Empress of the Night (25 page)

At two
A.M.
, when she protested she could no longer keep her eyes open, Potemkin finally let her go. But not before her victorious Prince, the conqueror of the Crimea, gave his orchestra another sign and intoned the mournful aria he had composed for her:
The only thing that matters in the world is you
.

Goodbye, my friend, I kiss you
, was the note she sent after Grisha when he departed to the south soon after that night. It was Zotov who told her how that morning after the fete, even after the last guests left, Potemkin wouldn’t lie down. How he lingered among the remains of his party, ate from abandoned dishes the servants had not yet cleared, dipped his fingers in the wine and sucked on them. And then, with the sun high in the skies, he wrote the letter she has read and reread so many times:

Alexander, the firstborn of the nestling eagles, is already fledged. Soon, after spreading his wings, he will soar over Russia, and it will reveal itself to him as the most expansive of maps … expanded borders, armies, fleets, and cities that have multiplied … a populated steppe … such will be the beautiful sight before him, and we shall have the pleasure of seeing in him a Prince who possesses the qualities of an angel, meekness, a pleasing appearance, a majestic bearing. He will awaken in everyone love for him and gratitude toward you for his education that has rendered nothing but gifts to Russia.

There is no shame in loving her grandson. Of seeing him triumph over his father.

Patience has never been Grigory Orlov’s virtue.

“No restraints,” she has told Alexei. “No dousing with ice-cold water. No locked doors, no more bleedings. No blows. No discipline. Do nothing that displeases him. Let him be.”

Zotov has been given orders to admit Prince Orlov to her chambers at all times. “In all manner of dress,” she has said, and so Grigory Orlov might appear in his dressing gown, or in the odd assortment of uniform pieces, as if he tried to remember which parts of his wardrobe went with what.

It hurts to watch him in this state. Empty eyes, locked on some scraps of the past that might, at an unexpected moment, break into a lucid memory. He is only five years younger than she is. No longer a lover, but in the end, a friend.

A friend who has not run away from her or betrayed her as others did. Or accused her of ingratitude.

His brothers try to guard him. But he is Grigory Orlov, reckless and clever and impossible to tie down. A moment of inattention, and once again he is climbing down the wall of the Gatchina house, mounting his stallion, riding to St. Petersburg, appearing abruptly clad in his stained undergarments, arms outstretched, mumbling his rapture. “Do they love you here, Katinka? Do they care for you? Are you not hungry? Are you not thirsty?”

Why is she letting this deranged Count roam the palace? Exposing himself. Chasing chambermaids. Scaring her grandchildren. Foreign Ambassadors have countless anecdotes to report now. “To Russia’s shame,” the courtiers whisper into her ear.

When she replies that she is not ashamed of showing compassion for a man who had once been her companion, they change their arguments.

Grigory Orlov is still very strong. He can still bend a horseshoe. A fire poker. They have seen him wield a birch tree trunk like a saber. At
Gatchina, he tore a window from its frame. Jumped into a waterfall from a bridge and almost drowned.

He might mistake her for someone else, some figment of his deranged mind. Shatter her skull. Or push her down the stairs.

“No,” she says. “He may not know who I am, but he’ll never harm me.”

She believes it.

Once when she is alone, reading in her study, Grigory Orlov walks in and tiptoes toward her. His wig, its pigtail torn off, is crawling with lice. He speaks in an urgent whisper. “Come, Katinka,” he says. “Right now. We must hurry.”

“Where do you want us to go?” she asks gently.

“On a pilgrimage, Katinka. We must walk all the way. We must pray.”

“Why?”

He gives her a long, ardent look. There is no confusion in it, only sorrow.

“To repent for what we’ve done!”

When has the game changed so abruptly?

She is still sending requests:
Do try to end matters with the Turks soon; warn them that if they do not accept our terms now, we shall be quite free to make our conditions even more onerous. Remind them that one works with what is, not what might be
.

Calculations consume her thoughts. Thrilling calculations that come after battles. Dispatches flying back and forth. Hints gleaned from deciphered letters, threats exchanged, old alliances flaunted and new ones sought. A political brawl they both relish, which will—so soon—deliver another glorious victory. The Turks might be reluctant to admit defeat, but the stark truth always trumps the illusions of grandeur.

I don’t have strength,
matushka
. I am extremely ill. I am worn out, as God is my witness.

She is in Tsarskoye Selo when she reads these words. With Le Noiraud, who is absorbed in a new telescope, training it at distant figures in the
gardens below. Exclaiming his delight at spotting Alexandrine skipping while her governess, Miss Williams, was stifling a yawn.

“Your granddaughter is a beauty already, Katinka. Look how she lifts her skirts!”

She folds the letter, and unfolds it again, as if Potemkin’s troubling words could vanish. It is September. Her gardeners are in the midst of planting shrubs and preparing new beds. The newest seed register includes new varieties of asters, phlox, mallows, and chrysanthemums.

She sits down at her escritoire right away and pens a letter urging caution:
Take your medicine, Grishenka. Rest. Stop eating so much. Let me know how you feel. Tell your doctors to write a report for me
.

It calms her, somewhat, to write these words. If she were with him, she would send all his women away, lower the blinds, and insist on a lot of sleep. But Potemkin’s women are a vain, selfish lot. All they care about is their own pleasure.

