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Faint notes of moss and vanilla danced in the air, joined by hints of amber, underscored by the strong pungency of musk. Those alluring scents clung to the scarp of linen which had been pressed into the palm of her hand and Sonya couldn’t help breathing them in. To think they should have lasted all through the night.
She had to return the handkerchief to its rightful owner; the sooner the better. Both for the sake of her pride, as for the peace of the family. The only trouble was she could not very well approach Dolokhov. It would be noted; it would eventually reach Nikolai and her good offices would count for naught if she fraternised with the Devil’s righthand man.
Idly, she traced the embroidered lettering. His initials had been carefully stitched into the soft fabric. The silken thread spoke of quality.
Yesteryear’s scapegrace had come up in the world.
Sonya frowned down at the reminder of just who had come running to comfort her. She’d not been entirely insensitive to his recent scrutiny. Though his stare hadn’t quite reached the fervour of those bygone gilded days when all the world stretched out before her, it’d retained enough strength to capture her attention. Her lower lip trembled slightly as fresh tears formed in her eyes.
It was all wrong. Every last bit of it. Dolokhov was supposed to have forgotten her. At the very least he ought to scorn her for a fool. To laugh in her face and point out that he’d been right, that she had no one to blame for her current misfortune but herself, that, at long last, she too must reap what had been sown by her own hand.
He’d done nothing of the sort. In fact, the way he had approached her rather suggested he did not view her in any of those pathetic terms. Dear God, how could it be that the one man she had no desire to think well of gave her every reason under the sun to esteem him while her own husband seemed to be on a mission to lose her favour and sink lower in her estimation by the day, if not by the hour itself?
Nikolai had been her entire world. He continued to have a firm grasp of her heart despite the bruising grip he’d been exerting of late. But Sonya could not honestly view him with the same warmth which had moved her all those years ago to cling to him. He was simply not the same man.
Had, perhaps, never been that man.
The dark thought gave her pause. She recalled small innocent kisses in fragrant gardens and gentle embraces. She recalled a solemn wedding and an eye-opening wedding night. Nikolai had no regard for Sonya the woman. He’d not even brushed his lips to hers, made no effort to grant a kindly smile or give some reassurance. He’d simply drunk glass after glass of wine and, in the end, left her to her lonely bed with stern instructions not to approach him unless called for.
He’d not called for her. Not on their wedding night and not on any of the long nights after. All too soon, he’d taken himself off to Moscow and left her in the care of Pierre and Natasha, with a vague explanation of business taking him away. His sister had, naturally, opined he was merely engrossed in fixing the family’s financial situation. Pierre had told her, kindly, that he was certain Nikolai would not take too long. Though neither knew the truth.
Sonya’s days had been spent in payer at the beginning. She’d not confessed to anyone, not even her priest, the shameful truth of her sham of a marriage. But she had begged any higher powers listening to grant her relief from the tenuous situation. Eventually, days turned into weeks and weeks became months. Months flows into years. Natasha was pregnant with her second child. Sonya had naught to show for her own vows, enduring the old Countess’ snide remarks upon the subject of barrenness and superficially pitying glances from the world at large.
She had stopped praying for any kind of softening of her husband’s heart. In time, he would need an heir. He would come to her then, she knew. Sonya only prayed she might close her eyes and accept him in a mockery of obedience.
He wanted Princess Bolkonskaya.
He loved Marya.
So why then torture her with pretence? Why not simply come clean and refuse her claim on his heart altogether? Who exactly had Nikolai been hoping to deceive by speaking vows he’d never meant to honour?
Himself? Her? The entirety of society?
There were times when she found herself wishing she could disappear into the morning mists; simply walk out the doorway, let her feet carry her as far as they would and never look back. To not be a burden. To be at ease.
She couldn’t do it. For a first, she had nowhere to turn to. And then, her fearful self shied from the prospect of what such a friendless existence might entail. The kindest outcome was slow starvation in such circumstances.
Anger slipped through the cracks.
She inhaled, fragrances wafted about her almost consolingly and the ire flickered.
Nikolai’s heart would never be hers. And she was beginning to understand that unless she raised some walls, she would be swallowed by the waves of negligence cresting the seas of her enduring affection, dashing her hopes against the jagged rocks of reality. A reality where the one who seemed to understand her best was a man she could entertain no hopes of taking the least comfort from.
And yet, Sonya felt gratitude well up in her heart and overflow.
She wanted to thank him somehow. To warn him away, as well.
Perhaps good Captain Denisov would undertake the particulars for her if she asked. He seemed to be on good terms with the man and would understand, better than most, the need for discretion. Or might be Pierre, for he could be counted on not to betray anything to Nikolai.
Sonya’s thumb stroked against the cool soft fabric.
Perhaps, she could espy a moment to slip out of sight and do it herself, danger be damned.
The low hum of steadily, relentlessly, falling rain underscored the hardening of her resolve.