The Romanov Empress

by C. W. Gortner

  “Only to hear what is said,” Miechen explained, taking in my silence. “He doesn’t condone it; you know how he despises all that absurd mysticism. But it seems that this time, Constantine is doing more than having his cards read. Need I say more?”

  “No.” I sipped my tea. It had gone tepid and tasted bitter. “It is treason to speak of such things. Vladimir would be wise to avoid Constantine’s gatherings henceforth.”

  “I advised him as much. But there we have it. The tsar’s own brother plots against him. Should he go through with her coronation, well, he cannot say he wasn’t warned.”

  I set my cup down with a hard clink on the saucer. “Has he been warned?” It had gone too far. Gossip was one thing, and to be honest, I’d missed it, but this was another thing altogether. This was dangerous.

  “I would assume so,” she said. “But if he hasn’t, he certainly will be now. Won’t he?”

  Miechen meant it as an offering. My banishment, as she knew, was neither my doing nor my wish. I didn’t approve of my father-in-law’s actions, but I had my own position to consider, and wilting away on this island did not serve it. Or her. She needed her friendly rival back at court. Otherwise, with whom could she hope to compete?

  She left, satiated on gossip and prodding me to action, and I returned to my sitting room to stare toward the river. I heard my children with their nanny in the garden. A horde of mosquitoes flittered over the embankment. We could not stay here through September. As lovely and safe as this palace was, Miechen was right: The seclusion was unhealthy.

  By the time Sasha and I sat down to dinner that evening, I had decided. We would return to our home in the Anichkov.

  And I would petition to see the tsar.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Alexander kept me waiting throughout the autumn. Obeying the implicit ban from court during the Season, I attended society nevertheless, including a costume party held at Vladimir’s palace, where Miechen generously had everyone line up to greet me. Wherever I went, I was warmly received, more so than I may have been had my circumstances been less sympathetic. In turn, Princess Yurievskaya was widely disparaged as a brazen adventuress and the tsar mocked for his infatuation. I did not participate in the criticism—she was his wife, after all, and he was the grandfather of my children—but I welcomed the commiseration. Word of my return to society would reach the palace, leaving Alexander with no alternative other than to receive me or make clear that he intended to disinherit Sasha.

  This possibility plagued me. The succession had been altered before, albeit violently. Peter the Great had put his own son to death. Catherine the Great had deposed her husband, Peter III, who was later murdered. I didn’t fear that the tsar would ever physically harm my husband, but disinheritance was almost as ruinous, and Alexander’s wrath had not cooled. Times past, he’d have answered my request at once. In fact, before now there wouldn’t have been any need for such a request, for his door had always stood open to family. Now he only saw those who showed his wife respect.

  Swallowing my pride, for Epiphany I sent Catherine a beautiful set of blue river pearls that the late tsarina had bequeathed to me. Knowing Sasha would be enraged if he found out, I made certain he did not, replacing the pearls with an identical copy crafted by the esteemed jeweler Gustav Fabergé, whose discretion equaled his artistry.

  My gift thawed the tsar. He summoned me after the New Year gala, where he inaugurated 1881 by performing the polonaise with Catherine before the court.

  As I entered his study, I glanced at the empty upholstered cushion by his desk, where Milord always slept. Before I could ask, he said, “He died.”

  “I’m so sorry, Majesty,” I said. “He was a magnificent dog.”

  “And a loyal friend, which is rare.” Alexander stepped from his desk and the cushion, which still had red fur on it. “I had him buried in the pet cemetery at the Catherine Palace. He deserved as much.”

  I nodded, my gloves clutched in my hands. I didn’t assume familiarity, not taking a seat until he waved me to a chair. He paced to the window overlooking the quadrangle; his study faced inward, which he must have disliked. Inward had become his entire life, without his daily strolls, with the Nihilists fomenting trouble, and his second marriage the source of widespread discontent.

  “You wished to see me,” he said at length. He wasn’t about to make this any easier.

