The Secret Daughter of the Tsar

by Jennifer Laam

  “Mikhail Karstadt is to help determine truth,” Grigori said. “He would not come willingly, so here are you.”

  “I don’t care what you told Michael. He’ll go to the police.”

  Grigori tilted his head again. “Tell me, does Mikhail love you?”

  Veronica felt the pain deep inside, like a punch in the stomach.

  “You are unsure,” Grigori said smoothly. “That is response I expect from woman. You love him. I see it. I have done you magnificent favor then. I tell Mikhail everything bad that would happen if he goes to police. You will know soon if he is in love.”

  The waiter returned with their order. Veronica couldn’t look at the black beads of caviar. Romanov didn’t appear to have much of an appetite anymore either. They watched in silence as Grigori pushed his sleeves up and shoveled fish in his mouth. A bitter taste rose in Veronica’s throat. She was going to be sick. She stumbled to her feet. Romanov stood as well, ready to grab her.

  Veronica snatched her purse off the seat. She felt too shaky to risk the Mace. If she missed, who knew what Grigori would do? And would she even make it to the door? She remembered how respectfully the waiter had treated Grigori. They were still technically in the United States, but she felt as though they’d taken her to Russia. “Where is the bathroom?”

  “What are you going to do in there?” Romanov demanded.

  “What do you think?”

  “Let her go.” Grigori waved his hand benevolently and returned to his lunch. “I know place well. Windows barred.”

  Reluctantly, Romanov stood to let her pass. “Don’t take long.”

  Clutching her purse as she walked, Veronica kept her gaze focused on the tiles on the floor in front of her. As she passed the stairs, she heard the laughing Russian dishwashers in the kitchen and caught the scent of fried onions once more. When she reached the restroom, she shut and locked the door. The bathroom smelled strongly of antiseptic and her stomach roiled. Hands shaking, she reached into her purse for her phone.

  It wasn’t there. Grigori must have taken it while he was fiddling under the table finding his own phone. She had no way of contacting Michael.

  * * *

  After lunch, they drove past bungalows with badly weathered roofs and half-finished paint jobs until Grigori parked in front of a gray cottage that stood in stark contrast to the sad neglect of the other houses. Neatly clipped hedges encircled the front porch and cherry red nasturtium spilled over brick planters on the windowsills. Flower-shaped pinwheels rippled in the breeze.

  “Stay here,” Romanov told Grigori. “Call me when Mikhail arrives.”

  “I think not. This one looks ready to bolt.” Grigori indicated Veronica should open the car door. She obeyed and they walked to the cottage together, Romanov running two steps in front of them like a giddy schoolboy.

  She heard a buzzing in Grigori’s jacket pocket. He withdrew his phone and checked the message, frowning. Veronica wondered if it was Michael. She tried to move her hand subtly. Grigori had her phone, but somehow he’d missed the Mace. Now both he and Romanov were distracted …

  Before she could think about it further, Grigori grabbed her arm. She bristled at his touch. He pressed her hand firmly back down to her side.

  Veronica felt her breathing grow ragged and hard. Her hands clenched in and out, making fists. As soon as he let go, she shoved him. Grigori stumbled.

  Romanov’s voice shook. “Please. Let’s handle this like adults.”

  Veronica expected Grigori to turn on her, but he just gave a stout laugh. “It is all right. I would do same.”

  Romanov expelled his breath and started babbling. “I apologize again for these unfortunate circumstances, Dr. Herrera, but I do think you will enjoy your visit. As I told you, Ms. Rubalov’s mother was one of the empress’s attendants at the turn of the century. She is magnificent.” He pushed the doorbell and it chimed pleasantly in response.

  “What do you want?” Veronica recognized the Russian words from the other side of the door. Russians weren’t much for small talk.

  “I’ve brought her to you,” Romanov said.

  The door swung open. A tall, trim, older woman waited on the other side. Her eyes retained an open, expectant expression at odds with the firm set of her lips.

  “May I introduce Ms. Natalya Rubalov,” Romanov said, sweeping his arm gallantly in the woman’s direction. “And this is Dr. Veronica Herrera.”

