RUSSIA 1898
ROMAN PAVLOVITCH a tall, chiseled-jaw officer in his mid-twenties tugged on his tunic, cleared his thoughts and vowed to enjoy the evening. He approached Tsar Nicholas II and Tsarina Alexandra, stopped several feet before their thrones, bowed to each, turned, and then joined a group of fellow officers.
Candlelight from crystal chandeliers that hung from a gilded ceiling flickered off the mirrored walls and cast an amber hue over the room. Ladies in colorful hooped gowns and gentlemen in black tailcoats waltzed around the opulent room to a full stringed orchestra.
Débutantes from across the room hid their giddiness behind fluttering fans. Roman and his friends nudged one another like schoolboys. One officer dared another to request a dance. They all snickered and taunted the man.
Roman ceased his laughter and his body became rigid. A young demure strawberry-blonde with curled tendrils that hung down from a loosely pinned chignon had entered the room. He watched the unknown beauty glide across the room in a short-sleeved light blue gown. White gloves above the elbows accented her slender arms. A jeweled neckline showcased a simple pearl and diamond necklace.
A smack on the back broke Roman’s focus. A comrade shoved a glass of vodka into his hand. He lost sight of the maiden and searched the room. Moments later, he spotted her amidst a crowd. Her grace and elegance as she greeted each guest had him captivated. She was a favorable interlude to the pretentious affair.
Roman gulped his drink to gain Dutch courage and followed her through opened French doors.
SHE WALKED OUT ONTO A MOONLIT TERRACE and inhaled a breath of spring air. A gentle breeze carried the fragrance of roses from below. A Johann Strauss waltz, a favorite of hers, started up and she began to sway. Below a couple walked along the garden path with a chaperone, close behind.
A deep voice with a soft and gentle lilt spoke from behind. “The red rose whispers of passion and the white rose breathes of love – O, the red rose is a falcon. And the white rose is a dove.”
She turned and caught the sparkle of the stranger’s hazel eyes. He was dressed in a red tunic, blue britches, and high black boots. Several medals adorned his chest. “You’re a poet, Sir.” She peered over the top of her fan.
He smiled. “Not I, Mademoiselle. But rather an Irishman named O’Reilly.”
“Which are you red or white?”
“Whichever you prefer is what I am. Allow me to introduce myself, Lieutenant Roman Pavlovitch.” He clicked his heels and bowed.
She slapped her fan closed. “How impetuous of you – to announce yourself before we have been formally introduced.” She allowed the corners of her mouth to tilt upward.
“I feared you might slip away before I had the chance to speak with you.”
She waved-off an older woman who stood at the terrace doorway.
“Your mother?”
“My aunt.”
“I have never seen you at the palace before,” he said.
“I have not been here since I was a child. My father has allowed me to accompany him for what is left of the season here in St. Petersburg.” She stepped forward. “I must return to my aunt.”
“Your name, fair lady?”
She strolled past him close enough to catch a hint of lavender combined with horse sweat.
“Perhaps we shall meet again.” Roman bowed.
“Perhaps.”
