The Frost of Springtime (23 page)

After it was done, they fell asleep in each other’s arms, hearts and
bodies still entwined.

CHAPTER
TWENTY

Elizabeth woke to
darkness. Smoke from a deceased flame swirled in a mystifying cloud, its long
white ribbons pasty against the black expanse. Eerie and ominous shadows
crawled up and down the bedchamber’s walls like living things. The melodic
thumping of rain caressed the chateau with devious touches. Outside, trees blew
fiercely in the wind, their branches clawing at the windows. On this night,
they resembled the nails of demons fighting to come inside, burning to drag
Elizabeth to hell.

“Alek,” she called, “Aleksender?”

Elizabeth sat up and squinted. Her chest ached. A terrible premonition gathered
inside her gut. She turned to Aleksender’s side of the bed and fondled the cold
sheets. On top of the end-table, a sliver of white caught her attention.

It was a note.

Elizabeth rose from the bed, snugly fastened her nightgown’s sash about
her waist and collected the parchment. She positioned herself near to the
double-doors, using the moon’s gentle glow as light.

Dearest Elizabeth,

Richard and I have been invited for brandies and cigars with fellow
gentlemen. I am sorry to have left you. I had no intention to disturb your
sleep. You looked so peaceful.

Yours, Aleksender

Elizabeth gazed at the moon in thoughtful silence. She was caught in a
dilemma—forced to choose between the better of two evils. Should she sulk back
into bed with feigned oblivion? Or should she unveil the truth she had known
all along and had deliberately chosen not to see?

A beam of light poured into the study as Elizabeth squeezed inside. It
was a magnificent room, boasting rich mahogany furnishings, a Persian rug,
low-hanging crystal chandelier and towering bookshelves.

Arms hugging her torso, Elizabeth slipped deeper into the study,
praying she would not be discovered by some nosy, wandering servant. Summoning
her courage, she made haste and swiftly approached the elegant writing desk.
She turned the knob of a kerosene lamp, shedding a ring of light upon the
polished surface. Her fingers slid across the desk’s smooth wooden counter in
appreciation.

Muffled thunder growled in the distance. Returning to the task at hand,
Elizabeth shivered and yanked one of the drawers open. She rummaged through the
various odds and ends with only a slight tinge of guilt, searching for anything
that might prove—or hopefully disapprove—her unorthodox assumption. If any such
proof did exist, surely it would be packed away in his study. Between his
thirst for knowledge and love of writing, Aleksender had always valued this
room above all others. It was bound to harbor his deepest, darkest secrets.

Elizabeth searched through the other three drawers with no luck.
Documents, spectacles, silver seal and wax … fountain pen—

The Bible
.
How
perfectly strange.

Elizabeth hesitated before fetching the massive book, her fine brows
propped into questioning arches. Aleksender was many things. Religious was
certainly not one of them.

She flipped the Bible open without further thought. Her eyes widened in
awful realization. What she found was far from holy.

This was no Bible. It was a trick, a hidden compartment box. Countless
letters were packed inside, each one fastened together with a scarlet ribbon.
Heart pounding, she collected the stack and flipped it over, studying the
coarse and slightly faded parchment. Trembling fingertips tugged at the ribbon.
She unfolded a letter dated May 9, 1870—marking it as the oldest of the bunch.

Dearest Sofia,

I hope you can forgive me for not writing sooner. Know that your letter
was a much needed breath of fresh air. The days have been too long and nights
far too short. There is no escaping.

In my free moments, I find myself lost to deep thought. In spite of
myself, I feel compelled to share them with you. You had found the courage to
open your heart. You only deserve the same from me.

I have convinced myself that my feelings for you start and end at
infatuation—the smitten thoughts of a randy lad, no doubt of it. After all, you
have grown to be very beautiful.

Taking a bullet opens one’s eyes. I was destined for death, Sofia.
Dying is a beautifully surreal experience … much like falling from oblivion,
when you are caught between sleep and waking. At the risk of sounding terribly
cliché, it was an introspective moment. I could no longer hide from myself
nor
my feelings. And, within those fleeting moments, I found
myself in confession.

Strange that I should spend my final breaths before
God, after having spent a lifetime avoiding Him.

Sitting there in mock confrontation—a cruel purgatory, indeed—I
concluded that infatuation is the very least of my affection for you.

But I am empty. I have nothing left to give.

For all our sakes, forget these words. Forget our kiss. Do not wait for
me. Life is too precious, and your soul too lovely to be wasted on an old fool
in love.

Always yours, Alek

Tears streamed down Elizabeth’s cheeks. Witnessing the truth gave her
no sense of closure
nor
bittersweet serenity. Instead,
she felt only heartache. They were letters from Aleksender to Sofia, remnants
of her husband’s scorned soul, all expressed through eloquent prose.

And all of them were unsent.

•

Juliet slipped through the streets at a gentle and steady gait. Her
hooves rhythmically clinked against the cobblestones, filling the darkness with
a therapeutic and soothing melody. Snuggled against his chest like a soft
kitten, Sofia was bundled in Aleksender’s cloak and cradled within his lap.
Basking in her nearness, he massaged her slumped shoulders and rubbed heat into
her bones.

Sacred Heart seeped into view thirty minutes later. Aleksender
dismounted in a reluctant and painfully lethargic movement. He tethered
Juliet’s reins to a weeping willow and withdrew a bronze skeleton key from deep
inside his pocket.

The convent’s wooden door moaned as he entered. The house was deathly
still, every foot draped in heavy shadows, every woman and child lost within
sleep. Aleksender wandered through the blackened halls like a ghost—graceful,
silent, and discrete—Sofia’s body safely against his chest.

