Rebel Princess (11 page)

So Narychkin plotted treason and adultery, obsessed with his longing for Catherine, until every detail of the plan had been worked out.

The risk was tremendous and the penalty for failure unthinkable, but if he had judged Catherine aright, she would not hesitate.

On the evening of the masque Catherine sat in her dressing-room, relaxing with closed eyes, while one of her women brushed and combed her long, dark hair.

Elizabeth had, in fact, ordered her guests to wear the dress of the opposite sex, and the Grand Duchess's costume was already laid out on the bed. She could hear Peter cursing and exclaiming in the next room, and the thought of his appearance in a low-cut hooped gown made her smile ruefully.

She would have been only too glad to plead sickness and be excused from the night's entertainment, but her position was too precarious to risk offending Elizabeth or even attracting her attention, and in this matter as in every other, Catherine followed her original precept for success—and obeyed.

Was it such a good formula after all, she wondered. Every word of Peter's crazy prophecy seemed to be coming true, as each day found her more alone and restricted, the Empress increasingly unfriendly.

Catherine frowned and opened her eyes; the train of thought was a familiar, tormenting one which gained her nothing and only served to increase her despair.

Thank God she had begun to read a little, for it beguiled the time and distracted her mind; novels were dangerous fare, she decided, for their themes of love and coquetry filled her with restless discontent. Instead she had ordered some of the works of philosophy that were creating such a stir in far-off France. She was curious to see these books, some of them already banned by a French king whose court was renowned as the most cultured in Europe.

In the midst of these reflections, Countess Roumiantzov hurried into the room. Seeing her evident alarm, Catherine abruptly ordered her waiting woman to cease her ministrations with the hairbrush and sat upright. One look assured her that the Roumiantzova, normally the most graceful and languid of women, had been running, for her face was flushed and her elaborate coiffure had come tumbling down over her shoulders.

“The Empress!” said the Countess breathlessly. “She demands to see you at once. Put on a wrap and come with me. Hurry in Jesu's name. Her Majesty is beside herself with anger! Indeed 'tis years since I've seen her in such a rage,” she added.

Catherine sprang up, calling for a robe; hurriedly she drew on a long velvet gown, fastening it herself in her impatience.

A hundred possibilities raced through her head as she sped down the corridor to Elizabeth's suite, but the answer presented itself the moment she saw Peter, shambling in Brümmer's wake.

The storm over their marriage had broken at last.

The Empress received them in her dressing-room; for a moment Catherine looked for her in vain and then recognized the handsome, plump figure in male dress as Elizabeth.

She was already gowned for the masque, and the costume showed off her slender legs and voluptuous form to advantage, hence her fondness for the custom that she had introduced.

Somewhere in the background Catherine saw another person, and with complete misgiving realized that the spare, soberly dressed man who regarded her with cold, questing eyes was Bestujev himself.

Elizabeth sat down suddenly and beckoned Catherine. Her face was crimson with rage and her beringed fingers clawed at the arm of her chair.

“Come here, Madame!” she ordered furiously.

Catherine approached and sank down in a curtsy at Elizabeth's feet.

“Explain yourself! Explain your conduct that gives scandal before the whole court. Nine months married and no sign of a child! Is it for this that I showered you with gifts, raised you from the gutters of Stettin to become my nephew's wife? What is this I hear whispered … this lie that you have never bedded together!” Elizabeth glared at Peter, knowing full well the truth of her charge, and as always he quailed before her and looked away.

The Empress paused for breath, trembling with anger as she looked from one to the other.

There he stood, the sullen stupid oaf, pock-marked and hideous as Satan, lacking even the girl's quiet, stony courage. They had dared to defy her, to imperil her throne by their obstinacy and rob her of peace once more.

