I sat, clenching my hands. Another daughter. It now seemed unlikely she’d ever bear a son. The silence extended, until I wondered where on earth Nicky had gone. Had Alexandra sent a message that prompted him to leave without saying goodbye? As I moved to my sitting room doors, I detected urgent susurration in the corridor, Nicky’s voice saying to my steward, “Let me prepare her first. She—”
I stepped into the corridor. “What is it?”
Nicky turned from Obolensky, who averted his eyes. My son’s face was deathly pale, his eyes full of tears. In his hand, he clutched the telegram. “Mama…George, he—he’s…”
I heard his voice. I heard what he couldn’t say aloud. And yet I couldn’t hear it. A dull roar filled my head and I felt a vast void, unaware that my knees were giving way until Nicky rushed to prevent me from crumpling to the floor. He held me as his pent-up sobs gushed out. I couldn’t cry. Not a single tear.
My sorrow was so profound, I had nothing inside me to shed.
* * *
—
HE’D BEEN FOUND in a ditch, his bicycle toppled beside him. Most likely a massive hemorrhage, said the local doctor, who came from Kazbek to Abbas-Touman to examine my son’s body. But in order to be certain, he’d have to perform an autopsy.
I refused. I already knew what had killed my son. I bathed his cold flesh and dressed him in his uniform, his stricken staff conveying me to my train with his casket for the journey to St. Petersburg. Only when I saw his coffin strapped into the storage compartment of my train did I recall my impression that he’d not lived alone, that he’d kept a woman in his house with him. I hadn’t thought to ask, so overcome by the loss of him that I’d barely been able to address the immediate concerns, for he must be interred with the obsequies of a grand duke.
Now I’d never know. He’d taken his secret with him. Burying my face in my hands, I waited for grief to overwhelm me, sundering what remained of my fractured heart. Instead, I heard him as if he sat beside me:
Not His Imperial Highness anymore. Only plain George Alexandrovich.
Of all of us, he alone had lived and died unfettered by our invisible chains.
* * *
MY THREE GRANDDAUGHTERS by Nicky were ethereally beautiful, their seclusion at Tsarskoe Selo gracing them with angelic innocence. I did not see them as often as I would have liked. Though I didn’t await an invitation, I always sent word in advance, so Alexandra could prepare. I also never overstayed my welcome. If she never stated directly that she had wearied of my company, she made it apparent by retreating to her mauve boudoir, because to her, whatever she found intolerable must be ignored, even if she couldn’t ignore that our need for an heir had become pressing since George’s death.
Nothing made this more apparent than when she dispatched frantic word by telegraph to my palace that Nicky had fallen ill in the Crimea.
I raced immediately on my private train to the very villa where Sasha had died. It was already half-demolished, Nicky having ordered the old structure razed to build a new summer palace. He had come to oversee its construction so we could visit in the summer.
In my panic, I barely paid heed to the gloomy surroundings that held such terrible reminders of Sasha’s final days. Our imperial physician, Botkin, waited for me.
“Typhoid, Your Majesty,” he said. “His fever is very high. You shouldn’t have come. It’s very contagious. It’s not safe at your age.”
Typhoid. The same malady that nearly killed my sister Alix’s surviving son. Swallowing my anguish, I said, “I will not lose another son. If someone must die next, let it be me. Send word to the empress. Tell her under no circumstance is she to come here. She mustn’t put herself at risk or, God forbid, bring the illness to their palace and endanger their daughters.”
Nicky was delirious. Botkin and I assiduously tended to him as rose-colored spots spread over his body and he drenched his sheets with sweat. I bathed him, changed his linens, and prayed for his life. Once the fever broke nearly a week later, he was so gaunt and weak he couldn’t lift his head. I’d taken to sleeping in a chair at his side, despite Botkin’s fear that I’d catch the disease. As I heard him stir, I bent to his parched lips and he whispered, “Promise me.”
“Anything, my beloved boy.” I caressed his veined hand.
“Sunny. My girls…” He struggled for his voice. “Promise you will care for them.”
