The Witches of St. Petersburg

by Imogen Edwards-Jones

  “He’s not so bad,” Militza heard herself lying to her sister. “He’s a good match.”

  “How can you say that? He is sixteen years older than me, he has been married before, and—”

  “And he’s been handpicked by Papa.”

  “I’ve only known him for four weeks. Four weeks! His eyes are cold and his heart is even colder. Oh, God! Why didn’t Papa choose someone else?”

  “He has his reasons—and he expects both of us to do our duty.” Militza stroked her sister’s damp hair, trying to placate her. But it was no use.

  “I want to marry for love!” she exclaimed, collapsing back on her bed and staring up at the ornate ceiling of the Grand Palace.

  The floral gilt border shone in the early-morning sun, the crystal chandelier glittering and swinging a little in the breeze. The opulence and splendor of their surroundings was completely overwhelming.

  Militza laughed—she couldn’t believe what her sister had just said. “Don’t be so naive, Stana! Women like us don’t marry for love.”

  How typical of Anastasia! Even when the sisters were growing up in their father’s court in Cetinje, Montenegro, running along the narrow corridors of their cozy little palace with its russet walls and white shutters, Anastasia had been the romantic, the one who believed the fairy tales their mother told. She’d listen, wide-eyed, sitting on her knee playing with wooden poppets and planning her own wedding. She’d always fantasized, had always thought, always known, that one day her prince would come. Out of all the sisters—and there were nine of them at the last count—Anastasia was the dreamer, the romantic. Even the Montenegrin belief that daughters were a misfortune seemed to pass her by. She ignored her parents’ endless conversations about money and about the dearth of suitors, she was impervious to their father building a nunnery on the shores of Lake Skadar in case he needed to house his ever-growing cabal of useless daughters—and she was deaf to her mother’s schemes and plans as to how to rid themselves of so many costly women.

  So, when the two sisters were invited to St. Petersburg, at the behest of Tsar Alexander III, Stana was the first to be thrilled, the first to be excited, giddy with the idea of the clothes, the parties, the whirl, and unlike Militza, she was the last to realize the plan.

  “Women like us marry for money,” Militza reminded her sister. “We marry for position, security, and status, and as we have none—”

  “But we are princesses!”

  “Of a feudal backwater, with barely an army to call its own.”

  Stana looked shocked.

  “We both know that is true,” continued Militza, “and so we have to take what we are given, take whom our father chooses, which will always be whomever he deems useful, who can advance him and our country. And our job? Our job is to produce children. Sons. We’re a couple of broodmares! That’s why the tsar invited us here. We’ve been told as much.”

  “A broodmare . . .” She sighed.

  “You’re almost twenty-one, Stana! You are not young anymore. You can’t have little-girl fantasies of a handsome prince rescuing you from your fate.”

  “So we’re to be sold off for thirty pieces of silver!”

  “A little more than that, I hope!” Militza laughed. Her sister did not. “We do not have a choice,” Militza conceded quietly.

  “A life without choice”—Stana stared at her sister and slowly shook her head—“is no life at all.”

  “It’s our duty.”

  “Duty to whom?”

  “Our father, our country.” She paused. “Honestly, it is not so bad. And you hope, you pray, that eventually, over time, you can grow to love your husband.”

  “Do you love your husband?” asked Stana, sitting up.

  Militza smiled. “It hasn’t been long.”

  In fact, it was just four weeks since she herself had been a bride. Her marriage had also been arranged by her father and the tsar. She’d even sat next to Alexander III as he toasted the union between her and her husband, his cousin Grand Duke Peter Nikolayevich.

  “I drink to the health of the only sincere and faithful friend of Russia,” Alexander had said before placing the golden goblet to his lips. There had been no mention of happiness, or joy, or love of any kind. That’s not to say that Peter was not charming—he most certainly was—but the real reason behind the union did not go unnoticed by newspapers.

  “It would be unwise to ignore the tender feelings which prompted this celebration,” said one. “But it would be foolish not to recognize all the great national and political reasons, which have joined together, in friendship and family ties, the mighty Royal House of the Romanovs of Russia and the modest court of Montenegro.”

