Alexandra winced, setting her embroidery aside, a near-imperceptible sign that another of her incapacitating headaches was upon her. “I wonder where Nicky can be?” She lifted a hand to her brow to shield the sun, though she sat under an enormous parasol that had us all in shade. “He went out riding hours ago with his officers.”
“He loves to ride,” I said, thinking it was the only time my son had to himself. “It does him good to get some exercise.” To brighten her sour expression, for the only thing she disliked more than being asked about Rasputin was the reminder her husband might entertain interests that excluded her, I added, “Let’s plan a coming-out ball for Olga and Tatiana, shall we?”
Olga started in her chair. Even Tatiana, the most reserved of the sisters and therefore most like her mother, looked taken aback.
“A ball?” echoed Alexandra. “Absolutely not. The Winter Palace is hardly safe for—”
“Not at the Winter Palace.” I felt my own imp inside me, needling her. “We can hold it at my Anichkov. A small affair, only family and a select guest list. Olga had such a nice time during the tercentenary gala, and Tatiana is of age.”
The girls seemed to hold their collective breaths as Alexandra met my eyes. She knew exactly what I was about, but I’d inadvertently sprung my trap to perfection. She might want her daughters to remain virginal princesses forever, trapped in her fairy tale, but Olga had no doubt returned from St. Petersburg full of stories of her evening at court. Reclusive as a hermit though she was, Alexandra was still royal. She couldn’t avoid the fact that her daughters must be presented to society. It was required to launch them into the marriage arena.
“Oh, please say yes, Mama,” Olga finally breathed, unable to contain herself.
Alexandra prolonged her silence. She wouldn’t be coerced; as I snuck a glance at Tatiana, she leaned to her mother’s ear to whisper. Whatever she said eased the tetchy line between Alexandra’s eyebrows. She sighed. “I suppose it can do no harm.”
Olga clapped her hands in glee. “Whatever shall we wear?”
“New dresses, I presume.” Alexandra looked at me. “I’m quite sure your grandmother can arrange those, as well.”
“I can, indeed. I’ll pay a call to Madame Bulbenkova once I return to St. Petersburg. But you must come early for the fittings,” I told the girls. “I’ll provide your measurements, but a dress cannot be completed until it’s been fitted in person. And you mustn’t eat too much until you are fitted; it’s very time-consuming to let out a bodice or widen a skirt.”
“Bulbenkova?” said Olga in disappointment. “Not a Parisian couturiere?”
“No,” replied Alexandra. “You will wear a Russian gown. If that does not suffice, you needn’t go at all. Do not try me. I’ve had my arm twisted enough as it is.” But to my relief, she didn’t sound angry—merely annoyed that I’d somehow managed to have her persuaded.
That evening before dinner, I drew Tatiana aside. “What did you say to Mama?”
She smiled with insouciance. “That we’ll ignore every boy you invite, of course.”
I laughed as she glided into the dining hall. Alexandra’s favorite daughter she might be, but, like Olga, she had a touch of me, too.
* * *
I LOVED HAVING them to myself in the city. I ordered my entire palace aired, dusted, and cleaned; I prepared for them the apartments that Nicky and Alexandra had occupied after their marriage and put lavender sachets in their bureaus and under their pillows.
To reach Madame Bulbenkova’s establishment proved an ordeal. Tatiana and Olga arrived with an Okhrana security detail; separate daily routes to the dressmaker’s address had to be established, so we never knew which way the carriage would take us, with decoy carriages sent ahead to confound a would-be assassin. It saddened me that my granddaughters should dwell under constant vigilance, but unlike me, they’d been born into a world where fear of violence was so frequent, they did not question it.
I decided they should not wear white. While customary for an unwed girl—and I myself had worn white to scintillating effect in my youth—they’d been denied any other color for so long, they wilted at the suggestion. Instead, Madame fashioned a carnation-pink satin gown for Olga, which brought out her blue eyes and fresh complexion, and an olive-green one for Tatiana, highlighting her feline gaze and slightly sallow skin. Décolletages were high, as befitted their age, but the gowns were scooped low at the shoulders, which made Olga wiggle in delight and Tatiana to primly request a fichu.
