“He finds them in the most unlikely places,” I said. “The cemetery, the lumberyard.”
“I imagine they’re disease resistant, too,” Sofya said. “You’re a magician, Mr. Gardener. The creamy white one with a tangle of golden threads at her heart—”
“Mrs. Mitchell’s favorite, and mine, too,” he said with a smile. “Katharina Zeimet—such a hardy repeat bloomer. All she needs is water and a little fertilizer.”
“He’d be happy to crate some for you, wouldn’t you, Mr. Gardener?” I asked. “To take home to your hothouse.”
Electra stepped closer. “It’s illegal to propagate a plant still under patent without paying a royalty. Some might call it stealing.”
Mr. Gardener stood taller and directed his gaze at the floor.
I turned to her. “Taking a cutting from a wild plant is not stealing and is no worse than eavesdropping, Electra Whitney.”
“You never used to see such a thing in Southampton,” she said.
“You never used to see people speaking unkindly, either.”
Electra drifted off as Mother led a crush of guests from the terrace, waving them into the dining room, and Mr. Gardener took his leave with a bow.
When would Electra Whitney learn to mind her own business?
“Come now,” Mother called.
Guests milled around us as maids bearing silver trays topped with flutes of bubbling amber fanned out into the crowd.
Afon came to stand near Sofya. In civilian clothes Afon was simply a standard, good-looking young man, but in his navy blue uniform he became unquestionably Russian, with his thick-lashed brown eyes and shock of blue-black hair.
“Your mother’s been looking for you, Sofya,” Afon said. “And Eliza, Dr. Abushkin just pushed your doctor into the tea cart.”
“Oh no,” Sofya said, her brow creased.
Mother mounted a footstool, her posture still ramrod straight, from years of standing with a broom handle threaded across her back between her bent elbows. She hooked the wires of her spectacles behind her ears as her suffragette friends gathered around us, their silk dresses rustling.
“Thank you all for coming!” Mother shouted, arms spread wide.
“Hear, hear!” some in the crowd called out.
I tapped a spoon to my glass and the room quieted.
Mother cleared her throat. “It isn’t every day that we host such—”
The French doors from the living room banged open and the doctors emerged, the countess not far behind.
“Would someone call the authorities about this man?” Dr. Forbes called to Mother. “He’s intoxicated and may have broken my wrist.”
Mother turned. “Gentlemen. Doctors. We are celebrating here—”
“Oh no,” Sofya called out from the sofa and cradled her belly. “Eliza—”
I rushed to her as Afon knelt at her feet.
The countess paced the room, fanning herself with her hands. “Dieu, sauve-nous! She’s in labor.”
Mother rushed toward us, folding back her sleeves.
“Get my bag,” Mother called out, and our housemaid, Peg, ran for the black medical bag.
Sofya reached for my hand. “Don’t leave me, Eliza.”
I held her hand and prayed the baby would be fine, with a sinking feeling I would never see St. Petersburg.
CHAPTER
2
Sofya
1914
Once my overly prompt baby boy Maxwell Streshnayva Afonovich arrived in the middle of Eliza’s party, we spent a fortnight at the hospital. Soon, due to Father’s pressing Ministry business we set off for St. Petersburg, Eliza by my side. She said tearful goodbyes to Henry and Caroline and promised to be home by August.
The journey home lasted more than two weeks but flew by, for Eliza and I talked about everything—Paris, art, politics—well into every night, stopping only to eat, sleep, and tend to baby dear.
Once back in St. Petersburg at our townhouse on Rue Tchaikovsky, my sister Luba and I showed Eliza every literary café and museum, stepping on and off our excellent system of electric trams, which crisscrossed the city like patient beetles, fed by a web of wires above the streets. Luba hosted a star night on our roof to show off her new telescope, a gift from Father, and Eliza bought us lovely old copies of Walden: Or, Life in the Woods for the three of us to read together, stopping every few chapters to discuss.
Though our home was not far from the tsar’s Winter Palace and the fashionable shopping street Nevsky Prospekt, much to Agnessa’s chagrin, we lived in the second-best part of town, near the embassies. At night, we heard increasing unrest in the streets but thought little of it.
One afternoon we gathered in Agnessa’s personal rooms, dressing for a Persian costume ball at Anichkov Palace, home of the tsar’s mother. Rain fell outside the open window as I sat on the satin-covered love