The Romanov Empress

by C. W. Gortner

  “Well?” I longed to stomp my foot and shout at him, as his uncles did. “Show her the report. She detests scandal. When she reads the truth, she’ll send him away herself.”

  “I cannot,” he said quietly. “I’d rather abide a thousand charlatans telling Sunny whatever she wants to hear than her tantrums.”

  Clutching the back of the chair, I swallowed against a lump in my throat. Here it was at last, the moment I had long dreaded—his confession that he’d married the wrong woman. But then he said, “She only wants to be respected as the empress. She started her own charity—a guild for aristocratic women to lend their skills at needlework, making garments for peasant children. She hoped to expand the enterprise to orphanages. But the women who joined her guild submitted lists of appointments for their sons in the regiments and posts for their daughters at court. When she refused, saying helping the poor should be recompense enough, they withdrew. Her enterprise failed.”

  I tried to sound conciliatory, though it was the last thing I felt. “Had she asked, I would have told her as much. No one does anything for free. It’s how these matters go, unless one is very firm, as I have been with my state charities—”

  “State charities you will not surrender.” His voice hardened. “Mama, must you deny her at every turn? First the jewels. Then that disastrous court gala, followed by Misha being named tsarevich. I realize we had no choice after George’s death, but Sunny took it as a grave insult—and now you want me to tell her you had our friend investigated?” He crushed out his half-smoked cigarette in his overflowing ashtray, muttering, “I hear enough already about how everyone thinks you’re the one who rules Russia.”

  He might as well have struck me. I stood with my hand gripping the chair, and before I began to cry or yell, I raised my chin. “You needn’t concern yourself. Destroy the report. I will never interfere in your affairs again.”

  I made myself turn to his study door, expecting his apology. It was the first time we’d had such a quarrel. He didn’t move. I left his study and he said nothing to detain me.

  I now understood she was more than a thorn in my side. She was poisonous to my relationship with Nicky, whom I’d raised to respect and admire me. She could not oust me from my rightful place, but she could do worse. She could banish me from my son’s affections.

  If only not to lose him, I had to submit.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Walking into my sitting room at Gatchina in her oversize travel bonnet and rumpled coat, my daughter Olga announced, “I think I am engaged.”

  I paid her no mind. I was writing overdue letters to my family, having repaired to Gatchina to escape a very difficult start to the year. Queen Victoria had died in late January, with Alexandra turning the end of our Epiphany into an interminable litany of funeral masses. With Bertie now King Edward VII and my sister Alix his queen consort, I had to suffer through it, residing in the Alexander Palace and entertaining my granddaughters while Alexandra grieved. To distract her, I offered up a few of my charities for her to oversee, which she accepted graciously enough but subsequently ignored, so that the directors of those institutions continued to issue their requests to me. She was too preoccupied with mourning her grandmother and safeguarding her pregnancy for good deeds now. In her mind—indeed, in all of our minds—the only duty she must fulfill was to bear a male heir.

  Now here was my Olga, whom I’d left in the city with Xenia and Sandro in their new palace on the Moika embankment, as my daughter preferred to attend the spring concerts and receptions without me standing guard over her.

  “Darling, how lovely,” I said, without glancing up. “Did you have a nice time?”

  “Pay attention.” The tenor of her voice lifted my gaze to hers. “I attended a gala at the Oldenburg Palace. Princess Eugenie invited me, so I felt I had to go.”

  “Naturally. The Oldenburgs are a very distinguished family, and Princess Eugenie Maximilianovna is so charming. Was she pleasant with you?”

  Olga said flatly, “Very pleasant, so much that I had no idea what she was about. Her son, Peter, had escorted Xenia and me to a ballet at the Mariinsky; I thought nothing of it. But the night of the gala, the princess led me into another room, where Peter was waiting. He proposed to me. I could hardly believe it.”

  A burst of laughter escaped me. “You jest! Peter is past thirty and a confirmed bachelor.” Not to mention a hopeless gambler, I almost added, who’d caused his mother no end of despair.

  “He is thirty-two. He told me that until now he’d never met a woman he wanted to marry. He was desperate for my reply. I finally said, ‘Thank you.’ ”

  I could see she wasn’t teasing. She didn’t have the wit. “That is all?”

