The Romanov Empress

by C. W. Gortner

  CHAPTER THREE

  We returned to Copenhagen and our yellow palace, to its sagging chaises draped in shawls to hide the horsehair stuffing sprouting from the sides, to the musty rooms with their framed watercolors painted by us, and to the faded drapery, which we’d washed countless times and repaired ourselves.

  As glad as I was to be home, nostalgia permeated me as the days sped past. This palace where we’d roamed as children had begun to fade like a ghost, receding into its own tired walls as the future seeped ever more into our present.

  Mama and Alix were inseparable, closeted together for hours, overseeing details of her trousseau or visiting aristocratic matrons who’d suddenly discovered our existence and clamored to host a luncheon for the future Princess of Wales. Papa was often gone, as well, attending the court at the ailing king’s behest, leaving me with the children to idle away my time, as the daily chores that once occupied my time were now undertaken by our new servants.

  Reading aloud from our battered fairy-tale books or playing games with my little brother and sister kept me from outright melancholia. Yet I still worried over how they’d fare, so young still and about to be catapulted into public notice as members of a royal family. I wanted to shield them, even if there was nothing I could do; I could scarcely shield myself. At night, I lay awake, concocting fanciful means of escape. We’d board a ship in disguise and sail to the colonies (which colonies, I did not know), where we’d become ordinary people (doing what, I had no idea). Or Papa would realize he didn’t want to rule and would reject the crown, returning us to life as we knew it, because Queen Victoria would hardly want Alix to marry her son then, and—

  I might have laughed at my own delusions had I not known what lay ahead. And as winter descended upon Denmark, the impending March of 1863 and Alix’s departure inched ever closer, whispering its inevitability with the flurries of wind and snow.

  Then, all of a sudden, our reprieve was over. Before I could collect my thoughts, the house erupted in a pandemonium—trunks packed and transported to the ship, Mama marching around barking orders at the harried maids as they flung sheets over our furnishings, turning our palace into a shroud. It was truly a ghost now.

  “Are you scared?” I whispered to Alix on the night before we left, after I’d lain in wait for hours until Mama departed her room, so she and I could share some time alone.

  She shook her head. “Why should I be?”

  But she was afraid. I could see it, in her pinched lips and the way she held up her chin as we boarded our train to Brussels, from where we took Queen Victoria’s royal yacht, dispatched especially for us. Our fellow Danes crowded the dock to bid her farewell, waving and shouting her name. I had to bite down on my laughter. No one had ever called out our names before; it seemed ridiculous.

  My amusement turned to awe upon our arrival in England.

  Here, Alix was greeted with panoply. Though the early-March rain fell upon us like cold blades, making us shiver in our new apparel—which had come at considerable expense, as Mama didn’t cease to remind us—thousands of Queen Victoria’s subjects mobbed the route into London, cheering Alix in her covered carriage. She rode with Mama and Bertie, who’d welcomed us with a sardonic smile on his mustachioed lips and, I detected, a distinct trace of feminine perfume on his frock coat. Riding with Papa in the carriage behind my sister, I tore my gaze from the cheering British, all of whom seemed immune to the icy downpours, and looked at my father.

  He mouthed, “Umbrellas,” forcing me to once again stifle my laughter.

  Umbrellas, indeed. Alix would need dozens of them.

  We boarded a train from Paddington Station. It was past nightfall by the time we reached Windsor Castle. After another carriage ride to the castle, delayed due to more throngs of well-wishers trying to catch a glimpse of their new princess, my feet were freezing and my hands were icicled in my new calfskin gloves, though I barely noticed the discomfort as we staggered from our carriages into the castle.

  Instead, I felt anxiety at meeting the queen. Victoria was famous throughout the world. She’d ascended to the throne in her eighteenth year, and under her rule the British had embarked on a relentless expansion of her domains, claiming distant India and bringing luster to her crown. Yet her devoted marriage to Prince Albert, with whom she’d had nine children, had been shattered by his untimely death, plunging her entire empire into mourning. As isolated as we’d been, even I had heard of her soul-rending grief, my mother remarking that had it been up to the queen, she’d have been entombed with him. I imagined her as an ancient goddess—stern, unforgiving, draped in black—and my first sight of her only confirmed it.

