The Romanov Empress

by C. W. Gortner

  Their brother might die from a simple fall. And Russia could die with him.

  I had no sense of what lay ahead. No premonition. Perhaps I would have, had I been like Alexandra and taken up with seers. But she did not sense it, either. We existed in a dream, enclosed in our lacquered splendor like the varnished miniatures of our fabled Easter eggs, even as the world beyond our gates began to crumble.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  “No, it can’t be. It can’t. Not again.” I clutched at Olga as Tania retrieved the telegram that had dropped from my fingers.

  “He died over a week ago,” said Tania, reading it. She lifted her sorrow-filled eyes to me. “Your nephew asks you to come to England as soon as you can. I’m so very sorry, Minnie. I know how fond you were of him. Your poor sister must be disconsolate.”

  I gulped, suddenly starved for air. “I can’t breathe.”

  Olga unlaced my dress at the back, tearing apart my corset stays. As the whalebone contraption enclosing my ribs loosened, I fell onto my chair and sobbed into my hands.

  Bertie—charming, gallant Bertie—dead. Like my Sasha.

  “How is it possible?” I whispered after I spent myself, Olga patting my shoulder helplessly as Tania sent Sophie out to fetch me tea. “He was only sixty-eight. He traveled often, always content….He wasn’t ill. No one told me he was ill.”

  Olga took the telegram from Tania. “It doesn’t say how he died, just that they want you there as soon as possible.” She paused, trying to lend comfort, although she wasn’t very good with me in the best of times, let alone in a crisis. “Shall I go with you?”

  “No,” I said immediately, and when she flinched, I added, “George hasn’t asked for anyone else; he must want me there for Alix. But surely he’ll request that the family attend the funeral. I must reply to him.” I dragged myself up, leaning on Olga’s arm. In only a moment, I felt like an old woman. “Nicky should be informed at once.”

  “I’ll telegram the palace.” Olga saw me to my desk and made for the door. No matter what my nephew George responded, she was definitely not accompanying me. She couldn’t wait to exit the room. What use would she be to me as I comforted my sister?

  She returned while I was in the midst of penning my letter to assure my nephew that I’d arrive as quickly as I could on my private yacht.

  “Nicky already knows. He too received word….He cannot attend the funeral.”

  I shed my despair in that instant. “I’ll not hear of it. If she must stay here for the children’s sake, let her. He can go alone. The King of Great Britain, his aunt’s husband, has died. Every monarch in Europe will be there to pay their respects.”

  “Don’t fault her for it,” said Olga. “George requested that only you attend, because his parliament says they cannot have the tsar present, given the circumstances.”

  As I stared at her, baffled, she clarified: “They can’t provide the extra security, Mama. There’s to be a public viewing. Too many people to ensure Nicky’s safety.”

  “Dear God.” I looked down at my unfinished letter. “Then there’s no need to post this. If only I’m to attend, I might as well depart at once.”

  “I can accompany you,” Olga offered again. “I don’t want you to be alone.”

  “Alix is there. The last thing you need worry about is my loneliness.”

  * * *

  “SHE REFUSED TO let us remove Papa’s body,” my nephew George told me as he escorted me to Sandringham House in Norfolk, where Alix had been taken. “After weeks of severe bronchitis, Papa had a heart attack. Mama veiled his body for eight days; when we tried to persuade her to let the embalmers do their work, she screamed at us. We had to force her away. She didn’t seem to understand. She kept behaving as if he might wake up.”

  He searched my eyes, looking so much like Nicky that it was like seeing my son in a mirror, down to the same trim build, luxuriant beard, and tranquil manner. “I know she’s going deaf, Aunt Minnie, but could her mind also be affected by her hearing loss?”

  “Her mind is affected by the loss of her husband,” I said. “It has nothing to do with her hearing. She knew he was dead. She simply couldn’t bear to admit it.”

  “The lying-in-state at Westminster is for her. We thought a public paying of respects might help ease her grief.” He rubbed at his beard, reminding me again of Nicky. “I hope you can be of solace to her. She won’t let anyone near her. She just sits in that room….”

