The Romanov Empress

by C. W. Gortner

  She didn’t await my reply. She left me at my dressing table, astonished and appalled. Yet also admiring. For the first time in my life, I no longer saw her as my demanding mother. I saw her as a woman who’d forged a place for us out of nothing.

  Though I couldn’t let myself admit it, she had made my decision for me. I would marry Sasha and assume my destiny, as Nixa had wanted for me.

  Even if I was not in love.

  * * *

  OFFICIAL CONFIRMATION ARRIVED, bearing the Romanov double-headed eagle seal in gold wax. Per the custom, I must wed in November, the traditional month for a tsarevich’s union. Mama marshaled her resources, confining me to hours of daily study with my Russian tutor and the Orthodox priest sent to instruct me in my new faith. Then Alix wrote that she was again with child, her third, and the queen had put her foot down, forbidding her from travel, so she couldn’t attend my wedding in Russia.

  Mama sniffed. “Victoria is not pleased by your betrothal, seeing as you turned down her Alfred.”

  I made no comment. Though I was unhappy that my sister must suffer for it, I rather enjoyed that I’d rattled Victoria again.

  Long before I was ready to say goodbye, my departure was upon me. I traveled with three ladies-in-waiting, as well as my maid, Sophie, and a black spaniel named Beauty—a gift from Papa. “To have something alive from Denmark with you,” he said, which brought me to tears as I embraced him before boarding our newly refurbished royal vessel, the Slesvig. My brother, Crown Prince Frederick, would escort me to Russia as our representative, but Mama and Papa had demurred; they couldn’t afford the expense. The prohibitive cost of my trousseau and dowry had depleted our treasury.

  Now I embraced her. After so much gone between us, in that moment neither of us could speak. Mama drew back, whispering, “Remember who you are.” Then she relinquished me to Freddie, who took me on board.

  In the harbor, two Russian warships loomed like steel leviathans, my official escort into the tsar’s domains. Gun salutes fired from the ships, and the band on my vessel struck up our patriotic anthem:

  In Denmark I was born, ’tis there my home is,

  From there my roots, and there my world extend.

  You Danish tongue, as soft as a mother’s voice is,

  With you my heartbeats oh so sweetly blend…

  ’Tis you I love, Denmark, my native land!

  I sang along, Freddie and my ladies beside me on the deck, Beauty cradled in my arms. Leaving my homeland tore at my heart.

  But my homeland, I knew, would never leave me.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  My favorite story in the books Nixa had sent me was a fable that claimed Russia glowed with the red-gold hue of the firebird because an evil sorcerer, beset with envy by the weaving talents of a peasant girl, cursed the girl. Transforming her into a firebird, he tried to steal her away. But the firebird died as he bore her aloft, her feathers drifting from the sky to scatter across the land, where the fertile soil drank them up and reflected their color in the leaves of Russia’s trees, wildflowers, and the traditional garb of the moujik, the peasants.

  And firebird red, I would find, was the hue of Russia—that deep scarlet of blood, of health and prosperity and good fortune. It suffused every home, marketplace stall, and cathedral, where revered icons were illuminated by red-glass lamps on filigree chains. Red was also the color of houses, troikas, carriages, and sleighs. Red in the tracery of beloved apples on doors, on gables, eaves, and walls; delicate red stitched in kerchiefs and sarafan sleeves; bold scarlet on the wood utensils finished in shiny lacquer; and elegant blood-red piping on the uniforms of the Cossacks marching in procession to celebrate my arrival.

  Red wasn’t the only color of my new land. My arrival in St. Petersburg preceded the first snows, and in the crystalline sharpness of the air, this astonishing city dubbed the Venice of the North glowed with a myriad of pearlescent hues—turquoise, pear green, ivory white, ethereal blue, and pale pink—on the onion-shaped cathedral domes, palace façades, and whimsical shop signs, with bridges over the swath of the Neva River and numerous canals connecting the islands to the mainland. I had never seen anything like it. Straining my eyes toward the city from the deck of my ship, I was overcome by awe. Nixa had described it to me, but to see it thus, in person, made me feel as if I’d come upon a strange and wondrous place, a vision of paradise.

