“He has documents to back up his genealogy.”
“We’ve seen some of those documents,” Romanov admitted, “enough to get him through the door and to our records in the first place, anyway. Still, documents can be forged. Why hasn’t he agreed to a DNA test?”
Her head throbbed now, the pain sharp little pulses. Why hadn’t she thought of this? Had she been afraid of ruining the dream? “I’m sure if he were asked he would agree.”
“I already asked. As a personal favor. He refused. Perhaps Mikhail is afraid of getting trapped in his own … delusions? I don’t know the technical term. Then again, if he has the wherewithal not to take a DNA test, he must know exactly what he’s doing. He’s a con artist. It’s the only explanation.” Romanov released a sad little sigh. “We’re worried for your sake, Dr. Herrera. If he has no interest in staking a claim to the throne, ask yourself why he’s suddenly expressed interest in an academic? A professor of Russian history no less?”
Veronica’s heart sank. She had asked herself the very same questions when she first met Michael. “Maybe he enjoys my company.”
Romanov gave a wisp of a smile and a gallant nod. “Of course. Your charms are numerous, I’m sure. But Mikhail’s timing concerns us. These are volatile political times in Russia. We think he’s using you for his own personal gain. Surely you understand our concerns, given the trouble over these past elections. A new tsar would be a useful distraction, a smokescreen for the powerful.” Romanov drew his hands to his heart. “I am prepared for that environment. I’ve been preparing all my life. I speak four languages, though like most of the Russian nobility I admit a bias toward French. You see, I know the Russian culture and land inside out, Dr. Herrera. A flimflam man like Mikhail Karstadt in my place? Quelle horreur.”
Veronica would confront Michael about the DNA test. First, she needed to bring this conversation to an amicable close. “I think you’re imagining dragons to slay. Even if restoration is possible, even if Michael is a con man or delusional or whatever else you think, what’s the likelihood that anything would come of his claim anyway?”
“Russian history is that of sane and noble leadership?”
“Fair point.” Veronica raised her hands up, palms forward, and then realized she was unconsciously mimicking Michael’s gesture for surrender. She lowered her hands abruptly. “Still, I think you’re overreacting.”
“You must understand our concerns given the ludicrous nature of his claim.”
“His family’s genealogical records trace a direct line from the Iron Tsar Nicholas I. He’s also a great-grandnephew of Nicholas II.”
Romanov started to shake his head, looked confused.
She paused. “You’ve seen his family tree, haven’t you?”
“I suppose you’re referring to when Mikhail still traced his descent through Alexander Mikhailovich and the tsar’s sister Xenia. Not that the twice-fold claim means anything. Matrilineal descent doesn’t count, and my grandfather was far closer to the succession than his great-grandfather.” Romanov raised a bushy white eyebrow. “He hasn’t told you the other story? He hasn’t told you who he thinks he is?”
Veronica’s vision spotted and the room seemed to close in around her. “What other story?”
“His family believes there was a cover-up of some sort and the tsar himself was actually his great-grandfather.”
She focused above Romanov’s head, making out the picture of the royal family through the brown spots in her vision, Alexandra’s sad eyes and Nicholas’s tight, wry smile. “You’re joking,” was all she could manage.
“On this subject, I do not joke,” Romanov said flatly. “That’s the story we’ve tried to investigate further, what we hoped you could help us disprove. Or prove, I suppose. I’ll still allow for that possibility.”
“You’re wrong,” Veronica said. “Michael’s not some nut who thinks Anastasia or Alexei escaped the carnage the night their family was murdered.”
“Oh no.” Romanov shook his head. “I see now he hasn’t been forthright with you, Dr. Herrera. His tale is far more creative than that.”
Ten
At the end of August, the family gathered at Peterhof, awaiting the birth of the fifth child. Alexandra complained of migraines and stomach pains, supposedly brought on by pregnancy but no doubt due to the probing stares of her husband’s family.
—VERONICA HERRERA, The Reluctant Romanov
PETERHOF ESTATE
AUGUST 1902
Lena huddled with Masha at the window. They had traveled to the Upper Palace for the morning, volunteering to polish the black lacquer wall panels in the Chinese Wing. From this vantage point, Masha assured her, they’d get a clear view of the Romanovs as they descended on the summer residence.
