Chapter Text
He watches her intently, as if expecting her to bolt with his question now in the open.
Sonya clutches at her handkerchief, feeling her cheeks heat as though she were a girl of five-and-ten and not a woman of five-and-thirty. Having declined to unburden herself to her cousin when she’d had the chance, she now struggles to put an order to everything in her head and heart. “Does it matter why I am here?”
Dolokhov winces with the slight movements he makes in a bid to readjust his position. The evidence of pain makes him more human. Some things can get under his skin. “To me, a great deal,” he answers, all patience. She could turn and leave. He cannot possibly follow her.
“Can you not guess?” If he already knows, perhaps the words will become easier to drag out into the open. Sonya can feel her heart beating away in her chest. The heavy feeling distracts her momentarily. She looks away.
“I could.” His words startle her. Dolokhov is still fixing her with a hard stare when she glances up. Sonya wills him to say it, to free her from the chains of her own uncertainty and give her an opening. “But you have taught me that would be presumptuous.”
She wonders, floundering, if this is revenge. Sonya regards him thoughtfully. “And you have not hesitated to adopt that lesson.”
He inclines his head, mocking smile surfacing. “Your most humble servant.”
There is nothing the least bit humble about him.
Dinner is a tense affair. Natasha is glaring dagger at her brother from across the other side of the table and Nikolai meets her gaze steadily with something of a disquiet triumph. He cannot be taking pleasure in his own sister’s misfortune; that much Sonya is aware of. But he is much too brutal in asserting the winning power of his worldview. That Pierre has failed is quite a blow to his wife and her brother ought do the kind thing and help her back on her feet.
Sonya cannot say as much. Nikolai is still irritated with her over their conversation with regards to Dolokhov. At the very least he has not attempted further interviews with the injured man. She sometimes thinks he would not hesitate to call him out, wound or no wound. And she isn’t sure either man would aim aside.
She puts her spoon down and the creaking of footsteps indicates the servants are on the move. The remnants of the soup is taken away and the main course is brought out. Natasha stabs gracelessly at her plate, spearing a few chunks of carrot. Sonya winces at the scarping sound; perhaps she ought to take her meals up on a tray from now on.
In the end, the silence shatters. “How long do you mean to keep me from my husband?” The mistress of the house is still glaring.
“As long as I deem necessary,” Nikolai answers peremptorily. “You must trust me to make these choices for you now.”
“Oh, my dear!” The old Countess embraces her daughter fiercely. The tearful reunion of the Rostovs is in full swing, with much hugging and kissing to boot. The women of the family very much pull to one another.
Sonya stands just inside the doorway, still trying to encourage Doma that going out and greeting her grandmother is a mark of good manners. She catches the eye of the Princess and cannot help thinking the gauntness of her cheek bodes ill. While she may be unable to recall a time when Maria Nikolaevna was in good looks outside the glow pregnancy gives her, Sonya’s own biases do not keep her from noticing the change in the other woman’s face.
She does not comment on it. And soon enough she cannot comment on it even if she wished to. The children have barrelled up the stairs, with cries of “Aunty! Aunty!” on their lips. Sonya finds herself surrounded from all sides. Cousins greet each other and offer kisses in imitation of their elders.
The tide of children sweeps away at lengths and she is embraced by the Princess, who then proceeds to kiss both her cheeks. “You have been missed.” The hug lengthens uncomfortably. “And I think we will all be glad to return home once matters are settled here.” Princess Maria pulls away, a gentle smile on her lips.
Almost, Sonya wishes she could summon some bitterness to the fore, seeing the expression. But all she manages is a wordless shake of the head.
Dolokhov does not know the meaning of patience, Sonya decides when she finds him struggling to keep himself upright on legs he should not be using as per the physician’s instructions. She hurries to his side with a cry of dismay, gingerly wrapping her arms around his middle, just above the wounded area.
“What in God’s name can you have been thinking of?” she remonstrates once he’s been safely deposited against his mound of pillows. She draws the covers over his legs. “You could have hurt yourself!”
“I think the more pertinent question is, what are you thinking?” he drawls. Sonya frowns. He sounds winded. Ignoring his question, she reminds him of the physician’s orders. Dolokhov huffs in obvious amusement and shrugs his shoulders in a gesture that is the epitome of elegance. No man should have the right to paint such a handsome picture. “Truth to tell, I still do not understand why you come to me time and again. Seeing as I won’t be here much longer, I would appreciate an answer.”
