Witte wrote to tell me the announcement of pending reforms had quieted the rioters. Okhrana agents, working as moles in Social Democratic groups, reported grave concern among the agitators that should we grant constitutional liberties, their revolution would be squashed. These agents had intercepted messages from anarchic leaders in Geneva, who encouraged relentless defiance. One of these revolutionary leaders in particular, Witte warned, posed a significant threat. Born in Russia to a wealthy but untitled family, his name was Vladimir Lenin. He’d become a proponent of Marxism after his elder brother was executed as a terrorist under Sasha’s regime. Arrested for sedition twice, he fled abroad, where he became the head of a radical Marxist faction called Bolsheviks, who advocated seizure of power by the proletariat and abolishing imperial rule. Unlike the Nihilists, who’d never possessed unity of leadership, these Bolsheviks were united under Lenin. What Witte did not say explicitly but I inferred was that my son had reached a perilous crossroads. Unless he ceased to defend the autocracy, Nicky risked the loss of his throne.
I wrote to Nicky at once: Better to give up something than regret everything.
My father was now eighty-seven, his court calcified since Mama’s death. Alix could not join me due to her own duties as queen, but my sister Thyra did. After years of not seeing each other, Thyra and I reveled in our reunion, taking residence at the Amalienborg and shopping in Copenhagen, to the Danish people’s delight. Thyra was sorely tried in her marriage, but we shared memories of our childhood, when life had been less complicated. When she left, I promised to visit her in Austria.
I was still in Denmark when word came that our broken soldiers straggled home to discover no provision made for them. With the economy in tatters from the war, uproar surged anew, paralyzing the country with another general strike and more violent demonstrations. The revolutionaries were organizing in Moscow, demanding the assembly of local “soviets,” or regional advisory councils, whose members were of the working class. They underscored their intent by assassinating several government officials and planting bombs. Again, Witte wrote to me, requesting my support. Despite the disruption in the telegram services, I managed to cable back my response, urging Nicky to move forward as quickly as possible to sanction civil liberties.
By October, it was done. My son declared Russia under a semi-constitutional monarchy. A State Duma, or parliament, would be established, as well as an expanded state council to consult with the soviets, with restrictions on freedom of conscience, speech, and assembly rescinded. What my father-in-law had planned all those years ago was now a reality, yet when I wrote to tell Nicky I was coming home, he replied that I must wait.
Celebrating Christmas so far from my children was dismal for me. I tried to enjoy the holidays with my father and brothers, who rallied around me to make me feel at home, but Denmark no longer felt that way to me. Russia was where my heart belonged.
After the New Year celebrations of 1906, Papa complained of chest pain. As I sat holding his gnarled hand, he left us as Mama had, without any fuss. Alix made haste to attend the funeral. Watching our father’s coffin lowered into the vault in Roskilde Cathedral beside our mother, my sister slipped her hand in mine.
“Now we are truly orphans,” she whispered.
* * *
WITH MY RETURN to Russia delayed, I decided that Alix and I should fulfill our childhood dream of purchasing our own house in Denmark. Our sixty-two-year-old brother, now King Frederick VIII, moved with his family into Amalienborg to resuscitate the court. Freddie had waited patiently in the wings for more than forty years, and while he assured Alix and me that we were always welcome, a sister, much like a mother-in-law, could overstay her visit. Instead, I hauled Alix with me to visit several available properties, until we found Hvidøre House, a manor on the Øresund coast.
The house reminded me with a pang of Sasha, for he would have found it as charming as I did, with its Italianate clock tower, unkempt rose garden, orchard of herbs and fruit trees, and a private beach just across the road. It had plenty of space—a study for Alix and me, five bedrooms and two drawing rooms, as well as ample servant quarters—but no working bathroom, to my sister’s dismay.
“The owner can’t maintain the upkeep,” I said. “The asking price is absurd. We’ll offer less and use the savings to renovate.”
