The Summer Queen

by Margaret Pemberton

  Remembering that conversation, Willy underwent one of his fast-as-light mood changes and bellowed with laughter. Phili had known he could say such a thing, because ever since Phili had been introduced to him, nothing had ever arisen between the two of them that wasn’t permissible. Phili was Count Philipp zu Eulenburg. At the time of their introduction he had been a lowly diplomat in the Prussian legation. Now, thanks to Willy’s intervention, Phili was an envoy, next in status to an ambassador.

  ‘Male camaraderie, Your Majesty,’ Phili had said to him in the early days of their friendship, ‘and with friends of a like individuality – that is where the true pleasures of life are to be found.’

  It was a sentiment Willy fully agreed with and, faced with the delicious decision as to whether to wear an ornate military uniform, Clan Stewart Highland dress or the costume of a war-like Norse god in his portrait sittings with Thaddeus Jones, he strode off in the direction of the Audience Room, surrounded by a posse of long-limbed, blond-haired Hussars.

  On a train steaming towards the Russian border, Alicky was almost faint with excited anticipation. She would soon be in St Petersburg. Would Nicky be as pleased to see her as he had been four and a half years ago, the last time she had been there? Four and a half years was a long time. She had been twelve then, little more than a child. Now, nearly seventeen, she was a child no longer. Would he still like her now as much as he had then? And when she saw him again, would he still be her soulmate or would he have become a stranger? She remembered how the two of them had scratched their names within a heart on the windowpane of a little summerhouse. Would Nicky still remember doing so? Would he recall how they had felt about each other?

  As the train ate up the miles, its engine blowing clouds of smoke past the carriage windows, she stared into the white billows, her gloved hands clasped so hard that her knuckles hurt.

  ‘Please God, let Nicky like me as much now as he once did,’ she whispered beneath her breath, when her father and Ernie left the carriage in order to enjoy cigars in the corridor. And then, with the fevered intensity that was so much a part of her nature: ‘Please God, let him more than like me. Let him love, love, love me!’

  As they stepped off the train at St Petersburg station, not only were Tsar Uncle Sasha and Ella and Sergei on the platform waiting to greet them, but so were Sergei’s brothers, a brass band and, best of all, Nicky. The last time she had seen him he had been sixteen and, being slightly built and nowhere near as tall as his father and his uncles, had been a young-looking sixteen. Now he was twenty and, wearing a splendid white and gold-braided military uniform and sporting a neat Van Dyke beard, he suddenly seemed to be someone she was meeting for the first time.

  As she made her curtsey to Uncle Sasha, Alicky felt her head spin and her stomach churn. Had she been living in a fantasy world for the last four and a half years? Was Nicky only at the station to meet her, and her father and Ernie, because Romanov etiquette dictated he should do so? And then, as her father exchanged pleasantries with Uncle Sasha, Nicky stepped towards her.

  With her heart hammering and the blood beating in her ears, knowing that every atom of her future happiness depended on the next few moments, Alicky raised her eyes to his.

  In their blue depths was everything that she had hoped to see. The kindness and gentleness that marked him out as a rare and very special kind of man, and as well as the kindness and gentleness – qualities that were of vital importance to her – there was blatant, undisguised pleasure at seeing her again.

  Her relief was so vast that she gasped and then, aware of how many eyes were on her, disguised the gasp by turning it into a hiccup.

  ‘Welcome to St Petersburg,’ Nicky said, as he would have said to anyone he was meeting formally at the station, but the smile he gave her and the expression in his eyes told Alicky she wasn’t just anyone, but someone who was very, very special to him.

  Her father was afforded the honour of travelling with Uncle Sasha and Nicky to the Anitchkov Palace, where Aunt Minny was waiting to greet them, while Alicky and Ernie travelled in another carriage, accompanied by Ella and Sergei.

  ‘Why is Aunt Minny at the Anitchkov and not the Winter Palace, Ella?’ Ernie asked. ‘If the Winter Palace was my palace, I’d never move out of it.’

  ‘Uncle Sasha finds the Winter Palace too vast and chilly at this time of year, which incidentally is my favourite time of year. Have you ever seen anywhere as beautiful as St Petersburg under snow?’