Stricken, Sonya takes a seat. He’s healing. Caught between terror and joy, she tries to find the proper words. “You are very dear to me. And if you will have me, I would like to share your fate, whatever it is.”
There; she’s spoken the truth of her heart. Now it cannot be dragged back into the darkness of ignorance. Sonya doesn’t dare look at him. It is suddenly all too much for her to bear. She must escape.
His broad hand grips her own tightly. Sonya tempers the urge to pull away, not wishing to cause him pain. She draws closer so the tension will not affect his injury. His other hand comes to rest at the bottom of her waist, just above her hip; it is equally as broad as the other and the heat of his touch sears her through the cloth of her dress. Her throat closes painfully over a difficult to swallow noise. Sonya is woefully incapable of reading him.
“I did not defend you so you could throw yourself away on a traitor.” His grip tightens on her and his head falls forward, forehead resting against her middle. Sonya cradles the back of his head with her free hand, winding her fingers in the curls at his nape. “Damned woman; have you grown no wiser than before?”
Fury ignites in her breast. “You beast!” She doesn’t let go. “Do not insult the man I love,” Sonya grits out upon a shuddering breath. “I will not stand for it; least of all from you.” She twirls a lock of hair around her finger, enjoying the way it feels against her skin. Dolokhov’s sullen expression doesn’t deter her either. She stares down into his face expectantly.
“I am trying to be gallant here,” he points out astringently.
But Sonya is not looking to fight him. She hums gently and replies that she has made her choice. “The heart feels what it feels; I cannot help it.”
Mitya and Petya make dinner the most interesting it’s been in days; not on account of some deep conversation or even due to an attempt at lightening the mood. In fact, it is quite the opposite. The cousins have managed to work themselves into a frenzy or barbs and insults over no one know what slight and like children often do, they harass and harangue one another to distraction. It’s only when peas are flying through the air that their little spat is halted by a swift and angry response from Nikolai.
Sonya cannot help smiling into her napkin. It’s not very funny, but it is somewhat odd how sons perpetuate the attitude of their fathers. In any event, by the time the children are herded upstairs and the port and sherry put on an appearance, Sonya has decided she ought to wait until the morning to broach the subject of her future. Just at this moment, Nikolai has yet to cool down enough.
She reflects, not without a hint of impatience, that she’s, as ever, putting her own life on hold for the feelings and needs of others. If she were braver, she might walk up to her cousin and simply tell him to send for the priest, consequences notwithstanding. As is, Sonya makes herself comfortable by Natasha’s side and absently answers whenever she is drawn into the ongoing conversation, but always without much heart.
“Whatever is the matter with you?” the old Countess asks at lengths.
“Nothing, madame. Just tired, I expect.”
“I hope you do not feel as though you must hide from me of all people,” Natasha comments, patting the head of her youngest as he sleeps in her arms. They have been standing side by side in the nursery, ensuring all the children have a comfortable spot to call their own for the night. And now it seems her cousin’s sights are firmly fixed upon her, with Maria having just stepped out for a moment.
“Hide?” Sonya echoes. She thinks that Natasha looks suspiciously like a painting of the Madonna and Child and her heart longs for just such an impression to be applied to herself. The time for hiding is past. “I certainly did not wish to give that impression. What exactly gave you the impression I am hiding anything?”
“Do you know that you’ve been avoiding Nikolai’s gaze throughout dinner?” The words catch her off-guard. She did not know. Natasha goes on. “He’s been trying to draw you into our conversation for half the evening and you’ve been looking ready to bolt for the entre evening, if you must know. You do not mean to deny you wished yourself elsewhere entirely?”
“It would be poor form to deny the truth.” Sonya gives herself a moment to breathe. She turns to look Natasha fully in the eyes. “I would have much rather been upstairs.” She hesitates briefly, not entirely certain how far her cousin’s understanding extends, even if she is in a very similar situation herself. “With Fyodor.”
“You should not be here.” Fyodor sighs with something like contentment despite those words.
Sonya snorts dismissively. “So you keep telling me. It won’t convince me to leave, just in case you were wondering.” She reaches out for his hand and is very happy at his quick response. Before long, their interlinked fingers bring them as close as they’ve ever been.
