by Karen Harper
Despite the beautiful day, it began to cast a pall over me. Just as the royal Russian children’s guardians kept an eagle eye on them, so they did on all of us. I began to despair I would not be able to pass on the picture and note. After all, their visit here was to be only four days, and my young charges, Harry, George, and Johnnie, were not to be included in most of the activities on the royal yachts or at Barton Manor, where the British royal hosts would entertain ashore. So today could be my last chance.
I hustled Johnnie along behind them again, hoping for a moment the guards or the watchful Tsaritsa Alexandra or Princess May, who sat in deck chairs on the sand, would not notice a quick explanation and exchange. Finally, the Russian children stopped so that little Alexey could skip clam shells into the waves.
“Oh, you be careful,” Olga, the oldest girl, told the boy. “Don’t pick up sharp ones. Let’s all find good ones for Alexey to throw!” she cried.
The four Russian girls, attired in light gray matching sailor-styled dresses and ribboned straw boaters tied on their heads, formed a protective barrier around their brother, and a beautiful barrier it was.
Olga, thirteen, David’s age, was a pretty blonde and seemed kindhearted, even when she ordered her sisters about. I’d heard rumors that she would be a good match for David someday, but I could tell he was much enamored—for the first time in his life, I believed—with the second sister, Tatiana. Imagine, someday possibly a Russian queen for England! But there was too much bad feeling toward their country, I thought, just as the Russians, so Margaretta had said, detested the Tsaritsa Alexandra for her English and German blood.
Speaking of blood, it was obvious that the four grand duchesses and the unwitting David and Mary were working hard to find shells that wouldn’t cut Alexey. I assumed his sisters knew the reason for that, but nothing untoward seemed to occur to the British royals.
“Lala, Lala!” Johnnie interrupted my thoughts, training his piece of driftwood at me. “I want pictures of you and Mama.”
And not his father, I realized. Sad that the fear of Prince George had to start so early for the children. In Russia, it seemed the other way round, for I had seen the tsar hug his son and, laughing, tell Prince George, before they went off somewhere together, that the boy’s nickname was “Alexey the Terrible.”
“I say,” Prince George had told him, “I have five of those, including the little one with his nanny.”
The tsar’s sharp, blue gaze had sought Johnnie, and there I stood, under the scrutiny of His Imperial Majesty of All the Russias. I was tied to the boy, perhaps the way the tsar would like to have his precious heir tied to someone for his safety. I bobbed him a curtsy. He resembled Prince George so much, to the shape of their heads and faces, their sharply trimmed beards, navy jackets, caps, even their build and height. Indeed, the two looked more like twin brothers than cousins, even to the blue color of their eyes.
But right now, I was watching David, noting his eyes were all too obviously for Tatiana, who was twelve. Though graceful and lively, she seemed delicate, a stunning girl with her curly, auburn hair and huge, gray-blue gaze. If I drew attention to myself—and they learned I had a message from Margaretta, which said I knew not what—would I get in trouble? Worse, could this seemingly kind royal family, who obviously trusted no one, think I was a danger? I dreaded being dismissed the way she had.
I’d considered too giving the picture to one of the two younger Russian girls to give to the older ones. Maria and Anastasia seemed to venture out on their own a bit more. Maria had been especially beloved by Margaretta. She’d been described to me as a bit shy and clumsy, so maybe we nannies favored the ones who weren’t so talented, outgoing, and bright.
The youngest, blue-eyed Anastasia, at age eight, seemed to fear nothing, even be a bit naughty, so she reminded me of Mary. And little Alexey had brown curls and huge blue eyes and seemed a daredevil, one who liked to order others around too. I’d seen him salute the guards so that they had to salute him in turn. No wonder his father had that little nickname for him.
Suddenly missing my own father, who had called me “Lottie,” I sighed and sucked a deep breath of tart sea air. When I licked my lips, I tasted salt. It was hard to walk on the soft, dry sand, and the wave-washed area sucked my steps down a bit. Such a lovely day and here I had knots in my stomach over trying to secretly give the girls a gift and keep Johnnie, Harry, and George in sight, though Finch was watching the two older ones too. But what really made me glad, even more than Johnnie’s joy, was the fact that the prince had said Harry could go without his braces today, and the child was running free.
