Zoya

“Is that right? Imagine that … it seems like only moments ago when you were flying up the stairs, late for dinner as usual, wearing wet boots on the stairs, with your hair looking as though you'd combed it with a pitchfork….” He was fully prepared to go on and she threw her napkin at him, as her mother looked faint and glanced imploringly at their father.

“Konstantin, please make them stop it! They make me so terribly nervous.”

“It is only a love song, my dear,” the Countess Evgenia said wisely. “That is the only way they know to converse with each other at this point in their lives. My children were always pulling each other's hair, and throwing their shoes at each other. Didn't you, Konstantin?” He gave a crack of laughter as he looked sheepishly at his mother.

“I'm afraid I wasn't very well behaved when I was young either, my dear.” He looked lovingly at his wife, and then happily around the table as he stood up, bowed slightly to all of them, and preceded his son into a small adjoining sitting room, where they could converse in private. Like his wife, he hoped that Nicolai had not appeared to tell them he was getting married.

And as they sat down quietly near the fire, the elegant gold cigarette case Nicolai took from the pocket of his uniform did not go unnoticed. It was one of Carl Fabergo's more typical designs, in pink and yellow gold with a very pretty sapphire thumbpiece. Konstantin was almost certain that the workmaster was either Hollming or Wigstrom.

“A new bauble, Nicolai?” Like his wife, he had also heard the story of Nicolai's allegedly very pretty little dancer.

“A gift from a friend, Papa.”

Konstantin smiled indulgently. “That's more or less what I was afraid of.” Both men laughed and Nicolai furrowed his brow. He was still young but he was wise for his years, and he had a sharp mind in addition to his good looks. He was most emphatically a son to be proud of.

“You have nothing to worry about, Father. In spite of what you hear, I'm only having a little fun, nothing serious, I promise you.”

“Good. Then what brought you here tonight?”

Nicolai looked worried as he stared into the fire, and then into his father's eyes. “Something a great deal more important. I'm hearing unpleasant things about the Tsar, that he's tired, that he's sick, that he shouldn't be in charge of the troops. Father, you must be hearing it too.”

“I am.” He nodded slowly and watched his son. “But I still believe that he will not fail us.”

“I was at a party with Ambassador Paléologue last night. He paints a very gloomy picture. He thinks the shortages of food and fuel are far more serious than we admit to ourselves, the strain of the war is taking its toll. We are supplying six million men at the front, and we're barely able to take care of our own at home. He's afraid that we might crack … that Russia might crack … that Nicholas might crack … and then what, Father? Do you think he's right?”

Konstantin thought about it for a long time, and finally shook his head. “No, I don't. Yes, I think we're feeling the strain of all that, and so is Nicholas. But this is Russia, Nicolai, this is not a tiny, weak country in the middle of nowhere. We are a people of stamina and strength, and no matter how difficult the conditions without or within, we will not crack. Ever.” It was what he believed, and Nicolai found it reassuring.

‘The Duma reconvenes tomorrow. It will be interesting to see what happens then.”

“Nothing will happen, my son. Russia is for always and forever. Surely you must know that” He looked warmly at his son, and the youth felt better again.

“I do. Maybe I just needed to hear it.”

“We all do sometimes. You must be strong for Nicholas, for all of us, for your country. We must all be strong now, and the good times Moll come again. The war can't go on forever.”

“It's an awful thing.” They were both aware of how severe had been their losses. But none of that had to mean an end to what they held dear. Now that he thought of it, Nicolai felt foolish for having been so worried. It was just that the French ambassador had been so convincing with his predictions of doom. He was glad now that he had come to talk to his father. “Is Mother all right?” Nicolai had found her even more nervous than usual, or perhaps it struck him more now because he saw her less often, but Konstantin only smiled.

“She worries about the war too … and about you … and about me … and about Zoya. … She's quite a handful.”

“Lovely, though, isn't she?” He spoke of Zoya with a warmth and admiration he would have denied vehemently had anyone told her. “Half my regiment seems to be in love with her. I spend most of my time threatening to murder them.”

His father laughed, and then shook his head sadly. “It's a shame she has to come out during wartime. Perhaps it'll all be over by June.” It was a hope they both shared, but which Nicolai feared wasn't likely.