“You’re going to be well. Your fever has broken. Rest. I am here. I’ll not leave you.”
“Promise.” He gazed at me, imploring.
I nodded. “I promise. Now, please rest.”
It took another three weeks for him to recover enough to travel; by then, in counsel with his finance minister, Count Witte, we decided he should name Misha as tsarevich apparent. Nicky gave reluctant consent, with the caveat that Misha would renounce the title once Nicky had a son. Now twenty-one and in the Horse Guards regiment, Misha expressed dismay; we assured him it was for expediency alone. Nicky’s illness had opened our eyes to what might befall us should he die without a declared heir to succeed him.
Everyone understood the urgency, save for Alexandra. As Nicky convalesced in the Alexander Palace, her devotion for him was undeniable, as was her fury toward me.
“And will our new tsarevich be seeking a tsarevna soon?” she asked, as we sat in her mauve boudoir, with my daughters, Xenia and Olga. They’d come to the palace at my behest to keep company with the girls while I assisted in caring for Nicky.
“I haven’t given the matter any thought,” I said, for I hadn’t, and I wondered how, with Nicky still barely able to walk from his bed to his study, she would.
She turned to Xenia. “Well, if he does, I fear I shall have to appear in public without any jewels at all. Misha’s bride will get all of mine, as it belongs to the tsarevna, and the dowager empress cannot spare the rest.”
I loathed her in that moment with such intensity that had my daughters not been present, I would have informed her as much. Instead, I lit a cigarette. As she narrowed her eyes, for she hated smoking in her private room—though I’d smelled tobacco in the air more than once, betraying she had the occasional cigarette herself—I said brightly, “Once you bear a son, it will set the matter to rights. His bride won’t require jewels for years.”
Her face blanched, except for two bright spots of rage scalding her cheeks.
I left for Gatchina the next day with my daughters, assured that Nicky was on the mend. On my train, Xenia said, “Did you have to insult her? Your comment and having Misha declared tsarevich imply she might never bear a son.”
“She hasn’t yet,” I said, and Olga sniggered. Not fond of Alexandra, either, she concealed it much better, for she loved her nieces and knew earning their mother’s wrath would not serve her. Unlike me, the tsar’s sister could be banned from future visits.
Xenia shook her head. “You defy reason, Mama. If you didn’t make an enemy of her before, you certainly will now.”
I looked forward to it. I wanted to confront her, tell her everything I thought about her abhorrent manner and bourgeois mentality. I was outraged that she could launch a petty quarrel over jewelry after my son, her husband, had narrowly escaped death. To emphasize my disgust, I returned the crown jewels in my possession to the vault and had a letter sent to inform her.
As far as I was concerned, she could drown in them.
* * *
TALL AND ELEGANT, with his long Romanov features and indolent smile, Misha attracted his share of female attention and warned me he had no desire to settle down. But with the turn of the century, my Olga reached her eighteenth birthday, without showing any interest in marriage, either. I decided she must have her debut. She’d not grown into a beauty, but she was comely enough, especially her dark expressive eyes, though she remained entirely Sasha’s child.
“A debut?” she said. “Whatever for? I detest
parties.”
“You think you do, but how will you know if you don’t try?”
“No.” She clenched her jaw.
“Yes,” I replied. “And you will smile while you do it.”
She made the fittings for her gown such a torment and complained so loudly that her slippers pinched her toes during the gala that I cringed to see the gentlemen braving her grimace to ask her to dance. After the night ended, she spun to me and yanked off her diadem. “There. I had my debut. I still hate parties.”
As she stalked out, I gave Tania a frustrated look. “How will I find her a husband?”
“With a great degree of caution,” replied my lady. “And forbearance.”
* * *
OLGA’S DEBUT LAUNCHED the Season, my first out of official mourning for George. I’d splurged on a new rose velvet gown, with cream satin appliqués and lace-trimmed sleeves. As I entered her palace and removed my wrap, Miechen exclaimed, “Why, Minnie, how can it be you refuse to age! If I were as gullible as our Mère Gigogne, I’d suspect you’ve taken up with miracle workers to detain the years.”
