‘Oh, that’s the homely daughter of the textile merchant, Golitsyn. He’s one of the richest commoners in Russia, so I invited him. I guess because he’s a widower, he dragged her along as his escort.’
‘Nice petite figure. And that’s a Doucet gown with gold thread,’ Princess Betsey said, instinctively sizing up a woman.
‘She’s definitely what they call in America, “plain as a post,”’ Lara said fanning herself. It could be twenty degrees below zero outside, but in ballrooms during the season, it was like the tropics.
‘Come on, Lara, you promised me this waltz.’ Captain Boldyrev of the Lancers bowed before her.
‘Fine, but don’t let those damn spurs tear my gown. Good thing the officers aren’t wearing their swords. Oh, Betsey ma chère, remind me to tell you the latest on Anna Vyrubova. I know for a fact that she was caught in bed with two of the Abyssinians at the same time. The Tsarina ignored it because she’s her only friend,’ Lara said before she was yanked onto the dance floor.
It was mid-January, and the season was in full swing. Dimitri and Lara had been to the mandatory Imperial Balls at the Winter Palace – the Nicholas Ball, the grandest with three thousand guests; three Concert Balls where the guests were serenaded by the St Petersburg Symphony; then five Hermitage Balls, which featured a single act of an opera in the Hermitage Theater followed by a ballet. A ball specifically for debutantes, who only could wear white gowns, was also de rigueur. There were more invitations to Court balls, decreasing in size and importance that signaled one’s position in society. Because the Markhovs were at the top of the social ladder, they didn’t have to attend these. The most exclusive Court ball was the Palm Ball; given at the end of the season; only five hundred were invited. As the name implied, tubs of palm trees from the Imperial conservatories provided the decoration.
Then there were private balls like Dimitri’s and Lara’s held in their mansion tonight. Lara loved to throw a ball, and she went all-out. The midnight supper in the hall adjoining the ballroom would have her favorite gold place settings for just five courses – consommé with sherry; a fish course of sturgeon; a main course with pheasant, lamb, and asparagus; then oysters and salad; and finally finishing with sorbets and pastries. Bottles of iced vodka flavored with lemon peel, peppercorn, or cranberries were on the long white-linen table next to seltzer bottles and almond-flavored milk. Lara was famous for putting Havana cigars, French Sobranies, and her favorite American Benson and Hedges cigarettes in crystal holders at each setting. She loved choosing the Fabergé gifts to be put beside each guest’s plate. An orchestra hidden in a gallery would play during dinner.
Officers in every type of uniform swirled women around the dance floor; their diamonds, emeralds, and rubies reflected from the four crystal chandeliers. People not dancing stood along the walls taking glasses of champagne from the silver trays held by the liveried servants and gossiping their heads off.
After the third quadrille, Dimitri escorted Countess Trigorin from the shiny parquet floor. The American ambassador to Russia, Robert Wilson, stepped forward and greeted him.
‘A beautiful ball, Prince Dimitri. May I have the pleasure of introducing you to Mrs John King of New York City?’
A very attractive woman in her thirties with glossy chestnut hair extended her gloved hand. She had the widest brown eyes and a long neck covered with strands of alternating pearls and tiny diamonds.
‘Very glad to meet you, Your Highness,’ said Mrs King.
Dimitri had heard about her from Lara, who knew about every rich foreign woman visiting Russia. She was the widow of John King, an American who had owned the biggest paint company in the world. He had died from a fall from a horse while fox-hunting on their estate on Long Island, and his wife was the sole heir to his fortune. Dimitri usually specified King Paint for his projects, as it was a quality brand that didn’t skimp on the lead.
Dimitri liked American women. He was always amused at their forthright manner and they didn’t seem to be bothered with formality. There were three beautiful American socialites attached to the Court by way of marriage – Julia, the Princess Cantacuzené, the granddaughter of the late U.S. President Grant; Suzanne, the Princess Belozersky of Boston; and Lily Bouton, married to Count Nostitz. Dimitri had had affairs with two of them.
‘You must dine with my wife and me while you’re in St Petersburg, Mrs King.’
‘Call me Kate. I’d be honored.’