While Lena dusted a decorative golden dragon hidden in a panel’s crevice, Masha shared all the best gossip. The tsar’s cousin, Alexander Mikhailovich, wished to divorce the tsar’s sister. The tsar’s other sister was about to run away with a common soldier. A powerful friend of the family demanded a certain nobleman be exiled to Turkey, all because the man had disappointed him in lovemaking. With all the family trouble, was it a wonder the tsar had so little time to spare for affairs of state?
Lena covered her mouth and laughed softly.
“Look.” Masha touched Lena’s arm and pointed out the window. A shiny red touring car had pulled into the paved turnaround. Lena spotted Marie in the back of the vehicle. She should have known the dowager and her entourage would be the first to arrive. Lena lengthened her neck to see over Masha’s wide shoulder.
“Look at how she makes her people dress.” Masha loosened the furry belt on her shirtwaist to scratch. “Even in the summer.”
Marie’s footmen wore moleskin driving caps, flowing scarves, and huge goggles, reminding Lena of characters in the Jules Verne novels her brother loved so much. One of the footmen set down thick pallets of wool carpet, forging a path for Marie as she made her way across the muddy footpath to the front door. Lena bit her lip and scanned their faces as they approached the palace. If Pavel were to join them at Peterhof, he would accompany Marie. Lena thought it might be fun to know of his presence in advance, to catch him by surprise, since he usually snuck up on her.
Slowly, the footmen unwrapped their scarves, and removed their goggles and caps. She didn’t see Pavel.
She felt a sharp jab in her side. “He might come later,” Masha whispered.
She eyed Masha, who shrugged and pushed a strand of pale blond hair behind her ear. “Maybe I’ll find a Cossack for myself while we’re here,” Masha added. “Oh! Look at those two in the black Daimler. What have they done to that poor vehicle?”
A new automobile had pulled into the turnaround. The Russian flag was affixed to long poles that stuck out crookedly from each side of the car, like an insect’s antennae. A silver-plated double-headed eagle crest had been embossed on the driver’s door.
“That’s the tsar’s cousin Kyril,” Masha said. “And Victoria Melita, the woman they call Ducky. I should have known. What showboats!”
Lena expected to see a chauffeur, but the tsar’s cousin had driven himself. Kyril stretched his long legs and exited the vehicle. He was third in line to the throne, behind Nicholas’s younger brother. He looked so stately and stern, even in his long driving coat and goggles, that Lena easily pictured him as tsar. A blasphemous thought, but she couldn’t get the image out of her mind.
“Ducky is the one who divorced Alexandra’s brother,” Lena said, even as she wondered why Pavel hadn’t accompanied Marie to Peterhof. “The empress hates them both.” At least she had something to add to the conversation.
“Everyone knows that,” Masha said, clearly disappointed. “They’ve been lovers for years. Though God knows what he sees in a dull Englishwoman.”
Lena watched Kyril open the door for his companion. Ducky was tall and angular with sharp blue eyes. Given her sour expression, she struck Lena as the type of woman who would find difficult
y inspiring affection in anyone, but then she didn’t pretend to understand the minds of men. “Why do they call her Ducky?”
“Who knows,” Masha replied. “She’s English. They’re full of nonsense. But don’t be fooled by the silly name. She’s all business. I hear these two are the ones who hired Phillipe Vachot, with his potions and magic spells, to discredit the empress. They’ll faint dead away if she actually does push out a boy.”
Lena twisted a lock of hair between her fingers. “Does the whole family expect a boy?”
“Of course they do. There will be big trouble if the baby isn’t the heir.”
“No one can hurt the empress,” Lena said, forcing a confidence she didn’t feel. “Too many people protect her.”
Masha narrowed her eyes. “Including you?”
“I was thinking of the tsar.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Masha admitted. “They say Kyril and Ducky will do anything to get nearer the throne, but I’m not sold on them. What a pair of cold fish!”
Lena cupped her hand over her mouth but didn’t bother to stifle the giggle. “They do both look like they’re sucking lemons,” she said.