  “That is not all. When I returned to the salon, everyone congratulated us. Xenia was dismayed.” From her pocket, Olga extracted a letter. “From Peter. He believes we are engaged. He requests your permission to announce it.”

  I snatched the letter from her and read it. “He says you consented to his proposal!”

  “I said, ‘Thank you.’ Does that mean I gave my consent?”

  I reviewed the letter again. “He seems to think so.” I returned my gaze to Olga, standing there in her coat, with that hideous bonnet on her head. Not quite nineteen and she was already dowdy as a spinster, I found myself thinking; as guilt overcame me, I asked sharply, “Do you favor him at all?”

  “Not particularly. But I suppose he’s better than someone I don’t know.”

  I found it impossible to untangle my emotions. Peter Oldenburg was suitable enough, related to the Romanovs through his maternal grandmother, a daughter of Nicholas I. But he wasn’t someone I’d ever have selected for her, although as I thought this, I recalled my words to Tania: How will I find her a husband?

  Perhaps Olga had blundered into the solution on her own.

  “I have given it some thought,” she went on. “I wouldn’t have to marry abroad. I could stay here. That is what you want.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I would prefer it if you stayed here, but you obviously don’t love him.”

  She shrugged. “I never expected to love the man I marry. I’m not Xenia.”

  She certainly was not. An accomplished pianist and painter, she’d expressed only one aspiration thus far: to open an art studio. Though I had tried as best I could to inculcate her with the graces required of an imperial grand duchess, Olga dwelled in a private world that I found impenetrable. She lacked Xenia’s vivacity or domesticity, but I appreciated her sensibility. A grand duchess must indeed wed. As she said, few found love in the process.

  “Then we must write to Nicky,” I said at length. “If you’re quite certain.”

  “I am. I want to marry as soon as possible.”

  * * *

  —

  NICKY RETURNED WORD that, while surprised, he’d not refuse if Olga was decided. I queried her again, for I was growing increasingly concerned by the strange haste of it. Even if I’d failed to establish the closeness with my youngest daughter that I sought, I didn’t want Olga to make a terrible mistake she might regret for the rest of her days.

  “Must we discuss it?” she said impatiently. “I’ve already told you, why not him? He’ll not trouble me for the most part, which is how I prefer it.”

  Seeing as there was no changing her mind—like Sasha when he’d made a decision—I took consolation that at least she’d remain in St. Petersburg, where I could try to keep an eye on the situation. She was formally engaged to Peter in May 1901; upon their marriage in August, she would move into the Oldenburg Palace on the Field of Mars. Misha was very sad to see her go and I knew he’d miss seeing her every day; of all my children, only he remained unwed, and as our tsarevich apparent, his bride must be well considered.

  I left for Denmark after Olga’s engagement to see my father and spend time with Alix before returning to Russ
ia for the birth of Alexandra’s fourth child.

  * * *

  THEY NAMED HER Anastasia—a beautiful name for a beautiful daughter; cherubic, with red-gold ringlets and startling violet-blue eyes like her mother’s. I had to admit that, her faults aside, Alexandra bred perfect children. My four granddaughters by her were enchanting and healthy, without a serious defect among them. Nevertheless, this time, Alexandra’s disappointment was palpable. She wept in despair, Nicky told me, saying she’d failed. Russia had no tsarevich borne by her. She was now frantic to give him a son.

  I wondered if it was possible, let alone safe. Now twenty-nine and approaching the age when fertility became compromised, Alexandra risked her life in childbed every time, as birthing taxed her. Her health suffered for it, her lumbago confining her to bed for weeks on end, her beauty fading into her thickened figure and exhausted air. Raising four girls wasn’t easy on any mother, much less one like her, as she ran her palace on an infrangible schedule that a general would envy.

  But I’d learned my lesson. I did not interfere—a choice I’d soon come to regret.

