Chapter Text
December 1813
By December, Natasha was far too pregnant and the weather was far too cold for anyone to do much of anything. She spent nearly all of her time indoors, helping Marya with Nikolenka’s lessons, playing board games with Nikolai, practicing her needlework with Sonya, or talking with Pierre. She could find plenty to do, and yet she was endlessly restless.
That wasn’t to say she regretted her choice to return to Moscow. She grew more thankful to be away from the Petersburg crowd with every letter they received, and not once did she have even a moment of doubt she’d be happier there. She only yearned for the baby to come.
With the nine month mark approaching fast, the doctors continually assured her the baby was due any time now, but it seemed as though they’d been saying that for weeks. The wait had grown agonizing, both mentally and physically. She wanted nothing more than to meet her child, and it was certainly not an insignificant factor that being pregnant was simply uncomfortable.
Just as she had at the beginning of her pregnancy, she once again found herself bedridden. The family came to her bedside to keep her occupied, even little Nikolenka, who excitedly awaited his cousin. Marya had noted how lonely the little boy was, deprived of any playmates his age and spending most of his time with Pierre, his tutor, or the women of the family. Though they were certainly all good figures for him, they could not match the companionship another child would bring.
Sonya, too, was with Natasha constantly, only taking leave when someone else came to visit. She took great pleasure in this duty, and when her unrelenting dedication made Natasha feel a bit guilty, she happily admitted that she much preferred it to the awful times she spent attending to the bitter countess before Nikolai and Marya had married. This eased her worries less than Sonya had intended, but Natasha still adored the company of her closest and oldest friend, especially when her husband had begun to pay her very little attention.
After Natasha found herself completely bedridden again, Pierre had begun to disappear for long hours of the day, until finally he had made a habit of leaving her in the morning and only returning late at night. Both Sonya and Marya had reported to her that he didn’t even leave the house, and instead spent entire days locked away in his study.
Every night, when he crawled into bed beside her and found her awake, he’d chide her for not getting enough rest. But the look of exhaustion on his face was undeniable, even in the pitch black night.
“Tasha?” he’d whisper as she crawled into his arms, “I thought you’d be asleep… You should rest more, darling.”
“I can’t sleep without you,” she’d say.
When she finally did drift off, or at least when he thought she had, he’d pull her even closer to himself, hold her even tighter. He confused her beyond belief.
Months ago, Natasha had taken great pleasure in watching her husband sleep as the sun arose. Pierre was never an early riser, and though Natasha wasn’t much of one either, she somehow managed to always catch him in the early morning glow. Rarely did he look so perfectly at peace, and the warm light made him even more handsome than usual. On more than a few occasions, she couldn’t help but wake him with kisses. He never complained.
Over the last few weeks, Natasha had been denied this pleasure, which she had become as integral to her morning routine as a cup of tea. She felt no shame pouting unhappily when she found him awake in their bed each morning, his worried, watchful eyes always focused on her.
His unusual condition troubled her, but as much as she wished to sort it out, she no longer had the energy for it. She simply prayed that whatever had so changed him would be resolved before the baby arrived.
—
With everything going around the house, it seemed that everyone had found something to keep them occupied. But for the first time in the last few years, Nikolai found himself with no immediate responsibilities. All that was to be done outside the home, whether that be business or renovation, would only resume after the storms had died down and the holiday had passed. While inside the home, simply nothing demanded his attention.
He was quite determined not to be a burden, and so he kept out of the way of the women and staff who buzzed from room to room. He had tried to take some charge in Nikolenka’s tutelage, but it seemed their similarities ended at their shared name, and the boy spent half of their time together asking where Pierre had gone.
Though Nikolai was more than a bit miffed by the boy’s clear favor towards Pierre, he found himself wondering the same thing. Nikolai rarely saw the man around the house anymore, and whenever he went to visit his sister, he was noticeably absent from his usual place at her side.
Worst of all, when Nikolai passed by Pierre’s study, he found the doors tightly shut, with not the smallest bit of noise coming from inside. For a few days, he had left his brother-in-law alone to do whatever it was that constantly occupied him. To pester Pierre seemed to him to be a job for one of the women, but with all the women busy, Nikolai didn’t see that happening any time soon.
