The Tsarina's Daughter

by Ellen Alpsten

  ‘Don’t you dare, Lizenka. The day you stop calling me Petrushka, I’ll die!’ His smile blazed in his face. His cheeks had filled out – no one dared refuse him food any more. ‘Now I am truly the captain of a boat.’

  ‘And what a boat it is! The proudest frigate one could imagine, if not a whole Imperial fleet.’ I mimicked a sailor standing to attention on the deck of a ship, my fingers held to my temple. ‘Welcome aboard, Captain Petrushka!’

  He was flattered. ‘It is so good to see you. The business of state has kept me away for too long. Awful what happened with Augustus, though God’s ways are unfathomable. Also, your loss is Russia’s gain – and mine.’ He handed Molniya to d’Acosta. The dwarf held her at a safe distance – if she opened her wings, she could topple him. ‘Isn’t she just the finest bird? Are you sure you can part with her?’ Petrushka asked.

  ‘If she is the finest bird, then she is just about good enough for my Tsar.’

  The answer pleased him. ‘Let us share her then. I want to share everything with you. It has been far too long since we met. How about a hunt tomorrow? It is the best season. Pick your horse. I will have everything prepared. Do you like chilled caviar and cool Sauternes for a picnic? Who else should come? Nobody boring, please.’ He bubbled over with pleasure in his new freedom, making up for all the years spent lingering in the shadows, longing for light and love. It had indeed been far too long since we had seen each other, and I was glad that I had made the approach to him.

  Petrushka’s cheeks were flushed when he turned to speak to his godfather. ‘Dolgoruky, you hang in the saddle worse than a wet sack of stones – and more unbearable than anything, you constantly waffle on about methods of ruling Russia. Stay behind. But do send your daughter Katja in your place.’ He smiled at the beautiful girl standing on the threshold, who curtsied to him. Her large blue eyes contrasted with her raven hair and milky skin. She reminded me of Anoushka. I could not help but notice her rich gown and the strings of pearls in her thick braids. Betting on Petrushka had paid off for the Dolgorukys. Her father bowed smugly, happy to see his child so close to the young Tsar, who said, ‘Katja, do ride with us before you leave for Vienna with your handsome husband-to-be.’ Petrushka rolled his eyes. ‘Katja is actually in love with her betrothed. How indecent is that? Count Melissimo is said to be the most handsome man who ever walked the earth. May I be godfather to your children?’

  Katja blushed. Lucky thing! How did that ugly crook Alexis Dolgoruky father such a stunning beauty? Better not ask. She would be a welcome addition to any court.

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Let us have a real Russian hunt for Katja, something to take with her in her heart when she leaves us. When is the wedding to be?’

  ‘Sometime early next year, after His Majesty’s Coronation in January,’ she gushed, and then said to me: ‘My fiancé is a diplomat in the service of the Emperor of Austria, our Tsar’s uncle. I shall follow wherever his duty takes him.’

  ‘Who else should we ask to join the hunt?’ Petrushka asked.

  ‘How about Maria?’ My voice was innocent.

  Petrushka looked at a loss. ‘Maria? Which Maria?’

  I feigned surprise. ‘Your fiancée. Maria Menshikova.’

  ‘Oh, her.’ There was a moment of silence before he cupped his mouth like a naughty boy, his eyes twinkling, and shrugged. We both giggled helplessly, the Dolgorukys quickly joining in our mirth. D’Acosta wobbled around the room, copying Maria Menshikova’s heavy gait, still holding Molniya at a distance. ‘Stop,’ I begged, doubled over with laughter. Petrushka, too, had a coughing fit and gasped between giggles: ‘Enough! Maria Menshikova is coming nowhere near me if I can help it. Why take that old crow when I prefer the world’s sweetest nightingale?’ He gallantly kissed my fingers, but then wondered: ‘Can I do that? I mean, leave her behind?’

  ‘The Tsar can do whatever he wishes,’ I said. ‘If only your father were here to see you, Petrushka – strong and in command. Alexey would be so proud.’

  How strange it felt to be able to say my half-brother’s name without fear of reprisal!

  Petrushka turned sombre. ‘Yes, if only. Thank you for your kind words,’ he said, kissing my fingers. ‘Oh, and of course Buturlin has to join the hunt.’

