by Ariel Lawhon
“Where are you going?” I shout after him as he turns and trudges toward the house, gripping that sled as though he is off to battle.
My brother has always been a docile, quiet boy so I am startled to see the look of pure rage and determination on his face.
“Sledding!” he shouts, pushing through the back door of the house. “They can’t take everything away from me. They can’t.”
“No one took anything from you, Alexey! The snow melted!” I yell, picking up the hem of my skirt and trudging after him through the mud.
But he goes through the kitchen door as if he hasn’t heard me. Curious and a little alarmed I follow him into the house, making it just in time to hear Mother shout, “Don’t you do that, Alexey. No! Stop it right now!”
And then there is a thunderous clatter of metal on wood, and I step around the corner in time to see my brother hurtling down the stairs. For one moment there is a look of profound joy on his face. The look he used to get when we pulled him in the wagon as a toddler. Or the look he got while sitting atop the elephant’s back at Alexander Palace. It is an expression of wild abandonment, of little boyhood, and adventure. It is euphoric. But it turns to terror in the time it takes me to blink because the edge of his stupid, ridiculous, murderous garbage lid catches the lip of the next step, and flips so quickly he’s flung into the air, arms and legs flailing wildly.
It happens the way all terrible accidents happen, in slow motion. Time suspended. Your body frozen. Your mind racing. Alexey lands, legs split at an unnatural angle, near the bottom of the stairs. And then he slides the last few steps, thumping to a stop near Mother’s feet. I can see the scream building in his chest as he gasps silently, searching for breath. And then the sound breaks free, shattering the air. Surprise and pain and fear. In the time it takes me to cross those last few steps to where he lies, Alexey thrashes on the floor, shrieking and clutching his groin as though he’s been cleaved in half.
Mother is frozen, horrified and silent. Reaching him first, I scoop Alexey up and drop onto the bottom step. I draw him onto my lap and can feel him shudder. My ears ring with his wailing. He writhes in my arms, but I clamp him tighter against my body, knowing that he has to calm himself and be still. I can feel the warmth of his blood pooling where he sits on my lap. I can feel it but I refuse to look.
I won’t look.
I can’t look.
Because when Alexey starts to bleed he doesn’t stop.
· 19 ·
Anna
OYSTER BAY
1928
The Pier at East Thirteenth Street, New York City
February 9
Gleb allows the driver to make one stop as they leave Manhattan: a newsstand on the corner of Nineteenth Street and Eighth Avenue. He quickly buys a copy of every newspaper available, then rushes back to the car.
“Look!” He lifts a copy of the Herald Tribune and points to the headline. “Lost Daughter of the Tsar Hides on Ship in Bay.”
Another reads “Legendary ‘Duchess’ Lands.”
The New York Times, The New York Post, The New York World, The Wall Street Journal, The New York Herald Tribune, the Gotham Gazette, and half a dozen other papers all cover the story, each of them taking a different angle on her arrival and identity. Gleb is positively giddy.
“Don’t you see, Anna, we’re winning!”
“I didn’t realize we were competing.”
“Of course we are! Good grief, woman, did you just get here?” He laughs at his own joke because yes, she did, in fact, arrive only hours ago.
“You aren’t making any sense. Competing with whom?”
“The family. The Romanov cousins. And those two wicked aunts of yours.”
She hasn’t made the connection between today’s headlines and her ongoing feud with the dowager empress and the tsar’s sisters. There are other battles raging of course, small fires that keep erupting all over Europe every time a distant relation learns of her claim, but none burn so bright as those involving the immediate family.
Anna shakes her head. “I don’t see victory. I see chaos.”
“No. No. It’s the perception. Everything is about perception right now. People are truly beginning to believe that you are Anastasia,” he says, lifting the Herald Tribune and reading part of an editorial aloud: “ ‘She comes surrounded like the exploits of Colonel T. E. Lawrence—with the full publicity of a complete reticence…’ ” He runs a finger along the page until he finds the line he’s looking for. “Yes. Here it is. ‘She granted no interviews, but locked herself in her cabin, preserving an impenetrable manner that divided between regal hauteur and utter indifference to openly expressed skepticism.’ ”
“That makes me sound impossible.”
“It makes you sound imperious.” He grins. “A good thing.”
It took one week for Anna to make the journey from Castle Seeon to New York. Her passage was paid for in equal parts by Xenia Leeds, the tsar’s niece several times removed, and Sergei Rachmaninoff, the famed Russian composer. Exactly how he’d gotten involved she doesn’t know, but she’s grateful for the escape regardless. Anna wasted no time leaving Germany and had, ceremonially, wiped the dust from her feet. She boarded the steamship Berengaria with a passport and visa under the assumed last name of Anderson—a necessary concession since the passport office would not issue one to her as Anastasia Romanov. So she is now Anna Anderson. It will take some getting used to.
Seven days at sea proved that she has no stomach for traveling by boat. Anna spent the majority of her time in the stateroom, practicing her English and praying to the porcelain throne in her private lavatory.
“Ich habe Angst, ich habe Angst,” she muttered over and over in her worst moments, lying cradled on the floor with her arms wrapped around her stomach like a child.
