Queen of Always

by Sherry D. Ficklin

  “And I missed you, deeply,” he says, his voice tight.

  “Well, are you just going to stand there or are you going to kiss me?” I demand, smiling. “Or do I have to order you to? I am empress now—”

  He’s holding me before I can finish the sentence. His arms coil around my waist, tightening as he crushes his lips against mine, desperate at first, and then softer, more like breathing rather than struggling. He relaxes against me, and I feel his hands slide up my back and into my hair. I exhale into his mouth, playfully nibbling at his bottom lip. He groans, and a flush warms my face.

  “I wasn’t sure you would still want me,” he murmurs into my hair as he holds me close. “I didn’t want to presume.”

  I pull back so he can see my face. “I will always want you. Many things have changed, but never that.” I pause, knowing there will be no right time for the truth I must share. As I open my mouth to utter the painful words, he stops me, pressing a finger against my lips.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “What doesn’t matter?”

  He smiles sadly. “Whatever you want to say that put that look on your face. Nothing matters except that you are here now, and you love me still. That is all I need to know.”

  I shake my head, but he kisses me again. He kisses me until everything else fades away.

  That night, the banquet is somber, no boisterous laughter—other than Peter’s, of course—with no music, no dancing, and no jokes. Each noble is formally introduced by the herald, and they take turns bowing and kissing Peter’s hand. They chat with me about everything from news that the Russian Army has taken Berlin to spice trades with the Indies. People take turns saluting the fallen empress and the new emperor. They even raise a glass to me.

  “A toast to our lovely new empress, Her Majesty Catherine, may her reign be long and prosperous,” Count Mercy says in broken Russian. I smile, despite the faux pas. It’s Peter’s reign, after all. I glance over to see if he’s taken notice, but he’s much too busy chatting with Mikhail.

  When the feast ends, Peter hurries off to his new chamber, no doubt eager to meet his mistress. I have to practically run to catch him in the hall. Though our rooms are in the same wing, I am far down the corridor from him. He has chosen to take up Elizabeth’s old rooms, the sprawling, five-chamber area set aside for the reigning monarch. I don’t imagine all the gold, jewels, and silk in the world could make me want to lie in that bed—with or without Peter. So I stay close enough not to amass much gossip, but far enough not to have to see him if I choose not to.

  “Peter,” I call out.

  He stops mid-step, looking at me quizzically. “Yes?”

  “I was hoping I might accompany you to your rooms,” I say lightly. “I’ve not seen you much of late, and I’d like to catch up. To talk about our plans for the future.”

  He nods and offers me his arm. Thank heavens he hasn’t drank enough to let his good mood sour, at least not yet.

  I have to admit, his outer chamber is breathtakingly beautiful. Everything is gold and green—a change made at his request—with thick tapestries woven with strands of gold and silver that hang along the walls. There are tables with statues of hunting dogs and busts of heroic warriors like Alexander the Great, and his own namesake as well. I settle myself onto the settee as he calls for a tray of brandy.

  “It’s been quite an exciting day for you, hasn’t it?” I ask, picking up one of his toy soldiers from the open box on the table and examining it. Slowly, I set it down on the table, facing Peter. He smirks, retrieving a toy of his own and setting it facing mine in a miniature standoff.

  “It has been glorious. If I had known how much my people loved me, how much they needed me, I would have slit her throat years ago.”

  He’s talking about Elizabeth, of course. How ironic that I so often had to talk him out of killing her, only to later poison her myself.

  Fate, it seems, makes fools of us all.

  “Well, you have the throne now and she is gone. Have you thought about what you want to do first?”

  He takes another wooden soldier from the box, adjusting its hat carefully, setting it to face me. I do the same.

  “I am going to end the war. I’m already having Bestuzhev draft up a treaty with Prussia. Tomorrow, I’m ordering the troops out of Berlin.”