  Alicky hadn’t. Snow, so blinding-white it hurt the eyes, lay in drifts several feet high at the sides of all the wide boulevards. It glittered like crystal on the city’s hundreds of onion-shaped domes and elegant spires. It coated the leafless branches of the trees and rose in flurries from beneath the hooves of the royal horses. As their carriage turned into Nevsky Prospekt, Alicky saw that the nearby Fontanka River was frozen to a sheet of shining silver and was crowded not with boats, but with skaters.

  ‘Even the Neva freezes in the winter,’ Ella said as their carriage turned in through the Anitchkov Palace’s great triple-arched entrance. ‘We’ll be going to lots of skating parties while you are with us, Alicky.’

  ‘And toboggan parties,’ Sergei added. ‘Nicky loves toboggan parties, and you will be seeing a lot of Nicky.’

  Over the top of Alicky’s head, Sergei’s eyes met Ella’s, and although Alicky didn’t see the look they exchanged, Ernie did.

  He sucked in his breath. Were Ella and Sergei hoping to snare Nicky – a man who would one day rule over one-sixth of the world’s surface – as a husband for his little sister? If so, it was one heck of an ambitious project. Sergei might have married a princess of Hesse, but he wasn’t heir to the Romanov throne. Nicky was. When it came to his marriage, Uncle Sasha and Aunt Minny would be looking for a marriage alliance that would bring dynastic and political advantages to Russia – and that wouldn’t be achieved by Nicky marrying Alicky.

  In the palace, Aunt Minny, petite, dark-eyed and, even though it was only late afternoon, laden with jewels, greeted them with a warmth that Alicky found reassuring.

  They were too small a family group for her and Nicky to exchange eager, urgent glances, but as they moved from where Aunt Minny had greeted them and along an ornately gilded gallery to where, in a jasper-columned drawing room a steaming-hot samovar and refreshments were waiting for them, Nicky managed to whisper from close behind her, ‘Dearest Alicky, I thought you were pretty the last time you visited St Petersburg, but you are even prettier now.’

  Alicky flushed scarlet, but because she blushed so often when uncomfortable at the social situations she found herself in, no one – not even Ella or Ernie – suspected that this time the scarlet banners in her cheeks had been caused by dazzling, heart-stopping happiness.

  Later, as he readied himself for the ball that was to take place that evening, Ernie pondered what was, to him, the odd character of both his cousin, Nicky, and his brother-in-law, Sergei.

  Because they were both the same age, and because his oddness was baffling and not, as in Sergei’s case, unsettling, Nicky was the easiest conundrum. At twenty, there was still something immature about him, and in a young man who would one day be Emperor-Tsar-Autocrat over a country so vast that as the night was falling on its western borders, day was breaking on its eastern shore, his gentleness and the air of submissiveness that Ernie detected in him seemed bizarre. One thing he was quite sure of, though, was that Nicky wasn’t – as he was – homosexual.

  That wasn’t a certainty he felt, where Sergei was concerned. Ernie had grown up feeling comfortable around Sergei, who had always been such a regular visitor to Darmstadt. Sergei and Ella’s marriage had been a surprise, but only because Ella was so beautiful and had such a magical quality about her that Ernie had assumed she would be snapped up by someone able to offer her a throne; someone like Eddy, or Willy. Her choosing to marry Sergei, who was so much older than her and had an off-puttingly austere manner, had been decidedly unexpected.

&
nbsp; And then, over time, had come the rumours that the reason Sergei and Ella had no children was because he was a homosexual; or, if not a homosexual, a sadist. The accusation of sadism didn’t ring true to Ernie, for if Sergei was a sadist, surely he would have sensed it? Ella’s marital happiness was obvious, and he couldn’t see how that was possible if Sergei gained sexual pleasure from inflicting pain.

  So that left only the rumour of homosexuality, something that was always a possibility. Even he, a happy and untroubled homosexual, had to be fiercely secretive about being one, and Sergei was a highly decorated military officer and Major-General of the elite 1st Battalion Preobrazhensky Life Guards Regiment. If the rumours about him were ever substantiated, it would mean Sergei being stripped of his rank, his military decorations and, most probably – and most devastating of all for a Russian – exile.

