As it stands, he lacks the leverage to force the divorce, legally, but if he discovers the child…
When the archbishop takes his leave, I’m left alone in my chamber, my hands on my still-flat stomach, praying for guidance I’m certain I don’t deserve.
***
Peter soon discovers the boy missing and storms into my chamber where Dashka and I sit, sewing, while we wait for supper.
“What have you done?” he demands, throwing open the door to my chamber.
I motion for Dash to leave us, which she does without hesitation, slipping out the door and closing it behind her with a soft click.
“I’m afraid you’ll need to be more specific,” I say absently, not looking up from my stitch until Peter grabs the round table in the corner of the room and flips it, sending a vase of flowers shattering to the ground.
“Ivan. Where is he? Where have you taken my Pigeon?”
I sit calmly, folding my hands in my lap as I set down my needlepoint. “Why on earth would you think I have him?” I ask simply.
He steps forward, looking like he might throttle me. I’m not sure what stops him, but I think I see a flicker of fear pass behind his ice-blue eyes. He points at me. “If I find out you have him, so help me, I will have you thrown in a cell.”
I sigh. “I do not have him, Peter. Perhaps he simply wandered off. In his fragile state, he may be prone to sleepwalking or simply getting confused and scared. As I told you, he’s not a pet. He’s a person.”
“He was mine!” Peter rages, spittle flying from his mouth. “You did this. You have handed him to my enemies, hoping they will overthrow me.”
It’s all I can do not to snicker at the assumption. Instead, I pour myself a cup of tea. “Peter, listen to yourself. You’ve become too paranoid. What good would it do me to see you deposed and Ivan on the throne? They’d likely kill us both, and our son.”
“You could be planning to kill me and marry him to keep your status.”
I raise my cup, inhaling the aroma deeply before responding. “Peter, the only person looking to end our marriage is you. Perhaps it is your own guilty conscious that plagues you.”
He falters, stepping backward.
I raise one eyebrow. “I know you care for Elizavetta, but divorce? Did you really imagine the church would allow it?”
“They will do as they are told.”
I take a sip of tea. “Oh, I doubt that. Luckily for me, they obey the mandates of God, not bratty kings tired of their wives.”
“I will be free of you, so help me,” he stammers.
“Peter, please. We don’t have to be at odds. You have my loyalty, my support. Isn’t that enough to earn peace between us, at least?”
He lowers his chin. “If you are truly loyal to me, then you will obey me. I am granting Elizavetta the Order of Saint Catherine. You will award her the ribbon in a ceremony during your birthday celebration next week.”
Now it is I who stutters. “But that is an honor reserved for the grand duchess and Romanov Princesses.”
He shakes his head, a menacing smile spreading across his face. “The emperor may award it to whomever he sees fit. It’s an honor given to any noblewoman worthy of recognition. Her familial ties alone make her worthy; my love makes her more so. You will do this. Is that clear?”
I stiffen, but I grudgingly nod. What can I do? It’s an insult, a public display not only of his affection for Elizavetta, but of his disregard for me. A very public, political slap in the face.
I bruised his ego when I struck him. This is simply him striking back, and I should have expected it.
“Of course, Your Majesty.”
Satisfied, he turns on his heel and saunters from the room. I close my eyes, taking a slow, deep breath to calm myself. Rage would be wasted, and I haven’t the energy for it anyway. This new child is sapping my strength as it grows. Already weary, I’m left to contemplate my next move.
Sergei returns the next morning, and I decide to let him rest from his journey before seeking his counsel on my latest complication.
The child.
As I nibble my dry bread with the afternoon tea, I contemplate telling Alexander. As the father, it is his right to know. But he hasn’t so much as glanced at me since our last talk, and part of me simply can’t bear to face him now. If he’s chosen to leave, I can’t let this child bind him to me. It’s not fair to any of us.
No, it will have to be kept secret, from everyone except Sergei and of course Dash, who has already sworn herself to silence.
