The Romanov Empress

by C. W. Gortner

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  She must have heard the hysteria seeping into my voice, for she took a wary glance at our closed door, just as I had in Nixa’s bedroom, before she said, “Because Sasha is here. He came as soon as he heard of Nixa’s illness.”

  “He’s here?” I recalled that eerie sense of being watched as I sat with Nixa, the sound of a footstep outside the door. Revulsion curdled in me. “Why hasn’t he presented himself?”

  “The tsarina thought it best to give you time with Nixa first. You’ll meet him later. Tomorrow, perhaps,” she added, stumbling over her own words as she realized that what she was trying not to say was I would meet him at the death vigil, if Nixa survived the night.

  I turned to my bed, wanting to escape, to forget everything.

  “Shall I wake you if…?” I heard Mama whisper.

  “Yes,” I said.

  The door clicked shut as she left me alone.

  I did not sleep. I invoked oblivion, but I felt that unseen presence as if it stood at the foot of my bed—the stranger whom my fiancé had begged me to marry in his stead.

  * * *

  —

  WE GATHERED AT Nixa’s bedside early in the morning. April sunshine gilded the sea, but the windows were shut now, the room suffocated by the smell of musk mixed with champagne, a concoction the Viennese specialist employed to rouse Nixa from his stupor.

  Two Orthodox priests—bizarre to me in their black cassocks adorned with golden-brocade epitrachelion stoles and their flat-rimmed kamilavka caps—stood by the bed, one of them chanting. A chased-gold censer swung in the other priest’s hand, its myrrh-scented fumes adding to the smothering atmosphere. When Mama and I entered the room, I had to avert my gaze from the priests’ somber bearded faces as Nixa agonized toward his final hour.

  Then I caught sight of him: Grand Duke Sasha, motionless beside his mother.

  The tsarina sat crumpled on the stool, still in the same dark dress she’d been wearing when we arrived, indicating she’d spent the entire night here. She did not look up as Mama and I stepped past the weeping ladies-in-waiting and other guests—all Russian aristocrats, I assumed, vacationing in Nice, who must have known the imperial family intimately to be present. It seemed disrespectful, a travesty. This was not a performance. It was the tragic end of a young life.

  Clenching my fists, I assumed my post by the tsarina. When she felt me near, she reached for my hand. I did not uncoil my fist, so she clung to it.

  I glanced at her second son. Had I not known he was Nixa’s brother, I would never have believed they were related. Unlike Nixa, Sasha’s solid build gave him the appearance of ungainliness, and he was so tall, he slouched. His head pressed forward from his thickset neck; under his already receding hairline, his blue-gray eyes were narrow, his mouth small and grim, offset by an incongruously wispy mustache. To me, he possessed none of Nixa’s refinement.

  He didn’t return my glance. But when Nixa sensed me there, he shifted his glazed eyes to me and he whispered, “Isn’t she charming?”

  If he was asking Sasha, his brother did not answer. The priest continued to chant, and my tears blurred everything. At the final moment, I tore myself away from the tsarina to kneel by the bed. “Don’t leave me,” I said, my voice breaking.

  He sighed. His last breath.

  The tsarina let out a small cry. I half-turned on my knees, her despair sundering the hush. A trim, tall man with a balding pate, graying mustachios, and thick sideburns stepped forth to comfort her. Sasha stepped aside. I went still. That tall older man…he seemed so familiar to me. And when he murmured, “Maria, my solnyshko,” recognition gripped me.

  Tsar Alexander. He was also here.

  My fiancé lay dead, yet I searched frantically, furiously, for my mother. I found her behind the tsarina, among the women holding handkerchiefs to their faces. She averted her eyes. I knew then that these strangers around me, whom I’d thought vacationing aristocrats, were the imperial family itself.

  I couldn’t bear it, the humiliation of being left unaware, when they knew, every one, what I had just lost. As I staggered to my feet, my skirts tangled about my ankles, and someone gave a stifled gasp, perhaps fearing I’d pitch backward onto the corpse. Sasha lunged forth. With a firm hand, he caught me by my shoulder, compelling me to stay upright.