“No, I can see it won’t.” His eyes are on their hands and Sonya wonders just what he’s thinking of. “You will have to make a clean breast of it to Rostov sooner or later. Better sooner rather than later.” She almost suspects he’s wondering if her cousin will convince her to set the whole episode aside for a foolish moment of emotional surfeit.
“I do wonder how long it will take to sink in that I’ve no intention of abandoning you.” But she does give him some grace; it is she who failed to see what he had to offer, after all. It must fall to her to convince him her eyes have been opened.
“Longer than we have, without a doubt.” His mobile mouth flashes her a smile. Sonya can feel her heart picking up its pace.
“Then I had best work harder to convince you.” Sonya half wishes she were adept at flirtation in order to lighten the mood. She has nothing but honest bluntness to give him and she fears still it might not be enough.
He chuckles mirthlessly and his fingers give hers a gentle squeeze.
“No.” Nikolai’s gaze frosts over. “I have endured all I will from this mockery of a romance.” The last word he spits out as though it were poison. “He is a traitor. He will hang, if the Tsar is in a mood to show mercy. Or else he will be torn to shred on the wrong end of a whip and exiled should he have the misfortune to survive. I forbid you to continue with this madness.”
Sonya presses her lips against the burst of feeling threatening to explode into loud renunciation of her own. “It grieves me that you would take such a view, for I had hoped to gain your understanding, if not your blessings.”
Despair reflects back at her from his gaze. “What must I say to convince you to abandon this endeavour? What must I give you?”
She finds herself feeling sorry for Nikolai. Disgust tinges her mood at his willingness to offer empty words and gestures at this point. “You do not need me and you certainly do not want me, Nikolai. Must you then attempt to keep me from what I want? I am five-and-thirty, old enough to take this step even against your wishes.”
“You are wholly set on this course?” Why he is still incredulous, Sonya cannot guess.
“That is what I have been saying. Help me, or do not; accept it, or do not, it is done in every respect save in deed.” And he will simply have to live with it.
The old Countess’ expression suggests she is far too annoyed at her so being put out to be happy and far too pleased at ridding her home of the thorn in her side to be upset. She falls into an uncomfortable middle. “Are you quite certain, child?” Faint hope colours the words. Sonya longs to push her away and demand she be left alone with her thoughts. But she is far too well-bred to act in such a fashion, even when the Countess is being terribly tiresome. “It is an altogether dangerous choice to make.”
“I am willing to take my chances,” Sonya offers. In some respects, the suffering of the flesh does not hold the terrifying quality remaining with the Rostovs does. In their care she will never suffer hunger and deprivation. She will have what most might call a good life. “Of course, I wish Nikolai were not upset at this development, but I cannot betray my heart.” Fyodor has nothing to offer her save his name and even that for only a brief time if Nikolai is to be believed. She would much father be his wife for no more than the brief blink of an eye instead of not at all.
“What are you to do after?” the Countess questions. Her lack of confidence ought not to hurt Sonya as it does. But she has been expecting it.
“I suppose I will see when we come to it.” Perhaps Fyodor will live through the ordeal despite everything. At times God is unexpectedly merciful.
It comes Maria’s turn to intercede. Sonya is well aware there are no secrets between husband and wife, particularly between the Princess and Nikolai. But why the woman should feel the need to pick up her husband’s mantle in this when the presence of the other woman would be at lengths relieved with comparatively little inconvenience to her, is to Sonya not the least bit clear. Unless this is some attempt at martyrdom. Whatever the case, Maria has been expositing in gentle tones the evils of a rushed decision along with the troubles which may come alongside an unequal marriage. Sonya must concentrate not to show any hint of amusement. All the trouble seems to be on her kinfolks’ side in this.
“It is beyond considerate to show such concern,” she says, her voice altogether bland lest anything be given away. “But whatever Nikolai may believe, I have thought this through. And I make the choice with eyes wide open.” There is something of the romantic in her; that cannot entirely be uprooted. The need to love and to be loved is profoundly human; but she has left behind that corruption of the notion which in youth dominates all imaginings.
The Princess’ eyes are wide and soon they shall brim with tears unless she misses her guess. “But can you truly be happy with him, being as he is?”
Sonya understands she is being asked an eminently practical question at this point. “We are only ever as happy as we let ourselves be.”