She’d dubbed Alexandra with that nickname, based on the French marionette character of a reclusive woman who surrounds herself with children. Amusing and malicious, it was telling how fast it had spread among the other grand duchesses, eliciting an outraged gasp from Xenia, who berated me for repeating it. I didn’t like it, but it was apt.
Still, Miechen’s remark unsettled me as she swept me into her sweltering pantheon to declare that only at Grand Duchess Pavlovna’s soirees did Her Imperial Majesty the Dowager Empress see fit to appear. An exaggeration, of course, as I planned to appear everywhere I was invited, but I allowed her the conceit to impress her guests.
Later, as we stood in her salon, surrounded by her guests, she asked me about Alexandra’s recently announced fourth pregnancy.
“She rests constantly,” I said. “If her couch could produce a son, she’d have a dozen by now. I sincerely pray this time it will.”
“It certainly will, if she has anything to do with it.” Miechen nodded to a passing countess, the emeralds about her plump neck flashing opulent defiance against the countess’s meek opals. Again, I heard that undertone in her voice, a telltale sign she had a secret she was eager to impart—but not without some effort from me. Miechen always liked to feel as if she held the better hand, and one must first outwit her to win the round.
“She can hardly order God.” I didn’t care to mind my words. I was still enraged by Alexandra’s behavior, for once she’d received my letter about the jewels, she returned word she no longer found them suitable and would commission new ones. She’d forced my concession out of spite, then had her pregnancy announced to render herself inviolate. I did not travel to the Alexander Palace to congratulate her. I saw Nicky whenever he came to the city to meet with his cabinet, but henceforth I refused to indulge her whims.
“God is superfluous,” said Miechen, “when one has Dr. Philippe.” She raised her wineglass to her lips, pretending to sip—an artful maneuver that made it appear as if we discussed inconsequential matters. She slid her gaze to me. “Did you not know? She truly has left you out in the cold.”
I smiled to soften the stinging effect of her words. “If I’m not mistaken, I believe you’re about to light the stove for me.”
With a chuckle, Miechen set her cards on the table. “They met through a mutual friend, Anna Vyrubova—a lady-in-waiting of hers of no particular merit. Yet our Gigogne saw fit to grant her a cottage on the palace estate; they sew and play the piano together like the best of friends. It seems Vyrubova introduced her to this Philippe from Paris. I’m not clear on what his credentials are, if any, but among his purported talents is the ability to communicate with a child in the womb and persuade it—or does he command it?—to change its sex. Gigogne consults with him at Vyrubova’s cottage.”
She paused as if she’d relayed a minor peccadillo, though there was nothing casual about her revelation. The hall swam before my eyes, a nauseating parade of peacock-colored figures and hors d’oeuvres heaped on gold trays. When I failed to speak, she went on, “If God will not oblige her, she must do something, yes?”
I sharpened my voice. “This had best not be idle gossip.”
She pouted. “See? The stove can be very hot if you get too close. And I heard it from a reliable source who knows these things and informed Vladimir.”
“Has Vladimir told Nicky?” Though I assumed if my son already knew, he’d surely not appreciate hearing that his wife’s strange proclivities were public knowledge.
Miechen might have rolled her eyes had we not been in company. “You know very well how Vladimir feels about—well, all of it. He knows better than to say anything to Nicky. As for me, my lips are sealed. I also know to guard myself where our tsarina is concerned.”
* * *
—
I WENT THROUGH the Season with my habitual gaiety, pleased to find myself as warmly received as ever. From salon to opera house to theater and gala, I whirled my way through society and tried to put out of my mind what Miechen had relayed.
Until I heard it again, this time from Princess Zenaida Nikolayevna Yusupova, a premier figure in society and heiress of the largest private fortune in Russia. She laughed about it in mid-gala, while I stood only steps away. Before I could blink, Zenaida was fending off an avalanche of avid queries from the other ladies. I knew that before the Neva thawed, everyone who was anyone, and many who were not, would hear that our empress delved into mysticism.
