The Frost of Springtime (24 page)

His stare settled upon her tranquil features. She looked so young, so
angelic. Propped on both knees, he inched closer to the bed and its offering.

“Sofia, I want you to know …”

An onslaught of tears clogged Aleksender’s throat. His speech was
constricted, overflowing with emotion. His head fell forward as his voice
shattered. Aleksender turned from her with a strangled sob and pressed a balled
fist against his mouth.

Both eyes blinked shut as he imagined a life without Sofia. Without
her, the emptiness would return.

“I cannot endure losing you. I cannot …”

He grasped at his heart and massaged his chest, attempting to ease the
pain within. His other hand brushed over her array of curls, stroking her head
in repetitive and soothing motions.

“I love you. I love you so much.”

Shaking his head, he leaned forward and tremulously whispered, “I care
for you, painfully much … far more than myself. For that reason … for that
precise reason I must let you go. I must …”

Aleksender draped his cloak over Sofia as he tentatively rose to his
feet. His body was languid and unsteady. Clutching onto the bed-frame, his gaze
rose to the vanity. In the reflection, he locked eyes with himself. It was a
powerfully introspective moment. Moonlight bathed his features and gentled his
appearance. Regardless, the truth of his character remained illuminated.

“You deserve much more, so much more than I could ever give.” He tucked
the cover beneath her chin and tentatively leaned forward. His lips brushed
across her forehead in a transient caress.

His emerald gaze descended to her lips. Her mouth parted—murmuring some
dreamy nonsense. She was smiling softly in her sleep, relaxed and content, lost
to the beauty of her dreams. In contrast to her serenity, Aleksender’s
breathing was labored, harsh, and uneven. Every emotional barrier, every
defense and every barricade, had crumbled.

Aleksender freed his soul. For the first time in years, he let himself
cry. Tears cascaded down Aleksender’s cheeks without shame. He sank to his
knees and sobbed into the auburn silk of her hair, drenching them with his
unrequited tears. He wept for the both of them. He wept on behalf of their
star-crossed love.

For the first time in countless years, he wept.

“I shall watch over you always.” Aleksender stroked her ivory skin in a
reverent touch. His lips pressed against the hollow of her ear, whispering upon
the fine cartilage, entire body convulsing. “Even though you won’t see me, I
will be there for you. And that shall never change.
Never.
I have nothing to offer you.
Nothing but my protection.”

His eyes drifted shut as he whispered the eternal vow against her skin,
voice beautiful and soothing—words spoken like a lullaby. “Goodbye, my little
Sofia …”

Tears blurred Sister Catherine’s vision. She watched Aleksender and
Sofia’s exchange from the shadows, much like she had done for the past nine
years. Sister Catherine inhaled a shaky breath and mumbled a prayer from the
archway:

O, God, whose love restores the brokenhearted of this world, pour out
your love, we beseech you, upon those who feel lonely, abandoned, or unloved.
Strengthen their hope to meet the days ahead; grant them courage, bless them
with the joy of your eternal peace. Amen.

Aleksender had committed adultery. He’d taken a young girl’s
innocence—the innocence of a girl who perhaps stood on the precipice of
nunnery. And yet within their shared adoration, she perceived only beauty.
Without another backward glance, Sister Catherine brushed away her tears and
vanished into the shadows.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE

“I
sleep but my heart is awake. Listen! My beloved is knocking: ‘Open to me, my
sister, my darling, my dove, my flawless one. My head is drenched with dew, my
hair with the dampness of the night.’ My beloved thrust his hand through the
latch-opening; my heart began to pound for him. I arose to open for my beloved,
and my hands dripped with
myrrh, my fingers with flowing myrrh, on the handles
of the bolt. I opened for my beloved, but my beloved had left; he was gone. And
my heart sank at his departure.”

