Queen of Always
Page 3
Dashka sets the maids to their next task, packing my rooms for transportation to the Winter Palace, where Peter and I will now take up residence.
As I lead my entourage through the gilded halls of Oranienbaum, I allow my eyes to linger on every painting, bust, statue, and woven tapestry as we move toward the main staircase. This place has been as much my home as any place has ever been, and it is here that I finally managed to carve out some small measure of happiness for myself. It will be hard to leave it behind.
Even as Peter has grown more distant and reclusive, I’ve blossomed. The nobles often seek my council, and visiting guests and even key generals come to my chambers after dinner to drink, sing, and dance with myself and my ladies. Even the serfs who come to court seeking justice or assistance kneel at my feet. When Alexander drops in the procession behind me to my right, I offer him a hint of a smile.
Peter stands outside his door, his man Mikhail to his right and Jean-Luc, the captain of his guard, to his left. Two footmen wait in the rear, each holding a small box. I know all too well what they contain. One is a set of miniature soldiers that he refuses to be separated from since his hunting dogs got loose in his chamber and chewed the last set to splinters, and the other holds a blue uniform jacket with gold buttons. They bear the standard of Prussian royalty, the crowned black eagle grasping a scepter. I cling to the hope that I will be able to dissuade him from wearing it, as we are still in the throes of war with Prussia.
When Peter offers me his arm, there is a mischievous glint in his sky-blue eyes that I haven’t seen for some time. He’s been so worried that the empress, in her ever-worsening condition, would pass him over in succession in favor of my son that I doubt he’s slept in weeks. But now, she can harm us, threaten us, and abuse us no more. Her passing isn’t just a death—it’s a liberation. All around us, church bells ring out, echoing through the air in dulcet tones, ordering any who can hear into solitary mourning.
But today is not a day of sorrow. Not for us.
It’s a day of reckoning.
***
It’s only a few hours ride but when the carriage pulls up on the edge of the river overlooking the massive fortress of Peter and Paul, it feels like days have passed. Peter is chatting excitedly about the celebration he has planned for his arrival back at Winter Palace. He’s so enlivened that I genuinely feel bad when I have to chastise him, gently reminding him that during the weeks of mourning, while the empress’ body is on public display, we must at least pretend to grieve her loss. The funeral arrangements—especially for a monarch—are intricate, steeped in tradition, and, in Peter’s mind, unbearably long and dull. With a shrug, he finally agrees to postpone it, but he is quite adamant we find the traveling acrobats that preformed summers last at Paul’s blessing feast.
The feast I missed in my extended confinement, at the empress’ orders of course.
I agree with him, swallowing back my residual bitterness.
Leaving the carriages behind, we walk in procession across the Ioannovsky Bridge and into the heart of the island, where the city garrison and members of the Holy Synod await us outside the grand cathedral. I stand in awe of it, unable to keep my eyes from tracing their way up the tall, golden spire and fixing them on the golden angel atop. Of course, I’ve seen it several times from the opposite bank of the Neva river where Winter Palace sits perched not far from the sandy beach, but up close, it’s absolutely breathtaking in its stark simplicity. It’s as if the structure itself holds its breath, watching Peter and I as we approach, silently judging our worth.
Once inside, the humble exterior gives way to decadent and lavish gilding, massive frescos and stained glass reaching the highest walls. Peter leads our small procession into the cathedral, passing under the giant, golden iconostas that arches above us and into the bell tower, pausing in front of the Archbishop of Novgorod, who stands solemn in his long, white robes. His face is pruned with age and his are eyes small and sharp like those of a wary mouse. His beard is long and more white than black.