I asked the French ambassador to investigate, requesting the strictest confidence. The report he returned was worse than anticipated. Armed with it, I could barely wait out the days until Nicky arrived at the Winter Palace to conclude his business before the advent of Christmas.
Like his father before him, my son couldn’t restrain the family. His uncles often barged in on him without warning, bellowing about this or that. He must have had one such visit already, for when I entered his study, he said wearily, “Mama, if you’ve come to complain, please don’t. I’ve heard enough today to want to abdicate and live out my days tending sheep.”
“Do not say that even in jest. You are anointed by God to rule.”
“So I keep hearing. Even if my uncles apparently have not.” He lit a cigarette, eyeing me over his stack of papers. “What is it?”
“Nothing. Can a mother not pay an overdue visit to her son?”
He motioned to a chair. “Tell me.”
From my cloak’s inner pocket, I removed the leather folder. Then I sat and adjusted my skirts, as if the report were of no consequence. I wanted to gauge his reaction and was satisfied to see his forehead furrow as he read it. He lifted troubled eyes. “Who else knows?”
“Everyone, I assume. I heard it first from Miechen, then at a ball held by Princess Yusupova. Such matters cannot be kept secret, even in Tsarskoe Selo.”
Without comment he closed the folder, about to hand it back to me when I said, “I had it prepared for her. She should know her Dr. Philippe has no license to practice medicine. In fact, he was arrested in Paris for larceny.”
“I read the report. I saw why he was arrested.”
“He’s a fraud. Will you allow such a man to visit your wife at the Alexander Palace?”
“Not only her. I’ve also consulted with him. He does have powers. He can communicate with the dead. He summoned Papa for me at a séance.”
The revelation was so shocking that at first I thought he was making a joke at my expense, and in very poor taste. But when he regarded me as if he hadn’t uttered such a preposterous notion, my equilibrium fractured. “Are you insane?” I leapt to my feet. I was almost in tears. “How—how can you say such a thing to me, your mother and his widow?”
He rounded the desk in alarm. “Mama, Dr. Philippe is our friend. I feel more confident when h
e advises me. He tells me Papa watches over me.” He reached for my hands, which I snatched away. “You don’t understand what I endure. This wheat crisis has caused a regional revolt; at Witte’s advice, I had the peasants sell their crop at a reduced price, in exchange for a lesser tax. Now they suffer widespread famine. Agitators clamor throughout Moscow—Sergei has arrested dozens of malefactors—and word has come that Sunny’s brother’s marriage is in ruins. Ducky left him after she found—”
“I’m well informed about the state of our country,” I interrupted, staring at him, “and also of Ducky’s marriage. She found her husband in bed with his page. Or was it his valet? It’s horrid. Mortifying. Let Victoria sort it out. Ducky is her granddaughter, after all.”
“Victoria is dying.” His voice was pained. “Sunny is grief-stricken. She wants to see her grandmother one last time, but as she’s with child, we cannot travel to England.”
I was astounded. Séances with a charlatan, and now this incomprehensible sorrow over a monarch who’d turned his aunt Marie’s existence into a purgatory, let alone been no friend to Russia—had he lost all sense of who he was?
“She saw her grandmother three years ago.” I refused to express regret over Victoria’s imminent death. “When you both visited England during your grand tour.”
He stood quiet, as if uncertain. I had to be firm. I sympathized with him too much; I understood more than he thought. I’d lived in Russia for over thirty years. I knew all too well what he endured. I had seen his grandfather and his father endure it before him.
“You must see the man dismissed,” I told him. “If the newspapers catch wind of this, they’ll turn it into a farce. She cannot be seen to consult false seers in hope of bearing a son. Only God can grant what you both so fervently desire.”
He retreated to his desk to light another cigarette, though a cloud of smoke hung thick in the air, as he couldn’t open a window in the freezing cold.
The Romanov Empress Page 28