The Romanov Empress

by C. W. Gortner

  “Yes,” I finally said. “Of course you deserve the same.” Before I could add that it didn’t necessarily mean she would make him happy, Nicky released my hand and stood.

  “Then if you think that, you must convince Papa. I will escort Ella to her brother’s wedding and do my utmost to fulfill my duty as our representative. But it would cause me great shame should Papa refuse to honor my word when I propose to Alicky.”

  He had misinterpreted my words as approval, and I said hastily, as he went to the door, “You forget one thing. Victoria has never cared for Russia. You require your father’s consent. Alicky needs her grandmother’s.”

  “We know,” he said, his next words sundering me. “I wrote to Aunt Alix. She agreed to intervene on our behalf. Victoria is very fond of Alicky, who has let our desire be known to her. The queen hasn’t said yes, but she will after I propose.”

  He left me on my chair. Victoria had been told. He had written to my sister, even as she mourned the recent loss of her eldest son, Albert Victor, who shortly after his twenty-eighth birthday had died in the influenza epidemic sweeping Europe—an inconsolable tragedy for her.

  I felt as if my right to oversee my son’s fate had just been torn out from under me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Alix and I walked in the gardens of Peterhof, under parasols held by our attendants as the fountains cooled the stagnant air.

  Xenia and Sandro had departed on their honeymoon, after having won their battle to marry. It hadn’t gone easy on me. I’d balked at first, but Xenia was now nineteen, the same age as I’d been when I wed Sasha, and she staged such a scene, threatening to elope—a silly declaration, which only a silly girl in love would make, for she knew I could bar her passage out the front door—that I finally had to submit.

  The palace had emptied of the wedding guests, save for immediate family. Bertie was with my husband, looking over his gun collection or stag heads or whatever they did together. My sister must have taken note of my mood, for now that we found ourselves alone, she ventured, “Sasha doesn’t look well. Has he been ill?”

  “His back pains him,” I said. “He works constantly and worries about George.”

  “Is that all? Has he seen a physician?”

  I came to a halt. “Do you think I neglect him? Should I let you assume charge of his care, as you’ve already done with my son?” As her expression faltered, I added, “Or did you not lend your approval of his proposal to Alexandra—even after she again expressed reservations about converting, this time citing Victoria’s misgivings?”

  “Yes, but then Victoria wanted to decide for herself when she invited Nicky to spend time in England with her and Alicky. That had nothing to do with me.”

  “To decide whether her granddaughter should accept,” I retorted, “as if she were entertaining the proposal of a minor princeling, not the tsarevich. I’d held out hope that once Victoria came down against it, Nicky would have no recourse. I’d rather she be the one to refuse him. Instead, he came home in a Homburg hat and Scottish tweed suit to inform us that Victoria approves and we may send a chaplain to instruct Alexandra, as she’s agreed to convert when the time comes—as if our consent is no longer of any account.”

  Alix glanced at our ladies, who collapsed the parasols and retreated to a distance. “Minnie,” she said. “This isn’t fair.”

  “Oh?” I wanted a cigarette. I wanted to scandalize her by lighting up in the middle of the gardens and blowing smoke in her face. “And how is it fair to connive on his behalf? I would never do that to you. I’ve never interfered with how you manage your family.”

  She sighed. “Surely you must realize Nicky never told me he lacked your consent. It was very wrong of him to imply otherwise. Had I known you didn’t approve, I wouldn’t have agreed to speak to the queen on his behalf.”

  “How could you have known when you never asked me?” Yanking out my cigarette case, before Alix’s horror-struck stare, I lit one. “But now Victoria has given her consent and Nicky will have no other, so what I think is irrelevant. My George is ill. I’ve lost Xenia; now I’ll lose Nicky, too. It’s a mother’s lot. We raise them; they grow up and leave us.”

  “Minnie, I honestly had no idea.” Alix touched my arm. “You must forgive me. I know how desperately worried you are for George. I know that pain all too well. When my Eddy fell ill and died, I wanted to die, too. At least George is still with you. He is young. Strong. Providing he takes proper care, he can live for many more years with his malady.”

