The woman scowled and began to walk at a decidedly swifter pace, passing Lena and Pavel without a word.
Pavel smiled again. “You developed a lady’s wit at the palace. Now you have the heart of a lioness as well.”
“My time with the dowager empress granted me courage,” Lena said.
“She has that effect. Marie is a stubborn woman, but a great lady.”
“Will it be better for you elsewhere? Will people always stare?”
Pavel leaned forward on the railing. His hands were so near hers. “I understand some places are better than others,” he told her. “Have you traveled in Europe before?”
“I’ve never traveled anywhere,” she said.
“So this is your opportunity to see the world. As for me, I don’t intend to wander forever.”
“You’ll return home?” she asked. “To Virginia. You never did tell me about it. Your family is there?”
“A brother and some nephews I’ve only met once.” Pavel squeezed his large hands together. They were finely groomed, as well kept as every other part of him, but she saw now the whitish scars and calluses, where his skin had torn, healed over, and been re-torn. Lena knew those scars. They came from hard, blistering work tilling fields. The scars on the hands of the men and women in Archangel were much the same.
“My parents have passed,” he continued. “They had difficult lives. They both died young. They were born into slavery. But it wasn’t much better afterward. They wanted me to leave. They encouraged it. They wanted me as far away as possible.”
So much lay beneath Pavel’s smooth exterior. “That’s what my brother Anton wanted for me as well. My parents were born serfs. It’s not the same, but—”
“It’s not the same.”
“No,” she said. “But they had difficult lives. My brother wanted something better for me.”
Pavel lowered his voice. “I ran as far as I could. Halfway around the world. I wanted something better. But now I want to return home. Does that make sense?”
He brushed her hand with his fingers. Her skin flamed. Her heart jumped. The wind lashed her cheeks, but now she scarcely noticed the cold. With as much subtlety as she could muster, she moved her hands away. She shoved them in her pockets, and felt the cool metal of the necklace Marie had given her before they left.
“You can go inside the cabin if you like,” Lena said quickly. “It’s cold. I don’t want to trouble you.” She tapped her foot on the wooden plank of the deck nervously.
Pavel removed a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket and offered her one. She shook her head.
“I don’t mind the cold if you don’t.” He lit a match. His long, elegant fingers moved to shield the light from the wind.
“I’m from up north,” Lena said. “I’m used to the cold. I’ll stay out here until the baby cries.”
Pavel dipped his head again. “Then I haven’t scared you.”
“You scared me,” she admitted, heart racing.
Pavel took a deep drag on the cigarette. It smelled like cloves, like the tsar’s cigarettes. Wisps of smoke dissipated in the air around them. “What are your plans?”
Lena tried to stall. “I’ll take the grand duchess to Marie’s servants in Copenhagen. They’ll take care of her.”
“Marie told me. I meant afterward.”
Lena sensed where this was headed. “I don’t know.”
“Perhaps we could decide together.”
Lena could no longer see the land, only shimmering waves of gold and green on the horizon. She remembered Olga chasing her puppy, Alexandra’s kind encouragements when Lena spoke English, even Masha’s playful teasing. What kind of man pleases you, Lenichka, a fair Ukrainian or a swarthy Tatar?
Pavel leaned forward, his voice low. He met her gaze. “Would you like to see Virginia with me?”
For a moment, she wanted it all back, wanted everything as it had been, the security of knowing her place in the world and the shape of her days. She ached for the familiar. But she knew she couldn’t have remained content in that world, not when this other, greater world beckoned. Her service with the Romanovs would fade over time into beautiful memories. Now she had a chance to create new memories.
She slipped her hand into Pavel’s and their fingers intertwined.
SAINTE-FOY-LE-GRANDE
OCTOBER 1941
Charlotte stood at the window in her old room, brushing her hair and staring at the broad country sky and low hills to the south. The familiar view brought her back over twenty years. She was watching her mother lean against the kitchen sink. In the bright July sunlight, tears glistened on her mother’s cheeks. Dull black newsprint stained her thumbs and forefingers. The newspaper report about the Romanov murder was spread open and before them on the table.