  I looked into his cast-iron eyes. Before I could utter my gratitude, he hissed under his breath, so that only I could hear: “I promised him. Remember that.”

  He released me and moved away, into chilling silence.

  My mother guided me from the room, away from the loving future I had thought would be mine.

  * * *

  —

  THERE WAS NO further mention of Nixa’s last request. I did not admit what he’d asked of me, hiding it within me during the torchlit procession to the Orthodox church. After the mass, the coffin was taken by Russian warship to the funeral obsequies in St. Petersburg.

  Their Imperial Majesties came to say goodbye before I departed with Mama, who insisted we must travel to Rumpenheim so I could grieve and rest. Handing me the Orthodox Bible that had belonged to Nixa, the tsarina held me close. “He will always be with us, my child,” she whispered. “In us now resides his memory. As long as we remember him, he will live forever, in heaven and in our hearts.”

  I curtsied before the ashen tsar, who kissed my cheek. In a quavering voice that betrayed his deep inner grief, he said, “You are always welcome in our family. We grieve for your loss, too.” He tried to smile at me, but his blue-gray eyes, Nixa’s eyes, were dark with sorrow. I could see that the unexpected death of his eldest son and heir had devastated him, much as it had me.

  He stepped aside, his shoulders stooped, as his third son, Grand Duke Vladimir, embraced me with a warmth that nearly made me weep. Vladimir possessed some of Nixa’s allure, only his was more masculine, his robust build contrasting with his mother’s sensitive brown eyes. I felt his sincere affection, though we’d never met before, when he said, “You must come to St. Petersburg soon,” and I saw the tsarina flinch.

  Sasha didn’t make an appearance. As the tsarina accompanied us to the train, she told us that the new tsarevich was inconsolable, so overwhelmed that he refused to speak to anyone. He had already departed Nice to accompany his brother’s coffin to Russia.

  On our way to Denmark, my mother plied me with cakes and tea I refused to touch, murmuring endearments meant to provide solace, reminders that Nixa and I had loved each other so much and I’d given him such solace in the end. I let it all wash over me like the whisper of those waves outside Nixa’s window, which I knew I would never forget.

  I promised him. Remember that.

  It haunted me. For though I’d failed to make the same promise, I felt bound by it.

  CHAPTER SIX

  At Rumpenheim, I fell ill with a recurrent fever that proved mysterious to our physicians but not to Mama. She understood that grief was overtaking me like a dark shade, and she refused to let it triumph. She roused me to walks in the gardens, which made me cry because the trees reminded me of the oak where he’d first come upon me. She forced me to ride, but that also made me cry, because I remembered that being thrown from a horse had precipitated his death. She sat me beside her for hours in the parlor, doing needlework that was soon wet with tears. She unpacked the dresses that arrived from Paris, paid for and finished without me, but I’d lost so much weight, none of them fit; and the sight of those sublime gowns in pale-pink satin, white and cream silk, intended to enhance my luster in Russia, made me cry all the more.

  Finally she set aside her attempts at distraction. “He is gone,” she said abruptly one morning. “Nothing you do can change it.”

  I stared at her. “Don’t you think I know that?”

  “Then, why? Must you die, as well? Is that the reason for this intolerable malaise, this refu
sal to do anything, even eat, pecking at your food like a bird? I will not have it. You loved a man and you lost him, as many women do. Your death will do nothing but bring further grief. Do you intend to have us put you in your grave?”

  “What would you have me do?” I cried, though I’d never raised my voice to her before.

  “I would have you live. Mourn him, but live. Nixa wouldn’t want to see you like this. He wanted only for you to be happy.”

  “He told me he spoiled my happiness! He—he said he had failed me.” I buried my face in my hands.

  She moved to me, setting her hand on my shoulder. “He wasn’t to blame. You are not to blame. It was God’s will. The sooner you accept it, the easier it will be. Please try. For me. For your papa. For your brothers and sisters. We’re all so terribly worried for you.”

  My sister…

  I lifted my face to my mother. “Alix. I want to see her.”

  “Then you shall. I’ll write to her this instant.”