He paralyzed outside the dormitory. He couldn’t stir a limb. A dull
ache lodged inside his throat. His heart thundered against his chest, well
aware he was about to betray it.

Aleksender inhaled a shaky breath and stared down at the slumbering
angel with a haunting attentiveness. Her bosoms gently heaved, manipulated by
long and sleepy breaths. Its slow, seductive rhythm mesmerized and comforted
him. She looked so peaceful.
So beautiful and so trusting.
He vainly battled for an inner courage he no longer possessed.

Aleksender ripped away his glove with a curse. His fingers reverently
fanned through her chocolate curls, submitting their silky texture to eternal
memory. The cruel gravity of their fate fell upon his conscience. And the feel
of her body cradled to his chest was crushing his soul.

Aleksender lifted Sofia and slowly bowed his face, pressing a chaste
kiss upon her brow. He could have held her in his arms forever, just like this,
and died the happiest of men.

But it could never be. Alas—only weeks ago, his personal demons had
nearly killed Elizabeth. In the end, keeping Sofia for
himself
would destroy her. No, he would not disappear completely—he could never abandon
Sofia. The world was too cruel a place and she was much too fair a creature.
Without a doubt, its weight would crush her spirit.

He would always be there for her, he inwardly vowed, distant and unseen—her
silent protector and dark guardian—a lighthouse amongst the jagged sea cliffs,
guiding her destiny. But first, Aleksender would have to divide their two
souls. And he knew it would destroy him from the inside out … a sacrifice he
was willing to make. She would survive. She would flourish.

Sofia was young and impressionable. In time, her perspective of the
world would be reborn. He would exist as a half-remembered dream, no more than
a delicate memory of the deep subconscious. In truth, their separation would be
a blessing. It would be a godsend.

Yes, she would become a beautiful, distant star—faded and shining
amongst the horizon of his despair, placed far from his mortal grasp. It proved
unfortunate that he loved the girl; it would have been easy to keep her as his
mistress.

Aleksender’s head sank forward as his lips ghosted across her pale
cheek.

For the last time, he inhaled her unique scent.

Roses and the frost of wintertime.

After a moment, he exhaled a rasped breath and surged forward, slipping
soundlessly into the dormitory.

Aleksender’s blood froze as he stopped dead in his tracks. A pale hand
was coiled around the rise of his shoulder.

He spun around in a startled motion and instinctively clutched Sofia
nearer to his body. Sister Catherine’s ancient features glowed before him.
Nearly unreadable, they were wrinkled and winsome, illuminated by a wavering
flame. Anger and frustration overcame Aleksender. This would be Sofia’s
infinite ruin.

Without a doubt, her “scandalous” behavior would cast her from the
convent. As it was, her unusual lifestyle was already in question—the odd
combination of dancing and living in a convent home.

And the people of Paris—those malicious creatures whom delighted in
scandals—were not ignorant of her origins. The ugly truth was widely known,
though scarcely spoken. Sofia was a scorned bastard child, the shunned daughter
of a lewd and arrogant woman, and destined for the life of a gutter whore. But,
above all the things, she was a remarkable dancer and the beloved ward of le
Comte de Paris. And that had always outshone her beginnings. Like
himself
, it seemed that Sofia had been born from
contradictions.

And now, her dignity would be destroyed. His weakness—his desperation,
reckless obsession, and installable need—had corrupted the one thing he loved
more than anything else. Ladies had been damned for far less.

This time he wouldn’t be able to rescue her.

Yet, Sister Catherine’s eyes held no scorn, anger nor condemnation.
Instead, Aleksender only found a deep compassion and understanding. A soulful
blend of wisdom and sadness radiated from her stare. Gazing down at Sofia’s
smiling, sleeping face, she bowed her head in a regal motion. In that moment,
Aleksender knew that Sister Catherine saw everything. And she shared in their
tragedy.

Aleksender’s mouth parted in speech. Sister Catherine pressed an index
finger to her lips, demanding silence. She signaled him to follow with a
graceful nod of her head. Clutching the silver candle-holder in her palm and
lighting the way, long shadows and solemn silhouettes were cast upon the
plaster walls. Only the faint rustle of Sister Catherine’s matronly skirts
penetrated the din. Aleksender wondered where she could possibly be leading
them—though dared not ask.

Sister Catherine paused in front of a wooden door. The latch gave a
defiant moan as she lifted the metal and nudged it open. She gestured
Aleksender inside with an insistent wave of her hand. He entered the cozy
chamber, obliging without further thought.

He nearly lost his breath, in awe of the room’s pure and simplistic
beauty. Several prayer candles had been placed atop the nightstand, bathing the
walls with their collective, orange glows. The humble bed was meticulously
turned down. Heaps of cotton had replaced the stiff covers. And a porcelain
vase of fresh blooms was centered nearby on a small end table, each rose
vibrant and full of life. The revelation was remarkable.

Sister Catherine had planned for this moment. He nodded in silent
gratitude as she slipped into the shadows.

Aleksender inched toward the bed and spread Sofia’s unconscious body
across the mattress. Glancing down, he pulled up the coverlet and carefully
tucked her into bed—just as he’d often done when she was a girl. A wave of
nostalgia weighed heavily on his heart.

This was no child. Aleksender tentatively sunk to his knees and
crouched at the bedside. Sofia’s complexion was wonderfully rosy, curls unruly,
and lips swollen from his kisses. She was exhausted, the poor dear, and wildly disheveled—flushed
from the throes of their recent passion. Every curve of her body was bathed by
the candlelight.
The slight arch of her bottom.
The delicate curves of her hips.
The endless length of her
dancer’s legs …