I decide to take a ride that day, while I’m still able, and order the grooms to prepare my horse Peony. Grigori accompanies me, along with Dash, on a slow trek through the woods late that afternoon.
It feels good to be on horseback again, the breeze in my hair, the powerful hooves thundering below me. I go slow, not wanting to risk a fall, but even that is difficult. Part of me wants to loosen the reins and fly through the dense woods. Keeping calm, still, is an effort all its own. Soon, another set of hooves approaches. Grigori draws his sword, bringing his steed to a stop between Dash, me, and the approaching horseman. When I see Sergei’s visage break through the trees, I sag with relief. He nods to Grigori, who re-sheaths his sword and lets him pass. Sergei strides up beside me and we trot slowly ahead, leaving Dashka and Grigori a few paces behind.
“Is it done?” I ask.
He nods. “It is done. Ivan is safe; his life there will be more comfortable than a cell at any rate. But, should anyone come for him… the monks will do as you’ve ordered.”
My hands tighten on the reins. “There’s something else I need your assistance with,” I begin. There’s a long pause before I continue, hesitating at admitting the truth, which I know will inflict yet another wound in his heart.
“What is it?” he asks, unable to stand the silence any longer.
Chewing my lip, I force myself to answer. “It’s only that I seem to keep hurting you. I never wanted to hurt you. I never wanted things to be this way.”
He looks away, facing forward. Probably not wanting to meet my eyes, afraid of what my next blow will be.
“I’m with child again,” I finally say.
He pulls his horse to a stop, turning to look at me. For a moment, there’s a look of radiant joy in his eyes. At seeing my own sour expression, his face falls. As I watch, the realization of the truth hits him like a blow to the stomach. He leans forward, reaching out to stroke the mare’s mane.
“Alexander’s?” His tone is light, but sad, and it crushes something inside me.
“Yes.” I force the word past my lips.
Taking a deep breath, he seems to right himself. “Does he know?”
I frown. “No. I do not know if he ever will.”
Sergei turns to me once more, his bushy eyebrows drawing together. “You must tell him. A father should know.”
My heart swells as I stare at his rugged face. My love, my sturdy foundation. There is no bitterness in him; perhaps he’s incapable of such darkness. I smile, unable to contain my emotions. “You are the best man I’ve ever known, Sergei, my love. A lesser man would rage with jealousy. I know I could not bear it if our situations were reversed. How is it possible that your heart can be so strong?”
He grins wickedly. “My queen, a lesser man would crumble under the weight of your love. If I want to keep you, I have no choice but to be strong—and also very flexible. If that is the price of a place in your heart, I will gladly pay it. That, I think, is what Alexander has yet to understand.”
I feel my smile falter. “Perhaps. But if he has chosen to leave me, I would not use this child as a chain to bind him to me.”
Scooting closer, Sergei reaches out, placing a hand on mine. “You can’t use your anger as an excuse to keep this from him. He is hurting. We are all hurting. Give him time. He’s young and only beginning to understand what it is to be loved by a queen.”
Though there is no accusation in his voice, I feel it in each word. W
e are all hurting, and it is my fault. I pull away, my horse skittering to the side. “This is not something I can think of right now. I can’t worry for his feelings. I can only do what must be done, for I am no queen yet.”
“You are my queen,” Sergei declares as we begin moving forward again.
There is only a moment of silence between us before I speak again. “Peter has asked the archbishop to grant him a divorce.”
There’s a light gasp behind me, meaning Dash has been listening in. I ignore it. Truthfully, it will soon be the worst-kept secret at court. I have no doubt Peter will be singing it in a chorus to anyone who will listen.
I continue forward, looking ahead to the grassy meadow stretching before us. “The church has refused him, for now. There are no grounds, you see. But if this pregnancy becomes public, if Peter ever finds out… He won’t have to divorce me. He can have me executed for adultery.”
Beside me, Sergei is quiet, pensive. Sliding my gaze to him, I see that he is struggling with what to say next.