Catherine, whom she had welcomed like a daughter, had grown up to rival and flout her; those steady blue eyes could repel a man as easily as they could entice. By God swore Elizabeth to herself, if she can do the former and deny me an heir, I'll give her naught but the bare walls of a cell to ogle! But nothing excused Peter, she thought savagely, and was glad because deep in her heart she hated him, and her dislike rejoiced in the excuse to punish. He knew his duty full well, he should have been man and Romanov enough to take his rights by force. Instead he flirted with one of her maids of honor, aping the virility that he did not possess. No sooner had she got rid of the Labuchkin than he had begun paying attentions to another.

Thanks to these two impudent creatures, both still in their teens, her magnificent marriage had become the laughingstock of Europe, and her throne was still insecure.

If circumstances had allowed it, Elizabeth would gladly have put them both to death, in spite of her much boasted vow. Her father would have known how to deal with them! God's blood! she thought furiously, he would not have agreed to Bestujev's milk and water plan; if only her actions were not hampered by his damned politics.…

Elizabeth's expression deepened to one of truly frightening cruelty as her imagination reviewed the punishments she would have liked to inflict, and, seeing that look, Catherine abandoned caution and spoke up. Whatever happened, the Empress must know the situation was Peter's doing alone.

“Your Majesty, I beg you to hear me. It is true that I am a wife in name only, but the humiliation of my state is not my fault I assure you!”

Elizabeth was about to interrupt her when the Chancellor interposed. “Let the Grand Duchess continue, Your Majesty,” he suggested coldly. Fear had loosened many tongues, and he proceeded on the well-tried principle of giving the accused enough rope with which to hang themselves.

He was confident that in her own defense Catherine would ensure Peter's downfall as well as her own disgrace; also it was best that the blame should be shared.

Frederick of Prussia might seize upon any public injury to his subject's daughter as an excuse to renew the war which had just been concluded a few years before. And Russia was in no position to engage in war at that time; Bestujev preferred to do battle with his enemies upon the diplomatic field for the present.

He listened quietly to Catherine's frantic excuses and heard in them the ring of truth, while he waited his opportunity to remind Elizabeth of her grudge against Peter.

After the first stumbling sentences, Catherine burst into tears, and her distress betrayed Peter into the
lèse majesté
of a smile.

The Empress caught sight of his expression and promptly flung one of her gilt hairbrushes at his head. The missile clattered to the floor while the Grand Duke cowered back, and the Chancellor judged that the time had come to draw attention away from Catherine, whose disgrace was already accomplished, and focus his sovereign's rage upon her nephew.

“If I might suggest, Your Majesty, that you remove Demoiselle Carr from his Imperial Highness's vicinity, perhaps his eyes might be turned towards his wife instead.…”

It was a cunning reminder and one that struck Peter to the heart.

“'Tis a lie!” he cried as Elizabeth's eyes narrowed with sudden resolution, but the denial came too late. The Empress tugged violently at the bell rope and a lackey appeared in the doorway.

“Send for Demoiselle Carr, have her brought here immediately! And summon the guard!”

Catherine stepped back into the shadows; she was trembling and a fierce anxiety abruptly dried her tears. Only God knew for whom Elizabeth had ordered the guard; it might well be for her, and within the next hours she might go to swell the ghostly number of imperial wives who had disappeared into imprisonment and death. But Peter came towards the Empress, his disfigured face working convulsively as fear gained its usual mastery over his hatred of her.

Catherine had been the chief culprit until the Chancellor's ill-chosen remark; now it seemed that fearful punishment would befall him also, and he had no mind to share in whatever torments Elizabeth might devise for his wife.

“It is her fault,” he shrieked. “She is to blame, not I! How can I live with her when I hate her so? She makes me shudder!”

The Empress sprang from her chair; for a moment Catherine thought that she would strike her nephew.

“Silence!” she shouted. “How dare you speak before I give you leave. Ah, here is another who thinks to defy my wishes,” and she turned quickly as the doors opened, disclosing the figure of Demoiselle Carr, each plump arm in the grip of a Russian guardsman.

The lady-in-waiting stood silently on the threshold, her eyes wide with terror; only the soldiers' support kept her from falling.

Elizabeth favored her with a withering glare, mentally comparing her fat ungainly figure with the graceful, splendid Grand Duchess. What madness lay on Peter that he should prefer this creature's plainness to the other's beauty?

