I continue to advise you to take caution around Michael Karstadt, the False Mikhail.
Highest Regards,
Grand Duke Alexei Romanov
Her mind drifted to thoughts of Michael, holding the door for her, dancing, the shape of his lips. He was clouding her judgment. She squeezed her eyes shut and pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to think of something unromantic. Brezhnev in a Speedo. Good enough. Veronica opened her eyes and began to type.
Dear Mr. Romanov,
I accept the offer to visit your archives. Please let me know what dates and times would be convenient so that I may make the proper arrangements for coverage of my classes.
Veronica hesitated for a moment, and then added:
If you have specific information regarding Michael Karstadt, keep me apprised.
Sincerely,
Veronica Herrera
She hit Send. Needles of self-reproach bristled in her chest. She needed to share this with Michael. She couldn’t put it off any longer.
* * *
“You’ve got that Mona Lisa look again.” Michael intertwined his fingers with hers. “What’s the matter?”
Veronica shook her head and took another sip of pinot. Flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows on the Modigliani prints. Ariel had curled up around Michael’s feet, snoring happily. One of the cats, Boris, watched them from the top of the stereo cabinet, paws tucked under his chest, calm as the Sphinx. Earlier, Veronica had scanned Michael’s music collection and commented on Arcade Fire and the National. She wanted him to know her taste in music hadn’t stagnated since the 1980s. Now, Matt Berninger’s matter-of-fact baritone rolled through “Terrible Love.”
She ran a hand through Michael’s hair. She wished she could stare at him, undisturbed, burning every last detail of his face into her memory. Between the music, the candlelight, and the perfectly pitched buzz in her head, she wanted to forget the folded paper in her pocket. She wanted to roll onto Michael’s body and drown in him.
But then Alexei Romanov’s comments would continue to haunt her. She straightened her back, and refilled her glass, setting the empty pinot bottle down on the end table. Immediately, Michael picked up the bottle and moved to the blue recycling bin near the door. Veronica smiled. In Russia, empty bottles were considered bad luck. She hadn’t seen this superstitious side of him until now.
After he tossed the bottle, he asked: “What’s wrong?”
Veronica took a deep breath. “Have you heard of the Romanov Guardsmen?”
Michael stood before her, rocking back and forth. His voice sounded a shade too calm. “Why?”
Veronica examined her cuticles. “Given your family’s lineage, they might want to speak with you.”
Michael turned to the stereo. With what struck her as tremendous effort, he steadied his hand and tenderly lifted the needle from the vinyl record. “Veronica, tell me the truth. Have these people contacted you?”
“I sent them a quick question about their participation in the Zemsky Sobor. They invited me to see their archives in New York and offered to pay my way. They have access to documents on Alexandra.” She took a quick breath. Now that she’d opened the door, she had to keep going. “And they seem to know about you.”
He pivoted toward her, finger jabbing the air. “What did they say? No, let me guess. Don’t believe anything he says? I’m an imposter? A fraud?”
Boris leapt off the cabinet and landed on the floor with a graceful thud. Ariel sprang to life as well, panting heavily. Veronica hesitated, still hazy from the pinot. “Something along those lines.”
“They discredit everyone with a claim. They helped destroy Anna Anderson.”
Veronica’s fingers began to flex. Anna Anderson was the most famous Romanov imposter: the woman who claimed to be the tsar’s fourth daughter Anastasia and inspired all the movies. She wasn’t sure why talking about Anna Anderson made Michael so upset. But his sudden burst of temper made her feel strangely calm. “They were right,” Veronica said.
Michael tapped his foot impatiently.
“Anna Anderson was a fraud. DNA proved it.”
“That’s not the point. They didn’t have DNA tests in the 1920s. The point is the Romanov Guardsmen refuse to investigate evidence that contradicts the claims of their members. Their claimant doesn’t want rivals. I don’t trust him.” Michael thrust his hands behind his back, kneading his fingers furiously. “What did they say about me?”
