The Tsarina's Daughter

by Ellen Alpsten

  ‘Come up here,’ I said to Augustus. ‘Otherwise you’ll catch a cold.’

  He heaved himself up on the planks and we took hold of each other’s hand, turning to face the world together. By now the sun’s rays had cooled and our teeth chattered. We were quickly wrapped in woollen blankets and offered glasses of vodka, which we downed in one. While the spirit gently warmed me, I looked out over the sea once more. Clouds billowed, their darker linings promising evening rain. Mist rose from the water, veiling the hazy horizon.

  I squinted: it looked as if something moved in the water, struggling to stay afloat. It was everything that had weighed me down – my inner Ice Princess: Augustus’ embrace and proposal had washed her straight out of my soul. I relished her futile struggle against the current, which dragged her out to sea. Good riddance to her!

  35

  The following weeks in Peterhof forever belong to Augustus, though surely Mother and Menshikov were kept informed by daily dispatches. This was what they had hoped for after all. Augustus joined me every morning in the pantry at Mon Plaisir: I wore my hair in a loose plait, dressed in a simple, unlaced housedress and a felt jacket with fur collar and leather toggles, while I stirred our kasha. He licked his porridge, which was sweetened with smetana and honey, off my fingertips, before bringing the samovar to the boil, adding a good shot of vodka to the chai to start the day. We talked, and we listened to each other, and best of all, we fell silent together.

  Augustus was good at asking questions – about my lonely childhood, the making of St Petersburg and my father, whom he called ‘The Great Tsar’. Together we marvelled at Menshikov’s arrogance, pitied Ekaterina for her brute of a husband and Anna Ivanovna for her poverty-stricken life in Courland. I laughed myself to tears when he copied stiff, gouty Ostermann, and Augustus held me tight when I cried about my rift with Anoushka. When I was with him, my heart ached less for the past, and looked forward to our joint future. Since that first kiss we had quickly grown more daring. It seemed that my thoughts about Buturlin had stoked a fire that Augustus could set aflame. He served me at the table, holding my hand while I ate, kissing my fingers, then pulling me over and on top of him, his mouth making a single demand and I giving in to it. I felt him, sitting astride, and he undid the toggles of my hussar’s jacket, his hands cupping my breasts through the fabric of my shift. ‘The perfect aristocratic handful,’ he said.

  ‘That is because you have big hands,’ I teased, and kissed him. ‘Much bigger than a prince should.’

  He kissed me back but would go no further. ‘I told you, I am a sailor at heart. But I want you as my wife,’ he said, pulling away.

  Yet we pushed the boundaries of our desire further and further. We rode out hunting – he was an even better shot than Buturlin, whose image paled in my memory – and found a clearing where the moles’ little pink hands had not pushed up too many hills. Mushrooms sprouted all over the musty, red and gold speckled leaves, but it was more their scent than the sight of them that gave them away: ceps, chanterelles, portobello and curly baby, which was delicious in scrambled egg.

  We tethered our horses; they grazed and nuzzled at each other. Augustus skinned the hare he had shot before making a fire, deftly stacking the dry kindling in a cone, stuffing arid moss in between the sticks and lighting them with a single strike of his flint. The game he set to roast while I gazed up at the dense blue sky, wearing my fur hat at a rakish angle, my shirt daringly unbuttoned, sitting in my tight breeches and thigh-high boots on his cloak, which he had spread for me on the moss. Sips of heavy red burgundy set our kisses alight. He came closer and I slipped backwards, his body deliciously heavy on mine. I arched my spine with pleasure as his lips slowly travelled from my mouth down my throat. He pushed back my shirt, kissing the delicate skin of my shoulders and inch by inch moving the neckline lower, opening toggle after toggle, tasting my skin. The cool air grazed my nipples as he caressed me.

  ‘I so want you. I shall love you every day of our lives, every morning and every evening. For starters, for main and for pudding at lunch, believe me. We shall have dozens of little Holstein princes and princesses because I will not ever tire of you. But I want you as my wife and I shall not dishonour you before that,’ said Augustus, sitting up with a sigh, his silvery gaze fixed on me. ‘I love you, Lizenka,’ he said, and the simplicity of his words overwhelmed me. Who would have thought our love could be so beautiful, so easy? The evening descended and its cool made us shiver; the hare on the spit had turned into a charred lump. ‘That’s a small sacrifice to the god of love,’ Augustus chuckled, flinging it into the thicket for the wild animals to feast on. ‘As long as I have you, my hunger is sated.’