  I was not allowed to disembark. Instead, the tsar and tsarina, along with my betrothed, Sasha, and his brothers, Grand Dukes Vladimir, Alexis, Sergei, and young Paul, as well as his sister, precocious Grand Duchess Marie, came on board my ship to welcome Freddie and me. To my astonishment, the tsar himself presented me with a common pewter platter of bread and salt—Russia’s traditional welcome—even as immense fireworks exploded over the harbor, turning the night sky into a glittering fiery firmament.

  The following day, escorted by Hussars on horseback, my brother and I were taken through the city in open carriages, the populace cheering and falling to their knees when the tsar passed, as if he were a god. Their cries of “God save the tsar!” roared over us; to me, it was evidence of the deep love that Russians bore for their rulers. Yet the tsarina turned to me in our carriage and said, “For the people, your arrival is a good omen. You’ve come to us in the month of the Feast of the Cross, when St. Andrew’s cross fell from the sky.”

  I smiled warily. It sounded like superstition to me, and I’d been raised a Lutheran, a faith that didn’t traffic in idolatry. Yet I wanted to see more, to explore this magnificent city. To my disappointment, we returned to the harbor directly after our procession, boarding the luxurious imperial yacht Alexandria, which had anchored overnight by my ship.

  Sailing the gulf of the Baltic Sea bordering the city, we were brought to the tsar’s summer estate of Peterhof, an imposing collection of palaces built on a high bluff by the shoreline. I couldn’t fathom the size of it, with its immense stately formal gardens and variety of cascading fountains. While the main palace itself was in fact not that large—only thirty rooms—to me it was as if all of Denmark might fit into its frescoed dining hall.

  Departing Peterhof, we went farther inland by private train to the sumptuous ice-blue and gold Catherine Palace in the village of Tsarskoe Selo, another extravagant imperial summer retreat, enclosed by gardens of placid beauty. Here, we tarried for six days. By now I was exhausted, in desperate need of respite, my mind a whirl of impressions and tangled emotions. I felt dwarfed by the grandeur of my surroundings, by the realization that I’d come to a land whose wealth far surpassed anything I had known, but I was even more disquieted by my impression that as delighted as the tsar and tsarina were at my arrival, Sasha was not.

  He had barely said a word to me. His voluble brother Vladimir made up for his taciturnity, taking me on a dizzying tour of the Catherine Palace and adjacent Alexander Palace, comprised of vast marble staterooms, painted chambers, and salons. Vladimir took pride in showing me the ostentatious suite of formal rooms known as the Golden Enfilade, including a breathtaking ballroom dripping in gold baroque tracery and crystal chandeliers.

  In the Amber Room, I paused in amazement. Faced entirely with sculpted amber panels backed with mirrors and gold leaf, the chamber emanated a preternatural saffron glow. As I struggled to imagine the years of cost and craftsmanship required to construct such a marvel, tentatively touching a translucent panel surmounted by a stucco angel bathed in gold, Vladimir said, “This room was a gift to Peter the Great from the Prussian king Frederick William I. It was originally made for the Berlin City Palace, but Peter so admired it, the king offered it as part of their alliance. Peter’s daughter Empress Elizabeth had it installed here. It’s been expanded over the years. There are now over six tonnes of amber in this room.”

  “But doesn’t amber chip easily?” I said. “How did the artisans create this?”

  “Heated carefully in an oil b
ath, amber becomes flexible,” said Vladimir. “Pieces of it can be joined by coating the surfaces with linseed oil, heating them, and then pressing them together while hot.” He laughed. “We Romanovs spare no expense. If you think this is impressive, just wait until you see our Winter Palace in St. Petersburg.”

  I whispered, “This must be what Versailles looks like.” It was the only palace I knew of to compare; I’d heard plenty of stories about the French Sun King’s legendary abode.

  Trailing behind us, his boots striking echoes upon the inlaid marquetry floor, Sasha muttered, “See this?” and when I turned to him, surprised, he lifted his fist. “In here,” he said, “in this simple Russian hand, I could bend all of Versailles like a horseshoe.”

