Love Storm (35 page)

They ate a quiet supper in their room and retired early. Sleep eluded Zena for hours. She tossed restlessly, her mind assessing the endless reasons Alex hadn't come. Deep in her heart she excused him a million ways. Maybe he'd returned home, and the note would take a day to reach him. Maybe he'd gone out with Yuri and hadn't returned yet. The excuses multiplied and mounted, her spirit
un
able to cope with the frightening possibility that Sasha had read the note and didn't care enough to respond. She would give herself one more day, and if she hadn't heard from him by tomorrow evening, she and Bobby would go abroad. Her whole body trembled at the thought of the future. Much as she wanted Alex, to beg was intolerable. She'd wait, hope fading, one more day. She lay in the darkness silently crying for her husband; the tears ran over her temples and into her hair.

The note in question, the missive that contained the anguished outpourings of Zena's heart, was delivered to the club promptly by the messenger. While the messenger was inquiring of the doorman the direction of Prince Alexander's room, Baron Matsenov sauntered in, returning from his afternoon ride.

"Prince Alexander Kuzan? You looking for Archer? I'm going up to see him now. I'll take it and save you the trip." Tossing a silver ruble to the messenger, he was handed the envelope and proceeded up the stairs.

The baron knocked on Alex's door. He had still been up when Alex returned to the party in the wee hours of the morning, and they had made arrangements to go look at Alex's stud at Serpukhov. Baron Matsenov didn't recall the exact details of their plans, and he was going to check on those particulars now with Alex. Knocking once more and receiving no answer, he decided Archer was either still sleeping or entertaining one of the gypsy wenches.

In any event, his questions would wait; they were all planning on meeting at Yar's for dinner that night. He could talk to Archer then. Slipping the envelope into his jacket pocket, the baron resolved to deliver the letter later. Sliding an envelope under the door might be distracting if Archer were entertaining a female.

At this point heinous fate intervened. On the way to his own room Baron Matsenov was intercepted by his cousin with both sad and happy news. The elder Baron Matsenov, from whom the son had been estranged for several years, had but recently passed to the other side in the arms of the holy monks to whom the elder was much attached and to whom the son resentfully attributed the parental estrangement. His father's death was sorrowful news, although the old baron had lived a long and pious life. Heaven would welcome him. The happy tidings were that the scandalous young baron had providentially
not
been disowned by his father's will as so often threatened.

During the past year as the health of the elder baron had seriously deteriorated, the priests from the Monastery of the Trinity and Saint Sergius had been advising the old baron to change his will. They insinuated that the manner in which his wealth would be dissipated by a licentious son would be a sin in the eyes of God.

Peotr had been aware of the machinations and lived in the very real fear that he might be left a pauper. He breathed a sigh of relief. "Maybe the old bastard cared a little about me underneath all that zealous religious frenzy," he said to his cousin. "Let's go and give him a proper burial and kick out all those priestly spongers who have been living off his estate the past ten years."

"If we hurry we can catch the four o'clock train to Nijni Novgorod," his cousin replied.

"Do I have time to change? A hacking jacket and buckskins aren't exactly proper attire for traveling."

"No time, Peotr. Good Lord, you're so rich now you can afford to be eccentric. Travel in whatever you like."

In this convoluted fashion Zena's message traveled into the country halfway to Perm in the pocket of Baron Matsenov's hacking jacket. As the affairs of the estate were in great disorder due to ten years of priestly intrigues, Baron Matsenov was forced to extend his visit several months after the burial of his father. The elegant hacking jacket hung unused in his closet. In its pocket reposed Zena's tender, anguished avowal of love for her husband.

Alex slept the entire day away, waking at seven and dressing leisurely for dinner. He and a group of his friends were dining at Yar's tonight. Memories of the quarrel kept recurring despite his best efforts. He refused to think of his marital squabbles anymore, he decided with finality. He'd go out tonight with Yuri and head back to the
dacha
after he woke tomorrow.

It was too bad all this senseless wrangling was constantly arising, but he supposed a great deal of it was his fault. Try as he would, it was impossible to reconcile himself to marriage; he was just too young to settle down. He'd talk to Zena tomorrow, quietly and rationally, when he returned home. Maybe they could come to some amiable agreement in their relationship so that this continuous bitter repartee could be ended. He had to have more freedom, that was all. Staying home every night and playing dutiful husband wasn't his style. Perhaps after the baby was born, Zena could be induced to take a prolonged vacation at one of the German health spas. Then he'd have a few months to kick off the traces and be ready to re-embrace domesticity for a time. They'd talk it over tomorrow.

In the meantime there was tonight. If that pretty gypsy charmer could be found, the tables would be turned. He'd be the pursuer this time.

While Zena sobbed herself to sleep in the gloomy solitude of her hotel room, Alex passed the evening in an atmosphere of gay conviviality in a private second-floor dining room at Yar's. The food was superb, the restaurant cellars were above reproach, and damned if Yuri hadn't known the little puss's name. The comely dark gypsy was, at the moment, seated on the table directly in front of Alex with her legs straddling his shoulders. He was partaking of dessert.

Alex spent the night in a gypsy lair deep in the heart of the city, and the sun was almost setting again by the time he emerged from the narrow, dingy street. Christ, he was tired—too fatigued to face a serious marital discussion. He decided to sleep at the club and go home the next day.

The following morning, as Alex was leisurely riding the quiet road home in the cool serenity of a summer forenoon, a tearful young woman and a young boy were boarding the train to Warsaw. She was weary, and her heart was broken. It remained only to go away, as far away as possible from the man who had crushed her soul.

