The Lost Souls of Angelkov (21 page)

Antonina backed, barely breathing, into the passageway, and just as soundlessly closed the door.

Her legs were weak. She sat in the dark on the top step. Her heart was a steady flutter, her face damp in spite of the chill of the passage. She realized that she herself was giving off an odour, something sweet and hot, as though that same smooth, warm wax that coated her hand now ran through her body. Although disgusted with her mother, Antonina was aroused at the sight of her with the man. But only because she suddenly realized she wanted that—to be doing just that—with the young serf violinist.

She crept back down the stairs. There were no voices in her father’s study. She pushed open the panel and hurried through the empty room. The guests were now assembling in the ballroom, and she ran up the stairs without having to speak to anyone.

In her own room, she closed the door and leaned against it, breathing heavily—not only from the hurried pace, but from what she had just experienced.

Late the next afternoon, her father’s acting troupe put on a play—a love triangle with a few rather predictable comedic overtones—but Antonina found it difficult to concentrate. The production was followed by hors d’oeuvres and some organized rounds of whist and
vint
. The one hundred and twelve guests were eventually treated to an elaborate dinner and more champagne, to be followed by another night of dancing.

Antonina had slipped away from the dinner as the orchestra’s musicians were tuning their instruments, readying for their performance. As she had at the rehearsal a few days before, Antonina watched the orchestra, this time slightly hidden as she sat in a high-backed settee with curving sides. The room reverberated with the cacophony of keys, strings and woodwinds.

She openly studied the young violinist, sitting with his violin and bow, his music stand empty in front of him. The cellist spoke to him, and it was clear to Antonina that the violinist was lost in thought. The cellist had to touch him on the shoulder before he looked up at the older man. Antonina saw the fine curve of his lips as the violinist spoke, the way his hair gleamed in the light of the candelabra. She thought of his hands on her naked hips as they had been on her mother’s.

Twice Antonina, on the arm of a friend’s brother, threaded her way through weaving mazurkas with three other couples,
and then danced a waltz with an unknown young man who held her lightly enough that she wasn’t uncomfortable. She liked to dance, and even though she had no interest in her dance partners, she smiled unconsciously as she danced a polka and then a quadrille.

Every time she whirled past the orchestra, she caught the eye of the violinist. When she declined another polka with a lieutenant in too-tight trousers, claiming that she needed to rest her toes, she took her glass of champagne and stood in a cluster of unmarried young women from neighbouring estates. They fanned themselves and spoke in high, breathless tones, watching the dancers and discussing the charms of certain men. While Antonina smiled, nodding at their conversation, she tried to keep the violinist in her line of vision.

The orchestra rested their instruments to prepare for another number, and Antonina saw her mother flirting openly with the lieutenant in the tight trousers, touching the rim of his ear and laughing gaily, then whispering something against his cheek. The lieutenant laughed heartily, squeezing her waist. Antonina looked at the violinist. He was also watching her mother, his mouth tight as he busied himself with stroking his strings with a block of resin.

Antonina was ashamed for her mother, and angry at her for so pointedly demonstrating how very unimportant the violinist was to her.

“Mother,” Antonina said, going to her, pulling on her hand so that Galina Maximova had to reluctantly leave the lieutenant. “I want the orchestra to play Glinka’s Separation in F Minor. It’s my favourite.”

Her mother waved her hand in the orchestra’s direction. “Give them the order, then.”

They stood near the violinist. Antonina looked at him. “Excuse me,” she said, stepping up to the low platform.

The violinist put down his resin and stood. He studied her, and then her mother, with a steady, cool gaze. “Mother,” Antonina said, “I believe the two of you have met. Isn’t this so?”

Neither her mother nor the violinist answered her, but the young man bowed to Antonina. “I am Valentin Vladimirovitch Kropotkin.” He lifted his head and looked into her eyes. It was the same look he had given her over her mother’s shoulder.

Antonina’s breathing quickened despite her efforts to control it. “I told my mother that I wished the orchestra to play Glinka’s Separation in F Minor. Would you play it for me?” Standing so close to the violinist was making her heart pound. Without waiting for him to answer, she looked back at her mother. “I’m sure, Mother, that you can persuade him to do anything you wish. Can’t you?”

Galina Maximova frowned, glancing at the violinist and then back at Antonina. “What do you mean, Antonina?”

“You know what I mean, Mother. Haven’t you already asked him to do your bidding?”

