The Witches of St. Petersburg

by Imogen Edwards-Jones

  “Yes, she does,” came the reply. “Dr. Serge Ostrogorsky,” the man introduced himself.

  He was a small, earnest-looking fellow of little consequence, thought Militza, looking him swiftly up and down. His wife, on the other hand, was a ripe peach, pink and perfect and ready for plucking.

  “A doctor?” Rasputin flared his nostrils. “I have no time for doctors.”

  “I am honorary physician to the court,” Ostrogorsky retorted.

  “The court?” Rasputin snorted. “Tell me, Madame . . .”

  “Yes?” she asked, her pale eyes gleaming as she anxiously licked her lips. “I have been so desperate to meet you.” She spoke quickly. “I have heard so much about you. You are a great man,” she added. “A very great man. I am honored to be in your company.”

  “You are kind, your soul is kind. I can see you have a kind soul.”

  “A soul! I have never heard anything so foolish,” the doctor scoffed. “In all my autopsies I have never found a soul.”

  “Tell me, how many emotions, memories, or imaginations have you found after you have sliced and diced, dear doctor?” asked Rasputin. The man opened his mouth to reply, but Rasputin turned and looked at the pretty girl. “If you need to come and see me in my apartment, I will be happy to help.”

  “Thank you.” Ostrogorsky bowed his head, grabbed hold of his wife, and they both disappeared.

  “What a funny little couple,” said Stana, picking up a little candied fruit from the silver basket in front of her. “I wonder how they came to be here?”

  Maurice was still standing there, a little awkwardly, on his own.

  “I hear you have been visiting the palace?” he ventured.

  “You do?” replied Rasputin.

  “I hear you are a regular,” the ambassador continued.

  “Don’t believe all you hear, dear friend,” said Rasputin, pouring himself more brandy.

  “I hear you go to give them spiritual counsel.” The Frenchman smiled. “Which must be very gratefully received in these dark times. One can only imagine how it must feel, being the only beacon of hope in such a storm.”

  “I have been there to pray and to help, to offer guidance, succor to their souls,” Rasputin finally conceded, flattered by the ambassador’s suggestion. “A few times,” he added for good measure.

  “I knew it.” The ambassador nodded rapidly, his little eyes shining.

  “But never on his own,” chipped in Militza.

  “Oh, no.” Rasputin smiled in agreement. “Never on my own.”

  Chapter 23

  October 7, 1906, St. Petersburg

  IT WAS RARE FOR MILITZA TO RECEIVE AN INVITATION TO call at the Vladimir Palace on the Palace Embankment. She’d attended parties there, of course, but an invitation to call was different. It was intimate, private, and suggested friendship. Militza could not help wondering what Maria Pavlovna’s motive might have been.

  “Perhaps it is some form of rapprochement?” suggested Peter over breakfast, pouring himself coffee, dressed in his navy silk dressing gown.

  “I wouldn’t have thought so—you know how much she has always disliked me.”

  Militza looked at her husband; at forty-two he was still neat and dapper with his broad shoulders and slim figure, his hair swept off his face, his gray eyes alert and mischievous.

  “Perhaps, after all these years, Maria is keen to bury the hatchet,” he continued over his newspaper. “Nikolasha says she is desperate to get back into favor. Now that the succession has been secured, she can’t afford to be so grand, he says. And these days you—let’s face it—are significantly more important than she is.”

  But Militza was not so naive. Women like Maria never really changed, and no matter how powerful she and her sister had become, to Maria, they would always be daughters of a goatherd smelling of goat. A fact she continually liked to remind them of. However, her barbs were a little subtler these days. A small question as to whether there were any roads yet in Montenegro, or if their father’s desire to open a few schools had come off yet. How was the new currency going? Had they recently been home to their dear little country?

  So it was with a certain amount of trepidation that Militza stood in front of the giant gray granite palace, staring at the absurd griffin door-knockers, waiting for someone to open the door. She glanced across the Neva at the Peter and Paul Fortress glistening in the late-afternoon sun. The Vladimirs, with their 360-room palace, their extensive river frontage and Venetian gondola, really did have one of the best spots in the city. A footman, dressed in their signature green-and-gold livery, eventually opened the door, and Militza managed a smile as she walked into the hall towards the gilt-and-marble French Renaissance–style staircase. Her plan was to play her cards close to her chest and get in and out of the afternoon tea party, giving away as little information as possible.

