The Imperial Wife

by Irina Reyn

  “In fact, you are being impertinent.”

  He showed up at court the year before, this bored and drowsy man, married to one of the empress’s ladies-in-waiting, a beautiful girl always in search of her missing husband. Catherine noticed him right away, and who could avoid noticing him? Ripe at the perfect age of twenty-six, dark-haired, pretty, the kind of eyes that squeezes its prey until it succumbs, who believes himself smarter than his peers. But still he is unafraid and amusing and the first man bold enough to parry with her. He knows how to distract the crowd in order to capture her attention, and when the others are off performing some silly game he devised, he is nearby, hovering, red-lipped, waiting.

  “I imagine you must know the pleasures of love with your wife,” she reminds him primly. Her heart is flapping, the wings of a butterfly. She hears the sound of flaring guns in the distance, but otherwise is pleased to note that no one has returned to check on their whereabouts.

  “All that glitters is not gold,” he says with dramatically downcast eyes. “Marrying Matryona was a foolish decision. I caught sight of her on the swing, high in the air. I thought it was love. I was impulsive back then.”

  “By ‘back then,’ you are referring to two years ago?”

  “Two years is a long time for youth. Now, of course, I can see gold among less precious metals. As soon as I laid eyes on you, for example. Your good nature, your thick hair, your beauty.”

  “Quite a list of my finer attributes.” She knows she is encouraging him, this long-lashed charmer. She should have shut him down months ago, a severe and definitive turning away. Not that Peter would notice or care, but the empress is still sharp, plying suffocating affections one minute, vengeful the next. But when Sergei enters a room, a flutter brushes through her sternum, and when he stalks over to her with that private smile of knowledge, she finds herself forgetting to breathe.

  He is as close to her as two impatient horses can be, his boots brushing her ankles. “May I hope then?”

  “‘Desires change their objects: that which one used to love, one loves no longer.’”

  “Montesquieu?” He pauses, impressed. “You have not been idle, Grand Duchess. Then let me respond to you with Montesquieu: ‘Man is a creature that obeys a creature that wants.’ Allow me to believe you are not indifferent to me after all.”

  She is pleased, but makes the gesture of being resigned to a fate beyond her will. “Who am I to rein in your imagination?”

  He smiles. His lashes fan longer than any man’s, framing his eyes like slivers of imported citrus. She urges her horse to a trot.

  “Surely you like me best of all the men at court.” In a breath, he has caught up with her. How foolish he is, how unrelenting. But her mind is being colonized by the roiling force inside her and then there are eyes that pin hers down.

  “You please me fine,” she says.

  “I can tell you are far from indifferent.”

  “Not indifferent, perhaps…”

  “I may hope then.”

  Another sound of gunfire rings out past the domed Japanese pavilion. There is a call of triumph and the barking of dogs. The successful capture of hares. She thinks she hears the cry of her name. Ekaterina Alexeyevna!

  “We should go. A private counsel like this will only draw suspicion.”

  “Ekaterina Alexeyevna,” she hears again, her adopted name easily carried by the summer breeze. The island is still for all the noise in the distance. She feels exposed by its boundaries.

  His hand strikes out before she can sense it, their horses side by side again. He is gripping her by a cleft of the elbow. “Then tell me right now I can hope. That I will be tolerated.”

  The flutter has spread into fever spasms through her body. He believes giving voice to her desire will be her subjugation. So be it. But she is capable of manipulating his desires as well as her own; she has learned this much in court. There is the pleasure of the private knowledge of one’s superiority while pretending to the opposite, making the decision to yield while not giving anything up of value.

  “Yes, yes,” she says, at last, the words as if tumbling against their own volition. She has timed them to her own pleasure. The sensation is a tingle coursing up and down her sternum.

  “I take you at your word then.”

  “But you must leave now. I can see them returning for me.”

  His fingers unclench. “I will consider this a solemn vow.” He spurs his horse and rides into the swell of cheering voices.

