‘I know the saucy stories you order from Italy. Which of us is more honest then?’ I challenged her.
‘It’s an honesty that does not become a future queen,’ she sniped.
‘If we speak about dowdy Sweden, then no. If we talk about Versailles, you are wrong. D’Acosta says that love is the true ruler of that court.’
‘Sweden? I have not heard from Karl von Holstein in weeks.’ She looked hurt. How come she was still thinking about that plain, thin man with his threadbare claim to the Swedish throne? At least young King Louis ruled France for real. It was a point I avoided making. Instead, I lunged at her. ‘Ha! Soon he will be all over you, like a rash!’ She squealed, wriggling, and pleading for mercy, trying to get away, but I laughed and ordered, ‘Help me, Buturlin!’ He stepped over but tickled me instead. I shrieked, aghast and delighted to feel him touching me as the scuffle allowed him to do – my waist, my armpits – and sending flashes of lightning through me, a hitherto unknown sensation. Heat rose in my veins as I tried to fend him off; Anoushka and I were in a tangle when Buturlin stumbled over my hem, pulling us with him onto the Persian silk rugs. We laughed, screamed and tried to get up, only to tumble down again. The air turned treacly. For a heartbeat I lay beneath Buturlin, drinking in his own smell of fresh sweat scented like nutmeg as well as his perfume of sandalwood, tobacco and leather notes.
‘Stop!’ I breathed, sliding away and scrambling to my feet. He stood to attention with burning eyes, hair ruffled, fists clenched, as if ready to lunge. We had both forgotten Anoushka’s presence. ‘Stop. Now.’
Stop.
We both knew that no shouted order to push on, to storm and to conquer, would make him go forth with more ardour than this single word.
24
Mother’s way from Menshikov’s Palace in Moscow’s Lefortovo Quarter was decorated with dozens of triumphal gates adorned with garlands of fragrant white blossom. Father had granted amnesties on tax arrears, which propelled the population into a frenzy of joy. ‘No wonder,’ Buturlin had said. ‘They are all tax-dodging scoundrels.’ On the day of her Coronation, street vendors hawked pungent meat skewers and crunchy pastries filled with cream, cinnamon, honey and nuts. Since dawn, the fountains had spewed red and white wine. Guards galloped through the streets, tossing 600,000 silver coins into the crowd; hundreds of people were squashed in the ensuing turmoil.
Inside the cathedral, stained-glass windows tinted the light pooling on the marble floor as splendidly dressed people advanced up the aisle’s red runner. Suddenly, Anoushka sat up straight and hissed: ‘Look!’ Karl von Holstein took a seat opposite us, lithe and fox like.
‘Don’t stare at him,’ I scolded her. ‘A woman is the only prey that stalks its hunter.’
‘Look who’s talking. What are you playing at with Buturlin?’
‘He is Petrushka’s chamberlain. I am to marry the King of France,’ I said, blushing. Had I been so obvious? My blood tingled. Only Anoushka’s presence had saved us from turning the horseplay on the barge into something too serious to be mastered. I felt like a flower from a Crimean hothouse, breathing in much more moisture and suffering more heat than nature alone could ever provide.
‘Well, yes. But only if your reputation is spotless. De Campredon has you watched. Lestocq reports straight back to Paris. A woman cannot behave like a man and a Tsesarevna cannot do as other women. Behave, Lizenka,’ Anoushka whispered.
My mother’s ladies-in-waiting floated in, looking like water lilies. Each step they took rippled the yards of silk cascading from their tightly laced bodices and stomachers crusted with gemstones and pearls.
‘I wish we could do as we pleased – just like men. Why should we not?’
‘Ostermann used a brilliant image the other day, when talking to Petrushka, and explaining inheritance and lineage. If you pour water from a single jug into four empty ones, you always know the source. Yet if you pour water from four filled jugs into a single empty one, it is all a muddle.’
‘What sort of jug is that supposed to be? And who pours what, and where?’ I asked. Yet I sensed that Ostermann’s image gave some clue to understanding what would happen with the King of France on my wedding night. ‘Why do you call that brilliant?’
‘Well, I didn’t. Menshikov did.’
‘Menshikov? Ah! I never had him down as a fount of wisdom. Since when is he a reliable judge of anything?’ I asked. ‘And when did you speak to him? Do you remember his face when Father made us Tsesarevny? He seemed upset not to have been consulted.’
