“Do you know what happened to my father-in-law?” Marie said.
Lena ran her tongue along her dry lower lip.
“He was blown to pieces,” Marie said flatly.
Lena remembered the stories. Marie’s father-in-law was the tsar-liberator, Alexander II. The day after he signed the document emancipating the serfs, a young man threw a grenade at his carriage. The first one missed him, but when Alexander went to check on his coachmen, the second grenade hit its mark. Lena had heard all of the gruesome details. The tsar, his limbs mangled or gone, asked to be brought back to his palace, where he died slowly, in agonizing pain. Marie’s late husband had been crowned tsar on an act of terror.
“I watched him die.” Marie leaned in close. “Since that day, I’ve never known a moment of peace. When my husband was alive I kept him safe. Now I must do the same for my son.”
“It is what we all want,” Lena whispered.
“I said tell me. Tell me what you will report to them. Did they give you a grenade to throw at the tsar when the time is right?”
“My brother is not a terrorist,” Lena cried. “He has a troubled past, it’s true, but he’s a good boy. His politics … it’s a phase he’ll outgrow. And I have nothing to do with it. I would never hurt the tsar or the empress.”
“Your brother, this good boy, could spend time in prison in Archangel,” Marie said. “The death rates in the prisons up north are the worst in the country.”
A sharp pain rocked Lena’s body. She imagined her brother, poor Anton who had always treated her so gently, languishing in a dank prison cell. Alexandra’s promises would mean nothing. She’d failed him.
“You must know what happens to handsome young men in jail,” Marie said. “He’ll wish he was dead. I shall write the warrant for his arrest myself. They will torture him until he screams for mercy.”
The walls of the room seemed to close in around her, choking Lena until she wanted to scream. Instead, she dropped to her knees, cradling the grand duchess’s tender skull. The baby mewled softly. Lena stroked her forehead, hot tears streaming down her face. With her free hand, she groped for Marie’s skirts. She clutched a bit of cloth in her hand and kissed it desperately. “I beg you. Find it in your heart to spare him.”
Marie thrust the envelope forward. Lena just made out the outline of the bills.
“Give me that poor child,” she said. “And leave here at once.”
PARIS
OCTOBER 1941
Twenty minutes later, as promised, Herr Krause returned to their cell. The gendarme followed, grumpily finishing a cigarette, his cheeks pink from the cold air outside. Herr Krause stopped in front of Charlotte. He smiled at her, smug as a snake. “Well? You have reached a decision? You are prepared to leave with us?”
He spoke in Danish again, the language of her parents. It made her thoughts shudder and spin, when she most needed to focus.
Charlotte looked down. Luc lay motionless in her arms, eyes closed and head slumped. Laurent remained still as best he could, though every few minutes his shoulders trembled. She had forced him awake, afraid that if he woke of his own volition, terror would overcome him. But he followed her instructions and stayed quiet. She was proud of him.
She closed her eyes, steadying her breath. She couldn’t confront Herr Krause yet. They’d agreed to get as much information as possible before attempting to escape. Hopefully, Charlotte would learn something to help piece together her past. “How did you do it?” she asked quietly.
“How did I do what?” Herr Krause said.
“How did you find me?” she muttered.
Herr Krause put his hand on his heart and bowed to her once more. “So you acknowledge your title, Grand Duchess? You accept your destiny?”
Charlotte remained rigid. She couldn’t bring herself to nod. She lifted her head slightly, redirecting her gaze from Laurent’s soft blond hair to the dark scar, like a child’s drawing of a sunburst, on Herr Krause’s tanned left hand.
“Say it,” Herr Krause said pleasantly. “Say you accept. And then I will tell you how I found you.”
“I accept.”
Herr Krause stooped over, grabbed her hand, and kissed it, his lips moist. She tried not to show her repulsion, forced herself not to pull away. “I have searched for you for many years, ever since I met with your grandmamma in Denmark,” he said, his voice quivering with pleasure. “But finally your friend the dancer, Matilda Kshesinskaya, led me to you.”
