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“I hear she made the voyage alone. But you know those people, that country, they can hardly be called civilized. The poor dear will be desperate for companionship, I’m sure.” Struck in mid thought with her own sense of compassion, the elderly Mrs. Anderson lifts her withered hand in a commanding gesture. A servant, tethered close, drifts forward on polished shoes and bends his ear. “Do have a welcome arrangement sent to the Vasil’ev state. Tiger lilies, perhaps, to mark the occasion, coffee, a pound of lamb, two bottles of wine, some of the Barbados salt, and whatever else Linda would prefer to spare from the kitchen.”

“Right away, Madame.”

The servant’s footsteps echo on the marble flooring as he retreats, and Mrs. Anderson takes a satisfied sip of her tea. She is seated at a delicate breakfast nook, joined by two other women – both younger and fairer than she but just as wealthy. The brunette, her hair swept back severely with too many silver pins, lifts her chin haughtily. She has the slanted sloe-eyed look of a woman prone to gossip. “I am not sure how much of a ‘dear’ she can be called. Nearing thirty, is what I have heard, and with no gentleman suitors.”

“Quite wealthy.” The third lady, frail as a butterfly, clinks her spoon against her teacup loudly. “She would have to be to have purchased the old Feller estate. It needs a number of renovations and a full servant staff will have to be hired. You can not do that cheaply.”

“I heard she brought wolves with her.”

“Wolves? My word.” Mrs. Anderson chides softly under her breath. “On a second thought, perhaps I should not send the lamb.”

“Angela, you should invite her to tea. Your home is the closest.”

“Do Russians drink tea?” The brunette, Angela, sets her shoulders with determination. “If she only drinks vodka, we will have to invite her for supper instead, and then I will need to send Nelly to the city for ingredients. I hope she is more grateful than other foreigners.”

“What is her name again, Charlotte?” Mrs. Anderson places her boney fingers against the butterfly lady’s wrist, stilling the unrelenting tapping of her spoon.

“Katrina.”

“Katerina.” Angela corrects. “A beauty too, according to the rumor mill. My Jonathon, he saw her in the city when he was picking up my latest parcels from France. He said she was too severe for his liking.”

Charlotte nods in agreement, tucking a loose piece of her wispy hair behind her ear. “We should ease her adjustment, poor thing. Acquaint her with our customs as a – a “

“Charity.” Mrs. Anderson offers.

“Precisely, a gesture of charity! A woman of her age, from such a savage country, she’ll need an introduction to America. Someone has to tell her that wolves are not accepted in decent society. Angela, your cousin has returned from overlooking his estates in Maryland, yes?”

“Cassius? I believe so.”

“It’s decided then.” Mrs. Anderson lifts her teacup as a salute. “Invite the young Lord and next Friday we will acclimate Miss Vasil’ev to our company.”

--

            The dress is, in actuality, an incredibly dark shade of green. A tone of olive, to be sure, Charlotte thinks. Mrs. Anderson, even with her spectacles, cannot distinguish the difference and is too preoccupied by the cluster of jewels displayed brazenly on the Russian woman’s neck to care about the dress. Angela is quietly livid - offended by the expanse of shoulder and arm that her guest reveals whenever she moves too quickly (which she does often and, Angela is sure, intentionally), causing the dress to slip.

Katerina has been speaking to Angela’s husband for the better half of the hour, sipping from her tea. Her hair, dark and very long, has started to unravel from its loose, lightly swept up state. 

Charlotte clears her throat, bending to Katerina’s left. “If you are having trouble with the heat and humidity, I know a wonderful hairdresser in the city. He could show you marvelous ways to style your hair back. It must be dreadful on your neck.”

The Russian smiles sharply, dipping her head towards the frail heiress though her eyes remain on Jonathon and his mouth. Charlotte is reminded of winter foxes. “I do not think it is necessary for women to hide one of their best traits.”

When a servant appears to refill their cups and offer an assortment of spreads, Katerina asks for dark cherries.

Mrs. Anderson perks her eyebrows with interest. “To eat, my dear? They will stain your fingers.”

“For the tea. It is a sweetener.” She explains, softly adjusting the fall of her dress across her shoulder.

Angela nods her consent to the servant before taking her husband’s hand, surprised at the warmth of his palm. “We hear you have brought some interesting friends from your homeland.”

“Wolves, to be exact.” Jonathon emphasizes. He is a stocky, stout man and breathes too loudly. A thin layer of sweat beads across his forehand.

“Borzáya sobáka.” For a moment, the table is quiet. The foreign language is harsh and reminds Charlotte of the language of the Negroes. She wrinkles her nose in distaste before Katerina explains, a cut of a smirk on her mouth. “Russian wolfhounds. Two of them. They are excellent for hunting and companionship. “

“You hunt?” Mrs. Anderson puts a hand to the base of her throat, laughing good-naturedly.

“Bears, I imagine.” Angela says, not quite to herself.

--

Katerina is invited to stay for supper and given a tour of the property. There is a luscious garden that winds the full length of the estate, and the small party meets there where tables have been decorated with candles for the occasion. The jasmine is heavy in the air and the wine dulls the women’s claws. She drinks slowly, tracing patterns of elbows and eyelashes on her dress and the tablecloth, studying the features of American women.

Cassius arrives late, but his cousin says it’s fashionably so and forgives him with a kiss to his cheek. His hair is held away from his face in a loose knot and his undershirt is of a cream ivory, highlighted nicely by the stark black of his dinner coat. It is a clean crisp attire but unoriginal and unexciting to Katerina. She nearly dismisses him except that he brushes her shoulder in passing, sliding his fingertips across her skin to readjust her dress. “You,” he says close to her ear “must be the Russian that has caused such a stir. Rightfully so, I see.”

“Your reputation precedes you, my Lord.”

Mrs. Anderson pushes her spectacle to the end of her nose as though inspecting two intricate specimens. “What did she say?”

“That his reputation is not nearly as pristine as his clothing.” Charlotte giggles, reddened by wine.

“How would you know?” Angela snaps, her voice low, and the smaller woman flushes deeper.

Letting his hand travel to the delicate chain of her necklace, Cassius keeps himself close. “My cousin has been intimidated by rumors of your beauty for weeks. She is a nasty thing, isn’t she? I hope she hasn’t poisoned your wine.” He steps away leisurely and takes a place at the table, sitting to the left of Charlotte who eyes him like a schoolgirl with a crush.

--

            After supper, she drinks her vodka chilled. Cassius is the only one who joins her. The wind has blown out many of the candles’ flames, and it’s only close to her in the darkness that he realizes how her eyes are the most peculiar shade of green. A mix of jade and pear.

            He places a hand on her knee and grins when she does not move it away. Angela is reluctant to leave them, but her husband takes her into the home with a firmness that suggests annoyance. Overcome with lightheadedness from the wine, Charlotte retired much earlier and Mrs. Anderson soon after that.

            “You must hate it here.” Cassius says, eyes gleaming predatorily.

            Katerina says something softly but it is in her frosted, heavy language.  

            “I can’t understand you, you know.”

            She laughs and brushes his hand from her knee.

-

            He is the one to help her into her stagecoach, touching the inside of her arm and placing his hand on her lower back. She is bristling with warmth though her gaze is even, direct.

            “Caviar.” Katerina says, letting her dress fall against her arm without fixing it.

            “Never had it.”

            She nods, closing the coach door and forcing him back onto the pavement. His hand rests on the handle as though he is waiting for an invitation. “I know, zaichik.”