by Ariel Lawhon
“Why?”
“To raise money for your cause, of course. We suspect the Romanov family will soon take their argument to the courts and you will need funds to defend yourself.” Edward Fallows fiddles with the pen on his desk. “As you know, I continue to work without retainer, but there are other costs to consider. Research. Travel. Appeals. All of these things require funds, and the Grandanor Corporation allows us to raise these funds on your behalf.”
“Grandanor?”
“Gleb and I came up with the name. It’s an acronym for Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna of Russia. You will be happy to know that we sent letters to all of Miss Jennings’s friends inviting them to invest.”
It is a staggering act of hubris, and a quiver of rage creeps into her voice. “How could you do that without even consulting me first?”
Fallows and Gleb exchange a look, and Gleb holds out a hand to him in warning. Let me handle this, the gesture says. He turns to Anna. “My dear, that’s what a power of attorney does. It allows him to act on your behalf in legal situations. You signed it months ago, remember?”
“Of course I remember! I’m not an idiot!”
“Then help me understand why you’re so angry.”
“Because I wasn’t even asked! You just went and did this without so much as a word.”
“And how else did you expect us to acquire the means of support for you?”
“Miss Jennings is my sponsor now. She has assured me that everything will be taken care of.”
Gleb smiles the way he would at a child who believes the sun can be hers if she only asks nicely enough. “Yes. She is graciously covering all your living expenses and then some.” Gleb hazards a glance at the lavish gold watch that circles her left wrist. “But your legal fees remain your own.”
“Don’t do that,” Anna says.
“Do what?”
“Treat me like an infant. I’m not stupid, you know. I can follow along. But you always run off and do these things. You come up with these plans, and half the time they only make things worse.”
“I am trying to help you! That’s all I’ve ever done.”
“Then help me by explaining what this Grandanor Corporation is. And then allow me the right to have an opinion even if you don’t like it.”
Gleb takes a deep breath, and she can see him wrestle his anger down a notch. It is true that he has worked tirelessly on her behalf. But it is also true that his eagerness has complicated matters on more than one occasion. “Of course,” he says, finally. “Mr. Fallows will explain the plan. And I think you’ll find it rather ingenious.”
The concept is ambitious, if legally questionable, and Anna cannot help but admire the simplicity of it. A select group of “investors,” carefully culled from Annie Burr Jennings’s social circle, were invited to “subscribe” to the Grandanor Corporation. In exchange for their investment, they will receive five times their original amount when Anastasia’s inheritance is awarded. Mr. Fallows, of course, will receive one quarter of the total monies, and the rest will go to Anastasia. Gleb has asked for nothing.
“This will never work,” Anna groans. “You’ve made a fool of me.”
Fallows shakes his head. “But it is working. Quite well in fact. Three of Miss Jennings’s friends have already subscribed. Their checks have been deposited and are earning interest in an account at the Bank of the United States as we speak. This opportunity appeals to the younger set in particular. They appreciate a good opportunity, especially with the financial markets being so uneasy right now. Your first subscriber was a young man in his twenties, John Hammond, a banker on Wall Street.” Fallows inches the papers closer to her and sets a pen on top of them. “All you have to do in order to make it official is sign.”
And so, against her better judgment, she does.
ONE MONTH EARLIER
The Ritz-Carlton, Manhattan
December 1928
“You, my dear, are a social find of the highest order.” The Heiress lays one cool hand on top of Anna’s. It is loaded with rings and soft with expensive lotion.
Annie Burr Jennings is older, at the latter end of seventy, perhaps, though she doesn’t look a day over sixty, and is happily unmarried. A spinster, they would call her, if she lived anywhere other than the glittering center of Manhattan, where wealth and excess are worshiped above a woman’s fertility and marital status. They are seated in the center of the Ritz-Carlton dining room, at a table that once belonged to Miss Jennings’s father, a director of the original Standard Oil Trust. She is his sole heir. The smile she turns on Anna is feline and hungry. Anna pulls her hand away the moment she thinks it’s safe to do so without causing offense.
The restaurant is on the fifteenth floor, with stunning views of the city in every direction. The room is banked by windows, but an occasional stretch of richly paneled wall is visible, giving the space both an airy and an opulent feel. It is decorated for Christmas, and the bows of greenery and swags of red ribbon contrast nicely with the crisp white tablecloths, the polished silver, and gleaming crystal. Waiters in tuxedos with ironed napkins hanging over their forearms. And here they are, seated right in the middle, Anna in her simple white dress and the Heiress in her finery.
Anna cannot shrink far enough from the woman’s ravenous gaze, so she drops both hands into her lap and laces her fingers together lest they be clutched again. “I’m sorry,” she says, finally, “I don’t understand what you mean.”
“Goodness, I’ve frightened you!” The Heiress is amazed, as though such a thing never occurred to her. “I don’t bite, dear girl. You needn’t be worried. I only mean to help. You seemed a little puzzled about why I would offer my home to a total stranger. I was simply explaining that you, a genuine Russian princess, are the equivalent to a social goldmine.”
“So you’ve invited me into your home to…show me off? Like some exhibit at the zoo? Do you plan on charging admission as well?”