When Peter approaches, the archbishop kneels, his hands rising and offering a prayer to the heavens in gratitude for our safe arrival. The ceremony is hastily preformed—at Peter’s insistence. It’s no secret that Peter prefers a more Protestant faith, and he has little patience for the drawn-out pomp and ceremony of the Orthodox ways. Mikhail has to whisper in his ear twice to prompt Peter to recite his lines, and he yawns twice, both times in jest, making the rest of the priests shift nervously. Finally, the archbishop blesses Peter, crowning him the official head of the senate, reigning monarch, and gosudar. It’s a placeholder crown, the formal coronation will have to wait until after the funeral, but Peter wastes no time demanding everyone present give him their oath and kneel before him. We all drop to one knee on the cold, marble floor. Out of the corner of my eye, I see, all lined in a row, the tombs of past monarchs, realizing that one day, this stunning cathedral will host my eternal rest as well. A shiver drives up my spine and into the back of my neck so hard I have to clench my eyes shut against it. More prayers are offered, paperwork is signed and sealed, and it’s done.
Peter is king.
When I finally stand, I realize the Archbishop of Novgorod is staring at me, even as Peter boisterously turns his back on the man, waving for his valet to hand him one of the boxes. Retrieving the Prussian uniform, he quickly puts it on, his valet buttoning it with swift fingers before stepping back and bowing reverently. I open my mouth to speak, but before I can say anything, Peter turns to me and smirks.
“Farewell, little mother. I shall see you at supper.” And with that, he strides out the central doors, earning him a look of stern reproach from the other bishops in attendance and leaving me dumbfounded.
With a horse and a handful of guards, Peter rides ahead to Palace Square to meet the remaining gentry, lords, and of course, the townsfolk who have gathered to catch sight of their new emperor. Meanwhile, my guard Grigori Orloff and I remain behind. The archbishop turns to me, bowing deeply.
“Your Imperial Highness, may I speak with you for a moment?” he asks.
I nod and follow him toward the altar.
“These are delicate times,” he begins softly. “And as empress consort, yours is now a heavy responsibility. His Highness will need all the care and tenderness a wife can provide, but you must also offer wise counsel, whenever you are able.”
I feel myself laugh. “Are you suggesting that I run my husband?” I jokingly ask.
His face is stern beneath his long, gray beard. “Of course not. I only want you to know that I am here should you ever require guidance. And since His Highness refuses to attend mass, perhaps you might pass some of the wisdom you find along to him.”
It’s very clear what he’s saying. He’s afraid Peter’s staunchly anti-orthodox sentiments will threaten the church. He’s right to be afraid. Peter is widely known to detest the church, and with Protestant popularity growing in Europe—especially in Prussia—it’s fair to think Peter will seek to extend it here.
“I will, as always, look to the wisdom you offer when I find myself in need of counsel, and I will, of course, pass that along to Peter. But I think you overestimate the weight my words carry with him.”
He frowns. “If that is so, then I fear for us all.”
His words are blunt, and I’m surprised to hear him be so frank with me. Of course, Peter’s reputation on such matters is well known, but even so. I nod, doing my best to ease his worry with my expression, or to at least allow him to see that I take the matter seriously.
Drawing a small envelope from his robe, he extends his hand to me. “Her Majesty entrusted me with this letter for you before she died. I hope, for your sake, it brings you some comfort and wise counsel.”
I slowly take the letter, as if it’s a dangerous creature that must be handled carefully lest it turn and bite me. She’s gone, I remind myself. There’s nothing she, or her letters, can do to harm me now. Yet still, I’m gripped with fear.
Once it’s only Grigori and me in the room, I tear open the familiar seal. I expect to see Elizabeth’s wide, scrolling handwriting flowing across the page, but instead, it’s tiny, each letter shakily inked, with splotches and smears betraying her fragile condition upon writing it.
Catherine,
There are many things I wish to say to you, but I fear my time grows short. I know things between us have been strained; I also know that you have hated me for the choices I’ve made. None of that matters now. Russia is fragile. It has been so since the death of my father, perhaps even before then. I knew when I chose Peter as my heir that he was broken. I thought I could mend him, at least enough to make him suitable to sit on the throne. I fear I have failed in that respect. Peter is an imbecile. The whole of Europe knows it. That’s why I chose you, why I fought so hard to shape you into the person I need you to be—the person Russia needs you to be. For a time, I wasn’t sure I succeeded. Then I tasted the poison you so carefully added to my tea.