— Song of Songs 5

A strong pair of
arms held her tight. Lips whispered sweet promises into her ear. Fingertips
sifted through her curls, deft and tremulous. An uneven heartbeat drummed
against her ribs. Shallow breaths wafted over her flesh. Warm tears fell upon
her cheeks, mingling with her own.

Her dark guardian stood before her, blending into the blackness of
night. His silhouette sank into a deep curve as he arched over her form. He
whispered a soft goodbye against her cheek.

A sob was wrenched from her throat. “No … please do not leave me.”
Sofia’s arms thrust forward, grasping at emptiness.

Her protector turned away in a fluid motion and vanished into the
night. His cloak fanned out in a divine spectacle—appearing as no more than two
blackened wings.

Sofia woke with a start. Smoke from the candle’s flame swirled about,
pasty against the expanse of black. The events of the previous night rushed
through her thoughts as she fought to regain her composure.

Sofia blushed at the memory, palms cradling her flushed cheeks. But
where was she now? It was dark as pitch. Regardless, Sofia knew she’d been left
alone. She would have felt Alek’s very presence.

Had it all been a dream? No more than some wicked fantasy? No—her body
confirmed, sore and aching in her most feminine areas. She had been branded by
his affection forever. And their union was something she’d never regret.

At the opposite end of the chamber, faint shafts of moonlight shined
through a window. Sofia stumbled from the bed and eased toward the teasing
illumination. Sweeping the curtain aside, her eyes widened with a sudden
epiphany. Indeed, this room was Sister Catherine’s chamber—a bit overly
lavished at present, but unmistakably the head nun’s sleeping quarters.

Sofia clasped onto her heart. Her lashes blinked shut, harnessing back
tears she refused to shed. Behind shut eyes she saw him, heard his voice.
Somehow, someway, Aleksender’s parting words echoed the chambers of her mind.

I care for you, painfully much … far more than myself. For that reason,
for that precise reason, I must let you go. I must …

He was gone.

•

The drawing room was cloaked in silence. Aleksender sat in one of the
oversized armchairs, posture straight as an arrow, resembling a king before his
throne. His mind was numb as he stared into the blazing hearth. The fireplace
seemed to mock his infernal misery. It chanted incoherent curses, whispering
promises of eternal damnation. Demonic manifestations flashed across the
crimson walls, welcoming Comte de Lefèvre into hell.

But he was already in hell.

Aleksender clutched onto his half-empty bottle of brandy, dangerously
delirious and teetering on the edge of sanity. Despite the hearth’s warm blaze,
he felt cold, lifeless,
entirely
alone.

Aleksender’s mind reeled, thoughts garbled and pensive. He was drunk on
brandy and despair. From head to toe, his body trembled with pains he hadn’t
known to exist. Alas, the horrors of war were incomparable to this agony.
Letting her go had been the most painful thing he’d ever endured. Sacrifice was
no easy feat.

Aleksender chuckled low as he sardonically praised his fallen comrades,
“I applaud you, my good men.”

You have a soldier’s heart …

No. He had nothing.

He jolted to his feet and stormed to the hearth. “Damn! Damn it all to
hell!”

Aleksender hollered an animalistic cry. The bottle broke into a million
little pieces as it was chucked into the fire, shattering against the logs. The
flames brilliantly exploded—fueled by the alcohol and Aleksender’s madness.
Unable to sustain his weight, he groaned and collapsed to the crutch of his
knees. Aleksender vainly hugged himself, aching for comfort. Glazed eyes stared
forward as he rocked back and forth, to and fro, behaving like a frightened and
forgotten child.

•

Manipulated by the invasion of masculine body weight, Elizabeth tensed
as the mattress dipped inward and sank into a heavy curve. Every inch of the
bed trembled. Aleksender was quivering from head to toe, his teeth chattering
like tin cymbals. She felt his ragged breaths draw intimately close. They
wafted across the back of her neck, piercing the air in strained clouds.