The Heiress frowns and clears her throat as though trying to erase the insult. “Do you know who I am?” she asks.
“Probably as much as you know who I am.”
“There! I knew we spoke the same language. Let’s just say we’re both a kind of royalty. And one does not leave one’s friend—may I use that word? I do hope we will become friends— out in the cold. So when I heard that you had broken company with Xenia Leeds I thought it only right to extend an invitation of my own. My home is your home for as long as you wish to stay.”
Anna has heard offers like this far too often, and she has learned not to trust them. She has grown wiser than her thirty-two years would suggest. “In exchange for what?”
“Your company. Nothing else. I wish you to be my companion.”
“Oh. I see. I’m afraid you are under a misapprehension,” Anna says. “Whatever you have heard about me is wrong. I do not go in for…I mean that I am not interested in…” There are no polite words to express her meaning, so she lets her words trail off altogether, blushing furiously, unable to make the necessary, awkward clarification.
Annie Burr Jennings, heiress of legendary proportions, laughs so loudly that the entire dining room turns to look at the two of them. It is a mercy when she whispers her reply.
“I do not go in for the Sapphic arts, if that is what you fear. Truth be told I’m too aged for arts of any kind. Yes, I know, I do not look my years, but that is only because I have good genes and expensive night cream at my disposal. I’ve also been known to bathe in the blood of virgins occasionally to keep the skin supple.”
She laughs again at Anna’s look of horror. “That is an Elizabeth Báthory reference by the way. Oh, never mind, I see you don’t take my meaning. Let me be clear. I am not interested in your…” she waves a hand in Anna’s general direction, “…person. I only wish for you to accompany me around town so that I can liven things up a bit. New York has gone dreadfully du
ll in the last few years.”
“That is all?”
“I’m afraid so. I have no children, an empty penthouse, and more money than I can spend on this side of eternity. Half of the people in this city would be falling all over themselves to accept such a deal.”
“I fear that I don’t have much in common with either half of this city.”
“And that is exactly why I extended the offer to you. Look around, my dear, you’ve already drawn attention.” She leans back in her seat and lifts her tea to her lips. She takes a demure sip. “And it feels good, doesn’t it?”
Anna’s smile draws looks from across the room. Yet she is still hesitant. “But isn’t it gauche to trade on my name?”
Again that delighted laugh. “Don’t be naïve, my dear. Every woman trades on something. Beauty is easy enough to come by. So is charm. On my block wealthy women are a dime a dozen. Talent won’t set you apart. Neither will intelligence or tenacity or ruthless ambition. Not in this city. But royalty? Now that’s something special. So you need to ask yourself one question: if none of those other women are ashamed to trade on what they’ve been given, why should you be?”
TWO MONTHS EARLIER
Garden City, New York
October 1928
“How is it possible,” Gleb asks, his left eyebrow crimped into an expression of complete bafflement, “that a picture of your great-great-great-grandmother hangs above your head and you do not even recognize it?”
Anna lobs a small pillow at him in aggravation. Ridiculous man, always fussing about insignificant details. Ridiculous yes, but also loyal and sweet beyond reason. He has not changed in that regard at all. Yet she has more important things to worry about at the moment than Gleb’s finer qualities, not the least of which is the fact that she is homeless once again. Her situation is not helped by the fact that the Romanov family has now publically accused her of being a fraud. The scathing statement was printed in every major newspaper around the globe and, as a result, her pool of supporters has gone dry. Gleb read the statement to her over dinner last week, and she still hates the fact that a group of scattered royalty on the other side of the Atlantic could make her cry in public.
Anna now sits at a small desk beside the window in her room, gazing at the uninspiring view. The busy two-lane road and supermarket across the street do little to improve her mood. If it were not for the birds chirping in their cage in the corner she might despair entirely. The fact that Xenia Leeds allowed her to keep them after Anna’s hasty departure was unexpected but not unappreciated.
“Oh, good grief,” she finally says. “Would you recognize a painting of your great-great-great-grandmother if you saw it hanging on the wall in a random hotel room?”
“My grandmother is not Queen Louise of Prussia.”
Anna is tempted to throw something else at him but decides to sort through a pile of mail instead. Since leaving Kenwood everything has been forwarded to this second-rate motel. “Consider yourself lucky. I hear she was a proper bitch.”
Gleb winces at the profanity. He objects to her use of such language categorically, but today decides to pick on her oversight instead. “You should have recognized her. It’s the sort of mistake your detractors will use against you,” he says. “They are looking for any small detail to delegitimize your claim.”
“And you think a painting will do me in?”
“I think you need to be careful.”
Anna lifts the paper knife in her hand. The blade is silver and comes to a fine point. The handle is mother-of-pearl and bears the crest of Empress Alexandra. It has been in Anna’s possession for many years, and it’s one of the few things she brings with her every time she moves. “Have you ever seen this paper knife before?” she asks, holding it up by the blade.
He looks at it as though she has thrust a hairpin into his face or a pair of chopsticks or some other irrelevant thing. “No.”
