A/N: Yes, I am aware in the novel, Pierre and Natasha marry in 1813 with Marya and Nikolai following along in 1814. However for the purpose of this story I've decided to switch the order. If Tolstoy can mess around with Sonya's lovelife, I can certainly mess around with his timeline.
There was something different about him. Sonya couldn't quite put her finger on it. She observed him discreetly, from beneath lowered eyelashes. It would not do to stare. He would notice. He might even fully glance her way. God knew if any man were unabashed enough to evince such blatant favour without regard for his position and hers, then Fyodor Dolokhov was the one.
Count Bezukhov had asked for only one thing of them. Civility. An unexceptionable request ordinarily. However, she had not forgotten Dolokhov's conduct towards Nikolai. She did not suppose anyone could be expected to entirely erase such an episode from their memory. But the Count was perfectly entitled to invite whomever he wished to his own wedding. Something to do with forgiveness, he'd said. And Dolokhov had saved the man's life. It would be beyond churlish to give him any grief, even if she were the bride herself. Which she was most certainly not.
Lowering her gaze even further, Sonya tried not to recall an altogether different fact about the man. She had saved his letter (though she ought to have fed it to the flames long ago, in all decency); the sole confession of that nature she had ever received in her entire life. The only one she would ever receive. Had she acted in a way to please everyone from Maman (whom she should no longer be thinking of in such terms, but sometimes found herself slipping into that childhood habit nonetheless) to Nikolai, she might have long since been his wife. His wife; she toyed with the notion, tossing the thought back and forth. Unbidden, words from his missive rang in her head. She'd forgotten even what he sounded like until they'd greeted one another, but curiously enough it was not her own voice that replied the words back to her, but his.
She pursed her lips and banished him away, turning her mind to another.
Nikolai was well and truly beyond her reach, but that did not mean she must fall prey to the sentimentality of a years-old note which surely occupied not the least amount of space in its author's thoughts. And yet, Sonya could not let it rest.
She might have been on his arm upon the occasion of her cousin's marriage. She might have been a mother. Sonya sucked in a breath at the shiver running down her spine. Her arms suddenly ached with longing for a little Vanya or Sasha of her own, even as fear tore at her insides. To hold one such creature meant she had entirely submitted to the wild, unreliable officer that had ruined poor Nikolai. Closing her eyes against the half-flame, half-ice running through her veins with the knowledge of the fact, Sonya recounted to herself that she had never desired anyone other than Nikolai. And yet, if she tried to assemble the vision of a summer-bright lad in her mind's eye, she found the child carried an undeniable resemblance to Princess Marya. Discomforted, she ceased the exercise altogether.
If only she could find some dark, obscure corner to hide away in and lick her wounds, she would be in a tolerably good mood by the morning. But one did not sulk at weddings. No matter the sorrows in one's heart. Even in the face of stark reminders of things she would never have.
So, Sonya forced her lips into a wan smile, knowing no one would watch her close enough to take note of its quality. Everyone around her was much too caught up in their own joy. Or perhaps the wine. The wine was excellent. She took another sip to remind herself of the sweet taste and then another. Her cup emptied. By the time not a drop remained her throat was so tight she thought she might burst into tears in the middle of the revelries.
Sonya contrived to somehow escape the predicament. She could not expose herself in such a manner; to be pitied in silence was hurt enough. Gathering the tattered remnants of her pride, she climbed to her feet with a murmured excuse which went, thankfully, unnoticed. Her feet carried her away in she knew not what direction until the lights and laughter had faded away. Her eyes burned. Sonya rubbed at them with trembling fingers. She was happy for Nikolai's happiness. She did not and never had loved him with an expectation of having her feelings returned. So why did she feel so desperately unhappy?
"Breathe in, breathe out." Following her own advice, she dragged in air hungrily. Her ribs constricted painfully. The burn in her eyes grew hotter. The back of her throat felt raw. Tears began falling against her wish and she covered her face, for whatever reason her patient endurance at lengths shattered to smithereens. The floodgates had opened. The torrential outpouring admitted no check whatsoever. At least she had the relief of capturing the sobs in the palm of her hand, reducing the possibility that anyone venturing away from the party might discover her.
She had no idea for how long she'd been stood there before the sound of her own name reached her. A question. An accusation. Sonya flinched as though she'd been delivered a stinging slap; the reality was not far off.
"Boris," she gasped, wishing she could hide behind her hands as they did when playing games as children. But he could see her face all too well. And he, out of all people, would not be gullible enough to buy any guff she might throw at him in an attempt to explain her present condition. "Borya, I–"
Sonya found herself with a clean handkerchief pressed to her nose. "Blow, you silly goose." Her heart broke further at the kindness in his voice. He knew. Of course he knew. He cleaned up her face with a practiced hand and, dare she say it, tenderness. "Sofia Alexandrovna," he called her to attention, leaving the handkerchief in her hand. Only when she looked up, eyes locking with his, did he brush back a stray curl, "Lock your heart away, if you would be wise." Studying his face in silence, Sonya wondered if he expected some manner of answer. But Boris shook his head, as though in response to the unspoken question. "People like us cannot afford such luxuries."
"People like us?" she echoed. Perhaps it was her own mind playing tricks on her, but she swore she could feel the heat of his palm against her cheek even through his glove.
"Piteous children of heartless fate," he clarified. "We must make our own way in the world with eyes wide open and our struggles do not reach those above us, nor do our minds matter to them." His hand fell away from her person. "Compose yourself." He waited patiently until she had arranged her expression into something approximating normalcy.
"Will this do?" Sonya question, of a sudden embarrassed beyond words. It would be far worse should anyone guess just what she'd been about. Her already mortified dignity would crumble entirely beneath the vicious lash of their pity.
Her childhood friend turned pensive. "You look like you've been crying. Perhaps we may yet convince them they are tears of joy."
Joy; Sonya gave a shallow nod. The occasion abounded with joy. Her closest and dearest friend had finally found a man's whose face she would never forget. At least not while he stood before her. The unkind thought gave her pause. She did not want to resent a girl who had known no better. She did not want to look upon someone had had considered her sister and always be reminded of what might have been had she only had the sense to wait. One year. That was all that had been asked of her.
"Of course they are owing to joy. What else could it be?"
Boris offered her his arm and for a brief moment, they were transported back to far easier times when the currency of friendship was smiles and all could be made better with a short few words. Sonya leaned against him, conscious that it was nothing short of a betrayal to feel closer to him in spirit than to the family which she had dedicated herself to heart and soul.
But all too soon they were back into the chaos of festivities and she had no more room to dedicate to such thoughts because Natasha drew her aside, whispering about Captain's Denisov's great kindness in asking for a dance. "He singled you out most particularly." Had he, she wondered. Sonya attempted to refuse. She had no desire to appear as though she might entertain any idea of courtship. "Nonsense; weddings are not balls. All that aside, Denisov is a friend of the family." Natasha and Nikolai's, perhaps; Sonya did not suppose herself to have figured amongst the man's list of friends, less so after his failed proposal. "Come, indulge me. I should be pleased to see you dance."
Natasha was not deliberately trying to put her on the spot. Sonya did not believe her actions to be born out of malice at least. Whatever the case, she had to remind herself of it as her hand was placed into the captain's. She caught a familiar pair of eyes across the distance and immediately dropped her gaze to the ground, thanking her partner with gratitude she did not feel.
The captain was an excellent dancer. That much had not changed. She was soon put at ease by his expert guidance even if she could not quite reconcile herself to as obvious a ploy being used. Perhaps the Princess had dropped a hint; perhaps she had somehow made her uncomfortable.
Sonya caught Boris' eye. She widened her eyes fractionality in his direction, hoping he would take pity on her once again. Whether he understood her silent plea or not, she had no way of discerning, for he's turned to his wide and seemed to be entirely taken with whispering in her artful curls. Swallowing her disappointment, Sonya accepted she must perform for the audience, lest she displease the bride. Heavens forbid; one was a bride only the once and became thus entitled to the understanding and compliance of their relations. Especially their poor relations.
