The Romanov Empress

by C. W. Gortner

  He was Russian to his marrow, but a bit of Denmark warmed his soul.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “Someone has lost her petticoat.” Miechen gestured to a corner of the Nicholas Hall, populated by a jungle of potted trees and greenhouse flowers. “There, by that lilac bush.”

  When I spied the crumpled article, steps away from two grand duchesses in conversation, I clasped my hand to my mouth to stifle my giggle. “I wonder whose it is.”

  “Whomever it belongs to, I’m sure she too is now hiding behind a bush,” Miechen said, and as her mouth twitched into a smile, I burst out laughing.

  We were at the evening ball in the Winter Palace for the nuptials of Grand Duke Sergei, Sasha’s twenty-seven-year-old brother, to Princess Elisabeth of Hesse and by Rhine, one of Victoria’s many granddaughters.

  The marriage had been my doing. Sergei had grown into his youthful promise, now over six feet tall but still extremely slim, with an intensity in his person that many mistook for malice. Following the completion of his education, he’d been appointed Commander of the Preobrazhensky Life Guards, the elite regiment founded by Peter the Great, and dedicated himself to his military career with the same exemplary standard of his childhood studies. Yet to date, he had remained unwed, so I decided to remedy the situation.

  “He needs a wife,” I told Sasha. “Except for Vladimir, none of your brothers are married yet, and it’s my duty to arrange suitable matches for the family, as you have no desire to. Sergei is nearly thirty now. Do I have your permission? The widowed Grand Duke of Hesse and by Rhine has four unwed daughters by his late wife, one of whom should be suitable.”

  Sasha frowned. “Is he the same German who married one of Victoria’s daughters?”

  I was surprised that he even knew, given how little interest he showed in the affairs of his own family, besides their extravagance. “Yes. Her daughter Alice, who died of diphtheria. Victoria has practically raised her granddaughters, as Alice was one of her favorite children. I realize it won’t be easy to gain her approval.”

  “Or likely,” he said. “After my poor sister Marie’s disastrous marriage to that boor Alfred, I doubt Victoria will ever permit another of her family to wed a Romanov. And I doubt Sergei would be willing,” he added, with a scowl.

  I avoided the mention of Marie. She had fulfilled her duty, bearing five children, but her marriage had deteriorated to such a point that she’d requested a separation once her children were older, as she had inherited lands in her maternal duchy of Saxe-Coburg where she could live.

  “Whyever not?” I said instead. “Your mother was a princess of Hesse and visited Hesse-Darmstadt with Nixa and your brothers; surely Sergei must have met the princesses at some point in his childhood.”

  “I never visited Hesse-Darmstadt with my mother,” he replied stonily, “but you have my permission. It is time Sergei married. High time, indeed. I’ll not have his shame upon us.”

  I didn’t understand. Of his surviving brothers, Sergei was the most diligent, never the cause of any sordidness. The youngest brother, Grand Duke Paul, now twenty-three, had already entertained and discarded several mistresses, and older Alexis was infamous for his conquests. Only Sergei remained above reproach.

  Via envoys, Louis of Hesse and by Rhine indicated that his second daughter, Elisabeth—or Ella, as she was known in the family—was the most suitable. She was nineteen years old; moreover, she and Sergei had apparently formed an attachment despite the distance between them, after she sent him heartfelt letters of condolence following the deaths of his mother and father.

  Informed of her father’s approval and reassurance that Louis would prevail upon Victoria for her approval, Sasha summoned Sergei from his camp at Krasnoye Selo, where he lived most of the year with his regiment. I paced anxiously in my drawing room as I awaited the outcome of their meeting in Sasha’s study, anticipating his yelling as Sergei resisted.

  No sound issued from the study. When Sergei came to see me afterward, he stood like a rod in his green-and-gold uniform, one hand twisting the silver ring that had belonged to his mother, which he always wore on his little finger, and intoned, “I believe congratulations are in order, Majesty. I am to marry Princess Elisabeth of Hesse and by Rhine.”

  “Then the congratulations are for you!” I exclaimed in delight, not minding that he’d addressed me by my title, for Sergei was never anything if not formal.