  She stood in the entrance hall encircled by her attendants, a collection of wide belled skirts and frilly caps. She stood out not because she wore black—they were all dressed in varying shades of her somber hue—but because her quiet command immediately drew the eye. She wasn’t tall; in fact, she was much shorter than I expected, but no one could mistake her for anyone but who she was. Victoria Regina stood as if the world moved around her, not as though she moved within the world.

  Drawing up the veil shielding her features—evidently, she’d still not abandoned her grief—she blinked at us through her watery eyes before she said peevishly, “Wherever have you been?”

  Silence fell. I wondered where she thought we had been, until her son Bertie stepped forth to say, “The people.”

  With a terse nod, as if this were sufficient explanation, the queen directed her gaze to Alix. Before my sister could drop into an overdue curtsy, Victoria enveloped her in an embrace. “At last, you are here,” she said, as if she’d done nothing but pine for Alix’s arrival.

  We all did our obeisance. As the queen clutched my sister, I had to look away to avoid the sight of those plump black-sheathed arms wrapped about Alix like raven wings.

  Victoria held on to Alix for so long, I feared she might smother her. When she drew back, tears glistened in the queen’s eyes as she rebuked, “You are very late. Dinner will be served within the hour. I suggest you go up to your rooms to change. I cannot join you; this waiting has exhausted me. I will see you tomorrow.”

  And with that, the queen turned and walked away, her collection of funereal attendants at her heels, along with a herd of surprisingly docile spaniels.

  Alix glanced over her shoulder at me. She did not look scared. She looked resigned.

  * * *

  THE ENSUING WEEK was filled with activities leading up to the wedding. I couldn’t get near Alix in public, while hundreds surrounded us, with the queen herself the focal point around whom everyone must shift. Yet I watched Alix and Victoria develop an unmistakable affinity. The queen wasn’t given to displays of affection, but over dinner or tea or one of her interminable walks in the enclosed gardens, with those spaniels who were never far from her side, she would set her fingers on Alix’s arm just so—a maternal, possessive gesture that indicated as far as she was concerned, like everything else she put her name to, my sister now belonged to Britain.

  Which didn’t ease my indignation one bit.

  Papa was virtually ignored, treated as a negligible guest, although he was the father of the bride, our king’s heir, and Duke of Schleswig, Holstein, and Lauenburg—in title, if not practice. I wondered if his prior futile courtship of Victoria was something the queen did not care to recall. She only deigned to speak with him when protocol required, and since she established protocol, they spoke infrequently. Mama was too preoccupied to take umbrage, fussing over Alix whenever she had the chance and chasing after Thyra and Valdemar, both of whom slipped my haphazard charge over them to race through the castle, playing hide-and-seek with the children of Victoria’s daughter, Vicky, Crown Princess of Prussia, startling the servants and jangling the disembodied suits of armor in their niches.

  One clear day (or as clear as it could be in England), we went out riding. Papa
was an expert horseman from his time in the Danish Horse Guard, a position he’d held in order to support us with its meager salary before he became the king’s heir. He’d insisted we all learn to ride as children; Alix was fond of horses but preferred placid mares, while I had no such fears. To me, nothing equaled the thrill of being on horseback, the power and speed of it. It was the closest I could ever get to flying, and I took to the excursion with vigor, joining the gentlemen and ladies for a jaunt outside the castle on the royal stable’s numerous mounts. I was proud to see Papa acquit himself, gaining even Victoria’s begrudging praise as he demonstrated his skill at the reins for her in the courtyard.

  I had to devise a makeshift riding outfit, however. No one had given any thought to whether I might be expected to show my skill on horseback, and as I had no suitable cap, I simply coiled my hair into a net and braved the queen’s astonished look.

