The Romanov Bride (5 page)

Half to myself, half to my maids, I said, “I’m just not sure about the color of this dress. Perhaps that’s what’s bothering me. It may be too bright. Perhaps something more muted would be more appropriate for tonight. After all, we are at war and there is great suffering.” I turned to my maid. “Varya, fetch me my green velvet dress, you know, the one Madame Auguste finished recently. I know this is a gala event to benefit my Charity Fund, but I think that one might be more suitable for the times.”

Varya bowed her head and replied, “I’m sorry, Your Highness, but that one has yet to be brought over from the Governor-General ’s Palace.”

“Oh, I see…”

What a pity, I thought, my thin lips coming together in a distinct frown. Ever since the workers in Peterburg had stirred things up and organized the march upon the Winter Palace, there had been nothing but confusion, confusion, confusion. Yes, it seemed that over the past month nearly every worker had gone on strike, and prices were soaring. Why, even as protected as I was, I knew that Moscow itself had nearly shut down, and in my dealings at the workrooms I’d even heard talk from the street of assassination and revolution. Turmoil everywhere, that much was painfully obvious. And that was how scared we were, that we had to hide behind the thick walls of the Kremlin fortress, that we couldn’t travel about without worry. What had the world come to?

“Well, then,” I said, smoothing the fabric around my waist, “I suppose this dress will have to do. But, honestly, Varya, will you see to it that all of my personal belongings are gathered here at the Nikolaevski as soon as possible?”

“Of course, Your Highness.”

Sergei’s work here in Moscow would soon draw to a close; after so many years of service there remained only a few more weeks. Because of this and the fact that we were constantly moving from one residence to the next, none of the people of my Personal Household-not my mistress of the wardrobe, parlor maids, linen maids, stewards, footmen, dressmaker, and so on, let alone either of these two lady’s maids or any of my official ladies, for that matter-was sure what was to be sent where, whether here to the Nikolaevski, to our Palace in Peterburg, or to Ilyinskoye, our country residence. And it was no wonder such confusion reigned, for when we officially moved from one residence to another-even just for the summer-it was as if we were moving an entire village, for no fewer than 300 souls were attached to our household.

“Once all of my things have been gathered here,” I continued, “a decision will be made on what is to be sent where.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

As my maid turned to a velvet-lined case and lifted a stunning diamond diadem topped by five exceedingly large aquamarines, I stood silent, still carefully examining myself in the mirror. If I were not mistaken, the skin cream, which I myself concocted from fresh sour cream and cucumber, did appear to be doing its work. My complexion, even for a woman over forty, seemed fresh and supple. Of course, a proper woman of good station never painted her face, merely applied a touch of rice powder or rouge from time to time, but even this I always refused.

For the performance this evening Sergei had informed me that I should wear this parure, consisting of this diamond and aquamarine diadem, matching necklace, and bracelet all done in garland fashion. I had no idea of the value of such jewels, for a price in gold rubles was never put on any of my gems, and I was forbidden to ask. Actually, both Sergei and I valued such treasures by their real worth-design and color-and this suite was extraordinary, one of Fabergé’s most original. And yet as my maids settled upon my head the exquisite headpiece and fashioned upon me all the rest-the necklace, stomacher, bracelet, and rings-I felt a distinct sense of unease. This blaze of fine stone simply seemed too brilliant, too jubilant, for this evening, particularly surrounded by the shimmering collar of my dress. In fact, I could almost hear my grandmother, Queen Victoria of England, hissing with disapproval.

“It’s not safe there in Russia, I tell you!” Grandmama had sternly warned upon hearing of my marriage proposal more than twenty years earlier. “There is such excess there, so much vulgar show. Really, my dear, the government does so little to improve the well-being of the common people-it’s shameful! Truly, I will be sick with worry for you, my dear child.”

And yet I could not tread against the formidable will of my husband, so I had no choice but to wear such riches that evening. I only hoped that tonight’s gala event, a benefit for my charities, would be a success.

As I gazed into the triple mirror and admired and adjusted the veritable cascade of diamonds and such, I heard the sound of quick footsteps, and knew immediately who it was, my young niece, the Grand Duchess Maria Pavlovna, herself all of fifteen years. Against my own will, my spine tightened.

“Why, Auntie, you look beautiful this evening,” said Maria, rushing up and kissing me on the hand.

It was true, the child was a spoilt one, just as it was true she’d had more than enough trouble in her short life, for her dear mother had died giving birth to her brother. And that was how the two young ones came to us, for after Maria’s mother had passed so sadly from this world and her father banished for his morganatic marriage, the Emperor had placed the two children under our guardianship. Sergei, who insisted that he was their father now, adored them both, but I was not at ease with them, particularly the girl, for, to be brutally forthright, they were painful reminders of my own failures in marriage.

