“That is true. He killed his commanding officer in order to save some prisoners the commander was about to execute.”
“Similar to why I . . . did what I did to . . . the monk. Not that I am trying to justify my actions. I don’t. I can’t and that’s where my problem lies.”
“Your father did what he did in the heat of passion and later never could justify his actions either. It nearly destroyed him.”
“Mama, what did Papa do to get over that? The father I knew was not destroyed, or even burdened by his deed.”
“Oh, a small part of him was always burdened by what he had done. A man of conscience can never truly get over taking a human life, no matter what the reason for it. What is it you want to know exactly, Yuri? You know very well it was your papa’s faith that made him the man you knew.”
“I know, but . . . it’s not enough. I mean, the things he said to me are—I am ashamed to say—dim in my memory. I thought I’d never forget but—”
“Gamma! Look!” Zenia yelled exuberantly as she skated—or rather careened—toward Yuri and Anna. “I can do it myself!”
Anna glanced at Yuri, then at Zenia, torn. “Yuri, I—”
“Never mind, Mama. I am spoiling this wonderful day. We’ll talk again another time.”
“That is a binding promise.”
“Upon my word!” He grinned and let go of her arm as they both applauded Zenia’s accomplishment.
The moment was never recaptured that day. But perhaps it was just as well. There had been such a hollow aspect to the grin arranged on Yuri’s face that it made Anna ache for her son. She would indeed take up that conversation again with him, but she decided this time of pleasure was just as necessary as a soul-searching discussion. And truly, after two hours of frolicking with his family, Yuri seemed to have shed a great deal of the tension that had lately become such a part of his bearing.
Of course, he was not really changed—a changed man, as it were—but she had faith that would come in time, too. And before the day was over, Anna remembered something that would be better for Yuri than either a discussion or a day of ice-skating. Somewhere she had Sergei’s journals put away. She would find them and give them to her son.
5
The shovel sliced through the thick snow with a practiced ease. The man who wielded it was not unaccustomed to hard work, though he had lived most of his life with hordes of servants to wait on his every need. He was glad for the diversion brought by this labor of clearing the freshly fallen snow from the sidewalks. The exercise was good for his constitution, not to mention his mind. People might well wonder how the once mighty tsar of all the Russias could endure his downfall with such patience and restraint. Of course he had wept in his Alix’s arms that first night when he had returned to Tsarskoe Selo a virtual prisoner. But the days that followed brought such rest and peace to him that he was almost content with his lot. There were no detested reports to read or momentous decisions to make. He had all day to do nothing but walk about the gardens, play with the children, smoke a good cigarette, and read for pure pleasure. Even Nicholas had to admit that this was really the life he had been cut out for.
True, it wasn’t completely idyllic. He still agonized over the fate of his beloved country. And occasionally there were moments of personal shame when a guard would treat him with contempt. Once a particularly loathsome guard had ordered him to do a menial task in the presence of his son Alexis. But on the whole the guards treated him and his family with respect, some even with awe. No one called him Your Highness anymore except for the most loyal of servants—and never within earshot of the guards. He was the ex-tsar of Russia. He tried to joke about his new title—Ex-Tsar—hoping to ease the pain of what had happened.
It was hardest on Alix, perhaps even more so than on him. She was bitter and angry. But then, she had borne the brunt of the people’s venom over the whole Rasputin matter. She now spent more time than ever in her bed and seemed to have aged ten years in the last month. She had worn herself out nursing the children and Anna Vyrubova from their bouts with the measles. Marie and Anastasia were the last to contract the infection and were still quite weak. There had been secondary infections and ear abscesses—it had been harrowing. At least Baby had not had any serious bouts of his terrible bleeding. They had been worried about that when Alexis had first contracted the measles.
Then there had been the loss of her friends who had been a great source of comfort to Alix. Shortly after Nicholas’s abdication Anna Vyrubova had been arrested and taken to the Fortress. Lili Dehn, who had been with Alix almost constantly, had been banished from the palace. It seemed such a cruel and senseless act, which had even further embittered Alix. Nicholas was doing all he could to bolster her, comfort her, and lighten her heavy emotional load. Thank God they both hadn’t fallen into a depression.
Nicholas adjusted the gloves on his hands, then gave the shovel another push. Besides concern for his family, the worst of his plight was the uncertainty of their future. They were now confined to the Alexander Palace, which had always been their main residence anyway. At first they had been locked inside, and Nicholas had been kept apart from his family. After a few weeks he had been reunited with them, and they had been given the freedom to walk in the gardens.
The new Minister of Justice for the Provisional Government, a man named Kerensky, seemed to be quite committed to treating the royal family civilly and protecting them. He was determined that this revolution be conducted honorably and as bloodlessly as possible. However, in the newspapers he was allowed, Nicholas could see that the present government was not entirely stable and for the most part operated by the will of the people, of whom a large number wanted to see the Romanovs imprisoned in the Fortress, or worse.
