"Dearest one," he wrote, trying to imagine what his child would look like-chubby and pink and precious as a king's ransom.

I wish you welcome on your day of birth and kiss your sweet face. If I could have been with your mother holding her hand today, I would have been the happiest of men. I love you, dearest one, with all my heart. Kiss your mama for me and hold her close.

Watching over you,

Papa

He would have liked to say so much more; he would have liked to tell his son or daughter of the pleasures life held in store, of the joy the birth would bring to the house of Bariatinsky-Orbeliani and to himself; he would have liked to leave a note for every day of his child's life so it might know him, too, and love him. But the desktop clock seemed to be talking to him as its small pendulum swung before his eyes, the soft ticking echoing in the silent room. Hurry, it was admonishing, or all might be lost; hurry, it warned, Hussein Pasha is on the march; hurry… hurry… hurry.

So he addressed an envelope simply "Baby" and slid his note inside. Should he leave it with Georgi to give to Lise later or send it to her in the coming months, or should it go with his will to be read… when necessary? He sighed, debating the options, uncertain, finding it too difficult in the end to reach a decision. Sealing the note, he left it lying on the desk and, standing, took a last look around the room that had been his since adolescence.

Touched by an overwhelming melancholy, he paused at the door for a final glance, then softly closed the door behind him.

Chapter Eighteen

When Lisaveta's carriage arrived late that evening, her drivers having been under orders from Stefan to travel slowly for the sake of his wife's "delicate health," the entire palace was ablaze with lights, and before Lisaveta could alight, the staff appeared en masse on the drive as if they'd been waiting behind the cypress and rhododendrons lining the raked gravel.

As Lisaveta was handed down from the blue-lacquered carriage, Militza hurried forward to embrace her. "Welcome, Lise, darling, to your home," Stefan's aunt declared warmly, her voice joyful, her smile beaming. "We are all ecstatic with Stefan's choice of bride."

"Thank you, Masha," Lisaveta replied, enchanted with the extent of her reception, wanting very much for Stefan's family and retainers to like her. "I'm happy to be here."

Militza was already leading her over to the line of servants. "You must say hello to everyone. We've all been on pins and needles since word of the wedding reached us. What a clever boy, Stefan is," she added like a doting parent, patting Lisaveta on her arm. "You're perfect."

Lisaveta couldn't have asked for more warmth and affection from Militza and all the staff. As she passed down the line of bobbing and curtsying servants she couldn't have felt more welcome at her own estate. Georgi had a brief speech after which he motioned forward a young child who was carrying a large bouquet of yellow roses. The little girl forgot her lines, but she blushed prettily and thrust the flowers toward Lisaveta with her eyes closed. Stooping down to her level, Lisaveta thanked her and asked her her name.

"Tamar," she whispered so only Lisaveta could hear.

And when Lisaveta hugged her, she immediately became the darling of the staff. Their Prince had done well, they all agreed, exchanging significant smiling glances.

Lisaveta had cautioned herself on her long journey to be realistic about Stefan's participation in the war, to face it stoically as he would wish her to, and she hadn't intended bringing up the subject unless Militza did so first. But as they ascended the stairway into the palace, she found herself asking, "How did Stefan seem when you saw him?" At Militza's hesitation, she quickly added, "He passed through Tiflis, didn't he?" A tiny hope that existed beyond the limits of her logic wished Militza would say he was upstairs sleeping or at the stables organizing his gear or something equally prosaic.

"Stefan stopped briefly this afternoon," Militza said, relegating tiny hopes back to their dreamworld, "to change his uniform and allow his troopers a meal. He stayed no more than twenty minutes with Hussein Pasha on the move." She didn't mention the will, for she knew Lisaveta would find the subject distressing. "How was your journey from Vladikavkaz?" Militza said instead. "Did you find it tiring?"

Lisaveta glanced at the enormous bronze doors opening before them as two liveried footmen put their shoulders to their weight. She thought of Stefan riding somewhere across the high plateau under the same moon that illuminated Tiflis and said with a true weariness, "lam fatigued."

"It's the baby and natural. Stefan is vastly pleased," Masha added when Lisaveta's expression indicated her surprise. "He's telling everyone."

"Everyone's so certain," Lisaveta replied in a small voice.

