Without any warning, and as though nothing out of the ordinary has just occurred, Rasputin bunches and lifts her skirt in one hand, grabbing her between the legs with his other hand, holding tight.
Disgusted and cursing under her breath, she slaps him away.
He waves his fingers under his nose. “A great, great pity,” he declares in a fury of righteousness. “You are not a virgin!”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Strolling with Avram in back of the park, Darya stumbles across a sweet-smelling plant. She absentmindedly examines it in the gray light of dawn and crushes the leaves in her fist.
A thin moon drifts behind a metallic cloud. Dew-mottled leaves sway in the breeze. The palace is quiet. Two months have passed since Rasputin healed the Tsarevich, and the Imperial Family is vacationing on the imperial yacht, Standart, while Darya has remained here. The change of the Cossacks of the guard is taking place, but Darya, with her healing herbs and miraculous potions, has ingratiated herself with them, so they know to turn a blind eye to the lovers as they stroll behind ancient trees and trellises.
She grabs Avram’s arm, digs her nails in. She is furious. With the Tsarevich recuperating from his last bout of bleeding and the Empress needing constant attention, she could not meet Avram for two months and her pent-up anger spills out in her voice. “Why did you do it, Avram? Why did you choose a whore to model as the Madonna?”
He is surprised. Nothing can be concealed from this woman. Not even the identity of a prostitute who no one would recognize in this aristocratic part of town. “I chose her because she had the right face and the beautiful serenity of the Madonna. And I didn’t think the Empress would recognize her.”
“Rasputin did. And he knows you are the painter. He’ll use it against you if he needs to.”
“I put you in a difficult position again, haven’t I?”
“Yes, you have, but I asked you to find a way for the Tsarina to forgive you and you did.” She has no right to her anger when such difficulties must be expected in a relationship like theirs. Every star in the firmament has to be aligned for their love to flourish, two people from vastly different cultures and backgrounds, whose every encounter is a miracle. In the last year, their love has evolved and matured, layered like an iridescent pearl, and she will not allow this incident to tarnish it.
The birds of paradise are wild around them, their trilling cascading down the trees as they peck at bread crumbs Darya sprinkles behind. This is the time and landscape she likes most, when her dreams are left behind and dawn promises fresh possibilities. She searches around for the red-feathered bird of paradise, and as if in reply to her silent summons, there it is, strutting on one of the lower branches, her throat swelling with birdsong. Darya laughs out loud, but Avram is not amused. He has stopped to read the elaborate inscriptions on the tombstones at his feet:
Here lies Zemir, and the saddened Graces should throw flowers on her grave. Like Tom, her ancestor, like Lady, her mother, she was constant in her affections, swift of foot…The Gods, witnesses of her tenderness, ought to have rewarded her for her fidelity with immortality, so that she might for ever remain near her mistress.
“It’s a mausoleum for dogs,” Darya says. “Catherine the Great built it.”
“Shame on the Romanovs! They care for their dogs more than their people.”
“What a terrible thing to say, Avram!”
He directs his unforgiving gaze at her. “Listen, my Opal-Eyed Queen, you are not the only one who is cold. Everyone is these days, especially the Jews. Fight for us, Darya. You have the Tsarina’s ear. Do something!”
“I don’t know what to tell her. She thinks every revolutionary is a Jew.”
“And here you are. With a Jew. What are we to do, Darya? Why do you tolerate the Romanovs? Can’t you tell they are propelling Russia toward disaster?”
“Enough, Avram! Don’t talk this way. Our political system is still the best in the world.”
“Autocracy? Nonsense! It didn’t work at the time of Peter the Great. And it’s not working today. See what a relatively tame march to St. Petersburg turned into. Bloody Sunday! Our country will never be the same. Everyone is bitter.”
“The Tsar was beside himself, Avram. It was a sad day for all of us. The order to fire on innocent civilians came from the anxious troops, not from the Tsar.” She rises on her toes and tilts her face up to Avram. “No more politics, not today.” And then, knowing full well that the truth is otherwise, she adds, “Our relationship has nothing to do with the Romanovs.”
She sidesteps the graves, Avram guiding her by the arm. “Avram, do you detect an odor of decaying flesh around here?”
