“That was years ago,” I said. “I’m surprised you recognized me.”
“I didn’t. But I saw you with your mother, and I knew who she was, right away.”
That explained it. Everyone remembered Mama.
We exchanged a few minutes of family-related chitchat, sorting through our connections, determining that we were third cousins. Mikhail told me he was fifteen years old and the youngest of eight children, most of whom were already married. While a boy his age wouldn’t usually be invited to a distant cousin’s debut, his mother had decided to bring him along to keep her company, promising visits to the theater and ballet while they were in town.
“Moscow’s all right for entertainment, but nothing like here,” Mikhail said. Though I’d never been to the theater or the ballet, I nodded in agreement. I continued nodding as he told me about a production of Giselle he’d seen at the Bolshoi, then veered abruptly into his family’s summer plans. “Mother wants to stay in the South of France, but I’m hoping to convince her to go to Paris. Have you been?”
I shook my head, wondering if Mikhail was already regretting talking to such a boring nobody, but he didn’t seem bothered by my silence.
“I’d love to visit one of those painter’s studios. Where they’ve got canvases everywhere, and you can watch them mix the colors . . . Would you like to dance?”
Laughing at my puzzled stare, he swayed his shoulders.
“I can tell you want to,” he said cheerfully. “Why don’t we try?”
I held out my hands. Mikhail pulled me into the whirl of bodies, and my feet clumsily tried to match his movements. Gradually, I fell into his rhythm, allowing my arms to soften. We danced carefully but competently, not quite in time, but close enough. Mikhail kept up a stream of chatter—the youngest child delighted to finally find himself the center of attention—and I was relieved not to have to carry the burden of conversation, because how could I possibly express all I was feeling? There I was, dancing, with Prince Shulkin’s son! Twirling and gliding in the midst of all this beauty, my heart pulsing in time to the music.
Then I saw Mama, scowling from the edge of the dance floor. The spell was broken.
“I have to go,” I said, pulling away from Mikhail’s arms. Mama’s face shifted from disapproval to interest when I introduced him, and they talked for a few minutes while I hoped for a reprieve. My hopes were quickly dashed. Mama excused us and led me firmly to an anteroom, where Miss Fields was waiting with my coat. Mama handed me off with a quick kiss, anxious to get back to the party.
“How was it?” Miss Fields asked.
“Wonderful! I even danced!”
“Oh, I wish I’d seen that.”
“Come have a look—I’ll introduce you to my cousin Mikhail . . .”
Miss Fields shook her head, quick and firm. “No. I mustn’t.”
Of course not, I thought, chiding myself for such foolishness. A governess in a plain wool coat couldn’t go strolling around a formal ball. Her thick, wavy hair had come loose from its fastenings—as it so often did—and wispy tufts fell against her forehead and cheeks. I adored her, but I knew she’d stand out like a duck amid peacocks.
“I’ll tell you all about it,” I promised.
As we made our way toward the front door, Miss Fields slowed her steps and peered through an arched doorway. In the distance, dancers moved in a flurry of color, their movements in step with the orchestra’s commands. There was something in her eyes as she watched them—a trace of longing—that made me wonder if Miss Fields had ever been to a ball. If she’d ever hovered at the edge of a dance floor, trying to catch a young man’s eye. Before I could ask, she was ushering me away in her usual no-nonsense manner. The moment for confidences had passed. When I make my debut, I’m inviting Miss Fields, I decided.
I assumed, of course, that I’d have one.
A month later, we were off for our annual summer stay in the country. Those months at Priyalko usually sent me into a lethargic, dreamy state halfway between boredom and contentment. The summer of 1914 was different. From the very beginning, I felt on edge. Miss Fields had never been to the country with us, and I could tell when we arrived that she was disappointed, though she tried to hide it behind a stiff smile. I looked at the rutted, muddy front drive and the sagging chairs scattered across the front porch. Heard the squawk of chickens who’d wandered out from the back and the commotion as the servants swarmed forward to unload our things. I noticed the chipped gingerbread trim along the roofline and felt a disloyal surge of annoyance: It’s not as nice as I remembered.
Elena, our housekeeper, and her husband, Yuri, the estate’s overseer, were waiting at the front door. They had worked for us for years and were practically members of the family. Yuri took Papa off for an inspection of the newly repaired barn, and Mama began conferring with Elena on arrangements for the upcoming days: what was to be served for dinner; which houseguests would be arriving on which day. Though Priyalko was smaller and shabbier than our home in Saint Petersburg, we always had people to stay, since Mama and Papa preferred having company to spending time alone. In the country, entertaining was much less formal than in town. At Priyalko, I could wear light, loose dresses with no corsets and run around without shoes. It was the place I felt most free.
I led Miss Fields into the sitting room, which was filled with a hodgepodge of furniture collected by my grandparents.
“What’s wrong?” I demanded.
“What do you mean?”
“You look sad.”
“Hmph.” I knew that noncommittal sound well. It was Miss Fields’s way of delaying a conversation until she could muster an appropriate response.
“You don’t like it here.”
“Of course I do. It’s not what I was expecting, that’s all.”
“How?”
“Oh . . .” More stalling. “Country houses in England, for a family like yours, look rather different.”
“What do they look like?”
“More open, I suppose. More windows. Set in a garden, rather than hidden in the trees. But it doesn’t matter, not at all. This is perfectly lovely. Very cozy.”
“Cozy,” I understood, was another word for “small,” and “lovely” was an all-purpose word for when you wanted to be polite. When I showed Miss Fields to her bedroom in the back—a tiny, airless space with all the charm of a storage cupboard—I felt even more ashamed.
“It’s only for sleeping,” I said, apologetic. “You’ll see. We spend all our time outside.”
“Then I shall be very happy.”
And indeed, almost everything I remember from that summer is set against a backdrop of trees and sunlight. Gatherings on the porch and picnics in the clearing Mama called “mon petit paradis.” People were always coming and going: friends and relatives of Papa’s, friends and relatives of Mama’s, with occasional overnight visits from other Saint Petersburg families who were traveling to their own, more distant estates. They couldn’t have all been there at the same time, but in my mind the visitors meld into a single mass, as if the events of dozens of different days have been condensed into a single afternoon. My uncle Sergei was always organizing meetings and salons in town and wouldn’t have left Saint Petersburg for more than a week at a time. Yet he seemed to play a part in almost everything I remember. Either in a leading role or catching my eye from the background.