How I wished the same for the tsar’s guarded children, who had to sleep on the protected yacht, stay together in a group—and make it hard for me to get so much as one private word with them.
THAT AFTERNOON, A gift from heaven! Princess May informed me that the two oldest grand duchesses, Olga and Tatiana, were to be allowed to shop on the high street in West Cowes, and would I take Mary ashore and accompany them?
So here was my chance, my last chance, I thought. I left Johnnie taking a nap under Martha’s watchful eye aboard the Victoria and Albert, though he had fussed when he heard I was going out. Mary and I took the tender ashore and hurried past several rows of Russian guards to wait for the tender from the Shtandart. I’d heard their yacht had a crew of 275 sailors, and we saw six of them were on the boat with the grand duchesses. But, oh no, I saw two women who hadn’t been along on the beach this morning stepping onto the dock with the girls.
We greeted the Russians, and our little shopping entourage started up toward the high street, where many of the fancy London stores had summer shops during the yachting season. Grand Duchess Olga began introductions. I had to smile when she called Mary a duchess too. “And this is our governess, Sofya Tyutcheva, and our friend Mariya Vishnyakova,” she told Mary.
Aha, I thought, the villainess who had cut off Margaretta’s letters to and from the girls, and the one who had become nanny to Alexey. So, on this little excursion, when I thought I’d find an excuse to pass the photograph, there would be more hostile, watchful eyes on us than ever.
I TOO, LIKE my new friend, Margaretta, fell in love with the lively, lovely grand duchesses. They were so excited to be shopping on their own, buying gifts for friends including someone they called “dear Grigory” or “Rasputin,” someone I knew nothing of.
It didn’t take any of us long to realize we were at the center of a fishbowl with vacationers, yachtsmen, and natives to the isle following us and pressing in to get a glimpse of the tsar’s daughters and Princess Mary. So perhaps the guards were needed after all.
The Russian shoppers bought souvenirs and some luxury goods, including perfume for themselves at a shop called Beken and Son. Even the shopkeepers acted like starstruck worshippers, crowding us together. More than once, I told myself, now was the time to pass the photograph, but one of their “uncle guards” or the two hawk-eyed women were always watching. But I saw Olga had brought her camera and was having trouble balancing it with her purchases tied in paper and strings, so I stepped in to hold the Brownie for her before the others could.
“Here, Your Grace,” I said. “Before we go out in the crowded street again, please let me take a photo of you and Grand Duchess Tatiana with Lady Mary.”
Their guards, the daykins, or whatever that word was, nodded permission and stepped back. Olga and Tatiana stood on either side of Mary. I had not the slightest notion how to use a Brownie camera, but I recalled how Johnnie had pretended with his piece of driftwood, so I peered into the glass eye, centered the tiny images, and pressed the button. I took one more. Then, rather than giving the Brownie right back, I risked putting the picture frame from my handbag under the camera and handing it to Olga, pressing the small frame into her hand.
“What is . . .” she began to say, before I interrupted her. Thank heavens, everyone had started chattering again.
“A frame you can use if you could send th
e Princess Mary a copy of the picture as a memento,” I said in a rush. Then, I whispered, “It’s from your dear friend Mrs. Eager, for the four of you, no one else, a note in back of it. She misses and loves you all.”
She looked at me, wide-eyed, then glanced at the photograph in her trembling hands. I could almost hear her brain click like a camera, remembering, thinking.
“How kind of you,” she said, passing the camera to Sofya who had edged close to us, while Olga slipped the frame unseen into the small paper bag with her perfume. “Could you please carry my camera, Sofya? I may want to take more.”
Frowning, the woman nodded and stepped back. “Tell her, we shall cherish this,” Olga whispered to me, not looking at me now. “Tell her we miss her too.”
“Miss who?” Sofya was back that fast, leaning in, for she’d evidently passed the camera off to someone else.