  “No.” He bowed. “The congratulations belong entirely to Your Majesty.”

  He left me somewhat unnerved; I couldn’t tell if he was pleased or not. When I asked Sasha how Sergei had reacted, my husband grimaced. “He said, ‘As Your Majesty commands.’ I suggest you reserve your sympathies for the bride.”

  “I find his antipathy for Sergei unfathomable,” I confided to Miechen one afternoon shortly before Ella’s arrival, when we met for tea. While our husbands remained at odds, barely speaking to each other, we’d elected to remain friendly rivals, as sisters-in-law thrown into the gaiety and competition of the Season. “Sergei might not be as gregarious as your Vladimir, adventurous as Alexis, or accommodating as Paul, but he’s a fine young man, if a bit unaffectionate and severe in his duty.”

  Miechen snorted. “He’s not quite as unaffectionate as you imagine.”

  Of course, she had heard something. Yet to my surprise she was reluctant to impart it until I threatened to confront Sergei myself, as the wedding was upon us. “Oh, you mustn’t,” she said, more flustered than I’d ever seen her. “It’s not something you should ever mention.”

  “What should I never mention? Does he have an unsuitable mistress or a vice for the roulette?” It wouldn’t have taken me aback; all the Romanov men, with the exception of Sasha, and possibly Vladimir now, seemed compelled by some curse to make their wives suffer with their incurable penchant for ballerinas, gambling, and other indiscretions.

  “If only it were that.” Miechen inclined to me. “One of his own footmen, I’m told, and he’s been known to frequent certain public bathhouses. Sympathies for the bride, indeed. The poor girl will need them.”

  At first, I could only stare at her in confusion. Then, as her meaning sank in, I said, “Never would I have expected you to repeat such filth about a member of our family.”

  “Very well.” She drew back. “Ask Sasha, if you must.”

  She knew I wouldn’t dare. Sasha would be horrified to learn I even knew of such things, much less voiced them aloud in connection with his brother. But I remembered what he’d said to me years ago: My brother Paul has told me…things. Things I will not repeat, and I didn’t ask anything more. I didn’t want to know. I had heard of men who preferred their own; I’d not lived in St. Petersburg for as long as I had without becoming aware of the lewd undercurrent and illicit liaisons that characterized our society as much as the veneer of refinement. But Sergei—it seemed incredible to me.

  And that night during the gala after their marriage, I saw no reason to believe what Miechen had intimated. Ella was beautiful, willowy and blue-eyed, with light-brown hair, a classic oval face, and a tender mouth. Sergei seemed to visibly thaw in her presence, towering over her yet bending often to murmur in her ear, a romantic vision of what a grand duke and duchess should be.

  Now they were dancing together. Once Miechen and I exhausted our mirth over the unknown lady who’d lost her petticoat, I saw my sister-in-law’s gaze roving the hall in search of further diversion. Sasha had retired early, as he tended to do at court functions, but I was so pleased by my matchmaking that I’d decided to stay on without him, though it would fall upon me at some point to silence the orchestra and bid everyone good night.

  “Is that Nicky I see over there?” Miechen lifted her lorgnette, which was hanging by a gold chain on her ample chest. She’d grown matronly after the births of her children, but the extra weight only made her presence more commanding. “Why, it is. He
seems rather taken with Ella’s mouse of a sister. What is her name again?” She clucked in annoyance. “I never remember it, though she’s been presented to me twice already.”

  “Alexandra.” I followed her gaze. “Ella calls her Alicky.”

  “Yes. Alicky. It shows how little impression she makes that I could forget. Not at all like her sister, I’m afraid.”

  I agreed. Alexandra of Hesse and by Rhine was not like her sister, but, then, she was only twelve, four years younger than my Nicky, who’d reached his sixteenth birthday, his majority of age, and received honorary rank in the Hussar regiment. He wore the uniform tonight, his slim figure suited to the red-and-black kamzol, with its braided gold- and fur-trimmed jacket slung across one shoulder by tasseled cords.

  “Nicky is so gracious,” purred Miechen. “Paying attention to a poor fräulein.”