“What?” Anna gasps in mock outrage. “If you were truly Gleb Botkin you would know this paper knife was once in the possession of your sister. But clearly you are a fraud. I shall send you to Pierre Gilliard for interrogation.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“And you are being a jackass.”
“Such language! And you call yourself a princess.”
“I call myself exhausted and overwhelmed and homeless for the third time in a year. I think I’m entitled to a bit of profanity under the circumstances. Or do you think princesses don’t learn to curse like the rest of humanity?”
“I think they have the good sense not to do so. Especially when the eyes of the world are upon them.” He drops into the chair by the bed in a huff. “Besides, you aren’t homeless. You have a room in this lovely hotel for several weeks. And Rachmaninoff to thank for it.”
“So the Composer has taken a turn at the till, has he?” Anna met Sergei Rachmaninoff a number of times during her stay with Xenia Leeds but never really knew why he wanted to help.
“He’s a loyalist. Feels it’s the least he can do.”
“And when his generosity runs out? What then?”
“Rachmaninoff is arranging a meeting with some heiress in New York. She’s in Paris at the moment, but he expects her to return before Christmas.”
“It is impossible to live like this. Bounced around constantly. It feels as though I’m losing my mind. Like I am dislocated, shifting constantly from one place to the next. Why can’t I just live with you?” Anna regrets the words the moment they’re out. This is a subject they staunchly avoid.
Gleb turns red, then stares at his hands. “If I thought for a moment you actually wanted that I might consider it.” He glances up and offers a half smile. “It’s better this way. We just need a little bit more time. Edward Fallows has come up with an idea, and I think it could work. We just need…”
“What?”
He clears his throat and does his best to keep a straight face when he answers. “For you to sign power of attorney over to Edward Fallows.”
“Oh! Is that all?”
“No,” he says. “We also need money.”
· 16 ·
Anastasia
CHRISTMAS IN SIBERIA
1917, 1918
Tobolsk, Russia
December 24, 1917
For most of my life I pictured Siberia in winter as a bleak, barren landscape of ashen sky and blanched earth with the occasional spindly, leafless tree breaking up the monotony. The reality, however, is rather different. Although ferociously cold the first few weeks in December, the snowfall is light and is quickly blown away by the relentless wind or packed by foot traffic in the streets.
Our days take on a pattern of frost, thaw, sunshine, and darkness. They are painfully short, often over before we have the chance to enjoy them, and we never really get warm despite our layers of clothes and the fires that burn constantly in every hearth of the Governor’s House. It is not uncommon for the sun to set at four o’clock in the afternoon, and we spend much of our lives in darkness, blinking at one another in the dim light of sputtering lanterns. Father continues reading to us at night, but when his voice grows hoarse he pulls out his maps and studies train routes with Pierre Gilliard. The rest of us continue our needlework. Every corset, coat, camisole, belt, and hat, anything with a seam, is ripped open and lined with jewels from the cache in Mother’s trunks. Our underclothes, once light and soft, take on an uncomfortable weight and stiffness. And through it all, I begin to wonder, to hope, that some plan of escape is being formed. I daydream about rescue, building fantasies in my mind that rival the plot of Ivanhoe. They are foolish, romantic, impossible fantasies, and I share them with no one, not even Tomas. This, I admit only to myself, is because he’s in many of them.
We’ve grown so used to containment, to being locked within the walls and yard of the Governor’s House, that none of us really knows what to say
when they finally let us out on Christmas Eve. We stare at Leshy, wondering if it is a trick, some cruel bit of entertainment on his part. Those strange animal eyes of his show no signs of deception.
“We can leave?” Father asks, his voice pitched a note higher in disbelief.
“No,” Leshy shakes his head, “you may go to the candlelight service at the Blagoveshchensky Church in town. You will be under armed guard, and you will return here immediately afterward. I am allowing an excursion, not an exodus.”
Father, now suspicious, asks, “Why?”
Leshy shrugs, but I see a softening in his face, some bit of humanity he tries so hard to keep hidden. “Because it is Christmas.”
So we change into what little finery we brought with us. White kidskin boots, petticoats, and dresses of rough silk with straight, simple lines in various shades of gray and taupe. Only a year ago we might have worn them to walk in the woods or tend the garden. We would have thought them plain and ugly. Day dresses. But now, as I run calloused fingers along the elegant fabric, they seem elaborate, an embarrassment of riches. We braid our hair, pinch our cheeks for color, and dig through our drawers until we find the bottle of perfume that Maria smuggled into her trunk. We dab drops of the decadent scent behind our ears and, after primping the best we can, present ourselves in the study. We must, finally, look the part of royalty because the guards—Tomas and Ivan in particular—smile stupidly as we pass.
There is a fine dusting of snow on the boardwalk when we leave the house bundled in our furs. We are joined by the staff, along with Gleb and Tanya Botkin, and surrounded by guards—Semyon and Leshy in front and five others behind. I listen as Tomas and Ivan whisper about the change in weather. I can sense no difference in the cold, pewter sky and frozen air, but these men know that winter has turned a corner and is about to become more sinister. By the time we reach the broad stone steps of the church it is snowing heavily, the ground littered with large, thick flakes.