  “The modest court of Montenegro . . .” Militza smiled ruefully. That phrase had made her father furious, incandescent. She turned to stare out of the window at the manicured gardens below. It was such a beautiful day. The morning sky was fresh and cloudless, perfect for a wedding; the fountains at Peterhof were sparkling like decadent glasses of fizzing champagne, and a warm wind was blowing off the Gulf of Finland. She and Stana were young and beautiful; they should both be so happy.

  So why did she feel the desperate sickness of foreboding in her throat and the tight knot of dread deep in the pit of her stomach?

  Militza dared not look Stana in the eye. What could she tell her? She was supposed to be the strong one, the cleverest of all the children, fluent in Persian, Russian, and French, as well as all the languages of her motherland. She was the one who had the sensible head, the clear vision. Zorka, the eldest, might well be able to predict earthquakes, and their mother could tell the sex of unborn babies, but it was she, Militza, who had the real power, the one who could really see things. She was the one who spoke to Spirit, the one who was headstrong, who had an answer for everything. She was known in her family as a reader of runes and oracles, a sibyl who always found it hard to curb her tongue, so why was she so quiet now? What was she to say? That Stana had no choice but to accept this widower duke as her husband? That marriage was lonely? That she herself was struggling to find happiness? That the wedding night was something you just had to get through?

  And she knew her husband, Peter, and he also knew where she had come from. He had toured Montenegro with her, witnessed the toasting and fireworks that greeted their engagement. He’d sailed down the Croatian coast in his beautiful white yacht to stay with her family in Cetinje, had seen their unprepossessing palace, its narrow corridors and wooden shutters; he had walked through their scrub of a garden without so much as a fountain, or a manicured lawn, and they’d traveled back to Russia together to be married.

  But Stana, poor Stana, had not been so fortunate. She had met her soon-to-be husband just four weeks before, their father selecting him from the shallow pool of eligible suitors at Militza’s wedding. Quite what made the widower, with a motherless seven-year-old son, stand out for their father, neither of them knew.

  All Militza knew was there was to be no celebratory cannon fire on Stana’s wedding day, no party at the tsar’s palace. In fact, neither the tsar nor even their father was going to attend. It was as if Nikola could not wait to give Stana away, at any price.

  Militza sighed. What were they doing here, two sisters so far from home? How could their father have done this? She couldn’t help but think how cruel it was to be born a woman, how cruel it was to be powerless and unable to decide one’s own fate. However, she said nothing, did nothing, except continue to stare out the window and try to quell her own misgivings.

  IT TOOK STANA HALF AN HOUR TO COMPOSE HERSELF ENOUGH to sip her tea. She had it strong and sweetened with a little cherry jam dipped in on a silver teaspoon. The maid had delivered a plate piled high with warm blini with soured cream and honey, but neither of them could stomach anything.

  “You’re right,” Stana declared flatly as she licked the jam off her spoon. “There is nothing else to be done. I have no choice. It is either George—”

  “Or the nunnery
on Lake Skadar.”

  They looked at each other. It should have been a funny joke: it was something they’d laughed about as children, that they’d end up in the nunnery their father was building. Militza had often declared, in lofty tones, that she was looking forward to a life of learning without distraction. But the older they became and the steeper and thicker the convent’s walls grew, the more terrifying a reality it was. How could their father truly think this was a good solution to the problem of having so many daughters? Anything, anywhere, anyone—even George—would be better than the nunnery on Lake Skadar.

  Militza leaned over and took the spoon out of her sister’s mouth. “Don’t do that. We are not at home anymore.”

  “Don’t I know it! I hate this place! The Grand Palace!” She snorted. “It’s like a cage!” Stana leapt out of her chair and walked towards the large open windows. “Why does it have to be him?” She turned back towards Militza with her large, imploring eyes. “Why does it have to be now? I know people are talking. I hear them whisper. I feel them stare. What is that stupid saying of theirs? ‘An uninvited guest is worse than a Tatar’? Well, that’s us. A couple of uninvited Tatars. They don’t like us. They disdain us.” Her pretty lips curled. “I’m scared. I’m scared of these big, cold palaces. I’m scared of the people who live here—and most of all I’m scared of my husband. He doesn’t love me, I know he doesn’t. He can barely look me in the eye.”