Veronica reached into her pocket and offered him a print copy of the e-mail from Alexei Romanov. Michael scanned it quickly. “Unbelievable.” He crumpled the paper and threw it across the room. His other cat, Natasha, jumped out from under the dining room table and pounced. Ariel whimpered and approached Veronica. She stroked the dog’s bushy fur, wishing she could soothe Michael as easily.
“Their heir apparent?” he said. “This aging playboy who calls himself Grand Duke Alexei? He’s Kyril Romanov’s grandson. Do you know what Kyril did?”
Kyril Romanov had been the eldest cousin of the last tsar, Nicholas II, and next in line to the throne after the tsar’s brother and the tsar’s son. “During the Revolution, Kyril raised a banner to support the Revolution,” she said. “Some people in the family thought he was ready to join the Bolsheviks. After that, some of them considered him a traitor.”
“Well put, Professor. And later, after most of the rest of the Romanovs were shot, Kyril declared himself ‘Tsar of all the Russias.’” Michael lowered his voice. “Did Alexei Romanov tell you he’s met with Vladimir Putin?”
A shiver darted down Veronica’s spine. Putin wasn’t Ivan the Terrible, but she wouldn’t want to get on his bad side either. “For someone who claims to have little interest, you’ve kept close track of the Romanov Guardsmen. Besides, this Alexei Romanov might have good information.”
“You’re not taking him up on this foolishness, are you?”
Veronica’s cheeks warmed with agitation. “They have papers on Alexandra and are willing to pay my way to New York. My tenure review is in January. I need something to show my committee or they’ll cut me loose. I told you, I can’t wind up back in Bakersfield with my grandmother.”
“I know. I know.” Michael knelt in front of her and took her hand. “I’m just afraid this man will feed you lies.”
“If Alexei Romanov is as bad as you say, confront him.”
Michael took a seat next to her and leaned back on the sofa. He rubbed his forehead, focusing on some distant point on the ceiling.
“Everything you told me only intrigues me more,” Veronica said. “First they send a creepy letter, then this e-mail…”
“They sent you a letter before?” Michael said. “When?”
Veronica looked down at her cuticles again. “Two weeks ago.”
“And you didn’t bother to tell me?”
“How do I know what they say isn’t true?”
“What did they say?” he asked.
“They called you the ‘False Mikhail.’ They said you’re using me.”
He pulled away from her, looking crushed.
“All I mean is how would I know for sure?” she said.
“I don’t know either, Veronica. You could be using me.”
A wave of cool reasoning warred with her rising panic. Veronica felt frozen and powerless to act. Once again, she felt the wall rising between them. “If Alexei Romanov can help with my research, I need to see him. I don’t feel like I have a choice.”
“Fine. Then go.” Michael leaned down and his lips brushed her neck. “But I want to come with you.”
Veronica pulled away. “That’s it? Now it’s all right.”
“If I come with you. I have a light caseload this month. I can afford a few days.”
Knots of anxiety welled in Veronica’s stomach.
“Don’t you think it will be fun?” he asked.
Ariel’s furry head butted up against her leg. She tried to stall. “What about Ariel and the cats?”
“One of the clerks from my office takes care of them when I travel.”
“What about…” She searched for the right words. “… the hotel room?”
“Sleeping arrangements per your suggestion.”
Veronica bit her bottom lip. “There’s still a problem.”
“What? What’s wrong?”
Veronica leaned in close. She felt dizzy. “Nothing.”
He tried to kiss her, but she pulled back. “I’m serious. That’s the problem.” She made a sweeping gesture with her hand. “You own an awesome house. You have incredible taste in music. Your cats are cute. Your dog is adorable.” She paused to catch her breath. “You’re from New York. You probably know all the great bars in SoHo. I don’t even know what SoHo means, but it sounds cool. I don’t trust myself around you.”
Michael nodded. “What if I shared my problem? Will that help?”
Her shoulders stiffened. “All right.”
He beckoned for her to come closer. She inclined her ear to his mouth.