  “How charming to see you!” exclaimed Maria as she entered the private drawing room on the second floor at the western end.

  Unlike the less-imitate Raspberry Parlor, where she was the only grand duchess to entertain divorcées, her private drawing room was decorated in the Louis XVI style. The walls were covered in blue and white silk, with a matching blue carpet, and the room had amazing views over the river.

  “It is very kind of you to invite me,” replied Militza, walking over to the window. “Delightful.”

  “Isn’t it? I never tire of looking at those boats or the fortress,” Maria said, smiling. “It has to be one of the more sublime views in St. Petersburg.” She exhaled, as if overcome by her appreciation of her own vista, before pausing and then adding, “Have you met Anna Alexandrovna Taneyeva?”

  Militza had not noticed the young, round woman sitting on the sofa. She had fleshy cheeks, simple eyes, and plump little fingers that clutched her handbag tightly.

  “She’s one of tsarina’s new ladies-in-waiting,” added Maria.

  “I have actually been at the palace a few months now,” replied Anna, with a small smile.

  “Yes, I think I have seen you.” Militza looked her up and down. The woman looked benign enough, but Militza wasn’t someone to rely on appearances alone. “Although I don’t think we have actually been introduced.”

  “No,” said Anna.

  “Anna’s father is a composer of some note,” said Maria. “And her family are friends of the Yusupovs.”

  “The young Felix, Nikolai, and I are childhood friends. Although I don’t see very much of them anymore. They are often abroad.”

  “I hear Felix might be going to Oxford University,” said Maria.

  “I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Anna said. “Although I do remember dressing up with him a lot. He was such a pretty boy.”

  Maria laughed lightly. “Zinaida was so desperate for a girl she used to dress him up in girl’s clothes!” She laughed again. “Tea?”

  “Thank you,” Militza replied.

  Maria rang a little bell, and the three of them sat and waited.

  “So, how are you?” Maria eventually asked Militza. “And how are your children?”

  “Marina is fifteen now and at the Smolny Institute, and Nadezhda, who is eight, is to start next year. Roman is a handful, but then he is ten.”

  “Wasn’t he unwell recently? A fit, I heard?” inquired Maria, her head cocked to one side with overt concern.

  “He’s fine,” Militza said lightly.

  “No doubt cured by your friend? Rasputin,” Maria mused. “Such a strange name for a man of God.”

  “Grigory Yefimovich was very helpful.”

  “Little Alexei adores him!” added Anna, beaming. “He only has to lay eyes on him and he starts to smile and clap his hands and say: ‘Novy, Novy, Novy.’ He’s the new one and Alexei can’t wait for him to come and see him.”

  “When Stana and I are there, we can see the little tsarevich just adores him,” agreed Militza, looking at the woman, trying to work out her agenda.

  “But he is amazing, isn’t he?�
�� Anna continued enthusiastically. “Only the other day Rasputin was talking to the tsarina and then he suddenly interrupted himself saying, ‘He’s in the blue room,’ and they both rushed to the blue billiard room, where they found Alexei standing on the table. Rasputin grabbed him off the table only seconds before a huge chandelier fell from the ceiling, crashing on the exact spot where Alexei had been standing! It was extraordinary.” Her eyes grew still rounder. “If he hadn’t been there, honestly, the boy would be dead! Rasputin quite literally saved his life. The tsarina was so grateful—we are all so, so grateful. The whole of Russia is grateful.”

  “Very grateful,” agreed Maria.

  “What a story!” exclaimed Militza.

  “Isn’t it?”

  A pair of butlers arrived with a couple of heavy salvers loaded with fine bone china, a hot teapot, slices of lemon, lumps of sugar, and two tiered platters groaning with delicate cakes. Maria acknowledged them with a nod and dismissed them with a wave of her hand.

  “Tea à l’anglaise,” she said, picking up a gilt-handled pot. “Shall I pour?”

  The three women sat in silence as the grand duchess served the steaming-hot tea and, with a rattle of fine porcelain, handed them each a cup.

  “I wonder why my sister didn’t tell me?” Militza looked at Anna. “The story?”