  “He proposed to you and that’s all that matters.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “I don’t know what else to say.”

  The sisters sat in silence and drank their tea. The only noise was the scraping of Stana’s spoon as she stirred more jam around her cup.

  “I just wish Mother were here,” said Stana, suddenly putting down her cup and pulling her knees up under her chin. “Both Mother and Papa came to your wedding.”

  “You will be fine.” Militza squeezed her hand.

  “I miss our little palace.”

  Militza looked out through the large open window to the beautifully manicured lawns beyond. “So do I.” She added swiftly, turning back to her sister, “You will be fine. You are not alone. You have me to look after you.”

  “You?” Stana’s eyes filled again with tears. “What can you do?”

  “I will look after you.”

  “Please . . . I am not sure I can do it without you. You’ve always been the strong one, the clever one—the one everyone looked up to.” She grabbed hold of her sister’s shoulders and gripped them tightly. “Promise you’ll make it all right? Promise!”

  Her grip was strong, her pain evident. Militza looked deep into her sister’s black eyes. Perhaps it was guilt that fate had dealt her the better hand, perhaps it was instinct, the older sibling’s duty to look after the other, or perhaps it was just the raw vision of her sister’s shattered heart, but Militza did not pause. She did not waver. “I promise,” she whispered. “Cross my heart.” She hooked a strand of hair behind her sister’s ear before cupping her chin. “Together, we can do anything,” she said softly, then kissed Stana’s cheek.

  Years later, Militza remembered, then and there, that with one small kiss, she had sealed both their fates. Forever after she was obliged to help her sister, to come to her rescue. She’d promised. She’d crossed her heart. There was nothing more to discuss.

  “Smile,” she said. “You’re getting married.”

  THE WEDDING WAS AT 3 P.M. AND STANA HAD MUCH TO DO. AS was traditional, her dress was in the style of the court. Made of white silk, it was embroidered with silver thread, pearls, and a scattering of diamonds around the neck that took her over an hour to put on. Her fine lace stockings were difficult to fit in the heat, and her new lady’s maid, Natalya, took an age tugging them over Stana’s knees. The lace underskirts were fitted next, to give the dress volume, followed by the starched petticoats. A wider dress, made of silver and silk, was layered over the top. The inverted V at the front allowed the other skirt of finer silver tissue to peek through. Due to the late-summer heat and humidity, instead of a more usual heavy velvet train, Stana had opted for a simple mantilla and veil of delicate handmade Chantilly lace. It was attached to a diamond-and-pearl tiara, her wedding present from the tsar. Fortunately, Monsieur Delacroix was on hand to make sure her coiffure was perfect. A corpulent fellow with a florid complexion and a long, waxed mustache, he arrived amid much flamboyant fanfare, accompanied by a phalanx of flunkies and a fug of lavender. Monsieur Delacroix had been court hairdresser for so long he knew more secrets than the police, more gossip than the servants, but most especially he knew about nervous brides and he never traveled anywhere without a chilled bottle of Roederer champagne. His energy, and indeed alcohol, went a little way to lightening the mood.

  “So, have you heard the Grand Duchess Vladimir is pregnant?” declared Monsieur Delacroix, combing Stana’s hair. “That’s number four or five.”

  “How fortunate,” replied Militza, sipping her champagne.

  “That’s a lot of babies,” commented Stana, staring into the mirror.

  “All that money and all those children—and still no nearer to the throne!” He laughed into his round chest. “You know when the tsar was in that railway accident at Borki in the Ukraine last year? When twenty-one people died?” He turned the heat up on his curling tongs. “Rumor has it that neither she nor her husband returned to Russia, or even asked about his older brother’s health. They were sitting in France with their fingers crossed, spitting at the devil, hoping against hope the tsar and all his children would be wiped out and they’d inherit the throne! Ouch!” he said, burning his index finger on the hot brass as he pulled a set of tongs out of the gas-fired heater. “I don’t think the tsar has forgiven him. It’ll be you soon,” he joked, pausing midcomb and nodding towards Stana’s slim belly.

  “Me? What?”