An abundance of heat radiated all around, molding the contours of
Elizabeth’s body. It seared the barrier of her lacy chemise—an unpleasant and
unwanted assault upon her senses. A damp hiss of air impaled her neck, her
back, each of her shoulders …

“Elizabeth …” Aleksender’s voice was no more than a tragic whisper and
nearly inaudible. “Please, I need you.”

A powerful humility and desperation laced every syllable. Elizabeth
almost found herself pitying the lovesick fool.

Almost.

“Cold,”
came
his detached murmur, “I feel
cold. So … numb.” Yes—Elizabeth knew all about that coldness; it was a coldness
that was unshakable and bone-deep, over fifteen years in the making. Deft
fingertips wisped down and over the inside of her thigh. “Please. Just hold
me.”

In wordless response, Elizabeth latched onto Aleksender’s trembling
hand and forced him away with a dark pleasure.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO

Comte Philippe de
Lefèvre’s memorial fell upon
an overcast
Sunday
afternoon. The sky was bruised and tucked beneath a blanket of lush clouds.
Hiding beneath finely carved wings and ornate alcoves, stone angels wept as
they shed mortal tears. Shafts of sunlight pierced through the tall oaks and
maples, offering slim portals into heaven.

Filling the air with conspicuous whispers and sideways glances,
Parisians of all pedigrees infested the winding cobblestone walkways. They huddled
nearby Comte de Lefèvre’s mausoleum, standing as close as the gendarmes
permitted. Hilts of brilliant silver, which adorned the gendarmes’ swords,
clashed against their navy uniforms.

Ravens perched atop swaying boughs and cold tombstones, staring down,
slickly attired in their black mourning coats. Stationed upon a hilltop,
Richard, Aleksender, Elizabeth and a few others stood before Comte de Lefèvre’s
grandiose mausoleum. The glorious stone structure dwarfed everything in
comparison.

A pastor read from
The Bible
in a monotonous
tone, “The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in
green pastures. He leadeth me beside the still waters …”

The drawled words were entirely lost to Aleksender. His head bowed
forward, thoughts consumed with his recent losses. And, alongside each of those
dark thoughts, he felt the penetration of Elizabeth’s eyes.

•

Respectfully dressed in a black frock coat and gloves, Christophe
maneuvered through the nosy crowd as he shoved past highborn ladies and
obnoxious dandies with growing cynicism. Determination filled his heart and
carried his feet.

Alas, he was stronger and healthier than he’d been in weeks. It wasn’t
over yet. Hope clung to his chest like an icicle, quickly melting away. Dawn
was coming.

Christophe tensed and hung his face. An unavoidable resentment stirred
within his chest. Every few steps a slanderous comment—whispered mostly on
Aleksender’s behalf—reached his ears.

“ …
better off
servicing his whores …”

“ …
a no good, scarred
veteran of war with a particular taste for schoolyard blood …”

“ …
seen sniffing
round the skirts of his ward as of late …”

“ …
corrupted by the
stage, indeed … has the breeding of her promiscuous mother …”

“ …
not fit to lick
the heels of his father’s boots—God rest the poor soul …”

And so forth.

Unable to see past the elaborate swarm of top hats, Christophe followed
after the pastor’s emotionless drawl. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of
the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me. Thy rod and thy
staff comfort me. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my
life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

A stunning vision lurked not far in the distance. The hem of the young
lady’s mourning dress billowed all around her, carried by a mild breeze. Buried
within an abundance of russet curls, the veil’s lace filtered her stare. She
twisted a faded, red handkerchief between her fingertips, occasionally blotting
away a fallen tear. Yet, her gaze was not fixed on the old
comte’s
mausoleum nor the pastor. It was on Aleksender.

Christophe and Aleksender’s eyes came together at that very moment.

“Amen.”

The memorial concluded a half hour later. Aleksender lurked beneath a
weeping willow, back ranged against its massive trunk, both arms crossed over
his chest. His eyes
fell
shut as a wind chime tinkled
overhead. The melody was as soft as the wind’s whisper, filled with the sorrow
and nostalgia of a lullaby. Every limb stiffened as Christophe appeared behind
him. Aleksender sensed his presence. He made no effort to turn.

