Rebecca Temple Mysteries 3-Book Bundle

by Warsh, Sylvia Maultash

  “Oh!” she said, feeling herself go red. “I’m so sorry. I took it home with me.”

  “You what?” His forehead furrowed with confusion.

  “I just — I wanted to read it and I guess I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry, I’ll bring it right back. It’s just that — I wanted to talk to you about this — your father said he’d nearly finished the book and he had almost two hundred pages.”

  She felt ridiculously guilty. When it wasn’t her fault. “Well, the thing is… I only found a hundred and forty pages. The end seems to be missing.”

  He watched her in silence and her embarrassment grew. She knew what he was thinking. “That’s impossible,” he said. “Dad said there were about two hundred pages. He was proud of that.”

  “I looked around to see if I could find the rest of the book, but…” She stopped, picturing herself in Michael’s pyjama top. “Is it possible… Is there a reason someone would want something in the book?”

  “I don’t know. Is there?” The skeptical tone of his voice put her on edge.

  “Look,” she said, anger replacing discomfiture. “If I had stolen the end of the book, why would I admit to taking the rest?”

  His eyes softened and he looked away. “To confuse me?”

  Her argument had hit its mark. “Are you that easily confused?”

  “Apparently. Look, I’m sorry. I’m not thinking too straight.”

  “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have taken it.”

  He rubbed his forehead as if a headache had just come on.

  “Have you read the whole book?” she asked.

  “Just bits and pieces when I was still living at home. Sometimes he’d mail me stuff he was having trouble with. But I’ve been pretty swamped over the summer — the Ottawa Citizen hired me for four months — so he hasn’t sent me anything for a while.”

  “Did he tell you what the secret is?” Edward gave her a puzzled look. “He said the book would reveal a secret about your family. That it would change the history books.”

  “You mean that we were descended from royalty? Is that what you mean?”

  “Did he give you any specifics?”

  “It was the last king of Poland. Poniatowski. Stanislaw Poniatowski. Somehow he was our ancestor. Dad was trying to figure out how, kind of like a family tree. But I never understood why it was so important. We live in Canada now. Royalty’s a joke here. I’d be embarrassed to tell people I’m related to a king. I had this conversation with Dad a few times. We agreed to disagree.”

  He looked off into the distance. “You know, there’s probably an explanation for the part that’s missing. Maybe the guy who typed it made some huge mistake and Dad had to give it back to him to redo. Teodor. Teodor might have a copy of the whole thing. He’s the one who typed it.”

  “Teodor?”

  “He’s a grad student at U. of T. Odd kind of guy.”

  “Do you have a number for him?”

  Edward shook his head.

  “Last name?”

  “Sorry. My Polish is almost non-existent, but Dad said his last name was the Polish word for ‘green.’ Anyway, you can probably find him at the Slavic Department. They’re in an old house on Sussex. Creaky old place. Dad used to pick up his stuff there after it was typed. I went with him once.”

  He raised his forefinger and said, “Hold on a minute.”

  She heard him pound up the stairs. When he returned he sat down beside her again, handing her a sheet of paper.

  “There’s an address on the letterhead. You can keep that.”

  It was a letter sent to John Baron.

  “Maybe Baron will want this back,” she said.

  Edward gave her a crooked little smile. “Trust me. Uncle Janek kept passing these to Dad. There’s more where that came from. This prof at the department was helping Dad with some research for the book. When the guy found out who Dad was working for, he started going after Uncle Janek for money. He’s a real piece of work. Read the letter.”

  Dear Mr. Baron,

  I want to take this opportunity on behalf of myself and the whole Slavic Studies Department to thank you from the bottom of my heart for your very generous consideration of this very important matter. As someone who fought heroically for our Beloved Poland, you understand the necessity of teaching the history of that Great Land to future generations. I come to you in all humility as someone whose life is devoted to the scholarly research of not only that ignominious period of which you know, when the land of our forefathers was rent asunder, but also the glorious times, which the world has forgotten. I will continue my untiring efforts to bring to light every detail of our glorious history so that students, and eventually the general public, will understand the importance and centrality of our Beloved Country. I am confident in saying that there is nothing more crucial at this university at the present time than establishing the John Baron Chair in Polish Studies, whose plans you have before you, whose very future lies in your hands. Therefore your decision will determine how Canadians will regard Poland, whether the New World will grant the Old the esteem it so justly deserves. With your extremely generous help we can start to spread knowledge where now there is only ignorance.