“I don’t want to miss another shop before we must head back, dear Sofya!” she said and turned away, then back to me. “And thank you for that photograph on our grand shopping tour,” she said to me. I saw her blink back a tear. She was as bright as she was beautiful. “The photo you took will be very dear to all of us, and I shall send you a copy—you and Duchess Mary.”
She hustled out the shop door to join her sister amidst the growing crowd of gawkers outside. Oh, yes, I saw again why Margaretta missed her Russian girls. My handbag felt much lighter and my heart too. What a perfect, blessed day. Surely, nothing bad could happen now.
THAT EVENING, DURING an elegant Russian-British family dinner ashore at Barton Manor, to which Harry, George, and, of course, Johnnie, were not invited, I sat with my three youngest charges on the deck of the Victoria and Albert and watched the sun set. I felt at peace for the first time since Margaretta had asked me to pass the picture to the older Russian girls. Except for Bertie’s not being here, all seemed right with the world.
I reclined in a canvas deck chair with a sleepy Johnnie tight beside me. Harry and George shared the one next to us, as we watched for the tender that would return their parents and Mary, for David, poor boy, was heading back to his cadet training, when he wanted so to go back to the mainland with all of us.
Johnnie sat up straighter. He’d seemed nervous, even after his nap today, and yet so tired his eyes seemed almost to cross. How grateful I had been that, compared to the poor little tsarevich, he was doing well. Margaretta had mentioned rumors that Alexey was ill, but the truth of his even darker secret I had not heard whispered once today.
“They’re coming back!” Harry called to us and went to the rail. “Papa and Mama’s boat and the Russian one too. We’d better get down to bed, Georgie, because Papa made us promise.”
They scampered in, where I knew Martha and Jane would be waiting to put them to bed, then I’d tuck them up soon. This moment with Johnnie on the yacht, gently rocking, was so sweet.
“That boat,” he said, pointing at the well-guarded Russian tender. “Girls in cloud dresses.”
“Yes, beautiful dresses that looked like clouds, satin, tulle, and chiffon.” I amazed myself that I could pick out not only patterns now but yard goods, materials, after listening to Rose for so long.
She had almost dived over the railing into the sea today when she got the slightest glimpse of the summer gowns with blue satin sashes the tsaritsa and her four girls wore as they were rowed ashore to Barton Manor. Earlier, she’d made me describe their simple, sharp gray sailor suits to the last stitch and pleat. It was so good to be traveling with Prince George and Princess May this time instead of having them take Rose and be gone for months. She was down in Princess May’s cabin now, laying out her nightgown and preparing to unlace her from layers of garments.
“Come on, my boy,” I told Johnnie, as I stood him up and struggled to rise from the canvas chair that sagged like a hammock. “Time for bed, and we’ll have a story about girls in cloud dresses.”
“And boxes of pictures.”
“Yes, with Brownie box cameras. That’s what those were, and we’ll ask your grandpapa for one for Christmas for all of you. Come on then, before Papa and Mama find you still up.”
“Up in the clouds,” he said, holding my hand.
But as we went over the raised step into the companionway, he gripped my hand so hard he hurt me.
“What is it?” I asked, turning to him and looking down. “It’s not dark below. Lanterns, see and—”
His eyes rolled up into his head. His features went slack, then twisted. His body shook, convulsed. He fell against me, and, catching him, I sagged against the wall under his weight. Dead weight!
Part Four
1909–1914
York Cottage to Buckingham Palace
Chapter 23
I managed to catch Johnnie partway to the floor. He was breathing, unconscious, yet moving his rigid limbs. I lowered him to the wooden deck. Why didn’t someone come along? Should I scream for help? But I could not bear for someone to see him this way. I knew the court physician, Sir Francis Laking, was ashore and on call in case the king took ill, but . . . but what was happening to my boy?
His limbs flopped so hard, they beat out a fierce rhythm against the floorboards, even his head, which I tried to steady. His teeth were clamped shut yet saliva flowed from the corner of his mouth. If he should die . . .