  Was that why, in the royal world of early marriages, Sergei had waited until he was nearly thirty before he had married Ella? For anyone who was sexually deviant, marriage was the greatest of all cover-ups, and something nearly all men of his own persuasion resorted to eventually. It was something Ernie knew that he, too, would resort to one day, but with luck, that day still lay some way in the future.

  The ball that evening was to take place in the Winter Palace, and Ella and Alicky, assisted by half a dozen ladies’ maids each, dressed for it in the palace together. Ella wore a dazzling Parisian gown of the same ruby-red as the rubies at her ears, throat, wrists and at the centre of her diamond tiara. Alicky, because of her age, was all in white. Her décolleté, off-the-shoulder gown was of silver-beaded chiffon, sashed in silk, and in her hair were white roses that had been sent by train from the Crimea. Her jewellery was demure: a single string of pearls and matching drop-earrings that had once belonged to her mother.

  Looking in the mirror, wearing her white elbow-length gloves and carrying a swan-feather fan, Alicky realized for the first time that although she wasn’t beautiful in the way Ella was, she was beautiful in her own, very different way.

  As if reading Alicky’s thoughts, Ella said, ‘You look as beautiful as a snow princess from a Russian fairy-tale, but try and remember not to give the impression of being as icily cold and frigid as a snow princess. I know how you hate being amongst vast numbers of people who aren’t familiar to you, but as my sister and as a visitor, you will attract a lot of attention. If you keep a smile on your face, there will be nothing for you to worry about. Everyone will love you.’

  Alicky steeled herself for the aspect of the evening that she knew was going to be an ordeal. Struggling to keep the nervousness she now felt from showing in her voice, she asked, ‘How many people are likely to be at the ball, Ella? Three hundred? Four hundred?’

  ‘Goodness, no.’ There was loving laughter in Ella’s voice. ‘This isn’t Darmstadt. The standard number at a Winter Palace ball is three thousand, and the ballroom and the galleries surrounding it are so vast they can accommodate that number of people easily.’

  Alicky was seized by panic. Until now, all her thoughts about the ball had centred solely on Nicky: on how he would hold her in his arms and, beneath glittering chandeliers, waltz her round and round to the heavenly music of Glinka and Tchaikovsky. Now reality was sinking in. In order to enjoy the bliss she had dreamed about for so long, she was going to have to endure being the focus of many more pairs of eyes than she had expected. She steadied her breathing, forcing herself to remain calm. If she had to suffer an evening of such torture so that she could be held in Nicky’s arms, then it was a price she was willingly going to pay.

  Nothing she had ever experienced before – not at home in Darmstadt, or at Buckingham Palace or Windsor – had prepared her for the sheer size and splendour of what lay ahead.

  Velvet-carpeted corridors were lined every step of the way by scarlet-uniformed Cossacks; the galleries opening onto the Nicholas Hall, where the ball was to be held, were each as high and vast as a cathedral, a vista of soaring gold-framed mirrors, glistening marble columns and priceless statues. Beneath the shimmering light of crystal and gold chandeliers, Russia’s royalty, aristocracy, court officials and senior members of the country’s navy and army greeted each other and, as they waited for the entrance of the Tsar and Tsarina, exchanged the latest gossip, looking towards Alicky with blatant curiosity as they did so.

  She was already well aware of how popular Ella was in St Petersburg. What she hadn’t taken into account was how much interest there would be in her, simply because she was Ella’s sister.

  ‘Smile, Alicky,’ Ella instructed, not letting the smile on her own lips slip for an instant. ‘Let people know how happy you are to be in St Petersburg.’

  Alicky was happy to be in St Petersburg, but she wasn’t happy at being the centre of attention. Instead she was petrified and far too frozen with panic to emulate Ella’s easy, gracious smile.

  And then salvation came. The Master of Ceremonies brought the Nicholas Hall to an instant hush by striking the floor with a golden-topped staff and then, having called for silence, announcing thunderously, ‘Their Imperial Majesties!’

  Every woman in the room, Ella and Alicky included, sank into a curtsey as the Tsar and Tsarina entered the ballroom and then, as Alicky stood straight again, she saw with stupefying relief that Nicky was only a few steps behind his parents.