He brings his face close to the tombstone and pretends to sniff like a dog. He digs his hands into her hair, smiles at her with a lopsided smile. “Yes, I do. I smell the stench of corruption. I smell Rasputin. I smell treason. Durnovo, Gerasomov…” He traces the inscription on the tombs. “Leave them, Darya, come with me. Leave while your innocence is intact.”
She wraps her hand around his wrist to count the bounce of his pulse. Rubs her cheek to the coarse weave of his coat. She loves this man, desiring him in her every cell, yet she hears herself hurt him in ways she does not intend. “My fate is sealed here, Avram. I’ve been assigned a responsibility I don’t quite understand. It’s as if the survival of the monarchy depends on me.”
Avram raises her chin with one finger. “Survival. Fate. Sealed. You’re too young to think like this.”
She does not know why these thoughts creep into her head, why her olfactory senses detect scents unnoticed by others, why fires that warm others send a chill up her spine. Grigori Rasputin has insinuated that he possesses the hypnotic ability to thrust her into a trance that will answer all these questions. But the notion of relinquishing control, even temporarily, to Rasputin’s pale-eyed powers is not acceptable to her. Still, not only has he become a welcome guest in court but an essential member of the Imperial Family. Darya, too, encourages his visits to the palace, sends him a gift when he heals Alexei, compliments him on his ability to calm the boy, all for the sake of the Tsarevich.
She leans against Avram. She is sad today, and she doesn’t know why. “Did you know that my name means sea?”
“I know. It’s beautiful. The origin is Persian.”
“But it’s cold water and salt and freezing all the time, and maybe that’s why I’m always cold. So I don’t want that name anymore. Call me anything you want, any name that will warm me up.”
“Opal-Eyed Jewess,” Avram whispers to the birds of paradise that came here from New Guinea a century ago. “Darya,” he calls out to the swans sailing across the lake. “My Opal-Eyed Queen,” he murmurs to the rose garden behind them. “I love all your names. I didn’t know you don’t like Darya.”
“I’m tired of being cold near fires. Tired of being different.”
“But different makes you who you are. And I love different.” He suddenly gestures to his left, motions to her to be quiet.
A shadow is ducking behind one bush then another, chuckling under his breath like a depraved, cloven-footed jester, an obsessed man unable to sleep, unable to eat, his head full of Darya. He is shaking, aroused, expecting his own moments of relief.
“Stay where you are,” Avram whispers. “I’ll be back.”
Darya grabs his hand. “Don’t go alone.”
But he is walking ahead, fast, catlike, fearless. He ducks behind one topiary, then another, silent, edging ahead. He is sure-footed, good at eluding detection, good at concealing himself even if there’s nothing to conceal. He lives in a part of town that requires this skill, this ability to slip away, fade unnoticed, escape Jew haters. Darya catches up with him. She is certain Rasputin is following them to punish Avram.
The two circle the topiary, slowly, quietly. Avram’s heart is banging against his ribs.
Count Trebla is squatting behind the topiary. His sweat-drenched features are contorted as if in pain. He is pleasuring himself.
/> He jumps to his feet. Pulls up his pants. Wipes his soiled hand on his coat.
Avram grabs him by the collar, glares at him with the force of contained rage, ready to shake the fear of God into the man’s thick skull.
Darya touches Avram on his arm, restrains him with a small tug at his sleeve.
He releases Count Trebla, shoves him away. “Go back to the kennels where you belong. Go!”
“Who are you to order me?” Count Trebla barks, assaulting Avram with a gust of sour breath. “I know what you’re doing here. I will tell.”
Darya steps forward, aims two fingers between his eyes like a pistol. It had scared him before, perhaps it will again. “Down!” She says as if ordering the Doberman who bit her that day. “Now!”
This man who titters on the brink of madness, who no longer cares for his dogs, forgets to feed them, slaps their licking tongues away; this man who has lost interest in his wife and the ledger he filled every night with frantic observations, falls to his knees at Darya’s feet. He is mumbling under his breath, promising to be good, to serve her, to follow her every command.
“Go now,” she says. “Go, take care of your dogs.”
He clambers to his feet. Shakes himself like a wet puppy, bows to her, thanks her profusely, vows to remain her obedient slave.