  “Lots of boys, that’s what every wife needs.” Stana blushed. Noticing the bride’s evident discomfort, Delacroix continued swiftly, “The Grand Duchess Vladimir is sponsoring Cartier to open up here. She’s just ordered another kokoshnik tiara.” He rolled his small currant eyes and tweaked the end of his mustache. “Apparently, they are all going crazy trying to source the diamonds, scouring Siberia! Not that anything can rival her Vladimir Tiara, the one she was given when she got married. That’s got more pearls than the Indian Ocean. I think she wants more stones than the Yusupovs, but no one can compete with them.”

  He worked meticulously to smooth Stana’s hair into the two traditional fat ringlets that he placed hanging down over each shoulder. After he had brushed each curl, he then sprayed her hair with a mist of violet cologne from Guerlain in Paris. Finally, he picked up the diamond tiara with the flats of his palms and, careful not to dirty it with his sweat, set it gingerly in place.

  “There!” he said, deftly wielding a small silver hand mirror. “Perfect.”

  Stana got out of her seat and turned to look at herself in a full-length mirror. The tiara, the French lace veil, the silver dress, her dark hair all curled and smooth—she barely recognized herself. She looked ethereal, a princess from a different time and place. She looked across at her sister, whose eyes were full of tears.

  “You look beautiful,” Militza whispered.

  There was a knock at the door, and Brana, the elderly nursemaid the sisters had insisted on bringing with them from Montenegro, shuffled in. Hunched, dressed in a loose knitted shawl, with her thick gray hair plaited across the top of her head, she was an unusual sight in these rarefied surroundings. The refined Monsieur Delacroix took a step back; even Natalya, the maid, left her mouth open. From the coastal city of Ulcinj, one of the pirate capitals of the Adriatic, Brana had been with the girls since their birth and had looked after their mother, Milena, before them.

  “Since your mama is not here . . . roses,” she said, holding out the tightly bound bridal bouquet. She spoke in Albanian. The hairdresser and the maid were at a loss to understand. “And myrtle,
” she added, with wide, toothless smile. “The height of fashion since Queen Victoria’s wedding, or so I am told.”

  “Oh, Brana! Thank you!” Stana bent down to hug and kiss her fleshless cheek. “You always think of everything!”

  Stana returned to the mirror. The bouquet was the finishing touch. Her heart stopped. The wedding was suddenly real, and she felt sick to the pit of her stomach.

  “It’ll be all right.” She spoke softly to her own reflection, her mouth dry with nerves.

  “Be a brave girl now,” said Brana, smiling at Stana. “Your mother,” she continued, rooting around in a pocket in her skirts, “was engaged at six, married at thirteen, when she was not yet a woman. It took her a full four years to produce. And look at her now . . .” She smiled. “Eleven children.” She handed a small blue bottle to Militza. “And another one on the way.”

  “Open your mouth,” demanded Militza, taking a step towards her sister.

  “What is it?” asked Stana, doing just as she was told.

  “Laudanum.” Militza squeezed the top of the glass pipette. “A few drops of bitterness and then you won’t feel a thing.”

  IT WAS AROUND TWO THIRTY WHEN THEY SET OFF FROM Peterhof towards the Sergeyevsko Estate in an open carriage pulled by six bay horses and festooned with white roses. Militza traveled with her sister, as did a substantial guard of honor all dressed in their immaculate scarlet uniforms. Arriving at the white marble church at exactly 3 P.M., they were met by throngs of newsmen and the official court photographer, as well as crowds of excited onlookers who had gathered from all the nearby estates.

  “God help me,” mumbled Stana, turning her glazed eyes on the crowds and then back towards her sister. “God help us.”

  The carriage drew to a halt and the crowd fell silent. In attendance were some six grand dukes dressed in full-plumed military splendor, their golden buttons and epaulets glinting in the strong afternoon sun. At six feet, seven inches, Nikolai Nikolayevich, Militza’s recently acquired brother-in-law, certainly stood out from the crowd. His straight nose, intelligent, sharp blue eyes, and elegantly waxed mustache made him a welcome sight in the sea of unfamiliar faces. He smiled encouragingly at the approaching bride.