  She taunted me, and I could see why. My son did appear intent, standing before seated Alicky, her solemn face upturned as he spoke with more volubility than I’d seen him display in public. Like Sasha, he was uncomfortable in social situations. Soft-spoken and reserved, he’d once confided to me that he felt his lack of stature made him appear puny beside his robust Mikhailovich cousins, who preened like bona fide Romanovs.

  “And to think Sasha complains he’s too shy,” said Miechen. “He’d revise his opinion if he could see Nicky now. Such a shame our emperor went to bed early.”

  I glanced at her. She smiled. “Careful, Minnie. You might have to swallow your hatred of Prussia if you leave those two together for too long.”

  “If you will excuse me,” I said, and I swept toward my son, who didn’t notice my approach, though Alicky of Hesse did, her face turning pale. She wasn’t unattractive, I found myself thinking as she rose and attempted a pathetic curtsy. Tall for her age and slender, she was thin-lipped, but her nose was regal, and she had thick coppery-gold hair. Her most arresting feature was her mercurial blue eyes, with a hint of gray; in the volatile mix of the hall’s new electric sconces and gaslit chandeliers, they seemed almost violet.

  A pretty girl who would be a beautiful woman, if less beautiful than her sister. In that moment I took a sudden dislike to her. A pretty German girl, to whom my son the tsarevich was paying too much attention, as Miechen had said; it rankled me. But I subdued my resentment, for surely Nicky was merely being courteous to a foreign guest in our court, the sister-in-law to his uncle Sergei. I should have been pleased to find him so engaged, rather than standing awkwardly to one side as he usually did at these functions, waiting for the hour when the gala ended, so he could return to his books.

  “Your Imperial Majesty,” she murmured.

  I smiled, motioning her to rise. An unbecoming rash of embarrassment scalded her cheeks and throat. “Minnie,” I said, trying my best to sound warm. “You are part of our family now that your sister has wed our Sergei. Everyone in the family calls me Minnie.”

  She lowered her gaze, without repeating my name.

  “Alicky was telling me how much she likes Russia,” said Nicky, with a distinct quaver in his voice. Tucking his jacket over his shoulder, as it was about to slip, I said, “Was she, my darling?” I’d not seen her doing any talking, I almost added, as I returned my gaze to her. “You’ve not been here for very long. There is more to Russia than St. Petersburg.”

  That splotchy rash crept into her spare décolletage. She was wearing an outdated gown in mauve silk, sewn by her own hands, I presumed. Despite her obsessive control over her family, Victoria was hardly generous. I should have pitied the girl. Her mother dead when she was a child and her father a penurious duke of minor importance—she might have reminded me of myself at her age, in her gauche attire. Only, to my eyes, she had none of my vitality or confidence, beset by timidity and that unbecoming rash.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” she said.

  Clearly I wasn’t going to entice her into conversation.

  “My son.” I tapped him with my fan. “Don’t you think you should pay some attention to your sister? Xenia might want to dance. With whom else but you?”

  “Sandro,” he said, to my surprise. Times past, he would have immediately excused himself to do my bidding. “She’s been dancing with him all night.”

  “Well, he’s her cousin. Go to her. I insist. It’s getting late and the tsarevich should dance at least once with his sister before the night is done. The court expects it.”

  He looked for a moment as if he might refuse. My initial surprise turned to incredulity when he turned to Alicky. “Would you like to dance with my sister and me?”

  She was going to faint, I thought. She’d gone beet red. But she gave him a shy nod and replied in a voice so low I could scarcely hear it, “If Her Majesty would permit.”

  “Mama?” Nicky looked at me with a resolution that made me realize my little boy wasn’t so little anymore.

  “Naturally.” I forced out a smile.

  He stepped aside to let Alicky pass. She almost forgot herself before she remembered and clumsily gave me another curtsy. She had the grace of a milkmaid. Had Victoria not taught her granddaughter the minimal requirements for attendance at court?

  Yet as she and Nicky moved into the crowded hall in search of Xenia, I saw their steps move in tandem, and they leaned slightly toward each other, as if in mutual comfort.

