The Romanov Empress

by C. W. Gortner

  “No,” I said quietly. “He is not.”

  “You could find someone he trusts. He had plenty of tutors at court, so perhaps one of them would be appropriate. He must be led to it without suspecting, like a—”

  “A bull to the pen,” I said, with a reassuring smile to ease the bite in my words. “I suppose it would do him no harm to read more than the newspaper.”

  “And teach him some moderation,” added the tsar. “Sasha drinks too much, and he mustn’t endanger his health. Unlike Vladimir, who can indulge himself to his heart’s content, Sasha will inherit the throne, and his son after him.” He paused. “I hope to hear of that blessed event soon, my dear. A tsarevich needs a son. More than one, if you can manage it.”

  “We are trying,” I said awkwardly.

  “And we must leave the rest, as we say, to God’s will.” He looked past me, his eyes narrowing. “Ah. I see they’ve finally found us.”

  Turning about, I saw two men in plainclothes dart behind the willows. I let out a gasp. Alexander said, “Gendarmes sent by the palace. My ministers will not be dissuaded, but I have other plans and must elude them. Would you mind if I left you and Marie in their care? They’ll have a carriage nearby, no doubt, to see you to the palace.”

  Before I could reply, he pulled down his hat and strode away, past the Summer Palace into an elm-shaded avenue that led to the other exit. Within minutes, he had vanished. The two gendarmes emerged from their hiding place, obviously uncertain as to what to do now, with me standing there and Marie looking after her father, abandoned by the dog, which had bounded after the tsar.

  “He has Milord to protect him,” I told her, ruffling her hair as she turned her frown to me. Her hat hung on its ribbons down her back; her frown deepened when the gendarmes escorted us back to the front gates, where a covered carriage indeed waited. As we settled into it, Marie glared out the window. When I reached over to tug down the blind and give us privacy, she snapped, “It’s no use now. The Nihilists won’t hurt us. It’s Papa they want, and he went to see that woman.”

  I stared at her. After the unexpected revelations of today, I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear more. “You’re mistaken, my child. Your father merely wants to walk on his own. Being the emperor is a very difficult charge and—”

  “What do you know?” she interrupted, reminding me in that instant of Sasha. “He visits her all the time when Mama is away. He even took me once to see her.”

  “Her?” I felt a drop in the pit of my stomach.

  “Yes. His mistress.” Marie turned away to stare out the window as the coachman cracked his whip and the horses pulled the carriage into the road.

  From my window, I saw the two gendarmes racing back into the garden, but I knew they wouldn’t locate the tsar. Alexander was gone by now, on his way to a rendezvous with a secret of his own—one I’d never suspected he harbored.

  * * *

  —

  I WANTED TO ask Sasha if he knew. I assumed he must, if his sister did. But I wondered if he might not, as he was rarely attuned to gossip. Before I could decide what to do, my husband distracted me: As soon as I entered the dining room, he handed me a letter that had arrived from my mother. I read it quickly.

  “My brother Willie is coming to visit us. With Bertie and my sister Alix!”

  I was so excited that my discomfort over the tsar’s secret faded, for I missed Alix so and I’d been worried about her. Freddie had returned to Denmark after my marriage, but our family exchanged regular correspondence, thus I’d learned that Alix had given birth to a daughter, Princess Louise. Shortly after the birth, my sister contracted rheumatic fever. Concerned over her health, I was immensely relieved to now hear she was well enough to travel.

  Sasha made a skeptical sound. “There must be more to it.”

  “Mama says Willie must take a wife.” I folded up the letter. “His Greek advisers insist on an Orthodox bride, as he hasn’t converted and they must be reassured he intends to raise his heirs in the Orthodox faith. Mama has asked Alix and me to help in the search. We must inform the palace at once. There are important arrangements to be made.”

  “If Queen Victoria has granted her approval to let her heir and his wife set foot here, you can trust that the palace is already informed,” said Sasha.

