Pulsing waves of pleasure shot down the back of Veronica’s neck, but she was on a roll now. “Based on your genealogy, you qualify for the Assembly of Nobility.”
“You’re a closet monarchist? And here I had you pegged for a Libertarian.”
“Humor me,” Veronica said. “Let’s say this could happen and Russians restore the monarchy. A popular tsar could act as an ambassador of goodwill. God knows we need that right now. You could be the male Princess Diana. What do you say to that, Tsar Mikhail?”
He looked down at his hands. “Last night, you questioned my motivations. Now I have to ask: Did you agree to go out with me so you could play kingmaker?”
“Tsar-maker.” She sensed the wall rising between them and her defenses mounted in response. “I’m not sure.”
Michael’s laugh had a defeated ring to it. He polished off his beer. “If that’s what you’re after, you’ll need to find someone with far greater delusions of grandeur.”
The familiar, crippling anxiety washed over her. Perhaps she shouldn’t be here. She had a monograph to finish. Four hundred pages. Abuela was right. She didn’t need distractions. “Wait.” Veronica forged through the doubt. She touched his arm. “If that’s all there was to it, I’d tell you up front. I wouldn’t ply you with sangria to extract information. I like you. I really do. I’m also curious about your claim. Frankly, I could use the distraction.”
He frowned. “Distraction from what?”
Veronica arranged the salt and pepper shakers with the other condiments on the edge of the table, lining them up like dutiful soldiers. “I don’t think I’m getting tenure. I don’t have the votes. I’m behind on my research and my argumentation isn’t consistent. I took out too many student loans. I’m in debt to my ears. If I don’t make tenure, I’ll have to move back in with my grandmother. She lives in Bakersfield.”
“Is that where you grew up?”
“Yes. I couldn’t wait to get away.” Veronica tucked some loose strands of hair behind her ear. “Where are you from?”
“Brooklyn.”
Brooklyn was yet another faraway place Veronica romanticized, a hipsters’ paradise of novelists and indie rock bands. “Why don’t you have a New York accent?”
“I moved to California after my parents divorced. I lost it.”
“You wouldn’t understand. You grew up somewhere interesting. You probably spent weekends at Coney Island and the Botanical Garden.”
“My childhood wasn’t quite that idyllic,” he responded quietly.
“Oh.” She felt like dirt. “I’m sorry.”
He shook his head, dismissing the topic. “Tell me more about your book.”
Veronica sighed. “Personally, I like Alexandra and argue she was the victim of misogyny from all sides. Yet I can’t escape the fact she came down on the wrong side of history because she loved her husband too much. Love led to disaster. It did for my parents. It sounds like it did for your parents. Let’s face it, love usually does.”
He ducked his head to look up at her. It was adorable. She wished she could ask him to not be quite so adorable. “You really believe that?”
“I’m cautious,” she said. “I’ve had my heart flattened.”
“I want to spend more time with you, Veronica, but you can’t assume I’ll lead you to disaster. I need to know I have a chance here.”
“That’s an intense question considering I’ve known you all of twenty-four hours.”
“I’m an intense guy.”
Her gaze wandered to the bright oil mural covering the opposite wall, depicting Columbus’s landing in Hispaniola. A slender young woman extended long strands of beads as a gift for the approaching conquistadors. Don’t do it! Veronica wanted to scream. Don’t trust them. More will come. They have gunpowder and they’ll line your blankets with smallpox.
Veronica drew in a breath and counted to three in Spanish, Russian, and English. That usually calmed her. She leaned forward, until their noses almost touched.
“I said cautious, Tsar Mikhail, not dead,” Veronica told him. “Not yet.”
* * *
The halls of the History Department were deserted, as usual. Historians weren’t known for their sociability. In that respect, at least, Veronica fit right in with her colleagues. Another beautiful Los Angeles morning, and here she sat inert, attempting to edit a tricky chapter about Alexandra’s early days in the Romanov court.
For ten minutes straight, Veronica stared at a blank page on her computer, trying to will words to spring forth like Phoenix from the ashes. But the snakelike voices in her head had returned, hissing at full speed, undermining every sentence she attempted to construct.