After she read it, her mother couldn’t stop crying.
Charlotte remembered feeling puzzled. She had been sixteen at the time, more concerned with her boyfriend who planned to enlist in the army and her own nascent plans to leave for Paris once the fighting ceased. They knew families whose sons had died in battle, or been maimed by gas, or wilted to nothing struggling with the influenza that followed in the war’s wake. Yet it was the regicide in distant Siberia that finally broke her mother.
“So you knew everything,” Charlotte told Kshesinskaya.
“I watched over you the best I could, as Dowager Empress Marie and your parents asked.” Kshesinskaya sat on Charlotte’s bed, on the same bedspread and blankets Charlotte used to snuggle in with her mother on cold nights. Kshesinskaya’s hair hung loose around her shoulders, jet-black at the ends but graying at the roots, her true self.
“I watched over you for so long, but then the Germans took my son. The Nazis had him in one of their camps. I had to give them something. You know what they would have done to him? I thought about it all the time, all the horrors I’d heard.”
Kshesinskaya shrugged her frail shoulders, tried to erect her strong Russian front. She wore a thick wool sweater, but Charlotte could make out the arch of her delicate bones as she trembled. Unwillingly, Charlotte softened. How many times had she imagined what the Germans would do to Laurent? She understood too well now how such a threat played tricks on the mind.
“I came here to warn your parents that the German officer knew,” Kshesinskaya said. “Your adoptive parents … your parents. I’m sorry. I’m trying to get this right.”
The day she found her mother crying over the Romanovs, Charlotte realized she’d grown taller. That was when she first knew the time had come for them to switch roles. She’d hugged her from behind to comfort her. Her mother had turned and drawn her close, damp hands smelling of flour and yeast. She’d nestled her head in Charlotte’s shoulders. “At least we kept you safe,” she said between muffled sobs.
She might never hold her mother again. No one stood between her and the world.
“They’re safe?” Charlotte asked.
“They left a few hours ago. They’re headed for Spain. It’s where you should go. If I were younger, I’d go with you.”
Charlotte stared at her mentor, trying to imagine her as a younger woman. Kshesinskaya looked frail and malnourished, but then she’d always been so thin. Before the occupation, she ate what she pleased and her waist remained tiny. Charlotte had watched other dancers eye her with envy. Now she remembered the photographs of Kshesinskaya in her heyday when she danced in Russia, when she was the tsar’s mistress.
“You knew Nicholas II well,” Charlotte said. And then, just to experience how it felt rolling off her tongue, she added, “my father.”
Kshesinskaya gave a sad smile. “Our affair ended amicably. He married your mother, who was lovely. Some people didn’t care for Empress Alexandra, but I found her a fine woman, simply out of place in that world. She would have loved you.”
“If she’d kept me?”
“The doctors told her it was a stillbirth. They had to tell her something.”
“Did Marie Romanov tell them to say that?” Char
lotte snapped.
Kshesinskaya bowed her head and nodded.
“She told Alexandra I was dead,” Charlotte said, voice rising.
“The dowager empress believed she was doing the right thing. She cared for you. If she hadn’t spirited you away, you would have died in that terrible house in Siberia.”
“She couldn’t see the future. She didn’t know.”
“Everything happens for a reason.” Kshesinskaya reached past Charlotte and picked up a framed photograph from the nightstand, Charlotte in a romantic-style long tutu, a flower tucked behind her ear. Her mother had taken the picture after a performance of Giselle. Charlotte had been part of the corps de ballet.
Kshesinskaya tapped the photo with a slender finger. “How old were you here?”
Charlotte hesitated. “Seventeen.”
“If you had stayed with your family, you would have been dead before this picture was taken.”
