Empress of the Night (49 page)

“Is anything wrong, Graman?” the child asks.

She can hear it already, in the rising whispers, the sudden pauses in conversations; eyes are turned to the closed doors, willing them to swing open.

She runs through the possibilities in her mind. Le Noiraud, knowing she must be furious at him, is desperately trying to redeem himself, wrangle some impossible and now superfluous victory. Just let Gustav Adolf sign the paragraph of intent! Forget your annoying ambitions for a moment. There’ll be plenty of time for that later!

Her eyes rest briefly on her chief minister, who is escorting Princess Dolgoruka toward the window, where the crowd is thinner, and where the Princess can better display her charms. Should she send Bezborodko to the negotiating room? He would be delighted to set things right, show the young how much skill they still lack. This is a fleeting temptation, though. She is too seasoned to surrender to impatience. She will never reveal her hand too early. If the Swedes became aware Platon has overstepped his authority, it’ll be used against her in the end. It always is.

The chimes? Already? The owl stirs again. The flowers, which are in fact small hammers, move, producing a sequence of soft tones.

She remembers being a child, frightened to see the hands of a clock turned back. Thinking that the world would collapse into endless repetitions of what has already been. Now that she is older, she wishes it were true. What she would give to relive what has already passed! To know the betrayer before he betrayed.

Eight o’clock.

The delay, whatever its reason, is hard on the child. Alexandrine looks like a white moth suspended in mid-flight. Is she praying? Or dwelling on the kisses, the soft caresses of her lover’s hands? Or is she blaming
herself again, the silly girl? Some imaginary transgression? Some trifling misdemeanor blown out of proportion?

I’ll protect you
, she thinks.
I’ll make sure you won’t be overlooked
.

A few minutes before nine, she motions to Queenie and orders her to check what is delaying the ceremony. Queenie rushes out of St. George’s Hall as fast as her large bulky frame will let her. There is a murmur of excited speculation as the courtiers step aside to make way.

The mechanical music of the clock is still ringing in the air when Queenie comes back, looking flustered and uneasy.

“There is some slight disagreement, madame,” she whispers, on tiptoe. “Platon Alexandrovich says it won’t be long.”

Paul leans forward to hear better. Maria Fyodorovna raises her hand as if she were about to cross herself. Alexander gives his grandmother a questioning look.

“I’ve heard some raised voices, madame,” Queenie says with a gasp.

The child looks at them all, trying to comprehend what might be happening. But then the doors swing open and a sigh of relief escapes her. The courtiers resemble statues of themselves, all motionless, staring at the door. The orchestra begins to play, but then it stops.

For only one person enters. It is Count Morkov. He approaches the throne, climbs the platform. There is a flicker of dark satisfaction about him. A warning, unheeded, has been proven right. A dire prediction vindicated.

It takes her a moment to understand the words Morkov is whispering in her ear: “The King protests. He says he is not trusted. He asks why he should sign the paragraph of intent at all.”

For the next hour, messengers come and go, assertions bounce off one another, twisting, squirming, whirling with growing distrust.

The King says he has given his word already. Why is it suddenly not good enough?

Why does he have to sign a promise that he will keep his word? He is a man of honor. He will stand behind what he has promised
.

It is not enough? He is not trusted, then?

Should he, perhaps, ask for the same from the Empress in return?

Alexandrine’s eyes are growing bigger, flooded with silent questions. She will have to be taken care of, removed from this room. Crows will circle over carrion. The child needs to be away from prying eyes.

The Empress is sorry for her granddaughter, but in the end it is better to suffer a disappointment earlier than later, isn’t it? Cut the ties when they are still weak. She will explain it to Alexandrine later. Right now she has to take care of the wreckage.

Her lips are parched. She is thirsty, but her thirst will have to wait.

By ten o’clock, when the peacock turns around, revealing his silvery tail, foreign Ambassadors sneak out of St. George’s Hall to dispatch their coded news of Russia’s humiliation into the night, hoping to come back for even more tantalizing tidbits. The Empress of All the Russias has been kept waiting for three hours by a stripling Swedish King forty-nine years her junior. What caricatures will turn up now: The Swedish King sticking his bare bottom at the old wrinkled hag? A David defeating a Goliath?

