The Romanov Empress

by C. W. Gortner

I inquired of a breeder. A week later, the squirming white-haired pup was delivered. Nicky was beside himself. He named her Juno, taking her everywhere with him, training her patiently and chiding her whenever she urinated on the carpet. Soon enough, he, George, and Misha were trying to turn Juno into a soldier for their games, strapping a battered shield to her back and marching her about. To my amusement, they also tried in vain to curtail her pouncing after the hares who loped across our gardens, but she caught a few anyway. I had them skinned and served for supper, telling them it was in her nature to hunt.

  Our first Easter as emperor and empress was a quiet affair, coming as it did so soon after Alexander’s death. Sasha canceled any official celebration in deference to our mourning and did not come back to Gatchina to spend it with us. But once he did return weeks later, tired and eager to see us, I was surprised by the noticeable change in him. With his beard fully grown now, he’d taken to wearing his baggy trousers tucked into his scuffed boots, his loose shirt, and shapeless jacket in public, eschewing the formal attire of his rank. When I asked him whether it was fitting for the emperor to go about thus, he told me it was more comfortable for him, and as the emperor, he could wear whatever he liked.

  “Besides, the people like it,” he said. “They call me the Moujik Tsar, the Little Father who dresses like a serf. They see me as someone like them, and that’s how I want it.”

  I rolled my eyes at the motto, as he swooped in on the children, bellowing laughter when Juno leapt up to paw him and Nicky went white, rushing forth to restrain her.

  Sasha gave me a look. “You disobeyed me, Manja. A borzoi now resides in our house.”

  “We needed a pet,” I replied. “Had you been here, you might have been consulted.”

  I was prepared to defend my decision, as Nicky looked about to burst into tears at the mere intimation that Sasha disapproved, but my husband only gave me a sly grin.

  “I doubt that,” he said. “But since we didn’t have a proper Easter, I’ve ordered a special gift for you.”

  Hard-boiled painted eggs were the traditional Russian gift for the holy season; on the morning months later when the package arrived, Sasha stood beside me with a satisfied look as I unraveled the perfumed tissues to expose a plain white enamel egg.

  “How charming,” I said, although it had no adornment, nothing on its exterior to mark it as anything other than a simple reproduction of the traditional.

  Sasha chuckled. “I had it made by Fabergé. Here.” He leaned over to click open the upper half of the egg. It lifted like a lid; inside, to my astonished delight, gleamed a yolk made entirely of gold. Nestled upon it was a gold hen with rubies for eyes.

  I laughed in surprise. “Like the matryoshka doll, everything nested inside one another!”

  “There’s more,” he said. “Open the hen.”

  Carefully, as it was so small and delicate, I eased apart the barely visible seam on the hen’s midsection; within rested a diamond-encrusted replica of our royal crown. Looking at Sasha, who nodded, I nudged the crown open with my fingertip. George, Nicky, Misha, and Xenia crowded around me in awe as, via an unseen mechanism, a miniature painted rendition of Gatchina emerged, surmounted by tiny pearl-framed cameos of them.

  Tears flooded my eyes. Holding the contraption like a jeweled bird in my palms, its open shell unfurled about it, I whispered, “It’s a piece of heaven.”

  “My Manja is my heaven,” Sasha said thickly.

  The egg took pride of place in our curio cabinet, so widely admired by other family members that Fabergé was soon inundated with requests. It would become an annual Easter tradition among us. The handmade eggs were extremely costly, requiring a year or more of meticulous labor, and none ever surpassed those commissioned for me by my husband, for no one dared to spend what he did. Not even Miechen was bold enough to outdo him.

  His other gifts were equally lavish: rubies and sapphires, ropes of cherry-sized pearls, brooches, earrings, and bracelets of pink diamonds set in white gold.

  “Do you like your new emeralds, my Manja?” he murmured, his great body pressing against mine and creaking our entire bedstead. “You should wear them at our next reception.”

  “Here?” I eyed him. “In this dungeon? With you dressed like a peasant? Don’t you think it would be more in keeping if I donned a kerchief and apron instead?”

