“Papa would be so proud,” Militza whispered in her sister’s ear.
“Help me,” Stana muttered listlessly in reply.
Stana stood up in the carriage and swooned slightly—the drugs, the weight of the dress, the heat of summer. Militza gasped, as did some members of the crowd. Stana gripped the side of the carriage to balance herself, her white hands shaking as she fumbled. Fortunately, Nikolai Nikolayevich was swift enough to catch Stana before she fell. He rushed forward, pushing aside a footman, slipping his hands firmly around her waist as her legs went from under her. He pulled her close to his chest, and her head fell against his shoulder; she shivered as she tried to control herself. Breathing in deeply, she could smell only the lemon sharpness of his cologne.
“Thank you.” Her lips parted in a dry smile. The smallest bead of sweat slithered down her temple.
“Your Highness,” he replied, holding her firmly at the elbows. “Do you need a glass of water?”
“No need.”
“A little air?”
Stana shook her head.
“Don’t worry,” he added, turning to address the anxious-looking Militza. “She just needs a moment. You go inside. I will look after her, I promise.”
Militza hesitated—she was late, she should go inside the church—but . . . She looked at him again.
“I promise,” he said again, holding Stana a little more closely to his chest. “Go.”
Militza nodded and turned. As soon as she walked through the open doors, the sweet, sickly odor of incense and lilies filled the air. It smelled more like a funeral than a wedding. Lit by the glow of a thousand candles, the cream of St. Petersburg society were lined up, decked out in their finery, and as they jockeyed for the best position, their diamonds, emeralds, rubies, pearls, gold, and silver silks all coruscated like a basket of wet vipers writhing in the sun. Militza was momentarily blinded by the opulence and gripped her fan all the more tightly as she walked through the church. She heard the conversation dip and felt the glare of a hundred pairs of eyes. Dressed in a yellow silk dress, with a yellow diamond necklace and the small diamond tiara her husband had recently presented to her, she nervously scanned the church.
The first to approach her was the tsar’s sister, the Grand Duchess Maria Alexandrovna, who was married to Prince Alfred, Duke of Edinburgh, second son of Queen Victoria. Her diamond and Burmese ruby parure was impressive, yet her little round face was impassive and sagging with boredom.
She yawned gently. “So here we all are, again. Twice in four weeks.” She managed a pinched smile as she thrice kissed the air next to Militza’s cheeks. “What a horribly hot day.” She flapped her huge mother-of-pearl fan by way of a demonstration. “And my brother is not coming. He is in Denmark. Copenhagen. With Minny’s family,” she added with a little shake of her coronet. “A previous engagement.”
“Shame,” added Prince Alfred, who looked as weary as his wife as he surveyed the scene. “It makes it so much less of an occasion without the tsar.”
“And your father, the king of . . . ?” Maria Alexandrovna paused very pointedly, fiddling with her large ruby ring.
“The crown prince of Montenegro.” Militza could feel her cheeks beginning to flush with irritation. This was not the first time someone had pretended not to remember the name of her country. “He is unable to attend.”
“Your dear mother is not here either?” she remarked, her lips pursed, already knowing the answer.
“Sadly, my mother is confined.”
“What is it now—ten?” The grand duchess giggled. “Not even the old serfs had that many children!”
“Twelve,” replied Militza, her eyes finally alighting on the tall, slender frame of her husband. “Will you excuse me?”
She fled, weaving her way through the rustle of silk and glimmer of diamonds straight to his side.
“There you are!” He leaned over to kiss her. “Everything all right?” he whispered in her ear.
“I’ve given her a little something for her nerves.”
He stood and smiled at her. Dressed in an immaculately fitting red hussar’s uniform, with large gold epaulets that highlighted his broad shoulders, Peter had a glint in his gray eyes and a generous curl on his mustachioed lips; he was a charming, ebullient sort who always looked if he were about to tell the most excellent story.
“Good girl,” he replied, tapping the back of her hand. “I wish you’d spared a little for me!” he added, with a small sigh as he gazed across the church. “It’s quite a turnout. Difficult for a young girl. Well done, you.” He nodded, squeezing her hand. “I remember our wedding day,” he added.