  “Wait, I meant no,” she cries, the dapple of light falling warm on her cheeks, her shoulders. The sun hovers directly above him too, so he blurs into a shimmering brown speck, disappearing into the field. Suddenly she doubts her powers to control desire.

  “No, no, I meant no,” she says again, moving closer to the hoots of men, the baying of dogs, the row of hares being carried in satchels. Upside down, bleeding.

  * * *

  She keeps him at bay as long as she can. In public, she refuses to take part in the amusements he organizes until he complains that the grand duchess is simply too cruel. Afterward, the others busy with a silly singing game or other, she allows Sergei to catch up to her between walls and doorways where he whispers that the very heavens have charged him with great responsibility. His lips say they love her.

  “For all you know, my heart may belong to another,” she says, knowing this will only inflame his desire. He insists she is far worse than the Tatars in her ravages. He grasps, she slips out of them. They eye one another in darkened corners, her hair flat against walls. There are the touches of affection—he rights a snagged necklace, rescues an earring from possible ejection from her lobe, she adjusts a crooked bow in his hair. She takes pleasure in burning his letters full of misspellings, watching their edges singe and curl.

  One night, she leaves the door to her bedchamber ajar. And waits.

  This time, the steps down the hall are firm with intention. When he rounds the corner, a candle glows iridescent between his palms. He is all smiles and slit eyes, an actor gauging his audience, testing out poses to create the most dramatic effect.

  “My Katya,” he says with bowed head, as if the act were already completed, his rights to her secured.

  She startles. “You must never, on any condition, call me Katya. That name belongs to someone else.”

  She is wearing the wedding-night nightgown, its pink rose fluctuating in the light. Next to her bed she has draped the Order for strength.

  “Whatever my beloved commands. Catherine, then.” He places the candle on a table and reaches down to stroke the curve of her jaw. His chin: first receding in shadows, then back in the light, orange. The stones of his rings are cool against her clavicles but her heart is a hot thing. She reaches for him, trembling with fear. The scent of him, overly perfumed, fills the room. She tries to match fantasy and this very striking reality in her mind, the bent-over form of Sergei wedging himself beside her, the lowering of his mouth on hers. His lips are as soft as she imagined them, goose feathers undulating up and down her face. His tongue sinews between her teeth, the bristles of his hair scrape against her skin. It is not a George kiss, but close, very close, like being submerged in silk.

  He is performing some act of careful kneading, circling, teasing, awakening some nascent seamy surface. But even as she is bursting into new portals of sensation, a small part of her continues to calculate, to compare the two of them, to weigh her strength against his own. Or her weakness.

  * * *

  The next morning, she rides like a man in full view of the empress, grasping the shanks of the horse with her ankles. She can feel the woman’s eyes on her, following her progress out of sightline, and she does nothing to alter to the sideways female position. The sound of hooves against earth, her scalloped breath, the high heat of the day pressing against her constricting clothes. She is rushing headlong into what little wind unsettles the air, aware of only the seismic connection with the horse.

  And afterward,
not immediately changing out of her man’s habit, she simply strolls up to the empress, who is fanning herself, bejeweled as always despite the occasion.

  “I have been watching you ride,” the woman says, tight-lipped. Her knee has been bothering her, and now it rests grotesque across the lap of one of her ladies.

  “Has my form not improved?” Her face is throbbing from the sun, cheeks burning. She feels as though the empress must know that they are now equals in womanhood. Finally, she has her own Razumovsky.

  “I suppose we have discovered the reason for your childless state after seven years of marriage. It is unhealthy to ride that way.” She leans to her ladies. They cluck in agreement as they fan.

  She wants to burst out laughing—let me tell you the reason for my childless state. Your nephew has not once penetrated me in seven years—but instead says, “But surely not. Not all women are equally graced with easy fecundity.”

  “When we imported you from your provincial German town, we had every expectation you would be one of the graced ones, my dear.”

  “I am grieved you consider me a failure.”