  I swallow, moving another soldier. “Are you sure that’s what you want to do? Prussia is all but defeated. They can’t stand against us much longer. We could win the war outright, and then approach Prussia with a treaty. You would certainly be able to command better terms, and you would retain France and Austria as allies as well.”

  He shakes his head. “No. Frederick sent me a letter only last week. His forces are overrun. He will be destroyed if we don’t pull back. He appealed to me as a friend and a fellow ruler. I will not see him decimated for the sake of Austria.” He stops, picking up a soldier and pointing it at me. “Do you disagree?”

  I take a long breath. Truly, I don’t. Prussia was my home once, and I want to secure peace as much as anyone. But I would not endanger current allies to do it. Still, Peter has made his mind up and to push the point will only drive a wedge between us.

  “No, of course not. I support your decisions, whatever they may be,” I say with a nod of my head.

  He smiles, setting his soldier with the others.

  “I would offer a few words for you to consider on other matters, if you would hear them,” I say, slowly turning each soldier I’ve laid down so they are facing me, in unison with his own wooden army.

  “Of course.” He rocks back on his heels, standing when the tray of brandy is delivered only long enough to pour us each a glass, waving off the footman who tries to do it for him. When he holds it out to me, I take it without touching his fingers. The last thing I want is to give him any wrong impressions about my intent tonight.

  “Well,” I say, taking a sip. “The people of the village love you—that much is obvious. We might extend that goodwill a bit by making some minor policy changes.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, the salt tax for one. You could lower it just a bit; that would give the serfs some relief. Times have been very difficult since the fevers and the pox swept the country. A small measure of relief would show how concerned and benevolent you are.”

  He nods. “Yes, that is a good idea.”

  “And as for the lords, you could abolish the mandatory service law. That would go a long way to keeping them in your good graces, as well as ensuring that young nobles would be in your debt.”

  He salutes me with his glass. “All wonderful ideas, little mother. And I have also been thinking of reforming some of the church practices.”

  I pause, taking a drink to hide my concern. “Which practices?” I ask after swallowing.

  “I don’t know. Maybe we can make them all shave off their beards and wear women’s stockings!” He laughs, and I force a chuckle. “Better yet, I will seize all the church lands and property for the crown. Make them beg in the streets like paupers.”

  The shock of his words hits me like ice water. If he does that, it will destroy the core of the church, turn it and those who hold firm to its doctrine against us. My mind spins, looking for an alternative. I force a smile.

  “You know what would be worse than that? If you allowed some of the exiled Protestant leaders back into Russia. That would drive them mad! They have worked so hard to keep them from moving into Russia. I mean, can you imagine? If Russia was seen as the champion for religious tolerance in Europe?” I force another laugh.

  This time, he doesn’t join me. His face is blank as he tries to decide if it’s a viable idea.

  “Oh, no, Peter. You mustn’t. The clergy would have absolute fits,” I add, hoping it will push him toward the idea rather than away from it. It would be a small consolation, returning those exiled, but better that than the alternative.

  “That’s a wonderful idea. It would serve them right,” he says finally.


  I nod. “As you say.”

  A knock at his chamber doors draws his attention away from me. His valet steps in and announces his late-night visitor. “Lady Elizavetta Vorontsova, Your Highness.”

  Peter waves his hand.

  Elizavetta bounces merrily into the room, her bright red curls bobbing as she moves. That is, until she catches sight of me. She freezes, her face settling into an expression of shock and rage. I almost feel bad for her.

  Almost.

  Peter hurries to her side, kissing her quickly on the cheek. “Hello, darling. Please, wait for me in the far chamber.”

  She nods, her mouth set in a thin line, and brushes past me to the rear chamber where Peter’s private apartment sits. She slams the door behind her, and Peter smirks.

  “A little envy is good for her,” he says.

  I frown but say nothing.

  “I suppose you should go.” His tone brightens as he adds, “Unless you’d like to stay. Oh, wouldn’t that be interesting?”