Kerensky had opened negotiations with King George of England over asylum for the deposed Romanovs. This had offered a gleam of hope until recently when the news had arrived that George, Alexandra’s cousin, had to refuse them entry. Apparently the prime minister, Lloyd George, a liberal who took no pains to hide his dislike of Nicholas, convinced the king that there would be a serious backlash from the British people if the Russian monarch was let into the country. The merely symbolic British monarchy had to guard its own future. Nicholas bore no animosity toward King George for his decision.
Nicholas finished clearing the walkway. The feel of the chill air against his sweaty brow was refreshing. He was carrying the shovel back to the work shed when a servant hailed him. They were still permitted servants, though certainly not as many as in the past.
“Your . . . ah, that is . . . ah . . . Citizen Romanov,” the man said, “your luncheon is being served.”
“Thank you. I shall wash up and be there directly,” Nicholas replied with the practiced formality that remained always with him.
The family was gathered around the table for the meal—all except Marie, who was still in her bed with a severe cough and congestion. Nicholas took such pleasure from his family that he was certain all would be well with him as long as the new government did not deny him their presence.
A maid came to the table carrying a platter of meat. “May I serve the empress now?” she asked with all the diffidence of the old days.
Alexandra raised an eyebrow, then, with a coy glance at her husband, replied, “Ta, ta, Marta, I’m not an empress any longer, but an ex-empress!”
There were chuckles around the table. Even the children realized what a victory it was for Alexandra to actually make light of their situation.
The maid served the meat to all, and when Nicholas received his, he poked it suspiciously with his fork. It was rather strange-looking with a peculiar discoloration.
“This may have once been ham,” he said. “But I do believe it is now ex-ham!”
Everyone burst out laughing, a sound that was better than music to the deposed tsar’s ears.
6
The gardens looked fine in the full flower of spring. Bruce MacDuff was pleased with the results of the lan
dscaping done last year, although it was Louise, his wife, who alone could take credit for that. Bruce had opposed the changes, which had included an archway of miniature roses and a fountain graced by statues of a merry fawn and a chubby fellow who was purportedly a likeness of Bacchus. It was not only a bit too whimsical for his taste, but he would have preferred to maintain the essence of the garden as it had been for the last two hundred years.
Bruce, styled Lord Findochty, was the first to admit that he tended toward stodginess if he was not downright retrogressive. Change always came hard, even if he understood that it was necessary. Louise, on the other hand, was a modern woman who relished change and new things. He loved her for it, truth be known.
He had his Scottish blood that, according to Louise, kept him down-to-earth enough. But it was hard for a man with flaming red hair such as his to be too awfully conservative. The patch over his right eye also gave him an air of derry-do. And, in truth, he was a man of action, if his war record was any proof.
Coming to the covered gazebo just past the fountain, Bruce paused. The servants were nearly finished setting the table for afternoon tea. A white cloth covered a round table that showed places for five. The maid placed a vase of daffodils and white iris on the table.
“Very nice,” said Bruce.
“Thank you, m’lord,” replied the maid, pleased.
Bruce climbed the two steps that led to the gazebo. He straightened a misplaced fork and repositioned a fluted serviette that had fallen over.
“Have Hanley bring the guests directly out on their arrival. I shall greet them here,” he said.
“Yes, m’lord.”
The maid left and the other servants followed directly.
Bruce seated himself, not at the table but on a wrought-iron bench adjacent to the table, and mused briefly about the gathering soon to commence. Besides himself there would be four other gentlemen taking tea that afternoon. Louise had chided him that there were no women on the list, but she herself had opted to visit London to shop rather than spend the afternoon with a bunch of “stuffed shirts.” “Present company excluded, of course, my dear,” she had added with a laugh.
Yes, by all appearances the gathering might seem staid and stodgy. Yet, they represented a great deal of power—power that might well ignite some very important actions.
Fifteen minutes later, they were all there—a bank president, a retired and much-decorated general, a cousin of King George, and a shipping magnate. They, like Bruce, were all titled and very wealthy. They were also all old friends, school chums—Eton, of course—except for the general who was Bruce’s father-in-law. Bruce was the youngest, at thirty-three, and the general was the oldest at sixty-two.
Tea was served, and after a time of trivial pleasantries, the men got down to business.
“So, has everyone heard the latest about the situation in Russia and specifically our king’s response?” asked Bruce, feeling it was his place as host to get the ball rolling.
“It’s utterly scandalous!” said the general, not one to mince words. “His Majesty really ought to be ashamed of himself.”
All eyes turned to the king’s cousin.
“Don’t look at me,” he said with a chuckle. “I fully agree. That’s why I’m here, I daresay. I believe my cousin made a grave error in rejecting the tsar’s request for asylum.”
“But, Charlie,” said the shipping magnate, “did he really have much choice? My word! A revolution has taken place in Russia! A monarch has been toppled from his throne. That would have to be sobering even to the monarch of a stable government such as ours. Not only do we have a strong Socialist element, but there is also a viable antiroyalist movement here as well.”
“There has always been an antiroyalist movement—nothing but piffle, I say,” said the general.
“At any rate,” put in Bruce, “the purpose of this gathering is not to defend or rebuke the king, but rather to respond to his actions.”
“Respond, Finkie . . . ?” said the banker, using Bruce’s nickname.