  He returned to his newspaper and poached egg. He’d risen late, having gone out last night. As I recalled how he’d staggered in at four in the morning, so drunk he could barely stand, suspicion flared in me. But then I remembered how he’d nuzzled my throat, slurring, “Minnie, my Manja,” and had tried to yank me into bed, to which I put a halt, advising him to sober up in his own quarters and we’d see each other in the morning. Only we hadn’t, because his father had called for me and I left before Sasha woke, as the tsar was an inveterate early riser—

  Recalling what I’d learned today, I was reassured. Sasha had given up one mistress and was far too clumsy to hide another. If the tsar had not succeeded in doing so, how could my husband?

  “Well,” I said, “if Willie seeks a bride, we must oblige. A wife will do him wonders.”

  “Not to mention wonders for Denmark and Russia. As for Willie or Greece, or indeed Great Britain, it remains to be seen.”

  “Oh?” I eyed him until he lowered his newspaper. He had a bit of egg yolk caught in his mustache. “Do you not think a wife can improve matters, husband?”

  “Not me. I do not doubt it at all,” he said. “Come here, my Manja. On my lap.” He parted his broad thighs under his robe, which hung open, barely fastened around his thick waist, revealing his manhood rising inside his drawers.

  I laughed. “None of that. Finish your breakfast, then go upstairs to bathe and dress. My family is coming. We’ve much to do. We can attend to our needs later. But not,” I added, again remembering my talk with his father, “before we find a suitable tutor.”

  “Tutor?” He regarded me as if I’d told him to run naked down the Nevsky Prospekt.

  “Yes. For both of us. We must educate ourselves properly. I want to learn more about—about everything. And you need to read something other than that newspaper or the menu of whatever tavern you happen to frequent with Vladimir. You will draw up a list of names, so we can interview prospective candidates.”

  He glowered. “I don’t know any prospective candidates.”

  “You must. Did you not have tutors at the palace?” I said, and then I cursed my ineptness, for according to the tsar, his tutors had despaired over him.

  To my relief, he muttered, “There was only one I liked. I don’t think he liked me.”

  “He will like you now. Write to him. Say we wish to see him. At once.”

  * * *

  HIS NAME WAS Pobendonostev—thin to the point of emaciation, with a gimlet stare behind his wire-rimmed pince-nez, and a spine so straight I couldn’t imagine him ever bending at all. After much prodding from me, Sasha had begrudgingly informed me that Pobendonostev was a lawyer and former divinity student, appointed by the tsar to educate his sons, and the tutor Sasha had admired and sought to please. I now noticed the man sniffing as he entered our drawing room. Fresh flowers were arranged in vases, and I’d filled the corners with potted ferns in Chinese urns; he regarded all of it as though nature was something with which he had no traffic and didn’t care to revise his opinion.

  “My boy,” he said, and I was astonished to see Sasha almost cower in his seat. “I must admit, this comes as a surprise.” He turned his arid smile to me. “Your Highness.”

  I poured him a cup of tea, which wasn’t something I did for anyone these days except my husband. “We wish for a man of learning and standing to assist us with a curriculum of study, Monsieur. I understand you are highly qualified, having taught the tsar’s own sons.”

  “I still instruct Grand Dukes Paul and Sergei. It is my greatest honor,” he said, sipping his tea. The bre
w was Russian, served from my samovar after steeping to its requisite tarry flavor. His lack of expression indicated it met his exacting standards. “Alas, I fear I did not succeed with Sasha. Did I, my boy?” He glanced at my husband. “Despite all my attempts, our tsarevich went out into this world with the shabbiest of intellectual outfits.”

  Though not taken by his supercilious tone, the metaphor impressed me. “We’ve both had shabby outfits, I’m afraid,” I said.

  Sasha grunted. “I can read and write. That should be enough—”

  I preempted him with a touch of my hand on his thigh.

  Pobendonostev sat quiet, as if debating my offer. I wasn’t deceived. To help prepare Sasha for his future was too enticing. As he claimed he had failed once, his pride would not permit a refusal.

  “History, to start, I should think,” he said at length. And then, with startling passion, he declared, “Outside our cities, Russia is a wasteland, where ignorance and superstition abound.” He paused for dramatic emphasis. “The peasantry is easily misled. They must always obey the tsar, because the tsar is appointed by God to rule over them.”