Still, they were both ravishing. To inaugurate their arrival in society, I took them to the Mariinsky to see a ballet from the imperial box, together with their aunt Olga, whom they adored. My daughter was so fond of them in return that she deigned to have a new gown made for herself in russet taffeta, which she accessorized with my black pearls.
I had to blink back tears when the audience came to its feet as we entered the box. The orchestra struck up “God Save the Tsar” and I waved, while the girls, still traumatized by Stolypin’s murder in Kiev, held back.
“Come forth and greet them,” I said. “It’s the Mariinsky. You’re perfectly safe.”
The timid lift of their gloved hands resulted in thunderous applause, reminding me that despite the tumult in the streets, in some places we were still revered. Both of them had bright smiles on their faces as we sat. The curtain lifted. I’d sent word in advance of my granddaughters’ presence and my expectation of an appropriate evening. The previous Season, the dancer Nijinsky had scandalized society by performing in tights with nothing on underneath; for weeks afterward, matrons had swooned over the indecency of it. Tonight, the ballet was a Mariinsky-choreographed presentation of Le Talisman, with costumes of regulation length.
For intermission, I ordered the traditional private tea table, so I could have tea served to those who came to the box to greet me. I soon discovered that Miechen had her own tea table set up in her opposing box, so I gathered up Olga and Tatiana and, with my daughter shaking her head behind us, went off to confront my longtime rival.
Miechen went pale when she saw us—not an easy feat, for she’d taken to powdering her face to alabaster pallor and donning so many jewels against her widow’s attire (which she might have discarded by now) that she resembled an overwrought concierge.
“Minnie!” she exclaimed. “And Olga and Tatiana. And your Olga, too. Quelle surprise.”
“Surprising is this performance of yours,” I remarked, after she kissed my granddaughters and admired my pearls on Olga. “Nijinsky himself couldn’t dance his way out of it. A private tea table, when I myself am present. Whatever were you thinking?”
“I didn’t know you were here,” she protested.
“Did the applause at our entrance not alert you? You wouldn’t have done anything differently.” I pinched her corseted side so hard, she flinched. “You’ve contrived to put me to shame before my own granddaughters and half the city.”
“Surely you know I never intended it,” she said.
“Didn’t you?” I accepted the tea glass in its elaborate silver podstakannik from her servitor as she indignantly declared, “And did you only come here tonight to upstage me, Minnie?”
I lifted my glass. “Naturally. Did you think I would do anything differently?”
It was almost like old times again. Miechen compressed her mouth to stop her guffaw and we sat in her box for the rest of the ballet, where she whispered intrigue in my granddaughters’ ears. Olga hissed at me, “Mama, what will Alicky say when she hears you let them near Miechen? You know how much they detest each other.”
“By the time she hears of it, the girls will be back in Tsarskoe Selo,” I replied. “Say what you will of Miechen, she commands respect in society. Let my granddaughters learn now that respect is something we all must earn.”
* * *
THE BALL AT my palace was sublime. My select
guest list of two hundred filled my hall to capacity, with attendees spilling over into the drawing room. Despite their promise to their mother, Tatiana and Olga did not ignore the gallant sons of princes or their grand duke cousins who came to dance with them. Olga’s feet were so sore by the conclusion of the ball at four-thirty in the morning that she could scarcely walk the next day, and Tatiana charmed everyone, her elegant indifference belied by the tantalizing gleam in her eyes. Both were besieged with calling cards and invitations to tea.
Unfortunately, they couldn’t accept. Alexandra had been adamant: Once the ball ended, her daughters must return home. Before they left, they made me promise to visit them soon, their wilted corsages tucked into their bags and new gowns wrapped in the tissue-lined boxes for the journey by private train to Tsarskoe Selo.
I accompanied them to the station. As the train pulled out, I saw them lean out the window of their carriage, ignoring their dyadkas’ remonstrations, to wave at me. Swathed in Hussar-inspired fur hats, their faces were suffused with joy.