  * * *

  THAT SEASON, THE salons of St. Petersburg were awash in gossip as word spread anew that Her Imperial Majesty consulted mystics. Alexandra’s fervency, coupled with her disregard for the consequences, had always disturbed me; now I found myself fending off pointed questions about Dr. Philippe and about my daughter-in-law’s mysterious friendship with Anna Vyrubova. That England had achieved a détente with France and urged us to join an alliance aimed at curtailing Prussia, or that Japan threatened hostility over our holdings in Manchuria, was of no importance. The only topic anyone cared to discuss was whether the tsarina’s bizarre associations would yield fruit.

  “She’ll make a laughingstock of us,” I said to Miechen. “After her brother’s marriage fiasco, you’d think she’d refrain from exposing herself to further ridicule.”

  “You would think. Did I tell you Ducky sent me a letter? Oh, the things she told me. From stable hand to kitchen help, none was safe from her husband.”

  I grimaced, already apprised of the sordid details surrounding the collapse of Alexandra’s brother’s marriage. “Be that as it may, the marriage has been dissolved. Ducky has returned to Saxe-Coburg to reside with her mother.” I eyed Miechen. “I trust you’re not encouraging her.”

  She plucked at her latest emerald bracelet. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “You know very well. Didn’t Ducky once express a desire to wed your Cyril?”

  She sniffed. “They formed an attachment at one time, yes, years ago, when he went on his grand tour. She chose to marry that degenerate instead.”

  “Well, it’s impossible now. She is divorced. And you know that members of our family are forbidden from wedding divorcées. She and Cyril are also first cousins. They’d require a dispensation from the Church, which only Nicky can request—and he will not.”

  “I am well aware. I told Cyril if he’s still inclined, he should take her as a mistress,” and when I stared at her, aghast, she laughed. “Imagine Gigogne’s reaction, though the shame of it is on her brother. At least my Cyril doesn’t fancy kitchen boys.”

  I could envision Alexandra’s dismay—while she’d reluctantly supported her brother’s divorce, she avoided any mention of his part in it—and it soured my precarious confidence in Miechen, whose antipathy toward my daughter-in-law surpassed even mine.

  The Season ended on a bitter note.

  Alexandra declared herself again with child, but when Botkin examined her and pronounced she wasn’t pregnant at all, she broke into sobs and secluded herself, with Nicky dancing helpless attendance on her as his ministers besieged me with grievances that he was letting the business of the empire fall astray.

  It took all of my strength to not charge to Tsarskoe Selo and box his ears, with incinerating words flung in her direction. My suspicion, confided to my sister years ago, was coming true: Alexandra was unsuitable and she was affecting my son’s ability to rule.

  * * *

  “I MADE A mistake. All Peter wanted was my money, and he’s spending it.” Olga pushed her hand through her hair; to my dismay, strands of it peeled away in her fingers. “I’m going to need a wig. Look at me. He’ll be my death. I should never have agreed to marry him.”

  “But I thought you wanted a husband who let you alone,” I said helplessly, for she was near tears—a first for her.

  “On our wedding night?” she cried. “And every night thereafter, to go out gambling at his men’s club? He’s having affairs. I want to separate from him. And don’t tell me to try. I’m miserable. My marriage is not going to improve.”

  What could I do? My daughter left her husband and returned home, an intolerable scandal for me. Misha took her under his care, escorting her about town and accompanying her to St. Petersburg’s 1903 bicentenary celebration.

  For the occasion, I entreated Nicky to hold a court ball. I proposed having our guests don seventeenth-century Russian costumes to exalt our heritage. We mustn’t neglect our obligations, and we’d had enough family disgrace that we needed to put on a show. Once he agreed, everyone adopted my idea, plunging into secret fittings and teasing others with telling details so no one would arrive in the same raiment.

  I undertook the responsibility of dispatching the embossed invitations to our three hundred and ninety guests, as Alexandra had made it clear that she would prefer to stay in Tsarskoe Selo. But she had no choice other than to appear at the ball, solemn-faced in antique silver brocade and a magnificent emerald replica of a seventeenth-century crown, crafted for her by Fabergé. At her side, Nicky wore a caftan of gold silk and curled-tip boots. In her inimitable style, Miechen donned a feudal noblewoman’s costume, replete with a kokoshnik of dangling pearls that swathed her head like a turban. I selected a diamond-and-sapphire-tiered crown with a veil (smaller than Miechen’s, which pleased her) and a gold-and-white sable-trimmed brocade gown worn by Peter the Great’s consort, unearthed from storage in the Kremlin. Princess Zenaida Yusupova, clad in a stunning pearl-studded boyarina sundress, performed a solo dance, to everyone’s delight.

