The Tsarina's Daughter

by Ellen Alpsten

  ‘Don’t you dare forget that promise!’ I replied, fighting the memory of Lestocq’s words that still dripped their poison into my soul. If Petrushka had no heir, Anoushka’s child and I were next in line to the throne. Menshikov would do everything he could to tear all of us, and Russia, apart.

  My mind was made up.

  46

  A couple of weeks later, as Petrushka had gathered strength, Maria Menshikova sat by his side at his Coronation, swathed in a heavy silver gown, her stomacher encrusted with diamonds, her flat chest adorned with the vermilion sash of the order of St Catherine. Her face had already started to show lines and her scrawny neck twitched chicken-like beneath the weight of her pearl and diamond choker – each gem the size of a hazelnut. One of Mother’s tiaras sparkled on her mousy hair and droplets of snot hung from her flared nostrils as she struggled with a cold, dabbing her face with a handkerchief of Lyons lace and anxiously seeking her father’s eyes. His gaze was steering her with cold precision.

  During the ceremony in the Kremlin’s freezing Cathedral of the Dormition, fits of coughing tormented Petrushka. To my surprise it was not Feofan Prokopovich who conducted the service – was my Father’s trusted adviser, who had been a wise friend to me throughout my life, still under house arrest? – but a priest I had never seen before. At his sign, Petrushka’s heavy coat of crimson velvet and ermine was folded back and the bright blue sash of the order of St Andrew lifted off. As Buturlin undid the gold buttons of Petrushka’s dark green Preobrazhensky Regiment jacket, the Tsar’s wheezing breath was the only sound beneath the gilt-vaulted ceiling. The strong scent of his liniments – camphor and mint – blended with the censers’ frankincense and myrrh. I folded my hands, gathering my thoughts, begging for strength. The priest’s words reached me through a veil of fear.

  As I let my gaze sweep over my surroundings, it met the eyes of a woman who sat in a loge, elevated above the courtiers. I would have recognised her dark eyes above a thousand others, even though my visit to Susdal Convent was a while ago. Back then, she had been a miserable wretch lingering in a dank cell, a maimed dwarf her sole companion, counting the endless days. But the wheel of fate had spun more surprisingly than ever. Evdokia, my father’s first wife, witnessed the Coronation of her grandson – the choir’s chanting rising to the realm of Heaven while the court of Petrushka’s earthly Empire bowed to her.

  I lived day by day, trying to sound the depths of the court’s deadly undercurrents, feeling them tearing at me without leaving so much as a ripple on the water’s glittering surface. I knew that Vice-Chancellor Count Ostermann minded my gaiety more than anything: the wiry German kept close to my sour-faced cousin Ekaterina Ivanovna instead. Under her steady stream of abuse, her daughter Christine had grown into a glum girl, who cowered next to her mother like a beaten dog. During the general rehearsal for the Coronation, I had tried to make amends. ‘Count Ostermann. My Ivanova cousins are close to you, I know, perhaps because of their German alliances. Is there word of my cousin Anna Ivanovna, Duchess of Courland? Will she attend the Tsar’s Coronation? As I do not like writing and reading, I have to rely on others to bring me news.’

  ‘My once having been German does not mean my interest lies there, Tsarevna,’ he said. ‘Only Russia counts for me. The Duchess of Courland has indeed asked His Majesty for funds to attend his Coronation.’

  ‘As is her right as Imperial Princess,’ I replied, angered by his impoliteness.

  ‘Her being here, or not, makes not the slightest difference. Even less desirable is the presence of her, um… what shall I say?… private secretary, Herr Biren. But the Tsar wrote and answered her kindly enough.’ He rummaged in his folder of state papers for the crumpled draft of the letter and read aloud, ‘“Most Kind Sovereign Tsarevna and Duchess! I wish from the bottom of my heart to see you in Moscow in person to share this day of joy and glory with Us, however…”’

  ‘… I am unable to include a bag of gold, which would give these kind words any substance,’ I interrupted him.

  ‘True. But one need not say it so clearly. A valuable lesson to the young Tsar not to be as outspoken and temperamental as – others.’ He smiled meanly at me. ‘And, certainly, a more valuable lesson than the mindless pursuit of happiness he also learns from – others.’

  ‘Others who happen to love him. Petrushka needs warmth and affection,’ I flared up.

  ‘Spoil him and you destroy him,’ Ostermann returned with unusual emotion. ‘The Tsar doesn’t need love. He is totally engrossed in seeking amusement – and you. His Majesty has a swift mind and a good heart. But only proper examples will enable him to rule Russia. Nothing is more important than that. Nothing.’