  “Oh?” I was so pleased to hear him speak, it hardly mattered what he said. “Now that, I’d like to see.”

  Vladimir laughed. “Do not tempt him. He’ll do it.”

  That very night during the state dinner, Sasha took up a silver table platter before the court, and with an unblinking stare at me, he twisted it like putty in his fingers. Tossing the crumpled platter aside, he declared, “Thus has Russia nothing to envy of any land.”

  “He wants to impress you,” said Vladimir, when he escorted me onto the dance floor. “He fears you’ll find him a poor substitute for Nixa.”

  I made no response, though I found it disconcerting that Sasha believed displaying his muscle in public would incite my affection. Resisting a pang of overwhelming homesickness as I thought about wedding a man capable of such an act, I gave myself over to the exhilaration of the dance. Here, I could excel. I’d practiced so much, I was scarcely out of breath after two quadrilles and my favorite, the sprightly Polish mazurka.

  “You’ll win Russian hearts everywhere by dancing like this,” Vladimir breathed, perspiration beading his flushed face. “To know how to dance in Russia is a feat one should never underestimate. It would appear Denmark has nothing to envy, either.”

  I found myself thinking it was a shame he wasn’t my bridegroom, for Sasha sat out all the dances, beating his palms on his thighs and stomping his feet to the music but making no effort to accompany me.

  The next day, we returned by private train to St. Petersburg.

  In open landaus, we rode down the wide Nevsky Prospekt thoroughfare to the Winter Palace. Crowds again crammed the route—cheering, doffing their caps as they caught sight of us. At my side, Sasha sat quiet, looking trimmer in his blue Imperial Guard’s uniform, his wispy mustache detracting from his stony jaw, his slightly protuberant blue-gray eyes reserved, as though the panoply around us was a tedium he must endure.

  As our carriages swept through the Narva Gate, which commemorated Russia’s victory over Napoleon, and into the vast Palace Square, dominated at its center by the red granite Alexander I obelisk, my breath caught in my throat.

  Directly before me reared the Winter Palace.

  Girding the river embankment, the palace stretched as far as my eyes could see—a colossus of vibrant vermilion, punctuated by white and gold-crowned pilasters. As the sun gathered strength, it blazed upon the palace, turning the enormous white-framed oblong windows into reflective pools. I shielded my eyes, gazing up at the roofline bristling with bronze statues. It should have seemed overwrought, a baroque monstrosity; yet it was somehow almost airy, like something out of a fairy tale.

  “Over a thousand rooms,” Sasha said.

  I started, turning to him. “How does anyone ever find anyone else?”

  “They manage. We’ll not live here. After we wed, we’ll reside in the Anichkov Palace. It is nearby but not too near. I prefer to keep my distance from the court.”

  My smile felt tepid on my lips. Did he mean to reassure me?

  To the blare of heralds trumpeting on gold bugles, we entered the palace. Inside, it was even more daunting: endless alabaster halls lined in mirrors, galleries populated by thickets of lapis lazuli, onyx, and malachite pillars, and tiered staircases made of slippery whipped-cream marble that were difficult to climb in my heavy wool skirts.

  Sophie hastened behind me, with Beauty tugging at her leash. Suddenly, at the top of a stairway, the group divided. The men turned one way while the women, headed by the tsarina, whisked me into the labyrinthine west wing, into a suite of apartments of red brocade, with upholstered chairs and settees, gilded bureaus and tables, and a canopied bed large enough to sleep ten. I could only stare at it, recalling how in winter, Alix and I had doubled up at night on one of our rickety cots, stuffing wool in the window crevices to stanch the drafts.

  The tsarina remained with me while her ladies vanished into an antechamber. I stood limp, perspiration sliding under my ankle-length coat. Somehow, my belongings were here, stacked in a corner. That pathetic collection of trunks resembled a bedraggled anthill compared to the excess I’d just seen. It made me feel like a supplicant; without warning, I had to bite back a mortifying onslaught of tears.

  Beauty barked, her moist dark eyes fixed on me, her tongue lolling out.