“Bonjour, mon ami.”
Leaves crunched
beneath the weight of his boots with the audacity of breaking bones. “I must
say, your stories did her justice. Indeed. Sofia is quite the beauty.”

Aleksender’s throat tightened. “You are never to mention her name.”

“Anger, Alek?” A sardonic chuckle sounded out. “Good God! Was that
possibly anger?”

Aleksender pushed away from the tree and moved toward his comrade. He
said nothing. His eyes dared Christophe to continue.

“A bit refreshing, I must say,” Christophe dryly said, “knowing that
you are still capable of feeling. I was beginning to doubt that.”

Christophe stroked the curve of his chin. Then he sighed and gave an
off look. His eyes rose to Elizabeth. She immediately adjusted her bonnet and
glanced away. It was no great mystery that she wore the stripe of a lover
scorned.

“Ah. I suspect your faithfulness is not quite as noble as your title,
eh?”

Indeed, Christophe knew of Aleksender’s unorthodox liaisons better than
anyone. But the tone of his voice suggested severe implications—a far cry from
a typical debauchery. It spoke of an infidelity that went well beyond flesh and
blood—an ultimate unfaithfulness to oneself. A crime even Christophe, a rather
notorious skirt-chaser of his time, wouldn’t dare commit.

Christophe shook his face. “Elizabeth saw the demon in you.
Now I as well.
And I daresay your father is turnin’ in his
very grave right beneath our feet—”

Aleksender lunged at him without warning. He grabbed onto Christophe’s
cravat and slammed his back against the tree trunk with a brutal force.
Aleksender stared daggers, breaths erratic, raven hair wildly tousled. He
grasped onto the material of Christophe’s frock coat with steel fists, eyes
blazing.

“You best learn to hold your tongue, Cleef. You and your insolence
tread a thin line. Men have been guillotined for far less.”

The threat slid from Christophe’s back. His feathers remained
unruffled. In contrast to Aleksender’s madness, he was perfectly cool and
collected.

“Gah!
Take care! You’ll
ruin my best frock. And, unlike you, I haven’t the luxury
nor
francs to buy another.”

Christophe’s eyes drifted to the horizon. Sofia was nowhere to be
found. Aleksender released him with a look of sheer misery. The faintest trace
of shame embedded his gaze—as if he knew just who Christophe sought.

Christophe seized onto Aleksender’s vulnerability. “She’s a little
girl, Alek. A little girl and your puppet! It is all rather amusing—a child of
God, harlot—what, pray tell, shall the noble Comte desire next?”

“You know nothing.”

His lips curled into a slick smirk. “Better to know nothing than to be
nothing.
To feel nothing.”
Then, through a tense sigh,
he added, “Paris—she is angry. How long do you think you can ignore that?
Ignore your duty?” Only silence. Christophe scoffed, cursing beneath his
breath. A fierce resentment was forming deep inside him. His comrade’s
indifference was bone chilling.

“To have so much potential for power, for change … to throw it all away
is unforgivable.
Unredeemable.”
More silence. “Don’t
you understand? The people of Paris are starving. Children are born in gutters,
only to die. Honest women, virtuous schoolgirls, are whoring themselves. Men
are making dinners of flea-ridden sewer rats.
All while you
hide up in your fancy chateau—regarding everything and everyone with your damn
devil-may-care charm.”

Christophe swore that a look of shock had creased Aleksender’s brow.
But it was gone as quickly as it had come. His face had settled back into a
mask of unyielding apathy.

“You best be on your way, Christophe.”
Gesturing one
of the imposing gendarmes, not bothering to hide his grin.
“If not, I
can surely arrange for you to be shown out.”

“Pitiful.” The threat was as hollow and cold as Aleksender’s green
eyes.