Eventually, he grew tired of waiting for Pierre to emerge from his den. He figured it was his duty as a brother to pester his sister’s husband when she could not, and he knew for a fact she would have walked into Pierre’s study without any forewarning days before Nikolai would have ever thought to. Even before the two were married, Natasha maintained very few formalities with Pierre, and while Nikolai struggled to have that level of familiarity, he figured his position as brother-in-law should be enough to justify bursting into his study unannounced.
So, one afternoon, Nikolai did just that, throwing open the doors to Pierre’s study with a healthy bit of theatrical flare, and keeping his head held high in preparation for the inevitable backlash he’d receive.
But Pierre made no comment on Nikolai’s intrusion. In fact, he didn’t speak at all. He lied there, still as a corpse and flopped over his desk, snoring softly.
Nikolai scoffed and closed the door behind him. After examining the man for a moment, he took a piece of rolled parchment off the desk and swatted him with it sharply.
“Ah!” Pierre cried, sitting up straight at an instant. “What is it, who?”
Nikolai crossed his arms over his chest and stared at Pierre expectantly, waiting for him to get his bearings. Pierre slipped his spectacles back onto his face and blinked at the younger man, who at the moment was reminding him far too much of a particularly mean tutor he’d had as a child.
“Nikolai? What do you want?” Pierre groaned, looking just about ready to lay his head on his desk again.
“Well, I’d come to check on you, maybe chat for a while,” Nikolai said, “But it seems you’re preoccupied.”
“Yes, I was actually,” Pierre agreed, infuriating Nikolai even more so.
How could Pierre manage to waste his days this way while his wife, Nikolai’s dearest sister, felt his absence so acutely? She had not directly expressed such feelings to her brother, but Nikolai was quite certain of them. Natasha was never one to allow herself to be ignored, and if she were able to now, she would likely be in his very place. Though perhaps with kinder words.
“You lazy oaf!” Nikolai cried out before even thinking, overcome with some brotherly instinct. Pierre gave him a stern look that had him taking a step back from the man. Nikolai was far from scared of his brother-in-law, but the fellow certainly had a way of reminding those of his size and authority just at the right moments. This was indeed one of those moments.
“Forgive me,” Nikolai said, shaking his head at his own mistake. “But you must understand my distress. Natasha is constantly asking where you are. It’s quite troubling to find you here sleeping while she lies in bed worrying after you.”
Pierre said nothing in response, but looked quite dejected, refusing to meet the other man’s eyes. He sighed to himself as if the whole thing couldn’t be helped, and continued on to something else.
“Tell me, how has everything been fairing around the house? I haven’t seen much of anyone these last weeks.”
“I wonder why,” Nikolai muttered, but bit his tongue before he said anything else. After a moment's thought towards any recent news he continued on. “It’s been mostly uneventful for me, but everyone else is a bit exhausted. Natasha hasn’t been left alone for more than a second in days, though I suppose she doesn’t mind the company. Or doesn’t seem to. I mostly stay out of their way, you understand.”
Pierre nodded, “I’ve had the same idea.”
This wasn’t exactly true, of course, but the younger man took it as a fair excuse. Men were easily overwhelmed by this kind of thing, at least in Nikolai’s experience, even if he had presumed Pierre would be the exception to that rule.
In truth, Pierre’s exhaustion was the result of his tedious involvement in his wife’s care. It pained him to know how dearly she missed him, but an obsessive idea had taken over him once again, forcing him to spend his nights sleeplessly watching over her. During the day, he’d catch up on rest as Sonya tended to her. He felt that if he revealed this to Nikolai, or anyone else in the house, he’d be faced with some intervention of sorts, and forced to cease his self-inflicted sleep deprivation.
Never in his life had Pierre had something so precious to take care of. His entire future at arms length, pressed against him in her sleep. The thought was suffocating and revitalizing all at the same time.
After the doctor had declared the baby may arrive any day, the house had erupted into a frenzy. A well intentioned, but nonetheless overwhelming frenzy. Pierre had initially been excited as everyone else; he immediately went to work on expediting the processes laid in place to prepare for the baby.
Late that night, when he finally felt satisfied with the work he had done and was simply too tired to do anything else, he returned to his wife and crawled into bed beside her. Exhausted as he was, he had thought he’d fall asleep with no effort, as was his usual habit. But sleep never came. Night after night, he found himself in the same predicament. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t seem to stop his thoughts from running long enough to catch even a second's worth of sleep.