Karl von Holstein bowed to us. Anoushka gave him her pearly-toothed smile and coyly hid behind her white ostrich-feather fan while I ignored him. Yet his eyes never left my face: the more I rebuffed him, the more eager he seemed. Then he leaned closer to Ostermann, who whispered in his ear. Being either low-born or German seemed to be a prerequisite for any advancement at court these days. No wonder the Russian word for the Germans – Nemetski – by now also stood for ‘foreigner’. It stemmed from Ne Moz, which meant ‘dumb’, meaning those who could not speak a word of our language.
I watched the men whisper together. While Petrushka had been left behind in St Petersburg – once more overlooked by the Tsar – Karl von Holstein’s willingness to marry any Tsesarevna might fit in with a possible secret plan of Ostermann’s. If Anoushka and I were both married off, he could work to advance my nephew’s position.
But Father would never sacrifice us as he had done Ekaterina Ivanovna. By crowning Mother today, he showed the world how to reward a true, loving and faithful partner.
25
‘Halt!’ Count Peter Andreyevich Tolstoy, the Master of Ceremonies, planted his staff in the middle of the red carpet, blocking the way of both my cousin Ekaterina Ivanovna and her daughter Christine, who had left Izmailov for the festivities.
‘What do you mean, halt, Count Tolstoy?’ Ekaterina pulled Christine close. ‘No one blocks my way.’
‘Certainly not your way, Duchess. But these people are not to be here.’ Tolstoy was not a man to be easily cowed: he had not only survived Father’s disgrace for once supporting his usurping half-sister, the Regent Sophia, but also being held prisoner in the Ottoman Fortress of the Seven Towers for the better part of a decade. He frowned and shook his head. Behind Ekaterina loitered a crowd that would have done Aunt Pasha’s passion for the stricken proud: a legless cripple, whose trunk was placed on a wooden board on wheels, was pulled along by a hunchback. Two scrawny gypsy girls cowered, arms entwined, eyes scanning the crowd to decide where to pinch a purse or pilfer a silk handkerchief.
‘Well, if my sister Anna Ivanovna and her stable boy are welcome, then so are they,’ Ekaterina snapped. ‘Step aside, Peter Andreyevich, before I push you. You are measuring the same cloth with a different yard, as a cheating tailor would.’
Tolstoy raised his thick black eyebrows. ‘Anna Ivanovna is the ruling Duchess of Courland, her guest her private secretary – not a gaggle of flea-ridden pickpockets.’
‘Private Secretary? Rather Anna’s gentleman of the bedchamber,’ Ekaterina Ivanovna snorted. ‘She is my younger sister and the widowed Duchess of Courland. The man is as out of place here as my pickpockets. If she brings him, I bring them.’ She agitated her fan of grey ostrich plumes, sending a cloud of down into the air.
Beads of sweat gathered on Tolstoy’s forehead beneath the weight of his heavy, curly grey wig. I rose. The red carpet had become a stage for Ekaterina and him, which was intolerable. Today was meant to be Mother’s finest hour. As Tolstoy’s men chased Ekaterina’s motley crowd of cripples and the gypsies from the cathedral, the crowd parted to make way for another arrival.
Tolstoy bowed. ‘Welcome to Moscow, Duchess Anna Ivanovna.’
I turned to look at her, full of curiosity, as I could not remember having ever met my cousin, the second daughter of mad Tsar Ivan. At the time of her ill-fated wedding, I had been an infant. Around us, courtiers giggled and whispered: the woman who advanced up the aisle of the Cathedral of the Assumption
made even the overweight Tolstoy look small. Like so many brunettes, she had turned grey early and now dyed her hair with an ill-smelling paste made of lead and slaked lime. Her too-black hair was piled up in a way that had not been seen since the turn of the century. When had the cut of that heavy gown, with some crude lace around her ample cleavage, last been in fashion, I wondered – at the time of my birth? Anna’s pearl choker looked like paste while I wore sapphires the size of quail’s eggs. The pallor of her face accentuated the broken veins in her cheeks and her skin was as badly pitted as a Dutch cheese; deep wrinkles were etched deep into her forehead, between her eyebrows, and ran from her nostrils down to the corners of her mouth. Her sour-cherry eyes however – inherited from Aunt Pasha – sparkled, revelling in the splendour of these surroundings.