The dance seemed to drag on forever. Captain Denisov engaged her in light conversation when he could and it was no fly in her ointment that he sometimes looked towards the bride. Sonya knew better than to believe she was anything other than a favour.
She was twirled, momentarily meeting Nikolai's glance. He smiled. A collusion then. Should she have expected any better? Briefly, she wondered in the captain would concede to their scheme should she reveal it and then silently laughed at her own stupidity.
The last strains of the song glided upon the air as the dancers came to a halt. Gentlemen bowed. Ladies curtsied. Sonya debated asking to be returned to the old Countess' side when an unexpected rescue was mounted. Boris did come through for her, though he committed her to another set, equally tiring (when all she wanted to be was vanish into thin air), if a tad more scandalous given the fact Boris was indubitably married.
"People will talk, Borya," she reprimanded.
"They will talk a lot more if your only dance is with the captain," her friend answered. "Besides, I am not in danger of falling afoul of any matchmaking schemes."
"Yes, of course," Sonya chuckled, finding amusement in her predicament despite herself. "Foolish of me, really, to think you might take any chances."
"By all means, the best gambles are those one is certain of winning." He drew her in slightly for a more elaborate spin and, when her back was to him, whispered, "But you already know." And with that, he spun her round and round until she was dizzy from both the motion and the cut of his words.
She did know. Sonya could only hope the dance would end sooner than she expected, knowing no matter how hasty the end, it could never come quickly enough.
The night wore on. On several occasions her stare met Dolokhov's, despite both keeping away from one another. She did not know what to make of it.
Later, blessedly alone in her dark room with only the stars for company, Sonya tossed and turned. Her rioting thoughts kept bringing her on the bloody battlefield of regret and missed chances. What had brought it on? It would be useless to lie to herself, she supposed; Dolokhov had. Or rather, the knowledge of what she might have had with him; by his side at least. Sonya doubted, in some part, that she might have grown to esteem the man beyond the necessary gratitude one must feel towards one's husband. If one indeed had to.
She confessed, with unlooked for wisdom, that an earlier unconscionable union did not seem to her such an evil in the face of the coming years and decades. Marya was kind. Nikolai felt guilt. They would never turn her out, by means of their charity making her witness their conjugal felicity. It was far worse than being alone in the world. To be surrounded by people who cared and yet to feel as remote as though one were a thousand miles away had to her been a novel experience. She had only begun to learn the feeling after Nikolai's wedding (and there she'd been, thinking the worst of it was over when she released him from his promise to her). Incrementally, her familiarity with it grew and deepened until she could easily picture the stretch of her existence as the proverbial third wheel, there, and yet de trop. Useful, in some measure, but unwanted. And that would be the entirety of her wretched life, demoted from beloved to dependant.
If she had ever been beloved to begin with.
Had she been?
Sonya at least felt that she had been. In the beginning, just after mother's death, she'd been too distraught to watch the conduct of the household she'd been thrust upon with care. Her uncle, the Count, had been kindness itself, that much she remembered. But then they shared blood. And he was kind to all. The Countess had taken time to warm to her, but in those days her cares were less and her disposition far fairer. Vera and Natasha seemed to believe her there for their entertainment, but she could not deny they'd been, in their own fashion, all that was gentle with her. Nikolai, she recalled, had viewed her as a nuisance; as most boys did girls at such an age. Only later had he sought to declare himself to her.
And yet, had he?
Remembering every word, every look and every minute gesture as she did, Sonya admitted, not without some chagrin, that while sweet and, in some ways, idyllic, their attachment had never bloomed into the glory of rapturous adoration she saw in Nikolai's eyes when he glanced at his wife. Sonya had nurtured the bud of affection, wetting it with her devotion and her patience, spending herself to the last bit of endurance. But wintry frost of reality was soon laid upon the blossom and it remained a crippled thing, encased in its icy prison.
Sony's only taste of passion came in written word. Remote though it might be, she felt it no less potent. Dolokhov had been by no means mannerless in his address, but he wrote her with the conviction of a man who knew his own mind and wants – and what he had wanted was her. Turning to the side, she hid her face in the feather-filled pillow as the whisper of scandalous imaginings teased her. No longer moored to Nikolai (for that would be sinful indeed) and his soft affection, her fancy was free to improvise and it chose as its model the only other man from whom she had learning in the mysteries of the heart. Her mind softened sharp edges, smoothing over snags but not altogether exiling the animal ferocity of her once-suitor into the nothingness of wilful blindness. Wolf-like, her memory supplied, bringing to the fore that half-smile, half-smirk curving Dolokhov's mouth. He looked to be in possession of some shared secret with whomever he chose to honour with attention.
It might have been a true, common secret, between them, had she relented.
If she would consent to honouring him with her hand, he'd said, in that faithful letter; somehow, she did not believe him to be employing mere empty forms. He would have felt that honour, she was bound. Felt it more deeply indeed than Nikolai felt any professed affections if proof was anything to go by.
Might that have been enough?
Relationships were necessarily a ground of unequal investments. Her commitment to Nikolai was deeper than his to her. Dolokhov's feelings for her surpassed hers for him. And yet she had once thought she could comfortably live in such an arrangement. So why not assume she would be equally at ease when she was on the receiving end of affection.
Sonya turned the notion on all sides in her mind. Had she accepted, she would not have shirked from duties incumbent upon her. And in time, children might have come. Sons and daughters to love and nurture. Hers, and his. Theirs.
In fairness, she could not claim advice had been lacking. The Countess had urged her to accept. The Count had smiled with genuine pleasure at her good fortune, declaring Dolokhov a pleasant man who would look after her. Vera told her she was a fool if she refused. And even Nikolai had shown himself eager for her to accept. Only Natasha refrained from advising her one way or another, though she suspected that was to do with her dislike of Dolokhov rather than any consideration she had for her poor cousin. Indeed, her ignorance had been of another kind altogether.
Regret, the burning kind, kept her awake until the thin grey light of dawn intruded upon her thoughts. A new day had come.
An early riser by habit, she fell into her natural routine, washing her face and hands with some remnant of water which had been hot the night before, when she'd retreated to the last haven afforded her. Sonya spent some time before her mirror. She was not employed in an exercise of vanity, not once having thought to use the object for such a task. If anything, she could be relied upon to notice only her flaws (such as the too-plump lips; the Countess had once called it unseemly when she thought her charge out of earshot – a brazen sort of mouth, whatever that meant). Her brush worked down the length of her hair with careful strokes. All her hard thinking accompanied by tossing and turning knotted many a tangle. By the time she was satisfied with the results of her labour, her mind had flittered to thoughts of a walk. Count Bezukhov's properties were, in a word, immense and the Countess Rostova was sure to be closeted away with her daughter, meaning she would have no need of her companion. Sonya braided her hair and pinned it out of the way; she would have her walk.
She was not surprised, when coming down the stairs into the breakfast parlour, she found some of the guests awake. Military men keeping country hours; she swallowed any lingering amusement when she caught sight of Nikolai. He was sitting near a window, paper in his hand; his face was visible in profile.
Her entrance was noted by Captain Denisov, who had the kindness (despite the previous night's obvious manoeuvring) to afford her such consideration as was due any lady. So, he stood, and the other men followed his example. The general round of greeting subsided into quiet conversation. She glanced about a moment, searching for Dolokhov, she knew not why. But he was not present, to her disappointment.
Having spared no expense, Count Bezukhov, despite being ensconced in his bedroom with his lovely bride still, kept a lavish table. Sonya ate but a little, however, in spite of the tempting sight. She also took care to seat herself somewhere out of the way.
Once done, she took her leave of the men, politely refusing all offers of escort. No one pressed her further, though she noticed Nikolai's even stare lingered upon her. There was nothing but benevolence and worry in his gaze. She turned her back on both the man and the feeling he evoked within her.
She was out the door, down the steps and walking along a neatly delineated path in the blink of an eye.