Outside the window, Alameda University’s quaint brick buildings and lush foliage called to her. Veronica wished she could go outside. She wanted to sit with the sun on her face, touch her lips, and think about Michael. She’d kissed him impulsively last night, right under the collar of his shirt.
Like a hypochondriac with an intriguing new illness, Veronica kept a close eye on her symptoms. She still knew so little. How had Michael managed to compile the records of birth certificates and supposedly royal marriages? If he didn’t want to join any of those … how had he put it? Clubs for sad old noblemen? If he wasn’t interested in any of that, then why bother to keep those records?
A sharp knock rattled her office door. Veronica exhaled, grateful for the distraction. “Yes?” she called out.
Regina Brack stepped into Veronica’s office. Automatically, Veronica shot to attention. Dr. Brack’s cheeks were red, no doubt from her weekend in the desert. Veronica imagined the woman tramping through the Mojave, squinting in the sun, trapping butterflies in her kill jar, not a strand of her helmet-hair out of place.
“This came for you.” Dr. Brack tossed an express mail packet onto Veronica’s desk and then hovered in the doorway. “Overnight mail. I figured it must be important.” She lowered her voice. “Dr. Herrera, I’ve been thinking over our talk last Friday. I’m sure you want to discuss your options going forward.”
Veronica heard Dr. Brack, but eyed the New York postmark. She nodded absently in Dr. Brack’s direction while opening the express mail envelope. Inside, she found yet another envelope, cream colored and a perfect square, with ornate curlicues framing each letter of her name, like on a wedding invitation. But she didn’t know anyone getting married. She frowned.
“Sometimes difficult decisions must be made,” Dr. Brack said. “I know that’s hard to understand when you’re trying to start a career.”
Veronica’s breath caught as she noticed the Russian imperial double-headed eagle, scepter clutched in one claw, orb in the other, imprinted on the left-hand corner of the square envelope. Her heart did a flip-flop.
“It comes down to focus,” Dr. Brack said. “Have you considered honing a more substantial subfield? Perhaps it’s time to incorporate Marxist theory into your research.”
Veronica tapped her pencil against the side of her desk absentmindedly. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Dr. Brack press her thin lips together. “What is that, anyway?” Dr. Brack asked.
“I’m not sure. An invitation to a Romanov ball?” Veronica shook her head. “I’m sorry. It’s distracting me. Could we talk this afternoon?”
“Consider what I’ve said,” Dr. Brack told her. “I’m trying to help.”
She gave a contrite nod. Regina Brack finally took the hint and left her in peace.
Veronica grabbed a letter opener, a souvenir from one of Abuela’s Royal Caribbean cruises, and slit the envelope’s seal. She withdrew a thin sheet of paper.
Dear Dr. Herrera:
After receiving your inquiry, I wish to formally introduce myself. My name is Grand Duke Alexei Romanov and I write on behalf of the Romanov Guardsmen, the only true representatives of the Russian Imperial House in Exile.
Thank you for your interest in my organization and our involvement in the reconvening of Russia’s Zemsky Sobor. Our ultimate goal is R
estoration of the Romanov Throne. We believe this new legislative body will engage the Russian people with the idea of restoration in a way we had not previously imagined possible.
You briefly mentioned your scholarship on the royal martyr Alexandra Feodorovna. Our organization identifies and cultivates young scholars dedicated to the more agreeable aspects of our blessed dynasty. Supporters in the current government recently granted us access to exclusive files hidden by the Bolsheviks for nearly one hundred years. Several of them concern Empress Alexandra. Would such documents be of interest?
To achieve our goals, it is imperative that we protect the memory of the Holy Family. It is equally necessary to root out Romanov imposters. In your correspondence, you mentioned your acquaintance with the notorious pretender Mikhail Karstadt. Take caution. We believe he is using you for his own dark purposes.
We will happily provide you with access to our files on the empress in exchange for information regarding the current activities of the False Mikhail. Under these conditions, we extend a warm invitation for you to visit our archives in Manhattan at our expense. You will hear from us again soon.