  He bowed briskly, insultingly so, and left. My eyes followed him until the gaily dressed crowd swallowed up his limping figure, which was as always clad in shades of navy and grey: only his loyalty to Russia drove him on. Whatever else I thought of him, the example he set Petrushka was impeccable.

  That was what love meant to Count Ostermann.

  Cousin Anna Ivanovna and Herr Biren were in Courland when the Imperial crown was lowered onto Petrushka’s head. He squeezed his eyes shut and bent his neck forward to bear the sudden weight. His pallid face and slim shoulders as well as his hollow chest glistened with the chrism, honey-coloured oil, with which he had been anointed. Still, Anna Ivanovna sent her nephew a valuable gift: a pack of six hounds, marvellous creatures with sleek sides and gleaming fangs. Three of them were trained to hunt big game such as bears, stags and wild boar; the three others to pursue foxes, deer and hares. They were fine beasts; she must have run up a debt to pay for them and their training. In another, private letter to Ekaterina Ivanovna, she wrote, ‘I beg you, my sister, send me a new almanac for the year thirty as a diversion. Please do think of me, just for once.’

  ‘Think of her for once? Why should I?’ Ekaterina Ivanovna had mocked her younger sister Anna by reading the words aloud to us. ‘Moaning, that is all Anna ever does. Her randy stable-boy Biren should be entertainment enough for her. She is a cause of shame to us all; always has been and will never be more than that.’ She tossed the crumpled letter away, sending the hounds into a frenzy: they leaped at the paper, tearing it to pieces.

  ‘Don’t, Mother, please,’ Christine started, but Ekaterina cuffed her daughter in full view of the court before leaving to pay homage to Tsar Peter II and his fiancée, Maria Menshikova. Anna Ivanovna in her faraway duchy was less than nothing to her sister, as to everyone else at the Tsar’s court.

  Anoushka gave birth to a healthy boy in Gottorf Castle, naming him Karl Peter and proclaiming him heir to Holstein and Sweden, wisely avoiding any mention of his right to the throne of Russia. Still, Menshikov forbade any celebration of the birth: neither church bells pealing jubilantly all over the vast realm nor a 300-cannon salute puncturing the frosty February air. I was overjoyed and dictated long letters to Anoushka as my thoughts somersaulted. The many times our mother had been brought to bed she had followed firm rituals: was Anoushka herself staying warm and keeping the air in her chamber fresh? Who was boiling her chicken broth, and was it properly laced with soaked dried fruit and red wine? Surely only a Russian wet-nurse would do; I was planning to start enquiries now. Before the early summer, when Petrushka was planning to join me in Peterhof, I wanted to visit Holstein, just to kiss my nephew’s little feet. They would be as ticklish as ours had been. We would raise the boy to be a good Russian: it was as holy a promise as any pilgrimage I had ever made.

  ‘Let us arrange a twin ball to celebrate little Karl Peter’s birth,’ I suggested to Petrushka, simply to defy Menshikov. ‘With the best food available and the most beautiful music. And we need fireworks as well! Shall we celebrate at the same hour in Gottorf Castle and in Moscow? Like that, we are as good as feasting together.’

  ‘Whatever you wish, Lizenka.’ He smiled indulgently. ‘A twin ball it is. But the first dance with you is mine. Or better still, block out your whole dance card for me. That is
an Imperial order.’

  I danced that April night away and while I whirled around in Petrushka’s arms, only having a moment to breathe when Menshikov forced him into a polka with his fiancée, I imagined how happy my idea must have made Anoushka, so far away from home. How good it would be for her to dance and be merry.

  Oh, yes, so good.

  It had been my idea alone.

  No one else was to blame.

  47

  ‘Mmm, breakfast, how wonderful!’ Katja Dolgoruky sighed as she slipped into my Kremlin rooms. Petrushka had assigned me my mother’s apartment in the fortress’s former terem. The court remained in Moscow, enjoying the first warmer days as well as the ease of living here compared to St Petersburg. In the old capital, everything was procured more easily and cheaply. Katja’s riding habit with its tightly laced stomacher and a sweeping skirt showed off her slim body, her cheeks were rosy and strands of her ebony hair had come loose from her coiffed plaits during her morning ride. I still wore my Brussels lace dressing-gown, my thick honey-blonde curls tumbling down to my plump waist. Buturlin had slipped from my room just minutes earlier and I still glowed from our love.

