‘What were they searching for?’
‘Nothing. Anything. A tin of dentifrice with the Imperial crest on it. Who can say what goes through the minds of these idiots? And then there’s that fool Vyrubova.’
Kerensky’s men had caught Anna Vyrubova trying to burn papers.
Uncle Bimbo said, ‘What was she thinking? If you have anything to hide, you get rid of it before Kerensky arrives. You don’t start a fire when there’s a search party in the house.’
Vyrubova had been arrested.
‘Of course. She was just what Kerensky needed. Someone to make an example of in front of Nicky and Sunny.’
‘But she’s an invalid.’
‘Oh, yes, she tried playing that card. She showed Kerensky her merlin chair. Kerensky asked Botkin for his clinical opinion. Poor Botkin. Can you imagine? Caught between a sobbing Vyrubova and Minister Kerensky.’
‘What did Botkin say?’
‘He perched on the fence to the best of his ability. He said that though Vyrubova was incapacitated by certain injuries, her life was in no immediate danger. So she was handed her crutches and driven away.’
‘Where have they taken her?’
‘To the Peter Paul Fortress presumably. The poor creature. That’s a place that can destroy the strongest of constitutions. Maybe Cyril will be able to put in a word for her. If he deems it wise. He seems to be the Romanov flavour du jour.’
That was the family’s latest opinion of Cyril. He’d taken a huge risk, but it appeared to have paid off. He’d be part of the New Order. He’d make sure the Romanovs were treated decently. Good old Cyril.
Tsarskoe Selo was usually quiet after dark, but not that night. Vehicles came and went and there were lights moving about in the park. I couldn’t sleep and when I went downstairs for hot milk, Kuzma was just coming in, breath steaming in the cold air, eyes shining with excitement.
‘Magheela,’ he said, pretending to shovel. ‘Magheela dyavola.’ The devil’s grave.
A crowd had gathered, soldiers mainly, from an artillery battery, some students and a few workers from the estate. They were digging up Grigory Rasputin’s body. Kuzma swore he’d had no part in it, but he hadn’t tried to stop them either. He said they couldn’t be stopped.
Why were they doing it? Did they think Rasputin might be about to rise from the dead to help Sunny and Nicky in their hour of need? And what were they going to do with his body? He’d been more than two months in the ground.
‘Dalyeko,’ Kuzma said. ‘Ochen dalyeko. V Sibir, mozhet bit’.’
They intended to take it far, far away, perhaps to Siberia. It seemed not to have occurred to them that distances don’t mean anything to spirits and miracle-workers. Wasn’t Rasputin supposed to have saved Alyosha’s life when he was a thousand miles away?
Cyril heard a similar story about the grave diggers, but his version ended just beyond Vyborg, hardly any distance at all from Tsarskoe Selo and certainly not in Siberia.
‘Bunch of idiots,’ he said. ‘Trying to transport a casket in the middle of the night. They ran into a road block, as they should have known they would. You can’t go anywhere nowadays without answering to a crowd of jumped-up citizens with bayonets.’
‘And then what?’
‘They were made to open the box of course, to show they weren’t making off with a coffin full of State treasures. Everything belongs to the State now, you know? Every teaspoon. I’d love to have seen their faces when they prised the lid off. No Imperial teaspoons. Just decomposing flesh. It must have been vile. From what I can gather, they all got into a complete flap and decided they’d better burn the body. More stupidity. Bodies aren’t like autumn leaves. They don’t just burn. It can take days. Further flapping. Can’t you just see it? Pour on more gasoline! They ended up taking what was left of the body to the Polytechnic. It was the nearest place with a proper furnace. So Sunny’s Beloved Friend is now reduced to bones and lard or he lives on in spirit, preparing to put Nicky back on the throne. Make what you will of it. I just hope the boilerman at the Polytechnic doesn’t go into business selling relics.’
*
March, April. Cyril said things were quiet in town. The tram wires hadn’t been repaired and weren’t likely to be any day soon, but there were plenty of sleds to be hired or commandeered. We, or rather Cyril, even had a permit to use a motor, if he could find any fuel to put in its tank. Some bread shops had reopened. The Imperial family, the former Imperial family, were confined to quarters but the world hadn’t stopped turning. Russia had a Government, of a patchwork kind. Also we still had a war to fight. Nearly three years on and it seemed no closer to ending.