He scrambles away, content, chuckling under his breath.
“I’m impressed,” Avram tells Darya. “You, my queen, can talk yourself out of any predicament. Pity you are on the Romanov side.”
“On your side too, Avram. We better leave now. This man is dangerous.”
“And mad.”
“Perhaps, but that doesn’t make him less dangerous.”
The city outside the gates is stirring; the sun is rising, gathering force. The scent of jasmine is in the air.
Avram kisses his forefinger and touches it to her eye. “Whatever happens, my queen, do not forget this Jew.”
She turns away from him and walks past the parterres in golden boxes, across the Marble Bridge, and back toward the palace. She does not turn around to wave farewell. She does not want him to see her tears, her pain and conflict.
She does not want him to know, not yet, that she is pregnant with his child.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The imperial Cossacks of the guard escort a veiled woman into the Alexander Park. Her dark hair, braided with ropes of fake pearls, quivers about her shoulders as she sashays ahead with the dexterity of a fawn, her bare thighs flashing in and out of lavender veils, her theatrical overtures casting a spell upon the men patrolling the park. Trailed by the clatter of hooves, she ascends the steps toward two Nubian guards who flank the entrance to the palace. They fling the doors open, and Jasmine the Persian Dancer is ushered in.
Servers in ceremonial livery, white tie and gloves, breeches, long socks, and nonslip-soled shoes race back and forth through the palace corridors. The aroma of spices—dill, parsley, bay leaf—rises from serving dishes of chicken and wild goat. The staff nod their greeting to Jasmine as she slips into the hall, wends her way between the malachite columns and toward the formal dining room.
Candelabras with masses of fragrant flowers crown the tables. Tsarskoe Selo crystal with the enameled Romanov coat of arms and gold menu holders, normally reserved for formal gala events, have been brought out. German salads, caviar, oysters, and aromatic mushrooms are set in silver and porcelain. Baccarat decanters brim with vodkas, permeating the air with the scents of mint, pear, and sour orange.
A luncheon is being held in honor of Grigori Rasputin.
Waiters serve the guests silently and discreetly. The privileged few, chosen to wait on the Tsar, are tall, strong, and handsome. They follow the Emperor from one Imperial Palace to another, grow old with him, their ears open to intimate gossip, handsomely rewarded by one minister or another.
Dressed in a simple army tunic with the ever-present epaulets his father conferred upon him, the Tsar does not move from table to table to partake of different courses along the way, converse with his guests, and honor them with his presence, as is customary. The protocol of serving zakuski in the adjoining hall has been dismissed too. The Emperor remains seated at the table of his honored guest, Rasputin. The Empress and grand duchesses are on his right. On his left, in a Georgian style mahogany highchair with claw feet, sits the eighteen-month-old Tsarevich, his face smeared with chocolate and raspberry sauce.
Grigori Rasputin reaches out to pinch the child’s cheek, blows a kiss across the table toward Grand Duchess Tatiana and winks at Anastasia, who is telling a joke to Maria. He dips his fingers into the caviar dish, pinches the plump eggs between thumb and forefinger, and hand-feeds the Tsarevich, who spits it out. Digging into the creamy soup, he plucks out a meat pie and drops it into his mouth. Olga raises a surprised eyebrow. Maria and Tatiana exchange glances. The Empress averts her gaze.
Darya is at another table with Grand Duke Michael Alexandrovich, the Tsar’s younger brother. He clicks his goblet against Darya’s and drinks to her health.
She nods. Drinks a sip of wine.
The grand duke attempts to engage her in conversation, tell her about the few exciting days he has passed in the company of his brother, tell her all about dinner with the horse guardsmen and their military review the next day, about breakfast with the officers and their wives and the dinner later with the retired officers in the officers’ club, where both he and his brother drank to their heart’s desire. And he tells her that he was in attendance when the Semyonovsky Regiment returned from Moscow to inform his brother that the mutiny was successfully squelched. But a lot of sad things are occurring around the country—strikes everywhere, taxes not paid, bank withdrawals not honored. Peasants are seizing land, landlords are being killed, garrisons are mutinying, trains are being overturned by striking workers. In order to avoid a massacre, the Tsar agreed to sign the October Manifesto, granting basic civil rights to his people and allowing the establishment of political parties. “But,” the grand duke tells Darya, “my brother felt sick with shame at this betrayal of the dynasty.”