It was madness, he knew, and worst of all, far from the first bout of insanity to befall him over the duration of Natasha’s pregnancy. Pierre began to worry what his wife may think of him now, or that her family, who had naturally always found him odd, would begin to think they dismissed his quirks too easily.
His anxiety was, of course, completely unfounded, even he could see that. Natasha was not shy, especially when it came to her emotions, and she continued loving him just as she had before, in spite of his clear sickness. As for her family, they were far too preoccupied with Natasha to even think of how Pierre may be acting strange. If anything, they found his absence nearly as convenient as Nikolai’s.
In matters of childbirth, men did nothing but complicate the equation, especially clingy husbands.
When he was much younger, Pierre couldn’t understand why men were kept out of the delivery room. The only possible explanation for such backwards thinking was traditional folly, possibly some old maid’s tale that would’ve been first told long before they had any concept of medicine and only superstition to guide them.
Now that his own child was bound to arrive at any moment, he figured it must be common sense that had midwives guarding doors from anxiously awaiting husbands. Despite this reflection, Pierre was completely aware that he wouldn’t see any sense in the moment his child was finally born, and would, for just a short time, hate the midwives attending to Natasha for keeping him from her. He felt preemptively remorseful at that, and prayed that Marya and Sonya wouldn’t be given the job of watching him, because he would surely hate them too.
This was basic nature, and nothing particularly out of the ordinary, but Pierre, ever self concerned, was convinced that these ruminations were just another symptom of his own deteriorating sanity. He found this to be just one of many reasons to lock himself away and stew in his own terror.
Nikolai had quite rudely interrupted his intervals of sleep and dreadful meditation. Worst of all, he seemed intent on ripping him away from it.
“Pierre, I don’t intend to send you off to the women or some other torture, but you must play a game of chess or cards with me,” he insisted. “You’re not doing yourself any good locked away in here, and in all honesty, I’ve been so terribly bored with no male company.”
Pierre knew he was not much when it came to the “male company” Nikolai usually entertained, but he appreciated the consideration of his pride (Nikolai, at the same time, hoped it wasn’t too obvious how much this plea was for his own benefit as much as his brother-in-law’s).
Pierre conceded, “Some conversation may do me well.”
The two men migrated into the parlor, catching a maid along the way to prepare the samovar. Pierre insisted they play chess over cards, for he was never any good at cards and it wasn’t much of a gentleman’s game anyhow. Nikolai agreed, though he secretly resented the choice, knowing he was far better at cards than Pierre ever had been.
At some point, they got to talking of little Nikolenka. Having been contained to the home for some time now, they’d quickly exhausted most other topics. Anything philosophical was an unspoken non licet, as an argument would do nothing but make them an unwanted disruption to the already tumultuous household.
With only a small bit of envy, Nikolai reported that the boy had greatly missed his favorite uncle while Pierre was locked away.
“I can’t imagine why,” he said, “but he’s always asking after you. He is an odd child, far too absorbed in his studies for a boy his age.”
“I was the same,” Pierre smiled. He was quite fond of Nikolenka, who reminded him so much of his old friend. In many ways, he shared more similarities with Pierre than he did with his own father, but his resemblance to Andrei was still uncanny, both in body and soul.
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Nikolai laughed. He was paying very little attention to their game of chess, having personally given up a few turns earlier. “When I was his age I hated my studies. Petya was the same. It’s a natural tendency, I believe, even if it must be properly disciplined. I suppose Nikolenka is much easier than the average child, but he’ll be quite the hassle once he starts delving into adult discussion.”
“Why do you say that?”
Nikolai sighed, “It took me quite a while to be able to argue effectively with any man. For so long, I sounded so much like a child it infuriated me. I can’t ever remember a time where that was true for you, Pierre, even when we first met and you were still just a boy. Perhaps you stuttered, or rambled on— which you still do, by the way— but you were always a very intelligent speaker.
I imagine Nikolenka will be the same. Really, I hope he will be. Marya would love to have another great mind in the family. But it will undoubtedly wreak havoc on our lives to have him spewing whatever it is he manages to come up with. You remember some of the ideas you had as a young man, don’t you?”
