Writ in blood : a novel of Saint-Germain
Page 33
Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
“Is it possible some danger may exist?” asked Ragoczy, who for once agreed with the Generals. He pointed back down the road to the Mixed Guard soldier standing in front of the gates to the estate, rifle in hand. “You have accepted some protection already. Why refuse more when it would mean increased safety.”
“I don’t like to think that my safety is so illusory,” said Nikolai. “If there is an assassin looking to kill me, a few trees more or less will not stop him. I will not let fear of such a man make me a prisoner of the Generals.”
“Do you think the Generals would agree?” said Ragoczy, surprised at how acute Nikolai’s assessment had been.
“Nikolasha, perhaps,” he said thoughtfully. “Perhaps Grand Duke Sandro, if he had cared to express an opinion. The rest—” He shrugged. “If they thought it would increase their chances of my favor, they might.”
“But with your family here, isn’t this precaution of theirs wiser? If the Generals have their way, your family will not...” Ragoczy let the rest of his caution go unspoken.
“You mean that I may have enemies who will take so great a chance as to attack my children instead of me?” His front wheel swung out at the edge of a rut and he had to concentrate on keeping his bicycle on the road. “If they want me, I suppose there is not much I can do about it; if it is God’s Will, then I accept it, as I must. But I would begrudge them one drop of my family’s blood.” For a compliant man, Nikolai’s face grew suddenly obdurate. “I will not permit my family to come to harm through me.”
“No honorable man would.” Ragoczy did not want to remind the Czar that if such an action were to come Nikolai’s feelings would not be consulted. Instead, he said, “What else do the Generals recommend? Other than cutting down the trees?”
“It is foolish of them,” said Nikolai. “They want to enlarge the army and establish posts from Finland to Manchuria; they see enemies—of mine and of Russia’s—the world over. Nothing anyone tells them will convince them otherwise.” He did his best to negotiate his way between two deep ruts where the road began to curve around the summer house gardens. “There is also the question of cost. It is too expensive, enlarging the army, and the Duma would never stand for it.”
“Possibly not, but they may be willing to increase industry in the East. It is one of the few things most of the delegates agree on, that more industry is needed. Wasn’t it Count Witte who recommended expanding the Trans-Siberian Railroad?” Speaking of the ousted Sergei Witte was tactless, but Ragoczy hoped it would not earn him a reprimand.
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Nikolai frowned. “He did. But if you think developments in Austro-Hungary have made Wilhelm uneasy, anything beyond the Urals could give him apoplexy. He is certain that Jenghiz Khan is coming again, to overrun Europe, and if I should begin to lure the Chinese by increasing factories and railroads in the East, he would presume I had thrown in my lot with the Orient. He has told me often enough that it is the duty of Russia to be a bastion for Europe against the Yellow Horde.”
“This is not the thirteenth century, and the Mongols do not rule in China. Even if they did, it would not constitute a military threat to Europe. China may be enormous, but it is also impoverished. It would be reckless beyond any justification for the Chinese to attack the West,” Ragoczy said, thinking back to what he had seen at T’en Chi-Yu’s side, seven centuries ago.
“Wilhelm does not agree,” Nikolai said drily.
Ahead on the road was an Italian donkey cart, the five-year-old Czareivich Alexei, dressed in a miniature version of a navy uniform, holding the reins in his fists, his face flushed with effort and set in studious lines from concentrating on his driving. He noticed his father approaching with Ragoczy, and halted the donkey, waving his hand, his smile mitigating his pallor. “I was coming to find you, Papa!” he called out.
The smile Nikolai answered his son’s with was tinged with worry. He pedaled faster, coming up beside the cart quickly enough to cause the donkey to put back his long ears in alarm. “You shouldn’t be by yourself. What are you doing out on your own? Why are you alone?” he demanded, trying not to sound angry.