  * * *

  “I THINK I might like to marry her once she is of age,” Nicky said a month later, as we sat at breakfast. His siblings had already eaten and gone upstairs to their lessons. Sasha kept a strict time limit on meals, but I’d made an exception for Nicky today. He’d not been himself, more absentminded than usual. Despite Sasha’s glare over his newspaper, I told Nicky to stay at the table to finish his meal.

  “Marry whom, my son?” I sipped my tea, directing my gaze at the half-finished omelet on his plate. “Please, eat. You’re getting too thin.”

  He took a bite. Looking any smaller appalled him. With his mouth full, he couldn’t answer my question, so Sasha did it for him, not glancing up from his paper.

  “I trust you’re not talking about that Hesse girl. I heard all about how you mooned after her while she was here, going to Sergei’s new palace at every opportunity to take her out for carriage rides in the Summer Garden. It’s admirable to show such hospitality to the sister of your uncle’s new wife, but now that she has returned to her father’s realm, I expect you to put an end to any foolish attachment.”

  Nicky said in dismay, “You—you were watching me?”

  Sasha chortled. “My Okhrana are charged with protecting my family. Did you think you could slip in and out of here with no one being the wiser?”

  “Sasha,” I said, bringing down his newspaper. “Was that necessary?”

  “Yes,” he said. “We are not so safe that my son and heir can gallivant about town with some chit and no escort—”

  “She is not a chit.” Nicky sprang to his feet. “She is a princess. And I—I was not mooning over her.” His voice faltered as Sasha’s eyes narrowed at him. “I was not.”

  “If you say so.” Sasha didn’t sound angry, though with Nicky, he rarely showed any tolerance. Now, he actually smiled. “Well, well. Our bear cub has fangs, after all.”

  “She likes me very much.” Nicky drew himself erect; I felt such tenderness for him to see him puff out his slim chest. “I like her. We’ve promised to correspond. May I write to her without my letters being read by the Okhrana?”

  “Darling, your breakfast,” I said. “It’s getting cold.” I deliberately avoided making any comment, but I did not want my son marrying an impoverished German. It was fine for a grand duke. Not the tsarevich.

  “Papa?” Nicky remained standing. “May I?”

  Sasha looked back at his newspaper. “If you like. I’ll post your letters myself.”

  “Thank you, Papa.” Nicky sat down at the table to fin
ish his omelet, then he bowed and departed, without kissing my cheek as he always did before going to his studies.

  The moment he left, I turned to Sasha. “If he likes? You’ll post his letters yourself?”

  Sasha shrugged. “He wants to write her a few letters. Where’s the harm in it?”

  I reached for my cigarette case, though I made a habit of not smoking at the table. “The harm in it, as Nicky said, is that she is a princess. An unwed one of dubious prospects, I might add, whose elder sister just made a splendid marriage to an imperial grand duke.”

  “A marriage you arranged. Are you going to light that? I don’t mind.”

  Just to be contrary, I set my cigarette aside. “I arranged it for Sergei.”

  “And I’m very grateful, Manja. Sergei seems taken with his wife, and it’s a relief to see it.” Folding up his newspaper, he said in a mock-indulgent tone, “Shall we have our quarrel? I’m due to inspect the riding academy today. If we must fight, we should do it now lest I’m late.”

  I scowled at him. “As I was saying, she’s unwed, and she had Nicky wrapped about her finger. When has he ever shown interest in a girl before?” The moment I spoke, I regretted it. My words carried an unwitting echo of his fear about Sergei, which had dissipated in the wake of the marriage, to the extent that he’d granted the newlyweds use of the Beloselsky-Belozersky Palace as their city residence. With Sasha, such largesse meant he was placated. His suspicion of Sergei’s inclinations had been erased by his brother’s willingness to settle down and start a family.

  “Nicky should show interest in girls,” Sasha said. “He’s a man now.”

  “He’s shown interest in only one girl. Her. And he’s sixteen. How can he possibly know whom he wants to marry yet?”

  “She is…what? Thirteen?”

  “Twelve,” I said sourly.

  “Too young to marry. Minnie, he must sow his oats. So, he has an infatuation with a pretty princess who lives in Hesse and wants to write her letters. Let him. It will pass. At his age, we always want to marry the first girl who catches our eye. We never do.”