  My eyes widen before I can stop them, a horrified look stamping itself across my face. When he laughs, I curtsy and move to leave. He stops me with a hand on my elbow.

  “Thank you for your counsel. And your friendship,” he says.

  These words are almost more shocking than the last, but I hide my surprise this time, achieving a look I hope is one of humility and meekness as I nod and take my leave of him. As soon as I’m out the door, I hear Elizavetta start shouting, and as much as I deplore them both, it brings a smile to my face. Grigori waits patiently for me to move.

  “Is everything all right, Your Highness?”

  I nod. His concern is touching, but unnecessary. He follows me down to my chamber where my maids wait to help me undress. I pause outside my door, looking at my handsome young guard. “Grigori, I am very tired. Please see to it that I have no visitors for the rest of the evening.”

  “None?” he asks.

  “None.”

  When I’m finally alone in my bed, I think of Sergei and Alexander. What a sad, fickle creature a woman’s heart is. Yet, here I am. In love with two men, neither of them my husband. And I wonder if they will ever forgive me.

  When I finally fall asleep, I dream of the green hills of Prussia, of doors opening and closing with the wind, and I’m not altogether certain why.

  The next day, the morning light streams in from the large window in my room, the smell of fresh bread and sausage drifting up from the kitchens. I hear the maids bustling about, and I sit up in bed. There’s a bell on my nightstand, and I ring it. Two maids come hurrying in. They dress me quickly and lead me to my bathing chamber where a dark-haired man waits. He reminds me a bit of Baron de Breteuil, all slender and tidy. When he speaks, I understand the resemblance.

  “Your Highness, I am Jean-Michelle, your new hairdresser,” he announces in French.

  I nod. Of course. The Frenchmen had been Elizabeth’s hairdresser, and now he is mine. It’s the first time I’ve had a male hairdresser, but they are all the rage in Paris. Perhaps it’s just another way the French are tossing aside conventional moral standards. The whole thing smacks of impropriety, and I can only imagine what my mother might say. Yet something about it feels decadent, rebellious. So when he was offered to me, I seized the opportunity.

  “Please, have a seat and we will begin.”

  Unlike when Rina or Dashka did my hair, Jean is grueling, pulling, tugging, and teasing until my hair is as tall as he can make it. A small, stuffed bird is added to one side and three long curls hang down the back of my neck. He doesn’t powder it, but leaves it rich and ebony.

  It looks beautiful, but it feels like my neck might snap from the weight.

  “Here, allow me,” he says, wrapping a thick ribbon around my neck. Or at least it looks like a ribbon. But inside, it clearly has bones like a corset and in the back, two long spikes go up and into the back of my hair, supporting the weight just enough.

  “Oh my,” I say, admiring it.

  He adds my crown and steps back, clapping excitedly. “Voila!”

  I glance over my shoulder at Dashka, who is working on some needlepoint. “What do you think, Dash?”

  She looks up and smiles. “You look lovely. Tomorrow, all the noble ladies will show up with birds in their hair, just you wait and see.”

  I grin. “What is on the schedule today?” I ask.

  She picks up my small notebook from the table and hands it over to me to read. “Ah, a formal breakfast with the gentry, and then we hold open court. We are to receive the last of the nobles who have traveled in, and then we will finalize the state funeral plans. Oh, and I must do something about the gardens; they are in terrible shape. Can you send me the gardener after lunch?”

  She curtsies. “Of course. And these came for you this morning.”

  She hands me two notes, both sealed in deep red wax. I hesitantly take them, feeling a flush crawl its way into my face. With a quick gesture, she ushers everyone else from the room. “Would you like me to go as well? I can give you a moment if…”

  I move to the large settee, patting the seat beside me. “No, stay. You might as well know about all this. As my maid of honor, there are things you will know, things I will require you never to speak of. I’ve made quite a mess for myself, you see.” I hold the letters to my lips, taking a deep breath. “Rina knew. She kept my secrets for many years. May I count on you to do the same?” I ask, already knowing the answer. She’s young, and in the grasp of a nearly reverent devotion to me.