"What do you want, Sofia Alexandrovna?" she admonished herself quietly. Nikolai overlooking her cut deep and his giving her attention cut even deeper it seemed. Sonya shook her head. "No, better not to think about it." She'd gone out to enjoy her solitude. Marrying the pleasure with needless fretting was bound to diminish the rewards,
Sonya emptied her head of all sorrows and took in the natural beauty all round her. The countryside had so much to offer. So much peace. So much comfort. She strayed off the beaten path and let her feet carry her where they would. Soon enough she had unbuckled her shoes and slipped them off her feet, then divested of her stockings. Who was to see her in the tall grass? Her shawl slipped down her shoulders, enhancing the disorderly look. Sonya let it be. She tilted her head back and, picking up her skirts, imagined herself a million miles away as she gave an experimental twirl. It was a moment of unrestrained freedom. She unfurled her metaphorical wings and enjoyed her moment in the sun.
Coming down from the dizzying heights of a mostly-forgotten past where she had been cherished and loved, Sonya found herself smiling. Perhaps that had been what was needed. Her glory days might well be long since gone, yet she had her memories and who could take that away from her. New joy animated her steps, carrying her farther away, down an angled slope between thick trees. She gained speed in her descent and held tightly onto her skirts until the danger had been cleared and she came to a grassy bank upon the very edge of a wide stream. Laughter drifted up at her.
Children were playing, skipping pebbles. Boys and girls frolicked together. But her eyes were not on them. They studied Dolokhov. How strange, she thought, that she might tell who he was without even catching a glimpse of his face. He was not as imposing a figure as Count Bezukhov, nor did he carry himself with the innate grace Nikolai seemed to possess, nor made himself as agreeable as Anatole Kuragin had done once upon a time. And yet, of all the men she'd ever met, he loomed largest in her mind, like a great shadow blanketing everything in its wake. She watched his back, noting that he had stripped of his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He'd not been in his uniform to begin with and the missing pieces lent him a further note of informality.
Sonya swayed forth without having the slightest intention to. Either she made some noise, or one of the children finally caught sight of her, because the next she knew, Dolokhov was glancing over his shoulder. And then he turned. They were facing each other. All distance seemed to melt away (and had she attention enough to spare, she'd have known the distance was, in fact, decreasing due to her own hurried steps). All too soon she found herself little more than an arm's length away from him, a soft greeting upon her lips.
"Good morrow to you as well, Sofia Alexandrovna," he answered, his strange eyes extraordinarily blue and piercing that morning. His band of followers giggled behind her palms when he took her hand and bent over it. There was no kiss, but his warmth seeped into her flesh. Neither of them wore gloves. And for some reason, she greedily soaked up all he had to offer, regretful to be parted when he released her from his hold. "Perhaps you would join us in skipping stones," he invited her, with the gravity of requesting a dance at a formal ball.
Dumbfounded, Sonya stared at him for a couple of moments. "Perhaps I had best watch from the sidelines. Nikolai–" she stopped short, reminding herself of resolutions made. "Count Rostov, that is, assures me I am abysmal. I should not like to be in the way." Her face heated with a blush at his discerning gaze. Nevertheless, he allowed her to take a seat where she would.
Occupying herself with learning the names of the children, she learned in short order that they hailed from the nearest village, all children of serfs. Their rustic manners were charming and more so their open, warm smiles. In their company, Dolokhov showed to greater advantage than Sonya had thought possible. Nikolai had assured them, in the old days of their friendship, that he was dedicated to his family; Sonya saw a glimpse of it in his interaction with the children. Only a loving older brother would be inclined to indulge them so.
The skipping stones competition went on for a while. And Sonya, ever watchful, would come time and again to Dolokhov.
Realisation, terrible, thrilling realisation dawned upon her as he taught one of the youngest, a slip of a thing with a mop of bright curls, the correct form to make the stone skip on the water's surface forever.
Her chest constricted painfully as panic gripped her. She could not be earnestly admiring the man.
Though she was not entirely certain how it came about, Sonya did know that he had had a falling out with Nikolai. It was never spoken of and she'd only guessed because Nikolai had not one good thing to say of his former friend, despite having once been quite eager to pawn Sonya off on him. Then there was the business with Natasha's love letter, as though the former were not enough. No matter; it was merely the unexpected scene.
Eventually, the children left, off to play some other games. Sonya, having expected the glow to vanish with the patter of little feet, found that virtually no change came over her scorned once-suitor. She kept her eyes on him as he rolled down his sleeves and put on his coat. She shivered and dropped her gaze.
"Why did you come here?"
The question dropped between them unexpectedly. She flinched at the sound of her own voice. Had she meant to ask it aloud? From beneath her lashes, she saw him pause, hand upon a button. His head turned to her. She raised her chin in silent defiance, for he had that look upon his face, mocking and insolent.
"Count Bezukhov extended the invitation. Perhaps you had best ask him." Smooth as butter, his voice trickled into her ears. It was pleasantly low, thus rather incongruous with the unholy gleam in his eyes.
"You needn't have taken him up on it," Sonya pointed out. It was folly to provoke him, but having warmed up to the subject, she did not find it remotely expedient to cease. Who knew when she would gather such courage again. "It must be some sort of perverse pleasure for you, I do not doubt."
Dolokhov laughed. The sound wrapped around her insides with insidious silky-smooth movements. "Not all of us can be as virtuous as you, Sofia Alexandrovna." His smile blossomed sharply, unmistakable cruelty twisting the corners of his mouth. "Hopefully your self-sacrificing nature finds sufficient favour in the eyes of your beloved that he won't toss you out on your ear when he grows bored of your martyr's act."
"How dare you, knave?!" She pushed down the urge to squirm backward when he reached for her. Sonya half-expected to be on the receiving end of some assault.
But Dolokhov contented himself with chucking her under the chin in an almost playful manner. "I am quite shameless."
It was the remoteness and the intimacy to blame for what happened next.
He leaned in and she stood perfectly still, wary and incredulous.
Their lips met. The world imploded, folding down upon itself. He stood sharp relief against a golden-edged, hazy backdrop, feeling unbearably real beneath her hands when she pressed them to his chest. Sonya had meant to push away from him, but much like a mouse caught in the hypnotic gaze of a snake, she froze entirely. His mouth moved skilfully against hers; slowly, with deep-abiding passion that she could feel stabbing to the bone. He demanded nothing, satisfied, it would seem, to turn her insides to mush. Heat coiled in her stomach. All bones in her legs became suspiciously yielding, as though they'd been altogether removed and aspic had replaced them. Before she could fall at his feet and utterly disgrace herself, however, he retreated, capturing her chin between thumb and forefinger. Keeping her still, he drew the pad of his thumb against her plump lower lip.
And then it was over; the lingering scent of spice and leather her only remaining proof that the nightmare had not been her mere imagination.
The man had the audacity to chuckle. "Do not look so forlorn, Sofia Alexandrovna. I have not stolen your first kiss, after all."
One short bow later, he was on his way while she settled back down, hand on her bosom. That villain! He'd known perfectly well what he was doing. Sofia's lungs filled with air. He'd known; he must have known such a gesture would stump her. That had been no courting kiss. Nothing like the quick furtive slide of lips upon lips she had learned at Nikolai's side. Sonya buried her face in her hands, frustrated tears brimming. The greatest betrayal was to herself; she could not deny, in good conscience, disliking it. She dared not claim she would not welcome a repeat in a heartbeat if the possibility presented itself. Traitorous fingers pressed her lips mercilessly. "You might as well have stolen my first kiss," she muttered to the ghost of him. The words held no heat.
Sonya climbed to her feet unsteadily, collecting her stockings and shoes. She dusted off her skirts and turned towards the manor, absently picking her way through the trees and then the tall grass. Somehow, she nonetheless managed to stop a moment and attire herself appropriately lest she incur her benefactress' wrath. The dowager Countess did not approve of grown women running about like wild things and staining their heels brown with dust.
She snuck into the house was quietly as she could. The sound of male voices rose and fell as she walked along the hallway. Knowing so early in the day there could not be any formal activities and that, quite frankly, many ladies would still be asleep, she made her way up the stairs, meaning to find solace in the small parlour put at the old countess' disposal.
