Riding along the edges of the ponds, he already knew. He had no doubts or worries. He just tried not to give in too soon. Ordinarily he might notice that no forest seemed more ideal for hunting, that none of the four hundred lakes in the district looked so suitable for fishing. He could talk himself silly with observations and obvious facts. But no matter what he said or did, on the road to Machouk, he was consumed with something other than fish and game. The mystery of this aquatic landscape, the great trees that swayed languidly between water and sky, the rustle of game, and the birds’ cries all contributed to his state of mind, suspended somewhere between wakefulness and dreaming. All around him he felt intense forces at play; he sensed the cause of all his sleepless nights the September before, when he had waited, hoped, and searched in vain for the return of the Amazon. He would not let her escape a second time.
He needed no proof that the young woman at the relay post was the woodland rider. He didn’t even think about it. No more than he thought of those big, dark eyes, the blonde tendrils at the nape of her neck, the curls that fell from her temples, her laugh, and all the other details that possessed his mind. Her face was already such an intimate part of him that its individual traits no longer mattered. Its passion and freedom were a part of him, and he carried the softness of the way she looked at him deep within himself. Lisa’s very self haunted him body and soul.
However, he was not prepared for the universe he would discover at Machouk.
Turning in beneath an arbor of trees, at the end of the lane he saw a wooden manor house that entirely blocked the lawn. It was a low white house situated at ground level, with a veranda that wrapped around it on all sides. He hesitated, his heart racing.
All his senses alert, he came forward almost solemnly, intuitively sensing the importance of this moment. The most minute details were inscribed in his memory. He noticed, for example, that the entire house was bathed in light, inundated by the sun’s rays streaming through the French doors that opened wide onto the terrace. Unobstructed by blinds or curtains, the light spilled out over the lawn on the other side. The garden behind the house was aflame with peonies, and several people were playing badminton beneath the chestnut trees near a long white table. Far beyond them, below the park, a winding river sparkled in the sunlight like a silver serpent.
As he came nearer, he realized that he had been mistaken. A muslin curtain veiled one of the casements on the right side of the façade and fluttered in the breeze. Pausing in the springtime heat, he could hear through the window the sound of a piano playing a lively Glinka variation on an Italian theme. It was a piece Jamal Eddin knew and loved, and it made him feel all the more keyed up.
He jumped down from the horse and handed the reins to the groom, then waited at the bottom of the steps as a servant disappeared inside the house to announce his arrival. He tried to smother his timidity by distracting himself with other sensations—memories of the cottage at Peterhof-Alexandria, the feelings the Glinka divertimento evoked, the colors, the sounds, and the scents all around him. He breathed in the perfume of the orange trees, which were aligned in large planters along the guardrail of the veranda above him. Everything—the clutter of furniture on the veranda, the buttercup-yellow satin that covered the chairs, even the yellow tablecloth on the pedestal table—seemed to be soaked in sunshine.
The wasps buzzed in the lilacs.
The piano was still.
Now he saw the ruffles of a gown rapidly approaching. He wished the Glinka melody would go on and that the rustling skirt would never reach the perron.
Expecting Lisa Petrovna to suddenly appear before him, he was disappointed.
The woman who stood at the top of the steps had gray hair. She was beautiful, with a round face and black eyes, and she looked down into his face with the same gaiety and self-confidence that Jamal Eddin had found so captivating in the young woman at the relay post.
“You’re Lieutenant Shamil, aren’t you?”
She smiled at him kindly.
“We’ve been expecting your visit.”
So here was the woman who ruled over this marvelous domain. He did not know the heritage of her past, or that Machouk came from her first name, Macha. Initially built on other grounds by her illustrious forbears, the Lvov princes, the house had been her wedding gift when she married the painter Piotr Olenin. It was she, Princess Maria Nicolaïevna Lvova, who had had the house transported and reassembled here, board by board, enthroned in light above the ponds and the meadows. Her five children had been born at Machouk and their home had witnessed twenty years of untroubled conjugal bliss. The kindness in the eyes that met Jamal Eddin’s at this moment was a good indication that this woman had a gift for happiness, one that she shared freely everywhere she went.
He felt immediately at ease in her presence. And the instantaneous fondness was reciprocated.
“You are most welcome here. Our aunt can’t stop talking about your surprise encounter. Come in, come in.”
He strode after her across the salon.
From between the branches of the chestnut trees that bowed low over her chaise longue, Lisa Petrovna saw the young man she was waiting for suddenly appear on the terrace with her mother. Lieutenant Shamil at Machouk? A flush of joy enveloped her entire being. At last. She did not move, savoring the vision of Jamal Eddin as he walked toward the table where all her loved ones were seated. He greeted her father, her sister, her two brothers, her nanny, the Lvov cousins, even Coutin, her grandparents’ old governess. He even kissed Aunt Tatiana Borissovna, who had risen to embrace him, addressing him in French, as “my darling, my heart, my favorite,” rolling the “r’s” in her loud, lilting voice. Lisa did not get up. She would wait for him to come over to the chestnut trees. It had taken four long years to arrive at this point.
She had by no means exaggerated the day before when she said that they had been introduced on numerous occasions. What she had not mentioned were the consecutive maneuvers she had employed to arrange this series of encounters. The first time? She remembered the gown of white tulle she had worn that evening, the rose in her hair, her ribbons and slippers. She had never felt so pretty, and she was surprised at having been so invisible. True, she had only been fourteen at Count Kiselyev’s party honoring Captain Dmitri Milyutin’s second return from Chechnya. La Potemkina had arranged for her to be invited to the children’s ball that the count gave for his youngest nephews. But Lisa could only listen to Sacha and his friends’ discourse from afar. Seated at the table surrounded by governesses, she had so envied the Georgian princesses who seemed to be having such fun in the company of the cadets. She had even heard their argument about the Caucasus and the honor of the Montagnards and the harsh exchange that ensued between the student from the Lycée Impérial and the most dignified of all the young men, until then the most silent and most reserved of the group. This boy’s bearing had appealed to her. She had decided to reward him by choosing him as her partner to dance what would be her very first waltz with a real suitor. But he had disappeared.
Much, much later, when she had spotted his tall figure in the salons, she had felt the same flush of pleasure and was met with the same disappointment. In an effort to get to know him, she had placed herself in his path. Afraid that he might be put off by a direct approach, she had always managed to meet him in the company of her cousins, her aunts, and a gaggle of chaperones who would draw no special attention to her. But in this last ploy she had been all too successful. Her name, her face, her entire person were lost in the mass, drowned in a sea of vague relations. He had greeted her as he had all the others, bowing with the same courtesy and aloof politeness that he had accorded all the ladies. He had looked right through her—and with good reason. He was utterly blinded by another and had eyes only for his love, the princess Varenka of Georgia.