Charlotte watched the other mourners file past the open casket, engulfed in flowers and wreaths. She shuffled slowly to the end of the line. Perspiration speckled her forehead and the backs of her knees. She hated feeling her body give out. Laurent had hinted perhaps Charlotte was too old for this trip. A part of her wished she had listened. After all, she was only seventeen years younger than the woman in the coffin, and she had lived longer than most. Laurent finally relented, but insisted he would go with her.
She owed Lena her life. The least she could do was pay her final respects.
Charlotte had contacted Lena seven years ago, after she spoke to Laurent: Lena Rubalov, Brooklyn Heights, New York. Husband named Pavel. Daughter named Natalya.
Charlotte had trouble pressing the buttons on the phone, but when she said her name the woman on the other end of the line had drawn in a deep breath.
“Yes,” she’d said softly. “I know who you are. I’ve been waiting to hear from you. I hoped you were still alive.”
Charlotte had poured out her story, everything about her life. And then she told Lena about Laurent, how much she loved him but she was afraid she had spoiled him.
“That is your Russian blood,” Lena murmured sympathetically. “We ruin boys.”
She’d confided that Laurent fathered a child who was living in California, with her mother’s family. Charlotte understood times were different now, as Laurent frequently reminded her. Soviet agents weren’t lurking around every corner, ready to snatch anyone with a drop of Romanov blood. Still, it seemed wrong on so many levels. She should be near her granddaughter.
“No.” Lena sprang to life. Even over the static of the transatlantic connection, Charlotte knew the old woman had bolted out of her chair. “She can’t know. It’s not safe.”
“If I had known, I could have protected Laurent better.” The bitterness rose quickly to Charlotte’s throat, even after so many years. “My parents made a mistake not to tell me sooner. Matilda Kshesinskaya made a mistake not to tell me.” She hesitated and left the last sentence unsaid. You made a mistake not to tell me.
She didn’t need to say the words aloud. Lena had understood well enough. “We were all sworn not to tell,” Lena said.
“My husband died because of the secret. If I had known—”
“What could you have done? He sacrificed himself for you. Honor his memory. Protect his granddaughter. My family will find her.”
One of the other mourners brushed her shoulder, a large man who walked with a swagger. Charlotte shook her head, forced herself back into the present. She watched the man approach Laurent, who now stood at the end of the line of mourners. She beamed proudly at her handsome boy, stately and gentle. Her son had made a mistake, but now he was going to help make it right.
Laurent moved out of the line and followed the man outside, stooping slightly to pass under the low arch of the church doors. He was built so differently from Luc. He’d inherited his height from Charlotte, and perhaps his grandmother, Alexandra.
The large man snapped his fingers at a stocky boy of about twelve, who looked solemn for his age in a gray suit and a dark tie. The boy had an olive complexion and light brown eyes, almost hazel, like those of his handsome grandfather, Pavel, in the picture next to Lena’s casket. He obeyed his father instantly.
After receiving the news of Lena’s death, Charlotte wanted to speak directly to Lena’s daughter. But Natalya had been in deep mourning, too distraught to speak with anyone, or so Charlotte was told. Instead, with the help of an interpreter, she’d been in contact with Lena’s son-in-law, Anatoly Karstadt.
The mourner in front of her stepped forward. Charlotte realized it was her turn now. She turned away from Anatoly and Laurent and stood before the casket, but she couldn’t look down. Slowly, with sharp jolts of pain shooting up her calves, she slid her feet into fifth position. Then she peered down over her lit candle.
Lena’s gray hair hung in soft waves just to her shoulders. Her hands had been folded softly on her chest, serenely clutching an orthodox cross. It looked like Charlotte’s cross. Instinctively, Charlotte put her hand to her throat, expecting the reassuring cool feel of the metal, the little stinging sensation in her hand where the ends of the cross poked her skin. But her memory had failed once more. The cross was no longer around her neck, but in a box in her handbag.
