“I hardly think I’ll be admired.” She did not take her gaze from mine, her leaden tone sinking into me. “Mother dear, I know you mean well, but you don’t seem to realize that I can never be you. I do not say this to offend. You were an exemplary empress, one to emulate, only I don’t wish to emulate anyone. And I know what is said of me: The Funeral Bride, the newspapers call me, who married the tsar too soon after his father’s death. The court and society think the same.”
“You exaggerate,” I said, both because I was caught off guard that her apparent reclusiveness hadn’t shielded her from malicious gossip and because the situation careened into the very brambles I sought to avoid. “Society does not know you yet. To refine their impression, you must let them.”
“Why?” A frown knit her forehead. “As you say, I’m the empress. I will bear Russia an heir. Must I be liked, as well?”
I was dumbstruck. How was I supposed to answer?
“It would make it easier on you,” I finally said.
“Would it?” She tugged at her shawl once more, as if she felt a chill. “I think they should respect me regardless. Nicky chose me as his wife, but God willed it. Would they question our tsar and the Almighty because I’m not who they expect?”
“They shouldn’t.” I couldn’t argue her point, even if I disagreed. “But you might hasten their respect if you made an effort.” Without warning, for I hadn’t planned on doing it, I reached over to take her hand, as I had done on the day of her wedding. “If you’ll allow me the honor of presenting you, I can assure you of their respect and approval. The former is required, but the latter must be earned. I had to earn it myself when I first came here.”
She withdrew her hand. I had the unsettling sense she wanted to wipe it on her shawl. “If you think it so important,” she murmured.
It was as close to a capitulation as I was likely to achieve. I smiled again, finishing my tea. “I must leave you to rest. I’ve only just returned from Abbas-Touman, and look at me, in my dusty cloak. I’ll see to everything. I’ll send you the guest list to look over once I’ve compiled it. It’ll be a splendid occasion. I know you’ll impress everyone.”
She nodded, inclining to me to let me kiss her cheek. I resisted again the temptation to advise her not to spend her entire pregnancy on that chaise. It wasn’t healthy. Restorative seclusion to protect the babe might be the norm in Britain but not in Russia. I’d danced my way through all of my pregnancies, and none of my children had suffered for it.
I refrained. And as I left, she did not say another word.
* * *
I BUSIED MYSELF with the gala, reassured by my Orthodox priest that I could return to society if I wished, providing I honored the requisite masses for Sasha’s departed soul. I sat with Tania for hours on end to draw up the guest list, which grew immense because I couldn’t bring myself to exclude anyone of importance.
Miechen chuckled when I showed it to her. “She’ll have an apoplexy. Over six hundred people. She can barely contend with tea for three.”
Undaunted, I sent the list to Alexandra. Nicky had told me she was becoming more comfortable with my idea and had expressed eagerness to see who was invited. When he arrived for our morning meeting—we still met daily to review his reports and discuss pertinent business—he divested himself of his hat, lit his cigarette, and handed me the list.
“Sunny wishes to amend it,” he said.
I perused the list. Scores of names, scored through by her pen. “But it’s more than half the guests.” I looked up at him. “She cannot be serious. Why? It’ll only give insult to deny these members of the aristocracy the opportunity to greet her.”
He wet his dry lips. He was smoking too much, and his eyes were rimmed in dark circles that betrayed sleepless nights. “She’s been informed those guests lead dissolute lives. She doesn’t believe they warrant the privilege of greeting their empress.”
I laughed shortly. “If we’re to exclude everyone who’s led a dissolute life, we might as well cancel the gala. It’s St. Petersburg. Everyone hides a sin or two.”
He cleared his throat. “There is more.”
“Oh?” I sat back in my chair, bracing myself.
“She wants to wear the crown jewels on that night.”
I waved a hand. “She can petition for them. They’re in the vault, I presume.”