  Guilt overcame me. She’d never broken down with me over her son, whom she’d called Eddy. I had sent her many letters after his death, and her replies had always been steeped in resignation. But the loss had left its mark; she was less beautiful now, the grief obscuring her, a permanent loss from which she would never fully recover.

  “Xenia and Sandro are so in love,” she went on. “Like them, so are Nicky and Alicky. I saw them together in England; everyone remarked on how perfect they are for each other—even Victoria, and she’s no more satisfied with their betrothal than you are.”

  “They’re not betrothed until Sasha says so.” I withdrew my arm from her, smoking as I stared toward the tumbling waters of the Grand Cascade, a gaudy fountain spraying plumes of water about a grotto with gilded lions and muscular statues.

  Alix ventured, “What is it? What aren’t you telling me?”

  Clearing my throat, I dropped my cigarette and ground it into the path with the tip of my shoe. “You’ve a nerve to ask. And you know what I’m not telling you.” I turned to her. “Victoria knows. The girl is unsuitable. She lacks the stamina to be tsarevna.”

  Alix regarded me in confusion. “Whatever makes you say that? She has occasional pain in her legs: a form of lumbago, the physicians say, from a childhood accident. She was playing in the garden at Hesse and fell into a pane of glass covering plants against frost. I saw her scars myself when we took the waters at Bath. But she’s otherwise hale enough.”

  I knew my feelings were irrational, springing from an inexplicable core of resentment that I couldn’t explain, but I tried anyway. “I mean, she speaks French with a terrible accent, is so timid she can barely speak at all in public, and she has no presence. How will she withstand the rigors of life here as the tsarevich’s wife? I know too well how challenging it can be, how much one must set aside one’s personal preferences to satisfy others. I rather doubt Alicky of Hesse’s upbringing has prepared her in the slightest for what is required.”

  “Minnie, neither did yours. She will learn like you, in time,” said Alix, and before I could erupt at yet another unwelcome comparison between her and me, my sister added, “Our children grow up, as you say. They must. But they don’t leave us. They only leave when we make it impossible for them to stay. You cannot stand in the way of your son’s happiness, no matter how well-intentioned your motives may be. It will only make him resent you. Is that what you want?”

  “No.” All of a sudden, I felt like a shrew. “I want him to have a loving wife, a family of his own. Just not with her. There is something about her….” I avoided my sister’s gaze. “You must think me unreasonable, but I know in my heart she’s not right for him.”

  “He doesn’t agree.” My sister softened her voice. “Minnie, it’s your nerves. You’re so affected by George’s illness and now Xenia’s marriage, everything seems insurmountable. But Nicky knows his heart. They love each other and want to marry. Is that so terrible?”

  “I don’t know,” I muttered. “It shouldn’t be.”

  She hooked her arm in mine once more. “It isn’t. You know that a marriage with love is a rare gift. Now, come. Let’s go see what our husbands are getting up to, before they drain the cognac to its dregs. You mustn’t fret so much. My impression of Nicky is that he doesn’t lack for judgment. He took great care to impress Victoria.” She nudged my ribs. “I needn’t remind
you what a grueling feat that can be.”

  I found myself begrudgingly smiling as she held me close and we returned to the palace, where Sasha and Bertie were indeed drinking cognac and spinning tall tales of hunting excursions.

  For a time, I didn’t think about it anymore. I put it out of my mind.

  Life was easier when I could pretend Alicky of Hesse did not exist.

  * * *

  “MY BOOTS DON’T fit.” Sasha stood on the threshold of my sitting room at Gatchina in his stocking-clad feet, staring at me as if I were to blame.