Charlotte gulped in a pungent lungful of the secondhand smoke that clung to the air. As far as she knew, her grandparents were all dead. She’d never met them. He was lying. He had to be lying about Kshesinskaya as well. “She wouldn’t do that to me.”
“Best to know who your true friends are. You’ll need to hone your diplomatic skills when you assume the throne.” Herr Krause tilted his head. “We had her son. He had joined that sad excuse for a resistance group, the Maquis. Didn’t she mention any of this? After she learned of her son’s imprisonment, she told us where you were.”
Charlotte saw red spots. Kshesinskaya. How could she?
“She was intimate with the tsar once, was she not? Perhaps I shall find a position for her once I’m charged with the Ukraine.” Herr Krause seemed oblivious to Charlotte’s rising temper. He let go of her hand. “You see, I am to serve as your prime minister.”
The anger flashed so intensely it blinded Charlotte as to what she was supposed to do or say next. She rolled her shoulders back, as she did before going onstage. Push the nerves back down your throat. Forget yourself. Focus. “What is wrong in the Ukraine? Why do you want us there? I thought the Germans held it fast. That’s what the papers say.”
Herr Krause’s gaze shifted, no longer projecting reptilian watchfulness. Instead, his eyes fixed on hers, steady as a hypnotist’s. Unwillingly, Charlotte found herself spellbound. “The people there must have a government that inspires loyalty,” he said. “Your time has come, Grand Duchess. Reclaim your birthright.”
Charlotte heard only the steady rhythm of her own breathing. She wanted it all to end, her life to return to what it had been. Without control, life meant little. Even Laurent’s life, she realized with a shudder, could become worthless.
“I won’t be of much use to you,” she said.
Herr Krause reddened. “I’ve made the consequences clear.”
She eased Luc onto the ground, next to Laurent, and rose, sliding her feet together until they locked into a perfect fifth position. Charlotte looked down at Luc. Herr Krause followed suit, as did the grumpy gendarme, who peered over Herr Krause’s shoulders to see what was happening. The gendarme’s expression changed at once.
When Herr Krause spoke now, his elegant Danish sounded rattled. “He’s out. So what? He had a rough afternoon.”
Charlotte summoned the emotion, all the fear and anger she’d been forced to bottle inside. “You killed him,” she growled.
Herr Krause attempted to retain his practiced composure, but his lips trembled as he stared at Luc. Behind him, the gendarme dropped his cigarette. It hit the damp cell floor with a sizzle.
“You bastard!” Charlotte curled her hands into tight balls and lunged at Herr Krause. He easily caught her and grabbed her swinging fists. Charlotte fell into the cold folds of his jacket. Perspiration and heavy cologne clung to the leather.
“Control yourself,” he hissed.
She clutched his hand, the one with the red welt, as though she needed someone, anyone, to lean on for support. His muscles stiffened under her grasp, but he didn’t let go.
“What is this?” Herr Krause addressed the gendarme, his voice edged with indignant anger. “You were only supposed to make him look bad, not really hurt him.”
Charlotte continued to scream and pound at his chest. He had to use the full force of his weight to control her.
“It can’t be,” the gendarme sputtered. “I was careful.”
“He had a weak heart.”
Herr Krause
took her by the arms and shook her until her vision blurred.
Charlotte allowed a small note of triumph in her voice, through the hysteria. “You killed him for nothing. I won’t cooperate.”
“If you think I’m letting you go after all of this time—”
“It’s impossible.” The gendarme approached the corner of the cell where Luc and Laurent lay still. “Even if he had a weak heart.”
“Stay away from him,” Charlotte cried.
The gendarme ignored her and leaned in close to Luc. “You must be mistaken. You see? He was only knocked unconscious.”
Luc’s eyes opened. He punched the gendarme flush in the jaw. The gendarme tumbled backward and fell. Luc scrambled for his holster.
Charlotte knew what she had to do next. She braced herself, willing herself not to miss. But she had done this a thousand times before, a quick, clean grande jeté. She landed a backward kick square in the German’s groin. He cried out, let go, and crumpled inward.
Luc grabbed the revolver and pointed it down at Herr Krause’s lowered head. He addressed the gendarme. “Empty your pockets.”