Charlotte wondered what more she would have said to Lena, had they met in person before Lena’s passing. What did they have in common? What jokes or stories could they share? Probably nothing. But then what did any of that matter? Charlotte crossed herself with her thumb and two fingers, as she’d learned was the Russian custom. It had been worth it, hadn’t it? Lena’s sacrifices to protect her. She’d had her parents, the joy of performing, the hard thrill she felt dancing, the good years with Luc before things fell apart. Laurent. The great love of her life. Now there was a girl out there somewhere, with Laurent and Luc and Charlotte in her.
If Lena hadn’t helped her, she would have been a grand duchess of Russia for sixteen years. And then nothing.
“Thank you for my life,” she whispered. She bent down to kiss Lena’s cold cheek.
Charlotte released her feet from fifth position and shuffled forward again, away from the casket. Then she turned to the church doors, looking past the ancient wooden icons with their long faces and mournful eyes. She ignored John the Baptist, hands raised to heaven, and the Virgin Mary gazing adoringly at her child. She stared instead at Laurent and Anatoly Karstadt as they spoke outside.
Charlotte moved closer, adjusting the small knob attached to the back of her right ear. The artificial amplification of her hated hearing aid would prove useful now. She could only pick up a few of the English words, which Laurent spoke with a heavy accent: Los Angeles, her family, what should be done. Anatoly Karstadt’s eyes started to wander. This all meant little to him. She could read it in his bored expression. Charlotte’s heart fell. His son—Mikhail, wasn’t it?—said something Charlotte couldn’t make out. Anatoly’s face turned grim. He turned and slapped his son hard across the cheek.
Charlotte gasped. Laurent paled underneath his Spanish tan.
“This is all right,” she heard Laurent say, a slight tremor betraying his anxiety. “The boy is only telling the truth. Her mother was my student. I shouldn’t have been involved with her at all. Now she’s gone and I feel terrible. But I want to help.”
Anatoly shrugged. Charlotte felt too warm, and not just from the oppressive heat in the church. She didn’t trust Anatoly Karstadt. They should have approached Lena’s daughter, no matter what anyone said. Charlotte resolved to find Natalya and speak with her after the service. She had to make this right.
Then Charlotte’s gaze fixed on Anatoly’s son, Mikhail, cheeks still flushed red from the slap. He nodded and looked squarely at Laurent. He’d asked Laurent a good question. He wasn’t like his father. She could tell. She saw Lena in this boy. He put the needs of others before his own needs. He would protect Laurent’s daughter.
Mikhail must have sensed she was staring because he looked over his shoulder and right at Charlotte. The boy’s hazel eyes met hers.
“Hello there,” she said cautiously. She knew a little English, but felt nervous using it in front of these Americans.
The boy grinned shyly. Charlotte curled her fingers around the velvet jewelry box in her handbag and approached the boy.
Twenty-one
BAKERSFIELD, CALIFORNIA
PRESENT DAY
Veronica heard Michael’s footsteps thud as he approached her cousin’s house. He may have been quick, but he wasn’t exactly light on his feet. Veronica focused her attention on the tall stems of the irises growing on either side of the porch, and tried to ignore the fluttering in the pit of her stomach. She hadn’t counted on seeing him again so soon. Putting her head in her hands, she cradled her chin and tried to breathe.
The footsteps came to a halt before her, but she couldn’t look at him.
; “Veronica? Please. Hear me out.”
He spoke in the same lilting, gentle voice she remembered, the one she’d found so at odds with his larger-than-life presence when they first met in her office. It washed over her, not exactly breaking her emotional defenses but exposing their delicate edges.
She opened her eyes. Michael’s shoes, clean black dress shoes, just as she would have expected, entered her field of vision.
Slowly, she raised her head. Everything about him looked vital and strong, from the high color in his cheeks to the immaculately pressed suit and those gorgeous hazel eyes. She remembered the tattoo encircling his bicep and had a sudden urge to touch it. All of the sensations she’d been fighting, the desire to be enfolded into his arms, came rushing back. The impulse almost overpowered her, but she remained strong.