Imagine my surprise to discover that, all this time, my kitten had claws of her own. It was then that I knew you could handle Peter, could handle anything that might be thrown your way. Peter may wear the crown, but there is a power inside you that cannot be denied. I saw a glimpse of it the first time we met. You reminded me so much of myself, so much of the person I was before I was thrust into taking the throne from Ivan. Circumstance is the oven in which we rise, and you have risen.
Perhaps that is what Sergei sees in you as well, your potential for greatness. He saw the same in me once, and he would have stood beside me against the world if I’d only allowed it. But I was too proud to accept him. I have thought for some time that love was weakness, that needing support from others means you are incapable of standing alone. It is only now, in these final hours, that I see how wrong I was about that. I’m going to die alone—surrounded by people, grieved by a nation, but truly loved by none.
My only consolations are that I chose well when I brought you to Russia. I know she will be safe in your hands, and that I will be remembered always, for my life’s blood was shed for this nation, and history will not forget it.
HRM
Elizabeth
Rising, I return to my guard. We make our way to the carriages that will carry me back to Winter Palace, while I try to think of a time when I didn’t hate my empress.
***
I busy myself with overseeing the details for that night’s mourning feast, assigning rooms to our new household, appointing new positions with my personal staff, and helping make funeral arrangements. Its hours before Peter returns, his face flushed, absolutely exuberant.
“I had no idea how much they adored me,” he says, pacing the room as if unable to hold himself still.
I sit, sipping on a cup of tea. “That’s wonderful.”
“No, you don’t understand. There were hundreds—no, thousands—of people—lords and peasants and soldiers. They all pushed and scraped just to catch a glimpse of me. And when I stood on the platform, they all cheered. As one, they shouted and fell to their knees. They are absolute in their devotion for me,” he says, sounding as surprised as I feel.
It’s true that the assembly was made mostly of nobles and landowners, all of whom could be counted on to pledge themselves to whatever monarch happened to be next in line, but to hear Peter tell it, he had the genuine love of the people. And that surprised me. Many of those same people had been vying only weeks before for Elizabeth to remove Peter from the line of succession altogether. And him showing up in that blasted Prussian uniform shouldn’t have won him any praise either. In the doorway, Peter’s man Mikhail stands stoic, his face unreadable.
I listen as Peter goes on and on, though my mind is occupied by the hundreds of details we must now attend to. As if my concern is a beacon in the night, Sergei Salkov and Grand Chancellor Count Bestuzhev sweep into the room with a handful of diplomats and senators in their wake. They each drop to one knee before the new emperor, who pauses from his incessant jabbering just long enough to greet them.
Bestuzhev steps forward, a book of documents tucked under his arm. “Your Highness, if you have a moment, I would like to discuss the new appointments.”
Peter waves for the man to sit, but he resumes pacing, nearly dancing really, around the room, humming to himself.
“First, we would like to inform Your Highness of the current diplomats in residence,” he begins, but I cut him off, setting my teacup back in its saucer. It’s all I have not to lock eyes with Sergei, though I can feel him staring at me as if the heat of his gaze could light my dress aflame. But I cannot allow myself the distraction now—that will have to wait.
“In residence, we host ambassadors from France and Austria, our allies Count Mercy and Baron de Breteuil, as well as Lord Alexander Mananov, who is the current Swiss ambassador, returned with us from Oranienbaum Palace. Is that correct?” I ask.
He nods, beginning to name all the lords, advisors, senators, and chancellors. I know each name on his impressive list. Peter, however, has probably retained very little. That’s all right; all the better for me if he needs me to help remind him.
“And, of course, I serve as grand chancellor,” Bestuzhev finally says.
Peter turns on his heel, leveling a glance at him. “For now.”
I’ve never seen the old man move with quite so much speed as when he snaps to his feet. “Your Highness?”