Charlotte stared at the photograph. She was bent at the knee, arms curved into a circle before her, each finger delicately pointing up or forward. She felt jealous of the girl in the picture, so guileless and perfect and effortlessly happy. She wanted to be that person again. Her gaze traveled to the photograph she’d taken from her parents’ safe. The four grand duchesses. Her sisters. Tatiana, the second-oldest daughter of the tsar, looked about seventeen when the photo was taken. Tatiana even had the same expression Charlotte bore at that age, sure nothing could ever hurt her.
“When did you find out?” she asked Kshesinskaya.
“In 1927. Marie was still alive and living in Denmark. She had received a visitor, a German. This conversation scared her. All those years she had been so careful and then at the very end of her life she let it slip. Of course she always thought it would be the Bolsheviks after you, not the Germans. This man, Herr Krause, took her by surprise. She contacted your parents. You’d moved to Paris by then.”
“She didn’t even know where I lived?” Charlotte said.
“Marie was so out of touch in her final years. But as I said, everything happens for a reason. When your parents told Marie you’d moved to Paris, she contacted me and asked me to look out for you.”
“And you believed Marie’s story without any proof.”
Kshesinskaya leaned forward and touched Charlotte’s hand gently. Charlotte didn’t squeeze her hand in return, but didn’t pull away either. “I took one look at you and knew. You looked just like Grand Duchess Tatiana. And your eyes.” Kshesinskaya lowered her gaze again. “You have the tsar’s eyes. I know them well.”
A tentative knock on the bedroom door interrupted their discussion. Kshesinskaya patted Charlotte’s hand, looking relieved. “That would be your husband. You and Laurent need to go to Spain. One of the armies will win. They’re the same. Cruel. You know what the Bolsheviks did to your family. You know what the Nazis are trying to do. You can’t let either of them find you. Promise me that at least.” Kshesinskaya stood and moved to the door. “If you ever need help, you can always contact me.”
“You won’t be around forever.” Charlotte clamped her mouth shut, regretting the harsh words. “I’m sorry.”
Kshesinskaya shrugged again. “You only state the obvious. I won’t be around forever. I understand. But there are others. I’ll make sure you always know how to find them and they always know how to find you. For now, let your husband help. He still cares for you.” She slipped out of the room.
Luc brushed past Kshesinskaya on his way inside, hobbling, favoring his good leg. He reminded Charlotte of the retreating French soldiers making their way through the city before the German tanks rolled down the boulevards. The soldiers cried for water and dropped to their knees on the streets.
Still, despite the bruising on Luc’s face and his swollen lip, he looked better. He’d managed to shower and change into some of her father’s old clothes. Now he wore a simple shirt that hung loose on his shoulders and black trousers so long he’d pinned them at the ankles. He leaned against the wall to support himself. “I thought you’d fallen asleep,” he told her. “Then I heard Kshesinskaya.”
“I can’t sleep.”
The bed creaked as Luc took the weight off his leg and sat down. Without asking, Charlotte folded the trousers to expose the bindings around the wound. It looked purplish and splotchy, but not jagged and black as she’d feared. She placed her hand gently on his calf muscle. “Does it hurt?”
“No, Your Highness.”
Charlotte withdrew her hand. “Don’t call me that.” She couldn’t break down. Not now. Not in front of Luc. But she heard her voice shake as she added, “How could my parents keep something like this from me?”
“I’m sure they thought it best. Based on what we experienced a few hours ago, I’d say they were right. Besides, you’ll have a chance to ask them.”
She wanted to believe Luc. Once they had made it to Spain, she’d find her parents. She’d hold her mother again and feel warm and safe.
Luc’s hand closed over hers, warm and strong as he stroked the inside of her wrists. A pang of desire stirred deep within her. It had been so long since anyone touched her this way.
And then she saw the bottle of black hair dye in his other hand.
“I don’t know if I’ll like you with darker hair,” she said.
“It’s not for me.” He set the bottle down on the bed. He ran his fingertips through her hair and lightly caressed the back of her neck, but the moment had passed. She felt only a hollow echo of desire.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“The Germans will send out pictures and descriptions. You need to look different. I’ll help. It won’t take long. Kshesinskaya brought a car for you and Laurent. She’ll take the train back to Paris. Kshesinskaya brought money too. She says she’ll buy your flat, if you won’t take the money any other way.”