The brittle casing around my heart from years of disillusionment and loss fractured. While I was aware that my end was closer than my beginning, I had my granddaughters to keep me young. They must all be introduced into society, escorted through the pitfalls and heartaches of young adulthood, until they met the right husband, married, and started families of their own. A new generation of Romanovs waited inside them to be born.
I wanted to be present to welcome every one.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
“Move out of my way. How dare you refuse me admittance?” I brandished my umbrella at the impervious Abyssinian detaining my entry into my newlywed granddaughter Irina’s residence in London. Behind me, the horrid English rain pounded on my carriage at the curb.
The guard didn’t blink. Why on earth my grandson-in-law Felix Yusupov had elected to import an imperial guard on his honeymoon was baffling enough, but I was getting drenched and losing my composure. I might have stabbed the guard with my umbrella had Felix not drawled from inside, “Let her inside. She’s the dowager empress.”
I pushed past the guard, irate as I shook my umbrella on the carpeting of the foyer, thrust it into the receptacle by the hat rack, and glared up at Felix. He stood on the staircase, dressed in a Turkish robe, cigarette in hand, though it was midafternoon.
“What is the meaning of this absurdity?” I said. “We’re in London, not Sarajevo.”
“Ah.” He smiled in his laconic way. “You’ve heard the news.”
“Everyone in Europe has heard the news. The talk is of nothing else.” Unbuttoning my wet coat, I shrugged it off. Seeing as there was no footman present, I let it fall to the floor as I took the stairs, wincing at the recurrent ache in my knee. Felix descended to assist me. “This dreadful damp,” I muttered, accepting his arm. “I loathe it. I hurt everywhere.”
He led me into the upstairs drawing room, which was large enough to host a banquet, his youthful desire to give away his worldly possessions and endow a religious house evidently discarded in his zeal to impress Irina. They were in the midst of a grand tour for their nuptials, consisting of the finest rented homes and hotel suites, first-class travel accommodations, and shopping excursions that his fortune could buy. As I stood in my rain-spattered skirts, covertly assessing the price of their stay here, he paced to the buffet laid out on the sideboard and poured me a cup of tea.
“Where are your servants?” I took the cup from him. “Surely you don’t expect my granddaughter to serve herself.”
He chuckled. “Never. But we were otherwise occupied, so I told the servants to stay belowstairs. I had the guard at the door; I thought it was enough.”
With his dark hair impeccably groomed and a white scarf tucked about his throat under his outlandish robe, I wondered how they’d been occupied. But his inference wasn’t one I cared to question; as I’d promised his mother, Zenaida, once he proposed to Irina I’d summoned him personally to question him. After Olga’s disastrous marriage, I was determined that no other woman in my family should wed into dishonor.
Slim and elegant, with Zenaida’s cut-glass eyes and fine features, in my opinion he was almost too attractive. He also proved disconcertingly candid, admitting that while his youth had been spent in unsavory pursuits—“Whatever you’ve heard is likely true,” he confessed—he had recently earned his degree in Oxford; he loved Irina and intended to be a loyal husband. In truth, by the end of our meeting, I’d been charmed by him myself and saw no reason to object. Felix was rich enough to provide Irina with everything she might need, and while the marriage would be morganatic, requiring Irina to renounce her distant claim in the succession for any sons she might bear, Xenia expressed weary approval, stating her daughter had made it clear she’d not have anyone else.
“I’ve heard such avowals before,” I said sourly, still smarting over Xenia and Sandro’s estrangement. Nevertheless, my granddaughter’s marriage to the Yusupov prince went ahead with due pomp in the chapel of the Winter Palace. During the reception at the Yusupov Palace, Zenaida embraced me. “Now we can be mothers-in-law together,” she said, forgetting that Xenia was the bride’s mother. Still, I was pleased by her acknowledgment—she knew the marriage wouldn’t have transpired without me—and now I sat to drink my tea as Felix settled opposite me.
“Irina will be down in a moment,” he said. “She was still in bed.”