“Johnnie. Johnnie! Can you hear me? It’s Lala.”
I needed help but could not leave him. After what seemed an eternity, he went quiet, still breathing, thank God. He had a pulse but seemed to sleep like the dead.
“Johnnie! Johnnie!”
He opened his eyes, then closed them again. I wiped his sweaty brow with my skirt hem and held his hands, cold and clammy. Finally, a sailor came through the companionway.
“Did the lad fall, then, ma’am?”
“Yes,” I told him, not wanting anyone to know what had happened until I told the queen. “Can you help carry him to his cabin? Carefully, please. He hit his head.”
The young man scooped the boy up as if he were weightless, and I led him to the cabin I shared with Johnnie. Finch was next door with George and Harry, but I didn’t want to alarm them. Like most of the cabins on this deck, our space was small, with two narrow bunks squeezed in. I gestured at one and the sailor lay Johnnie down.
“I am grateful,” I told the man. “Would you wait outside in the hall so you can take a note for me?” I tried to beat down raw panic. I felt the desperation of the Russian royal family to protect and shelter their ill boy.
I scribbled a note to Rose, asking her to bring Princess May, and sent it with the sailor. I sat on the edge of Johnnie’s bed, loosened his collar, unbuttoned his shirt, and bathed his face and neck.
“Did I fall in the sea?” he whispered. “I’m wet.”
“It’s all right. I think your mama’s going to come to tuck you up. Not dizzy? No belly or headache?”
“I was swimming. I hurt my head—on a seashell.”
It seemed as if I held his hand for ages. I could hear Harry’s and George’s voices next door through the wall, and occasionally, Finch’s. Finally, a knock on the door. I rose to open it.
Princess May stood there with Rose behind her. The princess was evidently ready for bed. Her hair was down, and she wore a full-length, striped brown and beige silk robe wrapped around her body with no skirts or petticoats beneath.
“What happened?” she asked and came in with Rose in her wake.
“As you can see, he seems well enough now,” I tried to assure her. “Could Rose sit with him for a moment, and I could explain in the hall?”
“Don’t leave me, Lala,” Johnnie whispered.
“You just rest. Mama and I will be right back, so we’re not leaving.”
Rose shot me a desperate look. Mending clothing, not children, was her love. But the princess and I stepped quickly out, and I closed the door. As I explained it all to her, sugar coating nothing, the yacht began to rock, so we were evidently under way.
“Something he at
e?” Princess May asked, frowning. “Are you sure he didn’t just trip and hit his head?”
“I am sure. I am sorry, but I am sure.”
“Running around with the Russians?” she went on as if asking herself, instead of me. “Could he have caught something ashore? There is something strange about little Alexey.”
For certain then, she didn’t know about the Romanov heir! None of them must know. But I knew the tsarevich’s malady was nothing contagious. I almost told her what I knew, but I honored my pledge to Margaretta.
“Could we have the royal physician look him over?” I asked. “Did he come aboard?”
“No, the king felt well enough that he told him to stay ashore for a few days. But we’ll have him visit when we can. Lala, as alarming as that must have been for you and Johnnie, I have heard of cases where children had convulsions and it came to nothing. They outgrew it. Too much excitement for him with all these new people around, I fear. We shall just keep a good watch on him—as you always do. I’ll go in and see how he seems to me. As ever, thank you for being there with him, and I’ll inform his father in the morning, as he’s in with the king right now.”
She pulled her robe closer and went back into the cabin. I leaned against the wall to steady myself, and not because the yacht was rocking. I was rocked to my core by her reasonable response when I feared the world had just tilted.
EVEN BACK IN the quiet routine of Sandringham, I feared another “attack,” as I came to think of it. Yet things had returned to normal. There was not another falling fit, as Rose, who had been sworn to secrecy, called it. No more “childhood convulsive reactions to stimulation,” as Dr. Laking termed it after he had examined Johnnie. I hovered and watched the boy like a hawk and was grateful each day that it seemed to be a “onetime brain disturbance,” as Prince George had dubbed it.