  “No. Not in England.” The mere thought of facing Victoria, who’d expressed pity for the man who married me, made me quail. “She must come here.”

  “Yes,” said Mama. “She will.”

  * * *

  ALIX ARRIVED, ACCOMPANIED by her husband, Bertie, and their son, Albert Victor, as well as their new baby boy, George. My sister informed us that given the circumstances, she had insisted on making the trip despite Victoria’s objections, and her loving presence at my side helped to ease my sorrow. Bertie had gained so much weight, he looked portly to me, with his ruddy face and mustachios, his tight frock coat straining at his stomach. But he was solicitous, offering me his condolences, and clearly a proud father, inadvertently causing me to smile when, as he held up his little George, the babe passed gas. Horrified, Mama declared, “Whatever are you feeding that poor child?” Bertie replied calmly, “Mother’s milk. It seems the boy has inherited my Hanover intestines.”

  Alix had also put on flesh, but on her, it added to her beauty. She seemed content in her marriage. She took me under her charge, stating we mustn’t talk of anything serious; this was our reunion, and we must make the best of it. What the best entailed were plenty of meals to fatten me up, games of cards, poetry readings, and playing the piano together. There were also trips to our various palaces to watch Mama fuss over the dirt on the windows, with me laughing out loud for the first time since Nixa’s death when Alix stomped her foot to prohibit Mama from attacking the grime herself, reminding her that she was a queen and had servants to do it.

  Alix healed me. Her presence did what nothing else could. “Even in the midst of a cataclysm, life goes on,” she said, as we sat embroidering a bassinet cloth for her baby. “You are still so young, with so much to look forward to, once you move past this time of pain.”

  “Such as what?” I asked. “I am—what do the French call it? Une demoiselle à marier.”

  “You are that. Une princesse to marry, in truth. Have you thought of it since…?”

  We did not speak his name; it was tacit between us, but in that moment, lulled by our needles and thread, by George gurgling at her side, I suddenly wanted to unburden myself of my secret and be cured of its wound, so I could feel whole again.

  I told her about Nixa’s exhortation and what Sasha had said to me.

  My sister’s eyes widened. “You did not promise in return?”

  I lowered my gaze. “I should have. I regret it now. He left this world without it.”

  “You mustn’t. He was dying. He did not know what he asked.”

  “No,” I said quietly. “He knew. Sasha took his words to heart; he made certain to let me know. Nixa must have truly wanted it.”

  “And you?” Her eyes were fixed on me. “Is it what you want?”

  “I don’t know. I cannot know, I suppose, unless I…”

  “Unless you marry him,” said Alix. “But then, if you discover it’s not what you want, what remedy can there be? A divorce or a separation would be unthinkable.”

  I tried to summon a smile. “Yes, a scandal would not do. Mama would never allow it.”

  “Then we must make inquiries. You must know for certain what Sasha intends. There has been no correspondence? No formal request or…” Her voice drifted off as I shook my head. “Of course not,” she said. “Or if there was, Mama has kept it from you. She won’t say anything until she thinks you are ready to hear it. Are you?”

  I went quiet. “I honestly cannot say,” I said at length. “I suppose if he does intend it, I should be prepared. Nixa—” My voice caught. I swallowed, forcing myself to continue, to utter his name aloud. “Nixa surprised me. I do not wish to be surprised again.”

  She smiled sadly. “I understand.”

  * * *

  THERE HAD BEEN letters, Mama confessed. Many letters, in fact, between her and the tsarina during the official year of mourning; even the tsar had expressed his approval. As for Sasha, he hadn’t volunteered any opinion in public, but Mama hastened to clarify that the rumor he’d forsaken a mistress was unfounded. As soon as my mother spoke, I saw that she wished she hadn’t. I frowned. Clearly, the rumor had some truth to it; regardless of whether Sasha had given up his mistress to prove his constancy, it seemed to me evidence enough that he was only committed to the marriage out of obligation, but Alix saw it differently. To her, it was clear that he had decided to dedicate himself entirely to me.

  “All young men have dalliances,” she told me. “And many never give them up. If he has, it’s an excellent sign of his character. Minnie, he’s waiting for you. Now, you must decide.”