  I gave him a reassuring smile. “I will do everything I can. She’ll be ready when the time comes. See to your realm and your family now. They need you.”

  Sandringham’s stately façade, with its multitude of bay windows and turrets, belied its interior. The main rooms were airy enough, if overstuffed, but the living quarters of the royal family were cramped and dark, like the apartments Sasha had allocated for us at Gatchina. Yet here in this rural estate, Alix had raised her children, retreating to escape the gossip in London about Bertie’s indiscretions.

  In her apartments, her ladies-in-waiting—many of whom had been with her for many years, since her extensive tenure as Princess of Wales—wore mourning and came hastily to their feet. Inscrutably British, their hair in identical buns and faces bearing the same stiff miens, they reminded me of that funereal assembly Victoria had kept about her. I did not know their names, never bothering to remember any when Alix mentioned them. I didn’t attempt to remedy my lack of knowledge now.

  “Where is Her Majesty the Queen?” I demanded.

  “Her Majesty Queen Mary is at Buckingham Palace,” replied a sharp-nosed woman in neck-to-toe black. “Her Majesty the Queen Mother is presently in her bedchamber and—”

  As I marched past her, I heard her stifled gasp. Pulling open the bedroom door, I stepped into a room so dark, it was like a cave.

  I had to pause, blink to adjust my eyes. The room came into focus—a chintz-laden sitting area, with bulky valance drapes shuttering the windows.

  “I said I’m not hungry. Leave me alone.” Alix’s disembodied voice reached me from somewhere to my left. As I edged farther inside, avoiding a top-heavy table, every inch of its surface littered with framed photographs, I said warily, “Alix. Where are you?”

  Silence. Then a dog barked, and I saw her rise from a winged armchair by the hearth, her hair disheveled about her face. She hadn’t heard me but the dog had alerted her; as she peered toward me, she said in disbelief, “Minnie?” Then she staggered to me. “Oh, Minnie! They stole away my Bertie.”

  As she fell into my arms, and the scruffy white terrier accompanying her sniffed warily at my feet, I wondered for a paralyzing second if my sister had indeed gone mad. After what her son had told me, it wasn’t entirely out of the question. But as she clung to me, weeping, and I led her back to her chair, I saw she wasn’t mad—only so bewildered by the sudden twist of fate that deprived her of her husband, she hadn’t yet fully accepted it. I knew this because she lifted her hand to her hair in a weak gesture of vanity, trying to smooth its disarray. The terrier, having determined I wasn’t a threat, settled on a cushion by her chair and watched me with its sad brown eyes.

  “His name is Caesar,” she said, as I returned the dog’s mournful regard. “Bertie adored him. See there on his collar: It says he belongs to the king. He had no affection for me before. But he kept wandering the palace, whining, so I brought him here with me. He’s not left me for a second.” She tried to smile. “He doesn’t mind that I must look a fright.”

  I desperately wanted to smoke but resisted the temptation, as Alix had never liked it. “Everyone is very concerned for you,” I said, raising my voice so she could hear me.

  “Are they?” Her eyes were like bruises in her face. “They’ll forget me soon enough.”

  “Come now.” I looked about for a bell to ring for tea. “You mustn’t say such things. Remember what you told me after Sas
ha. The loss is terrible; I know it too well. But you have your family to care for. George is king and you must advise him. It’s the way of the world,” I said, returning her own words to me. “No matter how savage or unjust it may seem.”

  “It’s not the same. George has his prime minister and parliament to advise him. May is now the queen. Here, a dowager is expected to retire.”

  At least she was talking sense. My fear that she’d forsaken her reason waned.

  “You shouldn’t retire unless that is your inclination,” I said. Locating a pull cord on the wall, I rang it. When no one came, I started toward the door. It abruptly opened, the unctuous sharp-nosed lady peering in as if she expected something to be flung at her. Caesar barked again. The woman recoiled. The dog had been keeping the ravens at bay.