  “A pleasure to meet you,” Veronica replied in Russian, extending her hand.

  At first her hand hovered awkwardly in midair. Natalya Rubalov gave Veronica a thorough inspection, starting at the top of her head, lingering on her eyes, and moving all the way down to the tips of her black boots. Veronica dropped her hand and returned the favor. Natalya Rubalov wore a cranberry-colored caftan, and small charms dangling from a slim silver bracelet made tinkling sounds as she moved. Her lipstick matched the caftan and her hair was pulled back in a neat white bun. Her bright blue eyes were all the more astonishing set against her dark olive complexion, so different than the Russian winter white Veronica had expected. And something about the shape of her face looked familiar.

  All at once, Natalya Rubalov drew Veronica into a suffocating bear hug. Veronica struggled for air, but she liked how Natalya smelled, like powder and floral perfume. For a moment, Abuela’s face flashed in Veronica’s mind.

  “I told Ms. Rubalov you’re writing a book about Empress Alexandra,” Romanov said. “Clearly, she wishes to express her appreciation.”

  “Who is this?” Natalya let go of Veronica and nodded her chin at Grigori. “You only told me you were bringing the professor.”

  “An associate,” Romanov replied smoothly. “Please let us in, Ms. Rubalov.”

  Natalya stepped aside. Veronica was about to step inside, but before she could cross the threshold, Grigori flashed a malicious smile and pushed her through the door. She stumbled and would have fallen if Natalya hadn’t taken her arm and steered her to the sofa with surprising strength.

  “Shame on you,” Natalya spat at Grigori. “And in my home. Mind your manners or you will wait outside.”

  Grigori’s smile vanished. He gave Natalya a sheepish look before staking a corner of the room as his own. Such was the power of the elderly in Russian culture. They could even stare down a gangster.

  The house appeared as neatly kept as Natalya herself. Brightly embroidered quilts covered the sofa and chairs and intricate lace doilies graced each end table. Warm scents of cinnamon and baking bread filled the small rooms. Natalya ambled off to the kitchen, where Veronica spotted a silver samovar waiting on the counter.

  “Lovely home, isn’t it?” Romanov said. “She is a true lady. Even if she is only the daughter of a servant.”

  Natalya returned with steaming hot tea in a china cup edged with flowers. She placed it on the coffee table, but Veronica didn’t dare move.

  “You look nervous,” Natalya said.

  “Wouldn’t you be, in my place?”

  Natalya sighed. “Here is the Russian cure.”

  “I thought vodka was the Russian cure,” Veronica said.

  “Some of us come from a more elegant upbringing.”

  Romanov positioned himself neatly on the sofa next to Veronica, holding his back erect, as though he’d already assumed the throne. Natalya settled easily into an armchair. Though seated to the side of them, her gaze never left Veronica. “What’s the matter? You don’t like how the tea smells?”

  “It smells great.”

  “Then drink. Drink.”

  Veronica blew the steam away and took a quick sip. She would have preferred coffee, but found comfort in the cinnamon-tinged tea, even if it was still too hot. Some of her vigor returned. “The tea is wonderful.”

  Natalya nodded.

  “Your mother worked for Empress Alexandra?” Veronica said.

  Natalya turned to a nearby shelf. She produced a gold photo album and spread it open in her lap. She gave her fingertip a dain
ty lick before turning the page. “The tsar’s family rarely took pictures with their servants. See the special bond that Alexandra and my mother shared.”

  Veronica’s nerves tingled. She thought she’d seen every photo of Alexandra in existence, or at least that the Russian government had released. Natalya turned the album around so Veronica could see, and pointed.

  The photo had been shot from a low vantage point and the subjects were off center. Veronica wondered if one of the grand duchesses had taken the picture. Alexandra looked around thirty, still beautiful with those incredibly sad eyes. Next to her stood a young woman in a plain, starched white skirt and shirtwaist. The woman’s features were small and indistinct, but Veronica thought she looked scared. “This is your mother?”

  Natalya nodded. “Her name was Lena Ivanovna. She left the Romanovs’ service before the Revolution, praise God. If she’d stayed, the Bolsheviks would have hunted her and killed her like an animal.”