  “I did. I wished to speak to you about…” My voice faltered. Now that I was here, I didn’t know how to formulate the words required to spare my husband further disgrace.

  “Minnie,” he said, and while his voice held no tenderness, there was no recrimination, either. “We both know why you are here. This isn’t something you can manage with a firm hand. Sasha will never forgive me; it is not in his nature. I would have to annul the marriage, send her and the children away. And that, I cannot do.”

  “I know.” For I did. I realized now what so few cared to see. He was in love. His passion for the tsarina had evaporated, no doubt due to their losses, her illness and distancing from Russia, the monotony of the years together. Catherine had stoked that passion anew. To fight him would not only be futile but also self-defeating.

  “You might know,” he said, “but Sasha does not. Or if he does, he doesn’t care. My happiness means nothing to him.” He walked toward me, with a slight limp. When I expressed concern, he shook his head. “I was playing with the children and tripped. A father’s mishap.”

  Had he ever played with Sasha or his other sons? I doubted it. Judging by what Sasha had described to me, his childhood had been austere, which was why he sought to impose the same on our sons. It was what he and his brothers had been taught.

  “Constantine plots against you,” I blurted out. I hadn’t planned on it, not so soon. I’d meant to plead Sasha’s case first, establish his restoration before setting him and the tsar together to curtail Constantine’s machinations.

  “Naturally.” Alexander gave me a weary look. “They all plot, to one extent or another. They think I’m weak and seek to exploit it. But if they succeed, the throne they’ll inherit will not be the one I occupied.”

  I heard the threat in his words and must have shown it on my face, for he rubbed at his mustachios in silence before he said, “The time has come. I’ve prepared a manifesto for constitutional assembly.”

  I sat still, the reality of what Sasha had long feared and railed against now upon me. Alexander returned to his desk to lift a sheet of paper. “My Catherine brought me to it. This empire cannot continue as it is, a playground for the privileged few. The people must have their say. And I will give it to them. We will still rule, only not as before. There must be a Duma of elected representatives and gradual curtailing of our autocracy. It will take time, and no doubt there’ll be much dissent, your husband chief among it. But as I am tsar, Russia will have a constitution, because it is what we must do to survive.”

  I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even speak. It was a declaration of war against his own family; I trembled to imagine the repercussions of this act.

  “Do you disapprove?” he asked.

  To my surprise, I heard myself whisper, “No.”

  “I should think not. Your native country has a constitution, as do most monarchies in Europe. Even Queen Victoria and the kaiser answer to parliaments. Only here do we act as though Mongol hordes might break through our defenses and ravage our God-given right to do as we please. We’ve learned very little from history. We should have taken note of the harsh lessons imparted by the French and the Americans. When the people are denied a say in how they should be governed, they will fight, with violence if need be. Rulers can be removed. Louis XVI was guillotined. President Lincoln was assassinated. In the end, we are mortal.”

  “It is…” I met his steadfast eyes. “An honorable aspiration, Majesty.” I didn’t mention that President Lincoln’s murder had
come about from a civil war that tore America asunder, for I understood his meaning. Even a wise ruler could be brought down.

  “Ah.” He smiled. “There she is, at last. My Minnie. You know I speak the truth. You’ve seen the suffering through your work at the Red Cross. You were in this very palace when they tried to blow us apart in the hall. Their logic is crude and methods savage, but their reasons…If one has eyes and ears, one cannot fail to understand. It has taken me much soul-searching to comprehend it, but my Catherine isn’t one of us. She understands completely. If I could,” he added, “I would abdicate. But Russia isn’t ready for such drastic change. It must be done slowly, in stages. We must lead her unsuspecting—”

  “Like a bull to the pen,” I said softly.

  He chuckled. “Like a chained bear out of the pit, to be more precise.”

  We remained quiet for a moment. Then I said, “You must tell Sasha.” I came to my feet. Now that he’d made his intention clear, I couldn’t vacillate. “He must know before you issue any public announcement. He is the tsarevich. If you do not tell him first, he’ll take it as the gravest of insults. He deserves as much,” I echoed deliberately.

