by Ariel Lawhon
Anna’s voice is dry and quiet when she finally responds. “They want to buy me off? To sweep me away like a bit of unwanted rubbish?”
“No.” Xenia shakes her head. “On the contrary. They want to protect you. And themselves. This is the easiest way.”
“The easiest way for them,” Gleb says, finally mastering his power of speech.
“Don’t you start,” Xenia hisses. “You’re the one who brought a lawyer into this.”
“And they’re the ones who went to the papers with word of the inheritance. How were we supposed to respond? Ignore the fact that her father left her a fortune? Let it be taken by someone else? They meant to smear her name with that announcement, to say she’s only claiming to be Anastasia to collect a fortune, and now they mean to strip her of her title as well.”
“They are prepared to take financial responsibility for her!” And now Xenia pulls out her trump card and plays it with aplomb. She turns those eager, hopeful eyes on Anna and swallows her in their dark depths. “If you accept I will take you to Copenhagen to see the dowager empress.”
Even Gleb is surprised to hear this. The dowager empress has refused to meet with Anna at every turn, never so much as responding to a single letter or public plea. Her acknowledgment is the one thing Anna needs to end her quest, a thing so far beyond her grasp that she can only hope for it. It would only take a word from the tsar’s mother and she would once again have the right to her own name.
“She asked to see me?” Anna cringes at the undisguised hope in her voice, trembling and desperate.
A long pause. “No, but—”
“She has agreed to it at least?”
“I am certain she will if only—”
Anna jerks her hands away from Xenia. “She doesn’t even know!”
“I can get a meeting with her. I promise.”
“Like you promised to keep the other Romanovs away? Like you promised not to ambush me?”
Edward Fallows speaks for the first time. His voice is deep and rich and calm, not the voice Anna expects from such a timid-looking man. “I am loath to interrupt here given the fact that my presence is not exactly welcome. But as Anna’s legal representative I am obligated to ask if any part of this offer has been put in writing. Is there a document my client can study or amend?”
“Not yet.” Xenia stiffens at this interruption. “Dmitri only brought word of the offer today. But I am certain papers can be drawn up immediately.”
“Again we are asked to rely on your word alone,” Gleb says.
Here William Leeds claps one giant hand onto Gleb’s shoulder. “Take all the shots you like at her family—hell, it’s no secret they’re all a bunch of spoiled tyrants—but I’ll not have you insult my wife.”
Gleb shakes the hand away. “Your wife is a Romanov.”
Xenia Leeds finally snaps at the intended insult. “And you will very much regret meddling in the affairs of the House of Romanov!”
“I regret only that I have allowed a tawdry bribe to be dangled in front of the tsar’s rightful heir. And for what? A pittance.”
“Do not make this about money! It should be about her welfare.”
Gleb growls. “Easy for you to say. You have all the money you’ll ever need. She, on the other hand, lives in constant fear of being cast into the streets.”
“She will have all the money she needs if she simply accepts the offer!”
“But not as much as your aunts. What they are offering her is a fraction of the interest that fortune earns each year. They will send her quietly away and then fill their own coffers to the point of overflowing. And yours as well no doubt. That’s the real reason you’ve kept her locked away all summer. You needed the statute of limitations to expire—ten years to the day since the tsar’s death, I believe. The time is up this month.” He spits out the next words as though they are a mouthful of poison. “How close you came to stealing a fortune, Xenia.”
Only Gleb can say too much and ruin everything. He has always been like this. Loyal to a fault. Protective. Zealous in his devotion to Anna. And she loves him for it, she really does. Even when he goes too far. Even when he knocks down the whole damn house of cards. Because there is no one else who cares this much about her.
Xenia jumps to her feet in outrage, and William sets his pipe on the desk, his eyes locked on Gleb as he begins to roll up his shirtsleeves. Anna is certain things will dissolve into madness, that punches will be thrown and lines crossed if she does not intervene. So she rises to her feet and asks a question.
It goes unanswered in the cacophony.
Edward Fallows, good man that he is, comes to her aid by letting loose a deafening whistle. The sort one would need if hailing a cab in the middle of Armageddon. “The lady just asked a question!” he roars when all eyes turn to him.
The room falls silent and Anna clears her throat.
“And what will happen if I do not agree to this offer?”
“Then I am afraid I will have to ask you to leave Oyster Bay within forty-eight hours. I have been told, in no uncertain terms, that if I am to remain in the good graces of my family I can no longer be your host.”
Anna has loved her time at Kenwood. Her walks through the woods collecting mushrooms and pine cones. Her time on the beach with her feet in the cold, clear water. She keeps a jar of smooth stones she found on the shore, all pink and gray and cream. They look like the Jordan almonds she used to eat as a child. Anna loves the horseback riding and solitude and her little suite of rooms. This place has been a good home for her. But she will not beggar herself in order to keep it.
“I am very sorry to hear that,” Anna says, finally, and rises to her feet. She offers Xenia, and then her husband, a noble nod. “And now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go pack my things.”