  “Why did she leave the country?”

  Natalya peered over her shoulder at Grigori. He was leaning against the wall opposite Veronica, near a small television set, his arms folded, staring out the window. He seemed unimpressed by Natalya’s story of her mother.

  Natalya shrugged and then turned her attention back to Romanov. “You’re sure?”

  Romanov nodded. “She will help us. I’m sure of it.”

  From the back of the photo album, Natalya withdrew a yellowing letter. Veronica recognized Alexandra’s handwriting. This was not a copy of a copy, as Romanov had shown her earlier, but the genuine article. Veronica tried not to snatch the letter from Natalya’s frail hand.

  “Anastasia was born in 1901,” Natalya told Veronica. “Everyone supposes that the heir, Alexei, who was born in 1904, was the next child. But between those two, Empress Alexandra also gave birth. It wasn’t a hysterical pregnancy or a miscarriage. My mother knew the whole story.”

  Fourteen

  The following day, the tsar’s female relatives were summoned to the room where the birth was to have taken place. By the time they arrived, Alexandra lay prostrate and hysterical. Blood stained the sheets. No one understood what had happened. Or if they did understand, they never bothered to tell.

  —VERONICA HERRERA, The Reluctant Romanov

  PETERHOF ESTATE

  AUGUST 1902

  In the nursery adjoining the master suite, Lena rocked the sleeping newborn in her arms. The room had been set up for a tiny tsarevich: a crib filled with soft plush animals, a blue-and-white chest of drawers embellished with stencils of the imperial double-headed eagle, and a brand-new changing table, still spotless. Lena turned over the blue blanket, soft as lamb’s wool, to examine the baby wrapped inside. The child was still slick and glistening, cheeks a healthy pink. Tiny buds of red hair shot off the baby’s head and sparkled in the bright daylight. Toes and fingers curled up and out, flexing as though to test their newfound place in the world. Creases marred the fresh skin around the baby’s eyes, but these marks would disappear after a few days. Perfect.

  If only she’d been a boy.

  At some point, Alexandra would demand an explanation. Why hadn’t Lena’s remedies ensured an heir? Once more, Lena would try to explain that these were only the tales of old women, that she never made any guarantees. But no matter what she said, she knew the empress would mutter and insist she was cursed, as she had after the birth of Anastasia. And Lena would feel sick at heart.

  Right now, however, Alexandra remained unconscious, and so Lena could savor the moment. She’d brought a baby into the world. Her mother would have been astonished to see Lena holding a Romanov grand duchess in her arms. “I told you I could do it,” she whispered.

  “I never had any doubt,” Marie said.

  Lena shot to attention. The dowager had kept her distance and remained uncharacteristically silent. At last, she stepped into the nursery. “You’ll be properly compensated for your service.”

  Lena tucked the blanket back around the baby’s neck and shoulders. “Will you present the grand duchess to the tsar?”

  “I will do no such thing,” Marie snapped. “How can you even suggest it?”

  Some of the black curls from Marie’s upswept hair had spilled out and stuck to the thin layer of sweat on her neck and shoulders. Something about the disorder bothered Lena. She’d never seen Marie look anything but perfectly polished. Lena wondered if perhaps she was waiting to talk to her son, to gently break the news of another girl. This seemed unnecessary. Though she didn’t presume intimacy with the tsar, Lena knew he adored all of his children. Nothing in the world could keep him from seeing his newborn.

  Marie softened her tone. “Now put that poor creature down.”

  “I should stay. During the first few hours it’s important to keep watch…”

  “Have you lost your senses?” Marie’s voice echoed in the small room.

  “Where is the doctor?”

  “He left. Of course.” Marie’s eyes widened. “What more could he do?”

  Vachot should have remained at least until Alexandra awoke. He should have checked the child’s vital signs. Lena may not have had much faith in the man’s abilities, but she knew he would do that much. “Dr. Vachot left?”

  “I sent him away. Can you blame me? I knew Alix shouldn’t have let him anywhere near her.”

  Lena hesitated. “I saw other doctors. They were playing cards.”