  Alexander frowned. “I’m in no mood for another dinner where he throws dirt at me.”

  “A luncheon,” I said. “Let me arrange it. You can come on a Sunday after mass to our Anichkov and tell him then. If there’s to be any disagreement, let it happen in private.”

  “Oh, there’ll most certainly be disagreement.” His frown deepened. “I’ll not be dissuaded, no matter what he says. I warn you now, Minnie. I’ll see him, Constantine, and any other who dares oppose me thrown into the fortress or exiled.”

  I nodded. “I understand.” Sasha would not, but he must be told, regardless.

  “I’m due to leave for the Crimea,” said Alexander. “I return in March. Schedule your luncheon then. And, Minnie,” he added, as I turned to the door, “not a word of this to Sasha. Let me be the one to inform him. If he has something to say, he can say it first—to me.”

  * * *

  I’D HIDDEN MY knowledge of the tsar’s mistress from Sasha. I had not liked it, but I had done it for the sake of harmony within the family. But hiding this secret felt like my own infidelity; it seemed to always be lurking on the tip of my tongue, burning a hole in my mouth. To ease my conscience, I admitted over breakfast that I’d gone to see his father.

  “Did you think I was unaware?” he said. “Nothing gets past the gossipmongers at court. You hadn’t yet departed his study and word already reached me.” He turned over his newspaper, waving to his longtime valet, Ivan, to pour more tea. “Well? What did he say? Must I abase myself, crawl on my knees, and kiss his harlot’s hand in the Nicholas Hall?”

  “He realizes he made a mistake.” I busied myself with spreading jam on my scone to evade his stare. “He knows it was too sudden. Ill-timed. He hopes for reconciliation. He doesn’t want to be at odds with you. He—” I raised my voice slightly. “He understands how difficult this has been and agrees to discuss his plans with you when he returns from the Crimea.”

  I felt breathless, poised on the edge of a chasm. Behind us, Ivan stood immobile. When I glanced at him, he slipped away.

  “So.” Sasha took up his cup. “He hopes for reconciliation. He doesn’t want to be at odds. He has plans he wishes to discuss. Such as…?”

  “I do not know. He didn’t tell me.” Never again, I vowed. Never again would I lie to him. It was a terrible deception, as if I baited a trap.

  “He didn’t tell you because he has no plans other than to crown her as empress and live with her in sin.” Sasha returned to his newspaper, his expression impassive.

  “But you will see him?” I said. “You’ll not be discourteous?”

  He didn’t look up. “The discourtesy is his. And, yes, I will see him. Providing he comes here to me.”

  * * *

  FEBRUARY THAWED INTO March. A late snowfall powdered the city. I prepared for the luncheon, which was scheduled for Sunday the thirteenth and arranged via the tsar’s private secretary. Following mass, Alexander would make his habitual inspection of the Imperial Riding Academy. Afterward, he’d let it be known that he would visit his brother Mikhail. In truth, they’d both come to the Anichkov. To bolster the ruse, I invited my Mikhailovich nephews to go skating with my sons and purchased new skates for the occasion, giving the tsar the perfect excuse to arrive with his brother, ostensibly to fetch the boys. Instead, I’d invite them to stay for lunch.

  On the scheduled day, I dressed in my fitted sable jacket and tilted cap, a calf-length skirt of blue velvet and red leather skating boots. I then went to check that Nicky and George were changing, tucking a scarf around two-year-old Misha’s throat, for he had a cold, and soothing five-year-old Xenia, who cried that she wanted to go skating with us.

  “But you don’t know how to skate yet, darling,” I said, wiping her tears as Mrs. Franklin looked on with tight-lipped reserve. She was an excellent nanny, but she disapproved of coddling. She’d decreed that children should be left to cry so they would learn that tears resolve nothing, until I retorted, “In this house, tears do,” silencing her.

  “Come downstairs as soon as you lace up those boots,” I told Nicky and George, who were, as usual, prolonging the process by competing to see who could do it faster.