“May I sit down?” he asked.
He’d lied to her, let her think he was something he was not. Yet somehow she couldn’t find it in her to order him away.
“You were very clear back in New York,” she said slowly. “You said ‘I failed you.’ I would have given anything to hear an explanation then. You gave me nothing. Now I’m beginning to feel better, you show up again, and I’m right back to feeling awful.”
“I couldn’t give you an explanation in New York, not in front of Alexei Romanov. I’m sorry. But I needed to make sure the time was right.”
“You needed time to fabricate more lies?”
“It’s not like that. Please give me a few minutes. That’s all I ask. If you don’t like what I have to say, tell me to leave and I’ll go.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Veronica saw Abuela take a quick peek out from behind the curtains of her cousin’s kitchen window. Then in a flash she was gone. Before the curtain fell back into place, she saw another figure behind Abuela, Jess.
As far as Veronica was concerned, the day had already been ruined. She just hoped Abuela and Jess didn’t get their hopes up too high. She turned around one more time, to make sure no one was watching at the window, and then nodded. Michael took a seat beside her on the porch step, where Abuela had sat a few minutes before.
Questions played along the tip of Veronica’s tongue. “I hear you and my grandmother have become friends. She invited you here?”
“Yes. It was nice of her. I usually go out to see my mom at Christmas, but Thanksgivings have been lonely since my divorce.” He scratched the back of his neck, staring at the ground. The armor around Veronica’s heart chipped away a little more.
Michael dipped his head so he was looking up at her. “I think we’ve reached an impasse. You can’t think of anything worse a man can do than lie. I can’t think of anything worse than endangering someone you love. That’s what I would have done if I had been up front with you.”
Someone you love. Her heart did a little flip, but she still didn’t have the answers she wanted. “What happened in New York put me in danger. Now you’re here. I have to ask. Are you putting my family in danger as well?”
He flinched. She wanted to retract her words, but before she could speak, he said, “No. I waited long enough to make sure of that. But what happened makes me sick inside.”
She hunched farther into her sweater, still fighting the November chill in the air.
“I was scared,” she said, “but I don’t think anything would have happened to me. I think Alexei Romanov had something else in mind. Look what happened when we got back here.” She heard her voice rising. “Didn’t you see that blurb in L.A. This Week? He made us both sound like fools.”
“I’m sorry,” Michael said.
“Not that I need much help on that front,” Veronica added. “I’m not making tenure. I had to resign. My career is over. I’m moving back here next month.”
He raised his brows, looking startled. “To Bakersfield?”
“My grandmother didn’t tell you that part.”
“She just told me … God, Veronica. I’m sorry.”
She eyed him, still wary.
“None of that part’s on you,” she said. “But it’s disappointing, you know? I used to imagine how my life would look after I had my Ph.D. I was almost there. I was engaged, pregnant, had a good job. And then it all vanished, one by one—my baby, my fiancé, and now finally my career.” She took a deep breath. Why did she always reveal so much to him? “Maybe it was never meant to be. I just wish I had something more to show for it all.” Veronica gestured toward the house and then around the yard, not even sure what she meant.
“You have your family,” he said.
“I guess so. I was always so focused on school. I’ll try to make up for lost time with them.”
“You have a wonderful family. Maybe you have more than you know.”
“I get it,” she said. “You don’t need to ram the sentimentality down my throat.”
Michael laughed softly and raised his hands in apology. “Never. I didn’t mean it like that. Let me try a different angle. My mother’s story about her mother and the fifth grand duchess. What did you think? Take me out of the equation. Did you believe it?”
“Did I believe it?” Veronica sighed and shook her head. “I want to believe it, but I’m an academic, at least for another week or so. I still think like an academic. I want proof. Your mother can’t produce anything more than a letter. Alexei Romanov was right. Without an heir, there’s no evidence.”