Whatever the reason, the Empress had no patience to inquire any further. One obstacle to her desire stood quaking and speechless before her, and mercy was not one of Elizabeth's failings.

She addressed the two soldiers who stood woodenly awaiting instructions.

“Arrest this woman!” she said harshly. “Take her to the Schüsselburg fortress!”

Upon hearing this sentence and that the dreaded prison was to be her destination, the unfortunate Carr began to struggle in her guard's grip, screaming for pity, and most ironically of all, for justice.

The sight of his favorite's distress roused an unexpected chivalry in Peter's breast and he flung himself down before Elizabeth and clasped her silken knees.

He had never lain with the unhappy Carr, nor indeed with any woman, but his gnawing loneliness and incapacity had found solace and the pretence of manhood in her flattered companionship for a little while, and the savagery of Elizabeth's decree moved him to reckless unselfishness.

“Your Majesty, I beseech you …” he spluttered. “Have pity. She has done no wrong!”

The Empress jerked herself free of his hands and waved the soldiers away; immediately they withdrew, half carrying their hysterical, struggling prisoner, whose shrieks echoed faintly down the corridors and then died away. Like a woman in a dream Catherine looked about her; there was the huge luxurious dressing-room, its gilt fittings gleaming in the candle-light, the still dark figure of the Chancellor, a silent witness of the hideous scene, and the Empress dressed in her man's costume cursing Peter who knelt sobbing at her feet.

Elizabeth
was
mad. Only a lunatic would rave as she was doing and punish the hapless Carr with such savagery.

It only remained for the Empress to deal with her. Catherine looked across to where Bestujev stood, and for a brief moment their eyes met, the old shrewd courtier who had weathered so many storms to power, and the young foreigner he had determined to crush. So far he had failed, and during that momentary exchange the Chancellor knew it.

She was not yet twenty and Elizabeth's wrath was an unnerving experience; she had wept and excused herself, but in his heart he was certain Catherine was not afraid. Even the fate of Demoiselle Carr had not succeeded in quelling that relentless spirit.

Elizabeth's decision had not come a moment too soon. That decision was made plain to Peter and Catherine by the Empress herself.

Their households would be changed and responsible persons put in charge. A governor and governess had already been selected for their individual supervision and they would be absolutely under this new authority; Monsieur and Madame Tchoglokov, a reliable pair whose strictness was only matched by their marital fidelity and fruitfulness.

All personal freedom of movement was at an end for them both.

The Empress's sentence upon them was little better than imprisonment; neither might go out alone, Catherine was not allowed to write or receive letters even from her family, Roumiantzova and the odious Brümmer had been dismissed and would be replaced the next day by these unknown Tchoglokovs who were nothing less than jailers.

Peter and Catherine were to have no companions beyond these two guardians and no recreation outside their own suite in the palace.

Below in the great ballroom the Empress's masque was at its height, and Leo Narychkin encumbered by a heavy hooped skirt, searched frantically among the masked dancers for Catherine, while the carriage that was to have taken them to freedom waited outside a back entrance until day dawned.

But she did not come. The doors of Bestujev's cage had closed upon her and they were not to open for another eight years.

Chapter 6

In a room in the grand ducal suite in the Summer Palace, two women sat silently, their chairs drawn close to the fire; it was not a well-lit apartment and the elder occupant paused over the piece of cloth she was embroidering to draw a candelabra closer on the table at her side.

The movement shed more light upon her, while it cast her companion into deeper shadow, and the candle flames illumined her plain, sharp-featured face, cast in a perpetually disagreeable expression, and the clumsy shape of her body, distended once again in pregnancy.

It was seven years since the Empress had appointed her governess to the Grand Duchess, seven long years since the Chancellor Bestujev had given her his neatly written document instructing her how he required that charge to be carried out.

It was a task that appealed to her narrow, domineering nature, this taming of a woman, beautiful and gay as she had never been, and the faithful Madame Tchoglokov had obeyed it to the letter.