Zena had decided on Nice as a destination. It was warm in winter, suitable for her child who would be born in October. The temperate climate would be healthy for a young baby during its early months. Nice had the further advantage of being a vast distance away from Sasha. As a third consideration the Mediterranean town had a large Russian colony, for the proximity to Monte Carlo was convenient. She wouldn't feel so homesick in exile if fellow countrymen could occasionally be seen. Zena had considered going to her grandfather, but the primitive remoteness of the area caused her apprehension. This was her first travail, and if something went wrong or if the delivery was difficult, she didn't want to be a seven-day journey from a doctor.

Despite her grandfather's good intentions, his autocratic attitude, nurtured by decades of obeisance, was intimidating. Perhaps he would arbitrarily decide to have her divorce Sasha and marry one of his knights. He had suggested several suitors to her before her marriage. The possibility was terrifying. Sasha may not want her, it was quite obvious, since he had declined to respond to her note, but she loved him still. The thought of being forced to marry someone else was appalling. She was afraid of her grandfather. He had been a virtual dictator for fifty years. She didn't have the audacity to withstand his authority.

As the train progressed through the gently rolling countryside, her vacant eyes stared sightlessly at the summer landscape. Over and over again painful thoughts of her unrequited passion for Sasha wove through her mind. It felt almost as though she were physically ill. She was drowning in a maelstrom of humiliation and rejection. She had been one more in a long succession of female houseguests, one who had lasted a little longer than usual and was leaving with the added burden of the prince's unwanted child. He didn't care enough even about his child to answer her note.

At those times when her mind reflected on Sasha's lack of concern for his own child, her mood would swing suddenly to the most violent anger. She would have liked to beat him with her bare hands, hurt him with any weapon she had, scream abuse into that handsome, haughty, indifferent face that could stare so blankly right through her. If she had had it in her power at those times of bitterness, she would have made him suffer. Her love was overwhelmed by such savage hate that her breathing would quicken with the fury. She wished she could hurt him as he had so carelessly hurt her. She had been merely an amusing diversion that had suddenly ceased to be amusing, and with the most casual, bland disinterest he had let her go as effortlessly as a child lets go of a balloon string.

She hated him, hated him, her miserable heart cried vehemently. But then she'd break out in a fresh torrent of tears, for underneath she wanted him still.

Zena experienced a terrible, unspeakable grief, a helpless sense of loss and loneliness. The daunting prospect of spending the rest of her life without Sasha was almost too much to bear. Then fresh resolve would prevail. Stop crying and bemoaning your fate, she sternly commanded herself. He wasn't the only man in the world, and for the next year she was going to be very busy taking care of a new baby and Bobby. The daily tasks would push aside the melancholy musings, and thoughts of caring for her baby warmed her soul.

When her thoughts would flow in that direction, she was almost cheerful again, and she twined happy dreams of herself and Bobby and the baby living peacefully in the pleasant, warm climate of Nice. They'd survive comfortably, at least for a time. She had taken all the jewelry Sasha had given her. When it was sold in Nice it would keep her comfortably for a long while.

Alex arrived at the
dacha
at lunchtime. Walking into the small west parlor, he expected to find Zena and Bobby eating their midday meal. Seeing no one there, he turned to inquire their direction from a servant. With faint astonishment he discovered not a muzhik was in sight. Now this circumstance was so unusual that the condition caused him the vaguest disquiet, as the French aristocrats must have felt as their servants melted away before their eyes just preliminary to their setting torch to the
châteaux.
Alex's mind flashed back to his greeting from Trevor at the front entrance. Very subdued, he recalled, while prior to that the groom who had taken his horse at the door seemed unusually agitated.

"Where the hell is everyone?" the prince roared in a voice that echoed through three levels of the
dacha.

He stood in the entrance to the parlor waiting, persuaded that his household boasted a sufficiency of servants to expect some kind of response. Ivan appeared directly from his office at the back of the house.

"Where is everyone?" Alex repeated, bewildered.

Ivan pursed his lips briefly and then plunged in. As steward he supposed it was his responsibility to shoulder Sasha's wrath.

"They're avoiding you," he said quietly.

"Why?" Alex asked suspiciously. Quickly he asked, "Is

Zena all right?" Things could go wrong during pregnancies. Jesus, was she hurt?

"I think so. I'm not sure."

"You
think
so? What do you mean?"

"She isn't here, Sasha. She left with Bobby two days ago and said she was going to her grandfather's. Vladimir drove her to the Hotel
d'Angleterre."

"She's gone?" Alex exclaimed incredulously. All his benevolent intentions of a rational, warm marital agreement vanished. "The bitch," he exploded. "The impudent bitch!"

Aware that his steward was still standing there, Alex curbed his wrath. "Thanks, Ivan. You're a brave soul. Tell the rest of the servants they can come out of the woodwork now. No one's head's coming off. It's not their fault she left. Have some brandy sent up to my room"

When he entered their apartment, he carefully searched all the likely places a note may have been left. No note. It would have been decent of the little bitch to at least leave a line or two. So much for his ideas about marital agreements and harmonious living.

Well, good riddance. Her grandfather was welcome to her. Talk about two birds of a feather, both of tempestuous dispositions. Christ, that old Tartar was a throwback to medieval times, still ruling a feudal fiefdom in the last years of the nineteenth century as though five hundred years had never elapsed.

If Zena was going to be that childish and run off every time they had a violent argument, then damn her, let her go. She knew where he was. She could come back when she was ready.

A soft knock on the door signaled the delivery of the brandy.