“Not all.” He met my stare. “She had the inventory sent to her for review. The pink-diamond tiara, the pearl-and-sapphire necklace, and several other pieces are missing. What is in the vault is the older collection and the tsarevna jewels.”
Recalling the day of my coronation, Sasha complimenting me on my display of the jewels, and all the other state occasions when I’d worn them so proudly, my voice sharpened. “Those pieces aren’t missing. They’re here with me, as she well knows.”
He shifted his stance, without speaking.
“Does she expect me to surrender the jewels I wore for many years as your father’s wife?” I added, unable to stanch my resentment. “She has that entire vault at her disposal.”
“Mama.” His cigarette smoldered between his fingers. “Papa bought you many personal jewels to wear. The crown ones belong to the empress.”
“I see.” My fist curled on the table. “Perhaps as she hasn’t been crowned yet, she should be concerned with cultivating favor rather than with how she will adorn herself.”
He stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray on my desk. “She wants to be presented according to her rank. The jewels in the vault are outdated or belong to a tsarevich’s wife. You kept the best pieces because they’re easier to wear. Can you not accommodate her?”
“And this list? Should I accommodate this, too? Shall we hold your first court gala in my drawing room? Because we hardly need the Nicholas Hall if we’re going to entertain a few elderly nobles and their sinless matrons.”
His expression hardened. Seizing up his hat and coat, he strode to the door. I called out after him, “We still have your reports to review.”
“Then review them,” he said. “You’ll do whatever you like, regardless of what I say.”
* * *
I RETURNED THE amended list and scheduled an appointment with Madame Bulbenkova, the St. Petersburg couturiere who held official license to make our court gowns. She’d dressed me on numerous occasions before; in her refined atelier, we designed my new gown for the gala. When I asked if Alexandra had consulted her, she sniffed. “Perhaps our empress prefers a German dressmaker, Your Majesty.”
“Is there such a thing?” I replied.
Seeing as the official period of mourning had ended, I was no longer precluded from being fashionable. Still, I kept my attire a secret until the night of the gala, when I arrived early to review the hall and ensure my décor had been completed to my specifications. As I inspected the profusion of fresh flowers arranged in the window alcoves, the saffron gaslight refracting against the gleam of the polished mirrors in the hall, I felt like myself again, excited to be in a new gown and about to receive guests. Somewhere along the way, I’d ceased to feel the aching void Sasha had left. I felt guilty, for he’d not been dead a year, but I reminded myself that to grieve him wasn’t an act I must indulge like a penitent. He would never want me to be unhappy. I hoped that from heaven he was looking down at me and smiling at my nerve.
Even if Alexandra would not.
Her face was glacial when she and Nicky arrived to welcome the guests. She’d chosen a traditional court dress of gold tissue, with a purple and gold-embroidered mantle, although she’d swelter in it. She also wore her bridal diadem and a dense antique necklace of diamonds from the vault. The jewels shone dull against her splotchy skin; now in her sixth month of pregnancy, she’d been afflicted by that discoloration that made her look as if she had rubella.
“Mama,” said Nicky, in audible surprise.
I
twirled for him, allowing my sculpted dress to flow at my heels, a confection of black satin and tulle overlaid with glass beads that adhered to my slim figure, with ruffled dark-crimson chiffon at my shoulders and fitted sleeves, not the overhanging ones customary for a court gown. “Do you like it?”
“It’s…” Nicky was at a loss for words, which I took as a compliment. I wore no jewels save for onyx-and-ruby combs in my upswept hair—as Alexandra must have noticed, her gaze passing over me and turning virulent. I’d not sent over the jewels she requested but had disdained them tonight, to prove one didn’t need diamonds to shine.
“How lovely you look.” I leaned to kiss her so she could smell my expensive Rallet rose attar. “All that gold and purple. So imperial.”
She recoiled.