Only when she approached, she noted it was already occupied. Sonya stood uncertainly in the hallway, snatches of conversation reaching her. Someone had forgotten to close the door.
"No, indeed, dear; you mustn't. She does not feel these things as we do, but even she must understand we do it for her own sake." That was the old Countess. Sony had a sneaking suspicion she knew of whom the woman spoke.
"Still, if I explain to her," Marya Nikolaevna submitted, her tone charged with uncertainty. "Nikolai advised me to wait, but for how long can I do so? It will show sooner rather than later."
"My brother means well," Natasha spoke. Her timbre was strong. "It is in his nature to be solicitous of other's comfort yet we cannot wait forever. But seeing the two of them together, I think mother is right. The captain would be a good match for Sonya. They looked so well dancing together the other night. And if she has him, then we may all be one big happy family." They might as well have punched her.
Sonya dropped one step back and leaned her weight against the wall.
"I do not feel at ease knowing her to be in pain," the Princess added. "A captain in His Majesty's army is nothing to be scoffed at. Denisov is a kind and handsome man."
"And ready to be won over. All we need to do is throw them together a few more times. He could be made to want her."
In spite of her lacking dowry? Sonya slapped a hand to her mouth to keep from laughing. Even kind and handsome men had to eat. She could not listen to any more. So Sonya moved quietly past the small parlour and made her way into her bedroom, shutting and bolting the door in her wake. Crawling under the covers, she hid her face in the pillow and spent a considerable amount of time attempting to convince herself the plotting was not a mark of disrespect. It was futile.
No one cared about Sofia Alexandrovna's heart. She had no more tears to shed. Turning further into the pillow and drawing the covers as far overhead as she could bring them, Sonya closed her eyes and prayed the earth would open up and swallow her whole.
In time, she fell asleep. Slumber brought queer visions, a world of muted colours which seemed to move at an altogether slower pace, where moments stretched out over infinity, filigreed by thin golden veins which wrapped like vines in sunlight halos. Her hands warmed over another's pair of hands, fingers curling in a gentle grip. The taste of rosemary and mint lingered upon her lips which tingled from she knew not what. She brimmed with joy.
Sonya woke with a start. Insistent knocking upon her door followed by Natasha calling for her chipped at the pleasant feeling of floating upon the wings of a dream associated with just coming to. There was a faint note of desperation in the other's voice. It was not for Sony, poor dependant that she was, to gainsay the wishes of her betters; she climbed out of bed and opened the door to twin expressions of dread.
Natasha and her mother spoke over one another as soon as they caught a glimpse of her. Beneath the clamour of voices, she distinguished words, with meaning attached to them. But Sonya could not be so easily won over; they spoke of worry and care only because they anticipated her time with them coming at an end. The Princess, at least, had not joined them. The genuine distress ever shining in her eyes hurt more than the feigned interest of her relations.
"Forgive me," she finally spoke in a small voice. "My head, you see," Sonya trailed off and waved her hand vaguely. "I thought a lie-down would do me good." The proper amount of deference, her tone just so and her eyes stuck upon the ground, she made herself agreeable indeed. Countess, both old and new, swallowed up the explanation. The women placed themselves on either side of her, drawing her deeper into the bedroom and shutting the door in their wake.
"Your dress was very pretty the other night, but I found this brooch, I think would go marvellously with it," Natasha launched the attack as soon as they were safely out of sight. "If you would just try it on, I am certain you'll agree." Hands brushed against the plain taupe cotton, perhaps attempting to smooth over wrinkles. Natasha held up her offering, placing it at the base of Sonya's neck. Gold specks sparked with fire in a sea of deep blue. The gold frame was so very delicate. "What do you think?"
"It is very pretty," Sonya admitted. She wondered if it would be enough to entice Captain Denisov. Did she want it to be? Perhaps she ought to be glad Nikolai had not simply marched up to her room and commanded her to make herself agreeable to the captain. A man who had been enchanted by lovely Natasha, the sun to Sonya's moon. Well, nothing for it but to pretend ignorance.
Later, once she had changed for dinner, Sonya pinned the brooch on herself. It was not capitulation in the face of her betters' wishes as much as practicality. She went down with the other ladies, making not a peep. Her eyes sought out Denisov.
He was conversing with Dolokhov and though both stood as the ladies entered, neither quite broke their current engagement. Sonya took the opportunity to study both men. She did not stare openly; that would have been both rude and inappropriate. But she stole glanced now and then, standing by the window as she was. Countess Natalya made no attempt to engage her in the round of talks which the ladies had started, for all of them were married and they spoke of matters into which Sonya had no insight. She caught bits and pieces of Natasha's declaring herself the happiest woman that had ever lived and she wondered how much of it was choice and how much was chance.
Had she not been the happiest woman when Prince Andrei Nikolayevich proposed? Had she not been the happiest woman living her sordid little affair with Anatole Vasilyevich? Her friend had a remarkable capacity to find supreme happiness in those she happened to be attached to. Sonya supposed she envied that. Her pleasures and joys had been calm, muted things, like pastel colours or perhaps softly hummed lullabies. The sole spark of bright, iridescent (and shocking) violence of feeling had made itself known to her upon the banks of a nameless stream, in the arms of an impossible contrary creature. Her fingers had inched halfway to her lips before she caught hint of it and dropped her hand with a languid movement. Surreptitiously, she glanced about to see if anyone had taken notice.
Fortune was on her side. All were engrossed in their own personal amusements.
In due course, she was approached by Boris who seemed to have taken it upon himself to draw her out. That, or he wished to cause some sort of scandal. From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of his wife, Julie, mustering a self-satisfied smile. There was too little time to wonder at it before Boris drew her into conversation. He engaged her upon the subject of poetry, of all things. Had his marriage made a sentimental out of him? Sonya could claim no superior knowledge in that realm, thus she allowed her old friend to take up the lion's share of the effort, content to, then and again, pitch in with pure speculation or a question of her own.
"That gives me an idea; the Count's library is well-stocked. Let us step away a moment." His invitation brooked no argument. Sonya followed him out of curiosity, though she could tell by the old Countess' expression she would be chided for her actions later on.
The library door was left wide open to circumvent any possible scandal. Boris picked out a book from the multitude lining the walls and opened it, leafing through its pages, encouraging her to look. He spoke in low tones. "My wife tells me the family means to see you and Denisov leg-shackled."
"Do they?" Sonya leaned further over a passage, making a show of underlining the words with a slow sweet of her finger. "They have been so subtle about it."
"Very," Boris agreed. "Are you determined to have him?"
Not in the least. Sonya tilted her head to the side so she faced Boris' profile. He turned a page, waiting patiently for her answer. "He comes highly recommended, a captain in His Majesty's army; I do not see that I have a choice."
"There are two captains present here." Her friend gave a smile, eyes sparkling with mischief. "It is one possibility more than you've had before, Sonya." Boris pointed out something in one of the latter lines, forcing her attention to the page.
"You know Nikolai disapproves of Captain Dolokhov." Even Natasha only tolerated him for her husband's sake and for the fact he would not grace their table forever. "How could I ever go against his wishes?"
Borish sighed, then glanced to the other chamber. Their hosts and the other guests got on perfectly well without them. "Julie heard it from somewhere or another that Dolokhov proposed to you some years back and has set his cap at no one else since you rejected him. She takes it for devotion. Well, no wonder; she is a romantic."
"And what do you take it for?" Sonya questioned.
He shrugged. "An opportunity to decide your own fate." Their eyes met; something burned in his gaze. "Why should the Rostovs dictate the terms of your happiness? Have you not as much, if not more claim?"
"Shall I throw their care back into their faces?" The prospect frightened her. "After all the years under their roof?" Of course, choosing Dolokhov only worked on the assumption that he still desired to marry her, or that he could at least be convinced of it. "Captain Denisov is kind and handsome. He would make a good husband."
"He pines after Natasha still. Or have you not seen how his eyes chase her about the room?" Boris closed the book. "It is your choice in any event. I simply meant to point out we are no lesser than those who might think to bless us with their charity."
