“Svetlana Dalsky!” Leonid forced his way through the crowd, his flat face lifting in charismatic pleasure. “I thought you never to arrive! And look. Most beautiful woman in our place.” He kissed her on both cheeks, careful to keep his cigarette from catching her hair. “But where doctor? He not saving other gunshots?”
“He was called to the hospital but sends his deepest regrets and well wishes on your name day celebration.”
“That is sad, but now I smoke. Do not tell this.” He took a defiant puff and looked behind her. “This is who?”
“Allow me to present my mother, Ana Dalsky.”
“Princess Ana Andreevna Dalsky,” Mama clarified. She angled an eyebrow at Svetlana, challenging her to object when not a minute before Svetlana had expressly told her to remain silent about their titles. They would all end up in shackled sacks at the bottom of the Seine River before long. Why did no one else see the danger of giving themselves away to perfect strangers? Had the October Revolution taught them nothing?
“Illustrious guests. Why did you no tell me you are princess, angel? Come, come. I will take you to my father.” Puffing away like a steam engine, Leonid strode through the crowd that parted for him like a blade through bread.
Too late to put the proverbial cat back into the bag, Svetlana shot her mother a disapproving look, which made Ana smirk in triumph. Following Leonid, Svetlana kept her face impassive and head erect as women stared. She was accustomed to being sized up; it was a favorite pastime of the nobility at play, but she had always been armored in her own clothing and jewels. Tonight she was in borrowed hand-me-downs two sizes too large and four inches too short in a hideous shade of puce.
Elegance isn’t found in one’s wardrobe but in one’s manner. A favored quote of her governess and one that had steeled Svetlana’s spine for years. Still, a wistful part of her wished for the tiara she’d left behind in Petrograd.
Leonid led them to a large circular booth partially shrouded with thick damask drapes tied back with gold tassels. Around the booth sat thickly muscled men with a wild collection of facial scars and bulging side jackets.
“Papochka, she is here!” Leonid announced as they reached the table.
Taking up nearly a quarter of the booth and dressed in a black suit with gold epaulets was Papochka Sheremetev himself. He was round everywhere, like a ball of kneaded dough, with a drooping nose, eyes pushed into the thick skin, and bald with silver hairs wisping around the back. He smiled and his eyes disappeared into the folds.
“At last. Her Serenity the Princess Svetlana Dmitrievna Dalsky. You are welcomed with humble indebtedness for saving my son’s life. Ask and it will be made yours.”
It had been so long since her full title had been spoken aloud, so long since she was allowed to feel the thrilling rush it gave her. The sense of purpose it bestowed, but fear was not long in its wake. She had yet to ascertain this man’s loyalties, yet he knew precisely who she was.
“The pleasure is mine, sir.” She made a polite dip. “May I inquire as to how you know who I am, or rather what I am, when even your son until a moment ago did not know of my rank?”
“Nothing slips past without my knowing. Every Russian in Paris is known to me. When I hear names new to the city, it is my top priority to discover who they are. I keep a long, well-informed list from the old country.” Smiling conspiratorially, he tapped the side of his head.
The cat from the bag was well and truly gone. No use in keeping up the pretense. Svetlana indicated her mother. “Allow me to introduce my mother.”
Sheremetev nodded without surprise. “Welcome to you as well, Princess. Sit with me, please.”
Mama settled into the booth with ease. “It’s been much too long since I’ve been properly addressed.”
“Look around you, Princess. Friends are among you. All White émigrés. Everyone here is a count or duchess or excellency of the imperial court of Tsar Nicholas.” Sheremetev touched the stick pin in his neckcloth. The pin was a solid ruby carved in the shape of a double-headed eagle. The symbol of Imperial Russia. “Our new homeland until returning safe to ours.”
“A delightful relief to be among our own kind again. My daughter worries so. Do you know she wants us to slink around without use of our titles as if we were common peasants?”
“Mama, please.” Svetlana squeezed her fingers together to keep from slapping a hand over her mother’s wide mouth.
Ana ignored her. “I believe she imagines a Bolshevik around every corner set to drag us back to a firing squad.”
Did other mothers prove so difficult and shameless? “It is not unheard of.”
“She is right, but Paris is safe enough,” Sheremetev said. “A buffer is provided by war, but the outcome does not bring me fear. Not with men like your husband and son fighting in the White Army. Honorable and a good solider is your Prince Dmitri. Losing we cannot with men like him battling for us.”
Tears sprang to Mama’s eyes. She touched her ever-present cross pendant. “How do you know of my husband and son?”
“As I said, everyone and everything is mine to know, Princess. Word does not take long to cross my attention.” Sheremetev twitched his finger, and a bottle of vodka and another of red wine appeared on the table along with fresh glasses. “Such as the absence of your doctor. Has the Marquess of Tarltan abandoned us?”
“Only for patients. He is devoted to them. I have the proof.” Leonid raised the cigarette to his lips, hesitated, then ground it into the crystal ashtray on the table. He slid a wink to Svetlana.
“Marquess.” Mama’s tears evaporated as she indicated for a glass of the red to be filled. “I have never heard of this marquess. He is a physician, yes?”
“It’s a noble title in Scotland where he comes from. Below a duke,” Svetlana said. “Which I assume you already know, along with the holdings in his possession.”
Sheremetev tapped the side of his nose. “Ahead of the competition I remain.”
Mama’s accusatory gaze slid to her over the top of the wine glass. She despised being absent of pertinent information. The only thing she loathed more was being intentionally left out. “Well, I see he amounts to more than what I was led to believe. Though why he continues with menial work when the respectability of a title rests on him is beyond my comprehension.”
“I believe he cares more for the title of surgeon,” Svetlana said.
Mama rolled her eyes with exasperation to Sheremetev. “These younger generations have no sense of tradition. Of the demands on retaining their place in society.” She took a sip of her wine and leaned close to Svetlana. “This wine is delicious. When you marry Sergey be sure his shipping business imports this and not the cheap grapes from Italy.”
Unable to listen anymore, Svetlana turned her attention to the crowd who bounced around to the unusual musical combination of piano, violin, tambourine, and balalaika. Drinks, one could assume vodka, flowed like the River Neva and the people mere fish swimming from one frothy bubble to the next, gulping up the offered sips of life. One might never know death, poverty, and war stalked outside.