  “A failure, not entirely. But you have fallen short, my dear. I cannot lie.”

  In the full blaze of day, it is apparent the empress is getting older, the folds of her skin drooping under all those precious stones. More often, she loses threads of conversations, her mind turning inward to some faraway place. The blue of her eyes has dulled opaque, a film of sweat loosening the uneven mat of face powder, grotesque where once it was flawless. Even the empress must realize that her reign is nearing its end.

  * * *

  Love is a secret, a series of hushed confidences and exchanging salacious memories and planning for glorious futures. It is a temporal condition in the mind as well as a visceral one in the body. There is a clear separation between Sergei and everyone else. He is now Seryozha to her, and his voice booms while the voices of others are easily ignored. He is elegant and sweet-tongued where his rivals are bumbling. His laugh rings strong, fills the empty space around them. She could be blindfolded and her skin would prickle if he were in the vicinity. When contemplating their last encounter, she could only think in silly metaphors—the first drink of water, the melting of wax, the flicking stem of fruit. In the evening, she makes an extra effort to tuck silver roses into her hair.

  Daily life goes on, the move from Summer to Winter Palace. Her attendance is needed at the ceremonial blessings of the canal in Kronstadt, a swirl of masquerades. She and Seryozha toss innuendoes to one another from behind masks’ sanctuary.

  “Perhaps you are unduly fatigued today,” she might say between minuets.

  “Up too late perusing Cicero again, Grand Duchess?” he might rejoinder.

  Peter knows all and encourages them because to him, the affair is an elaborate game. He considers the empress—rather than himself—as victim to their deception and believes himself to be on the inside of a great prank.

  “Why are you so solitary? Perhaps you should see what Seryozha is doing,” he would prompt her during a dinner with a tittering laugh. Practically pushing her in the direction of her lover.

  Later the same night, Peter sneaks up on their tête-à-tête with a knowing look. “How are my turtledoves this evening?”

  She grimaces, sets aside the remains of her unfinished, too soft peach. Her husband’s idiocy should not be encouraged. But Sergei turns to Peter with those limpid eyes of his, those sculpted brows. “We were speaking about that special exhaustion that follows nocturnal pleasures. And what about the grand duke? Has he ever enjoyed the thundering frisson of love with your lady?”

  Peter looks genuinely confused. Thundering? Frisson? “I have never experienced anything like that,” he admits.

  “Is that so?” Seryozha pretends at shock. “Perhaps a doctor might examine you for defects or obstacles? I see no reason you should miss out on these sensations.”

  “You think I should see Lestocq?”

  Under the table, they are locking knees in silent mirth. It would be just like Peter to undergo some unnecessary surgery in search of feelings he will never experience.

  “I can arrange it,” Seryozha says, grandly. His fingers are adorned by rings; the gold cameo is a gift from Catherine. “I can even accompany you.”

  “Maybe you are right,” Peter says, chewing on his bottom lip. “If you would accompany me.”

  Fool, Seryozha mouths when Peter turns away.

  Still, through the gauze of infatuation, she is aware that public eyes settle on them, that judging mouths are busy at work. Sharp twitches of the eye darting from her stomach to her face to ascertain the truth.

  * * *

  When it finally arrives, the sensation in the belly reminds her of tainted food lodged deep, unmoving. Most of the time she forgets about it entirely until she feels a faint tug, a turning. She cannot stand the scent of pickled meat or hair powder. Only the ladies closest to her take note of her changing shape, dresses altered to accommodate an expansion. Her mind cycles through a thousand worries: will the child be recognized as heir? Will she be removed from court? Will Peter let slip that he has never completed an act that could result in this?

  In Moscow, she tries to discuss the matter with Sergei, to seek his counsel, but these days he extricates himself with dainty excuses. When she enters a room, he swears his days are suddenly filled with meetings. His appearances at the palace have become erratic. When she manages to ensnare him in private counsel, he admits everything about court life has begun to irritate him. Travel to the palace is becoming inconvenient, Bestuzhev is against him, his political viewpoints are not being taken seriously.