The book was soon replaced in its spot and Boris led her back to the gathering in the adjoining room where Natasha promptly announced dinner awaited them. As fortune would have it, Sonya ended up seated by Captain Denisov and facing, over a chandelier and a rather large pot of soup, the amused expression of Dolokhov. Boris, who was near that infuriating man, raised one perfectly arched eyebrow at her. He had something of the devil in him, she did not doubt.
Sonya spent an entire evening trying (and failing) not to notice Dolokhov's occasional glances her way. Captain Denisov indulged her with conversation and though his countenance was as open and friendly as one would wish it, she could tell he wasn't especially taken with her.
Her sleep was poor that night, haunted by Borya's advice and that damnable kiss. Relief came in mere snatches parted by hours of serious contemplation. But as a new day dawned, Sonya had, at least, the satisfaction of having managed to piece together her own thoughts on the matter.
They said called humility a virtue, but she could see her own were born of stubbornness. And Princess Marya must have seen the same, to be made so uncomfortable by it. Nikolai pitied her, but not in such a way as might call his heart to hers. The Countess Natalya would sooner see her thrown on the streets than disrupting the joy of her family, a family which Sonya had once thought she was a part of, but discovered, to her horror, that she had been merely lying to herself. Marriage was the best solution to her predicament. They were correct in that at least. But she remained uncertain as to the suitability of Captain Denisov.
A lack of affection could be overlooked, even accepted with relief. But if his heart were truly engaged, then how could she bear to live with him day by day and submit to a wife's duties? The thought made her ill, almost physically so.
The only other option was Dolokhov. She would lose any claim to Nikolai's affection, but then such crumbs as he gave had brought her more grief than joy. She had wanted a man's affection when all he had for her was a boy's admiration, light and airy and vanishing into thin air.
"Sofia Alexandrovna Denisova," she whispered to the barely waking world. "Sofia Alexandrovna Dolokhova." Both sounded so very strange and unlovely to her ears. She could not make up her mind which was better.
In the upcoming days, her god-fairies in human guise, did everything in their power to push her and Captain Denisov together. Sonya could never quite decide thereafter if someone had warned the poor man or if his own intuition were at play, but whenever the old Countess suggested she and Captain Denisov enjoy the fine weather on a walk, they were inevitably joined by Dolokhov and the two men spoke over her head the whole way through, requiring very little of her indeed. Should Natasha suggest a game of cards, Denisov would insist of partnering Julie, leaving Sonya to Dolokhov and his incredible luck at the tables, despite very small sums being played for. When, in desperation, Marya had joined the fray, whispering to Nikolai, Sonya knew things could not go forever as they were. She had to choose one way or the other.
She turned to Boris. He seemed her only true ally in the whole debacle.
They sought some measure of privacy in the gardens with Julie offering to distract her hostess and her indomitable Maman. "We mustn't give in to their pressure, ma chère. Captain Denisov is nice, oui, but there is one even better for you," she'd said, beating her fan vigorously a few times before she took off with a lilting cry of Natasha's name.
Boris betrayed no hint of amusement when Sonya turned to him, though he must have felt it. Instead, he placed her hand in the crook of his arm. "I believe Dolokhov would be amenable to a union." She asked how he came to address such a subject. "Not directly, you understand. But he did say as long as a woman proved worthy, he should not hold the lack of a dowry against her. The only question that remains is whether he wants you."
Sonya thought of their kiss then. "You think he would propose again?" She thought of his eyes and that strange mouth; a feeling of surprising tenderness spread through her.
"Julie appears to believe it. She means to commandeer your time tomorrow for a walk, it being our last day together." And Dolokhov would follow for some reason or another. And then she would know, Sonya supposed, if she was enough or nor.
Her palms felt clammy. He would look at her the way he once had, when she was little more than a lovelorn girl. Awareness shot through her as she turned her head to the side. Dolokhov was already watching, the blue of his eyes impossibly bright. She did not love him, perhaps she never would. But Sonya would be struck down by God for a liar if she denied the attraction between them.
"I shall be happy to join your wife then," she answered, separating from Boris and seeking refuge within the house.
Countess Natalya sent her in the small drawing room where Natasha was playing the pianoforte. She spend a little white in the company of Denisov who, for whatever reason, had relaxed once more in her presence. Sonya occupied her time attempting to piece together what her life with the man might have looked like and when he helped her stand, gripping her hand in his, she tried to determine his effect on her. There was none to speak of; her imagination was equally lacking in contriving an appealing future by his side.
The group broke apart at length only to reconvene around the dinner table. The second to last one; before all guests departed. On the morrow she must act. Sonya made little conversation that night, though Captain Denisov provided her with ample opportunity. Fearing she might give herself away, neither did she looked at Dolokhov, as she had done before. Absolute secrecy must guide her conduct until a promise was made and some arrangement secured.
When Julie took her by the hand the next day, she followed along helplessly for a time, beset by doubts which had not been there before. Yet they lost themselves down the path and among the trees and of a sudden the other woman saw her husband and released Sonya with a murmured, "Now it is up to you." Boris and his wife stepped away, still visible, but not close enough to overhear much of anything unless yelling were involved.
Dolokhov had been lying in wait, indolently leaning against a tree. He watched her, his expression inscrutable. Sonya stared back at him. Which one of them was to go first? She tensed, seeing him move away from that spot. The man stopped a few short steps in front of her. She was not in danger of being kissed once more, but she could easily reach for him, should she wish it. Anticipation coursed through her veins all the same.
"You want something from me?" he questioned, predatory stare fixed upon her. Sonya's throat went dry. She fumbled with her words, while he watched on in quite honest amusement. "The devil or the deep blue sea as ever, Sofia Alexandrovna."
She closed her eyes. "Have you no pity in your heart?"
"I would certainly not insult you with that, girl." The brusque reply had her looking him in the eyes once more. Dolokhov's wolfish grin reasserted itself, widening ever so slightly. "If it's pity that moves you, I suggest you run along back to your mistress."
She was not a girl. She hadn't been a girl in so many years, Sonya forgot what that was like. Her hands moved, gripping his shoulders with firmness. Rising on her tiptoes, she pressed her mouth to his. The world melted into darkness as her lashes lowered. His arms encircled her. The kiss deepened, under his guidance gaining depth (Sonya wondered if he sought to fuse them together). Hot blood beat wildly in her veins, rushing with thunderous clamour until her head spun and the ground beneath her was a void. She floated in Dolokhov's arms until he separated from her.
Whatever he saw in her face then (though she could not guess what one might witness beneath the layer of her heated blush) called tenderness to his eyes. Sonya allowed him to place another kiss, this one upon her brow. "You will be my wife?"
"Yes. I will make you a good wife," Sonya vowed. One of her hands had dropped to his chest. She could feel his heart beating away, she fancied. Her own was beating just as fast. "But Fyodor Ivanovich–"
"Fedya," he corrected.
"Fedya, then – I have no dowry to bring you." Her admission was joined by another blush. Penury did not discomfort her as much as the thought of causing trouble for another.
He shrugged in answer, lifted the hand she'd placed on his chest to his lips, and kissed her knuckles. Sonya trembled lightly. "Shall we share our good news with your family?"
They did just that, to a fanfare of shock for some and delight for others. Nikolai protested loudest and it took the combined efforts of Pierre and Princess Marya to settle him down. For her part, Sonya quite believed him when he said she would never be welcome to Bald Hills again if she chose to tie herself to Dolokhov, but all the same she remained undaunted. And Captain Denisov, to do him credit, congratulated her quite prettily on her choice.
Over Nikolai's objections, the party decided they would linger a little while longer. As Dolokhov wanted a speedy ceremony and had not the least bother about dowries (he even refused Count Bezukhov's offer to dower Sonya) and such, there was little need for a delay. And his will was carried out. Within days, they were married.
To attempt a description of the bride's nervous attitude would be fruitless. Though Sonya endured some trepidation on account of her would-be husband's decisiveness, once they stood before the priest, she in her Sunday best, with her pretty lapis lazuli brooch, and he in his military uniform, looking the very picture of charm, making their vows before God and man, her sole reason for anxiety vanished.
