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They stood together side by side, man and wife, nearly shoulder to shoulder.
Indicter and penitent.
Sonya was not looking at her husband, however. Their rare joint appearance had given rise to a rippling murmur of speculation. But Fyodor’s sole concern lay in the realm of the woman’s obvious misery.
“Stare any longer and you’ll be drawn into their sad affair. The world might think you mean to comfort the poor thing.” Vashka’s solemn gaze met his own, a hint of disapproval present in the furrow of his brows. “You know Rostov’s temper as well as I.” Perhaps he knew his sage advice counted for naught. “Fedya, please; he is a good shot.”
Fyodor rewarded his friend’s concern with a twisted challenging smile; the devil in him relished the prospect of spurring that fool’s ire. He was in no particular mood to heed such ludicrous arguments. “I am better.” Doubtless, he would have enjoyed putting a bullet between that sad excuse for a man’s eyes. But Sonya, he rather thought, would not take any pleasure in being a widow. Which was what truly stopped him. The woman was unhappy, but looking her way, it became apparent the flames of affection had not gone down in her breast, but burned away. “But you needn’t fear I will challenge Rostov. Wouldn’t dream of causing you any hardships with Countess Bezukhova. Imagine only, she might deny you an invitation to tea.”
Vashka’s face turned red and he stammered out some vague nonsense about the woman having nothing to do with the matter. Fyodor waved his hand dismissively. He was heartless enough not to care about Pierre’s wife and whatever feelings she might experience. She had a husband only too willing to take that effort on.
“At any rate, we were not discussing Countess Bezukhova,” his friend continued.
“Indeed; that would be quite a waste.” Fyodor glanced to the side, noting their flirt of a hostess was tapping her fan to Prince Drubetskoy’s shoulder in a manner that suggested their closeness was not merely a matter of appearance. The first strains of a mazurka drifted to his ears. He turned to Vashka. “I believe a new set is about to start. Hadn’t you best find your partner and lead her onto the floor?” That sent him off sure enough.
When Fyodor looked once again in the direction of Sonya, he found Pierre had planted himself in the spot where Rostov used to stand. The imposing figure loomed over the already diminutive frame of the young woman, casting her into shadow. He got the impression she found some comfort in that. Fyodor clenched his jaw involuntarily. The giant bent an ear to the minute nymph and she whispered to him, tiny hands reached out to settle on his sleeve as she spoke. Pierre’s hitherto serene expression devolved into a frown and Sonya’s fingers clenched around his forearm. It was laughable to think she might somehow restrain him.
But she was, in fact, holding him back, speaking furiously to the bespectacled behemoth. Then Sonya shook her head and pulling her hands away from his person, gave a pitiful attempt at a smile. An actress she was not. Fyodor watched her slip past her cousin and her husband, making for one of the balconies. He waited a beat, then swept his gaze about the room, as though searching for the cause of her flight.
Sure enough, Count Rostov had persuaded Princess Bolkonskaya to step out with him, in something of an unexpected display. A hurtful display, dare he think it.
Fyodor debated finding himself some wine to down and perhaps a flirt to engage in. There were more than enough willing participants. And yet his feet carried him to one of the furthest edges of the ballroom, towards a set of wide-open doors. He found himself espying the ghost of her shadow trembling in the cool night breeze.
He could walk away. All he had to do was close his eyes, turn aside and take the first step. Fyodor winced; a faint little choke issued forth from the darkness.
His body moved almost before he was aware of it. Having rudely intruded upon the intimate scene of grief and noting that his egress did not go by unnoticed, he stopped short. Sonya’s figure retreated deeper into the shadows and the noise of the ballroom grew indescribably loud.
With a muttered curse under his breath, Fyodor pressed his way deeper into the private nook of sorrow. He withdrew a handkerchief from his inner breast pocket, eyeing the luminous gaze reflecting distrust back at him. He shook his head and with a lightning-fast movement, grabbed hold of her hand, pressing the slip of material in her palm, closing her fingers around it.
“They’ll be playing a polonaise soon. I trust you recall your figures.” He could have been gentler, he supposed, but something told him she’d have thrown any pity back in his face. As was, she glared at him with astonished suspicion. Fyodor’s lips stretched in grim amusement as he bowed over the hand he still held. “Don’t look so frightened. It’ll be Captain Denisov to ask you.”
With that, he released her from his grip and turning on his heel abandoned her to whatever tears she had yet to shed.
Fyodor found Denisov in short order and compelled the man into doing his bidding. Not that Denisov found himself much discomposed at the notion. Contenting himself with watching from the sidelines, he observed the interactions at play as his friend approached the small group which had embraced Sonya upon her return. Once certain she was safely led out onto the dancefloor, he left in search of his wine.
He found himself enmeshed into meaningless conversation all too soon, doing his utmost best not to look behind him where couples were gliding around in elegant circles.
When, at lengths, Vashka returned to his side, Fyodor gave him a questioning look, hoping to glean something of Sonya’s state. But his friend either did not know or would not say, throwing himself head-first into the ongoing discussion.
No matter, he’d get the details out of him sooner rather than later. A few glasses of drink and a hand of cards would be more than enough.