The wave of blinding anger hits her. That weakling, that puny full-lipped prig. That little King, that bastard.

There is silence in the Throne Room, heavy, black, suffocating silence. Alexander looks at her with concern, but he, too, implores her to right what has been wronged.

Zotov, good old Zotov, always ready with the remedies of a perfect valet, hands her a glass of water. She drinks from it, gulp after cool gulp, until the glass is empty.

There is terror in Alexandrine’s eyes. In them, Catherine sees the panicky fright of a child who finally learns that what has been smashed cannot ever be put right again.

This is not quite true, Alexandrine
, she wants to say.
Defeat destroys you only if you allow it. There is a whole life ahead of you. Congratulate yourself on your narrow escape. You will still laugh. If a drop of my blood flows in your veins, you will
.

She manages to keep her face frozen, her eyes fixed on the chandelier, the glittering flames of candles reflected in the crystal. “Stop the negotiations,”
she tells Morkov. “Inform our Swedish guests that the Empress is indisposed.”

It falls to Paul—who is still her official heir—to stand up and offer apologies to the Archbishop and the guests.

“Due to unforeseen difficulties … postponed …” she hears, though Paul’s words seem to come from a distance, as if she were eavesdropping on them all. Prince Adam—she notes—is whispering something into Elizabeth’s ear. Alexander’s wife looks as if she is about to faint.

As soon as Paul stops speaking, she rises from the throne, feeling heavy and ancient, grown into the soil like a giant boulder, impossible to move. Alexander has offered her his arm, and she leans on her grandson with her full weight. Her breath is shallow. With great effort she drags her swollen feet, one after another.

Behind her she hears a gasp, like the cry of a wounded bird, and a staccato rush of heeled shoes. The child has fainted and is carried away through the side door. Her father is carrying her; her mother follows like a hen, flapping her arms. “Watch out! Careful! Mind the doors!”

The crowd disperses to make room for the Imperial Family to pass. The faces of the courtiers flash grave, bewildered looks. Lost, searching for the implications this humiliation will have. Until she, their Empress, their
matushka
, can restore their pride.

Not now.

Later. In a few moments. Tomorrow.

This is what wounded animals do, withdraw into the thicket, lick the wounds to assess the damage.

A few more steps. Then she can lower herself into the rolling chair. For now, a few reassuring words to Alexander must suffice.

The flash of pain in her head is like a blow. Her jaw stiffens. Words she intended to say die in her throat. Bezborodko has pushed Morkov aside. He is saying something, but his words crumble into dust before they reach her ears. It is just as well. She doesn’t care to discuss what has happened. Not yet. She has no need for consolations, either.

“Graman, are you feeling well?”

She can see terror in her grandson’s eyes. She feels his hand clinging to hers. Something shifts in her, like a soft thump of soot falling down a chimney.

“Help me get out of here, Alexander,” she says.

Leaning on Alexander, with Zotov propping her left side, she walks slowly out of the hall to where the rolling chair awaits.

If I cry
, she thinks,
the others will sob; if I sob, the others will faint, and then everyone will lose both their heads and their bearings
.

What is dead is dead. I must think of what is still possible
.

In her inner suite, as soon as the doors close behind her, she lets Alexander lift her from the rolling chair and motions to Zotov to take it outside.

The four wardrobe maids are waiting to release her from her clothes, wash away the makeup, unpin her hair. They, too, must have heard what has happened, for they stare at the carpet.

“Wait outside, until I call you,” she orders, and they vanish.

“Go, get some rest,” she tells Alexander, whose face is still changing color, from pink to white to red and then back to white. “There’ll be enough to do tomorrow.”

Her grandson hesitates, draws himself up. His mind must be scurrying back to St. George’s Hall and Alexandrine’s sobs, for his fists clench.

“Go, dear,” she repeats, knowing too well how bitter humiliation is, and watches him leave.