Sofia Alexandrovna Dolokhova leaned over the carriage window (Count Bezukhov would not take no for an answer on providing them with means of transportation back to Moscow), allowing Natasha to kiss both her cheeks and wish her well. "Write me soon and know that Pierre and I will always welcome you here." Pierre held her hand a moment and smiled affably as though to agree with his wife.
Princess Marya and the old Countess were less effusive, but they too wished her well, no doubt glad to see her gone from under their nose, even if they did disapprove the choice of husband. Nikolai, who seemed to be yet labouring under the impression his petulance might change the fundamentals of the situation, pursed his lips and muttered a few words which Sonya supposed she was to understand as his farewell.
She pondered the outcome with sadness, eyes naturally dropping to her lap, as soon as the carriage had begun to roll away and she was comfortably ensconced in her seat. It did not escape her notice that her husband watched her with untiring attention.
"Rather late for second thoughts or regrets," he pointed out in clipped tones. His hand patted her knee and it was all she could do not to gasp at the familiar touch and intimate note. "Steady on, Sofia Alexandrovna."
"You needn't be so formal; Sonya will do." She tentatively glanced up at him. A good thing she was seated already or her legs would have given way to witness the intensity of his gaze. As it was, her fate heated up with a rosy blush. He looked away then, fixing his eyes upon the rolling scenery outside.
They travelled in silence until they reached a small but neat looking inn, just as the last rays of the sun were dying away. Fedya saw to arranging accommodations. He even carried her over the threshold and up a flight of stairs, setting her down into a room that much like the rest of the building was small, but otherwise immaculate. The furnishings were old, harkening to the styles preferred in the previous century, but the wood was lacquered and the floors had obviously been polished.
Food was brought along shortly as well. Sonya tried a little of everything despite her lacking appetite. She blamed the renewed nerves for her condition. As every girl knew, the wedding night was just as special of an occasion as one's wedding day. The details were not spoken about in polite society because as Countess Natalya had said, the husband would know what to do. Sonya would have liked herself to know what was about to pass between them.
But Fedya's concern was for his food and drink primarily. And after he was done, he pressed a kiss to the top of her head and disappeared outside, instructing her to bed down if she were tired. As though she might catch as much as a wink. It remained the case, however, that left alone, she had little else to do.
Sonya divested herself of her prettiest dress, shivering lightly as the cool air grazed her bare arms. Her petticoat had short sleeves, after all. Sonya removed her short stays and her pantalettes, left with but one layer to guard her. The shift was plain cotton, as opposed to anything like the silk pieces in Natasha's trousseau. The utilitarian garment had not even a bow or lace-trimmed edge to boast of, but it was sturdy and new enough not to have thinned with excessive washing, preserving her decency. She added her shawl on top of that for warmth.
Withdrawing to a small vanity table, she took down her braids and unwound them, brushing the hair first with her fingers, until the loose waves encircled her, and then with her comb. There were no tangles, thus her work was completed only too swiftly. Sonya then wove one long braid which she tied at the end with one of the ribbons previously in her hair.
There was nothing for it, but to crawl under the covers after. The inn provided blessedly thick quilts and the pillows were as soft as the mattress was light against her back. She had not realised just how tired she was until her head hit the pillow. Only, even with all the comfort surrounding her, Sonya could not sleep. Something was supposed to occur on her wedding night. But it would not happen until Fedya returned. She would hate to sleep through it and remain ignorant.
To her relief, her husband did not shun their room for long. Though Sonya would not turn at the sound of his ingress, she nevertheless caught the woosh of cloth settling. The mattress dipped under Fedya's additional weight before she heard one thud after another. Those must have been his boots. He lingered on that edge awhile longer. A rush of cool air assailed her back after. He slipped in beside her, close enough that the warmth of his body lapped at the shores of her and yet not touching her. Sonya was aware of every tiny shift, waiting with bated breath for that indefinable something to come along and turn her world upside down. But Fedya stopped moving, still a hairsbreadth away from her. No matter how long she waited, nothing happened.
Disappointed, she turned on her back first and then onto her other side, so she faced her husband. "Fedya," she whispered, unspoken questions hanging on the edge of that single word.
"I thought you were asleep." His right hand, the one closest to her moved beneath the covers, somehow ending up against her hip. "You must be tired. Go to sleep." His touch seared, his fingers a brand against her.
"I cannot." Fumbling in the dark she reached for him. Beneath her palm his chest rose and fell, cloth and naked skin. Sonya sought the words to explain. "I cannot bear not knowing what comes next. Please."
"Didn't they tell you?" His voice had lost some of its softness. Sonya also sensed he was more alert.
"It is not proper to speak of such things," she answered primly. Then, mellower, added, "Countess Natalya said you would know what to do." Silence fell between them, stretching out uncomfortably. Worry gnawed at her. Perhaps she had displeased him with her ignorance. "Was she wrong? Should I have known?"
"No." The hand on her hip moved in circular motions for a few short heartbeats before he withdrew it. Sonya could not keep from sighing. "You are certain you would not feel better waiting?"
That she had no need to ponder. "Yes." Cloth whooshed.
He rolled onto his side. "Then let me kiss you, Sonechka." As good as his word, his fingers glided in her hair, tugging her towards him. Fedya's kiss tasted of wine. He had drunk some with his evening meal and she could not help thinking how well it suited him. For a long time, his lips led hers in a slow dance of gliding caresses. Sonya found herself once more marvelling at that skill of his. She supposed it made sense that he would be proficient considering he had a rather curious reputation. Casting the unpleasant notion aside, she returned her mind to kisses.
He conquered her lips and then her throat, the stinging bite of his teeth against the sensitive flesh there making her squirm. Fedya pushed her onto her back and rose above her. She could not see very well in the dark, but her other senses seemed to have been heightened. She felt the caressing drag of her shift riding higher over her hips, up and up until it was thrown over her head. She felt his fingertips acquainting themselves with the expanse of her stomach even as his mouth wreaked havoc across her shoulders and chest. Her own fingers worked their way through his curls, tugging gently with every cruel jolt of inexplicable pleasure. Coiling heat tormented her. She soared high, so close to the stars she had a fancy that by reaching out she might catch one for her own. Fedya brought himself higher against her, making way for himself between her thighs. Her knees came up instinctively, as her hand fell back down to the covers. He felt strange against her.
Then Sonya faltered. Pinching pain followed by an infernal stretch swept any remnants of desire away. She squeaked, squirming to alleviate some of the pressure. But Fedya's hands cradled her hips. His breathing was laboured. Perhaps he was hurting as well. "Keep still, you pretty, unearthly thing," he rasped. Sonya's heart skipped a beat, but she did not have the wherewithal to contemplate the words. He moved within her and it almost seemed to her as though they were tethered together with string. Of their own volition, her own hips began swaying in a back and forth motion. Fedya groaned and she would have stopped but for his hoarse voice distracting her. "Hold me, Sonya. Put your arms around me."
She did. Both arms encircled his waist. She felt the muscles jump beneath her touch. His pace quickened within her. Sonya tried to find something of the earlier ecstasy in their exchange. It proved difficult to put away the discomfort every thrust caused, but opening herself up to the feelings, she also relished the warmth of his skin against her palm and she loved the way he held her, tightly, as though he never wished to let go.
Fedya lost his rhythm, pushing against her in a broken pace. He fell against her, the weight of his body pressing her into the soft mattress. His shoulder, brought level with her mouth tasted salty as she pressed her lips to the skin there. He was trembling all over like a newborn thing. Sonya's heart welled up with tenderness. She moved one hand up and down his back in a soothing motion, continuing to pepper kisses wherever she could reach. Fedya grunted, shifting against her. It took him a moment to regain a measure of composure, but he soon them disentangled. She flinched at the throbbing in her lower half.
Her husband dropped onto his back. "Now you know." His voice had regained some of its regular strength. So she did; Sonya allowed herself to be tugged into his side. That sinewy body bathed in a thin layer of sweat, even as hers, radiated heat. His hand wound around her shoulders, fingers toying with her stray tendril which had escaped her braid. Had they not huddled together, covered by their thick blankets, their teeth would have certainly been clattering by that point. "What do you think?"