“Come now, Gus, you must know we are gathered here to do more than talk.”
“I simply don’t see what can be done,” said Gus. “That is, more than what’s already being done in Russia itself.”
“Don’t be so dense,” chided the general. “The king’s hands are tied, but ours are not. We have at our disposal wealth and power enough to remove seven refugees from an embattled country. Those Ruskies may have their faults—heaven knows their commanders have all but bungled the Russian war effort. But I have personally met Nicholas and judge him to be a man of honor who certainly doesn’t deserve the fate those pesky revolutionaries have in mind for him. And his wife and five little children certainly don’t.”
“I concur with you, General,” said Gus, “though I have never met the man myself. I trust your judgment in it. However, as I see it, the Provisional Government appears to have nothing sinister planned for the tsar. It was they who initiated proceedings with our ambassador, after all. It would appear they are committed to a bloodless transfer of power.”
A butler approached with a fresh pot of tea and another plate of cakes and sandwiches. He refilled the cups.
Bruce plucked a lump of sugar from a china bowl with silver tongs, dropped it into his cup, and, stirring thoughtfully, said, “It would appear . . .” He glanced around at his companions. “I suppose it all depends on how stable that Provisional Government is . . . and remains.”
“I agreed to join this gathering,” said Gus, “because I support the idea of giving asylum to the deposed tsar. However, as long as he is not in mortal danger, I believe we ought to allow the situation to take its natural course. No doubt he will soon be put on a boat and sent into exile. If our government refuses him, certainly he will find succor in the United States. They will take anyone.”
“Freddie”—Bruce turned to the shipping magnate—“we haven’t heard much from you.”
“Oh, you know Freddie,” said the king’s cousin. “The great observer.”
Freddie nodded, not in the least offended by the statement. “That is a stance we would all do well to take in this situation. Watch and wait. That’s what I say.”
“What we need,” suggested the general, “is a pair of eyes in Russia—eyes we can trust—to keep us apprised of the situation, which I am certain will remain volatile for some time.”
“My take exactly,” agreed Bruce.
“You are not saying one of us should go to Russia?” Gus was appalled at the idea. He preferred the comforts of his West End flat to adventure any day.
“The idea is enticing,” replied Bruce with a gleam in his left eye.
Before taking on the duties of his title after his father’s untimely death in 1910, Bruce had experienced a few adventures—big game safaris in Africa, excursions to India, and other uncivilized places. His assumption of the title along with his marriage had ended his adventurous life. His stint in the army at the start of the war had provided an outlet for him, though it was cut off when he was wounded six months ago and sent home. He truly did not believe that things like war and the misfortune of a tsar were merely vehicles for his thirst for adventure, yet he had to admit that he had been eager to fight in the war, and he was just as eager to come to the aid of the tsar.
In times like this, Bruce’s conservative side served him well, for it kept a level head on him and made him acutely aware of the ramifications of events beyond their ability to provide adventure. His interest in Russia was personal, beyond adventure or even concern for the tsar.
“However,” Bruce continued, “I doubt that even if one of us was able to get into Russia now, we’d be able to gather the kind of intelligence necessary. None of us speaks the language, we have little knowledge of the customs, and beyond the embassy officials and minor business dealings, we have few contacts.”
“So, where does that leave us?” asked the king’s cousin.
“I do have a contact in Russia who could be quite
valuable to us,” offered Bruce.
“Who would that be, Finkie?”
“An American newspaper reporter.”
“Is that the Trent fellow you told me about?” queried the general.
“That’s the man. Daniel Trent—”
“Not Archibald’s son?” asked Freddie.
“The very one,” said Bruce.
“Tell them how you met,” prompted the general.
“At the front,” said Bruce, “not long before I was wounded and sent home.”
“Bruce is too modest,” put in the general. “He saved Trent’s life. That’s how Bruce lost his eye. Tell them my boy.”
Bruce gave a depreciating shrug, genuinely uncomfortable. “There’s really not much more than that to it. Anyone would have done what I did in the same position, including, and especially, Trent. I heard the incoming artillery shell before he did, shoved him out of the way, and caught some shrapnel in my eye. But all that aside, Trent visited me nearly every day in the hospital before I was shipped out. I believe in that short time we forged a friendship that transcends a sense of obligation. He is a man of honor and a man of deep faith. I would trust him with my life.”
“Ah,” ruminated the king’s cousin, “I see now where your interest in Russia comes.”
“That certainly is part of it. . . .” Bruce replied vaguely.
“And this Trent is in Russia as a member of the press?” asked Freddie.
“Yes, however his wife is Russian. She, in fact, has personally met the royals. Her mother’s family were members of the nobility and at one time were advisors to tsars dating back to the first Romanov.”
“I should think, then, that Trent would be more worried about getting her out of the country than the tsar,” said Gus.
“There are some rather complicated limbs in the family tree. At any rate, she was raised a peasant and thus her ties to the nobility are a bit clouded, as it were. Interestingly enough, her stepbrother, or cousin, depending how you interpret her family tree, was involved in the assassination of the Mad Monk.”
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