Normally, Dimitri would be thinking of a liaison with this attractive woman. But he glanced over at Katya, who was fanning herself by a window that overlooked the Neva.
‘And I’m Dimitri. Maybe you have time for a waltz later on.’ He bowed to her, then walked over to Katya. He was hoping to sneak in one dance with her tonight – that wouldn’t raise any eyebrows. Just as he reached her, Lara came swirling off the dance floor.
All three wound up standing next to each other.
‘Lara, allow me the pleasure of introducing Doctor Katya Golitsyn,’ Dimitri announced, avoiding an awkward moment.
Katya curtsied and extended her gloved hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Lara shook it and grinned. Dimitri knew she remembered her from the Catherine Palace ball last summer. Lara’s memory was like a steel trap.
‘A pleasure to meet you,’ Lara said. ‘Thank you and your father for coming tonight. You know, doctor, I envy you. We women of the aristocracy aren’t allowed to use our brains; we have to settle for just being beautiful. But in your case, that’s not true.’
Katya was trying to figure out if Lara was complimenting her or insulting her.
‘Er … thank you,’ Katya replied.
‘Keep up the good work. Someone has to get their hands dirty, and I’m not about to ruin this expensive manicure.’ She laughed.
‘Princess Lara, our quadrille is coming up,’ interrupted General Asmov as he whisked her onto the dance floor.
‘See you later,’ Lara called over her shoulder.
‘Let’s go somewhere cooler,’ Dimitri suggested, wiping his forehead with his monogramed handkerchief. He led Katya down the grand staircase, which was lined with huge pots of flowers. People were going up and down the stairs like in a train station.
‘Nice little hut you have here, Prince Dimitri,’ Katya said as they entered the drawing room which they had all to themselves. She eyed the marble inlaid with silver moiré panels encased in bronze frames.
‘It’s not much, but I call it home,’ Dimitri said to make her laugh.
They sat on a long sofa in front of a roaring fire.
‘I had such a good time with your family at Christmas. It was wonderful.’
Katya’s face lit up in the way he found so attractive. ‘They loved you. I was so glad you came.’
He fought the urge to put his arms around her.
‘Tolstoy is very happy in his new home,’ he said. ‘He and Fedor have become great chums.’
‘I’m so happy you liked my gift,’ Katya said, placing her hand on top of his. ‘My father said it was unbecoming to give a cat to a prince.’
Dimitri shook his head. ‘It was my best Christmas gift of all.’ He turned his palm over so they were holding hands. It was intoxicating to have her warm little hand in his. He brought it up to his lips and kissed it.
Katya gave Dimitri’s hand a squeeze. Their eyes locked and smiled at each other but they said nothing. His head then started moving ever so closer to hers.
‘Listen,’ Katya said, cocking her head toward the ceiling. ‘The mazurka is starting up. Let’s dance.’
‘There’ll be a lot more mazurkas tonight,’ Dimitri replied in a quiet voice. He moved closer, leaned in, and their lips met. The spell of their long passionate kiss was broken by the loud pop of a burning ember in the great fireplace, and they returned upstairs – separately.
THIRTY-TWO
‘Such a wonderful design, Dimitri. Congratulations, old boy.’
‘Tremendous, Prince Dimitri. Well done.’
Dimitri always felt the best praise came from his fellow architects, and now he was floating on air. On a frigid January night, at the Imperial Academy of Russian Architects, his drawings for the Tchaikovsky Memorial were unveiled. A huge crowd had showed up to view them where they sat on display easels in the rotunda of the IARA on Tenov Street.
‘Your work has jumped to a new creative level,’ exclaimed Ivgeny Platosky, an architect and old friend from his architecture-school days.
It was true. With a great deal of hesitation and doubt, Dimitri had changed his design direction. He had abandoned his classical ways that he had used for years; it was like abandoning a cherished home and walking into the unknown. From the reaction tonight, he’d been right.
A dapper man with short cropped hair and a full beard walked up to Dimitri, who immediately recognized him.
‘A beautiful design, Prince Dimitri,’ said Fedor Shekhtel, Russia’s leading architect of the Style Moderne. Dimitri tried to look humble, but couldn’t suppress a grin.