  ‘Come, sit with me,’ I invited her. Katja kicked off her riding boots and hopped onto my bed, beadily eyeing my breakfast tray: ‘soldiers’ to be dipped in soft-boiled egg halves, served with caviar piled in a mother-of-pearl bowl standing on crushed ice. A stubby vodka glass stood next to a silver jug filled to the brim with steaming hot chocolate.

  ‘Stop it or you won’t fit in your wedding dress,’ I teased as she chewed and licked the runny yolk off her fingers. My maid loaded gowns from the open chests onto my bed, so I could choose my wardrobe for the festivities in the days to come. Petrushka had opened his purse-strings. I had recklessly spent all the money in the gostiny dvor, that most glorious of Moscow places: two storeys built in red brick and devoted to shopping. Before I knew it, I had amassed 2,000 gowns, cloaks, furs, housedresses, underwear, and woollen, cashmere and lace scarves, as well of course as a dozen riding habits tailored in the male style for the season ahead. If I liked something, like a headdress or a fan, I ordered at least a dozen of them. My chests were as full as my heart with this change in my circumstances: the maid who lifted out the gowns as good as disappeared behind the yards of silk, taffeta, velvet, damask and lace, making my bed look like a blooming spring meadow. Katja chewed on her third soldier, hungrily eyeing a fourth, while I pondered: the low-cut bodice of blue damask matched my eyes while the demure pale pink taffeta, with its softly billowing sleeves, enhanced my blush. Or better settle on the dove-grey silk, pretending to possess a tame, pliant nature – men were so gullible, believing what suited them. At least I did not try to fool myself. That ship had long sailed. I held the dresses up to my face, one by one, turning to the mirror, losing myself in a couple of dance steps before dropping a gown carelessly on the floor and picking up the next.

  ‘Look who’s talking! Who needs to fit into a wedding dress?’ Katja cheekily licked her fingers before pointing to my waistline.

  ‘No wedding dress for me ever, Katja.’

  ‘Don’t say that.’ She leaped off the bed and embraced me. ‘Augustus’ death was unfair.’

  ‘Life is not fair,’ I said, with tears in my eyes.

  ‘I apologise, Tsarevna,’ she said. ‘Anyone would want to wed you, surely? Our young Tsar adores you.’

  ‘Shhh,’ I warned. ‘You speak high treason. Menshikov will have your tongue if he hears and Ostermann will banish your family to Beresov. I love the Tsar as my nephew and am delighted that he weds Maria Menshikova.’

  She grimaced then smiled. ‘What did you think of him?’

  ‘Of whom?’ I teased, knowing full well she was speaking about her fiancé, Count Melissimo. At least one woman in the world could follow her heart. That must be solace enough for the whole sisterhood.

  ‘You know who.’ She blushed.

  ‘He is very handsome and dashing. When is the wedding planned for?’

  ‘Still no date set,’ she sighed. ‘But soon, I hope. If ever I have a child – ’ she blushed even deeper, looking impossibly beautiful ‘ – may I ask you to be godmother?’

  ‘With pleasure.’

  Katja settled back onto the bed, dipping a fifth and last soldier into the caviar, mopping it all up, when there was a knock on the door. She stopped chewing, her hand hovering mid-air. I froze with fear. Menshikov arrested his enemies at dawn, dragging them to the deepest dungeons before the Kremlin woke. ‘Who might that be at this early hour, Tsarevna Elizabeth? Do you have a lover?’ she whispered, her anxious gaze belying her jocular words.

  My heart raced as I raised my hand in a mute warning. At least I was not alone! Though two women were all too easily overcome. I stepped to the door. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It is me, Lestocq,’ the Frenchman said, his voice sounding muffled. I opened the door, peering into the dark corridor. Ever since Tver, doubts about Lestocq’s loyalty and reasons for staying in my retinue had tormented me. Was his allegiance to me genuine or was it for sale to the highest bidder?

  ‘Tsarevna,’ he said and stepped aside.

  I delightedly clapped my hands. ‘Oh, you bring Semyon Mordvinov. All the way to Moscow. Sailor, what news from Gottorf Castle and my sister? Is it urgent? Do you bring me a first portrait of my little nephew?’ I asked, but neither Anoushka’s messenger nor Lestocq joined in my gaiety, their expressions grave. Semyon fell to his knees, his boots caked with mud and shoulders slumped under the weight of his news.

  ‘Katja.’ I reached out to her. She came to my side as Semyon looked up, shaking his head, his eyes moist. ‘Do tell me how my sister loved my idea of the Twin Ball… ’ My voice faded. I felt short of breath, though I was not laced.