  His eyes sought and found hers, and she read the message in them clearly: Etiquette decrees that you dance first with your father and then with Sergei, whose personal guest you are, and then with your brother. Then, and only then, will it be proper for us to dance together.

  Across a kaleidoscope of dazzlingly coloured evening gowns, jewelled tiaras and a forest of blue and scarlet uniforms, she sent back her own joyous message: I know. I understand.

  The opening dance was a stately polonaise. To her surprise, her father danced it very well, but it was also a dance that, being processional, made it easy for other dancers to get a clear, close-up view of her. Determined not to let Ella down, Alicky kept a fixed, frozen smile on her face, knowing that every minute she endured was a minute closer to being with Nicky again.

  After the polonaise it was a waltz, and Sergei, handsome and unbelievably tall and erect, waltzed her with military precision around the crowded ballroom floor. Occasionally she caught sight of Nicky waltzing with a beautiful dark-haired girl. Diamonds were threaded through the girl’s hair, and she and Nicky were talking animatedly to each other. Nicky wasn’t looking at the girl in the way he looked at her, though. One more dance. That was all that had to be lived through. Just one more dance.

  ‘Trust me to have drawn a mazurka,’ Ernie said in mock despair, when Sergei had returned her to Ella. ‘Am I allowed to improvise?’

  ‘If you draw a shred more attention to me than I am already receiving,’ she said through gritted teeth, ‘I swear I will never speak to you again as long as I live.’

  Ernie laughed and then, as she had known he would, danced the intricate heel-clicking, foot-stamping steps perfectly. Because of its exhilaratingly fast tempo, the mazurka was one of Alicky’s favourite dances, but, for the first time ever, she couldn’t wait for it to end.

  As she stood once again at Ella’s side, her heart beating fast and light, she saw Nicky begin walking towards her; saw people making way for him; saw how closely they were watching to see who it was he was about to dance with.

  He came to a halt in front of her and bowed. ‘My dance, I believe, Cousin Alix.’

  The dance was another waltz and as the orchestra began playing Strauss’s ‘By the Beautiful Blue Danube’, she slid rapturously into his arms.

  He said with a shy smile in his voice, ‘You don’t mind me calling you “Cousin Alix”, do you?’

  ‘No.’ Incredibly she, who suffered from such crippling shyness that she could barely function socially, was not at all shy. In Nicky’s arms she had never felt safer, more secure or more confident, and that he – the Tsesarevich and an army officer – was shy won her heart in a way
no amount of self-important arrogance could ever have done. ‘I have forgotten,’ she said, ‘in what way we are cousins, for I know that we are not first cousins.’

  ‘Your great-grandmama, Wilhelmina of Baden, was also my great-grandmama.’ As they waltzed in graceful circles to the music, his voice thickened. ‘I wonder if you remember your final day, on your last visit to St Petersburg, sweetest Alix? Do you remember the way we scratched our initials and a heart in a windowpane of the little summerhouse at Peterhof?’

  ‘Oh yes!’ There was scarcely any difference in their height and, as her eyes met his, she said, ‘And no matter how old I may grow, I will never forget doing so, Nicky. Not ever.’

  Absorbed in each other, they were oblivious of the attention they were attracting, for whispers concerning the interest that the Tsesarevich was showing in Grand Duke Sergei’s young sister-in-law were spreading around the Nicholas Hall like wildfire.

  Aware of the whispers, and the reason for them, Ella and Sergei sucked in deep, satisfied breaths. Ella was doing so because a marriage between Alicky and Nicky would be the most prestigious marriage possible for her sister; Sergei because he, like Ernie, sensed Nicky’s innate submissiveness and was certain that if Alicky and Nicky married, Nicky would always follow Alicky’s advice, just as he was certain that Alicky would always follow his, Sergei’s, advice.

  All of which meant that when the day came that Nicky became Emperor and Autocrat of all the Russias, the person wielding power over one-sixth of the world’s surface wouldn’t be kind, diffident Tsar Nicholas II. Via Alicky he, Sergei, would be the one wielding the power. His eyes blazed and his mouth hardened as he thought of how, if his plans came to fruition, he would one day – in everything but name – rule the largest country on earth.