  He pouted. “It won’t be forever.”

  “When exactly does forever end?” I sat upright, plumping my pillows. “It’s been six months. The Season is upon us. Whatever shall we do out here? Bring our guests by train?”

  I meant it flippantly, but after a moment he said, “Why not? Refurbish the palace to your liking. Hold a gala and bring them here. They should come wherever we are.”

  I stared at him. “Are you serious?”

  “Utterly.” He snaked his heavy arm about my waist, wrenching me down against him. “It’s been too long,” he said, nuzzling my throat as I halfheartedly fended him off. “My Manja smells of French perfume and I want to lick her.”

  “You hate everything French.” I pushed at his chest. “No French paintings in our apartments. Only Russian art. No French spoken at the table. Only Russian. You have our poor children at their books night and day, trying to master the language.”

  He growled, “They must know they are Russian. There’s no dishonor in it.”

  “There is not.” I put my hands on his bearded cheeks, looking into his blue-gray eyes, which, although the same hue, were nothing like Alexander’s. He’d not expressed any sentiment over his father’s death, but I now knew everything he’d done since taking the throne had been to avenge Alexander and defend us. “I want to return to our Anichkov, Sasha. I miss our home. I miss our life in St. Petersburg. We were so happy there.”

  “Are you not happy now?” A forlorn expression crept over his face.

  “Always, with you. But I could be happier.”

  He went quiet. Then he said, “The Okhrana tells me those malcontents are now either fleeing in droves or rotting in one of my prisons.”

  “So we are safe? We can go back?”

  “We are never safe. But how can I refuse you? We’ll reopen the Anichkov and reside there for the next Season,” and as I gasped, throwing myself at him, covering him in kisses, he chuckled low in his throat. “But first, my Manja must give something in return.”

  I stopped kissing him, feeling his hand on my thighs, nudging up my nightdress. “Only that?” I murmured. “So easily satisfied is our Moujik Tsar?”

  “Never satisfied.” He slid his hand up farther. “But for the moment it will suffice.”

  That night, in our gloomy room with the vaulted plaster ceiling so low he could reach up and touch it, we conceived our last child.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Despite my pregnancy and all my other duties, I undertook Gatchina’s refurbishment. The following September, I inaugurated the palace with a splendid ball, the newly gilded halls resplendent with hothouse flowers imported from the Crimea and full of my bejeweled guests, all brought by private trains from St. Petersburg.

  “Why, Minnie. How fit you are, and so soon after giving birth to your little Olga,” declared Miechen, as she contemplated me in my pink silk gown with its fashionably square décolletage, the narrow layered skirts with ruffled mauve scalloping under the bustle, and a spray of pink diamond butterflies with emerald antennae poised in my coiffure. She herself was magnificently dressed as ever in French black satin; unlike me, the birth in January of her fourth child, her sole daughter, Elena, had exacerbated her naturally plump figure, though she carried the extra weight with her habitual defiance.

  “Olga was born three months ago,” I reminded her. “I barely gained an ounce. She’s small-boned, like me.” I laughed. “Though her face is entirely her father’s.”

  “Well.” Miechen’s avaricious gaze roved o
ver the splendid tapestry collection assembled by Tsar Paul I’s empress, which I’d taken out of storage to display. “And you’ve done such wonders with this old place. I thought you’d perish of boredom here.”

  “It’s a royal residence. Alexander used it for hunting expeditions. I’ve grown fond of it.”

  “Are you hunting?” she asked, with a surprised look. “I thought you loved all of God’s creatures. Did you not establish that society to defend the animals?”

  “Miechen, you know very well that hunting is not the same. And, yes, I’ve learned to shoot. Grouse and partridge, mostly. I also like to fish. Our Silver Lake here yields splendid trout. And, of course, we have ample grounds on the estate; the children love to run about.”

  She trilled laughter. “You’ve become a proper hausfrau, Minnie. To hear you speak, one would think you do not miss St. Petersburg at all.”