“Your eyes are gorgeous. When you consider something, you bite your lip and all I can think about is when you’re going to let me kiss you again. You’re funny, smart, down-to-earth. You’re a California girl with East Coast neuroses. I could go on.”
His leg brushed hers, sending waves of pleasure cascading though her. The lump in her stomach began to melt. She touched his jaw and pushed him back onto the couch, straddling her legs around his waist, kissing his neck. His finger trailed her stockings, from her ankle to the back of her knee.
She knew she’d been beat. She was taking Michael to New York.
* * *
Veronica waved her index finger. Carlos stared back with big brown eyes and kicked Jessica’s arm with his little feet.
Jess looked exhausted. Only her curly black hair hinted at her former vitality. She shifted Carlos onto the other side of her lap and kissed the top of his head. “He says thank you for coming. He didn’t get to spend enough time with you at the quinceañera. Would you like to hold him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Go on. He doesn’t bite. Much.”
Before Veronica could protest further, Jess thrust Carlos into her arms. As she did, a police helicopter flew low over the house, shaking the toys and bottles strewn over the floors and shelves. Veronica went rigid, terrified at the prospect of dropping him. “What about his head? I’m supposed to support his head, right?”
“You’re fine.” Jess guided Veronica’s hand underneath his soft skull. Veronica tried to relax her arms. Carlos smelled like freshly laundered sheets.
“So how does it feel to be a mom?”
“Great.” Doubt lingered in her cousin’s voice. Jess touched her son’s forehead. “I love being a mom. But I took so much for granted: movies, nice dinners, sleep. Appreciate that stuff while you can. That’s all.” Her tone brightened. “It looks like you’re enjoying yourself plenty. I told you! Whenever you talk about Michael I see little hearts in your eyes.”
“Sure.” Veronica rocked Carlos. How could she possibly explain her concerns without sounding crazy herself? “We’re going to New York together.”
“Didn’t he grow up there? He’ll show you around.”
“You don’t think it’s too soon?”
“You’re both adults. I thought you liked him.” Jess narrowed her eyes, the district attorney once more. “What’s the real problem?”
“Do I have to spell it out?” Veronica said.
Carlos opened his little pink mouth and began to cry. Veronica tensed and passed him back to Jess. Carlos hiccupped and Jess turned him over, patting his back, frowning. After a moment, she said, “I’m sorry. I guess I wanted it to work out because I set you up. I mean he named his dog after some character in Shakespeare.”
“Ariel. From The Tempest.”
“See?” Jess said. “At the quinceañera, he told me you’re the first girl who didn’t ask him why he named his dog after a font or the Little Mermaid. But if you’re not attracted to him…”
Veronica stared down at the letter blocks scattered at their feet.
“You are attracted to him,” Jess said. “I thought so.”
“Stop looking at me like I’m a hostile witness.”
“Has Michael been cruel or something?”
“No!” Veronica said. “He’s a sweetheart.”
“Exactly.” Carlos began to cry. Jess tugged at the buttons on her blouse. “So why not go for it?”
“He was married before.”
“What did you expect? The forty-year-old virgin?”
“He should have told me sooner.”
“Did you ask?” Veronica shook her head. “Then so what?”
I want to know everything he did and everyone he loved before he met me. I’m turning into a crazy woman because I like the shape of his lips. Veronica placed a block with a yellow B for bananas between a red apple A and a white coconut C.
“You’re organizing,” Jess said. “What’s wrong?”
“It makes me wonder what else he’s not telling me.”
“Like what?”
“I think he may be delusional,” she blurted. “He thinks he’s the heir to the Russian throne.”
Jess rocked Carlos back and forth thoughtfully. “That does sound delusional.”
“He makes a strong case though,” Veronica amended.
“Wonderful! You’ll become queen of Russia.”
“Not queen. Tsarina. Or empress. It doesn’t matter. It’s doubtful.”
“I don’t get it. Is he crazy or not?”
Veronica shook her head.
“Maybe you’re crazy. Don’t you want to be happy?”
