The House of Special Purpose (16 page)

‘Our sister is in love,’ cried Tatiana and at that, Monsieur Gilliard rapped the wooden edge of his chalkboard eraser on the desk in front of him, which made both Anastasia and me jump, breaking the connection which we had made with each other, and I turned to look at the teacher in embarrassment.

‘I do apologize, sir,’ I said quickly. ‘I have disturbed your lesson.’

‘You have indeed, young man. You have an opinion to share on the actions of Count Vronsky?’

I stared at him in surprise. ‘I do not,’ I said. ‘I have never met the gentleman.’

‘The infidelity of Stepan Arkadyvich, then? Levin’s search for fulfilment? Perhaps you would like to comment on Alexei Alexandrovich’s reaction in the face of his wife’s betrayal?’

I had no idea what he was referring to, but seeing the novel that was open on each of the Grand Duchesses’ desks, I suspected that these were not real people at all, but characters in a fiction. I
glanced towards Anastasia, who was glaring at her teacher with a look of disappointment on her face.

‘He doesn’t understand, does he?’ said Tatiana, perhaps noticing how I seemed unable to decide what I should do next. ‘Is he a simpleton, do you think?’

‘Be quiet, Tatiana,’ snapped Anastasia, turning around to look at her sister with an expression of utter contempt. ‘He’s lost, that’s all.’

‘It’s true,’ I said, turning to Monsieur Gilliard, not daring to address the Grand Duchess directly. ‘I am lost.’

‘Well you will not find yourself in here,’ he replied, little knowing how untrue that statement was. ‘Please leave.’

I nodded quickly and offered another quick bow before rushing to the door. Turning around as I closed it behind me, I caught Anastasia’s eye once again. She was still watching me and I detected a flush of colour in her cheeks. In my vanity, I wondered whether she might not be able to concentrate any further on her lesson; I knew that my own evening was lost.

I spent the following afternoon in training with the soldiers once again. Count Charnetsky, who was entirely opposed to my appointment and lost no opportunity to make his displeasure known, had insisted that I spend a month learning the most basic skills which his men had spent years acquiring, and the need to be taught quickly was leaving me drained and weakened by the end of every day. I had spent just short of seven hours astride an efficient charger, learning how to control her with my left hand while brandishing a pistol in my right to fell a potential assassin, and as I passed through Palace Square, my tired legs and trembling arms were driving me towards nothing other than the comfort of my bed.

Pausing in the small covered atrium that acted as a passage between the square and the palace, I looked ahead at the garden that opened up before me. The trees that lined the short footpath
towards the entry way were stripped of their leaves and, despite the frost in the air, I could see the Tsar’s youngest daughter, her back turned to me, sitting by the edge of the central fountain, lost in thought, as still as one of the alabaster statues which lined the staircases and vestibules of the palace itself.

Sensing me, perhaps, her shoulders lowered as she sat a little more erect and then, cautiously, without moving her body, she turned her head to the left so that I could observe her in profile. Pink spheres blossomed in her cheeks, her lips parted, her hands lifted from the fountain’s surround as if nervous for action and then settled where they lay. I could see the flutter of her perfect eyelashes in the cold air; I could feel every movement of her body.

And beneath my breath I whispered her name.

Anastasia
.

She turned at that moment – impossible to have heard me, but she knew – her body remaining rigid but her face seeking my own. The dark-blue cloak she wore slipped a little around her shoulders and she gathered it around her, standing up then and walking towards me. Nervous, I found myself retreating behind one of the twelve six-pillared columns which surrounded the quadrangle and watched as she strode purposefully towards me, her eyes fixed on mine.

I knew not what to say or do while, standing before me, she stared at me with a mixture of desire and uncertainty; we had yet to exchange even a word in conversation. Her small pink tongue extended a little as she ran it along the surface of her lips, enduring the chilly frost of the air for a moment before returning to the warm cavern of her mouth. How enticing that soft tongue seemed to me. How it aroused my imagination into thoughts that filled me with a mixture of shame and excitement.