  “She’s thirsty,” I said to Sophie, who appeared as bewildered as I was. “She hasn’t had anything to drink in hours.”

  “Eau pour le chien,” ordered the empress. One of the women in the antechamber entered moments later with a basin, which she set before my spaniel. My dog lapped it up, dripping water onto the lush red carpet.

  “You too must be thirsty and tired,” said the tsarina. Her acknowledgment of my discomfort, uttered in a soft voice, brought the tears brimming to my eyes. Blinking through a watery haze, I whispered, “I…I don’t know what to do, Majesty.”

  “Oh, no.” She came to me. “No ‘Majesty’ here. Just Maria.” She took me in her arms, pressing her cool hand at my nape. As I set my head against her bony shoulder, I felt the absence of my own mother so much that a stifled sob escaped me.

  Removing a handkerchief from her skirt pocket, she dabbed my cheeks. “There, now. If you like, we’ll visit him tomorrow. We will go together to pay our respects.”

  She had misinterpreted my sorrow. She thought I wept for Nixa, when to my shame I’d scarcely thought of him, missing my home more than I’d imagined possible.

  I nodded. “Yes. I would like to…see him.”

  “He’s across the river in the fortress, in the Cathedral of Saints Peter and Paul.” Her hand slipped from my neck to clutch mine, her fingers icy now, as if the mention of his grave had leached all the warmth from her body. Although her voice trembled, I detected a hint of steel within it. “You’ll adjust in time. It’s never easy at first, coming to this land, but we adjust, my child. We must. Do not let yourself be overwhelmed. You are a Romanov now. You must accept your role and embrace it. There is no other way to survive.”

  She released me. “I’ll see that you’re properly attended. You’ve much to prepare for in the coming days: your conversion to our faith, your trousseau, and the marriage itself.” She drew away with a wan smile. “I know you’ll surprise us all.”

  As the tsarina moved into the antechamber, Sophie hurried to assist me. My fingers were numb inside my gloves as I tried to unbutton my coat, though the room—indeed, the entire palace—was stifling, heated by an immense tiled pechka in the corner: the ingenious Russian stove, mounted on clawed feet and blasting warmth like a demonic kiln. I felt as if I’d suffocate if I didn’t divest myself immediately of extra layers.

  A trim youthful woman with auburn hair and an arresting, if not beautiful, face entered the room. She curtsied. “I am Alexandra Apraxine, Princess Obolensky. My husband the prince is head steward of His Imperial Highness’s household. I will serve as your chief lady-in-waiting.” She smiled. “If it pleases Your Highness, you may call me Tania in private.”

  I sighed in relief at her unexpected informality. “And you must call me Minnie.”

  “Minnie,” she said carefully, as the name was unfamiliar to her. Then sh
e helped Sophie relieve me of my coat, hat, gloves, and muff and proceeded to unpack my luggage as I sat upon one of the uncomfortable red brocade chairs and watched her lips purse when she smoothed out my wrinkled linens.

  “I’m afraid my lace isn’t as fine as what you must have here,” I ventured. In fact, I almost said, nothing I’d brought—save for my Parisian gowns, packed in their satin-lined boxes—must be as fine as anything they had here.

  “No matter,” said Tania. “His Imperial Majesty has seen to it already. It is customary for the tsar to provide a trousseau for his daughter-in-law. It only awaits your inspection.”

  “Today?” I couldn’t bear to face more evidence of my family’s penury.

  “Tomorrow afternoon, after your visit to the Peter and Paul Fortress with Her Majesty,” she said. She instructed Sophie on the proper storing of my things, though at this point I thought they might as well throw away everything except my Worth dresses.

  Tugging Beauty onto my lap, I buried my face in her fur. She smelled of the cold outside and the linseed oil permeating the palace woodwork. I tried in vain to find the scent of home upon her, to capture it in my memory, overcome by fear that I’d forget too soon.

  But while she was something alive of Denmark, she now smelled only of Russia.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It was a simple tomb before the lavish iconostasis—a white marble sarcophagus, fenced by grillwork, with his name and dates etched on a plaque on the railing, the sarcophagus itself adorned with the curious triple-barred Orthodox cross in gold.