Darya is not listening. She is watching Rasputin. He has been assigned her usual seat next to Alexei, and she has been banished to another table. The temperature of her opal eye is rising, spreading onto her cheeks.
Grand Duke Michael is telling her something about Alexandra Kossikovskaya, his sister’s lady-in-waiting. Darya attempts to collect her emotions. She nods her understanding. If it would not have been such an effort, she would have told him how deeply she feels for him. He is in love with Alexandra Kossikovskaya, a commoner, and has asked the Tsar and the dowager mother, Maria, to allow him to marry his love. But his mother and brother will not hear of it. They have threatened to remove him from the line of succession if he marries other than royalty.
He rests his hand on her arm. “Are you well, Darya Borisovna. You are very pale.”
No! She is not well. She fears she might faint. Reaching out for the salt holder, she drops a few pinches of salt under her tongue to revive herself. “Thank you, I feel fine,” she assures the grand duke.
She does not want to go to the infirmary, does not want Dr. Botkin to discover what transpired last night in her bedroom after an especially harrowing nightmare, where she was setting fire to everything and everyone she loved, to the palace, to the Tsar and Tsarina, to the Tsarevich, burning everything dear to her, leaving unimaginable devastation in her trail.
She was startled awake by a vibrating metallic clank behind her eardrums. Her hand jumped up to her Fabergé egg necklace. It was wide open. She raised it to her nose to smell its sweet scent, but there was nothing to smell. The ambergris was gone. She searched everywhere, under her pillows, bedcovers, mattress, even the bed and carpet, but failed to find the ambergris. It was then that the Ancient One appeared on the windowsill, quivering as if uncertain whether to enter or leave the room. The flowing trail of her gown swayed and teased below the windowpanes. “Give my ambergris back,” Darya commanded
, certain the Ancient One had it.
A soft sigh, a breath of disappointment emanated from the specter before she flapped her wide-sleeved arms and drifted away, fading into the silvery dawn.
As she wondered how on earth the Ancient One had managed to unlock the clasp and why she would snatch away the ambergris, Darya remembered she was pregnant and softly, affectionately rubbed her rounded belly.
Thoughts of Avram prevented her from going back to sleep. When, she wondered, was the right time to reveal her pregnancy to him? He would want to marry her, take her away, care for her. Yet that was not what she wanted. But she was starting to show. How would the Imperial Court react? Some measure of leniency might be extended to Tyotia Dasha who, like many ladies-in-waiting throughout history, is of royal descent. Yet unlike those women, Darya pondered, the father of her child is not a king, a prince, or a grand duke, whose bastard might, in time, be accepted by the Imperial Court and perhaps even granted the father’s surname. Neither the Imperial Couple nor any court of law would extend any leniency to her Avram, a commoner and a despised Jew. At that moment, without warning, and as if rebelling against her thoughts, her womb began to complain, squeeze, and twist to painlessly expel the embryo she successfully carried for four months and ten days.
And just like that, her child slipped out of her at dawn.
It was as if the little space in her womb was reserved for the Tsarevich, and Avram’s child was an intruder. Only then did she understand why the Ancient One robbed her of her ambergris. She was being punished for desiring a child other than Alexei. Now, weak and bleeding, she wonders if she will ever have her own child.
She reaches out for her wine.
The grand duke hands her the goblet. He adjusts the medal of the Cross of St. George he wears with utmost pride, the highest military honor awarded for his command of the Caucasian Native Cavalry. He asks her a series of unnecessary questions to break the silence.
Her voice hardly audible she replies. Yes, she did attend Diaghilev’s ballet. No, nothing has been purchased in auction lately. The salon is not held monthly, but every three months. Yes, she did go to see the Three Sisters in the Michailovsky Theater, but she did not care for the amateur company from Moscow. She did not attend the charity performance organized by Sonia Orbeliani at the Stanislavsky Art Theater, but she is planning to visit the exhibition of costumes in the Taurida Palace.
The Last Romanov Page 14