“I considered ending the pregnancy,” I admit. “But I simply can’t bring myself to do it. My child…” I don’t finish the thought. The softening of his expression tells me there is no need to.
“So what is your plan? Shall we take a trip, Moscow perhaps, until the birth?”
“I can’t leave Peter here alone right now. He’s too erratic. And while he’s angry at me, at least I can use my influence with the nobles to try to temper him.” I loosen my grip on the reins to find that the leather straps have dug into my skin, chaffing my palms despite my riding gloves.
“You must be so very careful,” he finally says. “Any misstep, any hint of the truth, could condemn you.”
It’s a terrible risk, he’s right on that account, but my options are extraordinarily limited. “I know.”
***
The days pass quickly as preparations for my birthday celebration are made. Envoys from all over Europe arrive, gifts in tow, to greet the new empress. The worst of my morning sickness seemingly over, I take the opportunity to meet every single person and their entourages. Peter spends his time in meetings with his Prussian advisors, Prince George included. He has requested an audience only once, which I refused as politely as possible, feigning exhaustion.
The day begins far too early as Jean rolls my hair into perfect curls, teasing them atop my head. A gown, specially made for the event, is brought in. It’s not as cumbersome or as heavy as my wedding gown, but it’s very close. Dash helps me dress, taking my corset as small as she dares in my condition, and drapes my red sash across my chest. I frown as I touch the crimson fabric, my fingers running over the silver embroidery which reads, из любви к отечеству.—for the love of the fatherland. The day Empress Elizabeth adorned me with it had felt like a victory. Now, knowing I will have to do the same for his mistress, it feels more like a mockery. The latest in a long line of small torments I’m forced to endure. My hands clench, and the ribbon crumples under my fingers.
By the time the herald announces my arrival, I’m weary to my very bones. Weary from the weight of my gown, weary from the timid smile that I must keep etched upon my face, and weary from the heavy choices that haunt my very soul. I stand atop the grand staircase, feeling less like a queen and more like a prisoner who must carefully embrace her own shackles.
“Her Highness, The Empress Catherine.”
I glide down the stairs, Dashka at my side, Sergei and Grigori trailing behind, a handful of ladies-in-waiting and dutiful lords following them. Making my way through the assembly, pausing to receive well wishes and kisses on the hand from some of those attending, I make my way toward Peter, who sits atop the highest table. Beside him, in my seat, Elizavetta seers at me a she stabs a bit of duck with a golden fork. To his other side, Prince George looks down at me, his expression nearly apologetic. All the chairs at the head table are occupied, leaving no room for me.
Peter stands, raising his glass. “Let us salute the lovely Catherine on this, the anniversary of her birth.”
His informality makes me bristle, but I manage to hold the smile on my face as I bow from the neck at his words. It’s meant as a slap in the face, the forgetting of my title, and I am quite done being slapped by my idiot husband.
The assembly claps riotously and when the noise dies down, I shoot a glare at Peter. “Would Your Highness allow me the privilege of dining among his loyal lords this evening?” I ask, my voice clear. I watch as a tick forms in his jaw. He was hoping to use my displacement as yet another show of his disapproval of me, but now, with my asking, I have made it seem as if it were my choice. Finally, he nods, waving his hand as if unimpressed before retaking his seat and turning to whisper something into Elizavetta’s ear.
I turn to the crowd, a wide smile on my face. “Which of you would be so kind as to offer your empress a seat at your table so that I might know you better?” I jovially ask. Immediately, a half a dozen men stand, bowing.
I glide down the hall, continuing to greet and chat with the attending nobles before finally settling on a seat at the table with Lord Ashburn and his wife, one of my ladies-in-waiting, Lady Janiette. Lord Ashburn flushes, his rugged face practically glowing with pride as I take a seat beside him. He is one of the wealthiest and most influential of the lords, and he holds title to most of the lands to the north of Moscow. He also has a vast personal army and, rumor says, a heartfelt distaste for his new sovereign’s alliance with Prussia. I spend the evening making small talk, and then, finally, dancing the hours away.