  I smiled, though his words made me shudder, reminding me of the Nihilist threat Alexander had described. Still, I saw Sasha nod reluctantly in approval. Pobendonostev’s reverence for the autocracy was something my husband shared.

  “History it is,” I said. “If you’ll provide me with a list of books, I’ll see to it.”

  “Books, yes.” He finished his tea, standing with an eagerness that belied his rigidity. “I’ll provide you with the list within the week, Your Highness. I am honored by Your Highness’s request. I believe this will be a very satisfactory arrangement.”

  As soon as he left, Sasha exploded. “He thinks I’m a fool! Your request, he said, as if I wasn’t even in the room. He always disdained me. He was the one who advised my father that I was fit only for the regiments. Satisfactory for him, perhaps, but not for me.”

  “Sasha.” I sighed. “You told me you respected him. He has exemplary credentials.”

  “I did respect him. I wanted so much to earn his praise that my brothers mocked me. ‘Look at the Bullock,’ they said, ‘waiting for Pobendonostev to yoke him.’ I tried to prove them wrong, but he told Papa I would never learn—” He turned from me, actually trembling with the recollection of his childhood denigration.

  I stepped to him. “Sasha, you’re not that boy anymore. You’re the tsarevich now. You need only apply yourself. You’ll soon see how well you can do. And I will study with you; we will learn together as husband and wife. We must be prepared for when the time comes.”

  He shook away my comforting hand, my tender words. Shooting one of his ferocious glares at me, he spat, “You should get back to changing the bedsheets for your sister’s visit,” and he stormed out, slamming the drawing room doors so hard that the watercolor landscapes I’d brought from Denmark tilted on the wall.

  I sighed. He’d stay angry for a while, but he knew I was right. He must learn to rule. His future, our future, depended on it.

  Not that being right would make my task any easier.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Willie, Bertie, and Alix arrived in late May 1867, in the midst of the shimmering white nights, when the sun did not fully set and St. Petersburg radiated translucence. After rounds of galas, we traveled to Peterhof, where Alix and I could finally find time to gossip together.

  “Didn’t you worry Bertie would become embroiled in a scandal?” I asked, as we sat on the seaside palace terrace, enjoying the salt-tinged breeze from the nearby Baltic. To everyone’s surprise, Sasha had taken an immediate liking to Bertie, escorting the Prince of Wales and my brother, along with ever-willing Vladimir, about the city. Their vodka-fueled escapades in the notorious Novaya Derevnya—the island quarter on the Neva where mandolins, gypsies, and drink circulated in profusion—had splashed headlines across international newspapers.

  Alix shrugged, as if unperturbed. “More so than he has in London? I think it improbable.”

  “Did he dance like a Hussar on tavern tables in London or wear a fur hat and eat piroshkies from vendor stalls?” I said archly. “I hardly think Victoria will approve.”

  “No, she will not.” She didn’t meet my gaze. “But I prefer it to his other antics.”

  Taken aback, I wanted to press her for details, but I saw her gaze follow her husband, who walked in the garden with Willie, Sasha lumbering beside them. My own husband had caused me some fear of scandal himself, with his resolve to regale Bertie with proper Russian hospitality.

  “Why do you ask?” Alix turned to me. “Do you worry over Sasha?”

  Now I was the one to look away. “He’s the tsarevich. Everything we do is reported. The journalists and society are ruthless here.”

  “Journalists and society are ruthless everywhere. And you needn’t worry on his account. His heart is entirely yours. I’ve never seen a man more in love with his wife.”

  I paused. “You truly think so?”

  She smiled. “Oh, Minnie. Still blind as ever. You should heed talk less and open your eyes more. He adores you. In fact,” she said, lowering her voice, “I’m surprised you’ve not yet borne him a child. Is anything amiss, besides this preposterous suspicion of yours?”

  “No,” I said, more sharply than intended. “I haven’t conceived, but we are trying.”

  “Well.” She inclined to my ear and whispered, “As long as you’re trying.”

