Chapter Text
“Sasha.”
“Yes, my darling.”
“Can I have a swing?”
He lifts his head from his newspaper and becomes momentarily distracted by the sight of his wife in her new pink dress, before recalling her question, “a swing, Alina?”
“There’s the perfect spot for it by the cherub statues in the western part of the garden. And I promise it won’t be expensive at all – we just need some strong rope and a plank of wood.”
“My darling, the expense does not concern me. I simply wondered over the reason.”
“Oh,” she blushes slightly, “it’s only ... I remember some friends talking of swings when I was a child. They sounded like such good fun – I thought of asking papa if the gardener could construct one for me, but papa … well, he had too many troubles and preferred for me to stay quiet and not be a bother.”
Aleksander frowns at the mention of his late, unlamented father-in-law.
It had been something of a scandal, one of the finest families in England reduced to ruin by Anton Starkov’s mismanagement and gambling addiction. Alina’s season, just after her father had managed to drink himself to death, had only been undertaken with the financial support of Aleksander’s cousin Genya.
He still remembers the first time he met Alina and the troubles that had clouded her expression despite her attempt at a smile.
It had only taken an hour for him to realise she was the woman he wished to marry. From that moment, he had vowed to himself that he would do whatever possible to ensure Alina had a genuine smile on her face for the rest of her life.
“If you wish for a swing, my darling,” he tells her, lifting her hand to press a kiss to her palm, “then you shall have one. I’ll have Ivan source the materials.”
Ivan would think it ridiculous, and sigh over Aleksander’s tendency to indulge all his wife’s whims, but he would also ensure the swing was well-constructed and safe.
“Oh, thank you, Sasha!” she beams at him, peppering his face with sweet kisses, before finishing her eggs with a most unladylike alacrity (not that he would dream of scolding her for it) and rushing for the door, “I must write to Genya and tell her all about it.”
The swing is duly constructed and, once Aleksander has had half a dozen men test its sturdiness, it is deemed acceptable for use by the young Duchess.
Alina is in high spirits, so giddy that Ivan – who is never, ever ill – complains of a headache and insists he must go and lie down.
She sits on the cushioned bench – “you needn’t have included it, Sasha, I would have been fine with the wooden seat” – and then pauses, a little unsure.
“How … how does one go about using a swing?” she asks, a little timidly.
Alexei, one of the gardeners, rushes to explain the process – that you can set the swing going yourself, or have someone assist by pulling the ropes.
The young man – always starry-eyed around Alina, but too shy and innocent for Aleksander to scold him about it – offers to assist, “and then Your Grace can decide if you wish to try it yourself.”
Most of the other servants disperse, leaving Aleksander and Fedyor to observe as Alexei pulls on the ropes and then lets go so that the swing is set in motion.
Alina’s expression is all rapturous delight. He can’t quite see the appeal himself, but if it makes his wife happy then Aleksander will have nothing negative said about it.
He’s pleased, anyway, to see her giggle and laugh so freely. Even now, her future secured as his wife, she still sometimes retains a shadow of her old worries, the sad by-product of her family’s circumstances forcing her to grow up too early. He has made it his mission, in the months since they married, to ensure that, alongside her duties as his duchess, she has the time and means to enjoy the diversions she was deprived of for the first eighteen years of her life.
“Well,” says Fedyor with a cheerful smile, “I think, Your Grace, that this can be considered a –”
He is cut off as Alexei yells out for them both to duck. They drop to the ground and Aleksander looks up to see one of Alina’s shoes – delicate things, but with wicked little heels – fly over his head.
“Oops,” his wife ducks her head sheepishly.
“No need to worry, my darling,” he assures her, “but perhaps next time you should take off your shoes.”
Alexei grabs the ropes so that the swing comes to a halt, while Fedyor obligingly fetches the errant shoe.
Alina hops off the swing with graceful agility and then – with a lack of decorum he finds charmingly endearing, throws herself into his arms.
Any nearby servants, now quite used to such effusive displays from their new duchess, quietly leave the scene.
“Thank you, Sasha!” she kisses him thoroughly, and of course he must oblige her in return, so they are both rather dishevelled by the time they break apart.
“You are the very best of husbands,” she sighs happily.
“Only the best for my darling wife,” he wraps an arm around her waist, pleased that they are at home and can be more openly affectionate than is considered proper in a more public setting.
“You know,” she says as they walk through the garden, “I believe these swings can be made so two people can sit side by side.”
“I am an old man, my darling,” he laughs.
“You are not yet forty,” she reminds him indignantly.
“Very well, my darling. I shall have Ivan arrange it all.”
He rather thinks the man will have a heart attack at the idea of Aleksander on a swing, but there’s no help for it, really.
If it makes his wife happy, then it makes Aleksander happy too.