I said, ‘Are we over the worst?’
‘At the Front?’ Cyril said. ‘I don’t know. But here, yes, I’d like to think so.’
‘But Misha won’t be Emperor?’
‘No.’
‘And they won’t ask you?’
‘No. I’d say Russia’s done with Emperors, for the time being. Maybe someday. People do enjoy a figurehead. Someone to pop up on certain occasions. Smile, wave, give the Crown Jewels an airing. Like Georgie and May. Otherwise to stay quietly in the country and mind one’s pheasant shoots.’
‘And you think we’re safe. They won’t be chopping off any heads?’
He said, ‘This is Russia, darling. Russians can be very excitable one minute and then fall back into their old stupor. At the moment they’re still like children on Christmas Eve. But I made a pledge to this new government and I want to try and see it through. However, a little precautionary planning wouldn’t go amiss. A little discreet packing.’
It was the first time he’d spoken of leaving, and just when it seemed things might be settling down.
I said, ‘Where would we go? Not to Vladivostock with Nicky and Sunny? I couldn’t bear it.’
He went to the drawing-room door, looked outside, then closed it firmly before he spoke. Rather melodramatic, I thought.
I said, ‘Are we being listened to?’
‘Listened to and watched,’ he said. ‘That journal you keep?’
‘I hardly ever open it. There’s really nothing in it.’
‘Good. Get rid of it anyway. Also letters. Burn them, particularly any from my mother.’
I said, ‘Is this Diamonds Sewn into Drawers time?’
Then I received a scolding.
He said, ‘You’re bloody flippant, Ducky. I hope your sense of humour won’t desert you if things go badly. I hope you understand I’m walking on a high wire.’
30
Holy Week began. Any other year Sunny would have gone to services in the Fyodorovsky Cathedral every single day, but Sunny wasn’t allowed to go even that short distance. The priest Afanasy went to the Alexander Palace instead. He took a deacon with him and some singers from the choir, but he was prevented from hearing confessions privately. We had it from Uncle Paul who had it from the adjutant, Dolgoruky.
‘No private conversations permitted, even with God,’ he said.
Uncle Bimbo had a good question. When the litanies were said, when it was customary to pray for the Sovereign Emperor and his family, what did Father Afanasy do? Stumbled, according to Uncle Paul. And then recovered himself and prayed for the Provisional Government.
Uncle Bimbo said, ‘Well that makes sense. America has recognised it and the Allies have recognised it so God may as well fall into line.’
On Holy Thursday Minister Kerensky went back to the Alexander Palace to deliver a new blow. Sunny was to be ‘investigated’.
What did it mean? Had she been charged with a crime? Was she on trial? Uncle Bimbo said it meant whatever the Provisional Government decided it meant. It was about her relationship with Grigory Rasputin, and her decisions and actions, the appointments she’d made while Nicky was away at the Stavka. Also the unavoidable fact of her German birth. Her loyalty to Russia was to be examined. And until such time as the Court of Enquiry cleared her name she was to be separated from Nicky and the childr
en.
I said, ‘She may have been born in Germany but she’s only half German. I was born in Malta. Does that make me Maltese?’
Uncle Bimbo said, ‘Dear one, whatever they may say it’s not really about Sunny’s German blood. It’s about her undue influence. And her Friend, of course. Shot, buried, incinerated and still he comes back to cause trouble.’
Uncle Paul said, ‘That may be so but according to Dolgoruky something rather surprising happened. Nicky actually stood up to Kerensky. He said it was inhumane to talk of separating a mother from her children, especially when they were still weak from the measles. He said if there were to be any separation at all, he must be the one kept in isolation. Dolgoruky says he’d never seen Nicky so resolute. It seemed to catch Kerensky off his guard. He apparently didn’t say anything for a few minutes. And then he agreed, just like that. Ignored whatever was written on his sheet of paper. Well, I dare say he’d written it anyway. But the main thing is, he backed down and agreed to do things Nicky’s way. Does he have children of his own, do we know? I think perhaps he does. The human face of Kerensky.’