I remained rooted to where I stood, swallowing nervously, wanting her desperately. By rights, I should have offered her a deep bow and a greeting before continuing on my way, but I could not bring myself to behave as protocol demanded. Instead
I stepped further back into the darkness of the colonnade, watching her, never letting my gaze slip away from her face as she approached me. My mouth was dry and lost for words. We faced each other silently until another member of the Leib Guard, patrolling the surround of Palace Square, raced past Anastasia on his charger so unexpectedly that she jumped and let out a small scream, afraid of being run down beneath the horse’s hooves, and leapt forward into my arms.

And at that moment, like two lovers engaged upon the most graceful of dances, I spun her around so that her back was pressed against the tall oak door that loomed behind us. We stood together in the shadows, a place where we could be observed by no one, and stared into each other’s eyes until I saw hers begin to close and I leaned forward and pressed my cold, chapped lips against the warmth of her soft, rose-coloured mouth. My arms wrapped themselves around her, one pressing firmly against her back, the other becoming lost in the fine softness of her auburn hair.

I could think of nothing at that moment other than how much I wanted her. That we had yet to exchange a word did not matter at all. Nor did the fact that she was a Grand Duchess, a daughter of the Imperial blood, while I was a mere servant, a
moujik
come to offer some small degree of security to her younger brother. I didn’t care whether anyone could see us; I knew that she wanted this as much as I did. We kissed for I know not how long and then, separating only a moment for breath, she placed a hand against my chest and looked at me, half frightened, half intoxicated, before turning away and looking at the ground, shaking her head as if she could not even begin to understand how she had been so bold.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, my first words to her.

‘For what?’ she asked.

‘You’re right,’ I replied, shrugging my shoulders. ‘I’m not sorry at all.’

She hesitated for only a moment and then smiled at me. ‘Neither am I,’ she said.

We looked at each other and I felt ashamed that I didn’t know what might be expected of me next.

‘I have to go in,’ she said. ‘We dine soon.’

‘Your Highness,’ I said, reaching for her hand. I struggled with a sentence, having no clue what it was that I intended to say to her, only that I wanted to keep her here with me a little longer.

‘Please,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘My name is Anastasia. And I can call you Georgy?’

‘Yes.’

‘I like that name.’

‘It means
farmer
,’ I replied with an embarrassed shrug and she smiled.

‘Is that what you are?’ she asked me. ‘What you were?’

‘It’s what my father is.’

‘And you,’ she said quietly. ‘What are you?’

I thought about it; I had never asked myself such a question before, but now, standing in the freezing cold beneath the colonnades with this girl before me, there seemed to be only one truthful answer.

‘I’m yours,’ I said.

I was still a newcomer to the royal household when I boarded the Imperial train to travel towards Mogilev, the small Ukrainian town near the Black Sea where our Russian army headquarters were located. Seated opposite me, excited by the prospect of leaving behind the closeted world of the palace for the more rugged environment of a military base, was an eleven-year-old boy, Alexei Nicolaievich, the Heir, Tsarevich and Grand Duke of the House of Romanov.

At moments like this, it still seemed very strange for me to consider how dramatically my life had altered. Just over a month before, I had been a
moujik
like any other, chopping wood in
Kashin, sleeping on a rough floor, starving and exhausted, dreading the freezing cold winter that would shortly arrive to stifle any chance of happiness. Now I was clothed in the tight-fitting uniform of the Leib Guard, preparing for a warm and comfortable journey, with the certainty of a lavish lunch and dinner to come and with God’s anointed one sitting only a few feet away from me.

It was my first time to travel on the Imperial train and while I had started to grow more accustomed to extravagance and conspicuous consumption since arriving in St Petersburg, the opulence of my surroundings still had the power to astonish me. There were ten carriages in all, including a saloon, a kitchen, private studies for the Tsar and Tsaritsa, as well as apartments for each of the children, the servants and the luggage. A second, smaller train followed an hour behind and was populated by an extensive retinue of advisers and servants. Typically, the lead train held only the Imperial family, along with two doctors, three chefs, a small army of bodyguards and whichever of his counsellors the Tsar chose to honour with an invitation. As I had been by the Tsarevich’s side for three weeks now as his protector and confidant, my place on the train was a matter of protocol.