  When she responds, her eyes are wide with sincerity. “Of course you can, Your Highness.”

  I pat the seat again, and she sits down. “You see, when I arrived at court, I fell in love with a man,” I begin.

  “Peter?” she asks.

  I shake my head, smiling sadly. “No, not Peter. Though not for lack of effort. Peter has always been… a difficult person to love. No, his name was Alexander.” I pause, letting that sink in. She had known him only as her sister’s husband, and the revelation must come as quite a shock to her because a small gasp escapes her lips.

  I continue. “We were deeply in love. Secretly, we planned to run away together. However, the empress found out and forced him to marry Rina to keep us from each other. And it worked. But then I fell in love again. With Sergei. I’ve been having an affair with him since the wedding. Peter wouldn’t have me, you see, after he found out I’d nearly run away with Alexander. He threatened to refuse me until he could have me declared barren and sent away. He was quite cruel. I found myself very alone, and Sergei… The love I felt for him as a friend became something much more. But when Rina died, I was so heartbroken. Sergei was gone, I was grieving, and…”

  “You had an affair with Alexander?” she guesses, no judgment in her tone.

  I nod. “You see, I love him still. I love them both. And I have no idea what I’m going to do. I know that I will tell them both the truth—I couldn’t bear to lie to them—but what then? How can I possibly choose?”

  Dashka takes a deep breath, smoothing her hands down her skirts before speaking. “I don’t know much about love, or passion. But I do know what it means to be empress. I served as Elizabeth’s maid for years as a girl. I saw her take lover after lover, and no one thought anything about it.”

  I smirk. “Oh, we thought a great many things about it.”

  She shakes her head. “What I mean is that it didn’t lessen her—as a ruler or as a woman. She wasn’t weaker for it. If anything, that she had the courage to act as a male king would have earned her some measure of respect. And peace. I believe she was, in that respect at least, quite content.”

  Thinking back to her letter, I wonder if that’s a fair statement. Something dawns on me. “Were you here, when Sergei and the empress were lovers?”

  My question surprises her. I can see it in her eyes before she looks away, nodding.

  “What happened between them? Do you know? Will you tell me? Please, be honest,” I beg.

&nbs
p; She straightens in her seat. “It was midsummer. I remember because I thought it so odd that the fire had been lit when the whole palace was sweltering. Then I realized the empress had been burning clothes. I asked her about it, and she said that anything he’d given her, anything he’d touched, was soiled and she had to be rid of it. That is all I know. After that, he was gone for a time, but he returned to court a few months before you arrived I believe.”

  Realizing I’m picking at my bottom lip with my thumb, I drop my hands into my lap. “Thank you for your honesty,” I say, holding up the letters. Not that it changes anything, but it does make me curious, and I’m not certain what drives it.

  As I tear into the first letter, there’s no doubt who it’s from.

  My dearest Helen,

  I have kept my distance these weeks, as you have asked, but I long to be near you again. It pains me to see you walking down the hall, to hear your laugh in the distance. My arms yearn to hold you once more. Consent to meet me, to drive this darkness from my heart. You are, and have always been, the sunlight in my soul.

  -Paris

  I set the note aside, carefully opening the next. It’s much more formal, the wide, scrawling letters practically etched into the paper with the force from which it was written.

  Your Imperial Majesty,

  Please forgive the informal nature of this letter. I have urgent matters, matters of some delicacy, of which I should like to discuss. If you are willing, please send for me at your earliest convenience.

  Your humble and loyal servant,

  General Sergei Salkov

  I sigh, my heart feeling heavy as a stone in my chest. “To choose between them would mean losing one. And I simply cannot bear the thought,” I admit in a cheerless whisper.

  “Then there is only one choice, Your Majesty.” I look up to see Dashka’s face, her expression uncharacteristically stern. “And that is simply not to choose at all.”