Page 52 of Mistaken
He pointed to a thickly forested area. “The estate is there, and we have a house in the city, in a section called the Golden Triangle.” I’m trying to remember my research. “It’s where the nobility lived before the revolution in 1917, right?” He looked down at me, brow raised as if surprised I would actually know anything about the city’s history.
“Correct,” he looked up at the flight attendant’s pleading stare and seated himself next to me. “Put your seatbelt on, darling.”
Maksim…
Every time I returned home, I’d take a huge breath as I left the jet. The faint, salty tang of the sea, the scent of pine that always swirled through the city under the haze of smoke and car exhaust. And the strangest thing, the smell of old parchment. That one couldn’t be real, but St. Petersburg was always the center for academics and artists since the 1800’s. Our greatest literary works and our most magnificent music were created here. I looked up from a discussion with Yuri to see Ella moving from one side of the seat to the other, trying to see everything at once.
“I am guessing this is your first visit to St. Petersburg?” Yuri inquires in his most falsely solicitous tone.
“Very funny, Yuri,” she laughed at him, “I don’t care that I look like a tourist, everything’s so beautiful! Oh, that’s the Hermitage Museum, right? It’s so regal!”
He chuckled, leaning closer to point out the Smolny Cathedral, explaining, “The convent was originally built to house Elizabeth, the daughter of Peter the Great. Even after she accepted the offer of the Russian throne, the construction continued, but it’s actually used as a cathedral.”
Ella eagerly asked questions, completely at ease with my irritating brother, grabbing his arm to point at something else. Smiling and talking in a comfortable way she’s never used with me. I was filled with a desire to open the door and throw him out onto the street, but I controlled myself. Taking in a deep breath and letting it out, I reminded myself to behave like the Pakhan I’m expected to be.
When the Mercedes stopped, I allowed myself to enjoy my bride’s expression.
“Is this a hotel?” Ella asks, eyes wide, “It’s so imposing.”
It is imposing. The Morozov mansion is situated on a curve in the Neva River, a four-story stone building with copper fixtures and a statue of a copper eagle on the crest of the roof, weathered green against the pale stone. Helping her out of the car, I enjoyed her awe, her pleasure in the architecture.
“No, this is our home.” I put my hand on the small of her back, guiding her through the gate, nodding at the men guarding the front.
“Are your mom and sisters here?”
“Not until tomorrow,” I squeezed her hip, “are you relieved?”
“No!” She seemed almost offended. “I adore your sisters.” Realizing she didn’t include my mother, Ella rushes to add, “And your mother is…” Smothering a laugh, I watched her flail around for something to say.
“My mother is intimidating. But you’ll learn to like her.”
The entry hall has always been a magnificent greeting to me, two stories high with a twenty-five-foot-high Christmas tree dominating the space between the grand staircase.
“I am heading over to my wing,” Yuri said, kissing Ella on the cheek. “I will see you later.”
“Wait, you have awing?”she called after him.
“My brother and I both prefer our privacy,” I said, and for a moment, there was a stillness in the hall, and I can tell it was making her uneasy. “You’re not uncomfortable being alone with me, are you?” My voice was deeper and I’m hard almost instantly, hearing her breathing quicken, and her cheeks flush.
“Pakhan, it is an honor to have you home again.”
The moment is spoiled as our housekeeper greets us with a big smile. Stifling a sigh, I introduced them, “Darling, this is Anya, she has been with the Morozov family for over forty years. Anya, this is my bride, Ella Givens Morozov.”
“A pleasure,” Ella says warmly, holding out her hand.
Our housekeeper stared at her, then gingerly shook her hand. It was not too long ago that my father insisted that the staff bow deeply and avert their eyes out of “respect” for his role. The old bastard would have been much happier two centuries ago when he could have outright owned his servants.
“Anya, let’s save the tour of the house for tomorrow. Could you send up something light? We’ll be going out tonight.” The grand staircase sweeps up to the second floor on both sides of the entry hall, one heading to Yuri's wing, the other to mine.
“Your own wing,” Ella murmured, shaking her head. The master suite looks out over the Neva River, frozen solid and dotted with skaters. The marble floors are cold in winter, and I’ve had them covered in priceless oriental rugs in deep reds and blues. The stone fireplace dominates one wall of the bedroom, and the ancient four-poster bed sits grandly on the wall opposite, with an antique tapestry for the canopy.
Running her hand over the graceful swoop of the couch in front of the fireplace, she asked, “How old is this furniture? This all looks hand-carved.”
I pull my tie loose, unbuttoning my dress shirt. “Probably 250 years old, or so. The nobility back then demanded extremely ornate, heavy furnishings, but as you can see, they were crafted to last for centuries.”
“Amazing,” she whispered, tracing the detail on the carved marble fireplace mantel with a fingertip.
“Why don’t you change and come back into the sitting room, Anya will bring you something to eat, and I want you to try to sleep for a few hours, it will help with the jet lag. We’re having dinner with Alexi and Lucya tonight.”