As the guests queued up to be presented, bowing first before Nicky, handsome in his dark-blue Life Guards uniform, then before Alexandra and me, I whispered each name in her ear, along with the corresponding titles from memory. After she thrust out her hand to be kissed and gave a wooden nod, making no attempt to engage in discourse, the guests proceeded to congratulate Sandro and Xenia on the recent birth of their daughter, Irina. I saw a drop of sweat creep down Alexandra’s neck from under her side locks, which must have taken her hairdresser pains to create. She stood stiff as an effigy, her belly hidden under her stomacher and the folds of that monumental gown. Rather than exalt her fertility, she disguised it as if it were shameful.
And every guest whom she’d struck from the list was present, at my invitation.
She danced only once, after walking the polonaise with Nicky to open the gala. Then she retreated to her throne on the dais, Nicky anxious by her side. I went to him, holding out my hand. “Come dance the mazurka, my son.” He glanced at her, uncertain, until she nodded and he escorted me onto the floor.
Under the chandeliers, the court made room for us, gathering around to clap and stomp their feet as the gypsy-inspired dance had me swirling in Nicky’s arms, and he, a fine dancer himself, broke into an exuberant grin as he reveled in the moment.
When we finished, managing to break through the crowd, many of whom clasped my hands in theirs and told me how marvelous it was to see me looking so vibrant, I caught sight of Miechen with Vladimir, red-faced and stout in his tight uniform.
With a conspiratorial smile, Miechen arched her plucked eyebrow at me.
Turning to the dais, I saw Nicky standing there, disconcerted. Alexandra’s chair was empty. She had abandoned us in mid-gala, and only Miechen had noticed.
* * *
“YOU HUMILIATED HER on purpose,” said Xenia, as I oversaw the packing of my luggage with Sophie. “She left the gala in tears. I saw her. I almost went after her. Mama, how could you? It was to be her introduction at court, and you made sure everyone laughed at her.”
“I did not.” I gestured to Sophie to take the luggage downstairs for loading onto my carriage. “She elected to behave as if the honor was all theirs. She didn’t speak to anyone, sitting on that dais like a statue. She left of her own account. No one hounded her away.”
Xenia glared. “You are impossible. I am ashamed of you.”
I paused. Like Nicky and Misha, my eldest daughter tended toward conformity, so her outburst surprised me. But she was perceptive; I had deliberately ignored Alexandra’s request to amend the list and return the jewels, contriving to outdo her at the gala to prove she had much to learn. In my mind, she only had herself to blame. Had she behaved as befitted a tsarina, she would have won much-needed approval. Instead, she had shown herself to be arrogant and aloof.
As Sophie hastened out of the room to allow us privacy, I returned Xenia’s stare. “How dare you speak to me in that tone before my maidservant?”
“Because it’s the only way you will listen. What would Papa say if he were alive? You must ask her forgiveness. She is Nicky’s wife.”
“Papa never wanted her to be Nicky’s wife. And she has left for Tsarskoe Selo. Do you imagine I should go all that way to be disdained? Absolutely not. Your grandmother in Denmark is ill. I must visit her. Olga and Misha are already on the yacht, waiting for me. I’ve tried my best, but I’ve gone as far as I will for her.”
Xenia made an impatient gesture. “Is this your best? Ignoring the fact that she’s our empress and about to bear you a grandchild? Grandmère Louise is not ill; you are only leaving for Denmark out of spite. You always call her Alexandra, too, not Alicky, as if to emphasize she’s not part of our family and must do as you, the dowager empress, say.”
“I never said she’s not family,” I replied. “And she should do as I say. This dowager empress was beside her emperor for thirteen years and has lived here for many more.”
“Mama, she’s about to give birth—”
“In November. It’s August. I won’t stay here in this heat or take up residence in the Alexander Palace to watch her rest on her couch. Now, please step aside. I’m late, and I believe I hear Irina crying. Go tend to your child.”
She blocked the door. “If you force Nicky to choose, you won’t like his choice.”
I almost pushed her aside. “When she’s ready to deliver, I’ll return.”