  It was a magnificent evening, harkening back to my time as empress and lasting well into the next day. We posed for many photographs; stirred to emotion despite herself, Alexandra offered to curate the pictures and have them published in a limited edition as a memento. She signed each copy herself, sending them with a handwritten note to each of the guests. I thought it a considerate, and rare, gesture of appreciation on her part.

  At the ball, Misha introduced Olga to a fellow officer in his Blue Cuirassiers regiment stationed at Gatchina, to which my son had transferred. This Officer Kulikovsky and Olga were soon seen driving about in a carriage and dining together, until word reached me.

  “You’ve only just separated from your husband and now you’re consorting with a common officer. Everyone is talking about it. Have you no sense of decency?”

  “His family has served in our military for many years,” she replied. “They were invited to the ball, so he’s hardly indecent. And before you say another word, I want a divorce. Peter must give it to me. He’s the one with secrets to hide. I have none.”

  “Apparently not,” I said through my clenched teeth. “But even if Nicky grants you a divorce, you can never marry this officer. He has no rank. Have you forgotten that your great-uncle Grand Duke Paul was a widower when he wed that common woman last year? Nicky stripped him of his income and title. He had to go abroad with her, leaving his children permanently with Sergei and Ella. Is that what you want?”

  “Like secrets, I have no children,” she said.

  She continued to see Kulikovsky. As I could do nothing to deter her, gossip spread that Olga had taken a lover. I bore the brunt of it. I couldn’t control my own daughter’s behavior, just as I couldn’t control Alexandra’s thrall over Nicky.

 
In the late fall of 1903, Botkin confirmed that Alexandra was now indeed pregnant. Doctor Philippe assured her that she’d bear a son, but no one save her and Nicky believed it. I certainly did not. And as I prepared for the birth of yet another granddaughter, who, while welcome, would not secure our succession, we were suddenly confronted by the outbreak of war with Japan.

  I was beside myself. Nicky had been repeatedly advised by his chief minister Witte and other moderates in his cabinet that he must negotiate to avert hostilities in Manchuria. Even Bertie had written to him, warning that since Britain had signed an alliance with Japan, it would put the British at odds with us should we end up at war. Nicky sided instead with his bellicose grand duke uncles, who dared to quip that a brief war was just what we needed to rouse patriotism. All we had to do was throw our caps at them and the Japanese would cower like “yellow-bellied dogs.”

  In February 1904, Japan launched a surprise attack on our Port Arthur in Manchuria. Miechen’s son Cyril, serving as first officer, had to leap into the sea to save his life. As our ill-prepared men waged battle from the fortified hilltops, the Japanese employed long-range artillery lent to them by Prussia, destroying our Pacific battleships. Nicky had to commandeer our Baltic fleet as reinforcement, mobilizing our army to travel hundreds of miles across the still-incomplete Trans-Siberian Railway—costing us time, as temporary tracks were laid down, and paving the way to our unthinkable defeat.

  My son’s reputation plummeted. Corrupt indolence, the bane of our commanders, obliged him to enact sanctions and further harsh measures after one of his war ministers was shot to death in Moscow.

  As word of the assassination raced through St. Petersburg, my blood froze. The murderers, whose identities were unknown, had sent a grim warning to the newspapers, proclaiming themselves members of a new revolutionary movement called the Social Democrats, inspired by the socialist fervor of the German philosopher Marx. As I’d warned Nicky, a new threat had risen to take the place of the vanquished Nihilists while he’d been tending to Alexandra. In response, he granted Sergei as Governor General of Moscow license to hunt down these new revolutionary groups, raid their meeting places, and arrest their adherents. But our war with Japan only fueled more recruits to their cause, as hundreds of unwilling men were conscripted into service and sent to perish on foreign battlegrounds.