  Buturlin! My heart leaped when I heard his name. His dare-devil approach to things, his wicked sense of humour and dark good looks, were suddenly all too present. My cheeks burned: I still mourned Augustus and remembered with regret his lost tenderness as much as our passion, which had just begun to blossom.

  ‘Buturlin!’ Petrushka called. ‘Where is the rascal? Never mind. I’ll surely find him in your kitchens, seducing maids.’ He still held my hand. ‘After all, I owe him, don’t I? Who but he would have dared to bring me Molniya?’ He winked at me. ‘Our beautiful bird gave me the perfect excuse to come and see you. Long may she fly. The Tsar has to thank his aunt for her generosity.’

  ‘Indeed you do,’ I said coyly.

  As Petrushka and his retinue were leaving, d’Acosta hopped onto the back of one of the hounds but it snapped at him. The dwarf flick-flacked away, halting his somersaults while bent backwards in the doorway. Upside down, he gave me a grave, knowing look.

  ‘What is it, d’Acosta?’ I crossed my arms defiantly as his funny face twisted into a warm smile, and he straightened himself before bowing deeply to me.

  I stood alone. The light in the library turned mustard-coloured; the air thickened like the first Peterhof honey after the bees had gorged themselves on roses and lavender. Dusk seeped into my veins and I felt incredibly tired.

  A good sleep would prepare me for a strenuous day in the saddle tomorrow.

  42

  Winter was close: the sun turned into a dull copper coin in the heavy sky. St Petersburg gleamed in shades of mother-of-pearl. As promised, Lieutenant Semyon Mordvinov brought and took bundles of letters between Gottorf Castle and St Petersburg. Lestocq read Anoushka’s words to me, but even his funny French accent was unable to disguise the despair that tinged her words. Her pregnancy was advancing, she wrote, but the castle was cold and draughty. She feared the grey winter of the Northern German flatlands as well as the low skies, which promised buckets of rain. The castle’s cellars were filled with barrels of sauerkraut and she had to eat potatoes every day, without a sprinkle of salt or smetana as money was so tight; Karl had gambled away her dowry and the funds from Russia had ceased. Her German was heavily accented; the courtiers laughed at her clothes and manners. She signed off with, ‘Not a day passes without my weeping for you, my dear sister!’

  Lestocq just about prevented me from sending a ship to fetch her home there and then. ‘You cannot do this, Tsarevna. She is married. Her path is chosen. She will have to walk it to the end.’

  When he’d left, I felt lonelier than ever.

  I climbed the stairs. This evening the house seemed curiously quiet. The servants seemed to have vanished and the door to my room stood ajar. I hesitated. Light trickled through onto the dark landing. A footman must have been in. Flames crackled in the fireplace: a welcome surprise on a cool evening.

  I pushed the door open but halted on the threshold, my fingers searching for the high European handle. A man sat in one of the low armchairs by the fire, his hands folded, as if waiting patiently. His casually rolled-up white shirtsleeves showed tanned, strong arms, and his muscular legs were extended to display his soft beige kidskin breeches and shiny boots. The flames’ flickering light chiselled his cheekbones and glinted in his dark eyes. He wore a slight smile and the black hair ruffled around his high forehead made him look devilish: or devilishly handsome. ‘Buturlin,’ I said, trying to sound aloof. I slowly closed the door, leaning against it and folding my arms behind my back as he came towards me: a hunter, closing in on the prey he had stalked for a long time.

  If Petrushka owed him, Buturlin knew all too well how to collect any other outstanding debts: his lips searched mine. His kiss was deliciously tender. I made no move, though ever
y bit of me veered towards him. He was a soldier – it should not be made too easy for him. His kisses grew deeper, moving down my throat, sending jolts of pleasure through my body. I melted into him and drank in the scent of his skin, his hair, his clothes: a hint of autumn fire, leather, sandalwood and heavy musk. He cupped my bosom, weighing it hungrily. ‘I knew it. Tits like a milkmaid!’ I wanted him so much; him and to regain that feeling of life and lust to which Augustus had introduced me. What good had it done the two of us to wait?

  I tore at Buturlin’s shirt, unlacing it at the collar, raking the dark curly hair on his broad chest with my fingers. His hands moved down, lifting my skirts in a soft, silky rustle. He brushed his hand over my stockings before his fingertips slipped into my moisture, brief and brazen. I arched with pleasure then gasped: ‘No. I mean – I have never—’

  He hesitated, amazed. ‘Did you and your little German prince not make love?’