Michael withdrew a small velvet jewelry box from his pocket and slipped it into her hand. For a second, Veronica thought he might bend down on one knee and propose to her. She knew it was crazy, but she couldn’t stop her heart from thumping wildly in her chest. “What is this?”
“Open the box and see.”
Curiosity compelled her. When she flipped the box open, it made a click. Inside, she found a thin silver chain and a tiny Russian Orthodox cross with the distinctive third bar angled down. She held it up to the sunlight. “You’re plying me with gifts now?”
He laughed a little as she examined the tarnished edges of the crucifix, pressing one of its pointy edges. “All right. I give up,” she said. “What is this?”
“Originally, this necklace belonged to Dowager Empress Marie,” he told her. “She gave it to my grandmother to present to the fifth grand duchess.”
Veronica snapped the box shut. “Nice try. I feel like I’ve been through all of this before, though.”
“My grandmother, Lena, saved the baby, but couldn’t return to Russia. That was the agreement. She’d fallen in love with the man assigned to protect her on the journey, my grandfather. He was from America. They eventually settled in New York.”
Michael reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. She thought he was going to present her with another box, but this time he withdrew his phone. “Okay. I’m new at using this, but I have to admit it’s convenient.” He fiddled with the phone, pressing some buttons. “I want you to see them.”
She shielded her eyes from the sunlight, the slender silver chain still between her fingers, cross dangling. The photograph on the screen was black and white. Based on the stains and fraying evident in the digital image, the original photograph must have been taken decades earlier. A tall, dark, attractive man in what looked like a regimental uniform stood next to a short, pale, smiling young woman. It took Veronica a few minutes to absorb the details. Then she recognized Lena, Michael’s grandmother, from Natalya’s photograph. She softened a bit more.
“You know about Lena,” he said. “My grandfather, Paul, was originally from the south. He was born about ten years after the Civil War ended. You can imagine what his life was like. He’d won money as a boxer when he was a teenager and was able to travel. Eventually, he found work as a footman for Marie. They called him Pavel in Russia. And Marie gave him the last name Rubalov.”
Excitement and the old thrill of discovery began to build inside of her once more. She had read about Paul/Pavel, the African-American boxer who worked for the royal family at the turn of the century. No one knew what happened to him
.
“Before he left, Marie made Pavel a member of the Preobrazhensky Guard. Lena and Pavel were loyal servants to the end. They turned the fifth grand duchess over to a Danish couple Marie trusted. The girl was named Charlotte and the family eventually settled in the southern region of France. Charlotte moved to Paris and had a son named Laurent. They were forced to relocate to Spain during the Nazi occupation. I understand Laurent grew infatuated with Spain. Later, he taught at the University of Madrid.”
The University of Madrid—where her mother had studied and her father had taught literature. Her father. The specter rising up after all these years. Trembling, Veronica grabbed Michael’s hand. “Why are you telling me this?”
Michael placed his phone back inside his jacket. “As you know, he was an academic. I guess it runs in the family. At any rate, I can’t say the claim is likely to be honored at this point. Still, a direct descendant seemed to please Grigori’s crowd.”
Veronica’s head was spinning and the voices had returned at last, although now they only shouted What is he saying?
Michael squeezed her hand. “Grand Duchess Charlotte’s son, Laurent, had an affair with your mother. Laurent Marchand is your father.”
He still held her hand in his, yet now he seemed distant. “My family has kept track of you for years.” His voice rolled over her in low waves. “Charlotte and Laurent asked us to do this. My grandmother would have wanted it. She was an incredible woman, Veronica. I wish you could have known her. My grandmother, Lena, found out about you before she died. She did everything in her power to keep you safe. You’re Alexandra’s great-granddaughter. You’re the Romanov heir.”
Little sounds emitted from Veronica’s throat, not really words, more like gurgling, and she couldn’t make them stop.
The Secret Daughter of the Tsar Page 29