“You needn’t remind me; I’m aware you’re on your honeymoon. But it’s past midday. And the news is terrible. Not only have Austria’s heir, Archduke Franz Ferdinand, and his wife been assassinated in Bosnia, but Austria has declared war and Germany is supporting it.”
“Yes. Such a dreadful inconvenience,” he said cavalierly.
I pursed my lips, pulling out my cigarette case from my bag. Felix immediately leaned forward with his gold-and-enamel Cartier lighter. “Alix hates me smoking in Marlborough House,” I told him, exhaling smoke. “She caught me at my bedroom window the other day like a charwoman, seeing as she refuses to let me smoke inside, and chided me as if I might set the city on fire. Honestly, she grows more British every time I see her.”
Felix chuckled. “And harder of hearing, which must be quite a trial, as you can’t yell at her in her own house to mind her business.”
Normally, I’d never have allowed anyone to make such a remark about my sister. Yet somehow he managed to make even the most caustic comments sound amusing, so that I found myself smiling even as I rebuked, “One day, you’ll really go too far.”
“No doubt.” He rose to serve me more tea, obviously in no hurry to call for a servant. His lackadaisical attitude eased my nerves. He didn’t seem overly alarmed by the news that had swept London and me into a panic.
“Nicky sent me a telegram,” I said, when he returned with my cup. “He thinks the situation will grow dire very soon and we should return home at once. He says none of us should be abroad at a time like this.”
Felix arched one of his eyebrows. “Did Rasputin tell him that?”
“Now, that is enough,” I said, curbing my laughter. “We’re obliged to support Serbia. A lone assassin killed the archduke and his wife, but the kaiser has seen fit to make it a point of contention and blame the entire nation. Nicky is about to mobilize our troops. Yet surely there won’t be a great war over this, as the newspapers claim. How can we throw our agreements aside over a murder, outrageous as it may be?”
“I’m not so confident,” he said, betraying he was not so cavalier about it and undoing my tenuous calm. “I think there may indeed be a great war over it. The kaiser has been waiting for just such an opportunity.”
I froze, my cup in my hand. But whatever I was about to say was stifled by my granddaughter’s entrance, her beautiful face flushed with content as she kissed my cheeks. “Grandmama, how wonderful to see you. I didn’t know you were coming so early.”
“It�
�s not early,” I grumbled. “Must I send word in advance?”
“Never with us,” said Felix, as Irina drifted to the sideboard for tea. I could see by the way his gaze followed her that whatever his penchants may have been in the past, he was enraptured by her. How could he resist? My granddaughter by Xenia was as enticing as Nicky’s daughter Tatiana, with the same sphinx-like tilt to her eyes, though hers were dark. Her dark hair had been cut short in a new style to frame her face. Under any other circumstances, I should have been appalled, catching them abed with the day half gone and Irina in her lace peignoir as if she were still in her bedchamber. Yet I was not. Their disregard for propriety was alluring—they were like two sleek, self-indulgent cats.
“Well?” I said, once Irina sat beside Felix and drowsily regarded me. “What are we to do? Nicky has asked us to return as soon as possible, lest the borders close.”
“Must we?” Irina turned in dismay to Felix. “We’re scheduled to travel to Nice next week to visit Mama….” She sighed. “Is it truly as serious as all that?”
“I’m afraid so, my love.” Felix caressed her arm. “I’ll defend you.”
Her pout was precocious, as only a girl of nineteen could be with a dashing older husband. I doubted his assurance. His wealth might protect her, but if I knew anything about Zenaida, her only surviving son would not be entering military service.
“How tedious,” she said. “I don’t want to leave.”
“None of us do,” I replied, but I lied. I did want to leave England. I’d been here for over a month, visiting Alix, and my patience had reached its end. Between my sister’s deafness, the unvarying routine of tea and crumpets at Marlborough House, and now this new crisis, I was looking forward to vacating this dismal island, although I’d hoped to join Irina and Felix on their trip to see Xenia. “But your uncle the tsar says it’s imperative we return to Russia.”
The Romanov Empress Page 39