  I shook my head, my cheeks burning.

  ‘What a fool that poor man was.’ He smiled and held his fingers up to the candlelight: they glistened with my lust.

  ‘Look.’ He slowly licked the tip of one; a gesture as plain as it was arousing. ‘I came to take you as I would a chambermaid. But now I would rather make love to my beautiful virgin princess. Come. You are shivering.’ He lifted me up and carried me over to the fireplace where he kneeled down on a bearskin as white and soft as powdery snow. ‘Open your legs wide,’ he whispered and I obeyed. Slowly, carefully, he eased me onto him, kissing and caressing me as I slid astride his hips. I gasped at the sudden, sharp pain when he made his way into me, gentle but determined. ‘Shhh!’ He covered my mouth with his, kissing me and nibbling my lips as he pulled me deeper until we held still, our hearts racing, our eyes locking – it was like nothing I had felt before.

  ‘Move,’ he whispered.

  ‘I can’t,’ I gasped.

  ‘Let me help you.’ His hands cupped my buttocks, lifting me, and slowly I started to move. He laughed, breaking the tension. ‘See, you can, sweet Lizenka. Your face is like an angel’s and your arse like a cream-fed courtesan’s. Move slowly. Take your time. Enjoy it!’ His heavy-lidded eyes glinted as I obeyed once more. His hands first cupped my breasts then opened my thighs wider still. ‘The more you move, the better it is for you. But there is no hurry,’ he said, his mouth hot on mine while he pressed my wet openness to his root, caressing my secret spot while I felt him deep inside me. ‘Slowly,’ he whispered. ‘I am here for you.’

  I sobbed helplessly, lust building in me like a river rising against its dam while he slowed my movements, almost unbearably so, and then made me stop.

  ‘Feel me,’ he whispered.

  ‘Please,’ I begged, but Buturlin slipped his moist fingertip over me, as soft as a butterfly’s wing. Lightning flashed in my head. I shouted out as molten gold rushed through my veins, dousing my soul in a fiery shower. I arched my spine just as he let me slide backwards and lay on top of me, moving deeply and slowly, until we clung to each other, our hot breath mingling and our bodies melded. As I came back to earth, I slackened beneath him; his head rested on my shoulder. We clung to each other. My skin stuck to his; we were one, in spirit and soul, after riding a storm through the skies. After a moment, he forced me to look at him. It embarrassed me after what had just happened.

  ‘Why did Augustus and you not make love?’

  ‘We waited,’ I said, my voice strangled by emotion.

  ‘What for?’ He looked stunned.

  ‘The right time. When we were married.’

  He stroked my thick curls from my moist forehead, cupping my face. ‘Lizenka. This is Russia. The right time may never come. You, above all, should know this.’ As tears welled in my eyes, he rocked me as he would a child. ‘Shhh. Cry, little bird. Cry, Lizenka. I am here for you. Do not worry. I am indeed a fool for love, as Lestocq’s silly Tarot cards said. I love you, I always have, and I will speak on your behalf as long as I live.’

  His words made me cry even more; I cried for everything that had happened: my parents’ deaths, Menshikov’s betrayal, Augustus’ passing, Anoushka’s departure and the lack of love in her life for every day to come. And especially for what I had just experienced in Buturlin’s arms.

  43

  I existed only for the evenings when my lover flew up the stairs to my rooms, taking two steps at a time, already slipping out of his jacket, and loosening his jabot. Once, when he arrived unannounced, I was having a snack. The chai was laced with sugar, vodka and nutmeg; the maid had prepared a plate of fresh blintshiki, chilled caviar served in a bowl of mother-of-pearl, with accompaniments of chopped sweet red onions and boiled eggs as well as smetana. I did not rise as one of my cats lay purring on my lap but sleepily tilted back my head, eyeing my visitor from beneath heavy-lidded eyes. ‘You fall short on the promises you give, Buturlin. You might not mean to but… ’

  ‘But?’ he asked, rolling up his shirtsleeves.

  ‘… you promised to take me as if I were a chambermaid.’