Highest Regards,
Grand Duke Alexei
His Imperial Highness and Heir Presumptive
The Romanov Guardsmen
Keepers of the Russian Throne
Veronica’s throat constricted, as if she’d gulped water down the wrong pipe. The historical Alexei Romanov had been the hemophiliac heir to the throne, born in 1904 and murdered along with the rest of his family. She had never heard of this Grand Duke Alexei, although she had contacted the Romanov Guardsmen after finding references to them in Russian papers and blogs.
Small, biting questions nagged. If Michael was a “notorious pretender,” as claimed, why did he downplay his claim? Of course, maybe that was all part of his plan, she thought skeptically. Veronica opened a new message window in her Outlook account, typed in the e-mail address she found on the letterhead, and started to respond.
Your Highness
She grimaced, deleted the opening, and started again.
Dear Mr. Romanov:
Thank you for writing. I’m intrigued by your information regarding Alexandra. Is it possible you might send photocopies of your files? As far as Michael Karstadt is concerned, I can’t help. On a related note, why do you refer to him as a “notorious pretender”? He isn’t even interested in pursuing his claim.
Best,
Veronica Herrera
Assistant Professor of History, Alameda University
The instant she hit Send, another knock rattled her door. Veronica jumped back in her chair, banging her shin against the desk. She rolled her shoulders, expecting to face a horde of crazed neo-Cossacks, sabers rattling at their sides. “Come in.”
Michael stepped inside, smiling broadly, shirt freshly pressed. He smelled like expensive soap and immaculate grooming.
“Oh,” she said. “Hi.”
He turned back to the door. “You were expecting someone else?”
“No. No.” That didn’t come out right. The second no made it sound as though she had something to hide. She swallowed, shin throbbing. Michael leaned against the corner of her desk, his hand near the letter from Alexei Romanov.
“Look.” She pointed toward a new storyboard posted on the wall for her officemate’s graphic novel. “What do you think of the latest installment? He introduced werewolf adversaries. How original! I told you all Medievalists were nuts.”
While Michael examined the new pictures on the wall, Veronica slid the letter and the envelope underneath a stack of student essays on her desk.
“Right.” Michael turned back to her. “My deposition was canceled and I have the afternoon free. Would you like to grab lunch?”
Veronica sensed she was on the verge of failing some sort of test. If she believed the letter from Alexei Romanov, she would order Michael out of her office. Then she would congratulate herself for getting rid of a scheming man. She would head home, stare at the cracks in the ceiling, and refuse to think about the shape of his lips. That’s what she would have done when she still lived at home and allowed all of her grandmother’s warnings about men to run through her head like a scrolling news ticker.
She didn’t want to be that woman anymore. “I know a great Japanese place in Pasadena,” Veronica said. “They don’t allow cell phones so everyone can eat in peace. You’ll like that.” She reached for her purse.
“Veronica, you’re talking a mile a minute.” Michael took her hand and held it aloft, like a doctor checking her pulse. “And you’re trembling. What’s wrong?”
The words nearly bubbled to her lips, but Alexei Romanov’s warnings about the “False Mikhail” buzzed like a distress signal. Veronica blurted out the only thing she could think of. “One of my cousins is having her quinceañera next Saturday. Have you ever been to a quinceañera? It’s a big party for her fifteenth birthday. I get shy at parties. And it’s in Bakersfield. My grandmother’s coming. It will be hell.”
Michael gave the crooked smile she remembered from when she first saw him. “Are you inviting me or looking for sympathy?”
“Inviting you.”
“You’re doing a great job selling me on it.”
“If it’s too soon … the family thing and all.”
“Oh.” His expression changed. “I see.” He gave a courtly little bow. She thought he might go down on one knee. “Of course it’s not too soon. I’d love to go.”
Her heart soared. But then she didn’t want to look too eager so she tempered her smile with a shrug. When she moved her shoulder, a pain shot down her back. Perhaps she’d fallen asleep in an awkward position last night. Perhaps she felt guilty for not telling Michael about the letter from Grand Duke Alexei. Or perhaps Abuela kept a voodoo doll at home and had poked pins in it to warn Veronica men were more trouble than they were worth.