I am afraid, I am afraid. Afraid the sea sickness would kill her, and, sometimes in the throes of a wild bout of nausea, wishing that it would. Afraid this journey would be in vain.
But she survived the trip, and when they finally reached New York Harbor they could not dock and were forced to wait in the bay until the heavy, soup-like fog lifted. And then, this morning, they were met with an entire press corps that had camped out all night on the dock. They shouted questions and shoved cameras in her face and pressed against her as Gleb guided her to the car.
“Show us your face!” they shouted.
“Who are you really?” they asked.
“Have you come to break into the film business?”
“Are you here for an arranged marriage?”
“Will you stay?”
“Will you live in Manhattan?”
“Tell them,” Anna whispered into Gleb’s ear as he shoved her into the backseat of the waiting car, “that I will give no interviews. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever.”
Dutiful as ever, Gleb obeyed, and finally her heart has stilled its frantic pace as they maneuver their way out of Manhattan and on to her next great adventure.
* * *
—
Oyster Bay is a community of summer homes and tennis whites. Manicured lawns and garden parties. Yachts and country clubs. The closer they get to the home of Xenia Leeds, the lower Anna sinks into her seat.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“What if she doesn’t acknowledge me? What if this is a waste of time?”
“She invited you. She wants you here.”
“She is one of them.”
“She is your only option at the moment.”
The drive from Manhattan to Oyster Bay takes an hour and a half, and, despite her nerves, Anna finally does relax. The Long Island Sound stays in view for much of the drive, and she keeps her gaze on the choppy steel-colored water and the vessels that traverse back and forth: ferries, yachts, tugboats, and great, long trawlers piled high with garbage and ste
el beams. They pass over bridges and through tree-covered lanes. Soon she has lost interest in the Sound and has turned her gaze to the sprawling brick homes that line the road. It doesn’t take long to figure out that the more elaborate the mailbox, the more stately the home. After a while the estates are set so far back from the road that she can see nothing but rock walls, hedges, and wrought-iron fences.
After a while they slow to take a bend in the road, and a long white fence, anchored by brick columns, comes into view. But unlike the other fences she’s seen so far, this one stretches for nearly a quarter of a mile. And then they slow even more and turn into a driveway of crushed gravel. Anna has to crane her neck to see the top of the gate as they pass through.
“This is it?” she asks, stunned.
“Not what you expected?”
“I didn’t realize it would be so…large.”
Gleb laughs. “The first thing you need to know about William Leeds is that he does not do things on a small scale. He’s the son and heir of a tin magnate. They say that God owns the cattle on a thousand hills, but William Leeds leases him the farmland. Think about it”—he rolls down the window so she can smell the sharp, clean scent of freshly raked pine needles—“the man went and found himself a bonafide Russian princess for a wife.”
When they pull into the circular driveway there is a full entourage waiting for them, both William and Xenia Leeds, along with much of the household staff. It is nothing short of a royal reception, complete with curtsies, bows, and a bouquet of bright, fragrant winter jasmine.
Gleb helps Anna from the car and they present themselves before the family.
If there is a prettier, more fashionable woman anywhere in the world, Anna has never met her. And she suddenly regrets her juvenile choice of an entirely white wardrobe in Paris the day before they set sail, because Xenia Leeds, in less than thirty seconds, has shown her how to make dove gray look transcendent in the dead of winter.
“I am so delighted you agreed to come,” Xenia says, in English, but her Russian accent is strong. “It is a pleasure to see you again.”
Anna dips her head, just enough to acknowledge a peer, but not so much as to show deference. “The pleasure is all mine. Thank you for having me.”
“Please,” Xenia says, “meet my husband, William.”
It should be a crime for any two people to be so attractive. Anna is a bit unnerved to see that William Leeds is almost prettier than his wife. Anna feels suddenly shabby and laughable. She drops her eyes. Pulls at the cuffs of her simple wool dress.
“Call me Billy,” he says. “William is such a stuffy name.”
“One that I insist on using despite his arguments,” Xenia says with just the slightest hint of disapproval. It’s there in the twitch of her nose, something akin to a sniff.
Anna guesses that Xenia prefers the stuffy name, so she says, “Then I shall do the same.” She motions Gleb to step forward, and it is only then that she realizes Xenia is stubbornly refusing to acknowledge his presence. William, for his part, looks at Gleb with pity. “And of course you know Gleb Botkin.”
“Of course, but I am afraid he is not welcome at Kenwood. Not today or any other day.” She says this in the dryest, most disinterested tone, as if Anna had suggested they take in a stray cat.
Gleb stands there, mouth opening and closing like a dying fish as he tries to find an acceptable reply.
Anna speaks instead. “I don’t understand—”
Xenia turns her dark, obsidian eyes on Gleb. “We agreed that there would be no press.” She nods to the butler, who dutifully unfolds a copy of The New York Times with a bold headline proclaiming Anna’s arrival.
“Yes…but we needed—”
“I’m afraid you have complicated things for me immensely.”
“I meant no harm. I only wanted—”
Xenia sighs and the sound is filled with three hundred years’ worth of exasperated monarchs. “What you wanted is irrelevant given the circus that is about to descend upon my doorstep.”