“I should hope so!” Militza smiled. “It wasn’t that long ago.”
“Four weeks and five days.” He smiled. “That tiara suits you.”
“You chose well,” she replied.
“Thank you, my lady.” He bowed in jest. “I have an eye for beautiful things,” he declared, before turning to talk to the guests standing on his right.
“For the love of Christ!” hissed a rather beautiful woman as she bustled in front of Militza. Wearing an overly embroidered court dress trimmed with pearls, she had two heavy diamonds swinging from her earlobes and a substantial diamond-and-pearl tiara on her head. She exuded the ennui of entitlement. “I don’t know why we are here!”
“I agree,” mumbled her husband, stroking his thick mustache. “Who’s heard of a court wedding without the tsar?”
“Can you blame him? I only wish I too had managed to slip away to Denmark. It’s embarrassing. Such a dark little shrew of a girl. With no money! And from some god-awful backwater no one has ever heard of. What on earth is George doing? Couldn’t he get anything better? Montenegro, of all places. The streets are full of goats!”
“Have you heard they’ve even brought a crone with them?” added her husband. “A crone! I suppose they can’t afford a proper lady-in-waiting.”
Militza dug her sharp fingernails into the palms of her hands. How she wished her father had not forced both her and Stana to come here. Even the nunnery on Lake Skadar was preferable to this.
“Ah, Felix! Zinaida! Lovely to see you!” declared Peter, turning towards his wife and noticing the couple in front of her. “Militza, my darling,” he added, “have you met the Yusupovs? The most glamorous couple in all of Russia!”
Militza’s voice died in her throat as a hush came over the crowd and all eyes turned towards the entrance. Stana and Nikolai Nikolayevich stood in the doorway, the bright afternoon sunshine pouring in behind them. Thank goodness her sister had a little more color in her pale cheeks, but still Militza felt her chest tighten with nerves. Everyone stared. She looked back across the church towards the groom.
George Maximilianovich, 6th Duke of Leuchtenberg, stood dressed in his immaculate scarlet military uniform, complete with rows of gleaming medals and a bright turquoise sash, his back set firmly towards the door. Why doesn’t he turn around? she thought. Don’t all men turn around to watch their future wives enter the church? Militza looked back at her sister, who was holding so tightly to Nikolai Nikolayevich’s hand that her knuckles had turned white. Not that he appeared to notice, he was so intent on helping her down the aisle.
Just as Stana raised her head high to walk towards the priest, there was a commotion behind her. Everyone turned to witness the late arrival of the Grand Duchess Vladimir, Maria Pavlovna, and her portly husband, the heavily mustachioed Grand Duke Vladimir Alexandrovich, younger brother of the tsar. Amid much huffing, puffing, and fan waving, they followed the bride into the church and took up their place just inside the entrance. Militza stared. Loaded down with jewels, a necklace, a collier de chien, a devant de corsage, a tiara, brooches, and a sash, all made of sapphires and diamonds, the grand duchess sparkled with self-importance as her every facet caught the sun. Seemingly oblivious to the sensitivity of the moment, Maria Pavlovna smiled and nodded to the assembled company, overshadowing the arrival of the bride. She was not a woman
known for her tact—that much Militza knew. She filled her enormous palace with gamblers and ne’er-do-wells and was the epicenter of St. Petersburg society. No one could eat, dance, or entertain in the city without her say-so. However, even for the Grand Duchess Vladimir, such an entrance was more than a little vulgar.
“That woman just has to be the center of attention all the time,” Peter whispered into his wife’s ear. “Dreadful.”
More interestingly, thought Militza, watching Maria Pavlovna smile and nod and mouth little words, flapping her fan, Monsieur Delacroix’s gossip appeared to be well sourced. Maria Pavlovna’s normally angular face had filled out slightly, and her dress was not as tightly fitted as high fashion dictated. She was definitely with child.
The priest, Father Anthony, valiantly ignored the attempted interruption and continued to bless the rings. George and Stana exchanged their vows, he with significantly more volume than she. Yet Stana looked serene holding her candle and barely faltered as she leaned forward to kiss the icon. Even the tight-lipped Maria Alexandrovna managed to muster a small smile on her otherwise sour little face.
