altar had been crudely vandalized, and the
spectacle resembled a caricature straight out of Le Père Duchêne’s pages. There
Jesus hung, dressed in the garb of Versailles, a pipe dangling from lifeless
stone lips. And ever since that time, a fragile calm had blanketed Paris to the
point of suffocation.

Inside Chapel Saint Leonard’s walls, Aleksender, Elizabeth, Sofia, and
Richard sat side-by-side along one of the pewter benches. Light poured through
the shattered window and illuminated the chapel in a flawless cylinder. The priest’s
voice swelled the building to its rafters, each word infused with haunting
passion.

“We live in a broken world that is filled with sin.”

Ever since boyhood, and for reasons Aleksender couldn’t fully grasp,
religion had always unsettled him. Mind pacing, he turned from the altar and
sought distraction.
The priest’s words transformed into a
steady drone.

“As Catholics, we have been challenged to live as people of faith
during these dark and unforgiving times.”

Roosting pigeons cooed in agreement as the flap of their wings
resonated. Aleksender cocked his head and observed the pair of frolicking
birds. They playfully dove in and of the wooden beams and rafters, perfectly
content and oblivious to the cryptic atmosphere. And in his mind’s eye, it was the
silhouette of an eagle that loomed above him—the Angel of Death, an
ever-present and sinister force …

A strange envy overcame Aleksender as the pigeons escaped through the
shattered window. He stifled a deep groan and adjusted his posture. No escape
or comfort was to be found. Alas, the pewter bench seemed to be carved from
solid rock rather than rosewood … and the surrounding walls resembled bars
rather than planks.

“I would like to begin today with a passage from Matthew: 5.
Blessed
are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of
heaven.”

Aleksender warily glanced at his brother’s profile. Richard’s head was
bowed, both eyes fastened shut. What he was reflecting on was no great mystery.
The death of their father was one wound that would never heal. A sharp pang of
guilt overcame Aleksender. Their luncheon on the veranda only added insult to
injury. Neither of them would ever live up to their father’s legacy. Richard
was too full of self-loathing and set in his ways, while Aleksender was far too
damaged.

“Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.”

Next to him, Elizabeth blankly stared forward. But her eyes betrayed
the show of outward calm. The delicate bond they’d shared for so many years had
begun to unravel. There was no denying it. Elizabeth suspected something
between him and his ward. Of that he was certain.

Anyone with half a mind could see it.

“Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.”

As for his little Sofia …

Her nearness was intoxicating. The warmth of her body radiated, filling
all five of his senses with roses and wintertime.

“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.”

After their night out, it was Sofia’s breathless plea that had opened
Aleksender’s eyes to the truth.
Alek, I want you
to kiss me again.

That kiss had sealed their fate. And his immediate self-defense had
been to blame the Voisin’s “finely aged wine.”

At first, silence had been his reply. And then gently, carefully, and
ever so tenderly, their lips had come together in a chaste kiss. In itself, it
had been quite harmless—proving to be little more than a kiss shared between
ward and guardian. But it had whispered of irrevocable repercussions.

Aleksender’s lashes had blinked shut in an attempt to escape from his longings.
But the bridge had already been crossed. And every barricade, every emotional
defense and logical fortress, had burned to the ground.

A decent man would have pulled away. A decent man would have corrected
the poor girl’s delusional thoughts and straightened her thinking.

But Aleksender was far from a decent man.

Instead, a pair of trembling arms had enveloped her waist. He’d tilted
his head and reverently bowed his face, inhaling her femininity. Gathering her
to his chest, he’d tugged her impossibly close, never intending to let go,
allowing their two heartbeats to consummate as one—

“Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness’ sake,
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Amen.”

A moment of silence descended over the patrons of Chapel Saint Leonard.
Aleksender conformed to his surroundings and followed suit, bowing his face in
personal grief rather than prayer.

•

Sunday mass concluded two hours later. Needing urgently to speak with
Sofia, Aleksender had inquired Richard if he’d mind escorting Elizabeth back to
the chateau. “I should say not,” he’d replied, meaning each word. “It would be
a pleasure.” Aleksender had winced, stung by the bitterness that tinted his
brother’s voice.

Remnants of suffering and despair hung amongst Place de la Concorde
like a bad omen. Ensuring they’d not have to look upon the invaders, black
coverings had been draped over the statues’ faces during the siege. Months
later, the linens still remained, now sun-streaked and faded.

Sofia and Aleksender quietly stood at the center of the Tuileries
Garden. In the nearby distance, the Vendôme Column towered against the sky,
Napoleon’s likeness scraping at the heavens. Over a hundred of the column’s
spiraling bronze plates were rumored to have been constructed from captured
cannons. And each one stood as a sentiment of the military’s power and might.
Elaborately dressed in Roman garb, Napoleon’s statue symbolized France’s
greatness and immorality.

The Tuileries Garden had remained the city’s most popular leisure spot
despite its recent torching. Vivid plant life and brimming ponds textured the
premises in an array of colors.

But nothing could have alleviated the storm cloud that hovered over
Sofia and Aleksender. Nearly a week had passed since their kiss. And now Aleksender
could feel his doomed fate closing in on him like a palpable force. He was
sinking into the blackened depths of despair. And those faceless statues
reminded Aleksender that those closest to him were very much in jeopardy. Damn
it to hell. He’d sooner slit his throat than bring Sofia down with him. And if
things remained in their present condition, such a thing would be inevitable.

Aleksender distracted himself with a boyish fantasy. Perhaps he would
purchase a ship with a generous sum of his inheritance. For sentimental reasons
he would name the vessel
The Nightingale
—a shameless homage
to a story he’d often read to Sofia. He would rule as the ship’s captain,
and—if the fool played his cards right—Christophe would serve as his first
mate.

And Sofia, his lovely and sweet ward, would bunk with him each night
and absorb the sunrise each morning. Maybe from the crow’s nest, should he
successfully rid himself of his fear of his
heights.
The evenings would be dedicated to ravishing the holy temple of Sofia’s
body,
much like the loyal servant ravishes his goddess.
Aleksender would become a legendary pirate king, the ruler of the high seas,
Poseidon in the flesh. From coast to coast, the three of them would sail the
world in silent harmony. Naturally, they’d make a brief stop to America where
Christophe could find a fiery wench to tame.