“No,” he insists. “I told the press we were going elsewhere. No reporters will show up here.”
“It’s not the press I’m worried about,” Xenia says.
Anna has gone from feeling elation to the confusion that happens immediately prior to a betrayal. She does not realize that she is backing up until she bumps into the car.
“Please,” Xenia says, “we mean you no harm. Our invitation stands. Your room is ready. And we are delighted to have you as a guest, but if he wishes to remain in Oyster Bay, he must find other accommodations. He cannot stay here. Not now.”
“I don’t understand why the news of her arrival is so upsetting.”
Xenia lifts the newspaper from between the butler’s gloved, pinched fingers and hands it to Gleb. She points at a paragraph below the fold. “It’s not the arrival; it’s the accusation.”
He reads for several seconds, eyes growing larger with each word. “But I didn’t give this statement. I know nothing about it.”
“Of course you didn’t. It was wired to the Times by a spokesman for my family, my cousin Dmitri.”
“Dmitri Leuchtenberg?” Anna asks.
Xenia frowns. “Yes, but how—”
“I was staying with his family prior to leaving Germany. What,” Anna asks, desperately trying to keep the anger from her voice, “does that article say?”
Gleb pokes the newspaper with a single finger. “This article accuses us of masterminding a conspiracy to wrest control of funds that the tsar’s sisters are trying to claim.”
Anna’s irritation is growing by the second. “What funds are they talking about?”
Gleb looks at her, almost apologetically. “Your father’s. The long-rumored missing fortune of Tsar Nicholas the Second. Untold millions. Held in trust, at the Bank of England, for his heirs.” He turns on Xenia. “So it’s true then! The money does exist. Your family has denied it for years.”
“My family is…complicated. And that is why you cannot disrupt the situation further with your presence. They will hear of it, and whatever progress has been made with your cause will be lost.”
Anna pulls the newspaper from Gleb’s hands and reads the article for herself. “Why didn’t you say anything about this in the car? You bought all the papers.”
Two bright circles appear on his cheeks. “I admit that I only skimmed the articles. I did not read below the fold on most.”
She would smack him across the head with this paper if she thought it would help. But Gleb’s mouth pulls in at the corners and his eyes close to slits. It’s the face he gets when he’s thinking furiously, and she knows that he is formulating some new plan, something that will help them adapt to this turn of events. “I understand your concerns,” he says at last, to Xenia. “And I agree with you.”
“I am glad to hear it,” she says.
“I will leave her with you and I won’t interfere with your visit. All I ask is that I may contact her on occasion.”
Xenia gives a curt nod. “I have no problem with that.”
He turns to Anna. “You will be safe here. And I will check on you regularly.” The trust that Anna places in Gleb is similar to the trust she places in a chair. She believes that he will be there to support her because he has been there for so long doing that very thing. If the legs are wobbly, she tries not to think about it much because it’s the only chair she has.
Anna hasn’t taken into account that Gleb will not be in Oyster Bay to help deflect any difficult questions. They cannot discuss the situation openly here in the driveway, before the Leedses and the household staff. She thinks, quickly, desperately, as she tries to read all the unspoken messages that flash across Gleb’s face. There are so many ways for this to go wrong.
Finally, she asks, “May I make a request?”
Xenia has not moved from her position at
the bottom step. Her hands, now freed of the newspaper, are folded primly before her again. “Of course.”
“Can you promise me that no member of the Romanov family will be brought to see me without my permission? Can you assure me that I will not be ambushed in your home?”
A pause as Xenia tries to divine what is behind the request and then she says, “Yes. Of course. I promise.”
“Then I am delighted to stay.” From the corner of her eye she sees Gleb relax.
William Leeds seems content to watch the exchange without contributing, but Anna does not, for a moment, believe that he is disinterested. He has an expression—something around his eyes and the laziness of his smile—that gives him the look of a speculator, the sort of man who would gamble on a horse race or a cockfight. Anna is certain that he is taking notes, trying to ascertain who in this group has the most to lose. William Leeds seems like the sort of man who is accustomed to being on the winning side.
Gleb does not prolong his good-bye. He gives Anna a quick hug, a kiss on the cheek, and one final assurance that she will be safe and well cared for at Kenwood. Once her trunk has been removed from the car he gives her a nod and then slips into the backseat.
“You must forgive me,” Xenia says a few moments later when he is gone. “Every word I say in your defense puts me at odds with my family. I’m simply trying to do the right thing for everyone involved. Please do not think me cruel for sending him away.”
Anna smiles kindly but does not answer because the truth is that she does not know Xenia Leeds well enough to think anything of her at all.
* * *
—
Kenwood is a sprawling, three-story house on a fifty-six-acre estate set into a cove in Cold Spring Harbor. Every window offers panoramic views that could inspire even the most coldhearted landscape artist. It is painted white brick with green shutters and leaded glass windows. The house has a swimming pool, six-car garage, a dock, horse stables, and its own private beach. They put Anna on the top floor in a suite of private rooms overlooking the tennis courts at the back of the property.