Pierre shuddered, shaking his head. He had wanted to disagree with Nikolai’s assessment, but perhaps he was right.
“You may have a point,” he conceded, “But I still wish my own children to be studiously-minded, even if it’s at the expense of our own sanity.”
“I’m sure he will be.” Nikolai thought of his sister, who was somehow even more opinionated than her husband. With her stubborn personality and Pierre’s often obsessive dedication to his studies, their child was certain to be something to see.
“You know, I’ve just had a novel idea,” Nikolai said after a few silent turns. “Why don’t we get out of the house for a little while? It’s nearly Christmas and I haven’t done any shopping at all.”
“I’m not so sure, Nikolai,” Pierre moved a piece forward, his face contorted in deep concentration, though there was really no reason to be thinking so hard when his opponent had practically thrown the game already.
“You’re really no fun,” Nikolai sighed, “You know, I heard Julie Drubetskaya installed a fifteen-foot tree in their foyer.”
Pierre gave him an incredulous look, “How on earth did you hear that?”
“I’ve been reading Marya’s letters,” Nikolai shrugged, while the other man looked at him as if he’d grown another head.
“Fine, we may as well pick out a few gifts for Nikolenka,” Pierre said, “But we shouldn’t overdo ourselves. And no tree. It’s just too odd an idea to me.”
“I’m surprised you’re so against gifts, you’d give them freely any other day of the year,” Nikolai shook his head, already getting up from the unfinished game. “You never struck me as a traditionalist.”
“It's all too German for me,” Pierre explained. “Though I do enjoy giving gifts.”
“Then it’s settled,” Nikolai said happily, “I’ll have someone fetch the sled.”
—
Pierre, as anyone could’ve predicted, was not at all successful in his attempts to regulate his own spending. Any notion he’d had of doing so completely dissipated the moment he stepped within the first shop they’d visited, one that sold specifically children’s toys. Having never been spoiled to such luxuries as a child, the place was a complete wonder to him.
When they arrived home, Pierre called his valet to hide the items somewhere Nikolenka wouldn’t find them, but kept a few on his person to put in his study. He too was fascinated by some of the items they had bought, and thought he ought not to put them away just yet.
One in particular had caught his eye, a wooden cylinder with horses painted on the sides. On the inside, an array of colors and patterns shifted as he stared down the barrel.
It was the kind of sight he may have dreamt in a state of sickness, but something about the chaos of it was quite calming. It was an illusion before his eyes, real enough, but contained in its own little bottle. And most importantly, it was his to marvel at whenever he liked.
As he turned the tube around, mesmerized by its shifting colors and shapes, his mind drifted to his earlier conversation with Nikolai. As much as he wanted to get past his ailment, to see Natasha and aid her in her time of need, he felt that he couldn’t. There was some invisible force binding him to senselessness.
More than anything else, he had found comfort in the promise that night would come, and he would again have her in his arms. He missed sleeping beside her quite desperately. Waking up to her smiling face looming over him was something he’d gotten quite used to, he simply hadn’t realized just how accustomed he was until he no longer had the privilege.
Pierre set down his new toy on his desk and began to rub his temples, unsure if it was the moving shapes that had made him dizzy, or if it was just his own mental ailment. In either case, he was sure he needed something to clear his head, and set out to find something to eat and drink. It had to have been a full day since his last meal, and he knew Natasha would have his head if she were to find out the extent to which he’d been neglecting himself.
He left his study with his head low, but was surprised to see his wife just down the hall, slowly making her way up the stairs.
Natasha was tightly gripping the railing, taking her time on each step.
“I’ve finally got them to leave me be,” she said as he approached her and held out his arm for her to take. He was shocked she’d managed that, and almost quite sure Marya was just behind some corner keeping an eye on her.
Natasha finally made it up the last step, using his sturdy frame to keep her delicate balance. She placed her hand upon his chest and looked up at him with a bright smile, only slightly out of breath.
“Hello, my love,” she said.
It was difficult for Pierre to keep his heart out of his throat at the very sight of her before him. Her closeness only made it that much worse. She was glowing, certainly, as was promised for a mother-to-be, but her swollen stomach and limited mobility made him nervous. Were pregnant women supposed to be like this? It was with some shame that he realized he’d never spent much time with a pregnant woman until his own wife.