  We played hide-and-seek in the Peterhof maze: he found me hunched behind Venus and lifted the small statue off its pedestal, to place me there instead. ‘This is where you belong,’ he said, taking off my slippers. He kneeled and kissed the soles of my feet and their soft insides through the sheer silk of my stockings. I leaned into the hedge’s deep sheltering green as he lifted my wide, heavy skirt up to my hips. ‘Augustus!’ I gasped, but he went on caressing the skin of my calves, the backs of my knees and my inner thighs, making the silk crackle beneath his tongue. I melted with lust as he touched me, bit my thumb so as to not give us away at the shock of his tongue sliding into me. I froze – what was he doing? ‘Don’t!’ I gasped, and he stopped for a moment.

  ‘No?’ he asked. ‘You don’t like it?’

  ‘No! Well – yes! I mean – do,’ I begged, and fell silent, incredulous, as he licked me, slowly and tenderly, like a delicate little cream cake. How much must he love me to do this? His tongue settled on one spot. I held my breath, not knowing what to expect. Golden lights danced senselessly behind my closed eyelids as his tongue circled tenderly. I writhed, my fingers laced in his thick auburn curls, as an unknown, utter abandon built up in me: I gripped the sides of the pedestal, almost passing out with pleasure. ‘My Venus,’ he whispered, holding me close. ‘I cannot wait until you are mine,’ he said, his eyes dark with desire. ‘But we mustn’t do any more for now.’

  I felt mad with frustration. ‘What else must happen to make me yours?’

  ‘We will be married, never fear.’

  ‘But what if the moment never comes?’

  ‘It will.’ He grinned. ‘If by then you have not tired of me?’

  ‘Never,’ I said fervently. ‘Neither my mind nor my body shall ever tire of you.’

  ‘I have never met anyone so full of opposites as you, Lizenka.’ He looked at me tenderly. ‘I love how you force me to think about you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You grew up as wild and free as a peasant’s daughter in the Russian countryside but were set to become queen of Europe’s most sophisticated court. You are so pious that you would go on pilgrimage sliding along on your knees, yet you hide in the bushes, here with me. You ride sitting astride, dressed as a man, but also own an untold number of splendid gowns. You live in a palace but prefer sleeping in a tent and cooking on an open fire. After your initial disdain, you now love me fervently. You will not suffer that your family is done any harm, but accept that your brother, the Tsarevich, had to die—’

  ‘Silence,’ I warned him, and pressed my finger to his lips.

  He nodded, understanding my anguish, but kissed my fingertips, saying: ‘You are truly my Russian girl.’

  There was a heartbeat of silence. Finding that we could share everything together was a revelation to me. I delighted in seeing him try to understand me and who I truly was.

  ‘A Russian girl? I am indeed,’ I said.

  We left Peterhof when the Karelian Plains were drowning in heavy autumn rains; as the carriage passed the entrance to Oranienbaum, I looked out of the window. Of course, neither Petrushka nor Buturlin was to be seen. Back in St Petersburg, winter soon came with its dry, crackling cold. Ded Moroz, Father Frost, covered every twig with his crystalline breath. The court launched into a more pompous Yuletide
than ever before. Menshikov succeeded in keeping our family apart. Anoushka and Karl had moved to Ekaterinenhof Palace; I was delighted to hear of their contentment. Seeing Mother on her own was next to impossible. The more Menshikov had, the more he wanted – such was his nature; his greed and his ambition were boundless – like my happiness. Augustus’ love had fended off the Ice Princess, weighing her down to the bottom of the Baltic: our engagement was to be announced the day after Epiphany and the sacred blessing of the waters.

  Everything would change for me then.

  36

  ‘The Count Peter Andreyevich Tolstoy,’ my lady-in-waiting announced. ‘And the Duchess of Holstein.’

  I turned in surprise. Tolstoy was so old now that he hardly ever left his dacha, where he loved to watch birds. Also, I had not expected Anoushka to visit from Ekaterinenhof: Karl had taken the best revenge he knew by deepening the rift between my sister and me. Thick snow had been falling since the previous afternoon, making the city’s roads impassable. Outside, I spotted Tolstoy’s coachman chatting to the guard at the palace gate, both of them warming their hands at the sentry-post brazier. I was still in my velvet dressing-gown, teaching my parrot some fine, juicy words. Later, I was to meet Augustus for a game of chess. ‘See them in,’ I said, placing the squawking bird – which hurled the funniest cacophony of slander at me – back in its cage.