The gendarme crossed his arms in front of his chest belligerently. But when he heard the click of the safety lock on the revolver, he thrust his hands in his pockets and removed a slim black wallet and a set of keys.
“Grab Laurent,” Luc told her. “Go.” He tossed the keys to her and she caught them in midair. “Hurry.”
Charlotte gathered Laurent in her arms. She glanced at Herr Krause, who was starting to recover and right himself. “Luc…”
“Go!”
She held Laurent close and ran up the metal stairs. The sour scents of blood and decay lingered in the casino. She ran past the bloodstained roulette wheels, feet thumping on the padded carpet, until she reached the revolving doors.
Outside, in the metallic autumn light, she tried to gather her bearings. She spotted the glass booth where the gendarme had stopped them earlier and about sixty meters beyond that, Luc’s beat-up car. They’d shot out the tires. She stared at the keys in her hand. They were unfamiliar: black, sleek, and clean. Then she noticed an unmarked black Mercedes, like the Germans drove, parked at the crest of a low hill behind the casino. She ran, shifting Laurent to her left arm, and then stopped to fiddle with the unfamiliar lock on the door. “Come on,” she muttered.
She heard a gunshot and jumped, every sense alert. “Come on!”
At last the lock gave way. She lowered Laurent onto the clean passenger seat, and then moved to the driver’s side in front. The car smelled of antiseptic. She curled her nose and jammed the key in the ignition. The engine rumbled to attention. Her hands shook as she grasped the steering wheel.
Where was Luc? She adjusted the polished rearview mirror so she could see behind them.
Luc was coming, hobbling on one leg. A dark red trail of blood streamed down the other. She tried to coax the unfamiliar gearshift into reverse.
The gendarme stood behind Luc. He’d recovered from the blow and taken out another gun, which he pointed at Luc’s head.
Time seemed to slow. She drew in her breath. She could practically feel the hot stage lights on her face, as she did right as a performance began. Charlotte turned the steering wheel around until the car was facing the other direction, aimed at the gendarme.
She hesitated. She was about to kill a man. She would burn in hell forever. But it was either that or let him shoot Luc. She’d take her chances with God. She pressed her foot down hard on the accelerator.
The gendarme tried to turn his gun on Charlotte, but there wasn’t time. He hopped out of the way to avoid being mowed down by his own Mercedes. Then he tumbled backward and started rolling down the low hill.
Charlotte slammed on the brake. Luc, still hobbling, opened the back door and hopped inside. “Go, go!”
She heard Laurent’s cry and glanced down. His nose was bleeding. Huge tears slid down his cheeks.
“Keep going, Charlotte,” Luc demanded. “I’ll help him.”
Luc reached over and squeezed Laurent’s shoulders. Then he turned Laurent toward him and pinched his nostrils carefully, as Charlotte had taught him to do, to stop the bleeding. “It’s all right,” Luc said. “Breathe through your mouth. Breathe slowly.”
“You’re hurt,” Laurent said.
She heard Luc’s breath coming only in raspy gasps. The sound alone made her heart sink. Still, Luc managed to keep his tone reassuring. “We’re going to be all right now,” he told Laurent. “They can’t hurt us anymore.”
Charlotte worked up the courage to glance in the rearview mirror. The color drained from Luc’s face at an alarming rate. Blood seeped darkly down his leg, staining the pristine seat around him. She forced the rising panic back down her throat. “We’ll stop somewhere,” she said. “You need help. We’ll get help.”
“Don’t stop.” Luc was still pinching Laurent’s nostrils. He couldn’t free his other hand to apply pressure to his leg and stanch the bleeding. “I’ll be fine.”
“My parents’ house is hours away.”
“You can’t stop. Keep going.”
Charlotte worked her way out of his jacket, keeping one hand on the steering wheel. “Laurent, can you do it yourself?” she said gently. Laurent nodded and moved his hand to his nose so Luc could let go. “Here.” She tossed Luc the jacket. He put it on and then closed his eyes in pain.
She pressed her foot down on the accelerator once more and headed south.