  Victoria did not ride, retreating to her study, but her younger son, eighteen-year-old Alfred, did. He’d been lurking in the background, a pouty-lipped youth with his mother’s tepid blue eyes and a permanent scowl. He seemed put out by everything except food and drink, both of which he consumed prodigiously. Conniving to ride alongside me, he bumped his leg against mine and caused my horse to pull at the bit.

  “Enjoying the party?” He leered. Not sure which party he referred to, I smiled and spurred ahead to join Alix and Bertie. Despite my initial misgivings, I’d taken a liking to my future brother-in-law. Well traveled and cosmopolitan, Bertie had shown an affability toward Alix that reassured me that if he wasn’t any more in love with her than she with him, he was at least resolved to cultivate their mutual respect.

  We returned to the castle in considerably better spirits from being outdoors. As I made my way to my room to change for tea—a solemn ritual in which Victoria demanded we all preside—one of her ubiquitous funereal attendants intercepted me.

  “Her Majesty wishes to see you.”

  A private audience was highly unusual, but there was also no question of pleading for a moment to tidy up. When the queen summoned, one must oblige. Brushing a hand over my rumpled skirts and wincing at the smell of horse on my fingers, I followed the lady through Windsor’s tapestry-hung corridors to a wainscoted study. After knocking on the door, she left me stranded on the threshold.

  “You may enter,” the queen called out.

  I stepped into a frigid room where I could see my own breath. Though there was a fireplace, it was scoured clean. The room was overstuffed, like most of the castle, where bric-a-brac accumulated without discernible purpose, priceless medieval objects perched beside tables spilling over with silver-framed daguerreotypes or porcelain figurines, the walls cluttered with smoky paintings, and corners heaped with marble busts or books.

  She sat at her escritoire, before a stack of paper, her pen in hand. I’d heard that she was a dedicated correspondent, spending hours each day penning missives to relatives and dictates to governors in far-flung places of her empire. She didn’t look up when I entered, leaving me with my gloves and discarded hairnet crushed in my hands before she said, “I’m told you have an excellent command of the saddle.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.” Should I curtsy at the compliment? My legs were sore from riding. If I did curtsy, how low must I descend before I could painfully rise again?

  Her pen scratched on the paper. “Do you often ride like that?”

  “Yes, Majesty. In Denmark, I try to ride as much as I can—”

  “No.” She glanced up with a piercing look. “Like that.”

  At first I had no idea what she meant. Then, as she lowered her eyes, I understood.

  “I had no cap, Majesty.” I resisted the urge to pat down my disheveled curls.

  “So it appears.” She went on writing. Then she sanded her letter and said, “You might have asked for one. I’m quite sure we could have provided a cap, Dagmar.”

  “Minnie,” I said, and as I heard myself correcting her, I thought I must be mad. “Only my father calls me Dagmar.”

  “Does he?” Her expression was inscrutable. “Is he very fond of you?”

  What type of question was this? Fond of me?

  “He’s my father, Majesty. He loves his family. And we love him.”

  Something forlorn seeped across her face. I wanted to bite off my tongue. A husband, who was a loving father to his children—she had lost hers.

  “That is as it should be.” She came to her feet, moving to a set of upholstered chairs before the unlit hearth. “Come. Sit with me. I wish for us to talk further.”

  I sat beside her. The chair felt enormous, swallowing me whole, the cushion icy. How could she sit at that desk all day, in a room that could have stored slabs of meat?

  “Alfred tells me you ride like an Englishwoman,” she said.

  I smiled, assuming it was another compliment. The English must do everything better than anyone else, according to her.

  “And he says you’re enjoying your time here,” she went on. “Are you?”

  Did she doubt her son’s word or was she testing my appreciation of her hospitality? Considering how she’d disregarded my father, suspicion flared in me. I restrained it, saying only, “It’s a beautiful country, Majesty, but it does rain quite a lot.”

  “Rain is healthy. For the body and for the field.”

  “Yes, that is true.” How tiresome. Had she called me for a private audience to discuss my lack of a suitable hat and the insufferable weather? At this rate, I’d never make it to my room in time to wash, change, and be back in her cavernous hall for the obligatory tea.