  My heartbeat quickened when I curtsied to Anoushka, who lingered behind Tolstoy on the threshold. How gladly I would share my joy in Augustus with her and thereby double it. ‘Sit,’ I said, ‘and have some spiced chai.’

  ‘We have no time, Tsesarevna,’ Tolstoy wheezed. ‘We have to go and see the Tsarina.’

  ‘See Mother? Why? What has happened?’ Already, I was looking for boots to wear, slipping out of my soft leather pantoffles.

  ‘Menshikov is to announce the engagement of his eldest daughter Maria to Petrushka,’ Tolstoy said.

  I was dumbfounded. ‘That is impossible. Maria Menshikova is almost thirty years old and Petrushka barely thirteen!’

  ‘To Menshikov, nothing is ever impossible. Petrushka’s godfather Dolgoruky came to see me this morning, all wheezing and upset. He was at the Winter Palace but neither the Tsarina nor Menshikov would receive him.’

  ‘No wonder – he’s a disgusting Old Believer. He must be beside himself with fear. This engagement will make him lose any hold over Petrushka,’ I said, satisfied by that thought at least.

  ‘Not only him. Our existence is threatened, too,’ Tolstoy warned.

  ‘Menshikov wants the throne. We have to stop him.’ Anoushka’s voice was clipped and she made it plain there was to be no further conversation between us, turning away from me and sighing at my slowness. I hurried after them, pulling on a fur-lined cloak while I was walking. What would happen to Russia if Menshikov succeeded in placing his daughter on its throne? Petrushka was to be his puppet and Russia his personal purse, funded by the endless sources of the realm’s bounty and its millions of men, toiling endlessly like armies of ants.

  ‘I cannot go back on my word,’ Mother wept, struggling for breath. ‘I have agreed to Menshikov’s proposal.’

  ‘Allowing this marriage will endanger not only Russia, but also your daughters’ lives,’ Tolstoy said, kneeling before her, palms pleadingly upturned. ‘They pass on the right to occupy the throne, if not to inherit it themselves,’ he added, looking at me.

  Mother panted, one chubby hand placed on her heart. In the almost two years of her reign, she had undergone a shocking change, gaining weight and losing all interest in life. When Father died, he had taken her spirit with him into the grave: they were always one being.

  A faint rustling came from behind a folding screen next to her desk. I turned to look. Someone was hiding there and listening. ‘There will be a double engagement – Lizenka’s betrothal to Augustus and Petrushka’s to Maria Menshikova. Do you not wish for his happiness?’

  ‘If you did, you would never contemplate such a match,’ Anoushka said.

  ‘Menshikov wants to drive us apart,’ I added. ‘Petrushka will be at his beck and call. He wants to rule Russia! Do you know what that means for me? Your decision places me in mortal danger for I have not yet renounced my right to the throne, as Anoushka did… ’

  ‘You exaggerate, Lizenka,’ Mother said, but sounded hesitant.

  ‘Enough!’ At that moment Menshikov stepped out from behind the screen, unashamed about his eavesdropping. His face, set with anger, looked more than ever like that of a roughly hewn puppet at a country fair. ‘You will pay for this, Tolstoy,’ he snarled.

  The Count rose to his feet, looking despondent. ‘You are the traitor here, Menshikov. The She-bear Russia will have your bones. Just give her time.’

  ‘Then she will crunch you up for starters.’ Menshikov stepped closer to Mother, glaring at Anoushka and me. ‘Once your engagement has been announced, Lizenka, both of you girls are off to Germany. Spring is as good a time as any to travel there.’

  ‘I feel faint,’ Mother murmured, sniffing at a silk handkerchief, which was stained with blood. She wiped her face; thick red clots stuck to her pasty white make-up.

  ‘Mother… ’ I started to say. The sight had scared me witless. Did she suffer from consumption? A move to the clean, salty air of Peterhof would be the best thing for her.

  ‘Come, Catherine Alexeyevna, you need rest,’ Menshikov soothed her, and Mother looked at us, pleading for our forgiveness while unable to resist him. He led her into her bedroom, kicking the door shut. From behind the closed door came hushed talk and muffled sobs.