Jess pulled up her blouse. Veronica averted her eyes and fiddled with more of the blocks. She heard soft, suckling sounds and looked again. Jess seemed so peaceful and content. She hadn’t gotten this way by analyzing every move. Veronica had always tried to be supportive, but privately shook her head and wondered how her cousin could be so rash and impulsive.
Jess met her husband two years ago and they were like matching salt and pepper shakers. Now look at her, beatific and happy. Veronica, on the other hand, who prided herself on control, couldn’t even maintain her grip on a yellow block designed for children. It tumbled to the ground.
“So you think I’m right, Professor?” Jess said. “Don’t you deserve to let your heart do the talking and give your big brain a rest?”
“I should go to New York?” Veronica asked. “No worries?”
“You like him? You think you’ll enjoy yourself?”
Cinematic images of couples gliding across the Rockefeller Plaza ice-skating rink and romantic rendezvous at the top of the Empire State Building filled Veronica’s mind. No one could accuse Michael of not being fun. “Absolutely.”
“Then go, and see what happens,” Jess said.
“No worries?” Veronica asked.
“No more than the usual worries,” Jess said. “Let’s put it that way.”
Six
After a few months, Alexandra summoned a mystic named Phillipe Vachot from the South of France to help her with her next pregnancy. Palace gossip buzzed about the charlatan, but Alexandra’s optimism remained intact. She believed everything Vachot said because he told her only what she wanted to hear.
—VERONICA HERRERA, The Reluctant Romanov
SAINT PETERSBURG
JANUARY 1902
Lena’s fingers trembled as she mended the silver brocade trimming on Grand Duchess Olga’s woolen cape. No one had thought to start a fire in the empty room. Even so, she felt grateful for the rare moment of peace.
At the turn of the year, the royal family returned to the Winter Palace, the official imperial residence in the capital. Lena found the marble staircases, cold-eyed statues, and enormous crystal chandeliers too cold and imposing for day-to-day life. Despite the palace’s grand dimensions, she could scarcely take three steps on the polished floors without slipping and bumping into a stern foot
man in a red-and-gold uniform ornamented with the double-headed eagle, or plump chambermaids giggling with one another under stiffly starched white caps.
When she tried to take refuge in the family’s private apartments, Alexandra found her, grabbed her by the wrist, and asked impossible questions. Should she start eating red meat again? Should she wear a copper bracelet during the first trimester of her pregnancy? Lena grew to fear the sound of Alexandra’s leather heels clacking against the tile, and so she sought refuge in deserted rooms in the farthest corners of the palace.
The latch on the parlor door clicked. Lena braced herself, ready for Alexandra to enter unannounced and ask Lena if she should track the phases of the moon.
“There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you.” A new chambermaid named Masha flopped down on a divan across from Lena. Masha smelled of damp fur and perspiration, thinly veiled by cheap vanilla perfume. While Lena dressed in a plain black skirt and white shirtwaist, Masha wore Siberian fur, one of the regional costumes worn so that the grand duchesses might better understand the people of their country. Masha had been assigned to share sleeping quarters with Lena and had taken to following her around during idle moments.
“So is it true you met Empress Alexandra’s mystery man, Monsieur Vachot?” Masha asked. “Is he as peculiar as everyone says? I hear he uses stones shaped like pentagrams to communicate with the dead.”
Given the rumors, Lena had expected Monsieur Vachot to be a wild-eyed giant. Earlier that morning, when she came to collect dirty linens from the boudoir, Lena found Alexandra on her knees before a short, fleshy gentleman with a tender gaze and receding hairline. He murmured to the empress in an impenetrable French accent. As she watched his small hand caress the top of Alexandra’s head, Lena had been surprised by his tenderness.
“I only caught a glimpse of him,” Lena said. “He didn’t ask me if I wanted to communicate with my babushka from the great beyond or anything like that.”
“He’s not a real doctor, you know,” Masha said. “Once it’s known the empress dabbles in the occult it’s only a matter of time.”
“A matter of time until what?”
The Secret Daughter of the Tsar Page 9