  Yours, very sincerely

  Professor Anton Hauer

  She smiled and folded the letter, depositing it in her purse.

  Sunday evening Rebecca picked up some fish and chips at a local restaurant for dinner. She couldn’t be bothered cooking for herself. Sitting at her kitchen table, she nibbled at the food and read the second “Sophie” chapter.

  chapter thirteen

  Transformation

  February 1744

  We sit covered in furs in our little sleigh-house, which must be drawn through the snowdrifts by a dozen horses. Mama looks out the window, smiling now that we are grandly accompanied by a squadron of cavalry and a detachment of foot soldiers. In four more days we reach St. Petersburg, a fine prospect where the river Neva enters the Gulf of Finland. I am told the Empress Elizabeth’s father, Peter the Great, built the city on numerous islands connected by bridges, like the fabled city of Venice. Here, grand mansions line the frozen river and three broad avenues, at the head of which sits a tall, gold-spired structure, brilliant in the winter sun.

  Our welcome is warm: cannons roar in the distance and bells peal as we arrive. A great mass of people have collected on the outdoor staircase of the Winter Palace. The Empress herself, and her nephew, the Grand Duke, Peter, are in Moscow, four hundred miles away, but her Great Chancellor, a stout, bearded man named Bestuzhev, and a number of courtiers greet us with pomp and ceremony — fourteen elephants perform for our amusement in the courtyard of the Palace. Though exhausted, Mama and I bow graciously when we are presented to scores of dignitaries. Sumptuous dinners are prepared in our honour.

  Mama and I would like nothing better than to take to our beds, but the Prussian ambassador advises us to leave for Moscow as soon as possible in order to arrive in time for the Grand Duke Peter’s sixteenth birthday. He tells Mama in private that Chancellor Bestuzhev is opposed to my marriage to Peter since I am King Frederick’s choice and thus the union would represent an alliance of Russia and Prussia. The Chancellor would prefer closer ties to England. I am introduced to the world of intrigue.

  In order to ingratiate ourselves with the Empress, Mama and I must once again ascend the steps of the royal sleigh. I try, in vain, to sleep. This time we are joined by a prodigious number of officials who fill thirty more sleighs, the whole long procession heading through the snow toward Moscow. We travel day and night at a frightening speed over the frozen wilderness, stopping only to change horses. Warmed by the stove and huddled beneath furs, at least we do not suffer from the cold. Yet this is a god-forsaken country I am so anxious to join.

  In a matter of three jolting days we cover the four hundred miles to Moscow. There is little fanfare here for us as we ride through the narrow, crooked streets in the dark. The city has not the glamour of Petersburg and
appears dingy. I am disappointed. We stop at a mansion lit with torches, where the Empress’s adjutant general meets us. With little deliberation, he takes us through one grand room after another where hundreds of people are waiting to inspect us.

  They bow low as we pass, the prince naming each in a low voice, which I can scarcely hear. I am quite dizzy with fatigue and nerves.

  Finally, there he is — Peter. I hold my breath. He is taller than when I saw him last, yet very boyish still, with wispy blond hair, slight of figure. He greets Mama warmly and chatters in a high voice about how impatiently he has been waiting for us. His face is animated, his small eyes looking sideways at me. He is a child! I am not certain how I feel about him. I am… disappointed.

  He waits with us in our rooms for the Empress to summon us. I notice he has no shoulders to speak of and a thin chest. It is late in the evening when the Empress is finally ready to receive us. We are led to the entrance of her bedroom.

  I am struck dumb by her appearance when we meet: she is a monumental woman, extraordinarily tall and plump, dressed in a silver and gold gown with a wide hoop skirt. Brilliant blue eyes animate a beautiful face, a vision of elaborately piled auburn hair is set with diamonds.

