loss and all the ominous considerations contingent on the battle for Kars. 'Our Kurdish warriors will stand guard, as well,' he reminded her. 'Rely on them.' There wasn't time to deal with emotion.
He moved his aunt away at arm's length and with an attempt at a smile said, 'Wish me luck.'
'May all the gods watch over you,' Militza whispered, gazing at the formidable soldier who had replaced the young boy she'd once consoled. 'And don't worry about Lise,' she added in a more forceful tone. 'I'll see that she and your child are well cared for.'
Bending low, he kissed her gently on the cheek and then his hands dropped away from her shoulders. Turning to his counselor, he put out his hand. 'Thank you, Gorky, for coming at such short notice.' His grip was strong and his natural courtesy brought a smile to Gorkov's face.
'It was my pleasure, Excellency.'
Stefan smiled, glanced in swift survey at the papers on his library table that Gorkov had arranged in neat succession and began moving toward them. 'I'll sign the papers now and you fill in the particulars. If you have any questions-' he looked over to his aunt '-Masha will make any decisions I may have forgotten.'
Militza nodded, unable to speak. His words were too final this time. A new restlessness invested his mood and behavior, although anyone less familiar with Stefan might not have noticed. He was seriously aware for the first time of the impermanence of life. This stop to meet with Gorkov wasn't husbandly efficiency, it was dark premonition.
Stefan reached for the pen Gorkov was holding out for him and a few moments later his task was completed. 'Thank you, Masha; thank you, Gorky.' He gave a brief flash of his dazzling smile.
Charged with poignant feeling too new and dear to discuss with Militza, Stefan sprinted up the staircase to the bedrooms on the second floor. Entering his room, he walked directly to the small traveling desk that had been his father's. Sitting down, he drew out paper from the gilt-mounted drawer for what might be his last message for his family. Writing to Lise first, he told her how much he loved her, that no superlatives however profound could ever adequately convey his feelings. She was his entire happiness, his world, and he missed her terribly already. His thoughts were brimful with her enchanting image and he'd write every night-if possible. 'If I shouldn't return,' he wrote at the very last, the words reluctant to be formed by his pen, 'I'll always be at your side. From my heart, Stepka.'
Folding the page, he slipped it into an envelope with Lisaveta's name boldly scripted on the outside and propped it on his mantel so she'd be sure to see it.
Returning to his desk, he began the most difficult letter he'd ever written, because the simple act of writing meant he was acknowledging his mortality in words, and acknowledging the foreboding shadows of doom that had been plaguing him since Moscow. He wrote slowly, each word melancholy in its implications, for he was addressing his unborn child in a letter the child would only receive if he himself died at Kars.
All his life, Stefan had been conscious of an illusive spirit, a guardian jinn protecting him. Now, in the past few days, he'd experienced curious sensations, elusive shivers of gloom giving warning his charmed life might be over- just as his father's had so suddenly been cast away-and he'd relied on intrinsic luck too long to ignore his feelings.
'Dearest one,' he wrote, trying to imagine what his child would look like-chubby and pink and precious as a king's ransom.
I wish you welcome on your day of birth and kiss your sweet face. If I could have been with your mother holding her hand today, I would have been the happiest of men. I love you, dearest one, with all my heart. Kiss your mama for me and hold her close.
Watching over you,
Papa
He would have liked to say so much more; he would have liked to tell his son or daughter of the pleasures life held in store, of the joy the birth would bring to the house of Bariatinsky-Orbeliani and to himself; he would have liked to leave a note for every day of his child's life so it might know him, too, and love him. But the desktop clock seemed to be talking to him as its small pendulum swung before his eyes, the soft ticking echoing in the silent room. Hurry, it was admonishing, or all might be lost; hurry, it warned, Hussein Pasha is on the march; hurry… hurry… hurry.
So he addressed an envelope simply 'Baby' and slid his note inside. Should he leave it with Georgi to give to Lise later or send it to her in the coming months, or should it go with his will to be read… when necessary? He sighed, debating the options, uncertain, finding it too difficult in the end to reach a decision. Sealing the note, he left it lying on the desk and, standing, took a last look around the room that had been his since adolescence.
Touched by an overwhelming melancholy, he paused at the door for a final glance, then softly closed the door behind him.
Chapter Eighteen
When Lisaveta's carriage arrived late that evening, her drivers having been under orders from Stefan to travel slowly for the sake of his wife's 'delicate health,' the entire palace was ablaze with lights, and before Lisaveta could alight, the staff appeared en masse on the drive as if they'd been waiting behind the cypress and rhododendrons lining the raked gravel.
As Lisaveta was handed down from the blue-lacquered carriage, Militza hurried forward to embrace her. 'Welcome, Lise, darling, to your home,' Stefan's aunt declared warmly, her voice joyful, her smile beaming. 'We are all ecstatic with Stefan's choice of bride.'
'Thank you, Masha,' Lisaveta replied, enchanted with the extent of her reception, wanting very much for Stefan's family and retainers to like her. 'I'm happy to be here.'
Militza was already leading her over to the line of servants. 'You must say hello to everyone. We've all been on pins and needles since word of the wedding reached us. What a clever boy, Stefan is,' she added like a doting parent, patting Lisaveta on her arm. 'You're perfect.'
Lisaveta couldn't have asked for more warmth and affection from Militza and all the staff. As she passed down the line of bobbing and curtsying servants she couldn't have felt more welcome at her own estate. Georgi had a brief speech after which he motioned forward a young child who was carrying a large bouquet of yellow roses. The little girl forgot her lines, but she blushed prettily and thrust the flowers toward Lisaveta with her eyes closed. Stooping down to her level, Lisaveta thanked her and asked her her name.
And when Lisaveta hugged her, she immediately became the darling of the staff. Their Prince had done well, they all agreed, exchanging significant smiling glances.
Lisaveta had cautioned herself on her long journey to be realistic about Stefan's participation in the war, to face it stoically as he would wish her to, and she hadn't intended bringing up the subject unless Militza did so first. But as they ascended the stairway into the palace, she found herself asking, 'How did Stefan seem when you saw him?' At Militza's hesitation, she quickly added, 'He passed through Tiflis, didn't he?' A tiny hope that existed beyond the limits of her logic wished Militza would say he was upstairs sleeping or at the stables organizing his gear or something equally prosaic.
'Stefan stopped briefly this afternoon,' Militza said, relegating tiny hopes back to their dreamworld, 'to change his uniform and allow his troopers a meal. He stayed no more than twenty minutes with Hussein Pasha on the move.' She didn't mention the will, for she knew Lisaveta would find the subject distressing. 'How was your journey from Vladikavkaz?' Militza said instead. 'Did you find it tiring?'
Lisaveta glanced at the enormous bronze doors opening before them as two liveried footmen put their shoulders to their weight. She thought of Stefan riding somewhere across the high plateau under the same moon that illuminated Tiflis and said with a true weariness,
'It's the baby and natural. Stefan is vastly pleased,' Masha added when Lisaveta's expression indicated her surprise. 'He's telling everyone.'
'Everyone's so certain,' Lisaveta replied in a small voice.
'Stefan says he counts better than you do.' Militza was smiling.