When the ceremony was over, George’s son, little Alexander Romonovsky, led the procession out of the church, holding the icon firmly in his young hands. He was clearly taking his responsibilities very seriously, for he bit his bottom lip all the way out of the church to Villa Sergievka and the reception itself.
And what a reception it was. One that few, if any, would ever forget.
Chapter 2
Later That Evening, Villa Sergievka, Peterhof
MILITZA WAS SITTING OPPOSITE HER WHEN IT HAPPENED. Why didn’t she notice? she asked herself all those years later. She of all people. She might have been able to do something. To have prevented what happened. Or, at the very least, made it better.
The party was in full swing; the feast—turtle soup, pirozhki, veal, turkey, duck in aspic, and ice cream, all served on heavy silver platters—had been cleared away, and a gypsy band was playing. Regulars at the hugely fashionable Cubat restaurant in St. Petersburg, they’d just “kidnapped” Stana, and the singers were going from table to table, their caps out, collecting money to pay her “ransom,” otherwise known as their fee for the night. The guitarists were working themselves up into a frenzy, and most of the guests were laughing, throwing rubles into the boys’ caps, clapping along in time to the music.
But Grand Duchess Vladimir was not. In fact, Maria Pavlovna was barely moving. She’d not spoken for a while, which was quite unlike her. Militza noticed she was turning pale despite the yellow candlelight and her mouth looked dry. Suddenly Maria Pavlovna turned, looked across the table, and let out a low, loud, bellowing moan. It sounded primal, as if it came from the very depths of her soul. She stood up with a lurch, gripping the table with both her hands, and the heavy diamond ropes on her devant de corsage swung forward and smashed two glasses. The red wine poured everywhere, a crimson stain seeping into the white linen cloth and trickling onto the parquet floor. She leaned forward against the table, using it for support, as she tried to breathe. She stared at Militza, panting through the silver candelabra, her eyes glassy, blind with pain. One of the servants, standing behind the grand duchess, covered his mouth in alarm. Peter, who was sitting next to her, stood up and pulled back her chair. The silk cushion on which she’d been sitting was sodden and black with blood. Those close to her recoiled. The gypsy band, however, carried on playing, and the guests farther up the table continued clapping, as the full magnitude of the situation took a while to sink in.
It was the Grand Duchess Elizabeth Fyodorovna, the tsar’s sister-in-law, not Militza, who was the first to react. Renowned for both her kindness and her beauty, she rushed over, pushing various guests and servants to one side, and grabbed hold of Maria Pavlovna by the shoulders.
“We need a doctor,” she declared, looking down at the floor. Her pretty face winced. “Right now!”
Finally, Militza forced her way through the crowd of guests, most of whom were rooted to the spot with shock. The amount of blood on the floor was distressing, and with every bellow and moan, more poured out from below Maria’s skirts. Elizabeth Fyodorovna snatched napkins and started to wet them in the silver water jug on the table to cool Maria’s brow. Maria’s face was now completely drained of color and covered in a film of sweat. Militza took hold of her hand. It felt cold. Maria looked up at her but didn’t appear to know who she was.
“You need to lie down.”
Elizabeth and Militza each took an arm. Holding Maria firmly by the elbow, they helped her through the party. The guests looked away as they passed. Only when they neared the band did the music finally stop.
The women reached the door in silence. Maria collapsed, and as Militza struggled to pull her upright, she turned back to see the horror-struck faces of the guests. Maria’s drenched skirts had dragged across the parquet floor, leaving a thick, wide trail of blood in their wake.
Just then Stana came racing back into her own party, her “ransom” having been paid, shouting, “I am back! I’m free!”
But where was the applause? Where were the rapturous cheers? Everyone in the room should be on their feet! The “ransom” had been paid; the band could play all night long.
But Stana had run into a room in shock, a room steeped in tragedy and covered in blood. It brought her up sharp, like being slapped in the face. Militza saw the terrified look in her sister’s eyes. Her wedding day would be forever marred by Maria Pavlovna’s terrible loss. Stana and Militza’s arrival in St. Petersburg society would be marked in blood. The fetal blood of an unborn baby.