· 18 ·
Anastasia
A CHANGING OF THE GUARD
1918
Tobolsk, Russia
February 1918
The first thing Yakov Yurovsky does upon taking command of the Governor’s House is send most of our guards away and replace them with members of the Red Guard—the Bolsheviks’ hastily formed military. In the end, two hundred of the three hundred and fifty soldiers who came with us from Tsarskoe Selo are dismissed to fronts and futures unknown. We watch them go, more and more every day, our unease growing as every wagonful of men departs.
Each day I wait for Tomas to be among those dispatched from the Governor’s House, wondering if he’ll be allowed to say good-bye or if he will simply disappear from my life altogether. Yakov gave the order to replace our guards, but Leshy is required to carry it out. He spends the first few days at the barracks nearby, giving soldiers their notice one by one, and comes back to the house each night smelling of cigar smoke and looking guilt ridden, as though he has murdered a puppy.
Tomas grew distant the moment Yakov arrived. He no longer speaks to me or acknowledges me when we pass in the hallways or in the yard. There is no more flirting. The glancing touches and warm comments cease. I do find him staring at me sometimes when he thinks Yakov won’t notice, but he looks away or leaves the room whenever I make eye contact. At one time Tomas’s presence could be guaranteed the moment I stepped into the yard, but now strangers accompany me as I do my chores, barking at me that I should not get too close to the wall and that I must work faster. Sometimes I find Tomas watching me from one of the upstairs windows, but I dare not wave or smile. He looks sad, as though he’s lost something important, and I always turn away before the strict new guards notice my gaze.
The second thing Yakov does is increase the number of guards stationed inside the house. Prior to his arrival there were twenty men living upstairs. They watched and protected us but never interfered with our daily lives. Yakov adds thirty to that number, and we feel the strain immediately. The house grows crowded and loud, and there are eyes on u
s constantly. Our world shrinks again, like a belt being tightened two notches. We can still breathe, but our movements become constricted and uncomfortable.
It is alarming how quickly Semyon finds favor with Yakov. He is promoted, again, and placed in charge of the Governor’s House. He hovers near us, taking every opportunity to criticize and humiliate us. He kicks the dogs and spits indoors. Our only defense is to ignore him, to rise above his vile insults.
At the end of the first week Leshy calls us into Father’s study. He taps his thigh with the edge of a folded telegram while we take our seats. All that dark hair is wild, as though he’s been tugging at it all day.
“Vladimir Lenin,” he says without preamble, “is no longer willing to pay for your living expenses—”
“That is unacceptable!” Father jumps to his feet. “You cannot keep us in exile and then leave us to starve!”
“He is no longer willing,” Leshy says again slowly, “to pay for your living expenses beyond six hundred rubles a month, per person. That includes your family only.”
“What of our staff? We can’t support them on…” Mother counts off the total on her fingers, “just over four thousand rubles a month.”
“Yakov suggested all of your staff be lined up outside and shot dead. But I convinced him that it would be better to let them live.”
“He wouldn’t,” Mother whispers, aghast.
I think of Botkin and Dova, Gilliard, Trupp, and Cook lying dead in the yard, and I begin to understand the reality of our situation. I want to throw up. I want to cry and run from the room. But I force myself to focus on what Leshy is saying.
“He would. He wants to, in fact. You may have noticed that since Yakov’s arrival I hold little power in this garrison. But I have persuaded him that five slaughtered servants will create a problem he is not equipped to deal with. Take the opportunity while you have it. Make do with your new allowance.”
Mother’s voice trembles. “We cannot make this work. It is cruel.”
“Not so cruel as a firing squad. You must make do. For their sake.”
* * *
—
“I am afraid that you have run up considerable credit with many of the merchants in Tobolsk,” Pierre Gilliard says later that evening. He spreads the accounts on the table, pointing at one sum and then another. “They must be paid. And quickly lest you make even more enemies.”
“How?” Mother’s voice is constricted with emotion. She pauses, clearing her throat. “There is no room in our allowance.”
“You must find a way. Pull something from what you’ve set aside. You cannot afford to make enemies in town. There may come a point when you need their help.”
Poor Gilliard. I have underestimated the man terribly. I have mistaken commitment for cruelty. I want to tell him that I am sorry, that I am ashamed, but all his attention is turned toward Mother.
In the end she does as he suggests, sending Gilliard off with a purse full of money to pay the accounts. The fact that twelve people remain in the house while only seven of us are granted a stipend is a problem we’re expected to solve without complaint. Whatever my parents suspect might lie in store for us is a thing they do not share. But I notice that Father and Gilliard continue to pore over maps at night. They continue to whisper among themselves.
* * *
—
“This is a ration card,” Yakov Yurovsky says the next morning. He drops it into Father’s lap. I flinch, startled, as always, at the cannon-like sound of his voice. “Like all other citizens in this country, you are entitled to a basic food allowance.”
Leshy stands at the door to the study, his face expressionless and his hands folded before him. That red kerchief hangs from his pocket like a warning flag. This is the posture he assumes whenever Yakov is near. Detachment. It’s the same attitude shown by Tomas and Ivan in Yakov’s presence, and I hope it’s only a facade, a way of feigning disinterest in order to protect us.