‘Thank you so much for your praise, Monsieur Shekhtel. Thank you for coming tonight.’
‘You draw like an angel,’ Shekhtel added, nodding to the drawings.
The renderings, in watercolor washes and ink, did indeed look splendid. The main elevation of the building had a huge half-round red granite arch, with tendril-like leaded glass framing pieces of stained glass, between two black granite towers that were topped by glass and steel domes with slender finials. The stone panels had carved bas-relief ornamentation of the Kievian type the Tsar liked so much. The sides of the Memorial were also of stone, with a pattern of oval and square-topped windows giving the facade a lively inventive rhythm for the music conservatory and the music library.
In the middle of the building was the vast concert auditorium, entered from the front lobby whose ornate plaster ceiling in the Style Moderne mirrored the shape of the arch. Dimitri had spent a lot of time on the acoustics, using Carnegie Hall in New York as a guide. It was said that auditorium had the clearest sound in the world. Dimitri knew the Tsar had already decided that the inaugural concert would be led by Nicholai Rimsky-Korsakov, Russia’s most famous living composer. He knew the building would be a flop if the acoustics were bad.
People kept showering Dimitri with praise. Grand Duke Vladimir, the Tsar’s uncle and President of the Imperial Academy of Arts, came up to him.
‘Good show, Markhov,’ he bellowed. ‘Nicky and Alix are so happy with your design.’ Having done his duty as the Imperial Family’s official arbiter of the arts, he took the arm of a very young woman and headed for the door.
‘Bravo, Dimitri. You’re no longer an artistic tight-ass,’ Katya said in a low voice. ‘I have to get back to the hospital before they know I’ve skipped out, but I wasn’t going to miss this for the world.’ She kissed his cheek and walked away. Dimitri knew she would be there tonight.
Two middle-aged men came up and bowed.
‘Prince Dimitri, allow me to introduce myself,’ said the shorter of the two. ‘I am Anatoly Tchaikovsky and this is Ippolit. We are Pyotr’s brothers, and would like to congratulate you on your magnificent design. Our family is extremely proud to have the Tsar build this monument. If only Pyotr could have lived to have seen it.’
Dimitri was touched by their words. ‘It is only right to build a memorial to Russia’s greatest composer.’
The brothers nodded shyly and backed off into the crowd.
‘The ambassador said you were a man of many talents, now I believe him,’ said a voice directly behind him. ‘Where did you learn to draw that way?’
Dimitri turned to face Mrs King, who looked ravishing in an oyster-white gown.
‘This is a pleasant surprise. Thank you for coming tonight.’
‘So where did you learn to draw?’
‘The Imperial Academy of Arts in St Petersburg.’
‘Americans are under the impression that all Russian princes do is drink, dance, and carouse with women,’ said Mrs King with a big smile.
‘Oh, I find the time to do that too.’ This made Mrs King laugh loudly. She had a high-pitched laugh that rose above the surrounding buzz of conversation.
Mrs King looked about her. ‘So where is the beautiful Princess Lara tonight?’
‘Excruciating headache.’
‘I’ve had my share of those – at the right times.’
That comment made Dimitri laugh. She was a witty American woman, something he didn’t think existed.
‘Well, congratulations – Dimitri. I’ll be sure to be at the opening concert,’ Mrs King said as she waved and disappeared into the crowd.
An hour went by and the rotunda was emptying. Because of the freezing cold, people went outside when their sleighs pulled up. The drivers laid hot-water bottles on their laps topped with thick sable blankets and off they went, the horses’ bells jingling.
Except for the caretaker of the IARA building, Dimitri was the last person to get his coat. As he was bundling up, Mrs King stepped from behind one of the marble columns that lined the rotunda. She wore a full-length black sable coat with a matching hat.
‘Dimitri, do me the honor of letting me buy you a drink at my hotel. We can go in my sled,’ she said jovially.
Dimitri had expected to have the drink in the lobby bar of the Hotel Metropol, but he now found himself alone in Mrs King’s spacious suite. She handed him a tumbler of vodka.
‘You are what we girls in Alabama call one swell-lookin’ fella,’ said Mrs King, raising her glass to him.
‘Thanks, very kind of you to say, Kate. You’re from Alabama?’