  “Hot tea,” I told her. “Make it strong. And biscuits. Or scones with plenty of butter.”

  “Minnie, I’m not hungry—” Alix protested, but I held up my hand, motioning the woman out. “You will eat,” I said, returning to her chair. “I will not see you turn into a wraith. You were there for me in my time of grief. Now I am here for you.”

  Tears spilled over her cheeks. “What am I going to do?”

  I embraced her, keeping an eye on Caesar, who growled. “You will live,” I said. “You can do nothing else.”

  She cried for a time, but not even she had an endless supply of tears. Once the worst of it subsided, her raw sorrow given vent by my proximity, she let me brush and arrange her hair. Then she sipped the tea served by her wary lady, nibbling listlessly on the toast with jam but giving most of it to Caesar. Apparently there were no biscuits or scones available, though I’d have thought such staples essential in a British household.

  “Have you considered where you’ll live?” I ventured, after she wiped the crumbs off Caesar’s snout. With some nourishment in her stomach, she began to look more like herself.

  “I want to stay here. It’s my home; Bertie allocated it to me. George may not be pleased, as he was raised here and thinks he must do the same with his children, but I cannot be expected to reside in London, with all the memories. I never liked it there.”

  “You can go to Hvidøre whenever you wish. If you’re expected to retire, you might as well travel.” I deliberately avoided any mention of Bertie. I saw no point. I knew how much she’d suffered in her marriage. While she’d grown to love him and he’d been a benevolent husband, she must have felt as if she’d never been good enough, no match for the actresses and other exciting women he’d chased with the same exuberance he’d displayed for hunting and diplomacy.

  She let out a shallow sigh. “I cannot think of it now, Minnie. I’m so very tired.”

  “Then you must rest. There’ll be time enough to sort it out.” Bringing her to the adjoining chamber, I tucked her into bed and sat by her side. Caesar, whom Bertie had apparently taught to disregard any limitations imposed on pets, leapt onto the bed and nestled beside her. She fell asleep moments after she set her head on the pillow.

  “I am here,” I whispered. “I will never leave you. We are sisters forever.”

  * * *

  WHILE THE POPULACE lined up for hours outside Westminster to view the king in his casket, I did my best to restore Alix to presentable dignity. She cooperated, to my relief, but when we returned to Buckingham Palace in advance of the state funeral, I caught her sorting through her jewels, dividing the pieces and painstakingly labeling them.

  “What on earth are you doing?” I asked.

  “These aren’t mine.” She pointed to the largest grouping. “They belong to the crown. May must wear them now.”

  I looked over the assortment. Nothing as dazzling as the jewels I’d worn as tsarina or even some of my personal ones, but a considerable treasure, in particular the diadem, which Alix had worn to openings of parliament, and a silver-and-diamond butterfly brooch.

  “You must keep them. You’ve worn them all these years. Let May wear whatever they store in the vault. Or that tower of theirs in London. Or wherever they keep their crown jewels.”

  “Minnie, these are the crown jewels. I can’t keep them. There’s a protocol.”

  “Is someone going to demand you surrender them?” As I spoke, I had an unwelcome recollection of when Nicky had come to me on behalf of Alexandra. “I never gave up mine,” I went on, omitting that in the end I had. “I kept them and I wore them.”

  “You had the right. Here, I must return the jewels that Bertie didn’t acquire for me and renounce my precedence. It is expected. George told me I must walk behind May at the funeral.”

  “You most certainly will not,” I retorted, and I went directly to George, bypassing his astonished attendants to enter his study.

  “No matter what the protocol is,” I said, wagging my finger at him, “surely you don’t intend to relegate her to second place. May has her entire life ahead of her to be queen. This will be your mother’s last appearance beside her husband, your father. In his coffin.”

  He mumbled that it was highly unusual, he’d have to consult the officials in charge, but in the end I had my way. Alix preceded May, and my sister had the pluck to insist that Caesar head the procession, led on a leash by a highlander behind the carriage bearing the coffin and before every head of state, including George and eight other monarchs—an outrage to which Kaiser Wilhelm II vehemently objected.