“Mademoiselle, it is of course up to you,” the violinist said, ignoring Galina Maximova and speaking directly to Antonina. “It is your party, after all. I will talk to the maestro about the change.”

Antonina’s mother stopped a server, taking a glass of champagne from the tray.

“It would be a great pleasure to play something special for you at your name day celebration, Princess Olonova. We have all of Glinka’s music. We shall play it as the finale, if that is to your liking.”

Antonina liked the sound of his voice. She also liked that he was ignoring her mother. “Yes. Thank you,” she said, unsmiling. “Valentin Vladimirovitch,” she added, giving him the respect of calling him by his proper name.

As the orchestra finished their last waltz at three in the morning, the guests, damp with perspiration, moved to leave the ballroom. But the conductor loudly tapped his stand, calling out, “Ladies and gentlemen. If I may, we have one last piece. It is not a dance, but a special performance for the Princess Antonina Leonidovna, our gift to her in celebration of her name day.”

He looked at her, and Antonina bowed her head in thanks. The rest of the guests stopped where they were, a few still talking, and watched the orchestra.

The conductor turned back to the men and lifted his baton. Antonina smiled openly at the violinist. He smiled back at her.

She pressed her fingertips to her lips as she watched his face, intense and expressive as he accompanied the pianist. She thought again how she had seen his hands so loosely set on her mother’s slightly fleshy hips, and wanted to feel them on her own bare skin.

When the last note of the nocturne had faded, she, along with the others, clapped enthusiastically. The orchestra rose as one, bowing deeply. Still Antonina watched the violinist. As he straightened, he tossed his head to swing a lock of hair from his forehead and looked directly at her.

The guests left the ballroom, but still Antonina lingered as the orchestra began packing up their instruments. As she hoped, the violinist came to her, a sheaf of music in his hand.

“I have asked the pianist to allow me to present you a copy of a number of Glinka’s pieces,” he said. “Although they are well used, and you may already own some of them, perhaps, when you play—I assume you play?” he asked, and when Antonina nodded, he added, “—you will remember your name day.”

I will remember you
, Antonina thought.

“May I inscribe them to you?” he asked, and she nodded again, flustered.

“There is pen and ink in the vestibule,” she said, “near the guest book.”

“If I may …?” Valentin asked, and Antonina turned and went into the huge, echoing hallway, with the violinist following.

There he bent over the top page, writing. As they waited for the ink to dry, Antonina read what he had written:
To Antonina Leonidovna on her name day. With great admiration and respect, Valentin Vladimirovitch. Dated March 14, 1849
.

“I know this gift cannot in the smallest way match any of your others,” Valentin said, gesturing at the table with its riches of celebratory presents Antonina had received from her guests.

She picked up the pages. “I believe this music is the most special,” she said, shocked at her forwardness. “Every time I play it, I will remember who gave it to me.” His handwriting was very fine.

“Perhaps, after we perform at the final luncheon tomorrow, you will do the honour of playing for me,” Valentin said.

Antonina smiled at him.

She didn’t see her mother studying her, her brow slightly furrowed.

The sheets of Glinka music sat on her dressing table. Antonina thought of the young violinist while she fell asleep. She slept deeply, and arose happy at the thought of seeing him again that day. She gave much thought to which piano composition she would play for him.

When she went downstairs, she avoided the guests enjoying breakfast in the huge dining room, slipping into the breakfast room for a quiet cup of tea. She was surprised to see her mother and father sitting together, talking quietly, in the sunlit room. They stopped when she came through the glass doors. Antonina wondered why they weren’t with their house guests for breakfast.

It was odd to see them together, looking strangely pleased, Antonina thought. As if they had, for once, agreed upon something. While she ate a sweet roll and drank a cup of tea, her parents spoke briefly of the success of the evening before.

“What time is the luncheon and performance scheduled for today?” Antonina asked, hoping the question appeared nonchalant. She reached for another roll.

Her mother’s eyelids lowered slightly. “Actually, I have dismissed the orchestra. They left an hour ago.” Then she smiled at Antonina, an open, careless smile. “The luncheon will be at one o’clock.”

Antonina pulled her hand back from the plate of sweet rolls and opened her mouth to protest. Staring at her mother, she closed it again. What could she protest? She hated her at that moment.

“I want you to come to my study,” her father said then.

She rose, avoiding looking at her mother.