‘I’m a real southern belle, honey-pie, didn’t you notice my accent?’
‘Yes, it had an odd sound. Nothing like the Tsar’s Oxford-accented English.’
Mrs King smiled and took no offense at this remark.
‘I know someone from Alabama,’ announced Dimitri proudly. ‘Works in the palace.’
Mrs King crinkled her brow in interest.
‘Jim’s his name. He’s one of the Tsar’s “Abyssinians” who open the doors of the Imperial private apartments.’
Mrs King let out a hoot. ‘Well, I’d like to meet a fella from back home. I haven’t been back to Birmingham in years. We’d have a lot to talk about.’
‘In February, he’s going home for a visit.’
‘Imagine that – a for-real Alabaman right here in St Petersburg.’
‘If you’re going to be presented to the Emperor and Empress, you might as well kill two birds with one stone and meet Jim.’
‘Yes, I’ll do that.’
After downing another full glass of vodka, Mrs King was standing right against Dimitri. He looked at the clock on the fireplace mantel; he wanted to leave to catch Katya when she finished her shift. He was feeling sky-high after his success tonight and wanted to tell her about it after they made love.
‘Why don’t we settle down on the sofa, Your Handsome Highness?’ Mrs King purred. She hung on to his arm, tugging on it to get him to sit down.
‘I really must be going, Kate.’
‘Oh, come on, it’s early. I thought you princes stayed up ’til the early hours of the morning,’ Mrs King said in a seductive voice. She wrapped her arms around his torso.
‘Sometimes, we do, but I have an early appointment, tomorrow,’ Dimitri replied earnestly. He tried to step out of her grasp, but she wouldn’t let go.
‘Ah, please stay a bit longer. Let me get you another drink.’
‘No, I haven’t finished the first one. Really, Kate, I must go.’
‘You wicked boy. Princess Cantacuzené told me you stayed up late with her.’
‘Well, that was a while back and …’
Mrs King interrupted him by planting a kiss full on his lips. He spread his arms out like an eagle and started inching toward the door.
‘You are one damn handsome man,’ Mrs King said in a slurred voice. She turned to fetch herself another drink. It was Dimitri’s opportunity to escape. When sh
e turned to him, he was at the door.
‘Hey, handsome. Where the hell you going?’
‘Have to run, Kate,’ he said as he was going out the door. ‘I promise to call you when I get the chance.’
Out in the corridor, he thought he heard a glass smash against the inside of the door.
THIRTY-THREE
Dimitri and the Tsar had just returned from the theater to the Winter Palace to have some late-night refreshments. Jim opened the door for them to the Tsar’s study.
‘Zemikov has such a magnificent voice,’ Dimitri said.
‘I love Rusalka,’ Nicholas replied enthusiastically.
As they were taking their coats off, an officer came in and handed the Tsar a telegram. Nicholas went pale while reading it.
‘The Japanese have attacked the squadron at Port Arthur. They’ve sunk three ships.’
Nicky handed the telegram to Dimitri. It was from Admiral Alexeiev, Commander-in-Chief in the Far East.
‘All this, without a declaration of war,’ said the astonished Tsar. ‘May God come to our aid.’
The next morning, thousands of people filled the streets of St Petersburg, calling out for Russia’s swift victory over the Japanese, the ‘Yellow Peril.’ Carrying banners and singing ‘God Save the Tsar,’ patriotic crowds marched to the Winter Palace. When the Tsar went to a window and saluted, they went mad with joy. The rejoicing continued for the rest of the day.
But the Tsar had told Dimitri something that the jubilant crowds didn’t know. The Japanese had the Russian fleet completely bottled up by laying mines across the mouth of Port Arthur’s harbor. They seemed to know exactly where every ship was moored and launched attacks with torpedo boats. The Japanese set their sights on Port Arthur itself and laid siege with huge eleven-inch cannons. They knew where every fortified position was located, their infantry overwhelmed one spot after another. But the Russian army bravely fought back and held the city. Although Nicholas was quite shaken by the attack, his generals reassured him that everything would be fine. General Teplitski told the Tsar that ‘To take the people’s mind off revolution, we need a small, victorious war.’
The Fabergé Secret Page 18