  It is weeks until Catherine finally catches him alone. He is rushing from the palace with a sheaf of papers in hand, probably inserting himself into meetings where he is not invited or agitating for jobs he does not deserve. She surprises him behind the wooden pillar, leaps out at him with a roar, and his terror equals that of encountering an actual lion.

  “You frightened me.”

  For a minute, she just wants to gaze at those eyelashes, the way they quiver nervously at her.

  “I have news,” she finally says.

  Sergei is impatient. He had clearly hoped for an undisturbed exit. “Must we discuss it now? The carriage has pulled up.” The hall is not empty, far from it. The British ambassador is exchanging pleasantries with a young Russian officer, a housekeeper rushes up the stairs with fresh linens. But she must seize her moment.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “What is it then? You know how I hate all this secrecy.”

  She has practiced this but the silkiness of the words elude her. “It is not unexpected. A natural consequence, shall we say. But the doctor says only a few months remain.”

  Her Seryozha blanches; even his nose is drained of color. A servant carrying a tray of raw pheasant shuffles past them. They wait until the man is out of sight.

  “My God. You know what this means.”

  “That we can be together?” She allows herself to hope. That she has misinterpreted his coldness, that he has been yearning for the simple life of a real marriage. Will he ask her to leave the palace with him? They could erect a modest country home for the two of them, the baby sleeping on top of duck feather pillows. The first Peter and the first Catherine, the cabin, the twelve children, the great city of St. Petersburg built in their shared vision.

  “We will have to arrange for his surgery then. Immediately.”

  The country house, the wrinkled baby on a blanket, the easy bustle over a simple masonry stove. All of it is gone. A blade spirals inside her and she steels herself for this new reality. “Will he consent to it?”

  “The fool will be relieved! At last, the world will trust the problem has been solved. He will be let alone, his blasted task fulfilled to satisfaction.”

  Madame Krause emerges from behind a pillar. She is an unexpected vision with her wide hoop skirts, her too wide face framed by girlish ringlets. “May
I speak with you?” She directs herself to Catherine, ignoring Sergei.

  “Farewell, then.” He rushes away before anyone can stop him.

  Oh, Madame Krause with her impeccable timing, with that twisted face of intrigue. She affects a martyred air for playing a crucial role in the royal drama. Catherine wants to slap her for interrupting them. “I will be straightforward, my dear Catherine. I am privy to some delicate information.”

  “What is it?” She feels it again, lower this time, a churning.

  “I do not doubt that you fancy someone. Someone that is not the grand duke.”

  Catherine sighs. “What makes you say that?”

  The woman rushes on, a handkerchief wrung between her hands. “You may think I am here to reprimand you but you will see that I will not make difficulties for you.”

  The last of Sergei’s footsteps disappear in the front hall. She forces her attention back to Madame Krause. “I do not understand. What is it you are implying?”

  “I believe you fancy one of the Saltykov brothers, I am not sure which. What I am saying is that the empress has decided not to put obstacles in the way of such a relation. If I am making myself clear.”

  “No. Not exactly.”

  “An heir is an heir after all. Her Majesty is very eager after all this time. If it is to be him”—she nods in the direction of Sergei’s departed form—“no one needs to be the wiser.”

  The woman does not even bid her farewell, as if she wants to spend no more time than necessary on an indecorous task. She is on to the next errand, a dressing-down of the forgetful housekeeper. When her wide back recedes, Catherine runs toward the entrance, the wide-open doors. “Seryozha, come back.”

  How he will laugh when he hears this: they are free, they are free. They can do as they like, undisturbed. The baby nestled between them. A samovar boiling water in the kitchen. Their own small bedroom fragrant with the heat of love and warm milk. They can erect a wooden house on the grounds of one of the lesser-used palaces (Oranienbaum?) and no one can stop them. An heir is an heir, and Peter has taken himself out of the picture.