Masha suddenly bolted upright, knocking her head against a petal-shaped lantern dangling from the ceiling. She rubbed her skull with one hand and yanked the drapes shut with the other. Then she grabbed a dry cloth from their bucket of cleaning supplies and began to dust Alexandra’s collection of porcelain vases and plates from the Orient.
Lena spun around. Marie stood at the door, absent her usual fanfare, staring right at Lena but addressing Masha. “You—look at me when I’m talking to you. Surely you have more pressing matters than dust on a few old vases.”
Masha responded with a clumsy curtsy. Marie lifted the skirts on her tailored black traveling suit and approached the windows. She drew the drapes back. Outside, Ducky made elaborate motions to indicate that the house servants should fetch her traveling cases from the back of the car.
“I told them not to come.” Marie arched her dark brows. “You girls don’t be so hard on Kyril’s adulterous lover, though. She is as beautiful on the inside as she is on the outside. And that’s the truth.”
Marie’s eyes met Lena’s and twinkled. Everyone said the tsar had kind eyes, and now Lena saw that kindness reflected in his mother’s. Lena realized that with regard to Kyril and Ducky at least, Marie was on Alexandra’s side.
* * *
All night, a storm lashed the coast. A clap of thunder jolted Lena awake from an already fitful sleep. She checked the clock on the wall and saw it was two in the morning. Then she leaned back onto her thin mattress, gathering her bearings in the hot, humid sleeping quarters. Someone was pounding on the thin door.
In the next bed, Masha stirred. “Not now,” she muttered, pulling a sheet over her eyes. “What does the German woman want with you at this time of night?”
Lena felt her way around in the dark, knowing Masha would fuss if she switched on the light. She changed into her uniform and smoothed the long skirt. Even before she looked into the terrified eyes of the maid waiting on the other side of the door, she knew why Alexandra wanted her. The contractions had started.
When she arrived in the master suite, all of the electric lights were turned on. Lena’s eyes strained against the artificial brightness. She focused on the family photographs lining the mantel, alongside the icons of long-faced saints.
On the other side of the room, Tsar Nicholas smoked and paced. At the sight of him, Lena’s pulse quickened. He wore a white silk bathrobe and a monogrammed nightshirt. Sweat speckled his brow. His cigarette smelled strongly of cloves. “Thank God,” he said gruffly. “I didn’t know how long we’d have to wait for help.”
Lena gave a quick curtsy and moved to the bed. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the icons. Even as she moved across the room, the gaze of the saints followed her. She shivered.
Damp spots stained the ivory sheets and lace-trimmed pillowcases around Alexandra’s head. Despite the elegant trappings of this room, Alexandra’s body gave off a familiar scent, sweet and metallic, like menstrual blood.
She grasped Lena by the wrist. “Is so much pain normal with a boy?”
Her eyes had the defeated, frightened look of the small animals Lena’s father used to catch in his traps. Lena gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “It is a new sensation, I’m sure,” Lena said.
“Nicky called for our friend Dr. Vachot,” she gasped. “He’ll be here any minute.”
“I’m not leaving.” The tsar straightened himself and rolled his shoulders back. “Until he arrives.”
“Dr. Vachot warned me,” Alexandra said. “There are those among us who want something to go wrong. I must stay alert during the labor. They have plans.”
Lena shook her head. “Who? What plans?”
“You must help keep them away from my room.”
“Try to relax, Alicky. You’re letting your nerves get the best of you.” Lena recognized the dowager’s husky voice as Marie entered the room. “She’ll be fine, Nicky. Now wait outside.”
Gently, the tsar touched Alexandra’s cheek. “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “Mama will take good care of you.” As Lena watched in amazement, the Tsar of all the Russias obeyed his mother and left his wife alone in the room with them.
Marie placed the back of her hand on Alexandra’s forehead. “She feels feverish. She should take something.”
“She doesn’t want to risk the baby’s health,” Lena said. She wished the tsar would come back. She needed someone else in the room to take Alexandra’s side.
“And you?” Marie’s eyes bored into her. “You wish the same? That your mistress should suffer so greatly?”