Now Ragoczy dismounted, leading his grey up to the cart as Nikolai got off his bicycle. He watched as Nikolai put his hand on his son’s shining red-gold hair, and he could not keep from feeling sorrow for the Czar and his family: to have a child so desperately and dangerously ill was beyond his experience, but he had seen enough of death to know that the boy lived forever in its shadow, and that nothing could be done to change his condition. As much as the family might pray for and protect him, the Czareivich would probably be dead before twenty; few children with his affliction lived half so long. Seeing Nikolai with Alexei, he once again understood how Rasputin—by saving this fragile child not once but twice—had won the endless gratitude and unswerving loyalty of all the Romanovs.
“I haven’t gone far,” said Alexei defensively; he was getting to an age when he chafed at the endless restrictions placed upon him. “And I did it right, Papa.”
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“You certainly did,” Nikolai approved, and glanced at Ragoczy, his concern overshadowing his affection for the child. “But you should have someone with you, you know, if not Derevenko, then one of your sisters; Derevenko cannot be everywhere at once. Your mother would be upset if she knew.”
“I won’t tell her,” said Alexei, defiance and supplication mixed in his tone. “I won’t tell anyone, Papa. I won’t even tell Derevenko.” This last was his plea to have an adventure of his own, the one thing he was regularly denied; he was too resigned to sulk, but he could not keep his mouth from turning down in disappointment. “I wish the new palace at Livadia was ready. They are taking so long to rebuild it. I want to go swimming in the sea again.”
“Soon, my child, soon.” The anguish in Nikolais eyes was unmistakable. “Next summer for sure.” To console his son for the lack of their palace near Yalta, he said, “We will have the White Nights for a while longer; we can have midnight supper out-of-doors. And we can go to the Gulf of Finland, if you want to see the ocean. For your birthday, perhaps: how would that be?”
“We don’t swim there,” the Czareivich said, putting an end to the matter. Noticing Ragoczy, Alexei grinned, relieved at having someone to witness his independence, however fleeting. He realized that Ragoczy was watching, and made the most of it. “The King of Italy gave me my donkey, and the cart,” he boasted, making a grand gesture to encompass the whole equipage. “Do you like it. Count?”
“What a fine gift,” Ragoczy said, impressed that Vittorio Emmanuele III had such good sense; possibly one of his aides had been the source of the inspiration. “He looks to be a very good donkey.”
“For an Italian donkey,” said Alexei, assuming the hauteur he saw around him.
Ragoczy smiled slightly. “But anyone can have a Russian donkey in Russia,” he reminded the child. “How many have Italian donkeys?”
Nikolai gave Ragoczy a look of gratitude; he was pleased that his son was being reminded of the favor his pet represented. “And where is your sailor?” he asked his son. With Nagorny away to visit his ailing mother, Derevenko had the full responsibility of looking after Alexei, of the two men, Derevenko was the more patient with the Czareivich, and more understanding of the severity of his disease, treating the child with affection and sympathy.
“He is having a glass of tea with Pavel.” The boys eyes filled with delight. “He doesn’t know I’ve got away. I slipped out through the terrace doors, and went to the stable without being seen.”
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“He will tell me how it came about that he was not with you.” He touched Alexei’s hair again, as if assuring himself the boy was all right.
“I harnessed the donkey, and everything,” Alexei crowed, once again happy to have had this brief moment of freedom. “My sisters are with Gilliard, talking French; Olga and Tatian
a are helping him with Marie and Anastasia,” he went on. “Mama is at prayers. She has been praying all morning.”
Nikolai began to push his bicycle along, compelling his son to turn back toward the summer house; Ragoczy brought up the rear, his horse walking at his shoulder, listening to the child talk to his father, asking questions about everything that caught his attention, from bees to the mare s-tail clouds overhead; Alexei was a curious boy, still young enough to be filled with wonder by the world around him. As they reached the summer house, a dark-haired, mustached man of about twenty-eight or -nine in an adult version of Alexeis uniform, came rushing around the side of the house, his haste indicating his worry.