Still in her heavy robes, she shuffles into the Imperial Bedroom, leaning on the cane that Queenie—whom she hasn’t noticed until now—has handed her. “Get Platon Alexandrovich here,” she orders. “And leave me alone.” Like ripples from stones thrown into the sea, her words make feet patter, doors open and close.

Platon Alexandrovich … Platon Alexandrovich …

A vain peacock of a man. Creamy, soft skin, and the sweetness of flattery.

Her folly, her weakness.

Keep him in your bedroom
, matushka,
on his knees
. Grishenka’s voice echoes off the tapestry that covers the gilded walls Empress Elizabeth liked so much.
Let him amuse you, bring you pleasure. Let him play the golden boy with his levees, his monkey. But never trust him with anything of importance
.

Why didn’t she listen? Why did she let the passion long gone silence the voice of reason?

A soft tapping on the door. A whisper begging permission to enter. It’s Vishka. “I’ve been to Alexandrine’s rooms, Your Majesty, but perhaps this is not a good time …”

“Speak,” she snaps. Why is everybody suddenly so mindful of time being good or not? Has she ever shrunk from hearing the truth?

“The Grand Duchess won’t stop sobbing.” The creases on Vishka’s face carry the stain of anger and pain.

“Is Alexander with her?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. And her maman.”

“What do they tell her?”

“That there has been an unforeseen delay. A misunderstanding that needs to be corrected. But the Grand Duchess doesn’t listen. This is the end, she sobs.”

“Can they not give her something?”

“Rogerson bled her. Laudanum helped a bit, but not enough to stop her tears.”

“Go to her,” the Empress tells Vishka. “Tell the child to wipe her eyes with some ice and stop crying. Tell her I’m taking care of everything. Tell her I want to see her tomorrow. No more tears.”

Vishka’s heels make tapping noises on the wooden floor as she leaves. If Alexandrine has any wits left, she will listen to those who know better. Appear tomorrow in her pink dress, coiffed, as if nothing of any importance has happened. Manage a few casual conversations. Refuse to be drawn into conjectures. Dismiss what has happened as insignificant. Behave like a Queen and let the King see what he is in danger of losing.

The heavy doors open again. Le Noiraud saunters in, mumbling excuses. He has been a victim of a colossal perfidy. For the longest time, he was sure all would settle amiably. But the King has been utterly unreasonable.

Words flow, roll off his tongue, each an assault:
The King … the Regent … underhanded … stubborn. Presuming … daring … in spite of all I have done … in spite of all I was led to believe …

Seated on her bed, propped by two fat pillows, Catherine listens and waits.

He is still trying to limit the damage. Admitting to failure is not part of Le Noiraud’s strategy. Neither is admitting to negligence or pure asinine stupidity. His eyes are fastened on her, searching for signs of what she might want to hear.

It is useful to know how to make your face blank.

Finding no clues, Le Noiraud settles on derision. He calls Gustav Adolf a little weasel and a bastard. Awkwardly, he brings forth the sordid story of his conception. The gossip of a would-be mother sprawled on her marriage bed, entered by Baron Munck, who in turn is being entered by the King of Sweden. Why? Because the Great Gu couldn’t bring himself to touch a woman.

“It’s all true,” Le Noiraud’s voice scales up. “Even in Sweden they all know the little King is a bastard.”

“Silence!”

Her scream makes him jump up. His face is white.

“You dare come here and tell me it is not your fault!”

Her voice, coming from her belly, is low and blunt, like a blow of a hammer that stuns the cattle before their throats are slashed.

“I’ve promoted you. I’ve raised you above your station. And you make me and Russia the laughingstock of all Europe!”

Le Noiraud shudders, still unable to believe that he has been rebuked. He is like a fish yanked out of water. Thrashing, hoping one of these jerky movements will save him. He sinks to the floor. His chin is trembling like that of a child about to cry. His eyes are blank with fear.

“What did they tell you about me?” he wails. “Was it Morkov? Or Bezborodko? They want me finished. They are jealous.”

“Of you?”

“They criticize me because I dare to love you. They’ve always wanted to turn you against me. But I won’t let them. You are all I have. You are all I care about.”

Is he going to throw himself at your feet?
Grishenka’s voice mocks.
How much more does he think you will bear?