It was worth knowing.
There was no kulich baked in our house this year. We were short of flour. But on Holy Saturday the thaw began and three of our hens celebrated by laying. Masha rightly decreed that there was no point wasting eggs making a paskha if we had no kulich to spread it on, so the eggs were hard-boiled and their shells painted.
It was mild enough to open the windows. I had the strongest urge to ride across the park, no hat, no gloves, no bulky coat, to see what flowers were peeping through. I thought I might even spot Nicky out with his dogs. It would have been nice to give him an encouraging wave. The Imperials, the ex-Imperials, were often on my mind since they’d been placed under house arrest. I sent word down to the stables for Fox to be saddled, just for a gentle hack. Then I felt the baby move.
After three children one recognises at once that first strange little flicker of life, like the popping of a bubble. It stopped me in my tracks. I’d hardly thought about this new child, with all the other things going on around us. Now I calculate it, my morning sickness disappeared the day Cyril insisted on flying that revolutionary rag from our roof. So that morning, Holy Saturday, with the drip of melting snow and the smell of spring, I was rather shocked to realise it was less than five months until this child would be born. I didn’t ride.
I heard Kira wailing. Masha came to me, very solemn.
She said, ‘Kira asked if we could take an egg to Tsesarevich Alyosha and Peach said we’re not to call him the Tsesarevich any more. She said he’s in prison and not allowed presents.’
‘And that’s why Kira is crying?’
‘No, because she called Peach a fibber and Peach slapped her leg.’
I dealt with Kira first. I said it was true that Alyosha was no longer Tsesarevich. That Emperor Uncle Nicky had decided it was too big a name for a young boy so we should just call him Alexis Nikolaevich from now on. But he certainly wasn’t in prison. Peach must have misunderstood.
The idea that Peach had been wrong seemed to cheer her up.
She said, ‘So we can take him an egg.’
I said, ‘No, I don’t think we can. I believe he’s still in quarantine.’
‘Because of the weasels?’
‘Yes.’
‘But an Easter egg might make him feel better.’
‘It’s very kind of you. I didn’t realise you liked Alyosha so much.’
‘I don’t. He’s rather babyish for twelve. But Granny Miechen says either Masha or I had better marry him and Masha says she absolutely won’t.’
I found Peach in the schoolroom. She was quite unrepentant.
I said, ‘Masha and Kira don’t need to know about the new arrangements at the Alexander Palace. Now we’ll be having nightmares about dungeons.’
She said, ‘Children should be told the truth.’
I said, ‘Not always. And the Emperor’s children aren’t in prison.’
‘Aren’t they?’ she said. ‘Are they free to walk down to the Great Pond this lovely sunny morning? Can they go to Fyodorovsky Cathedral for Easter night? And anyway, they’re not the Emperor’s children. Russia’s finished with all that.’
She just stood, four-square, and looked at me.
I said, ‘Perhaps you’d better leave us, after all. I’ve thought so for some time.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘So have I.’
I quite expected her to turn on her heel and go to pack her bags, but she stood with her arms folded, so self-assured. I should have summoned her to my drawing room. She wouldn’t have been so insolent on my territory. But there we stood.
I asked her where she’d go.
‘Me?’ she said. ‘Oh, never worry about me. I’m quite accustomed to changing circumstances. I’ve never been afraid to move on. More to the point, where do you think you’ll go?’
*
I told Masha Peach would be leaving us.
I said, ‘I need you to be brave.’
‘Why?’ she said. ‘I don’t need a governess. I’d rather go to the Smolny Institute. So would Kira.’
Kira certainly wasn’t sad to see Peach go.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘Is it because she fibbed about Alyosha? Or is it because of what she did with Kuzma?’
And Masha said, ‘Shut up, squirt.’
Kira said, ‘I don’t see why I should shut up. I’ll bet Mummy will be jolly glad if I tell her Peach and Kuzma have tickle fights. Because Kuzma’s just a doorman. He shouldn’t even come upstairs.’
