“Maybe Marie only meant to spirit her away somewhere. Either way, my mother worried for the child’s safety.”
Natalya pointed to the letter. When she moved her hand, the charms on her thin silver bracelet tinkled. “We know something happened to Alexandra, something sinister.”
Now that the letter was safely protected behind the plastic, Natalya placed it gently on the coffee table in front of Veronica. Once again, Veronica gazed at Alexandra’s elegant handwriting.
5 September 1902
Dearest Lena,
How sorry I was to hear of your parents’ sudden illness. I miss you so and cry in my pillow to think I couldn’t even bid you good-bye. I wish we had time to speak. I beg your forgiveness for the tardiness of this letter.
When I walk through the palace now, I see the looks on the faces of the servants and of those in Nicky’s family who still bother to visit. They think I’m hysterical and that I would fool my own body into maintaining such an illusion.
I remember waking afterward, sore and spent. I’d hemorrhaged and lost so much blood. Marie was at my side looking like death. I cried for the baby. I wanted to see the body. They kept telling me it was gone, dead before born, and long since buried. Even Nicky. He said I was upset and needed rest. He patted my hand and assured me this was nothing but a minor setback. He told me it was better if people didn’t know, if we insisted I had never been pregnant at all.
I must know what happened. I so need your dear little face at my side, if only in spirit. And I trust only you with the answer to my next question. What happened to my baby?
Veronica’s heart beat furiously. Still, the letter alone proved nothing, only suggested something “sinister” had happened, as Natalya had put it. Besides, something else bothered her. “Marie escaped to Denmark after the Revolution,” Veronica said. “She lived for years after that. If she knew she had a surviving grandchild, why didn’t she try to find her?”
Natalya’s lips parted into a sad smile. Romanov raised his brows in sympathy.
“The Revolution ruined Marie,” Natalya said. “Her mind went soft. She never accepted that her son and his family were killed. She lost touch with reality.”
“What happened to your mother after the birth?”
Natalya opened her mouth to answer, but the mechanized ringtone of Tchaikovsky’s First Piano Concerto cut her short. Romanov checked his phone and smiled. “Good news. Mikhail received our message. He’s almost here.”
Grigori straightened his back. His eyes grew strangely merry, as if he was watching a movie he’d seen before and had finally gotten to the best part. He adjusted his belt and Veronica caught a glimpse of his gun.
The terror came rushing back, choking her. Grigori would do something terrible to Michael. And it was all her fault. She hadn’t believed him when he said Alexei Romanov was dangerous. She had gotten in the car with Romanov because she couldn’t resist that damn letter. She didn’t even want to look at the letter anymore. She rubbed her bare left ring finger. The guilt was far worse than the fear.
Natalya fiddled with a small silver rose dangling from her charm bracelet. “Mikhail Karstadt claims to be the descendant? Do you believe him?”
Romanov rubbed his hands together. “We’ll soon see.”
Panic drummed inside Veronica’s head in an urgent, steady rhythm. Don’t let him come in here. She would run outside before they could catch her. She’d cry out, wave her arms, anything to keep him from coming in. She rose to her feet.
Too late. Michael didn’t knock, just burst through Natalya’s front door. He swept her into his arms, so quickly she didn’t even get a good look at his face. But as she felt his body press into her, relief coursed through her. She drew in his incredible scent, the salt of his skin now mingled with the remnants of the rain shower clinging to his coat.
His voice shook when he spoke. “I came as quickly as I could.” He pulled back and clasped his hands on either side of her face, searching for signs of injury. “What happened? Did anyone hurt you?”
“I’m okay.” She saw the shadows of worry under his hazel eyes, but his gaze was steely and determined as that of any Romanov autocrat. “I’m sorry,” Veronica whispered. “I should have trusted you. But I’m not hurt.”
Natalya leaned forward. “Why would anyone hurt this young woman?”
Romanov coughed abruptly into his fist. “We needed to persuade Mikhail to give us information he’s been reluctant to part with thus far.”
“What?” Natalya cried. “Alyosha, what did you do?”