  “She wasn’t there,” replied Anna, eyeing the plate of cakes in front of her.

  “Rasputin was on his own?” Militza inquired as lightly as she could.

  “Oh, yes,” replied Anna, picking the largest of the cakes. “He does that quite often, particularly at bedtime. He comes to see the girlies, says good night to them in their bedroom, and then he talks to the tsarina and the tsar, looking in on the tsarevich.”

  Maria could hardly contain her delight as she glanced across at Militza. Had this been the purpose of her tea? Militza was dying to ask more questions. How? When? How dare he! What was he talking to the royal couple about? Without her!

  “He is very fond of the children,” concurred Militza.

  “Yes,” agreed Anna, nodding away. “Or so I have heard. I haven’t actually met the man myself.”

  “You haven’t?” asked Maria.

  “None of us have.”

  “But you just said—” queried Militza.

  “Not that it stops us from talking about him!” Anna giggled, again.

  “Tell me,” inquired Maria, leaning forward a little conspiratorially and changing tack. “Now I am sure you’d know this, Militza, but is Nikolasha terribly like his father? One can’t help but wonder. Does he suffer from the same needs? Does he have the same proclivities? His father was famously keen on the ladies,” she said, nodding towards Anna, who was slowly working her way through her cake. “In fact, he was rather well-known for loving all women except for his wife!” Anna’s mouth moved slowly as she looked from one woman to the other, her small eyes glowing with interest. “Poor woman went mad. Ran away to Kiev and locked herself in a nunnery!” Maria took a sip of fortifying tea before she went on. “So”—she turned to Militza—“is he the same?”

  “Is who the same?”

  “Nikolasha?”

  “I am not sure if I know what you mean?”

  “He’s inherited his father’s height, that’s for sure. But does he have a keen eye for the ladies?”

  “Nikolasha is not married.”

  “Yes, I know. But we are amongst friends, close friends . . .” Militza, still reeling from the previous conversation, didn’t quite understand what the grand duchess was getting at. “Is he serious, or is he the sort of man who likes to go to the ‘gypsies’?”

  “The gypsies?” Militza looked confused. “I don’t think he is a man who enjoys dancing.”

  “He is very well acquainted with your sister, is he not?” asked Anna with the direct manner of the guileless. “They are always mentioned together when people speak about them in court. When I first arrived—you won’t believe this—I thought they were actually married.” She laughed.

  Maria took a sip of her tea. “Anastasia is, in fact, married to George Maximilianovich, Duke of Leuchtenberg.”

  “Oh, I am not sure if I have seen him at court?”

  “He spends most of his time in Biarritz.”

  “So they are just friends? I can’t believe I was so foolish! But they are quite a couple, aren’t they? Him heading up the army and she—and indeed you—so close to the tsarina.” Anna giggled. “What a fool I am! But you know, when you don’t know who everyone is and you are trying to work out who is who and what is what . . .”

  “It is an easy mistake to make,” said Maria. “But I also think it is so wonderful that two brothers and two sisters get on so terribly well together.” She paused. “Don’t you, Militza?”

  Militza looked up. “Yes, it is a very deep friendship.” She smiled, using a line she had used many times before.

  “That’s just what I told Xenia the other day. She was complaining of a ‘disgusting nonsense’ she heard that was going on. She said she didn’t believe it until she saw it with her own eyes at the Yacht Club. We were shopping with her daughter, Irina, on Morskaya, seeing if there was anything interesting in Fabergé, and I informed her that, quite apart from the fact that is it against the law for brothers and sisters to have relationships, they were merely just friends and that Stana is indeed still married to George. But she was quite insistent she’d seen and heard otherwise.”

  “Well, we all know Xenia’s situation is hardly whiter than white,” Militza said, rallying.

  “Yes, well, she is the tsar’s sister.” Maria smiled. “And apparently she’d heard her mother complaining that Nikolasha was suffering from a ‘sick and incurable disease’?”

  “Indeed,” replied Militza, immediately understanding the reason for the invitation to tea: confirmation or denial of some silly gossip. “I can assure the Dowager Empress and Xenia that Nikolasha is quite well and suffers no fever whatsoever.”