Fifteen
BRIGHTON BEACH
PRESENT DAY
“When the dowager empress asked her to leave the nursery, my mother felt lost.” Natalya Rubalov’s voice had dropped to a hoarse whisper. She’d withdrawn Alexandra’s letter from the manila envelope in the photo album. Veronica stared, mesmerized by the thin stationery; lightweight, yet somehow substantial in Natalya’s frail hands. Veronica’s fingers flexed. She was meant to hear this story, and hold that letter. After all of these years, somehow it had always been meant to pass from Alexandra’s hands to her own.
“May I hold it?” The words sounded curt and overly abrupt, even to her own ears.
Natalya glanced up, took one look at Veronica’s trembling fingers, and averted her gaze. “How could the dowager empress do this?” she said, as though Veronica hadn’t spoken at all. “How could Marie ask my mother to leave the baby?”
Veronica supposed she wouldn’t want that letter in a stranger’s twitchy hands either. She told herself not to fixate on the letter, on some magical imagined connection between herself and Alexandra. Instead, she pictured the face from Natalya’s photograph, Lena, come to life, clutching a banister, harboring Marie Romanov’s secret.
“My mother then needed to make an agonizing choice,” Natalya continued, “the safety of the child or of her brother.”
As Veronica imagined this scene, her professionalized skepticism returned. With supporting evidence, she might believe Alexandra gave birth to a living baby in 1902. But this element of the story, where the dowager empress told Lena to abandon the baby, made Veronica balk. “What did your mother think Marie would do?” she asked Natalya.
Natalya narrowed her eyes and dropped her gaze.
“She thought Marie would kill her own granddaughter?” Veronica said. “If that’s so, how could she possibly abandon the baby?”
“Wait, now.” Alexei Romanov balanced one of Natalya’s porcelain cup and saucer sets on his knee. The cinnamon scent of tea still clung to the air. “Let’s not rush to judgment. Lena’s brother was in danger. She was an uneducated, untested girl from the country in impossible circumstances. What more could you expect?”
Veronica bit her lip. “Still, even if her brother was in danger, maybe she could find a way.”
Natalya sighed. “The professor makes a good point, Alyosha.”
The teacup rattled on Romanov’s knee. Veronica couldn’t help but smile. Natalya used “Alyosha”—the diminutive, affectionate form of Alexei Romanov’s first name
. She may have “only” been the daughter of a servant, but the two of them were close, or had been at one time.
“This is what everyone in my family has wondered all of these years,” Natalya said. “I was in Russia only this past winter and we still discuss it amongst ourselves. We wondered how my mother could even think about it.”
As she listened to Natalya’s story, Veronica’s fear subsided to a dull ache. Nevertheless, she remained keenly aware of Grigori’s presence. Even as she tried to fight the impulse, every few seconds her gaze jumped from Natalya’s face, wracked with emotion as she told her mother’s story, to Grigori’s. He stood at the window, gazing blankly outside. At certain points during Natalya’s story, his head tilted ever so slightly to the left. He was listening, but he took in this incredible story with little in the way of shock. He must have heard it before. Veronica wondered how many other people knew.
“From everything you’ve told me, it sounds as though your mother loved Alexandra,” Veronica said. “She loved the family. She would never betray them.”
Natalya turned to Romanov. “You assured me she is an expert in this time period. I thought she would be thrilled to hear the story.”
“I am thrilled,” Veronica began. “I just want to know—”
Romanov set his teacup down on the end table and placed his hand on Veronica’s arm to quiet her. He addressed Natalya. “Now, my dear, remember this is so much to take in at one time. Remember how you felt when you first learned of the fifth daughter?”
“You know me so well, Alyosha.” Natalya pressed the letter between the plastic sheeting that protected it and turned once more to Veronica. “You must understand the forces at work against Empress Alexandra. The pressure to produce a son.”
“A fifth daughter would have been unpopular. I get that.” Veronica saw Grigori check his watch. She wondered if Michael had received his message yet. Her fingers clawed the sides of her chair. She tried to keep her voice steady. “But I still don’t understand. Did your mother really believe Marie would hurt her own granddaughter?”
The Secret Daughter of the Tsar Page 21