“I’m disbanding my aunt’s former cabinet, of course. I will keep a few, but I have already sent for many replacements,” Peter announces, spinning back to the window and looking out. “It is a new era for Russia. And I will begin it surrounded by men I can trust.”
Bestuzhev glances my way nervously, but I can only shrug. The bad blood between them runs deep, since my arrival when Bestuzhev poisoned me to prevent the treaty with Prussia, which had failed on every account. Peter had delivered swift, painful retribution on my behalf, and to this day, Bestuzhev bore the scars of that torture. As for me, I moved past it long ago, realizing that Bestuzhev could be as powerful an ally as he once had been an enemy. Peter, however, never forgives a slight. To the left, I see Mikhail in the doorway, his expression proud. No doubt, he will take the role of grand chancellor. None have been more loyal to Peter, including me.
“And your private staff?” I ask Peter, who is now pretending to fence with an invisible partner.
He waves me off. “Appoint who you will, little mother. I have more pressing matters.”
I stand. “Lord Salkov, Count Bestuzhev, if you will join me in the study, we can tend to these tedious matters for His Highness while he prepares for the funeral banquet tonight.”
For the first time, I allow myself to look Sergei fully in the face. My heart skips in my chest. He is as handsome as ever, even if he does look a bit tired. His dark hair is tussled and his blue-green eyes are set deep, like sea glass set in stone. There is the ever-present hint of hair just along his jaw, making his face look even more chiseled. As with Alexander, I feel myself pulled toward him by an unseen force. As if no time has passed at all, the urge to throw myself in his arms is driving me forward. It’s my will alone that holds me still as I pass, leading them both to the study.
Settling in at the empty desk, I send the maid for wine and biscuits.
Sergei sits on the lounge across the room as Bestuzhev and I begin the task of assigning new posts.
“Pierre Marcel is a French duke, a lecherous man who drinks too much and laughs too hard,” he says, announcing the final candidate for Peter’s chamber men.
I sit back. “Then I’m sure he and Peter will get along perfectly. Besides, another Frenchman will do Peter some good. He might be more willing to listen to advice from a man so much like himself.”
“I respectfully disagree,” he insists. “Sergei, what say you?”
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br /> Sergei speaks, his tone less than amused. “I say that she is the empress and will do as she pleases.”
Bestuzhev sits back, as if now realizing for the first time that I, too, have power over him. The color fades from his cheeks. He may have been Elizabeth’s favorite, but he will find no such favor in the new Imperial Court.
“Of course, as you say, Your Highness.”
He gathers up his papers and bows, taking his leave. Without a word, Grigori, my guard and ever-present shadow, peeks his head in, nods, and shuts the door, leaving Sergei and me completely alone.
When he stands, I expect him to cross the room and lift me into his arms as he once had, but instead, he drops to one knee, his fist over his heart.
“Your Highness,” he begins slowly. “I am deeply sorry for not returning to your side sooner.”
I fold my hands in front of me. “Then what kept you away?” I ask softly. No matter his answer, I know it will change nothing in my heart.
“The empress, she was gravely ill, and demanded I send edicts to our allies regarding the movement of troops into Berlin. Then she summoned me back to be at her side when she passed. I arrived only days ago.”
I sigh. Of course. It would be her last dying effort to keep Sergei away from me. I knew as much, but I needed to hear him say the words, to tell me he would have rather been at my side.
“When I heard Rina died, I went to the library and found your book of poems, the one you used to read so often. I sent it to the palace anonymously, hoping you would know it was from me and that it might bring you comfort.” He stands. “I wanted nothing more than to be at your side, but our forces were so close to ending this war. I knew that if the empress passed, Peter would recall the troops and it would all have been for nothing. I only tried to keep her alive as long as possible.”
I swallow the dry lump in my throat. He sent the book? That’s how Alexander had come across it? I stare at him, wondering if he has any idea about the letter it contained. “I missed you,” I say, my voice barely a whisper.