‘Stop moping, Ekaterina,’ Anna Ivanovna scolded her sister. ‘You know what it is like. In Russia, the wheel of fortune is spinning all the time, either taking you up or smiting you down.’
‘As your groom is so much on the up, he must be keeping you down to your satisfaction, Anna.’ Ekaterina flashed her pointed ivory teeth, seamlessly picking up the doing down of Anna Ivanovna where their mother Aunt Pasha had left off. She must find it unbearable to see herself as worse off even than her sister, who had always been their family scapegoat and the butt of any jokes. ‘I am surprised that you dare bring this man here. You never did have any shame.’
I could not help but stare: Anna Ivanovna, Duchess of Courland, shielded the man behind her while his equally tall, broad figure inclined towards hers protectively. They both looked to have been plucked from a tent during a village spring fair, but he tenderly touched her elbow in a gesture of reassurance. The sight moved me: when Anna Ivanovna’s husband of three days suffocated in the snow a decade earlier, she had been the age I was now. Who had been by her side back then? Neither my parents nor her own sister or mother.
‘Cousin Anna Ivanovna. Welcome.’ I stepped forward, forcing Ekaterina Ivanovna and Christine into a curtsy. ‘I am Tsesarevna Elizabeth Petrovna. When you left for Courland, I was a child.’
Anna smiled at me, showing yellow long teeth. ‘Indeed! You are the Wolverine.’ Her companion’s quick, bright gaze took me in before he bowed. ‘I remember toasting your healthy birth on the same day as the big victory parade for Poltava took place. You were noisy enough to live up to your nickname. Though today I should describe you as a white dove, as beautiful as you are,’ Anna said courteously. ‘I am so grateful that the Tsar, my dearest father-uncle, funded my journey.’
‘I am delighted to meet you, too.’ I smiled at her but my display of tact and diplomacy was immediately undermined by Ekaterina’s scorn: ‘After you pestered him with a dozen begging letters!’
I felt my blood quicken with anger and turned to study Anna’s companion. He was tanned and his chin and cheeks already shadowed with stubble, despite no doubt having summoned the barber just hours ago. It made him look like a robber baron. So this was the infamous groom!
‘And I see you come accompanied, dearest Anna?’ I smiled welcomingly.
She blushed unbecomingly, looking like a withered apple. ‘Indeed, Lizenka. Meet Ernst Biren, my closest adviser. He looks after everything for me in Courland, from the throne to the stables.’
‘I hear he talks to men as if they were horses, and to horses as if they were men,’ Ekaterina chuckled.
‘You snappy old mare, Ekaterina. By God, I would give you a good whipping if I had my crop handy,’ Anna shot back, keen to protect Biren even though he towered over her.
‘At least I have a fine filly to show for my suffering.’ Ekaterina seized Christine’s slender wrist, for once proud of her plain, shy daughter.
‘Ekaterina, where are your manners?’ I scolded her as tears welled in Anna’s eyes. I reached out my right hand for Biren to kiss and his full lips hovered just above my skin in perfect courtesy. ‘Welcome to Moscow on this fine day, Biren. I like a man who knows his bloodstock. My future fiancé, the King of France, sent me a fine Arab stallion. Perhaps one day we may view it together.’
As Biren leaned in, I caught a whiff of cloves and, yes, straw. I bit my lip to suppress a giggle. ‘I hope to have a moment to discuss its breeding with you,’ he said. Your kindness will never be forgotten, Tsarevna. Those who call you the finest Princess in Christendom do not exaggerate. Your beauty makes the daylight pale.’ His appreciative gaze made me feel like the only woman present.
‘Take your seats. The Tsaritsa approaches!’ Tolstoy roared. Cannon shots punctured the morning air. Hooves thundered on the Red Square. Trumpets sounded and I gave Biren a well-studied gracious smile and slid back to my seat.