“There you are!” Alexei cried out, waving merrily.
Derevenko stopped, relief in every line of his body. After a moment, he came down the drive, saying, “You are a proper scamp—do you know that?”
Tremendously pleased, Alexei beamed. “You didn’t know I had gone, did you?”
“No,” said Derevenko, exchanging an uneasy glance with the Czar. “And it was wrong of you to do it. I would have come with you, had I known you wanted to go out.”
“But,” Alexei protested, assuming all the dignity he could, “I wanted to go alone, and I couldn’t do that with you, could I? You won’t be angry with me, will you?” He turned his blue-grey eyes up at his guard and beamed angelically.
“You’re not supposed to be alone, Czareivich,” said Derevenko, looking fond and stern at once. “If my boys had come with me, they would have insisted on coming with you; you would not have managed this alone.”
Alexei’s pleasure turned to smugness. “I know,” he confessed.
Ragoczy was aware of how precious these few moments of liberation were for Alexei, and said, “You were clever to plan so well, Czareivich.”
“I was, wasn’t I?” the boy asked, relishing this implied approval.
“It was very wrong of you, to worry us all so much,” Derevenko scolded fondly. “But you did it very well.” He gave the Czar a second, more apologetic stare. “Pavel was certain that Alexei was out in the garden.”
“I like to look at things,” the boy announced. “I think about what I
see.”
“That you do,” said Derevenko. He carefully took the donkeys reins from the boy, and assumed the task of handling the animal and its cart. “But its time to have a bite to eat and a little time to lie down.” He lowered his voice as he spoke to Nikolai. “I am sorry this happened. I will be more careful in future.”
“I have faith in you,” Nikolai said, and patted Derevenko on the shoulder once; he was awkward doing this ordinary thing, and that made the gesture the more genuine.
“Come along, Alexei,” said Derevenko, speaking up for the boys benefit. “I’ll give you a hand with the harness.”
Alexeis sigh was not completely from exasperation. He sat back in the cart and let his guard lead him away. Only when they had reached the corner of the house did he turn and wave to his father.
“Poor boy; I wish we did not have to guard him so constantly, but with his condition being what it is—” said Nikolai as the cart disappeared in the direction of the stable. “It is very difficult to have so many restrictions on him, to be guarded day and night, to have doctors and nurses around him wherever he goes. But if we did not, he would . . . be dead now. At least his temperament is not volatile.”
Aware that he was on delicate footing from the few previous times he had brought up the question, Ragoczy said, “It is a disease of the blood, is it not. His blood does not clot readily.” He had been aware of the nature of Alexeis illness from the first sight of the boy, but had not spoken of it so directly in the past; the policy of the family was to say as little as possible about the Czareivich’s health, and even less about the specific nature of his ailment.
“Otyets Grigori has stopped the bleeding when all else failed,” the Czar said, coming as close as he ever did to identifying his son’s condition.
“I knew it had to be something of the sort.” In response to the sudden expression of alarm in Nikolais gaze, he went on reassuringly, “Oh, I doubt most people recognize the gravity of his illness; but as you know, I have some knowledge of things medical, and Alexei symptoms are—”
“Sunny does not want it talked about—ever,” said Nikolai. “I should not be telling this to you.”
“Do you think her reservations might be too . . . stringent? He is a boy who needs to discover his limits for himself, don’t you think,”
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Ragoczy suggested, remembering as he did that Nikolai generally deferred to his wife in such matters.
“If they are strict, it is only from her love that she makes them so. She is trying to ensure his well-being, as are we all.” Making an effort to speak of something else he went on in fluent English, “You know, when I saw Georgie at Cowes, last year, he asked me if I would like to trade places—Britain for Russia. It was said in jest, of course, and we both had a good laugh about it. But now there are times I think I should have.” His self-deprecating chuckle told Ragoczy laughter was permissible.