  “All of them left.” Marie reached into the front pocket of her voluminous skirt. Her hand moved slowly, as though the action caused her pain. She withdrew a long envelope. “Take this.” She extended her hand. A stack of multicolored bills had been stuffed inside the thin envelope. “Your services are no longer required.”

  A shimmering wave obscured Lena’s vision. She took a moment to process Marie’s words. The baby cooed softly in her sleep. Lena pulled her closer to her chest. “You’re dismissing me?”

  “Surely you wouldn’t want to remain in our employ. Alix will manage. I’ve given you enough money to last until you’ve found another position. If you need a reference I’ll gladly provide one.”

  “I did everything you asked.”

  “Let me make this perfectly clear.” Marie’s expression remained set in stone. “Take the money and leave her with me. Speak to no one. Don’t even look at anyone as you leave. I can see it will be too difficult for you to remain here.”

  Lena drew back. Her mother once told her evil spirits sometimes invaded the room after a birth, causing vulnerable new mothers to say strange things and commit unspeakable acts. Sometimes these mothers even killed their own babies. Much as Lena had fought to dismiss her mother’s superstitions, she couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps such a spirit had entered Marie’s body, finding Alexandra’s temporarily vacant. Lena placed her hand across the baby’s forehead like a shield. “If Nicholas knew—”

  Marie slapped her hard across the cheek. Sharp pain shot through Lena’s face. Stunned, Lena reeled back, but the grand duchess remained safely tucked in her arms.

  “Addressing the tsar by his Christian name? Who do you think you are?”

  “I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  Marie touched her collar and fingered the chain around her neck protectively, like she thought Lena might lunge for her throat. “Do you think this brings me pleasure?”

  Despite her severe tone, Lena believed Marie could be worn down, if only one found the courage to confront her. After all, Alexandra had managed it at least once. Lena took a tentative step forward. Marie glanced at her grandchild, in obvious distress. Lena’s cheek still smarted from the slap, but she couldn’t leave the grand duchess alone with this woman.

  “The empress is not old,” Lena said. “They can try again for a son, for the heir. I can help them. Please don’t make me go. Let me stay and help.”

  Marie picked up a soft toy lamb from the crib and kneaded its stomach in her hands.

  “You only need to appro
ach the tsar. Perhaps there is the possibility of an alternate succession to the throne that might include girls.”

  “Alternate succession? Is that what they told you to say?”

  Lena stepped back, hating herself for the miscalculation. She shouldn’t have presumed to give Marie political advice. “No one told me to say anything.”

  “Don’t give me that look,” Marie said. “You know who I’m talking about. I asked you before about your family and you tried to be coy. You didn’t think I knew about your brother, Anton Ivanovich?”

  Lena’s vision faltered. Marie’s small figure seemed to advance and then retreat before her. “He’s done nothing wrong.”

  “Perhaps not in the last twenty-four hours, no,” Marie said dryly. “Poor Alix is so incompetent when it comes to these matters. Or perhaps she does know about him. She would sympathize. She has a miscreant brother of her own. I should never have allowed Nicky to marry into a family of deviants.” Marie stepped closer. “Your brother is one of them. One of the radicals who’d see my son’s throat slit and this country plunged into anarchy. He taught you English? What else did he teach you? Did he send you here to hurt my family?”

  The words struck worse than any physical blow. Lena struggled to remain upright. She tried to remember Pavel’s advice, though now the words were a jumble in her mind. He’d spoken before of self-protection, the skill he’d learned as a boxer. She’d seen boxing rings back home on the streets of Archangel, circles chalked haphazardly into the dust around two men beating one another. Dark blood flew into the gathered crowd of shouting men as the faces of the fighters grew swollen and then turned to pulp.

  Lena tried to imagine herself inside a boxing ring, holding her fists up to protect her face. “My brother has done nothing wrong and neither have I.”

  “Can you prove that?” Marie said.

  “I helped the empress. I was a friend to her when she needed one. I gave her advice when she asked.” Lena heard her voice crack. She backed away from Marie again, bumping into a wall. “I helped deliver her child.”