I had to practically shout in Alix’s ear, as her deafness had worsened, but she agreed, so I undertook the purchase. I commissioned modernizations like electricity, central heating, and new plumbing, as well as a tunnel to provide access to the beach without crossing the road. Alix suggested a British firm for interior décor; we submerged ourselves in sampling wallpapers and furniture catalogs until she had to return to England.
“Next year in September,” I said, “we’ll come here by yacht and not be a bother to anyone. Won’t it be lovely, a place of our own. We can be orphans together.”
She smiled. “You always find a way to live.”
We hugged each other, vowing as always when we said goodbye, “Sisters forever.”
In April, Nicky sent word that he wanted me present for the Duma’s inauguration. Boarding my train with my retinue, dogs, and enough luggage to fill six carriages, as I’d spent lavishly on myself and gifts for the family, I returned to Russia. I’d been gone nearly a year. But I wasn’t sad to leave Denmark. I now had a house to which I could return.
Little did I suspect how much of a refuge Hvidøre would become.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
I surveyed the newly elected members of the Duma on the left-hand side of St. George’s Hall in the Winter Palace, dressed in worker blouses and moujik trousers, their caps doffed out of respect but with the odious revolutionary scarlet kerchief at their throats. Their expressions varied between insolence and hatred, with one in particular catching my eye with his sneer.
“Who is that?” I hissed to Miechen at my side.
“One of them,” she said in my ear. “Vladimir says he takes orders directly from Lenin. A Bolshevik to his marrow. I’d not be surprised if he threw the bomb that killed Sergei.”
My throat constricted. I tried to remain impassive as I stood with my daughters, Alexandra a short distance away, dressed like us in her white court gown and pearl-and-diamond headdress. Under the canopy over the dais, Nicky prepared to give his opening speech, dressed in his Preobrazhensky uniform.
But my gaze kept darting to the elected representatives opposite us. I’d been shocked to learn upon my arrival that Witte had been dismissed, the post of prime minister given over to Goremykin, a sixty-six-year-old cabinet member without significant accomplishments. When I queried Nicky, he said, “Witte wanted more concessions than I was willing to make. I asked him to resign. I no longer trusted him to do what’s best for us.”
I’d found his reason inexplicable until now, seeing these sullen men who would participate in our government, a stark contrast to the right-hand side of the hall, where our ministers and officials had donned formal uniforms or court dress.
Nicky lifted his voice. “The welfare of Russia’s sovereign cannot be separated from the welfare of our people, and their sorrows are our sorrows. We call upon you, loyal sons of Russia, to remember your duty to our country, to assist in ending this unprecedented turmoil and, together with us, make every effort to restore tranquility.”
As he expounded on his intention to rule in concert with the Duma but to never alienate his son the tsarevich from the inheritance due to him, I glanced at Alexandra. Her face had gone as hard as the diamonds about her throat. Sensing my eyes on her, she shifted her gaze. For a heart-stopping moment, her virulent stare drove into me.
“She blames you,” Miechen whispered. “She thinks you and Witte devised this humiliation, depriving Alexei of the autocracy when his time comes.” Her smile was shallow. “If she could, she’d throw the next bomb. At you.”
“It was necessary.” I trem
bled in sudden rage. I had supported this reform for Russia and my son’s welfare, but all of a sudden I couldn’t abide it, our submission to these uncouth rebels who sought to abolish what God had bestowed upon nearly three hundred years of Romanov rule. It was a travesty, brought about by thugs and murderers. Sasha would have roared to see us reach such a pass. Had he lived, we never would have. He’d have seen them garroted in the Palace Square by those red scarves.
“That remains to be seen,” Miechen replied.
Applause rose as Nicky finished his speech and turned to us. We wept openly, although my tears were mostly of relief. It was finished. Done. We had submitted. It might be a travesty, but at least now we could resume our lives without fear of evildoing.
Only Alexandra remained dry-eyed, as if carved of stone.
* * *
“WE LOVE EACH other,” Misha said. “We didn’t mean for it to happen, and I realize it’s complicated, as Natalia still has a husband, but we want to marry.”