Masha blushed and ran from the room. Poor child. Peach and Kuzma having tickle fights. Life is never the same after one has witnessed something like that. I remember the day Missy and I saw Uncle Bertie Wales playing jiggety-jig with a maid at Balmoral. One felt terribly ashamed even though Uncle Bertie was the one with his breeches unbuttoned. Missy said we must never tell anyone what we’d seen because no one would ever believe us and we’d get sent to bed without any supper. So we knew we’d seen something forbidden, even though we didn’t quite know what. We avoided going past that linen cupboard for several days, and then a terrible itch of curiosity got the better of us and we tiptoed down the corridor again. But we never got a repeat performance. I imagine Uncle Bertie found all kinds of private places for jiggety-jig.
By the children’s tea time, Peach was gone. She asked for wages she was owed, as though one could put one’s hand on money so readily. I gave her what I had and she counted it in front of me. So vulgar. She didn’t ask to say goodbye to the girls and just as well because I’m sure they would have refused.
I said, ‘You understand I can’t give you a character?’
‘Oh, quite so,’ she said. ‘But it doesn’t matter. A testimonial with a Romanov name on it wouldn’t be worth anything anyway.’
Kuzma took her trunks on a hand cart, to the station I assumed. I watched them go. The street was a mess of mud and melting snow. Peach tied her skirt above her ankles and went striding off like some peasant woman. I think Russia rather went to her head.
Cyril came home for dinner.
He said, ‘I gather we lost our doorman.’
I said, ‘No, just a governess. I dismissed Peach. Kuzma’s putting her on a train to Petrograd. Heaven knows what she thinks she’s going to do there.’
‘Darling,’ he said, ‘wherever Peach has gone, Kuzma’s gone with her. Serafim has appointed himself our new shveytsar and he says he has a sister, very clean, knows how to read, if we’re looking for a new nanny. Talk about jumping into a dead man’s shoes!’
We accepted Serafim. One must have a doorman. As to replacing Peach, we decided not to decide, with the baby not due till the end of August. I thought if the war was over by then I might try another Norland, if only to keep Miechen happy.
Cyril said, ‘Ah, yes, Miechen. You’ve just reminded me, I saw Stopford today. He’s thinking of going to Kiev, to see how Ma’s getting on. He wondered about suggesting to
her that she head south. Perhaps take a water cure. It’s a first-rate idea. Anything to keep her out of Petrograd while the Emperor question is unresolved. Good sort, Stopford. Useful.’
I said, ‘You mean he’s not such a perfumed little jack-o-dandy after all?’
I told Cyril what Peach had said as her parting shot. That a testimonial with a Romanov name on it would worthless.
‘She might be right,’ he said. ‘There are those who’d like to see the whole lot of us shunted off to England. But you know Nikolasha’s still quite respected and Uncle Paul’s not entirely despised. On the whole I think we’ll survive. The main thing is for Nicky and Sunny to make a quiet exit, and as soon as possible. Damned cheeky of Peach to take Kuzma with her though. What can she want with him? The man’s barely educated.’
*
Cyril woke Masha and Kira to take them to the midnight vigil. I went to bed but I was still awake when they came home with their stumps of candle and their Easter kisses. I wish now I’d gone with them. I wonder if we’ll ever see another Paskha in Russia.
Cyril and I talked till it was almost light.
‘All things considered,’ he said, ‘I think perhaps we should move the girls back to Glinka Street. Kuzma deserting us. Bit of a shocker. I thought he could be relied on. It makes one wonder who might go next. Glinka Street will be easier to defend. I have Marine guards I can depend on. But out here, all this parkland, it’s impossible to patrol.’
‘Bertie Stopford’s opinion.’
‘Not that I think anything is going to happen. Not at all. It’s just a sensible precaution, you understand?’
I told him what Kira had blurted out about Peach and Kuzma.
‘Aha!’ he said. ‘So that’s it. Funny age in women, the forties.’
‘Funny?’
‘Some go off the boil entirely. Some experience a surge. And you must agree, Peach was never your average governess. The way she threw herself into Russian-ness, for instance. Odd, but quite refreshing. And now I think of it she has had a certain look about her recently. The buttered bun. The late-in-the-day but nevertheless lavishly buttered bun. Well, good luck to her. I suppose. It’s still bloody annoying about Kuzma though.’
The Grand Duchess of Nowhere Page 24