“My mother felt women were too often overmedicated during labor,” Lena said. “Sometimes they can’t push properly.”
Alexandra winced in pain. “Where is Dr. Vachot?”
“He has not yet arrived,” Marie said, impatience speeding her voice. “You look like death. Consent to an analgesic. You took medication during your other labors and look what happened. Four healthy girls.” Marie shut her mouth abruptly. The last word hung in the air, unwelcome. “If you wear yourself to exhaustion you’re no use to anyone,” Marie added quickly. “Ask your maid. You value her opinion over mine.”
Alexandra focused her gaze on Lena. “What do you think?”
“Perhaps you could walk around a while,” Lena suggested. “Gravity helps bring the baby quicker.”
“Don’t be silly,” Marie snapped. “Alix is not some common peasant woman. Tell her she needs medicine.”
Given Alexandra’s agony, perhaps drugs were the kindest option. “If pain causes the woman to lapse into shock then medication is safer,” Lena advised.
Alexandra sank back into the pillows. “Very well.”
“I know you’re tired, but don’t worry, Alicky. We’ll take good care of you.”
Marie lifted her heavy skirts and indicated Lena should open the door. Reluctantly, Lena drew away from the bed and followed her out to the hall. Lena scanned the hall for the tsar, but he was nowhere to be found.
“Not another soul is to come in this room without my permission,” Marie said.
“The empress asked about Monsieur Vachot.”
“Alix doesn’t know what’s best for her right now.”
Lena sucked in her breath. “It’s best for her to see whomever she wants. It will help the baby as well if the mother is content.”
Marie frowned, but sounded more sad than angry. “You have no idea what is best.” Her eyes darted back and forth, as though she expected spies to jump out from behind the curtains. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “If Alix delivers a boy, the cannons from Peter and Paul Fortress will shoot off three hundred blank rounds. You’ll help your mistress care for the little tsarevich.”
When the Grand Duchess Anastasia’s birth had been announced the previous year, Lena remembered the disappointed sighs and anxious faces, the subsequent
rumors about the empress’s mental state. She’d only wanted to make sure Empress Alexandra was all right. That impulse was what had gotten her involved in all of this in the first place. “And if the baby is a girl?” she asked quietly.
“You’ll follow my orders,” Marie said. “And not ask so many questions.”
PARIS
OCTOBER 1941
Charlotte clung tightly to Laurent, trying to still his trembling shoulders. Shafts of weak light drifted into their cell through gaps in the wooden planks haphazardly nailed across the window. Wilted bags of flour and sugar lined splintering shelves, along with empty bottles of wine. Charlotte spotted a cockroach scurrying along the wall. Her throat clenched. She averted her eyes, hoping not to see another.
Laurent stared at the roach, his eyes glazed over. Gently, Charlotte cupped her son’s chin in her hand and turned his head.
“Look at me,” she said. “Only look at me.”
The gendarme had brought them to an abandoned casino. Charlotte had shielded Laurent’s eyes as they were marched down to the cellar. She’d caught glimpses of roulette tables, their ghostly green covers stained with patches of blood. She couldn’t shield Laurent from the stench of unwashed bodies and urine. The French army had used casinos as temporary hospitals before they abandoned Paris. She tried not to think about amputated limbs and the cries of the dying that had once filled the place.
They sat on the floor together now, in sawdust, Laurent on her lap. He scratched the crusty discharge around his nose. It started to bleed again. Charlotte dabbed at the blood frantically with the end of her shirt. Luc had given each of them one of his old corduroy jackets before they left Paris. It wasn’t much, but she spread a jacket around Laurent’s thin shoulders now.
“Where’s Papa?”
Charlotte shook her head. The gendarme had taken Luc to a different room. Charlotte couldn’t bring herself to ask why. She needed to focus on Laurent, and distract him so he wouldn’t talk about Luc. “When we get to your grandparents’ house, you’ll sleep in your own room. There’s a huge yard and a garden in the back. You’ll play every day with their dogs, two giant yellow retrievers.” She longed to see their tails thump the floor in greeting.
The Secret Daughter of the Tsar Page 15