  Without warning, she said, “Alfred is quite taken with you. I’m certain you haven’t noticed. But you should know that not long ago I considered you as a bride for him.”

  She had? It came almost as much of a surprise as Alfred being taken with me, for I hadn’t noticed; even if I had, I couldn’t admit it. To her, a proper lady must never notice a gentleman’s interest. But as I recalled Alfred’s leering remark, I nearly rolled my eyes. If that was how her son expressed interest, he had something to learn. Still, the revelation, which she’d calculated to spring on me in private, took me aback. Was conquering my sister as she had India not enough? Did she think Danish princesses came in pairs, like shoes or gloves?

  “I wish to hear what you think,” she said, with faint reproof. “I fear it wouldn’t be a suitable match now, but your response will dictate whether I choose to speak with your father. It is important to me—vital—that no one marry against their wishes.”

  I doubted my wishes had any bearing on it. Danish princesses might come in pairs, but she had plenty of other brides to choose for her son. Swallowing against a throat gone dry from the cold, I replied, “I do not know His Highness at all, Your Majesty.”

  “That could be remedied. You can stay with us for a time after the wedding, as our guest. Your sister would be delighted. I’ve placed Sandringham and Marlborough House at Bertie’s disposal, so there’ll be plenty of room. Naturally, I’ll furnish all your expenses.”

  “My expenses? We’re not so impoverished, Majesty. My father will soon be King of Denmark.”

  My indignation burst out before I could detain it. In the leaden silence that ensued, I saw her nearly invisible fair eyebrows lift a fraction.

  “You have spirit,” she said. “I was once a spirited girl. Too spirited, some might say.”

  Again, darkness veiled her gaze, sinking into her eyes, drawing down the corners of her mouth. The death of her beloved Albert haunted her.

  “Majesty, I’m honored by your consideration, but with my sister living so far from our country, I’d not wish to visit another such loss upon my parents.”

  “Yet every girl must marry.” She regarded me with an impassive expression, as if nothing, not even outright refusal, could affect her demeanor. When I did not reply, she sa
id, “Yes. Entirely too much spirit, I’m afraid. And the will to match it. Well, then. We shan’t speak of this again. You must run along now, lest you be late for tea.”

  I dipped a curtsy and went to the door. She did not move from her chair, staring into that empty hearth, but as I made to leave, I heard her say, “I pity the man who does marry you, Dagmar of Denmark. You’ll not be easily tamed.”

  It sounded like an indictment. And it pleased me.

  * * *

  —

  I SNEAKED INTO Alix’s room after another staid dinner, over which, like her teas, Victoria held absolute charge—a solemn affair punctuated by dishes drenched in brown sauces and innocuous conversation over the tinkle of crystal glasses and silver forks.

  My sister now sat in her robe on the bed, with her hair unbound, gazing in bemusement at the elaborate wedding dress set on a dresser dummy in the corner—a confection of white Honiton lace and silver tissue, garlanded with silk orange blossoms. Beside her was an open coffer filled with ropes of pearls, a diamond tiara, and other jewels, all of which she was expected to wear for the ceremony, as ordained by the queen.

  “Look at this.” She held up a gem-studded pendant. “Do you recognize it?”

  I peered at it. “Is that the Holy Cross of Dagmar?” I asked incredulously.

  “A copy,” replied Alix. “But identical in every detail to the original. King Frederick sent it to me as a present. He wanted to attend the wedding, but Her Majesty thought not.”

  Of course Victoria thought not. Our childless king and his current mistress, a common woman without a drop of royal blood, were naturally not welcome. The replica of the thirteenth-century jewel revered in Denmark was beautiful, however. Extraordinary, in fact, and more valuable than anything either of us had ever owned. My sister was about to dwell in the heart of luxury, even if she risked a lifelong chill, as Victoria seemed unwilling to recognize that fireplaces were meant to be used, flinging open windows wherever she happened to be, to let in all that healthy British air.