“Must you look at me like that?” she finally asked him, bringing him out of his trance. Natasha dipped her head in shame, breaking eye contact with him as she shook her head, “I’ve decided it’s really no fair for you to act this way. I know I look… well, not as usual, you could say, but you’re as responsible as I, you know.”
“Yes, of course, I know,” he stuttered, blushing at the thought. “But it’s not your looks darling, believe me. I don’t think you’ve ever looked more beautiful.”
Natasha hummed to herself, unconvinced, and still unwilling to look him in the eye.
“Well, you don’t do much to show it,” she said.
Pierre tried to find the words to explain himself, but none came. Instead he just took on that all too familiar look of shame that he too often displayed to his wife.
“It was only months ago we could barely go a moment without each other's company,” Natasha finally looked up at him again, her big eyes shining with a certain kind of playfulness that always made him just a bit scared. “It seemed then that we were always together, didn’t it? Whether we were in the bedroom, or your study, or taking our afternoon tea…”
“Shouldn’t you be in bed, darling?”
Natasha grinned, happy to see her husband at least a little flustered. She was sure that sight was one of the finest pleasures of marriage.
“Maybe it would’ve been easier to stay in bed with you beside me, my love,” she chided.
Pierre was certainly tempted by the notion, but her request nauseated him as much as it drew him in. The feeling was so overcoming that he felt he must sit before he collapsed.
Natasha gasped at his abrupt movement, following him to the nearby hall bench. She too was relieved to sit down, but the comfort was instantly thwarted by the sight of his sickly face.
“You look as if you’ve lost all your color,” she said. Natasha took her husband’s face into her hands and inspected him closely, her heart sinking at the sight of his bloodshot eyes. “When did you last sleep?”
“Last night,” Pierre lied, “Beside you, darling, as always.”
“Do you take me for a fool?” she said. “For such a fine thinker you tend to be absolutely witless to the going-ons around you. I know you much better than you think. I feel as if I always have.”
Pierre let his head hang, ashamed of his own folly. It truly seemed to him that he was a worthless excuse of a husband for all that he’d put his poor Natasha through these last weeks, and a plain fool for thinking he could hide it from her.
“I can never hide from you,” he conceded. “I’ve always felt as if you can look right through me, Natasha.”
“Perhaps I can,” she teased. “And yet you still must complicate everything, as if I don’t know you so absolutely.”
Natasha pressed her lips against her husband's face, peppering him with little kisses.
“Somehow I love you even more for it,” she admitted, “I know for certain you adore me, or else you’d never act like such a fool. It’s a bit thrilling, you know.”
“Is it?”
“Oh yes,” Natasha smiled. “Here you are, a strong, handsome man, with his mighty intellect, who could out-talk just about anyone in all of Russia, reduced to a common dolt all because of me. It’s flattering, to say the least.”
Pierre shook his head. He could never understand how she managed to see him in such a light that no one else ever had. It seemed impossible that such a perfect woman could find no faults with a man as flawed as he was, and yet she persisted that he was above all other men, that she could not even imagine one to rival him.
“I love you,” he said, and she rolled her eyes.
“Then you’ll come back to bed with me, yes?”
“You won’t take no for an answer, will you?” he asked, Natasha shook her head. “I suppose I have no choice then.”
Natasha smiled, but before she could say anymore, he had scooped her up into his arms in one quick movement. She squealed at the sudden sensation, wrapping her arms around his neck tightly.
“What are you doing?” she asked incredulously. Typically, she wouldn’t doubt her own husband so much, but with his tired looking face and her abnormal size, she didn’t quite trust his strength.
“You think me strong, darling. Let me at least attempt to earn the praise.”
—
It was only a week later that the baby finally came, a girl with a face just as sweet as her mothers and, if Countess Rostova’s testament was to be believed, with a temperament to match. Lise cried through the night, and Natasha, refusing a wet nurse, was by her side constantly.
Pierre too braved the long nights, in sore regret that he’d wasted those precious hours of rest in the weeks leading up to Lise’s birth. Still, there was something deliriously euphoric that came in those late hours, watching Natasha fight to keep her eyes open as she cradled little Lise in her arms.
He could see now how astonishingly dim he had been before, worried and wasting away over things beyond his reach. Worst of all, he’d do it again. But now, at least, he could find comfort in the realization that every single agonizing moment was worth it.