  I drew back in mock outrage at her suggestive tone, and then we both broke into peals of laughter, causing the tsar and tsarina seated nearby to glance at us.

  “Her Imperial Majesty has lost too much flesh since I saw her last,” Alix said. “And that cough of hers…I hope it’s not serious.”

  I refrained from glancing at the empress, who’d arrived back at court like a specter, requiring frequent attendance by her physicians. Lowering my voice, I said, “The doctors fear it might be consumption.”

  “Oh, no.” Alix looked pained. “Poor woman. Such a dreadful illness. It goes on for years and is incurable. The tsar must be beside himself, after so many years of marriage.”

  Though I longed to confide what I’d discovered about Alexander, I held my tongue. I sensed something different in my sister, a reserve that did not affect us directly yet lingered, like a veil that mustn’t be lifted. Her mention of Bertie’s behavior in London made me question the tactfulness of sharing the tsar’s indiscretion; I wasn’t so blind as to ignore her intimation that Bertie may have also strayed from the marriage bed.

  I elected to change the subject. “Now that we’re here, let’s consider a bride for Willie. He’s not done anything thus far to find one on his own, with all that carousing in the city. What about the tsar’s daughter? I know Marie is only thirteen and Willie is twenty-one. But they might be engaged under the condition that he wait until she reaches the proper age.”

  “She pays him no mind,” said Alix. “Unless he’s rowing her and Olga out in that boat on the lake. Poor Willie must have a terrible shoulder strain by now.” She paused, eyeing me. “I believe he likes Olga better. How old is she?”

  “Nearly sixteen.” I returned her stare. “Do you really think…?”

  Alix laughed. “As I said, still blind as ever. Minnie, every time she’s present, Willie can’t take his eyes off her. And she’s suitable enough. The daughter of the tsar’s own brother, raised in the Orthodox faith.”

  “Yes, but…” I considered. “We’d have to ask her father, Grand Duke Constantine, and the tsar, of course. I’m not certain they’ll approve.”

  “Maybe we should ask Willie first,” said Alix.

  I didn’t believe Willie would be interested. Constantine’s daughter Olga was very timid and not especially beautiful, though she had the lovely Romanov eyes. The eldest daughter in a rambunctious clan of six, she’d lived a shel
tered existence, like all girls of her rank. To me, she seemed as immature as Marie. Yet when we approached Willie, he admitted he’d developed a fondness for Olga, and Grand Duke Constantine was so enthused, he waved aside any doubts. While somewhat discomfited by Willie’s choice, Alexander expressed no objection if the girl agreed. As for Olga, when questioned by Alix and me, she blushed, murmuring she was honored, making me doubt she understood what marriage entailed. Willie was delighted, however, so Alix and I plunged into the wedding plans, producing a magnificent affair at the Winter Palace in October of that year. Willie took his new bride to meet our parents in Denmark on his way with her back to Greece.

  After five months of being with my sister, I wept when Alix left. I clung to her at the dock as she murmured to me, “Love Sasha as much as you can, Minnie. He might not be as sophisticated as Nixa, but his heart is full of you. You cannot ask for more in this life.”

  I didn’t know when I would see my sister again, but I took her advice to heart, setting aside my worries over Sasha’s fidelity and dedicating myself to our instruction by Pobendonostev, social obligations, and my household.

  By the time the snows had buried St. Petersburg and Christmas chants soared in the cathedrals, I discovered I was finally with child.

  * * *

  I WOKE BEFORE dawn of an early-May morning—the sixth of that month—gasping in sudden pain. Reaching down between my legs, I felt drenching wetness there; breathless as another sharp pang overcame me, I frantically rang the little bell on my bedside table.

  Tania and Sophie stumbled in, blinking, their night bonnets askew. They slept in the chamber next to mine; we’d come here to the Alexander Palace in mid-April to prepare for my delivery, a move I’d delayed as long as possible, loath to leave my Anichkov for the tedium of the isolated country estate. I kept protesting that I was pregnant, not an invalid. Only the tsarina’s insistence that my child must be born in Tsarskoe Selo had persuaded me to take residence in this lavish suite facing the gardens, appointed for my confinement.