Blood rushed to her face. Polite society might bury the subject and treat its existence as taboo, but she owed her husband obedience. Caught between the two, Sonya hesitated. She hid her face in his shoulder. Then, making up her mind, she finally said, "I enjoyed the kisses." The fingers in her hair paused their meandering. Sonya could not lift her head even knowing the surrounding darkness would likely hide her flushed cheeks. The admission had been far too personal, hadn't it? Less personal than what they'd shared, and yet dangerously so. His fingers resumed their earlier occupation. In for a kopeck, in for a rouble. "I like you holding me." She did look up with that confession, searching for some clue that it was welcome.
But Fedya had no answer for her, save for the continued ministration he had already been exercising. Neither could she make out anything on the absence of light. Perhaps he was pondering her words, she though with a little thrill. Sonya relaxed against him, surprise to find she had ever been on edge. Her lips grazed his shoulder in silent gratitude and she closed her eyes, sleep stealing her away unexpectedly.
In the morning, she woke alone. Sonya experienced a moment of confusion. Her hand felt along the sheets, wincing as the movement pulled on muscles she never even knew she possessed. There was something else as well. Pushing down the covers and dragging them along to shield her body, she climbed out of bed on shaky legs. From her vantage point she instantly noted the stain. Sonya gazed down at her own thighs and the thin line of dried blood there. That explained some things, the ache and the pull and the tenderness.
She cleaned herself as best she could with some water and a handkerchief which she then washed thoroughly. Then she dressed in her taupe cotton and sat down before the mirror, making herself presentable. Her hair combed and arranged in one long braid, she exchanged the usual childish crown of braids for a low chignon secured with a number of pins (privately, she thought it an odd picture; perhaps on account of habit).
By the time Fedya put in an appearance she was more than prepared for their departure. Sonya was only half-surprised when he planted a shot kiss on her lips along with giving his greeting. There was nothing of last night's fire in his touch, but all the same she was armed and found herself smiling rather like a silly goose once they parted.
"Good morrow," she whispered back, discovering that she had somehow managed to wrap her arms around him. She might have even been looking up at him with starts in her eyes for all she knew. Sonya tampered down the tendril of affection unfurling from her heart. Sudden bitterness exploded on her tongue; was a night in another's bed all it truly took to change her heart? Stepping away, she released him. "Where to now, Fyodor Ivanovich?"
"Moscow, Sonechka. My mother will be pleased to meet you." His eyes flashed. Sonya wondered if he could read her thoughts.
She recalled Nikolai speaking of the woman all those years ago. She had cared for her son after the duel with Count Bezukhov and she had rather made an impression on Nikolai. That woman loved her son above all else. Again, her heart quivered. "I hope to meet with her approval." Should she one day have a son of her own, might she feel that no woman deserved him? Sonya knew herself to be no paragon.
"She will love you because I do." The casual revelation pierced her as surely as though he'd fired upon her and aimed true. Sonya swallowed thickly and lowered her gaze, not daring to look upon her husband's face.
"You have a sister also?" she questioned seeking to leave the other subject behind.
"Galina Ivanovna." It was a pretty name. When she asked what he might tell her of the girl, Fedya huffed with amusement. "She must be six-and-ten years of age now. A bit taller than you. I am gone more than I am in her company. But she is, generally, better behaved than I ever was; doubt she'll cause you much grief."
They were interrupted by breakfast making an arrival. Sonya's face caught fire when the innkeeper's wife enquired, the knowing look in her eyes suggesting she was more than aware what newlyweds got up to during the night. Fedya, as one might expect, felt not a twinge of shame with regards to the matter. The woman leaned close to Sonya and whispered in her ear, "Tvorog with strawberries for your womb to quicken. Soldiers are often away and you'll be glad for something to take your mind off his absence." Seeing as she was facing Fedya and had a direct view of his face, Sonya was fairly certain he'd caught every word. The ground could not open up and swallow her fast enough. A delighted laughter left their hostess' face as she drew away. "My, but you can blush, girly."
The remark only caused further heat to gather in her cheeks. Sonya cupped a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing along, suddenly hit by the hilarity of the situation. Only once the woman was gone did she trust herself to lower that hand. She still laughed. Fedya smiled in that way of his, a knowing wolfish grin.
They ate in relative silence, as had happened the night before. Sonya got the sense that outside of social functions, Fedya did not relish words with his food. The hearty breakfast filled them up. As per received instructions, Sonya took care to include a share of fresh tvorog and strawberries in her diet to finish with.
A thought occurred to her as she blew into the piping hot tea accompanying the food. "What you said last night–" she trailed off, feeling the beginning did not quite match her meaning. "You called me a pretty, unearthly thing. It quite struck me. I distinctly recall a letter Natasha – or rather Countess Bezukhova received some years ago. I think you know which one."
"Are we to drag up the past now?" he questioned, meeting her gaze square on. "I was Kuragin's friend. You already know that." She nodded. "If it helps anything, I was thinking of you, when I wrote them."
Sonya thought a moment. "It does. But only a little bit." Part of her was gratified to know she had still been on his mind so many years after that disastrous proposal. He was a constant one, despite appearances; and that despite them having been apart and with no form of contact. She should have agreed to his proposal the first time around. "Why did you do it? You knew ruin was the only outcome for Natasha."
He made a sound, somewhere between a snort and a huff while shrugging. "And what is she to me?"
Blinking through the confusion, Sonya continued to regard him thoughtfully. She wondered if it had ever crossed his mind that Natasha's ruin would be shared by herself, but she lacked the courage to ask. "Perhaps one day I will understand," she said with finality, indicating her probing was at an end. Fedya made her no answer. But she was not daunted by the fact, for she sensed no unease about him and supposed he must have accepted they were to put the subject behind them.
They boarded the carriage soon thereafter and where on their way to Moscow. Unlike the first leg of their journey, Fedya chose to pull her into his lap, in a rather indecent display of an amorous mood. Old Countess Natalya would have surely crossed herself and then promptly fainted away to see them so. But the kisses he dotted from the spot just behind her ear to the base of her throat left Sonya insensible to any rules of propriety and less so to the opinions of her benefactress. She melted into her husband, sighing happily. Soon enough she had lost track of her shawl and had her arms in firm embrace about him, well-satisfied even when he stopped plying her with those wondrous pecks.
Settling far seemlier by his side in another quarter of an hour, Sonya leaned her head against Fedya's shoulder and somehow sleep took her in spite of the jostling of the carriage. She did not think there had even been a better nap. She woke refreshed and in a bright mood, happy both to find her shawl spread across her lap and Fedya fast asleep himself. She would not wake him, Sonya decided as she made a study of his relaxed features. His curious mouth understandably held her attention, but she found, truth be told, elegance in every line of his features and could only marvel that any woman might prefer another to him, that she'd preferred Nikolai to him, in fact. The scales had fallen from her eyes.
Moscow, very much still in the process of rebuilding, was a half-unfleshed skeleton of shaky scaffolding. Fortunately, the great fire had spared some buildings, amongst them the one housing Maria Ivanovna and her daughter, young Galina. And the old woman was beyond ecstatic to receive her son. "You were supposed to me here for many days now," she chided without a hint of bite. She kissed her son's cheeks and only them seemed to take note of the other figure which had stepped down from the carriage. The mother shot her son a questioning look then turned hopeful eyes towards Sonya who was fiddling with her skirts.
"My wife, Sofia Alexandrovna. I did not find a moment to write you, mother dearest, or I would have sent warning." His words melted in a flurry of movement.
Sonya was drawn into a warm embrace and kisses were pressed to her cheek. "How good you are to me, Fedya," Maria Ivonovna spoke over Sonya's shoulder, "to bring such a pretty wife home to me." Pushing slightly away from her, the woman's full attention settled on the younger female. "Let me take a good look at you."