Outside, carriage wheels drew to a halt and guards in their splendid ceremonial uniforms formed a double file towering above us. I spotted Buturlin in the ranks and felt his eyes searching for me. I avoided his gaze. At the altar, Feofan Prokopovich stepped forward, his head bowed deep in prayer. The cathedral quietened, the court held its breath as my Mother, the Tsaritsa Catherine Alexeyevna, entered. Her beauty and majesty were steeped in the cathedral’s rich light; incense swirled, soothing her fear with the intoxicating blend of frankincense, myrrh and our audible excitement and admiration. Four thousand ermine pelts lined her cloak and train. A dozen pageboys, scions of Russia’s oldest and most noble families, carried the train: arshin upon arshin of crimson velvet. It was so heavy it would have made a dozen men stumble. They steered and supported her with little tugs to left and right, looking like cute mice ushering along a silky-coated cat – a cat who had got the cream, I thought, smiling to myself. Mother’s crimson velvet gown, which was studded with countless double-headed solid-gold eagles, was literally breathtaking: it weighed a crushing hundred and fifty pounds. This morning Anoushka and I had taken it in turns to hang off her, laughing, pretending we were getting her used to such a weight. She had embraced us, sobbing and laughing at the same time. Its gold-thread embroidery mirrored the thousands of candles burning brightly all around, banishing any shadows to the cathedral’s most forlorn corners. She gleamed like a sunburst, setting the aisle on fire.
As my parents left the cathedral after the ceremony, to the accompaniment of the choir’s voices rising to the heavens while the rest of us kneeled, our heads deeply bowed, Anna Ivanovna’s hand sought for Biren’s, the telltale movement half hidden by the folds of her heavy, old-fashioned skirt. He engulfed her fingers in his paw: a hand large and strong enough to turn a foal in a mare’s belly, to rein in a dozen sullen carriage horses – or perhaps to hoist a quartet of giggling chambermaids on his shoulders, carrying them through a Courland snowstorm, as Ekaterina’s vicious tongue suggested. Anna cast him a loving glance, her gaze as hot and sweet as molten liquorice. What better company than that of a former groom could she demand; what else could fate possibly have in store for her? I did not begrudge Anna Ivanovna this thin slice of happiness. It made me think of Buturlin, who guarded the aisle today, and I could not help but look out for him.
26
Three days later, when the city and the court still lay in a stupor after the celebration, there was a slight knock on the door of my rooms in the Kremlin’s former terem. In the May morning, specks of sunlight made the dust dance before the mullioned mica panes in the antiquated windows. Birds were singing on the Red Square, woken by the ever-earlier onset of dawn. Normally, only ravens and vultures hovered here, hoping for rich pickings of skin and entrails, competing with the scabby, shaggy wild dogs of Moscow. For want of trees, the robins, sparrows and blackbirds perched on the wooden scaffolds of Moscow’s most prominent gallows, which today lay bare in deference to Mother’s most glorious moment. Father had decreed generous amnesties to celebrate her Coronation. My maid, who slept on the threshold to the room, rubbed her eyes and rose, but the door was already opening: my cousin Anna Ivanovna slipped into my room. She ducked under the door frame, which was too low for her height and ample flesh, and turned sideways to fit through the narrow opening. Still, s
he held herself straight as she crossed the Persian rugs and polar-bear skins spread over the flagstones, exuding confidence. For all her poverty and the ridicule, she had suffered, she was a Tsarevna still: her poise was inbred.
‘Anna Ivanovna, good morning.’ I sat up, surprised, stroked my hair from my sleepy face and winced. I had forgotten to take off a ring I had worn during last night’s celebration; a coin-sized, flawless diamond. Its masterful cut captured the morning light in its icy depths but scratched my cheek. Anna was dressed warmly and comfortably in an embroidered felt cape, a fur cap and boots: she looked ready to travel. Even in late spring the long, sedentary hours on the road meant it was safest to wear several layers of clothing. Why the haste? I wondered.
‘Good morning, Lizenka, my dove. I am coming to say goodbye.’ Anna summarily pushed my maid out of the door: ‘Off you go and eavesdrop elsewhere.’ She settled next to me on my bedstead; I had to slide up against the wall to make space for her bottom and the slats groaned under her weight. She unfastened the toggles of her floor-length cape, which was darned in several places, yet kept on her cap. It was made of tawny, speckled rabbit fur, the cheapest of skins, and still smelled of the hutch when she embraced me. I forced myself not to wrinkle my nose and discreetly swivelled the ring to the inside of my finger.
‘Goodbye? But it is so early,’ I said, suppressing a yawn.
Anna Ivanovna shrugged. ‘In Courland I always rise early, summer or winter. How else do you get things done?’
‘You sound like Father.’ I pulled my feet aside before Anna should squash them.
‘I take that as a compliment. Well, we can all learn from him. My father-uncle is a great man.’
‘For the way he has changed Russia?’ I asked carefully, used to both the admiration that Father’s countless reforms caused as well as the wrath and resistance he encountered at home.
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