At this child’s kiss, I couldn’t help but stiffen and even physically retract, pulling away quickly from the girl. Wondering what she’d done wrong, Maria looked up at me, her new mother, in confusion. As a granddaughter of the Tsar-Liberator Aleksander II, this child had her own jewels, her own furs, her own servants, and of course a most substantial income, yet what she did not have-the soft touch of a warm mother-was what she needed most.

I turned to my maid, and even I was surprised by the words that came out of my mouth as I said, “Varya, please inform my young niece that it’s rude to make such personal remarks in front of a servant.”

Maria couldn’t hide her shock, and tears welled up in her eyes, but I pretended not to notice. Yes, I thought, I mustn’t be touched like that. Sergei didn’t, and neither must the children.

Less than an hour later, looking every bit a Grand Duchess of The House of Romanov, I descended one side of the double grand staircase of the Nikolaevski Palace. I wore long kid gloves that came up over my elbows-it had taken both maids to put them on-and a long sable cloak that trailed the floor. Behind me, a puffy frown on her face, traipsed Maria, who had been dressed in finery appropriate her age, complete with a mink coat, and her younger brother, the forever sad but forever sweet Dmitri. He was wearing a mock uniform of sorts. And behind the two children came my gowned Starshiye Freilini, the ladies-in -waiting of my own court who would attend me that eve.

No sooner had I set foot on the ground floor than a uniformed guard opened a large side door, through which my husband and his aide-de-camp promptly stepped. With the exception of the Emperor, who took after his petite Danish mother in stature, Romanovs tended to be either as tall as a tree or as big as a bear, on occasion both. Sergei was among the former. His posture was always impeccable, if not unnaturally stiff, and he was toying then, as he so often did, with a jeweled ring on his little finger. And that night as he studied me with his small, intense eyes, he wore a brilliant blue uniform jacket with gold-thread epaulets and numerous diamond-studded medals.

I stopped before him for inspection, and stood as beautifully as I could. How could he possibly find fault with me?

“Open your cloak, my child,” he commanded as he screwed up his eyes and studied me with great intensity.

I did just that, pulling aside the sable and exposing my pale-yellow dress and sparkling diamonds.

Finally, he all but grumbled, “Fine.”

The Grand Duke then turned to the children and suddenly smiled, stretching out his arms. His obvious joy at seeing them did nothing but hurt my heart.

“Why, my children, don’t you look ever so beautiful tonight! ” exclaimed Sergei. “Come here, come into my arms and give your new Papa-yes, I’m your Papa now!-a great big kiss!”

I just stood there, my face stern, my anguish hidden, reluctantly watching as my husband scooped these children up into his eager arms. Yes, I had always wanted children of my own-I had wanted them almost as much as I still wanted the intimate affection of this man whom I had once so tenderly loved and looked up to.

Suddenly a footman rushed forward, placing a fur cape over the Grand Duke’s shoulders, and we were off. With great pomp, two uniformed guards threw open the Palace doors, and we four royals stepped into the cold, snowy night, followed immediately by my Starshiye Freilini and my husband’s aide-de-camp. As we approached the large, old-fashioned carriage-a remarkably heavy brougham, its carbide lamps now blazing brightly-the Grand Duke’s driver, Coachman Rudinkin, silently bowed his head and tipped his stubby top hat. A footman hurried ahead of us all, opened the carriage door, and the Grand Duke and I and our young charges climbed in, settling on the silk cushions. Once our attendants were settled in a lesser carriage behind us, the whips began to crack and we went dashing across the inner territories of the mighty Kremlin, soon to pass through its gates.

By the time I reached the end of the Upper Trading Row, the snow, which had promised to be heavy, had faded to a handful of flakes. Crossing onto the vast Red Square I could see no carriages or sleighs, merely a handful of peasants wandering this way and that, as they did round the clock. I imagined that I looked just like them, a lonely man, his purpose unknown and certainly not of interest, merely in a rush to cross the rather desolate space.

As I passed the corner of the tall redbrick History Museum, I eyed someone emerging from the shadows. They said half of the city’s street janitors were spies for the police, and at first I couldn’t tell who this person was. I pressed on, pretending not to have noticed him, thinking only that we were so close, so very close, to seeing our dreams fulfilled. All I had to do was deliver this bomb, which I cradled as dearly as if it were my unborn child. And then, of course, my next duty would be my greatest.

Suddenly the man behind me, the one who had blossomed out of the shadows, hurried alongside me. When he was right by my side, I glanced over and saw the familiar face of Kalyayev, our poet. I smiled, he grinned back, and in a single gentle movement I passed the bomb from my arms to his. It only took a second. No one could have noticed. And, with the goods delivered, I crossed the cobbles and melted into the white shadows of the snowy Aleksandrovski Gardens. Meanwhile, Kalyayev pressed farther on, disappearing into the gardens as well.