Though I am tired, dreadfully so, I keep the façade going until Peter finally interrupts the gathering late in the evening. When he stands, the musicians stopping mid-song, his words are slurred and his face blotchy from too much wine.
“It seems only fitting that the final gift of the evening be presented by Catherine herself.” He pauses to belch, and then motions for Elizavetta to stand. She smiles, gathering her massive blue gown, obviously designed to complement the blue Prussian uniform jacket Peter now wears, and makes her way to the floor.
As gracefully as possible, I thank my latest dance partner and wave to Dash, making my way toward Elizavetta. Her green eyes shine. Her grin is wide and sour.
“This evening, by command of his Imperial Highness, I have been asked to present the Ribbon of The Order of Saint Catherine to Lady Elizavetta Vorontsova for her…” I pause, clearing my throat suggestively, “exhaustive dedication to crown and country.” A snicker rolls through the crowd. Dash steps forward, holding out the box that contains a sash identical to mine. I drape it over Elizavetta, carefully moving her long, ginger ringlets off her shoulder.
I step back, turning away from her and toward the assembly. They unenthusiastically clap. A murmur cuts through the room like a swift undercurrent. If anyone was unaware of Peter’s intention to divorce me, there is no doubt now.
I wave my hand, and the music begins again. Sergei steps forward, bowing formally and holding up a hand in a request to dance. I take it, grateful for him, for his strength, and for his ability to anticipate my needs in ways I never seem able to. It’s his borrowed courage that keeps me on my feet, long after the music has stopped.
The next day, Prince George requests an audience. Though I want desperately to refuse him, I know I cannot afford the luxury of denial. He, as one of few who have Peter’s ear, could have valuable information. I send for tea and greet him with what I hope is a tolerant, if not friendly, smile.
He takes both my hands in his and leans forward to press a kiss on my cheek. “Your Highness,” he begins. “My lovely niece, how you have grown.”
His words hold no malice, yet they send a chill into my neck. “Uncle George. It is lovely to see you as well.”
I sit, motioning him to a chair across the table from me. “Please. Have a seat. What it is that I can do for you today?”
He snickers. “Straight to business, I see.”
I take a cup of tea from the maid, raising one eyebro
w. “Unfortunately, ruling a country leaves little time for wasting on insignificant chatter,” I say as gently as possible. “And to be honest, I find I haven’t the stomach for it. Especially when my husband is threatening to divorce me. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
I do not try to conceal the accusation in my tone. The smile falls from his face, replaced by a frown. “I assure you, I had no idea.”
His false modesty raises my hackles. I set my tea on the silver tray with a clatter. “Then I doubt there is anything you might say that would be of interest to me. If that is all?”
He takes a deep breath, looking sufficiently chastised. “No, I mean, yes. I mean, I only meant that I had no part in his decision.”
I sit back, resting my hands in my lap. “What have you come to tell me?”
He strokes his chin absently before speaking. “You are more beautiful than I remember, but you are not the same innocent, naive little girl I once knew.”
“No, I am not. I am your empress and I think you should keep that firmly in mind when you choose your next words,” I openly threaten.
“Of course.” He bows his head meekly. “I wanted to come and tell you that, whatever you may think of me, I am not your enemy. Actually, I should quite like to be your ally.”
Sitting forward I reach for my tea once more and take a dainty sip. “Pretty words, Prince George. But your actions seem less genuine.”
“I know you think I’m here as a spy for King Fredrick, but I assure you, that is the least of my motivations. The simple truth is that Peter is unpredictable. His love for Prussia is strong now, but once he fully realizes his own power, even that devotion may fall into jeopardy. This is something Fredrick is well aware of.”
“Then why didn’t you seize Ivan when you had the chance? I know Peter offered him to you.”
“Ivan, I’m sure you saw with your own eyes, is too badly broken to be useful, even as a headpiece. The country would never rally to him. Not in the way they would rally to you.”
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