“What about you?” Charlotte’s hands started to shake. “You’re not well. We’ll wait a few days until you’re better.”
Luc gave one of his half smiles. She remembered the man she’d fallen in love with, that lazy smile she’d found so damn irresistible. “Try to get a few hours’ rest,” he said. “You need to leave before daylight.”
“What will you do?”
Luc leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, careful not to press too hard on his bad leg. He put his head in his hands, massaging his forehead.
“I’m sorry, Charlotte,” he said quietly. “Laurent deserves a father. You should have someone at your side to help. But that person can’t be me.”
She pulled back. He’d always been good at disguising his emotions. Right now he may as well have been made of stone. She should have known. For all she thought he’d changed, he never wanted a child. And he resented her for it.
“I wouldn’t want you to stay with us out of obligation or pity,” she said coldly. “I manage well enough on my own.”
“It’s not that,” he said.
“Then what?” A wave of panic disoriented her. She was remembering something the German had said in that terrible cellar. He’d told her they could all be hanged for what they’d found in the car, or words to this effect. “What drop were you going to make for the courier?”
The stony mask crumbled. Luc put his hands down and looked up at her. It took Charlotte a moment to comprehend, but then she realized Luc was smiling. He reached for his pocket and withdrew a thick and ragged sheet of white paper that looked like it had been torn from a butcher’s block. The map was rough and obviously made in haste. Marks were made around the perimeter of the city.
“The locations of all the German checkpoints,” Luc said.
“You have to come with us,” she whispered, pulse racing. “You must get this to your contact.”
“I intend to go on to Spain,” he said. “But not with you. Charlotte, I killed the German officer. How do you think we escaped? How do you think I got this back?”
Deep down she’d known. She couldn’t think of anything to say.
&n
bsp; “If they find all three of us together, God knows what they’ll do to you and Laurent. How could I live with myself?”
“They might not do anything,” she began, “if I went to them instead.”
“You know you can’t do that either,” Luc said.
“They’ll kill you,” Charlotte said, her desperation mounting and threatening to collapse in on itself. “If I’m with you, we have something to offer.”
“There’s a train station in Bergerac,” he said quietly. “That’s where I’m heading. They’re looking for three people. Perhaps they won’t notice one.”
Charlotte drew in a deep breath. She had already looked into the abyss, trapped in that cellar, fearing for Laurent’s life. She could do this. She reminded herself this might be the last time she saw him. She had been robbed of closure the first time Luc left her. She wouldn’t let that happen again.
She bent forward, brushing her lips against his. He returned the kiss, but felt strange and unfamiliar. Perhaps it was the swelling. She brushed his hair away from his eyes.
“I’ll send someone to help you. Once we’re in a safe house in Spain. I’ll tell them what happened. We’ll find you.”
He put his hands flat on her cheeks and tipped his forehead to hers. He pulled her toward him once more and she kissed him again, not caring now that it felt different this time. It was meant to feel different now. They were different people.
L.A. THIS WEEK
News and Events for Hollywood, the Hills, and Beyond
BATTLE ROYALE!
Self-declared Romanov heir apparent Grand Duke Alexei has been hobnobbing with royalty for years, all the time keeping his eyes on the prize: restoration of the monarchy in Russia. When Romanov faced a challenge from local attorney Michael Karstadt, he thought he might have to turn in his orb and scepter. According to Mr. Romanov, Karstadt planned to “perpetuate the greatest hoax on the Russian people since they were led to believe bullets magically flew off of the Grand Duchess Anastasia in 1918.” And all with the help of Alameda University Professor Veronica Herrera.
Mr. Karstadt’s family claimed a fifth daughter had been born to Nicholas and Alexandra Romanov in 1902 and smuggled out of the country long before the Russian Revolution. “Utter nonsense,” Romanov huffs, “a fiction without a shred of evidence.”
The Secret Daughter of the Tsar Page 26