Four
Four little girls hadn’t endeared Alexandra to the Russian people, the aristocracy, or her mother-in-law, the Dowager Empress Marie. Life at court continued to trouble Alexandra, particularly since, when it came to political intrigue, Marie and Alexandra were as different as a tiger and a mouse.
—VERONICA HERRERA, The Reluctant Romanov
PETERHOF ESTATE
NOVEMBER 1901
When Lena knocked on the door to Alexandra’s study, Grand Duchess Olga greeted her, squeezing a fluffy white puppy tightly to her chest. Lena smiled at Olga, but waited. No one was allowed to speak to a member of the royal family, even a five-year-old girl, unless spoken to first.
“What have you brought for me?” Olga’s high voice brimmed with authority. She was the eldest of the tsar’s daughters, after all.
“Vanilla wafers for you and special treats for your mama.” Lena scanned the light snacks that accompanied the tea service: pretzels, thin slices of ham, and bananas. For the past few months, this had been Alexandra’s standard fare. Sodium and potassium were said to help women conceive a boy. Lena suggested avoiding calcium as well, just as the old wives in Archangel advised, and now Alexandra refused even to take milk with her tea.
Lena modulated her voice to make it sound playfully grand. “Now may I enter?”
Olga swept aside to allow Lena to pass. She released the squirming white ball of fluff from her arms and ran around her mother’s lemonwood desk, chasing the puppy.
Alexandra sat at her desk. She looked tired, but more content than Lena had seen her in weeks. When she saw Lena, she set her pen down on a stack of thick lilac stationery and smiled kindly. Lena placed the silver tray on a side table and poured hot water from the bubbling samovar over loose Earl Grey tea leaves. Alexandra once confided in Lena that Earl Grey tea reminded her of the summers she spent at Balmoral Castle in Scotland, with her grandmother, Queen Victoria.
After setting out the tea service, Lena hesitated. Sweet ferns and flowering plants graced the windowsills of the study, alongside sepia portraits of the tsar and grand duchesses. Lena ra
n her finger along the intricate wood carvings of ivy and berries on the side of the desk. Sometimes she wished she could curl up in one of the overstuffed chairs and rest for the night here. The servants’ quarters were so impersonal and cold.
Olga stopped running. Lena dropped her hand, afraid that somehow the little girl could read her thoughts. But Olga wasn’t paying her any mind. The dog yelped at the doorway. Lena turned to look.
The African guard, Pavel, stood silently at the door.
Automatically, Lena shifted her gaze to the geometric patterns on the carpet beneath her feet. She stole a glance at Pavel’s black-and-crimson uniform, trimmed with gold braiding, and then up at his face as he stared blankly ahead. A strange twitching strummed her chest. Surely Pavel remembered her. He said their paths would cross again. He’d promised to tell her about his home in Virginia.
Another moment passed. He didn’t take notice of her at all. Etiquette dictated that Pavel not speak. His mere presence signaled the arrival of a royal guest. Still, could he not spare a look or even a gesture?
Alexandra gave Pavel a serene nod. Once he left, she fingered the lace at her high collar and surveyed the cheery room. Lena sensed she didn’t want it violated. Alexandra approached a mirror and began to fuss with her hair. “Lenichka, I know this isn’t part of your normal routine, but can you assist me?”
Forcing thoughts of Pavel from her head, Lena joined the empress before the long oval mirror, wondering what she was meant to do. As she smoothed the folds of appliqué work on Alexandra’s afternoon dress, she couldn’t help but notice her own reflection. Next to her elegant mistress, she looked short and dumpy. Her hair was a shade somewhere between blond and brown with none of the highlights of either color. And her eyes were large, but too round, the lashes sparse. Still, she supposed, if one took the time they might notice a wide-open, pleasing aspect to her face.
Once more, the door burst open. This time the tsar’s mother, Dowager Empress Marie, strode into Alexandra’s study.
The Secret Daughter of the Tsar Page 6