Naturally, every floor, wall and ceiling was covered with the most lavish materials that the train’s designers could lay their hands on. The walls were constructed from Indian teak, with stamped leather upholstery and a golden silk inlay. Beneath our feet, a rich, soft carpet ran the length of the carriages, while every item of furniture was built from the finest beech or satinwood and covered with a sparkling English cretonne, set with carvings or gilding. It was as if the entire Winter Palace had been transported on to a mobile platform so that no one travelling on board would ever have to consider that beyond our windows lay towns and villages where the people lived in abject poverty and were growing increasingly disillusioned by their Tsar.

‘I’m almost afraid to move in case I damage something,’ I
remarked to the Tsarevich as we swept past the labourers’ fields and the small hamlets, where the people came out to wave and cheer, although they looked miserable as they did so, their lips curled with distaste, their bodies gaunt from lack of food. There were almost no young men among their number, of course; most of them were either dead, in hiding, or fighting for the continuation of our curious way of life at the Front.

‘How do you mean, Georgy?’ he asked.

‘Well, it’s so magnificent,’ I said, looking around at the bright-blue walls and the set of silks which hung on either side of the windows. ‘Don’t you realize it?’

‘Aren’t all trains like this?’ he asked, looking across at me in surprise.

‘No, Alexei,’ I replied with a smile, for what was astonishing to me was quotidian life to the son of the Tsar. ‘No, this one is special.’

‘My grandfather built it,’ he told me with the air of someone who assumes that everyone’s grandfather was a great man. ‘Alexander III. He had a great fascination with the railways, I am told.’

‘There’s only one thing I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘The speed at which it travels.’

‘Why, what’s wrong with it?’

‘It’s just … I don’t know much about these things, of course, but surely a train such as this can travel much faster than it does?’ I made the remark because ever since we had left St Petersburg, the train had been moving at no more than about twenty-five miles an hour. It was maintaining that speed almost perfectly, neither growing faster nor slower as the voyage continued, which made the journey extremely smooth but slightly frustrating too. ‘I’ve known horses who could outstrip this train.’

‘It always travels this slow,’ he explained. ‘When I’m on board, that is. Mother says that we can’t risk any sudden jolts.’

‘Anyone would think you were made of porcelain,’ I said,
forgetting my place for a moment and regretting my words immediately, for he looked across at me, narrowing his eyes in disapproval and offering an expression that made my blood run cold, and I thought that yes, this boy could be Tsar one day. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ I added after a moment, but he appeared to have already forgotten my transgression and had returned to his book, a volume on the history of the Russian army which his father had given him several nights before and which had been occupying his attentions ever since. He was a highly intelligent boy, I had already realized that, and cared as much for his reading as he did for the outdoor activities from which his protective parents were constantly trying to shield him.

My first introduction to the Tsarevich had taken place the morning after my arrival at the Winter Palace and I had liked him immediately. Although pale and dark-eyed, he had a confidence about him which I put down to the fact that he commanded the attention of everyone who passed through his life. He extended his hand to greet me and I shook it proudly, bowing my head out of respect as I introduced myself.

‘And you are to be my new bodyguard,’ he said quietly.

I immediately looked across at Count Charnetsky, who had delivered me into the royal presence, and who nodded quickly in assent. ‘Yes, sir,’ I said. ‘But I hope I will also be your friend.’

His brow furrowed a little at the word, as if it meant nothing to him, and he considered this for a moment before speaking again.

‘My last bodyguard ran away with one of the cooks to get married, did you know that?’

I shook my head and gave a small laugh, amused by how seriously he took the offence. He might as well have said that he had tried to smother him in his sleep. ‘No, sir,’ I replied. ‘No, I didn’t.’

‘I imagine that they must have been terribly in love to betray such a position, but it was an inappropriate match, for he was a cousin of Prince Hagurov and she was a reconstituted whore. Their families must feel great shame.’