Last year, Lisa had learned that Jamal Eddin’s regiment was stationed in town. By this time she knew the story of his origins—and she knew of his fondness for horses. She herself was a horsewoman of such unparalleled excellence that last winter, during the season of balls at her aunt’s, the czar had allowed her to train on the obstacle course of the imperial stables. To this day, she was the only young woman to have enjoyed such a privilege, even though she was not a member of the court.
Those long gallops through the forest of Torjok had never been a matter of chance.
She had imagined this moment so many times, dreamed of it so often, that she was suddenly paralyzed, incapable of rising from the chaise lounge to greet him.
If he should cross the distance that separated him from the chestnut trees, he could not help but notice—of this she was certain—the beating of her heart, plainly discernable beneath her blouse.
She placed her hand on her breast and pressed with all her strength to still the pounding. To no avail.
Nothing calmed the feeling that was becoming more violent with each passing second.
In that moment, Jamal Eddin succumbed to another kind of charm. Entranced with the entire family, he opened his heart to an immediate and total affection, an impulse akin to love at first sight, that included every member of the tribe.
There could not be a warmer, more welcoming, more whimsically imaginative clan than the Olenins of Machouk. There was nothing conventional or narrow-minded about them.
Life at Machouk brought back the enchantment of his days at Peterhof-Alexandria, the spell of summers with the czar’s family and the princesses of Georgia. Yes, Machouk had all the magic of the cottage—without the penchant for appearances, obligations of power, or ostentatious simplicity of the stage-managed events of the imperial household.
Singing, drawing, poetry, and theater were all an integral part of daily life at the manor. Jamal Eddin’s beloved Pushkin was the object of a unanimous passion, the very soul of the circle, the god and protector, and all of them knew Eugene Onegin by heart. But each one spent his time and efforts according to his own tastes and talents. Princess Macha practiced the piano for several hours a day in the salon. Piotr, the painter, engraved portraits of his friends and illustrated the frontispieces of their books in his studio at the far end of the garden. The young people declaimed Corneillian tragedies and spouted Marivaux beneath the vaulted roof of the gazebo in the glow of the Chinese lanterns. Even Princess Potemkina had to concede that her previous offhand comments that “her nephew received the gazettes” and translated Byron were a bit thin. In reality, the household was the incarnation of all that artistic and literary Russia revered.
The environment suited him so perfectly, and he moved in it with such grace, that all at Machouk were as taken with him as he was with them. Alyosha, the eldest of the boys, cornet in the Army of the Caucasus, swore by him. The sixteen-year-old Tatiana, twelve-year-old Maria, the Lvov cousins and their entire entourage, who lived in the surrounding manors, unanimously agreed that no performance, no ball, no hunting party was complete without Jamal Eddin’s presence.
All of them concurred.
With a few exceptions.
“I’m in the dark as to Lieutenant Shamil’s upbringing,” old Mademoiselle Coutin said in French, giving the thread of her embroidery a sharp tug. “No one knows his family; we really don’t know where he comes from.”
Seated in a row in the shade of the veranda, the four governesses and two readers—senior among the several generations of chaperones and duennas who guarded the honor of the young ladies of Machouk—were busy with their needlework. A gigantic silver samovar, “Pushkin’s samovar,” sat on the pedestal table before them. A veritable institution, it had a spout in the form of an eagle’s beak, which had leaked for the past thirty years, but no one would even have considered having it repaired. Legend had it that Pushkin had asked for the hand of the sister of the master of the house, the famous Anna Olenina, before this samovar. And that, also before this samovar, he had fallen in love with another of their relatives, the equally beautiful Anna Kern.
La Potemkina shrugged her shoulders.
“Who could have transformed this boy into such a marvel,” she said, with a hint of mock wonder.
Seated near the embroiderers and absorbed in a game of solitaire, the princess fussed over her bad cards. Never lifting her nose, incessantly turning over one, then another, she heaved a deep sigh and muttered, “I wonder too, Coutin. An officer of the highest merit, a mathematician, a pianist, a poet,” she ticked off his qualities with her customary exaggeration. “A man from the best of circles, whose many talents outshine even those of your charges.”
Sensing an imminent critical remark, La Potemkina restrained herself, with some difficulty, from uttering further hyperbole. She didn’t mention the inanities she confided to her maid concerning her hopes for “her” Muslim—that Jamal Eddin was of royal blood and destined to inherit an empire, that he would become governor of the Caucasus—but she did make one point:
“To whom do you suppose this great seigneur owes his perfect education, Coutin? If not to the master of us all.”
“The czar?”
La Potemkina deemed no further comment necessary.
However, she did find it necessary to remind them that the young man navigated in the highest circles and that she would not have introduced him had he not been a welcome favorite at the Winter Palace with close ties to the court, the chosen son of the emperor himself.
All these details were superfluous at Machouk, except to the guardians of the temple, who were more particular, more conservative, and more suspicious about the pedigree of visitors than the proprietors of the domain themselves.
Enjoying long strolls, picnics, and teas, La Potemkina was overwhelmed by the surfeit of pleasures and her datebook was full. Between fishing parties and rounds of whist, she was constantly coming and going. And to think she had worried about being bored.
In a sign of her changing mood, she had come to the conclusion that the two young ladies of the household, the twenty-year-old Lisa and Tatiana (her namesake), actually resembled her. There was no doubt about it, they had inherited her energy. Lisa hunted, shot, and danced with all the enthusiasm that La Potemkina had had in her youth.
“Indeed, far too good for the court,” Jamal Eddin teased her.
Lisa’s free spirit made Jamal Eddin feel restless, even violently agitated at times.
What he experienced when she galloped at his side could only be called ecstasy. He loved the proud way she carried herself, the clear, clean profile of her head. He loved her supple wrists at the rein, the way she sat straight in the saddle, the graceful movement of the small of her back, which naturally followed the animal’s rhythm. And her hands, which were so gentle at the horse’s mouth. Yes, it was a form of ecstasy to watch her tapered fingers, slim and strong and skillful, as she gently reined in her spirited mare without the least hint of violence in her gestures.
Lisa’s confidence and open manner kindled his senses and illuminated his imagination. Conscious of his feelings, he was always careful to treat her with respect, or at least never to compromise her by revealing his desire. He could not bear the thought of offending her.