Romanov’s voice rose in pitch as he pleaded with Natalya. “Please understand. This was all harmless in the end, I assure you.”
Michael’s chest rose and fell, heavy with labored breathing. He spun around to face Romanov, his hands forming fists. “How could you stoop this low?”
“You don’t really think I’d feed your lady friend to that hungry Russian wolf, do you?” Romanov said. “That was his idea. It was a bluff and it worked.”
Grigori turned to Veronica with a lecherous smile. “You never know though. Things happen. If your boyfriend hadn’t come, who knows what might have passed between us. Perhaps you can help with my garden when I get my dacha.”
Michael sprang forward. In an instant he had Grigori by the throat and thrust against the wall.
“What makes you think you can get away with this?” Michael shouted. “Do you know what I can do to you?”
Veronica rushed to Michael’s side. The sight of Grigori throttled against that wall was intensely satisfying, but she was frightened to think of the kind of friends Grigori had back in Russia, or even here in Brighton Beach.
“He didn’t do anything,” she said frantically. “He didn’t hurt me. He’s just trying to make you angry.” Gurgling noises bubbled up from Grigori’s throat. He seemed older and faintly ridiculous as his head bobbed in time to Veronica’s words. “He’s trying to provoke you. He’s an asshole, but he’s not worth it.”
“I don’t ever want to hear from you again. If you come near her—”
“He won’t come near me,” Veronica said. “Please, Michael.”
“Mikhail.” Natalya stood up. She spoke softly. “Stop.”
At the sound of Natalya’s voice, Michael instantly obeyed. He shook his shoulders, like he only now realized what he was doing. He freed Grigori, who coughed twice before spewing out venomous Russian curses. Veronica followed just enough to get the picture: sheep, unusual sex acts, Michael’s mother, etc.
Michael touched his fingers to his head. Veronica remembered when he’d told her about his father, how he used to shake Michael until his brain felt like jelly. She could practically see the thoughts running through his mind. He was afraid he would turn out that way as well.
Romanov took Natalya by the elbow and guided her back down into her chair. He addressed Veronica. “Ask yourself, Dr. Herrera, is this the man for you?” Romanov jerked his chin at Michael while Grigori wiped his face with one of Natalya’s cloth napkins. “Has he brought you anything but trouble?”
Veronica looped her arm around Michael’s waist protectively.
“I see. Well, your loyalty is admirable, if misplaced.” Romanov turned to Michael. “We had an agreement. I take it you brought what we need?”
“Wait a minute … what they need?” Veronica wiggled her arm out from around Michael’s waist. “He said they needed a DNA test. You couldn’t run one that quickly.”
Michael didn’t look at her. He rocked silently back and forth on his heels. That couldn’t be a good sign.
“Oh, you don’t know then?” Romanov let out an exaggerated sigh. “Well, I guess no one should be shocked by that anymore. Mikhail is a man of many secrets.”
Veronica suddenly felt hollow and stupid.
“As it turns out, he had the test run several years ago,” Romanov said. “He’s known the truth for a while now. He simply hasn’t chosen to share.”
“Is that true?” she asked Michael he
sitantly.
Alexei Romanov extended his hand. “Come now. Let’s see.”
Michael dug his heel into Natalya’s thick area rug. She couldn’t read anything in his eyes. She’d seen that look on men’s faces before, the coldness. It made her want to lock her heart in a box.
Slowly, Michael turned to Natalya. She gave a slight nod. Michael reached into his coat pocket and retrieved an envelope. Veronica’s inner voices began to hiss. This won’t be good. Michael’s jaw remained rigid as he handed the envelope to Alexei Romanov, who immediately ripped the envelope open and scanned the results.
At first, Romanov’s expression didn’t change. He tucked the envelope away in the inside pocket of his jacket, approached Natalya, and folded her small hand into his.
“You’re a faithful servant, just like your mother,” he told Natalya, his voice measured and elegant. “But your assistance is no longer required. I have exactly what I need. Merci beaucoup.”