  After Alix and Bertie left, we’d taken a monthlong excursion to Finland on the Polar Star, our imperial yacht, bringing Olga, Misha, and George along. Our son barely coughed the entire time, although out of an abundance of caution, I wouldn’t let him swim in the sea. Cheered by George’s recovery, Sasha ate with his habitual gusto, taught Olga how to bait her rod with worms—she grimaced but speared them with the hook all the same—and showed Misha how to spot schools of pike and perch under the cool Finnish waters.

  But he’d reverted to his moodiness once he had to bid our son goodbye, and I accompanied George back to Abbas-Touman, where he collapsed, his cough returning. For the first time, he stained his handkerchief with blood. I’d tarried in his villa for three weeks, so concerned that I wouldn’t leave his side.

  Now, with a frustrated sigh, I picked up my pen to resume the letter that Sasha had interrupted. “You must have gotten them wet. The leather has shrunk. You have dozens of boots. Must it be the same pair every day until the very soles fall off?”

  “None of them fit.”

  I glanced up at him. Holding on to the doorframe, he thrust out one of his feet. “See?”

  I peered. “What? I see the same big—” and he tore down his stocking. For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. His toes were distended, the skin tinged with a sickly yellow hue. I went to him as he set his foot down and winced. “It hurts.”

  “It does? We must summon Botkin at once—”

  “No.” Though he’d not accepted the physician’s resignation, he wanted nothing more to do with him since George’s diagnosis. “I won’t have him poking at me. It’s probably gout.”

  “Sit down.” I guided him to my settee. As he gingerly lowered himself, I asked, “Does your back still hurt?”

  He nodded. “Since before Xenia’s marriage.”

  “Why didn’t you say so? Xenia wed over two months past!”

  “I’m saying so now.” He scowled. “Stop fussing. It’s gout. I eat too much.”

  “That you do.” But I told Obolensky to summon our physician. Sasha was furious as we herded him into his bedroom and Botkin closed the door behind them.

  I went back to my sitting room to smoke and pace. When Botkin came through the door, I took one look at his grave expression and my heart plummeted in my chest.

  “It’s not gout. I believe his kidneys are severely inflamed. I’ve taken a urine sample for analysis. Majesty, he’s lost a considerable amount of weight since I last examined him and he mentioned he has trouble with his breath. He told me he can barely walk for thirty minutes without becoming winded, when he’s been accustomed to walking in the park here for three hours every day.” His voice carried faint accusation. “Why wasn’t I consulted earlier?”

  “He never told me. He never complained of it. We went to Finland. He was fine. He fished every day….” I dropped onto the settee, overcome by remorse. “I didn’t notice any weight loss. I’ve been so preoccupied with our daughter’s marriage and George…”

  “I understand,” said Botkin. “On a man of his build, weight loss can pass unnoticed. Nevertheless, I must insist he undertake a complete rest. Kidney trouble is dire. I know of an expert in such ailments, Dr. Leyden. I suggest we summon him from Berlin—”

  “Berlin?” My laugh was tremulous. “Sasha won’t allow it. A German. Heaven forbid.”

  “Your Majesty, this isn’t a matter contingent on nationality. The tsar is very ill.”

  I heard his words. I heard them and knew Botkin wasn’t prone to alarmist declarations, not after George, and particularly not where the emperor’s health was concerned. But I couldn’t absorb it. A bolt locked inside me, shuttering my reason, my better sense. “If I take him to Livadia, will that help?” I said.

  “For the time being, providing he can rest. But no amount of sea air can cure him. He must be examined by an expert and prescribed a proper course of treatment. It is imperative. He’s only forty-nine. If he follows medical advice, he can survive this.”

  “I will speak to him.” Gripping the side of the settee, I made myself stand. “Not a word to him until I do. He mustn’t be told beforehand or your Dr. Leyden will never set foot in Russia. I know my husband. He’ll not submit, if he has the means to prevent it.”

  “Can I at least telegram his office to inform Leyden of the situation?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Be discreet. I don’t want anyone else to know.”

  Botkin bowed. “You have my word, Majesty.”

  * * *

  SASHA MOUNTED SO much resistance, I thought I’d never get him out of Gatchina.