  Semyon placed his hand on his heart. ‘The Duchess of Holstein adored the Twin Ball and the spectacular fireworks, which she did not want to miss—’

  ‘And?’ In silent prayer, I held on to the icon of St Nicholas.

  ‘The Duchess of Holstein stood at the open window to admire the display. Afterwards, she went on reading, I hear, never having closed the window.’

  ‘Say it, Semyon,’ I whispered while Katja stifled a sob.

  ‘Your Imperial sister, the Tsarevna Anoushka, died from pneumonia on the fourth of May. Her coffin awaits its return to Russia as soon as a ship is sent. She wished to be buried in Saints Peter and Paul Cathedral, by her parents’ side. Awaiting you, one day. Those were her last words.’

  I was winded by sudden pain. The very night during which we had celebrated life, had brought about Anoushka’s death.

  The Twin Ball festivities had been all my idea. I had killed Anoushka, failing to protect her just as I had Illinchaya back in Kolomenskoye. Tears blinded me; my knees buckled. Those wretched romances my sister had read and my heedlessness had led to her death, rendering her son motherless in a foreign land. The way ahead for him was bound to be dangerous.

  Katja tried to embrace me but I stared at her in horror: before my eyes, her raven tresses turned silver, mottled fur covered her smooth skin and her pearly teeth gleamed like fangs. ‘Go away!’ I screamed, lunging at the evil Leshy spirit. My fists rained down on the demon, my nails clawing her throat and face, tearing her skin. It was Lestocq who restrained me, holding me so tightly that I could neither move nor breathe, and then I fainted.

  ‘Will I give life? ’ Anoushka had asked the evil spirit, who casually, callously, gave her response a lethal spin: ‘A life you will give… ’ Once more a prophecy had come to pass.

  48

  Summer in Peterhof healed both Petrushka and me. Once again, I found respite in the Russian countryside’s simplicity, beauty and calm, far from the court’s prying eyes. It was truly the sweet season. Buttercups and poppies were blossoming while the air was abuzz with bees and tumbling butterflies. Lestocq attended the Tsar daily and I watched, hawk-eyed, as he sounded Petrushka’s sunken chest with his knuckles, attentively listened to his breathing
and checked the ever-smaller amounts of phlegm the Tsar brought up, squinting and moving the little silver bowl this way and that. Finally, Petrushka’s handkerchief stayed clean, showing no further trace of blood.

  ‘The Tsar’s lungs have cleared. It is quite miraculous: I can only put that down to your constant good care of him, Tsarevna,’ Lestocq declared, not meeting my eyes.

  Petrushka looked at me and sought for my hand, his fingers warm and clasp firm. He lay on the terrace overlooking the garden, his freckled skin lightly tanned. He had even tasted some of the delicacies I had ordered for him from the kitchen: elderflower cordial, stirred with crushed ice and water, and a moist strawberry cake, gooey with custard and splattered with the black seeds of Persian vanilla pods.

  ‘I have so much to thank you for, Lizenka,’ he said.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Lestocq. As Buturlin handed him a filled purse, the two men exchanged furtive glances and walked away in silence, their shoulders almost touching.

  *

  Petrushka slept in the Great Palace. I preferred Mon Plaisir. Barefoot, I roamed the pavilion’s small cosy rooms, the gallery and entrance hall. I wore my hair twisted in thick braids and my cotton summer dress unlaced. I found peace here yet it was haunted by the happy hours of my childhood, especially the pantry where we had breakfasted as a family. The pump’s brass handle, on which I still seemed to see Anoushka’s slim white hand, creaked as if it had been moved, sending the cobwebs across its spout quivering. The Delft tiles on the walls were dark with grease or else cracked. China and copper had been plundered from the shelves and walls. In my secret distress I walked the gardens, vainly seeking the happiness and sense of destiny I had shared here with both Anoushka and Augustus. I found neither. There is never a way back: I must start anew and forge a new future for myself.

  Neither the days filled with hunts and games with Petrushka nor the stolen nights of pleasure with Buturlin lightened the burden of the guilt I felt for causing Anoushka’s death. The Bay of Finland’s grey waters would carry her coffin home. Their lapping on the shore was like a low murmur of disapproval. I squinted out to sea, brushing my loose curls from my face: were those faraway sails billowing in the breeze her last passage to St Petersburg? I shielded my eyes against the light, which in those weeks did not darken but only blanched into a hazy hue of silver: clouds raked the dense blue sky, their shadows flitting over the pale sea and dissolving, like Anoushka’s soul slipping into another world.