A terrible sensation wrapped around Veronica’s middle, squeezing and strangling her. It slithered to the pit of her stomach, making her sicker and sicker. She didn’t need to ask. She didn’t dare look at Michael.
And yet she had to ask. Her voice was so small she scarcely recognized it as her own. “What are the results?”
“None of the DNA units correspond with any Romanov. This man is not related to anyone in the Russian royal family.” And then Romanov couldn’t stop smiling.
“The letter … this story…”
“Is just that. A story. My grandfather, Kyril, told me about it, even before the lovely Natalya came into my life. Kyril and his wife heard it from some alcoholic French doctor after the Revolution. This doctor claimed a daughter survived, a missing fifth daughter of the tsar. Apparently, this lunatic raved for hours. I didn’t believe a word until Ms. Rubalov was kind enough to contact us.” Romanov bowed in Natalya’s direction. “I am sorry to disappoint you, dear lady. We tried. We went to Europe to determine the whereabouts of this lost grand duchess. Our motives were pure.”
“Pure?” Veronica said. “You’re working with…” She motioned indefinitely in Grigori’s direction. “You call that pure?”
“I said our motives were pure. I said nothing of our associates. Sometimes strong measures must be taken for the greater good. It is our sacred duty. The Romanov Guardsmen wish to locate the true heir. Restore the glory of our past to secure a greater future. Do you like it?” He turned to Michael, his face lined with anger once more. “It could have been your campaign slogan.”
Michael had moved behind Natalya’s sofa and gripped the back of it for support. Veronica waited. She needed Michael to say something in his own defense.
Romanov faced Veronica again. “With the recent upheaval in the Russian government, the time is right. We will convince the Russian people to vote on a referendum to institute a constitutional monarchy. First, we needed to know if Mikhail was related, if he was connected to this story of the fifth daughter. Clearly not.”
The color had drained from Michael’s face and he kept flinching, reminding Veronica of a tired lion trapped in a zoo. “There must be some mistake,” Veronica insisted. “The results could be wrong.”
“It’s not the best scenario for you either, is it? You’ve been following this imposter around like an impressionable baby duck.” Romanov clicked his teeth with his tongue. “Now that we know Mikhail is a fraud, we intend to dismiss this tall tale.”
A growl erupted from the back of Natalya’s throat. “You are calling my mother a liar?”
“No. I am calling this man a liar.” Romanov strode right up to Michael, his chest puffed. He wagged an accusing finger in Michael’s face. “What did you think would happen? How long do you think Anna Anderson, the false Anastasia, would have lasted in the era of DNA testing? Not a month, I can assure you.”
Romanov continued on along the same lines. His voice faded in Veronica’s ears. She reviewed the last few months in her head, all the time she’d spent with Michael. Everything made more sense now, like some grotesque puzzle, the meaning of which she could only now decipher. Michael had overheard Jessica talk about her at a party. No doubt Jess played up her poor cousin’s desperate romantic state and Michael had found the perfect opportunity. He must have known she couldn’t resist antiquated gallantry.
Veronica thought she had found an ally in her ongoing battle with the rest of the world. In reality, Michael had taken her in an emotional stranglehold. Her heart had failed her once more.
“Let’s just say I’ve tired of the foolishness of imposters and confidence men,” Romanov berated Michael, his voice shaking with indignation. “We thought you were the one. But then, as always, proof to the contrary.”
Michael tried to take her hand again, but she shifted away. Veronica wanted to put as much distance between them as possible. She stepped toward the door.
Grigori stepped in front of her, blocking her path. Instinctively, Veronica backed away. Romanov gave a polite wave in Veronica’s direction. “Sorry to have detained you. Have a pleasant flight back to California.” Then he told Grigori, “This poor creature has been through enough. Let her go.”
Grigori folded his arms in front of his chest. “I still have a dacha to buy.”
“We have what we need,” Romanov insisted.
Grigori shrugged. “So you say. She is not going anywhere.”
Romanov looked wobbly. He spoke to Grigori as though trying to reason with a toddler. “We have the proof to counter Mikhail’s claim. The test is negative. We don’t need her. Your people want a tsar. They have the tsar now.” He took a step back and pulled his hands dramatically to his own chest.