  After embracing Mama, she turns her eye on me. I am embarrassed by the scrutiny of this magnificent personage, this divinity, but after a few moments she smiles, and when she smiles, her face lights up the whole room. I have passed the first test.

  That evening Peter dines with Mama and me.

  “Do you remember the last time we met?” I say. “You were Karl Ulrich then.”

  “I still am,” he says in his child’s voice. “Only now I’m a soldier. One day I will have my own Prussian regiment and I’ll drill them all morning and they’ll march around the yard just as I say.”

  “A Prussian regiment?”

  “Of course Prussian. I’m wearing a Prussian uniform, aren’t I?” He puffs up what little chest he has under the blue wool.

  I watch Mama from the corner of my eye. She is prodding at some meat on her plate.

  “I suppose you have a Russian uniform as well?”

  “Russian? Are you mad? You wouldn’t catch me dead in a Russian uniform. It’s a rag. It’s a disgrace. Like the whole country.” He pokes a forkful of potato into his mouth.

  “But surely…” I begin, then think better of it. “You’ve joined the Orthodox church, have you not?”

  He chews, watching me with blank eyes. “My aunt insisted. She wanted to rename me after her father. I must have a Russian name, how else can I be the Tsar, you see. Even the churches are a disgrace. The priests are ridiculous in their black gowns and beards to their waists. And that stink of incense. Oh, and those bloody icons everywhere. My skin crawls when I’m forced to go. My aunt is very devout.” He rolls his eyes to the ceiling. “Her mother was a peasant, you know. The country is filled with peasants. You must continue to call me Karl. Otherwise I shall not speak to you.”

  At the beginning of Lent the Empress leaves Moscow on a pilgrimage to a monastery fifty miles away where she will do penance and pray. Meanwhile, she has arranged for my instruction in the Orthodox faith to begin. I have anticipated the process but am nevertheless taken aback that my instructor is the Archimandrite, a severe but cultivated man. I suppose some minor priest would not have done. He is patient with me and answers my questions frankly. For my part, I fail to mention Father’s exhortations to me to never give up the Lutheran church.

  I am in a turmoil of my own making. It is more difficult than I expected, this alteration of religion. Akin to trying to alter my heart.

  I wake up one morning with a start: where am I? My skin is on fire. The room swims before me and my head aches. Are we still thrashing along the frozen rutted roads? No, I see high ceilings, long windows that let in a faint blue light. And someone stands by my bed. Mama? She is wringing her hands. What are you doing here? She doesn’t hear me because I cannot form the words. They die on my tongue, which refuses to move. However, I am able to hear.

  “Princess,” an older man says to Mama, “I must bleed her or she will die.” I recognize the voice of the Empress’s Dutch physician, Boerhave. “Her blood is inflamed from the rough journey.”

  “No!” cries Mama. “Decidedly no! If you bleed her she will surely die.”

  “When the Empress returns tomorrow, she will decide on the treatment.”

  “She is my daughter.”

  I fall into a deep, warm sea where my head and limbs float. I am not in pain. I am not anything. The numbness is a relief. I no longer feel the distress from… from what? From my new life? The lessons in how to live my new life? Can a German princess become a Russian Grand Duchess? There is so much to learn. The Russian language — earthy and lilting compared to the guttural German. The Orthodox faith — it is not the lessons that distress so much as Father’s letters still arriving from the home that seems so far away now. I am certain I shall never see it again. The Lutheran faith I must leave behind like my home. Have I left behind my heart as well? No, because Father says God searches the heart and our secret desires and He cannot be deceived. Am I deceiving Him? Am I deceiving me? The Archimandrite who instructs me does not ask questions like these. Nor does he ask why I am marrying the boy soldier. We both know why.

  I am being pulled from my warm, benumbed sea to wake again with a start. This time the Empress’s large, beautiful face hovers close to mine, her eyes filled with concern. I am cradled in her ample arms.