Ragoczy knew that it would not please the Czar to discuss his son again, so he said in the same language, “England is a very pleasant place, is it not. So green and prosperous.”
“Lovely, and far more orderly than here. I could find it in my heart to envy George his navy. But the island is so small,” said Nikolai, “after Russia.” He made his way along the side of the house, continuing in Russian, “Let me send for one of the grooms to take your horse. Its time you and I had a discussion.”
Ordinarily Ragoczy cared for his own horses when he could; now was not such an occasion. He inclined his head. “I am at your disposal, Czar.”
Ten minutes later they were in the summer house, in the parlor. “The library is being used for tutoring,” Nikolai explained as he sat down and motioned his approval for Ragoczy to do the same. “Thank goodness Gilliard is Swiss; who knows what Wilhelm would say if this man were French.”
Ragoczy sat down in a high-backed chair and readied himself for what Nikolai would say. Since being summoned from Finland, he had been aware that the Czar had more for him to do. As he stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankle, he said, “Have you had word from Germany?”
“Of course. And from England, not that any of it is to the point.” Nikolai leaned back, staring up at the ceiling, his expression remote. “If only I knew which of them would be willing to take the first step. On the face of it, you might think George is the more likely to see the danger and support my plan. But he has only recently taken up his duties, and he has a strong Parliament to contend with, and Asquith to shape the course of his government, so whether or not he is willing to limit the production of arms in the British Empire may be a moot point; he is not likely to be able to act swiftly, even if he is in accord with my hopes. Wilhelm has, on the surface, a stronger reason not to agree with me, unless he sees his arms manufacturers as a threat to the
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stability of Germany, in which case he will want to support my efforts, and will not need the endorsement of so many as George would.”
“You wish to try to secure the private agreement—still?” Ragoczy asked, and recalled the fragile son Nikolai adored; the Czar would do anything to keep Alexei from physical danger—his repetition of this plan was his way of showing the depth of his purpose; it was the one weapon he had had in his youth against the overpowering tempers of his uncles. Of all the attributes of an autocrat he lacked, Nikolai possessed obstinancy in abundance.
“Certainly,” Nikolai said, unoffended by Ragoczy s tone. “I trust we have not yet reached the point where negotiation is useless.” He was quiet for a short while, then added, “If it isn’t possible to get anything in writing, at least they might be willing to agree in principle: that would be better than nothing.”
“If you wish,” said Ragoczy, keeping his reservat
ions to himself.
“With Montenegro’s independence assured, the Balkans may yet achieve balance. I am certain that—” He stopped as his second daughter came into the room. “What is it?” he asked, undismayed by her interruption.
Grand Duchess Tatiana Nikolaivna was a dark-haired, pretty girl who had turned thirteen a matter of days ago, with intelligent eyes and a quickness of movement that promised beauty in adulthood; her white, pin-tucked blouse and gored skirt were fashionable country wear. She saw Ragoczy and paused. “I thought you were alone. I’m sorry.” She was about to leave the parlor.
“What is it?” her father repeated. “Ragoczy does not mind the interruption.”
“Oh.” She came back toward him. “Pavel wants to serve luncheon outdoors, like a pic-nic, in an hour or so. He tells me he has everything ready. I told him I’d ask if that was all right with you.”
“On such a lovely day it would be a shame not to,” said Nikolai. “By all means, let us have a pic-nic.”
Tatiana blew a kiss to her father, turned away and rushed out of the room.
“She is a thoughtful child, not as rambunctious as Anastasia is turning out to be.” Nikolai beamed with fatherly pride. “They will all marry well, my girls. Sophie Chotek has already corresponded with Sunny about the possibilities; her own children are not in the succession for Austro-Hungary, but she had a few recommendations to make. Sophie’s family maybe impoverished, but there is nothing wrong with her heritage, and she knows better than most the importance of a good