“I cannot return to Russia with the empty hands,” Grigori said.
“If you want to detain Mikhail, that’s understandable. He’s certainly caused us enough trouble to warrant it. But you can’t detain Dr. Herrera. Not any longer.”
Michael edged slowly to Romanov’s side. Some of his healthy color had returned. He stepped forward, to move between Veronica and Grigori, but no longer had the element of surprise on his side. Grigori lifted his arm and aimed his gun at Veronica’s head. Grigori’s eyes locked with Veronica’s, the shrewd Slavic features betraying no emotion. Her stomach clenched. Michael stopped cold.
“My employers need a tsar the people will want,” Grigori said. “And I need a down payment for my dacha.”
“You can’t mean Mikhail?” Romanov sputtered. “He’s not even family. No one will believe it. No one will want the imposter to play tsar.”
“They’ll believe the old woman’s story about her mother,” Grigori said calmly, unclicking the safety on his gun. “And then this American woman can explain to the Russian people why Mikhail Karstadt is the true Romanov heir.”
Sixteen
The court doctors were finally admitted to the room to examine Alexandra, who appeared broken by the loss. Her heart was set on a son, and when there was no baby at all, she buried her head in a pillow and sobbed for hours.
—VERONICA HERRERA, The Reluctant Romanov
PETERHOF ESTATE
AUGUST 1902
Lena walked noiselessly through the deserted hall outside the master suite. She descended the staircase and stopped in front of the tsar’s study, bending down for a quick peek. No smoke seeped under the crack at the bottom of the door. All of the doctors had disappeared. Only Lena, Marie, and Phillipe Vachot knew about the baby girl. Even Alexandra, knocked insensible by sedatives, didn’t know about her daughter.
The lack of food and sleep started to play queer tricks with Lena’s head. At first the hallway seemed interminably large. Then it closed in all around her. She leaned against one of the huge balustrades for support, tilted her head back, and gulped a few hasty breaths, staring at the plaster cornices on the ceiling. Her uniform stuck to her arms and the backs of her legs. She could smell her body’s odor, rank and heavy.
Think … think … think … the word became a mantra in her head, more u
rgent with each step. She had options. She must have options, if only she could will them into her head. She could sneak back into the boudoir and hide in the closet. When Alexandra awoke, Lena might blurt the truth before Marie managed a word. If that didn’t work, she’d find the tsar. He was a good man, a father before a ruler. Surely he would protect his own daughter.
In her head, she heard Anton’s low, rollicking laugh and soft, encouraging words. His hands made little chopping gestures in the air when he spoke about a new book or a new friend he’d met. I’ll teach you English. That will take you anywhere in the world you want to go.
If it weren’t for her brother’s kindness and attention, she would have remained a prisoner in their cabin in the northern forest, caring for aging parents and slowly rotting away. Or perhaps she would have married a local boy and lived in a different cabin, avoiding a groping father-in-law and a husband who beat her for his own amusement. Such was the fate of most girls in Archangel.
Lena continued to walk, hating herself more with each step. She was abandoning an innocent child for the safety of her brother Anton, a grown man who’d brought on his own troubles. She only imagined the penance she’d serve to make everything right with God.
Even that, however, seemed a small matter compared with the agony of the coming years, living with what she’d let happen.
Tears gathered in Lena’s eyes and she wiped them away with her sleeve. She tried to decide if she should return to her room and pack her belongings. She didn’t have any pictures or mementos, only the scrawled letters from her mother and her dresses and shirtwaists, all stained with juice and none worth saving. Her hand folded over the bills in her pocket. Marie had given her enough money to replace everything she owned.
And then she thought of Pavel and the pleasure in his eyes when he made her laugh. She remembered the curve of his lips and the beautiful contrast between his white shirt and his dark skin the first time she saw him. He had felt something as well, hadn’t he? He’d sought out her companionship. He’d tried to help her.
The Secret Daughter of the Tsar Page 22