  My heart pounded. What would he think of me for using these words? His face was blank and his gaze inscrutable. I held my breath as he came towards me; my insides dissolved when he kneeled before me, his eyes dark and mysterious in the twilight. He slowly lifted my skirts, his fingers making the silk of my stockings crackle. I briefly felt his nails on my thighs and suppressed a moan when he parted my legs without further ado. I panted and reeled at my own brazenness.

  He smiled, making me wait and long for his next move. ‘First, I want some caviar,’ he said. ‘And I will show you how I like to eat it.’ He pulled me forward, placing my calves on the arms of my delicate chair, licking my stockings and then kissing the soft, sensitive inside of my thighs, making me shiver with lust. Then, without warning, he licked me, once, twice, his tongue rasping like a cat’s. It made me arch my back, gasping. ‘Nice and salty,’ he murmured, ‘just like the sea this came from.’

  He reached for the caviar, a boyish grin spreading over his face.

  ‘You won’t,’ I gasped, biting my lips in suspense.

  ‘I will—’

  Petrushka set up countless hunts and excursions for us – the fact that Menshikov was unable to hide his anger about us keeping company heightened the young Tsar’s and my joy. We chased over vast fields of stubble as a chilly wind announced the first frost. Very soon it was time to surrender to the unyielding winter months and our horses cantered through an arshin of snow. Each hunt was punctuated by stops to ice-skate or toboggan before we arrived at the designated meeting place, where fires were burning high and velvet cushions and fur blankets piled up invitingly. I remember the onset of one night in particular; the smooth darkness spread above us like a velvet blanket, embroidered with golden stars. Peasants had joined us to greet their batjushka Tsar. Their simplicity and sincerity delighted us; they willingly shared the little they had. When I wanted to refuse a toothless old serf woman’s offer of a cold piece of set kasha, she scolded me, ‘Take it, Tsarevna. The more you give, the more shall be given to you. That is the rule we Russians live by.’ I ate the lumpy millet cake, chewing and almost choking, as she watched me, smiling and nodding, going hungry herself.

  These excursions made me forget all about the precariousness of my life. D’Acosta followed us on our hunts, riding a donkey out of the palace gates, and we endlessly teased beautiful Katja Dolgoruky for being so in love with her handsome fiancé, Count Melissimo, who was in Vienna, awaiting his new deployment. He would join Katja in Moscow for Petrushka’s Coronation in late January. Buturlin, who kept a respectful distance by day, was my master at night. Under his caresses, reality faded and dreams lit up the sombre hours afterwards. Just to meet his eyes when I mounted the saddle made me long for him again. His fingers brushed my ankle while adjusting the stirrups; the touch setting me aflame. When he tugged the glove over my hand, I yearned to be in his arms, impatient to discover what he would do to me, or what he would make me do.

  His imagination knew
no bounds.

  Darkness drew in earlier every day. When I lay in his arms after making love, he whispered as if even the shadows were spying on us: ‘We ought to be careful… ’

  ‘Careful of what?’ I drowsily asked, snuggling up to him.

  ‘Menshikov. And the Tsar. In this city, the walls have eyes and ears.’ My eyes fell shut before I could take in his warning, thought slipping from my mind like a thief in the night.

  We ought to be careful. But everything was as I had hoped: Petrushka ignored Menshikov’s wrath and avoided Ostermann’s lessons. He followed me around, appreciating my every joke, complimenting my wit and beauty; reaching out to help me from the saddle, his hands lingering longer than necessary on my waist; holding my hands and kissing my fingertips; begging me to return to court fully. I would not dare do that as long as Menshikov was powerful enough to strike me down. Instead, I bided my time and playfully pushed Petrushka away, as if he were still a puppy-like boy. I had forgotten that puppies grow into big, dangerous dogs: develop teeth that bite ferociously.

  If the next day never came, at least I had lived until this moment.

  Buturlin not only gave me my life back, but also the strength to face it.

  44

  Shortly before Yuletide, as the planning for his Coronation was in full swing, Petrushka fell ill with a choking cough and high fever. We were warned that he needed weeks to recover. Yet soon enough his condition worsened: he was wracked by spasms and breathed wheezily; his ribs showed underneath his skin. More than once, and then more and more often, he brought up blood in his phlegm. The sight scared me witless: I remembered the crimson-stained handkerchiefs that Mother pressed against her mouth in the last months of her life. Was my family diminishing further, carelessly plucked from life, like petals in a young girl’s game?