It isn’t jealousy that dictates these thoughts. It is instinct. The gift of always knowing what others truly want, of not being fooled by appearances. Of foreseeing dangers during the times of calm.

The letter that comes next contains reports on negotiations. They are going well, though Potemkin cannot give her details. He doesn’t trust the codes or the messengers. Turkish spies are everywhere. Catherine will have to trust his judgment, let him make decisions. He is her most loyal and most grateful subject.

I am better
, he also writes.
The danger has passed, but I remain very weak
.

If another bout comes, I shall not have the strength to endure it
.

He is better
, she thinks with relief.
There will be no other bout
.

“The Prince is working too hard,” she tells Le Noiraud, who—she notes with satisfaction—has written his own letter to Potemkin. Not the most graceful or heartfelt, but straightforward.
We are all awaiting news of Your Highness’s speedy recovery
.

For an instant, a smile plays on Le Noiraud’s lips, but it dies as quickly as it is conceived. Now her lover’s forehead is creased with concern. Not just for the Prince, he says, but for her. Hasn’t she been ailing lately? The
sore throat, the cough, the return of the colic, the swelling feet? She, too, is working too hard, forgetting her own comfort. Forgetting that he is waiting for her company every night.

His eyes, soft with love, hold a tinge of unease. They have not lain together in weeks. Not for the lack of his eagerness. Or trips to the rooms she had furnished for moments like these. But images of lusty nymphs cavorting with satyrs, or wine corks in the shape of bare buttocks, evoke a mere tingle where once fire raged.

“Yes,” she admits, perhaps too quickly. “I forget to think of myself. It is kind of you to worry.”

Le Noiraud waves his hand. He wishes no praise. It is merely his concern for her well-being that prompts his words.

The child
, she thinks of him.
The child may be awkward, selfish at times, but he cares for me
.

The dispatches from the south grow shorter. One contains a list of ailments: fever, headache, paroxysms that refuse to go away. But then another assures her that sweating has brought relief. And in the letter after that, Potemkin worries that the oared fleet is late and the river might freeze before it arrives. Isn’t that a sign that he is getting his strength back?

She sends him a silk dressing gown. Green, with golden trim, embroidered with peacocks, to remind him of his gifts for her. Urges him to leave matters of state alone for a while. Her thoughts are waging their own battle of hope against fear: Aren’t many soldiers falling ill there, in the camps, but they are not dying? Isn’t he strong? He is only fifty-two.

But why is he not writing himself? Why is Popov, his servant, taking down his words? Why is Potemkin’s signature barely legible?

Beloved
matushka
, not seeing you makes it even harder for me to live.

Matushka
, oh, how sick I am. I have no more strength to endure my torments. I don’t know what’s become of me.

My only salvation is to leave.

Later, in Tsarskoye Selo, Sashenka Branicka gives her the account of his final hours.

“My
voslublennyi
uncle,” she sobs, “ordered his Cossacks to take him away from Jassy to his beloved Nikolaev. ‘Will you come with me?’ he asked, and I promised I would never leave him. And he smiled when I said this … He couldn’t walk on his own, so Popov carried him down to the carriage. The fog was so dense when we departed that we couldn’t see much … When we stopped for the night, I was still hopeful. The doctors observed that his color had improved. That his pulse was still strong.”

The girl’s beauty is still fresh in spite of her thirty-seven years and four children. To think that once she thought her provincial.

The two women have locked themselves in the silver salon, with its mirrored balcony doors reflecting their black-clad figures. Catherine’s bulky and short, Sashenka’s slim and graceful.

It is the end of October; darkness comes early.

“I sat by his bedside until dawn,” his niece continues. “He was troubled by much coughing. He couldn’t sleep at all. He’d doze off for a few moments, then wake up. As if someone was chasing him. But in the morning, he seemed better.”

How can it hurt so much? To hear of his last hours?

“We left for Nikolaev in much haste, but we were not fast enough. He knew the end was coming. ‘Popov,’ he ordered. ‘Stop the carriage. I don’t want to die inside this cage.’ He insisted he wanted to lie down on the grass, so his Cossacks spread a carpet on the ground. Popov carried him out of the carriage. He was still wearing his new green dressing gown. And he was holding Your Majesty’s letters in his hand. He couldn’t read them anymore, but he kissed every one of them. And then he just … stopped breathing.”

Once Potemkin had written her that only death would end his service to his Empress and Russia. He kept his word.

She places her hand on Sashenka’s cheek, tucks the loose strand of hair behind her ears. Grishenka’s favorite niece begs to be excused for her disheveled state, wonders how she can go on living. She refuses to meet with anyone at court. Her carriage is waiting in the courtyard. All she
wants now is to go back to Belaya Tserkov, her Ukrainian estate, where she can cherish her uncle’s memory undisturbed.

“Is Branicka gone, Katinka? Already?” Le Noiraud asks when their paths cross later that day. His gaze slips from her reddened eyes to her hands clasping and unclasping, her fingernails, bitten to the quick.

She is still hoping he won’t say it. Hold the reins of his jealousy, let her go on with her mourning.

But Le Noiraud’s shapely lips are already moving. His tongue moistens them in preparation for the venom that she will try and fail to ignore.

“I hear Branicka has taken the coffer with all his jewels. ‘It’s my share,’ she said. ‘My uncle wanted me to have them.’ But if this were so, why couldn’t she wait until the coffer was opened in your presence, Katinka? Why wouldn’t she trust you to honor his will?”