  “Bertie doted on Caesar more than on our children,” Alix said after the funeral, as I laughed, recalling the kaiser’s scowl. “Why shouldn’t his dog be the first to say goodbye?”

  With those words, she reassured me that in time she’d accept the loss of her beloved husband and her rank as queen. She wouldn’t undergo the tumult that I did in my widowhood in Russia, for May, while strong-willed, wasn’t Alexandra. She made a point of adapting herself to Alix’s presence and refrained from excessive hauteur.

  After the burial in St. George’s Chapel at Windsor, I persuaded Alix to travel with me to our house in Denmark, where Caesar delighted in the sea and left wet sand all over the sofas and beds, for no matter how much I rebuked him, he never listened.

  Then my sister and I had to part.

  “I don’t know when we’ll see each other again,” she said, her arms about me as Caesar whined. “I feel as if I can bear almost anything as long as you are with me.”

  “I’ll visit you every year. I’ll come first to England and then we can travel together to Hvidøre. I promise, you’ll never be alone in this world whilst I live.”

  I only realized as I set sail back to Russia on my yacht that our positions had reversed. From being the older sister, whom I’d idolized and envied, who married first and left me behind, Alix was now dependent on me. She needed my company more than ever, for her son’s kingdom was stable on its island, and she was the queen mother, who must be content with her gardens, her grandchildren, and occasional visitors to her rural estate.

  I did not enjoy the same luxury. At my age, I should have found myself in the same position as her, free to retire and grow bored in my dotage. But Russia needed me; my children, while grown and resistant to my advice, could not do without me.

  While much may have changed between Alix and me, I still envied her.

  * * *

  HIS NAME WAS everywhere when I returned to St. Petersburg. In the salons, where society ladies clamored to receive him; in the taverns and riverside stalls, where he communed with all sorts of riffraff; and in the newspapers, where speculation was rife over this mysterious starets who’d become so intimate with the imperial family.

  The journalists were mistaken. He was not a starets. Holy elders meditated in monasteries, seeking divine truth in solitude and silence. A starets did not entertain avid matrons in palaces or accept the invitations of female disciples into their homes; he did not spend the nights swilling vodka or carousing on the island encampments of Novay
a Derevnya, nor did he proclaim that sin was the sole path to redemption.

  And while no one had deduced exactly why Rasputin visited Tsarskoe Selo, I feared it would be only a matter of time, as he didn’t seem to have much use for discretion. For the moment, however, he remained silent. He might advertise his association with Tsar Batushka and Tsarina Matushka, denoting his origins by referring to them as any devoted peasant would, but he said nothing of Alexei. He’d become part of the conspiracy, if unlike the rest of us.

  Eventually, curiosity overcame me. I couldn’t receive him, that would be unthinkable, but I told myself it behooved me to find out as much as I could. A common man like him, so close to the throne…he might harbor ambitions beyond the obvious.

  Bowing to the inevitable, I paid a long-overdue visit to Princess Zenaida Yusupova.

  Thin and beautiful, with crystalline light-green eyes and blue-black hair like raven plumage, Zenaida had been an indispensable guest at our galas when Sasha was alive. Having inherited immense wealth, she and her husband oversaw one hundred thousand acres and thirty palatial estates. Her jewelry collection surpassed even the imperial one, containing the Peregrina pearl, a royal Spanish heirloom, and a pair of Marie Antoinette’s diamond earrings. In the city, she resided in her saffron-hued palace on the Moika, near my daughter Xenia’s residence—a classical edifice, with a private theater and vast galleries housing thousands of priceless works of art.

  She welcomed me in her immense red salon with its rococo plaster moldings and frescoes on the ceiling. Dressed in elegant black, she had strong Turkish coffee served and, with her gracious smile, offered her condolences on the deaths of Bertie and of Vladimir, the latter of whom she’d known well.