  For a moment, silence reigned. ‘By my soul, I have tried to prevent this,’ Tolstoy sighed.

  ‘Karl and I wanted to leave for Germany in any case,’ Anoushka said, looking shaken.

  ‘Having to leave is different from wanting to leave, Anoushka,’ I said. ‘Russia is our inheritance. What if you have a son? Once Menshikov has Petrushka wed to his daughter, nothing prevents him from taking aim at the Russian throne.’

  *

  In the icy corridor, Prince Alexis Dolgoruky waited for us, leaping up from a stool. ‘There you are!’ He clawed at Tolstoy’s lapels, terrified by the thought of losing all influence over Petrushka. ‘This must not be! We cannot abandon Russia to a scoundrel and an upstart like Menshikov.’ Even if he was hostile to my father’s reforms and sounded pompous – the Dolgorukys themselves had founded Moscow in the twelfth century and had laid the Kremlin’s foundation – I nevertheless had to agree with him.

  ‘We have no choice. The Tsarina listens to Menshikov. He will have his way,’ Tolstoy said. ‘But the Tsarina has yet to designate her heir.’ His words hung ominously in the air. Petrushka was not Tsarevich yet. Should I, too, be asked to give up my right of inheritance upon marrying Augustus? The thought made me as irritable as a Siberian tigress starved after the long winter.

  Mother looked magnificent at the traditional blessing of the waters at Epiphany, wearing a riding habit of silver cloth and a wide-brimmed triangular hat, white plumes swishing from it. The parade on the ice lasted for four hours; in the late afternoon, she coughed blood and fainted.

  Menshikov delayed the formal announcement of both my and Petrushka’s engagement and camped by my mother’s bedside. No private word with her was possible, though I spent every moment possible with her, bursting with last questions to which I sought answers, last words of love for her. Her end was near. I had never doubted Mother’s devotion to us, even though loneliness had been our playmate while we were young. All I wanted was to hold and thank her; to pray for her soul’s peaceful passage into the afterlife. When Anoushka joined me, Karl kept close by. My sister’s face was stern and drawn when I curtsied to her and kissed her hand, preventing me from sharing my feelings. We were to become orphans in the span of just two years, on our own now – a terrifying thought in the face of Menshikov’s determination.

  Once more, a ruler’s passing was not merely a woman and a mother dying: courtiers, mi
litary commanders and high officials jostled for space in the death chamber, a tussle barely kept in check by her ladies-in-waiting. Outside the door, Alexis Dolgoruky headed a swarm of courtiers who all waited, undecided whom they must flatter and fear, ignorant of who next would decree their fate. I heard them whisper: ‘Has the Tsarina designated her heir?’

  ‘Is it Menshikov?’

  ‘A pie-maker’s son? He is no better than a heyduck. No, it will be the Tsesarevna Elizabeth.’

  ‘Hardly. She is to marry a foreign Duke while Petrushka is the grandson of Peter the Great, the last living male Romanov. He can be the only true heir!’ Trust Alexis Dolgoruky to point that out, forgetting the power Menshikov had over his young godson.

  Inside Mother’s room, swathes of frankincense and myrrh rendered breathing painful; a fire blazed, its smoke choking us. The windows were closed, curtains drawn. The room was as hot as a banja when Menshikov bowed down, listening with a frown to Mother’s whispers, her last wishes. He rose to announce: ‘The Tsarina’s will be done! Petrushka Alexeyevich Romanov is to be Tsarevich and heir to the throne. He will marry Princess Maria Menshikova and come of age at sixteen. Until then, a State Council is to reign – the Duke and the Duchess of von Holstein, the Tsarevna Elizabeth, Vice-Chancellor Ostermann – and me.’

  Tsarevna Elizabeth. I clenched my fists: so I was not be Tsesarevna any more, but simply the Tsarina’s daughter. So be it. My mother gasped.

  Menshikov announced: ‘The Duchess of Holstein and the Tsarevna are to receive one million roubles each for relinquishing their right to the throne to Tsarevich Petrushka and his possible descendants.’

  Anoushka glanced at Karl, who gave a curt, content nod. His gambling was the talk of town; still, they presented a united front, a wall so finely rendered that no crack was visible in it. ‘The Tsarina’s personal possessions – her dresses, silver plate, china and jewellery – are to be divided between her daughters,’ Menshikov added.