  In the sitting room, Sasha sat writing at my marcasite-inlaid desk. I always found it amusing to see him hunched over it like a giant, too big for the chair; he had his own desk in his own study, but it was warmer in my sitting room, as I kept the stove lit, while his study was an ice chest because he refused to waste heat.

  “We’re going skating,” I reminded him.

  “For how long?” he asked, chewing at his pen.

  “Until your father arrives, I suppose.” I kissed his grizzled cheek. He’d grown out his beard again; as he began his thirty-seventh year, he’d lost most of the hair on his head and decided the beard made him resemble an “authentic Russian,” as he termed it, but the bristly growth scratched my lips. I nipped at his ear instead and said, “You should shave.”

  “No,” he replied, and I went down into the foyer to wait for my boys. As I stood there while Sophie unwrapped the boxes of new skates, I looked out the side window. Snow was drifting down, light but constant. Would it cause a cancellation? If so, where would it leave us? The only thing I dreaded more was the delivery of the court circular later in the week, with the announcement of the manifesto authorizing a Duma. Sasha would fly into a rage, and nothing I did would stave off a pitched battle between my husband and his father.

  Nicky and George came whooping down the stairs. As I turned to them with a stern look—for Sasha had told them time and time again not to race down the staircase like drunken Cossacks—a distant thud was heard. The boys didn’t notice it, grabbing at their new skates, but Sophie did. She lifted her eyes to me. Moments later, Sasha emerged from my sitting room. “A gun salute at this hour?”

  Before I could reply, another boom sounded, much louder this time—and so strong it rattled the windows. I heard glass crack in the drawing room, which faced the Prospekt.

  Sasha met my eyes. He reached for my hand.

  “No,” I whispered as he pulled me to the door. He wrenched the door open. We looked out; in the snow-speckled distance, a cloud of black smoke lingered.

  “Bring our troika at once,” Sasha said. Sophie started to her feet. The boys, bewildered, dropped their skates in a clatter to the foyer’s marble floor. I tried to smile at them, but my heart was pounding so fast, I felt ill.

  Our sleigh, harnessed to two horses, was brought up outside our gates. “Fool,” yelled Sasha at the stable boy. “The carriage, I said. Bring the carriage.”

  “You said the troika,” I whispered.

  He turned to me. “Did I?”

  I nodded.

  “
Aren’t we going skating, Mama?” asked George. I shook my head at him. Nicky had gone pale, as if he already knew what no one could say.

  “God in heaven.” Sasha stalked outside. “How long does it take to do my bidding?” He hadn’t yet turned the corner to the stables in the back when a jangling of harnesses preceded the carriage drawing up to the gates. I told Sophie, “Fetch his coat,” for my husband stood bareheaded in his shirt under the falling snow, staring at the carriage as if he’d forgotten why he’d called for it. After Sophie handed me his greatcoat and astrakhan hat, I gestured at the boys. “Come.”

  Nicky took my hand, but George inched back. Sophie said, “I’ll look after him, Your Highness. Go. His Highness is waiting.”

  With Nicky clasping my hand, I joined Sasha, who thrust on his coat and hat as we clambered into the carriage.

  “The palace,” he said to the coachman.

  * * *

  —

  WE SWEPT ALONG the road beside the Catherine Canal. Nicky leaned against me; I felt him shivering. I wrapped my arms around him, pulling the fur blanket over our legs when Sasha gave an alarmed intake of breath. Looking out, I caught sight of people crossing themselves, as policemen tried to detain them from dipping cloths into a crimson pool soaking the trampled snow. An overturned sleigh and dismembered horse still in its harness, its intestines spilling out, sprawled a short distance away. Dark-red smears, black in the dim light, streamed ahead of us, like bleeding grooves cut by blades.

  “Don’t look.” I covered Nicky’s eyes as he tried to lift his head.

  As the carriage turned into the palace’s back entrance, where the smears led, it came to a jarring halt. Sasha yanked open the door to glare at the Preobrazhensky regiment, of which he was the colonel, blocking our passage with their bayonets.