I felt such elation. Such happiness. We were assured success now, weren’t we? All I had to do was spy the carriage, cross onto the street, and if I saw the Grand Duke himself inside the coach I was to drop the black rag. Yes, it was black, the color of death and night, specifically chosen so that Kalyayev could see the signal on the snowy street, and then he would dart out and heave the bomb through the window of the carriage. The Grand Duke would be killed immediately and everything would change, right?

I felt no cold. No chill. And certainly no dread. Only excitement. The Grand Duke and probably his wife would come, I thought, staring up the slight hill toward the towering Nikolsky Gate. They would emerge from the Kremlin via that gate, turn left, and pass us by. And they would do so within minutes, perhaps even seconds, for the opera was due to start shortly.

I waited, my eyes trained on that very spot, and I don’t think I blinked until it appeared like a mirage in the night, not a sleigh but a carriage exiting the Kremlin. It was like some kind of fantasy, yet when it turned and crossed the corner of Red Square and started down the low hill it became real, for I saw the carriage and its two bright lights. That had to be the Grand Duke on his way to the Bolshoi. He had to be inside. How wonderful!

Stepping out of the shadows, I followed our plan exactly. The carriage was making its way toward me, I was making my way toward it. And all I had to do as it passed was glance inside. If by chance it wasn’t the Grand Duke’s carriage, I was to do nothing. If the Grand Duchess was inside and alone, I was to do nothing. But if he was in there, with or without his wife, I was to pull the black rag from my pocket and drop it on the cobbles. That would be the signal. Kalyayev would rush from the shadows of the gardens and hurl the bomb through the glass window and onto his lap.

The lights of the carriage became still brighter and larger as it neared, and within a few steps I saw the white harnesses on the beautiful dark horses. And I saw, too, that the driver was wearing a fine coat bundled over his livery. There was no doubt about it, I thought as I reached into my right pocket and clutched the dark rag, this was the vehicle of a highborn gentleman. And, yes, when the carriage was but twenty paces away, there it was on the door itself, the Grand Duke’s royal crest.

Now the only question was who exactly was inside…

I felt the eyes of the coachman upon me, for he was most certainly protective of his master. I knew he was studying me, wondering if I posed some kind of danger, and so to look a simple, harmless fool I pulled both hands from my pockets and rubbed them together as if to beat away the cold. Satisfied that I carried no gun or bomb, the coachman drove on at his normal pace.

And then like any Russian fool upon suddenly seeing his master, I stopped, took off my hat with my left hand, and bowed as the carriage passed. With my right, I reached into my pocket and clutched the black rag, eager to drop it onto the street. A lamp burned inside the large old carriage as well, and in its soft light I saw him, the royal bastard, our Grand Duke, bearded and caped and looking remarkably smug. Sitting right next to him, of course, was his bride, and it’s true, I was stunned by her beauty. Never had I seen a more pleasing creature, the gentle shape of her face, the softness of her lips. This was the first time I had ever laid eyes on the Grand Duchess Elisavyeta Fyodorovna, of course, and her skin glowed and diamonds sparkled all around her. Nevertheless, I retained my sense of duty and pulled the black rag from my pocket and was all set to drop it when Her Highness saw me standing out there in the cold. Looking directly at me, she caught my eyes with hers, lured me like a golden icon of the Mother of God, and smiled softly, even gently, as if she understood my misery and even felt a kind of compassion for me and my life.

Surprised-no, shocked-I hesitated.

I should have dropped the black rag right then and there. Had I done so, Kalyayev would already have been darting from the shadows of the Aleksandrovski Gardens. Instead, I waited a moment too long, and in that moment I saw not just the Grand Duke and Grand Duchess Sergei but two others sitting right opposite them. And not two other adults… but children! Bozhe moi, my God, it was their young charges, the girl and the boy! Nothing could have stunned me more. We had rejoiced at the idea of blowing up the Grand Duke Sergei. We had all agreed, if need be, to kill his wife, the Madonna of Romanov princesses, as well. But young ones? Could I throw the black rag to the cobbles and thereby condemn these children to a bloody and violent death?

Without even thinking, I turned away, my body shivering madly. Killing a man known and hated for his iron rule was one thing. Even murdering his wife as well was somehow acceptable. But blowing to pieces these young ones, royal or not, was not right. I couldn’t do it! We hadn’t talked of this possibility, that the young Grand Duchess Maria and Grand Duke Dmitri might be accompanying their foster parents to the opera, but there they were, sitting opposite their guardians!

I turned and hurried off without dropping the black rag, proving beyond a doubt that despite the murder of my own wife and unborn child there was still something human left alive in my dark heart.