Xenia stepped aside. As I made to march past her, she said, “She will never forgive you if you refuse to make an attempt.”
“Has she made an attempt?” I retorted, and when Xenia pursed her lips, I nodded. “She has not. Nor does she have any intention of doing so.”
I left my daughter staring after me in disbelief. As I rode in my carriage to the harbor, I knew that while I was abroad, she and Sandro would seek another residence. They wouldn’t stay under my roof. Xenia was loyal to Nicky; I couldn’t fault her for it.
As for me, I wanted to spend time in my native land, without any talk of Alexandra.
Much as Sasha had often declared, Russia was starting to feel like a prison to me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
I found my mother forgetful, chastising me for neglecting to bring her shawl when it was draped across her chair. Papa’s arthritis had worsened, but nothing impeded his daily stroll in the gardens at Fredensborg, his cigar in hand. At sixteen and thirteen respectively, Misha and Olga relished the lack of etiquette, boating together and reading with their heads bent over the same book, as they had done since they were children.
Alix came to visit us, alone this time. She was quiet, somewhat withdrawn, but when Mama asked what ailed her, she murmured, “Nothing. I’m just a little tired.”
I knew it was more than fatigue. Her grief for her dead son was still overwhelming, she’d had a serious fever that left her with a stiff leg, and she now complained of increasing deafness. But I read the foreign newspapers in St. Petersburg; I’d seen scandal items in the London Daily News about how His Highness the Prince of Wales escorted notable actresses about town. Recalling my mother’s warning years before to never mention it, I kept silent, but I also made sure to give Alix my affection.
We took afternoon promenades by the lake, Alix’s arm wrapped about mine as she gingerly trod the path with her cane, which she’d made such a fashion staple in England that hundreds of women employed one to resemble their princess. I asked her about her son George, who’d wed his late brother’s proposed bride, Princess Mary of Teck, known in the family as May.
“They are so happy together,” she said. “As you know, May is of German descent, but as she was born and raised in England, she knows how to behave. And my George looks so much like Nicky, they might be twins. But Victoria isn’t well. The rebellions in India and strife in Ireland weigh on her. It’s not easy to rule as long as she has. She’s enjoyed very little of her life and abides no disobedience to her will.”
She made an irritated moue, looking for a brief moment like her younger self, my wily sister who’d refused a tsarevich to marry the British heir. “She was touched by your letter thanking her for
the book of poetry and kind words after Sasha’s death. She still remembers when you went riding without a hat.” She paused. “Do you miss it?”
“Riding?” I said.
She nudged my side. “Being tsarina. It cannot have been easy to surrender it.”
“It wasn’t. I took pride in thinking I’d bear the title until the day I died. But after Sasha left me, it didn’t seem so important anymore.” I looked toward the lake, not wanting her to see how her question had stirred both the pain of the past and my frustration with the present. “Without him, I’d rather be as I am. I find it less strenuous.”
“And Nicky? He fares well?”
I forced out a smile. “Very well. He’s overjoyed about the upcoming birth of his child. But being tsar,” I said, quickening my voice so as not to fall into the trap of having to talk about his wife, “isn’t easy on him. I fear we didn’t have time to prepare him well, in that respect. But he will learn. He must.”
She regarded me. I assumed she must have heard something about the situation in Russia. Alexandra wrote regularly to Victoria, and I doubted she had anything laudatory to say about me. Or perhaps she didn’t mention me at all. That alone would be enough. To my relief, however, Alix didn’t probe further.
“You’re looking so well, Minnie,” she said at length. “To lose a son is terrible enough, but to lose a husband…” Her voice faded. In losing her beloved Eddy, she had also lost Bertie. I loved them both; it hurt me that their mourning had cast them further apart, but I didn’t want to oblige her to confess what she didn’t wish to reveal.
“We must go on,” I said. “That is what you told me. We must live for our children.”
She sighed. “You learned more than that. You’ve also learned to live for yourself.”
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