“You fool no one. You are every bit the self-righteous,
holier-than-thou knave you claim to loathe.
Only much worse.”
A sad and mocking smile formed on Christophe’s lips. “You are no more than a
disgrace.
A disgrace to her.
A
disgrace to Paris.
A disgrace to me and your father.”

Christophe awaited the wrath of Aleksender’s unleashed fury. It never
came. Instead, the
comte
swallowed with a curt and
almost humble nod. “I’m afraid I must bid you adieu, Monsieur Cleef.”

He stepped forward as Aleksender turned away. Christophe’s emotions
bested him as he trembled from his anger.

“I am not you. I shall not stay silent. This … this is far from over.
You hear me, Alek? In spades, you shall pay for your apathy! On my word, ‘ol
friend …” His final words dripped with mirth and an ominous edge. “Do take care.
The both of you.”

Aleksender eased toward him, stride slow and steady, eyes blazing. But
Christophe never met his glare. He was focused entirely on the darkening
skyline.

“You listen and you listen well,” Aleksender spat through a clenched
jaw and gritted teeth. “I shall warn you only once: do not underestimate my
power.”

“Been listening with a deaf ear, have you?” Christophe slapped his
thigh, head tossed back in a hearty chuckle. “Ah, mon ami, you amuse me so.”
After a moment, he leisurely straightened out the rumpled cravat and regained
his composure. A feeling of weightlessness descended whilst eyes of cognac
locked with eyes of emerald. “Indeed. I underestimate many things about you,
Monsieur le Comte.
But no—never your power.”

•

Sofia hadn’t stirred a limb, though the memorial had been over for a
good hour. The onlookers had more or less cleared out, plunging the cemetery
into eerie silence. Needing privacy and peace of mind—unable to stomach the
sight of Aleksender and his relatives a moment longer—she’d wandered away from
the memorial. Angelic monuments and towering mausoleums filled her vision. A
raven’s call mated with the whispering wind as the trees gently swayed,
sweeping a sweet fragrance into her nostrils.

How strange it was, being surrounded by death.
She scanned the
jagged, grave-filled horizon with an ache in her heart. Many of the tombstones
were overgrown with weeds, long forgotten by their loved ones. She crouched to
her knees, seated herself in front of a rather sad-looking grave, and brushed
away a tangle of wild greenery.

Sofia picked one of Père Lachaise’s native roses and laid it atop
Dumont’s stone. The inscription’s simplistic wording spoke for itself. Maurice
Vincent Dumont had died a lonely man.

Sofia inhaled a dejected sigh and came to her feet. Her thoughts
shattered as a breeze stirred, wrenching the crimson handkerchief from her
fingers. The wind playfully tossed it about, throwing it this way and that,
spiriting away the beloved silk. Its scarlet material brilliantly clashed
against the baby blue sky. She picked up her skirts and surged forward. A soft
protest left her lips as she pursued the precious keepsake.

Her eyes followed its lazy descent as it fluttered to the ground with a
somersault. A second later it stilled, barricaded against a gentleman’s
polished boot.

He lowered gracefully to his knees and fetched the handkerchief,
brushing away nonexistent specks of dirt.
“My lady.”

He was very handsome, boasting a broad, dimpled chin and wholesome good
looks. But something warned her that he was every bit rogue.

She frowned and chewed absently at her bottom lip. An ugly scar disfigured
his cheek—the one blemish to an otherwise startling face—stretching from ear to
mouth. Sofia tore her stare away, inwardly cursing herself. Really—she, of all
people, ought to have known better.

The gentleman surprised Sofia and only grinned. Outlining the raised
flesh with a fingertip, he murmured in an easy drawl, “A knife wound.” Her lips
parted in speech but no sound came. His grin widened to impossible limits. “No
worries. I’m of no danger to you, I assure—far from a pick-pocket or alleyway
brute.” A brief silence pressed between them. He stared up at the setting sun
and exhaled the sigh of a tired man.
A man who had seen and
lived unthinkable tragedy.
“I recently returned from the war.”