I regarded my youngest son in dismay. I’d returned only weeks before to Gatchina from my annual trip abroad. Three years had passed since the inauguration of our Duma, but nothing had gone as expected, with Duma members at odds with one another and with Goremykin (who’d proven as ineffective as I’d feared, prompting me to implore Nicky to replace him), while the revolutionaries continued to agitate and gnaw at our heels. Seeing as I could only advise my son and often found my advice appreciated but ignored, I’d elected to spend as much time as I could abroad, going away every year to visit family and friends. This year, I had gone to Paris for a monthlong stay with my brother-in-law Alexis, then to the south of France, and finally to Denmark to see my brother, after which Alix had joined me in Hvidøre for three weeks, during which we’d cooked our own meals and read together at night. I always missed Russia when I was away, but as soon as I returned, I realized that what I missed was the memory of a past that no longer existed. In its place was turmoil and the unexpected—and the unwelcome, like now.
“You cannot be serious,” I exclaimed. “If she has a husband, she’s already married.”
“She’s also been previously divorced. She has a daughter by Wulfert, her second husband—”
“Who is your fellow officer! God in heaven, what is amiss in the Cuirassiers? I’m ashamed to be its honorary colonel in chief. First Olga with Kulikovsky, now you with another officer’s wife. Does your commander exercise no control over how his regiment behaves?”
Misha’s eyes hardened, although I showed restraint. He’d always been the most pliant of my children, dedicated to duty and mindful of scandal, despite his share of lovers. I’d practically given up on Olga, who, still denied her divorce, continued to parade about with Kulikovsky, but I counted on Misha to remain steadfast. While no longer our tsarevich, he was vital to the dynasty; after Alexei, he stood next in line to the throne. I’d suggested various brides for him—princesses of Great Britain and Sweden—and he’d showed no interest, so he had caught me by surprise.
“Wulfert has agreed to grant Natalia a divorce,” he said.
Despite my effort to remain calm, I rapped my hand on my desk. “Out of the question. Misha, how can you do this to us? Are you not aware of what is happening? Prime Minister Goremykin was useless; your brother had to dismiss him and appoint another in his place. The Duma is a disaster, with no one able to agree on anything, and daily protests in the streets. Those revolutionaries dare to demand your brother’s abdication. If we fail, they win. You must marry to bring us advantage. The twice-divorced wife of a common officer brings quite the opposite.”
He returned my stare. Then, to my horror, he said, “Perhaps Nicky should abdicate. He never wanted to rule. All he need do is see how our people live, their hunger and lack of work, their constant struggle to survive. Many no longer believe the tsar can save them.”
I bolted to my feet. “It is our dynasty. Would you disregard centuries of tradition, the sacrifices made by your grandfather and father, for us to be who we are?”
He met my infuriated gaze. “Mama, Russia no longer needs us to be who we are. I never wanted any of this, either. I want to marry whom I choose.” He paused for a moment before he said, “Natalia is with child. It is mine.”
I felt short of breath. “How…how can you even know? She still has a husband.”
“With whom she doesn’t sleep.” He ran a hand through his thinning hair; his premature loss of hair plagued him, like his father before him. I thought it accentuated his noble forehead and gentle features, his sculpted nose with his trim mustache, and soulful eyes, even if I now began to recognize that, much like Olga, he was a child of mine that I didn’t know well at all. “I see no reason why Nicky should deny me. He has Alexei as his heir. Olga loves someone else but cannot divorce her husband. Xenia and Sandro have separated. Does my brother want me to be equally unhappy?”
“Do not mention Xenia to me,” I cried. “Must you break my heart as she has? Marriage is for life. One doesn’t leave a spouse over a misunderstanding.”
“Mama, you know it’s more than a misunderstanding. Sandro has been keeping a mistress in Nice. He asked for a divorce and Nicky took him to task, rupturing their years of friendship. And for what? Xenia told me she’s suspected for some time and merely waited for Sandro to confess. She may be content to remain as they are, with her residing most of the year with the boys and Irina in the Crimea while Sandro comes and goes from France, but that isn’t the arrangement I desire for myself.”