  She simply didn’t have time for this, although, had Militza paused for a second and thought, the freedom with which this was being discussed was certainly worrisome. If the tsar’s own mother and sister were in conversation about Stana and Nikolasha, then it was certainly worse than the worst-kept secret at court. It was now being discussed as if it were a plain fact that no one felt any need to be discreet about anymore. But she was deaf to how gossip had been spun, deaf to people fearing how powerful they had become, deaf to how people didn’t like their closeness to the tsar. All she heard was the proof of Rasputin’s betrayal.

  “It’s as if the tsar and tsarina are all part of the same Nikolayevich family,” enthused Anna, warming to her theme. “A little exclusive group of six.”

  “I wouldn’t go quite that far.” Maria’s smile was tense. “The tsar is very close to all the members of his family. For example, to us—we are all excellent friends.”

  They all sat and sipped their tea.

  “I am terribly sorry,” announced Militza suddenly, getting out of her chair and draining her cup. “I am afraid I need to leave.”

  “Leave?” Maria looked stunned.

  “So soon?” asked Anna.

  “Yes, I am very sorry, do please forgive me, I had forgotten something terribly urgent. Terribly urgent indeed.”

  And with that Militza ran out of the house, her head swimming, her pulse pounding. He had completely disobeyed her! She had trusted him and now he had turned against her. What was he doing? All those years of work, of maneuvering by her and Stana, were they all for nothing? She looked up and down the street, trying to find her car. Where was her chauffeur? She had asked him to come and collect her at six. It was five thirty. What was he doing? Where was he?

  It was dusk; the weak sun had disappeared, and a bitter wind was blowing off the river. She shivered. She was alone on the street and she needed to find Rasputin immediately. The Judas! She needed to put her protégé in his place. What was he thinking? Should she walk? His flat was not far—12
Kirochnaya Street, about ten minutes at the most. She could not wait for her driver. She looked up and down the embankment for a droshky for hire but could not see anything, so she pulled up the ermine collar on her coat, put her head down, and started to walk, her thoughts churning. How could he be so disloyal? After all she had done for him. Also, all the money she had given him. It was all because of her he’d moved out of that stinking hovel he used to have into a two-story wooden house in his village in Siberia. She’d paid for the house; she’d furnished it and paid for a piano. An Offenbach! He couldn’t even play the wretched thing. It was for his daughters, he said, to teach them to become ladies. Oh, how the humble had risen! How quickly he’d escaped the dust! He had flower boxes at the front of his house now, a tin roof and a gramophone, all of which she’d paid for. She was furious.

  She strode along, pounding the pavement in her anger. How dare he! She’d made him promise, so what was he doing, cutting her out? Making a move? Excluding her and Stana from the inner circle? The injustice of it all made her walk faster.

  But as she turned right off the embankment, she realized the silk shoes she was wearing were useless in the damp streets of St. Petersburg. She’d been driven to the door, she was to be collected from the door, and she had dressed accordingly. Now her feet were wet, as were her stockings. It was dark, the street lanterns were not yet lit, and she was becoming increasingly cold. She looked up and realized she had no idea where she was.

  She knew his flat was down a side road, on the other side of the Fontanka. But which one? And where? The dark streets began to fill up a little more. The workers from a nearby factory had been let out and were walking home, trudging off the grinding monotony of their day. They glanced at her from beneath their caps, at her fur-lined coat, the glimmer of her jewelry; she was not the sort of woman to be walking alone.

  As she approached the gates of the factory, the pavement was suddenly packed. A stream of workers with their heads down, their hands in their pockets, their elbows out, marched past her. One of them deliberately knocked her as he passed with a sharp jab to the ribs. It was painful, but Militza stifled her cry, forcing her gloved hand into her mouth and biting her own finger, instantly aware of how vulnerable she was. Then came another jab, harder this time, like a burning-hot poker to the ribs. And then another. A crowd of men surrounded her, jostling and jabbing with their thin fingers and sharp bones. Her heart was pounding, her mouth dry as she looked around in panic. This was dangerous. She was scared. She could sense their hostility, feel their anger; she could smell the vodka on their breath and the fury in their souls. Then she saw an alley, just alongside the factory, and without thinking, she ran. She ran without a care for her shoes, her clothes, the rope of pearls she had around her neck. The men didn’t follow her; they’d had their fun. Militza didn’t look back.