  I heard the barb in her mirth. I wasn’t so isolated that I didn’t know of her glorious receptions at her ever-expanding palace, where, in my absence, she’d set out to eclipse the court as the center of entertainment. Vladimir had benefited from Sasha’s elevation; my husband had always relied on his younger brother, and Miechen reaped the rewards, for without an empress in the city to flock to, everyone flocked to her.

  I took her by her arm, her wrists laden with diamond bracelets over her long gloves. “We’re returning to the city for the Season.”

  She almost came to a halt. “So soon?”

  “Sasha says it is safe enough. He has set the Nihilists on the run and agrees that we can live in the capital again for limited periods. But not the Winter Palace,” I said. “Only for state occasions. He won’t reside there on a permanent basis.”

  “He certainly has shown his teeth. To resist him is to invite arrest by the Okhrana and transport to the gallows or Siberia, from which none ever return.” She spoke in the same offhanded manner she always did when imparting news that she hoped would disturb me. “We hear that any universities known for radical leanings are put under surveillance, fined, or shut down. Some dare to say our Moujik Tsar is becoming a tyrant.”

  “Do they?” I refused to show her any disquiet. “Such as whom?”

  “Oh, the usual assortment of shabby intellectuals and journalists,” she replied airily, pausing to examine a pair of old thrones I’d unearthed from Gatchina’s basement and ordered regilded. “Are these antiques? How lovely. Anyway, many are choosing to live abroad. They claim freedom of expression is now a liability in Russia.”

  “A pity.” I resisted a smile when I saw her eyes widen at the extraordinary miniature clocks once owned by Peter the Great, now displayed in glass cabinets. “They must not be aware that their Moujik Tsar is also funding exhibitions for Russian artists and sponsoring trade investments in our industries, which, as you know, lag far behind those of Europe.”

  She gave me an amused glance. “Yes, all those quaint paintings of peasants and street bazaars now hang in the Hermitage. One can only wonder what he will do next. Be that as it may…well, I wouldn’t wish to alarm you.”

  “Alarm me?” I regarded her. “How so?”

  “They’re not all dead, Minnie. He may have set the Nihilists on the run or forced them underground, but they’re still a menace. Their pamphlets and circulars, while considerably reduced, can still be found, if one cares to search.”

  At this, I couldn’t curb the censure from my voice. “Do you search?”

  “Me? Why would I? But one hears things. Unless one isn’t in St. Petersburg, that is.”

  I released her arm as we neared the gaslit hall, where the guests formed in rows to greet me. “Then it’s the perfect time for us to return,” I said, sweeping forward and leaving her standing there. “The tsar and tsarina should hear everything their subjects say.”

  * * *

  I WAS OVERJOYED to be back in St. Petersburg, ordering my maids to whisk off the dust tarps, open every window, and scrub every floor. The Anichkov hadn’t changed inside, but outside an entire block had been demolished to build a new high wall and underground tunnel for escape.

  The children were down in the mouth at leaving Gatchina, where they enjoyed more liberties in the enclosed citadel, but soon brightened up with visits from their Mikhailovich cousins. It amused me to see seven-year-old Xenia flush whenever handsome Sandro, who was nine years older and Nicky’s best friend, came to visit. With his lean stature, dark-blue eyes, and supple mouth, Sandro was becoming a gallant youth, and he always paused to greet Xenia, telling her how pretty she looked as she gazed adoringly at him.

  It was good for my children to spend time with others their age, and it was good for me to be in society—accessible and eager to dine, to attend the opera, ballet, and theater, and to show myself in public as the empress, bold in my disregard for the never-ending rumors of discontent, for, as Miechen had said, my husband had indeed shown his teeth. After years of absorbing Pobendonostev’s indoctrination, Sasha now reflected it outward, his autocratic stance evident in everything he undertook. He would not be a liberal tsar like his father.

  Until he caught everyone by surprise, including me.