"Stefan says he counts better than you do." Militza was smiling.

Lisaveta blushed.

"You've made him very happy." Her voice was unsteady for only a second before she stabilized it. "And I thank you for that, although," she went on, her mouth quirking into a smile, "I must warn you, the staff is taking this very personally, as well. A new heir to the Bariatinsky-Orbeliani family has been thirty-two years in the waiting."

Lisaveta laughed with delight, pleased with Stefan's effusiveness and the staffs warmhearted reaction. "I mustn't disappoint them then."

"I wouldn't recommend it. I believe they've begun assembling a list of appropriate baby names. Stefan said they can select one of the names."

"He is pleased, isn't he?"

"He's enormously excited, although he's taking pains to appear placid. You've brought him more joy than he'd ever hoped for."

"I don't know how I lived before I met him. I only hope…I hope it never ends."

Lisaveta's tone was so melancholy at the last, her thoughts plain. "Stefan's always been a very lucky man, my dear," his aunt assured her, "and his bodyguard will protect him with their lives. You mustn't worry or fret for his safety. It might harm the baby. Now come," she said, taking Lisaveta's hand, "Chef has insisted on greeting you with a royal repast and if you don't at least taste his numerous dishes, he threatens to cut his wrists."

"He wouldn't," Lisaveta whispered, startled out of her despondency, unfamiliar with the tempestuous personalities of the south, "would he?"

"We've never dared tempt his stability, my dear." Aunt Militza's smile was bland, as though servants threatened suicide every day. "You needn't eat much," she added with a mildness that ignored the drama of the event. "A taste will do."

After Lisaveta refreshed herself briefly and changed into a comfortable frock, dinner was served: an incredible spectacle, a sumptuous procession of twenty-two courses, colorful, artistically served delicacies that had obviously been all day in the making. Lisaveta tasted each dish carried in on gold plate while Chef stood beside her, beaming. When the last sweet had been admired and sampled, she said, "Thank you, Josef, I must write my husband and tell him of your genius. Everything was superb."

Josef's smile widened, his red cheeks glowed. "The Princess is most generous."

"Now, Josef," Militza declared, her voice both cordial and firm, "you've intimidated Princess Bariatinsky enough for one night. Kindly have another bottle of Stefan's special golden-white wine brought up and you may all go to sleep."

"Yes, Your Excellency, of course," he replied docilely, as if he hadn't acted the prima donna for the past hour. "As you wish." He bowed himself out with elaborate ritual, followed by the rest of the footmen.

"The staff adore you," Militza said. "You don't know how pleased I am, since Stefan considers them all his family. Thank you, by the way," she added with a smile, "for humoring Josef."

"It wasn't any great sacrifice, Masha, his talents are superb… although at the moment I feel I won't need to eat for a month."

"Some mint tea will help." She raised her hand in an almost imperceptible gesture. Immediately four servants appeared from behind ostensibly closed doors, and Lise marveled both at Masha's casual assumption that someone would come at her small movement and at the servants' hovering presence.

"Mint tea for Princess Bariatinsky. The baby has eaten too much."

Lisaveta colored a soft pink from her throat to her eyebrows.

Masha smiled benignly and four servants beamed down at Lise as if she were the first woman in the universe to have a child.

When the tea and wine were served the ladies retired to a small alcove overlooking the twinkling lights of Tiflis and talked of the war. Militza told Lisaveta the topic was prominent subject matter for the entire population of the city. Word had come yesterday to the general public that Hussein Pasha was advancing toward Kars and the possibility those reinforcements would get through struck terror in the hearts of Tiflis's citizens. If the Russian army was defeated at Kars, the Turks could march on Tiflis; every coffeehouse and café were undoubtedly crowded with patrons discussing the morbid possibilities, and every private conversation and public debate centered on the need to hold Kars.

"How was Stefan?" Lisaveta asked.

"Rushed and distracted," Militza said. "He didn't even have time to eat."

"Was he worried?" Terrified for his well-being, Lisaveta wanted reassurance.

"No," Militza lied. "Stefan's been fighting the Turks for years."

"Will he get there in time?" It was everyone's fear.

Sitting across from Lisaveta on a white satin loveseat, Militza replied, her dark-eyed gaze direct, "Stefan has never failed."