  She refrained from repeating her counsel to listen to my heart but to also use my head, yet it was implicit. I now had a second chance to marry the tsarevich and live in Russia as his wife, the tsarevna. Such an opportunity wouldn’t come again. Still, I hesitated, riven by doubt, until Alix left for England and I had endless hours to ruminate, sleepless nights to play that deathbed scene over and over in my mind.

  Mama once again took the matter in hand. “He’s prepared to come here for a visit and state his proposal in person. I needn’t remind you of how unusual that is.”

  I was preparing for bed, brushing out my hair in the mirror, having dismissed my chambermaid, Sophie, as I never seemed to have much for her to do. Regarding my mother’s reflection in the glass, I asked, “How long have you known?”

  “I did not—” She checked herself. “I will not lie to you. When we went to Nice, the tsarina told me. Nixa had made his wishes known to her and Sasha. I did not think it right to inform you at the time. You were in no position to consider it.”

  Just as I’d suspected. I set down my hairbrush. “He’s a brute. He hissed at me like a serpent, with his brother not yet cold on that bed.” When she frowned, I went on, “What do you think I should do?” I wanted to avoid her questions, which would invariably lead to the revelation that Nixa had asked the same of me and I’d denied him my answer.

  “How can I advise you? You’ve suffered so deeply….” She let out a sigh. “He is not Nixa. But he isn’t unkind. He may be brutish, as you say, at least in his outward appearance, but it’s hardly his fault. As the second son, Sasha was raised to serve in the Imperial Guard. No one ever thought he’d find himself in this position.”

  “Just as no one thought I would find myself in mine,” I said.

  “Indeed. Yet you could do so much for each other. Love isn’t everything in a marriage, providing there’s mutual trust and respect. And love can grow in time between those who are committed to nurture it. The tsarina assures me that Sasha is committed.”

  “Is forsaking a mistress sufficient proof of his commitment?” I asked tersely, before I could curb myself.

  Mama gave me a pensive look. “Minnie, I understand your reluctance. I realize Nixa’s death has been very hard on you, and you were never one to accept change easily. But
you must still marry and bear children, have a home of your own.”

  “Is that enough?” I quailed at her stoic tone but strengthened my voice anyway. “A home and children of my own, with the hope that one day there might be love? I am still a princess of Denmark, as you’ve reminded me many times. Surely, marrying a Romanov isn’t my only opportunity to be a wife and mother.”

  Mama sighed. “You are still too young to understand the realities of this life. Though you did not marry Nixa, to many you are now a widow. And there is only one tsarevich.”

  As I recoiled at this harsh reminder that I was somehow compromised by the death of the man I had loved, she went on, “Marriage to Sasha can change everything for you. He can accord you a station in life that will make you one of the most important women in the world. If love comes in time, it’s a blessing, but the marriage itself is still a great honor,” she said, making me wince, for these were the very words she’d used to coerce me to Nixa. “He’ll be tsar one day, God willing, and God grant his father many more years to reign. As his tsarevna, and later as his tsarina, think of everything you can achieve. You could help Denmark immeasurably. Even from behind the throne, a woman can rule.”

  “Rule?” I finally turned my gaze directly to her face. “I don’t want to rule.”

  “You will, regardless.” Again, the candor in her voice unsettled me. “It is what royal wives must do. Do you think your father would be the king he is without me? I am the whip that prods him. I am his ears and eyes, his conscience and counsel; without us, most men would stay little boys. Our family has become who we are because of me, because I never ceased to aspire for more than what we had.”

  Suddenly I understood. “Willie. Did you…?”

  “I did. I gained your brother the crown of the Hellenes by promoting his candidacy to Victoria. She’s one of our few who can wield her power in the open, but she’s still a woman. And a mother. She knew the Greeks were considering Alfred for their next king, and she was loath to surrender him. She readily agreed to my suggestion to offer up the Ionian Islands, a prized British protectorate, to sway the votes in Willie’s favor. This is the influence you can possess: to affect nations and benefit your bloodline—but only if you choose wisely.”