“For God’s sake,” shouted Peter, stepping forward. “Someone call for a doctor!” He looked around the inert crowd and rushed out himself.
Elizabeth and Militza managed to escort Maria into the yellow drawing room. Within minutes there were servants with towels and jugs of warm water, but there was little that could be done.
The dead baby came about forty minutes after her exit from the party. Fortunately, a sturdy woman from the village with strong forearms was there to help. One of the servants had raised her from her bed and brought her to the palace while they waited for the doctor Peter had sent for to arrive. She’d helped deliver something like thirty babies in the village, and her experience proved invaluable. She dosed Maria with a strong liquor of brandy and herbs to dull the pain, which made the passing of the baby much easier. It was less than four months old—almost formed but red raw. The village woman immediately wrapped it up in a towel and took it away.
The second fetus was, of course, rather a shock for everyone in the room. They had all concluded the worst was over, so when Maria began panting again and arched her back before delivering a dreadful scream, they were completely taken off guard. They had no towel ready, and no one was prepared. The clot slapped noisily onto the parquet floor, spattering the village woman’s skirts and some of the silk chintz furniture. Fortunately, Maria herself was completely feverish, so she was spared the true realization of what was happening to her. She was moaning and rolling on the divan, and though her dress had been loosened, she was still fully clothed, for they had not had the time, or indeed the presence of mind, to remove it. She was propped up on some cushions, delirious with pain, covered in blood, but still wearing her magnificent tiara.
After the second child was delivered, the blood did not stop. They used sheets, rags, towels—anything they could find—to stem the flow, but the situation was becoming critical. When Dr. Sergei Andreyevich finally arrived, the Grand Duchess Vladimir was unconscious, her temperature high, and her condition very grave indeed. The loss of blood, the doctor concluded, was most definitely life-threatening. They just had to wait and see.
BY THE TIME MILITZA LEFT THE YELLOW DRAWING ROOM, THE reception was over and most of the guests had disappeared into the night. However, some were still seated in small groups in the grand dining hall, waiting for news. As she walked in, Stana leapt out of her chair and George stopped pacin
g the room. She could see a few other members of the court turn towards her.
“You’re covered in blood!” said Stana as she rushed towards her exhausted sister. Somehow her glorious coiffure, tiara, and silver dress looked completely incongruous after what Militza had just witnessed. “Is she all right? Will she live? Has she lost the baby?” Her questions came thick and fast. The rest of the room was quiet, dozens of pairs of eyes trained on Militza’s face.
“I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head slowly, wiping her bloodied hands down the front of her pale silk dress. “There were two babies. Twins.”
There was a small but audible gasp. Out of the corner of her eye a man collapsed into one of the dining chairs, head in his hands. It was Maria Pavlovna’s husband.
“Twins?” Stana repeated.
Grand Duke Vladimir Alexandrovich made a small whimpering noise, like a dog that’s been kicked by its master. He appeared to bite the back of his hand. No one moved. No one wanted to appear vulgar, crashing in on his private moment of grief. Eventually, Peter picked up a delicate crystal decanter of Armenian cognac and a small glass and walked slowly towards Vladimir Alexandrovich. He squeezed the man’s heavily brocaded shoulder, poured a drink, put down the decanter, and pushed the glass slowly towards him. Vladimir took the glass and, without saying a word, knocked the amber liquid back in one. He put the glass back down on the table. Peter refilled it and Vladimir drained it once more. Then, in one swift movement, Vladimir stood up from the table, sniffed deeply, smoothed down his thick, lengthy mustache, cleared his throat, and clicked his heels together.
“Gentlemen,” he said quietly before he nodded and left the room.
The remainder of the party took this as their cue to leave. With the husband gone, the idea of loitering in the hope of hearing any more news suddenly appeared a little unseemly. The two sisters, one dressed in silver, the other covered in blood, stood next to the door as the guests began to walk out into the warm, pale night and their carriages beyond. Some muttered “Thank you” under their breath as they left. But for others the recriminations had already begun. “It’s all their fault,” mumbled someone from behind their fan. “They shouldn’t have come here,” declared another. “It’s not a good omen for the wedding,” added another as she drifted past. “Did you notice they both smelled of goat?”
The Witches of St. Petersburg Page 3
