Free The Four Winds of Heaven by Monique Raphel High

Her gloved hand touched Johanna’s fingers, which were still resting on her arm. She nodded. “A small nap would do me a world of good,” she said, “I don’t know why, but I am truly exhausted. Thank you, Mademoiselle.”
    A half-smile flickered over the Dutchwoman’s features. “This is presumptuous, and perhaps I shall offend you—but I would be honored if you called me by my given name. None of my employers ever has, and with you, I feel almost as though—if life had been different, and we had met as... as...”
    Mathilde, the controlled, whose key to her emotions was never out of sight, was stirred by a swift, unexpected compassion. “I understand,” she murmured. Her voice was serene as always. But Johanna’s own voice broke, and she pressed Mathilde’s arm. “Nobody ever does,” she said quickly, bending her lovely head and examining the ground. Mathilde, embarrassed, disengaged herself. But she said no more, and sailed toward the stairway to her compartment like an elegant liner moving calmly over the sea. She paused on the first step: “Johanna,” she said, and smiled.
    When the children had been settled comfortably in their own car, adjoining their mother’s, Anna huddled near Titine but Sonia drew next to the beautiful lady who was their governess. Ossip, in his polite, well-modulated voice, so like his mother’s, said, “Mademoiselle, in Russia people are not as they are in France. There is less formality. Friends say ‘tu’ at once, and instead of being called ‘Madame’ or ‘Monsieur’ or ‘Mademoiselle,’ well-bred people show respect simply by adding your father’s name to your own given name. The servants call my sister Sonia, ‘Sofia Davidovna,’ which is perfectly proper. ‘Sonia’ is only for family, or Titine. But ‘Sofia’ is her given name, and ‘Davidovna’ means ‘daughter of David.’ What was your father’s name? We shall need to know, for our servants at home, and for people who come to visit with their own Mademoiselles.”
    Johanna de Mey regarded the little boy with humor. “I see. But I thought everyone in Russia spoke French?”
    â€œOh no, Mademoiselle,” Sonia piped up gravely. “Only those who are most refined, like my Mama. But Mama and Papa know many people, and unless they are very, very close to us, we, the children, and sometimes even our parents, call them by their patronyms. They say, ‘Bonjour, Anna Davidovna,’ or other things in French—but the names are the Russian way. Ossip is right. And I have learned all about that!” She beamed at Johanna, who patted her curls.
    â€œIn that case, I shall have to learn, too,” the governess said. “My father’s name was Johan. That is ‘Jean’ in French. What would it be in Russian?”
    â€œIt would be ‘Ivan,’ Mademoiselle,” Ossip said, coloring slightly. “I heard Mama call out your name before—Johanna—so you would be ‘Johanna Ivanovna.’ That is very pretty,” he added, to hide his confusion.
    â€œAnd you are very pretty, Mademoiselle,” Sonia stated.
    Johanna de Mey began to laugh. “My. my, what have we here? My first lesson in Russian custom, and a fine compliment! I shall have to reward you both. Let me see, now… Perhaps you would like to call me by a special name, just among us?” She glanced at Anna and the baby. “Something only you four would call me. No more ‘Mademoiselle,’ for, as you say, everyone else has a Mademoiselle, too. ‘Johanna’ would be improper, for, after all, you are children and I am a lady, and it would seem disrespectful for you to call me by my name, the way you do Célestine, for example.”
    â€œBut we don’t call her that at all,” Anna broke in, her voice clear and somewhat sharp. “We