A shy smile stole over Sonya's lips as she was being inspected all the while the matron urged her up the steps and into a cramped corridor where another young woman stood. The hair and eyes and something about the face unmistakably marked her as Fedya's sister. Galina's cheeks were a pleasant shade of red as she stepped forth, first to hug and kiss her brother and then to greet Sonya, whom she held hands with but approached no further.
Their driver was called within as well and sent served a light meal in the kitchen. Sonya recalled from Nikolai's stories that the Dolokhovs' had once lived very poorly. While they were by no means well-off, it seemed they had nevertheless prospered some in the intervening years. Their lodgings had a rather pretty parlour, tiny and tidy. There was tea and pirozhki filled with cabbage and a good deal of cheer before the small fire burning warming them up.
The first order of business was for mother and daughter to learn all the details of the unforeseen union. Sonya answered, between bites of pirozhki and blushes, after realising neither one nor the other of the two had any notion Fedya had proposed to her and been rejected before, that she was quite touched to have been the recipient of her husband's affection and was naturally only too happy to marry him. "He was even kind enough to overlook my lacking dowry. I have little of value in this world except my mother's pearl necklace and this brooch I now wear." The lapis lazuli in gold setting was duly admired.
"No matter, dearest; my Fedya does not have the heart to marry for money; and better so, say I." Maria Ivanovna took Sonya's hands in hers. "And you must think of me as your mother from now. And Galina will be your sister."
Tearing up a little, Sonya smiled at both women. "Thank you, mother. I've always longed for a sister." Galina declared herself just as happy with the arrangement, noting that her brother would be obliged to cross their threshold far more often with his wife in residence. The remark was met with amused laughter all around.
Fedya soon took his leave, citing business which needed attending. Sonya walked him to the door at his insistence, conscious of the fact the other two women followed close behind. But he would not be gone long, he said, and they might expect him at dinner. He gave Sonya one long parting kiss, as if he meant to make the pleasure of it last until his eventual return. But she missed him greatly as soon as he was out of her arms and out the door.
Maria Ivanovna tutted lightly in jest, but she obviously took delight in the clear affection between the two. "Come away now, daughter, and tell me all about yourself. That should pass the time until his return."
Sonya obeyed, linking arms with Galina and following mother back into the parlour. "There is not so much to tell. My father, God rest his soul," she stopped there long enough to cross herself, "was related to the old Count Rostov; they were cousins three times removed. But in marrying my mother, he had a falling out with his family and was cut off entirely. They never quite outgrew their distaste for the match." Sonya's eyes fixed upon the window. She could make out the clouds gathering. Would there be a storm?"
"And your mother was?" Maria Ivanovna prompted.
"Irina Sergeyevna Makovskaya, she'd have been called here. She came from a little known and impoverished Cossack noble family. I recall her being very pretty." Sonya blushed gently. She'd not been asked about her mother in so many years. "Father perished when I was little more than a toddler and mother not too long after. Old Count Rostov took pity on me and I was allowed to keep company with his daughters. You'd have met his son back in oh-six."
"Young Nikolai Ilyich. I had not made the connection," mother said. "Then you have known my Fedya for some years." Sonya supposed she had asked for that, revealing details so carelessly. All she could do was nod her head. Fortunately, mother seemed not to notice her unease. "And pretty thing that you are, it's a wonder he didn't bring you home sooner." Sonya blushed harder.
"Better late than never," Galina opined, sipping daintily from her cup. "Fedya marches to the beat of his own drum; you know that, mother." The old woman gave in graciously. Galina went on, "And your mother's people, have you kept in contact with them?"
"I fear not. My benefactors supposed it in my interest that I be removed from their sphere." That had been Countess Natalya's work, but it made no difference at such a time. "I always wondered–" Sonya sighed. "It would be foolish to seek them out after all these years."
"Nonsense," mother contradicted with a firm shale of the head. "You must write them someday soon and appraise them of your marriage. Poor dear, to think you've had to do without them for so long."
Perhaps she would write, supposing any of them were left who might care to read her letters. Mother had had two brothers. Sonya gently steered the conversation in a different direction, feeling rather too raw for further investigation into her kin. Mother and Galina proved amenable and more than glad to share their stories of Fedya at her request.
It struck her, listening to them that in many ways one could speak of two vastly different Fyodors. One was a gentle creature whose was at odds with his times and his fellow man. The other was a rake on the prowl, profiting off the naïveté of God's creatures and gave no thought to the consequences of his actions. Sonya could not entirely reconcile one with the other, but neither could she disbelieve the women. After all, Fedya had taken her in with no gain for himself, despite her lack of dowry and her apparent affection for another man. She had sensed in him more than tenderness the previous night.
Quite at odds with herself, Sonya spent her time coming to grips with her changing views and circumstances, as she was aided in settling her possession within her new home. But given her own personality, by the time her husband returned, she had already made up her mind it would be quite useless to analyse every small detail to exhaustion. She contented herself with the barebone facts and found, in Fedya's arms, her lips on his, that she could live very well with it.
Supper was a relaxed affair, as Sonya would have guessed. There was not much talking, but the atmosphere was quite friendly. They did not take wine together after, as might have happened in the home of the Rostovs. Instead the newlyweds were left together, as mother and Galina retreated, with the former claimed the day had quite done her in. Galina merely smiled, kissing first Fedya's cheek, then Sonya's; she looked forward to seeing them in the morning, she'd said.
"I am for bed as well," Sonya spoke a few moments later, blood rushing to her cheeks. Would those pesky blushes ever end?
"Perhaps I'd best join you. We wouldn't want that tvorog and strawberries going to waste."
"Fedya!" Her admonitions proved fruitless in the face of his amusement. Sonya let herself be led to the bedchamber they were to share, carrying the candle herself. The curtains had already been drawn, leaving the thin light of the candle as sole guidance. She turned her back as she disrobed, still nervous, despite knowing the man behind her knew all there was to know about her body. If he was watching, she would not see. One her hair was down, she slid under the covers.
He surprised her by blowing the candle out, plunging them into darkness. But then she supposed he had no need of the light, it being his home. He was bound to know his way about it. His hands soon moved along her form. Half-apprehension, half-anticipation, Sonya offered up her lips. As before, she enjoyed that bit tremendously, even more so when her soft was gone and his clever mouth did some frankly unbelievable things to her.
And yet when she felt him against her, she still tensed. Fedya brushed her sides in soothing motions. "It won't hurt this time, Sonechka. Let me show you." Gradually, she relaxed into his ministrations. "Good; trust me."
"I do," Sonya answered, gratified to feel something of the earlier ardour return to her even at his probing. His prediction proved truthful. While the stretch remained uncomfortable, it held nothing of the earlier edge.
He moved languidly against and within her, seemingly unconcerned with the small noises escaping her lips as she grew used to it. Somewhere between the wash of warmth in her lower regions and his languorous kiss before their sundering, it occurred to Sonya that what had seemed pain to her was in truth delight, bliss even. She asked her husband about it in hushed tones. "Is it always like this?"
"With you, yes." Satisfaction bled into the tone of his voice. He held her against him and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. Sonya tried not to wonder about the others. Men thought differently about these things, or else they would not act as they did.
She though briefly of Prince Andrei and wondered what Fedya might have done in such circumstances. But such questions seemed far too impertinent. Sonya had no intention of making herself seem the least bit capable of playing with another's affection in such a way. Instead, she slid her lips against her husband's, humming gently when his hand moved dangerously low down her back. There was something about his touch, something which escaped her. Before long, they both slept.
Their life together proved a most unexpected success as far as she was concerned. At least until duty called him away. Having precious little time to form a routine (a mere few days), Sonya soon found herself biding farewell to Fedya, as he had received orders to return to his regiment. Somewhere a bloody fight awaited him. It took a few good minutes to tear herself away from her lips and just as long to step away from his arms.
"Come back to me," she demanded, stood in the doorway with tears streaking down her cheeks.
"God willing, I will."
Sonya would not move from her spot until the mists of Moscow had devoured her husband whole and no trace of his was left behind.
She dearly hoped that tvorog and strawberries worked their charm. She dearly wanted a little Vanya or Sasha in her arms just about then.