“Nicky will never permit it,” I repeated, but I was starting to panic. Misha might appear pliant, but he could be as stubborn as Sasha when he set his mind to something. “You’re his brother. A grand duke. Natalia Wulfert has no position. No title. She is nobody.”
“She is somebody to me.” He drew himself to full height, his plumed helmet tucked under his arm. “I’m prepared to resign my rank and title. I’ll follow Uncle Alexis’s example and move abroad. He likes Paris well enough. At least there, he can do as he pleases.”
“Alexis has always traveled extensively, and he moved to Paris after the fall of Port Arthur and Sergei’s assassination. Moreover, he’s not in succession to the throne.”
“He moved to Paris because his mistress is still married to her husband,” Misha countered. “As Nicky would never have tolerated their liaison here, Alexis left to be with the woman he loves. I admire him for it. Why shouldn’t I do the same?”
I stumbled over my hem in my haste to reach him, to touch his shoulder and somehow restrain him. “Alexis chose to leave. But your other uncle Grand Duke Paul was stripped of his title and income, banished for marrying that common woman. Misha, you are the tsar’s brother. We cannot afford another scandal. Promise me you’ll not do anything precipitous. Give it time. Resign from the Cuirassiers and take another military assignment away from here. If you’re still determined to marry her after a year, I’ll speak to Nicky on your behalf.”
Misha raised his chin, so that I had to crane my gaze to his. “You think time will resolve it? You want me to go away and wait, in case she miscarries or dies in childbirth?”
I recoiled. “How can you say such a dreadful thing to me?”
“Because I’ve seen how Olga is treated.” He paused, considering me. “I’ll request a transfer to the Chernigov Hussars at Orel, outside Moscow. But I warn you now: I’ll not abandon Natalia. I’ve rented an apartment for her in St. Petersburg and she has separated from her husband. Let her be. That is my condition for waiting until you think the time is right. If she’s intimidated in any way, I’ll marry her at once. I’m not afraid of leaving Russia. In fact, I think I might welcome it.”
Before I could say another word, he turned on his heel and departed.
I had to press my hands to my mouth to keep from screaming.
* * *
“A DISASTER!” I cried at Miechen as soon as I entered her drawi
ng room. “What am I to do? Misha claims he loves her—a married woman of no rank, who’s already divorced once and is carrying his child. Another family disgrace, in the midst of everything else.”
She made a commiserative sound. “I do feel for you, Minnie. When our sons refuse to heed our counsel, it can be very trying. As you know, Cyril’s marriage to Ducky did not go easy on me. Sometimes, much as it pains us, we must let our sons make their own beds. Only then will they learn we only want clean sheets for them.”
“At least Ducky is a princess! This Wulfert woman is a commoner. When Nicky hears of it, he’ll be furious. And Alexandra will rub my face in it, though she has no right, ensconced in Tsarskoe Selo while the country falls apart and all she can think about is protecting—” I curbed my outburst.
“Yes?” said Miechen, with an arch of her eyebrow. “Please don’t hesitate on my account. Whatever ails the boy must be serious, indeed. Does she intend to hide our tsarevich away until he reaches his majority of age?”
I wished I’d kept quiet. Rumors persisted about my grandson, although Alexei had just turned five, sturdy and mischievous, doted on by his family. I couldn’t tell Miechen that he’d suffered no further episodes of prolonged bleeding, even if he’d had a few persistent bruises whenever he managed to evade his dyadka and bump hard against a table or chair. That he’d inherited the dreaded ailment was evident, but I wasn’t convinced it required such overbearing seclusion, even if I dared not breathe a word against it to Alexandra.
“She won’t let any of the children be seen,” I said. “She fears assassins might lurk behind every bush. Were it up to her, none of them would leave Tsarskoe Selo save for their summer excursions to Finland.”
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