  “It’s nothing,” he roared, but he was in such pain, his bravado was muted. “It’s gout or a kidney stone. Have you forgotten this winter is Xenia’s first Season as Sandro’s wife? We have responsibilities. We can’t go off on holiday to the Crimea in mid-October.”

  “It’s not a holiday,” I said, buttoning up his greatcoat. It hung on him. Everything he owned now hung on him, when only six months ago he’d been bursting his clothes at the seams. “It’s a rest. I’ve canceled our engagements. Xenia understands. We must heed Botkin’s advice.”

  “That fool didn’t know George was ill. Why should we heed him now?”

  “For me.” I set my hands on his chest. “Please. Do this for me. I could not bear it if—” My voice cracked. “You must do this.”

  “Manja. Are you crying?” He lifted my face to his. “Such a goose. You’re overwrought over nothing.” But he kept his palm under my chin as he kissed me softly, as he had at the start of our marriage, when he was uncertain of my love. “I’ve no intention of leaving you.”

  * * *

  IT WAS STILL balmy in the Crimea, but winter neared and the imperial villa was made of wood and stone, with a jutting tile rooftop, and it could become damp when storms blew off the Black Sea. I was still in doubt as to what to do. I’d sent a telegram to my brother in Greece, requesting use of his royal villa in Corfu for the winter. He’d replied it was at our disposal. But even on our imperial yacht, the trip would be daunting for Sasha in his condition. I decided that some time in Livadia first could restore some of his strength.

  Once he was settled in a room with a view of the sea, we were soon surrounded by family. It was impossible to keep Sasha’s illness a secret. Word seeped out, and his brothers and their families arrived to take every empty room. Only Miechen stayed away, sending word with Vladimir that she was praying for Sasha. Xenia and Sandro cut short their honeymoon to join us with Nicky. We’d left Olga and Misha in Gatchina, but Sasha asked for them so frequently, I had to summon them. Not George, however. He was too ill and the climate too volatile. I wouldn’t allow it.

  And so a small but no less aggravating court revolved around us, with Sasha’s decline so precipitous that his ministers could barely contain their dismay, even as he continued to harass them: He reviewed his cabinet reports daily, sitting in a great armchair with a shawl draped about his diminished frame and a scowl etched on his forehead.

  Nicky hoped to marry in November, as was traditional for a tsarevich’s union. I forestalled him. “Please don’t bring it up with your father. Can’t you see how unwell he is? The last thing he needs is more worries. Wait. Let him recover and then we can decide.”

  Because of his concern for Sasha, Nicky didn’t persist, but
I knew his plan wasn’t going to pass, as I’d hoped. Despite the fact that Sasha had not granted his official consent, my son now considered himself betrothed to Alicky of Hesse.

  I couldn’t argue with him. I fluttered through Livadia with a cheerful demeanor and chided Xenia when I caught her crying on Sandro’s shoulder. “None of that. What in heaven is wrong with you? Your father will recover. A Russian bear is not easily felled.”

  But at night, abandoning my daybed at his side to hold him as he murmured that it hurt, I could see he was fading. He barely ate, dribbling bilious saliva, and when he asked me for one of his cigars, as soon as I lit it and set it to his lips, he coughed and spat it out. “I can’t even smoke,” he groaned. “What a miserable way to end one’s days.”

  His words plunged me into panic. I dispatched our imperial train to fetch Botkin’s German expert. A fastidious man with an old-fashioned pince-nez that reminded me of Pobendonostev, Leyden endured Sasha’s weak flailing and insults as he examined him. Sasha’s cries as he was obliged to pass water into a cup resounded throughout Livadia.

  After analyzing the sample under a microscopic instrument, Leyden came to me. “He suffers from albuminuria,” he said, as if I had any idea what the ailment was.

  I regarded him in silence.

  The doctor continued in his perfunctory voice. “An incurable degradation of the kidneys. I regret to say, Majesty, there is no effective treatment. The tsar is dying.”