The silent war in which the inmates of the house are engaged ceases ever so briefly with the physician’s visit. Nikolai assures them a united front is their best defence against gossip and sorrow alike. Sonya, for her own part, thinks her poor cousins would be a great deal happier if they listened to one another and made the effort to meet halfway. Natasha cannot forever be gallivanting off to see her husband, but Nikolai should not keep her from seeing him at all. She does not voice her thoughts to either party, her mind on her own plight.
The simple truth is that Fyodor has been improving in leaps and bounds and she is more than certain the physician will not be allowing him the shelter he had thus far benefitted from. It is what it is. And she has been expecting it for some time. The inevitable will happen, whatever else might come.
She is proven correct when the stour man emerges from Fyodor’s room with a pensive expression. “One is called to feel joy at the progress of one’s patients, but it happens sometimes that such a feat is quite impossible.” He looks to Sonya with compassion and presses her hand delicately. “I must write my report, of course, and declare him fit as a fiddle, for that is duty.” It is almost an apology in so many words.
Sonya understands, so she does not draw her hand away. She nods for good measure and says a silent prayer.
Masha gives her a long, searching look. “I think you are brave,” the girl says in a faint voice. “I could not go against Uncle like you and mother do.” She frowns, her dark eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “I am a coward.” Nikolai and Natasha have been battling over arrangements made yet again, their arguments still echoing through the halls.
Embracing the child to her chest, Sonya immediately denies the descriptor she had attached to herself. “Your uncle is doing his best, as is your mother. Each is willing to sustain his point of view. That is normalcy, not bravery and when you have grown up, you will see just how easy it is to achieve, especially where no unpleasant repercussions follow.” She releases Masha and pats the girl’s cheek gently. “Do not trouble yourself over these matters; they shall resolve themselves.”
She is supposed to be writing a letter to her father in any event. Sonya encourages her to begin, so it might be taken to the man. “I do not know what to write him. Everything I can think of sounds trite and rather mean, considering his situation.”
“He will like whatever you write him, dearest, and will surely be thankful that you are much the same as he has left you.” Sonya nods encouragingly when Masha picks up her quill. No doubt, Pierre would prefer his children remain entirely ignorant of his ordeal, if it could be achieved. As is, he must be satisfied with their continued good health.
One of the guards gives her a sympathetic look. “It’s not so bad, you know,” he tries to comfort her. “They are fed and the cells are quite dry.” Sonya gives him a quivering smile which it pains her to produce. The man gives a nod, whether to reassure her or himself she does not know. “And you may visit.”
If she were his wife, it would be far easier. Fyodor is being particularly obstinate on this point. She will not be, he insists, a traitor’s widow if he has anything to say to it. Sonya has n=told him she does not particularly care what the world has to say about her private affairs, but like most men, he only listens when it suits him.
The other guard intervenes, breaking her out of her thoughts. “We can wait a few minutes more, should you wish to make your farewells.”
Sonya thanks them for their kindness and disappears into the room, closing the door in her wake. Fyodor is standing with his back to the window. He holds out his arms and she does not hesitate to burrow into his embrace. There aren’t really any words she can offer at this precise moment. Neither does he provide her with any assurance. They are at the mercy of fate and the Tsar.
They stand together like that until a knock on the door signals it is time to depart. Fyodor presses a gentle kiss to the top of her head before releasing her.
She blesses him.
Mitya’s deep shock is mirrored by the rest of the Princess’ children. “But Aunt, you must return with us,” the boy is saying, arms wound tightly around her waist. This is to be their last night together for some time. Sonya will remain with Natasha, but Nikolai is to travel to Petersburg and the family must return to Bald Hills.
“I cannot do so,” Sonya assures him in the kindest voice she can muster. Mitya is closest to Nikolai in temper and he does not suffer being thwarted gladly. “Your Aunt Natasha needs me to stay here with her.”
“But she has servants,” the boy counters. No one can ever accuse him of being slow. “They can look after her.”
The Rostovs have servants too. Sonya bites her tongue. “I would not be staying on as her servant,” she clarifies for the boy. “When someone is in need you must be understanding and giving. That is our Christian duty.” She has her own concerns besides.
“But you will return after? When she is no longer in need?” That comes from the eldest boy whose suspicious gaze has not left her for a moment.
“Who is to say when she will no longer be in need?” Sonya deflects. She would not feel right lying to the children. “For now, you must go to sleep, or you shall be too tired to set off early on the morrow.” She ignores their protests and draws the covers up. “Sleep well.” She kisses each child.