  “Dear Boerhave, it is working.”

  “Yes, Your Imperial Majesty. I shall bleed her some more in the evening.”

  I feel a pain in my foot; something is dripping, dripping close by. I picture the blood pooling in a basin.

  “Dear, dear Sophie,” she says, rocking me gently next to her large bosom. “You must be strong.”

  Still in her arms I sink back into that delightful numbing sea that takes away all pain. However, though my limbs float, my head is not as deep this time and I can hear whispering around me, the rustle of skirts moving past.

  “Where’s her mother?” someone murmurs.

  “The Empress ordered her to her room. She argues against the bleeding.”

  Perhaps I am dreaming but I feel the Empress close by. I smell her perfume, like roses. Will she be my mother now?

  When I open my eyes again, it is the Empress’s mouth I see. At first it looks uncertain. Then the edges lift up into a smile. “Boerhave!” she cries. “She is awake!” The Empress gazes at me more fondly than my own mother ever has.

  I struggle to sit up, helped by some ladies-in-waiting.

  “Bring some food!” the Empress says. “She must eat.”

  “Only clear soup, Your Majesty,” says Boerhave.

  The Empress glowers at him. “How can she recover her strength with soup?”

  “Only for today, Your Majesty,” he says, bowing from the waist.

  I feel great affection for her at this moment.

  I have been ill for three weeks. Someone says it is spring.

  Though still weak, I am soon hungry and eat everything set before me while sitting in bed. After a week of gobbling up every delicacy out of the royal kitchen, I begin my lessons anew, both the Russian language and theology. The date for my conversion is set. I am resolved to carry on.

  Mama comes to see me, but the Empress is furious with her. She has discovered that Mama is meeting with the Prussian and French ambassadors. Worst of all, Chancellor Bestuzhev, who sides with the English against the French, has told her that Mama corresponds with King Frederick and relays to him the goings-on of the Russian court. The Empress will brook no spying or interference from either side, but at the moment leans toward the English. There is no end to the intrigue.

  They continue in politeness before the court, but the Empress vilifies Mama to me in private. King Frederick continues to play a role in my life, writing to Father deliberate nonsense — that the differences between the Orthodox church and the Luth
eran church are insignificant. He does not want to impede my progress in the Russian court, since I will be his friend. And well he knows his influence with Father. His king has promoted him to field marshal after nominating his daughter to marry the heir to the Russian throne. There is the little matter of religion. How can Father refuse to acquiesce to a conversion that apparently means so little?

  At the end of June I am ready. I have committed to memory the confession of faith written by my instructor, the Archimandrite. Fifty pages of words that are not my own, but which become my own.

  When I am led into the palace chapel I am dizzy from three days of fasting in preparation. The sanctuary is quite overwhelming, thousands of candle flames wavering, trying valiantly to reach into the shadows to illuminate the mosaics and sacred icons. As I kneel into the silk cushion, my crimson gown spread around me like a fan, the voices of the choir echo against the dim walls and pillars. The heavy fragrance of incense hangs in the gold air. My head spins.

  I must repeat the words with conviction, and the Russian pronunciation with care. A multitude of spectators fills the chapel among the pillars. At first I hide my uneasiness behind a brave voice. But then something beneath my ribs lifts me up, like wings, and I hear my voice echoing among the stone walls, reaching out to the people and returning to me strengthened. Sophie is folded up within my heart like a map, her religion, her language, her parents. A new page begins, a new geography, where Sophie Augusta becomes Catherine Aleksayevna, whose clear, certain voice resonates among the astonished crowd.

  The next morning I am to be betrothed to the Grand Duke. The Empress strides majestically before us into the cathedral beneath a great silver canopy held by eight officers. Peter and I follow. Once inside the Empress takes us by the hand and leads us to a dais in the centre of the church. Again a great assembly of spectators. After hours of exchanging vows of betrothal, kneeling and standing, standing and kneeling, bathed by the music of the choir, the Empress gives us our betrothal rings. We exchange them, Peter and I, and for the first time, I am addressed by my new title: Grand Duchess.