Father lifts the small rectangular green piece of cardboard from his lap. His voice is terse as he recites the specifics printed before him. “Nicholas Romanov, ‘ex-emperor’ of Freedom Street,” he glares at this description but continues. “Six dependents. Ration card number 54, good for flour, butter, and sugar.”
Mother peers at the card. “What of coffee? We ran out last week.”
“That,” Yakov says, “is a luxury unavailable to the general populace.”
Mother rubs her temples. She has, for as long as I’ve been aware, relied on coffee for comfort and sanity the way Father relies on physical exercise. In the days since our supply dwindled and then disappeared entirely, she has suffered from one long, unending headache. Mother insists that it is concentrated entirely in her right temple and, as a result, that eye has watered for three days straight.
“I will manage,” she whispers, brushing the pad of one thumb across her wet eyelashes.
It is the first time I pity my mother, the first time I see her as completely human. A woman who can be broken by something as simple as a headache. It is an unsettling realization, and I wonder if she, with all her age and experience, can be broken in such a way, what will become of me?
THREE WEEKS LATER
Tobolsk, Russia
March 15, 1918
Gleb and Tanya Botkin are sent away at first thaw. They stand on the boardwalk outside the house, suitcases in hand, staring at the schoolroom as though watching a funeral procession. We do our best to cheer them, waving and smiling, but they turn away, despondent.
“This is twice now that Botkin has dismissed them,” Maria says over my shoulder. “Gleb is tired of being treated like a child.”
“He is a child.”
She jabs me in the ribs with her elbow and I yelp. “Takes one to know one.”
I’m about to argue but she interrupts me.
“Has your menses started?” Maria correctly interprets my silence. She grins in triumph. “Like I said. A child.”
“You don’t have to be such a donkey about it,” I hiss.
“Ass. The word is ass. If you’re going to insult me, do it properly.”
“I might not be bleeding like a stuck pig every month the way you are, but at least my ass is not the size of a donkey’s.”
I’m out the door before she can think of a suitable retort, but I notice how she slides her hands along the back of her skirt. It’s a subconscious movement, a show of insecurity, and it proves to me that the insult hit home. I know it’s cruel and I should apologize, but I don’t have time to stroke my sister’s vanity today. Dr. Botkin will be leaving any minute to escort Gleb and Tanya to the steamship waiting at the dock, and there’s something I have to find before they leave.
The photo album is at the bottom of a small wooden chest that rests at the foot of my camp bed. It is small and square with a brown leather cover, but they will recognize its significance. The little album is filled with pictures of my family, our trips, and images of daily life at the Alexander Palace. And sprinkled throughout the pages are pictures of our friends and servants, Gleb and Tanya among them. I brought it on a whim and haven’t opened it once since our arrival. But I know my friends, so glum and disappointed, will love the memento.
I catch Botkin as he’s walking out the door. “Wait for me!” I shout.
“You can’t come with me, Schwibsik.”
“I know. I just…I want to say good-bye.”
Semyon and Tomas straddle the door and Botkin looks to them for approval. “Let her go to the gate. It won’t hurt anything.”
“What is that?” Semyon asks, looking at my hands.
“Only a photo album.” I flip it open to show him there’s nothing hidden inside. “A farewell gift.”
He stares at it for a moment, thinking, then shakes his head. “No. Outside contact is forbidden.”
“That’s not fair—”
“Argue again and I’ll confiscate it.”
Botkin grips my shoulder with his huge, warm hand and squeezes just enough to make his warning clear. He kneels before me and pries the album from my hands. “None of this is fair, Schwibsik. None of it. But I will give this to the children for you and they will treasure it always.”
In the seven months they’ve been in Tobolsk I’ve been allowed to visit with Gleb and Tanya only once— during our trip to church on Christmas Eve. Yet their dismissal hits me harder than I expect. It seems an arbitrary cruelty.
“Tell them I’m sorry that I couldn’t see them more often. I wanted to.”
“They know. And they would do anything for you, Anastasia. Gleb in particular. I fear my boy is besotted with you.”
Botkin brushes a tear from my cheek with one knuckle, and I look up in time to see a curious expression sweep across Tomas’s face. Pity? Jealousy? Maybe anger. I can’t identify it. He remains still, keeping his post without argument or emotion.
“Tell them good-bye,” I say, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Tell them not to forget me.”
He pulls me tight against his chest. “Fear not, Schwibsik, you are not the sort of girl one forgets.”
ONE WEEK LATER
Tobolsk, Russia
March 21, 1918
We are surprised by an early spring. Winter sweeps out in the same sudden rush in which it arrived. Within three days the only snow left in the entire town is Alexey’s mountain in the yard, now a pitiful, dirty pile of slush. He takes the loss of his favorite plaything like a personal insult. I find him one afternoon trying to mount the hill with his garbage-lid sled only to end up knee-deep in melting snow, his trousers and shoes soaked, his mood foul.