  * * *

  WE HAD RETURNED to Gatchina. Sasha was due to depart for Moscow to prepare for our coronation, an exhaustive tradition dating back centuries and requiring endless detail. He had delayed it for almost two years, grumbling that it was a tedious and expensive affair for which he saw no use, until I reminded him that much as he might enjoy being called the Moujik Tsar, he was still the tsar, and tsars needed to be crowned. After a long morning of helping him look over the itinerary sent by his officials for his trip, he declared himself exhausted and shut himself in his study to nap on his shabby couch—he refused to let me change a thing in his rooms—while I contended with Olga’s teething pains and a new educational arrangement for Nicky. As our tsarevich, my eldest son must be taught accordingly by new tutors, and his removal from shared lessons with his brothers had roused a storm of resentment.

  “Why can’t I study with Nicky?” George complained. He was my liveliest, prone to mischief despite his delicate lungs. He imitated his tutors with uncanny accuracy, sending his brothers into peals of laughter and upsetting the dignity of whichever teacher he happened to lampoon.

  “Because Nicky is the heir,” I said. “You will continue to take your lessons from Master Heath.”

  “Heath, Heath,” cawed Popka, George’s green parrot, an ill-advised gift from his uncle Vladimir. The creature had adopted my son’s disrespect. I’d had to stifle my laughter when one afternoon Master Heath was seen fleeing the classroom, clutching at his bald head. I hadn’t realized he wore a toupee until I saw it clenched in the parrot’s talons.

  “That’s not fair. Why does he get to be the heir?” asked George.

  “Because he’s the firstborn son,” said Xenia. She was curled on the window seat with a book. She loved to read, her nose forever buried in a tome. “Stop whining, Georgie. We’ll have more fun without Nicky. He’s so serious all the time.”

  “Xenia,” I rebuked. “That’s not a nice thing to say. Nicky is serious because—”

  “ ‘He has many duties to learn,’ ” recited George, employing my exact tone of my voice and making Xenia grin. “We know, Mama. You tell us all the time.”

  “So you do listen. I’d begun to wonder. Now, I want your assignments completed. You can make fun all you like of Master Heath, but you will learn from him. Or there’ll be no supper tonight. Again.”

  Georgie scowled just like Sasha as he trudged to his desk. He was not studious.

  Once I left them, Tania intercepted me in the corridor. “Minnie,” she said, for in our household I preferred to be addressed informally, “Grand Duke Vladimir and his wife, the grand duchess, are here. I saw them to the drawing room.”

  “Now? But we had no appointment. Sasha is resting, and…” My voi
ce faded as I saw her expression. “What is it?” Panic surged in me, thinking another calamity had occurred.

  She said quickly, “They didn’t say. But the grand duke looks most displeased.”

  “Honestly. What now?” Passing a hand over my disheveled chignon—I was in my day gown, not ready to receive visitors, but Vladimir could be temperamental if kept waiting—I went downstairs in my dishabille.

  Before I could greet them, he snarled, “Did you know?” Swathed in sable, Miechen stared at me.

  “Know?” I echoed.

  “About Sasha,” spat out Vladimir. “What he has done. To us.”

  “I do not.” I now showed my annoyance. I didn’t mind that my brother-in-law continued to treat me with the familiarity he always had, but I found his manner most disagreeable.

  “She speaks the truth,” said Miechen, as if I weren’t present. “Sasha never tells her anything he doesn’t think she should know.”

  I glared at her, unable to curb my irritation.

  “He has reduced our incomes.” Vladimir yanked a crumpled circular from his cloak pocket. Purplish veins from too much drink stood out against his angry pallor as he read aloud: “By decree of His Imperial Majesty, it is hereby announced that the following alterations in—”

  “Must you?” I interrupted.

  Crushing the circular in his fist, he flung it to the floor.

  “We are hereby limited,” said Miechen, as I glanced pointedly at the ball of paper, “in who may call themselves a grand duke or duchess. Henceforth, only the sovereign’s children and grandchildren through the male bloodline may carry the title of Imperial Highness. Our incomes are to be reduced accordingly. Furthermore, no member of the imperial family may wed someone already not of the Orthodox faith, with such marriages to be absolved if undertaken without royal leave.” Her smile was glacial. “That is the gist of it, but if you like, Minnie,” she said, emphasizing my name, “you may read it for yourself. You have it right there at your feet.”