Masha eyed the doorway before she spoke. “They say if the next one’s not a boy, her dependence on this quack gives a perfect excuse.”
“Who says this? Excuse for what? No one can harm the empress.”
“They say Vachot works for one of the tsar’s cousins, to make Alexandra look delusional.”
Lena missed the next seam and stabbed her index finger. A dark blob of blood appeared on her skin and she dropped the cape, terrified she’d stain it. She stuck her finger between her lips to stanch the blood.
“You should use a thimble,” Masha said.
Lena took her finger out of her mouth and stroked the small welt where the needle had pricked her skin. “The empress may be eccentric, but she’s not delusional.”
“You see how she mopes around here.”
“She hasn’t moped lately. Not since she started seeing Dr. Vachot.”
“Exactly.” Masha loosened her belt and began to scratch furiously underneath her furs. “If she’s dependent on a quack, she can be set aside for someone else. Haven’t you heard? They say Dowager Empress Marie wants her darling son Nicky to take a new wife, a healthy, younger woman who will give the tsar boys.”
Lena’s finger throbbed with pain. “I don’t think so. Besides, that will never happen. The tsar loves the empress too much.”
Masha inclined her head curiously. “What’s that?”
Lena followed Masha’s gaze. A corner of the letter from her mother, telling of her brother Anton’s troubles, stuck out from underneath a velvet cushion on the chaise longue.
“Who’s writing you letters?” Masha demanded. “Why are you blushing?”
Lena heard her brother’s laughter ringing in her head. She’d brought her mother’s letter with her to reread once she finished her stitching. Lena focused on a watercolor landscape suspended from a cord on the opposite wall. She touched two fingers to her forehead. “Perhaps I’ve taken fever.”
“What a terrible liar you are.” Masha narrowed her eyes, as though trying to discern the contents of the paper from Lena’s expression. “It’s a love letter!” she concluded triumphantly. “And I’ve never seen you so much as flirt with one of the Cossack guards.”
Lena tried to smile, but her lips locked in a downward trajectory. The broad-shouldered palace guards looked handsome in their formal kaftans with the bright blue-and-red sashes, but they were loud and chewed tobacco. She either watched from a distance or avoided them entirely.
“You could have a love affair,” Masha mused, “if you took more care with your appearance.”
“I wouldn’t know about that.” The more she denied an affair, the more Masha might suspect one. A secret lover made as good a cover story as any.
“You better watch yourself though,” Masha said. “I hear your idol Alexandra is a prude. If she knew you kept a lover, she’d dismiss you at once. And jobs are hard to come by these days. If you know what’s best—”
Masha stopped abruptly. Her pale brows curled and she turned to the door. Pavel stood at attention, still as one of the granite statues in the garden. He wore a white jacket decorated with colorful embroidery, and an emerald sparkled atop his fez. The outfit was so elaborate it might have looked comical on another man, but Lena thought it complemented his dark skin tone and the amber flecks of color in his eyes. His voice was deep and melodious, as she remembered from their first encounter. “That garment is too small for you, don’t you think?”
“At least I’m making good use of my time.” Lena gathered Olga’s cape from where it had fallen on the floor. Butterflies began to dance in her stomach. “Not scaring defenseless women.”
“I doubt you’re as defenseless as you look, seamstress.”
Lena cast a cautious glance in Masha’s direction. The girl probably didn’t understand a word of English, but her open mouth conveyed shock well enough. Lena wondered what surprised Masha more, that Pavel spoke or Lena dared to answer.
Pavel kept his gaze on Lena, but addressed Masha in Russian. “Please leave now. The empress wishes to see Lena Ivanovna alone.”
Masha gave a hoarse laugh, betraying the cigarettes she snuck while walking in the gardens. She turned to Lena. “Has she discovered your beau already?”
Lena grabbed the letter from under the cushion and thrust it deep into the pocket of her skirt for safekeeping, resolved not to let it out of her sight again.
Masha ambled toward the door. “Don’t let it slip about the Cossack, Lena. Secrets have a way of revealing themselves, you know.”
Lena bit back her angry response. After all, Masha was just a silly girl, cranky from the itchy furs.
Once Masha left, Lena told Pavel, “You shouldn’t sneak up on me like that.”
“The Winter Palace is worse than Peterhof. There are no secrets. You are close to the Empress Alexandra? Then you could do with the practice.”
She tried to imagine Pavel with the other bodyguards and footmen, chewing tobacco in the garden, but she couldn’t picture him joining in the gossip. Even so, he knew of her growing intimacy with Alexandra. Everyone must know.
“Are you in love with a Cossack, as the girl said?” Pavel’s jaw tightened. “If so, perhaps you should watch what you say with the empress. That girl’s right. The empress doesn’t care for love affairs among the staff.”
Despite the cold air in the room, Lena felt warmth spread across her cheeks. Still, the hint of annoyance in Pavel’s tone pleased her. Perhaps he was jealous. “I’m sure Empress Alexandra has more pressing concerns than my romantic life.”
“She’s not the empress that concerns you.” He put his hand on his heart and bowed his head. “Forgive me, seamstress. I misled you. I was instructed to keep this meeting confidential. I’ve been reassigned to the dowager. She’s here to see you.”
The butterfly wings in her stomach flapped so quickly now that Lena grew queasy. “Why does Marie want to see me?”
“I don’t know. But the dowager doesn’t usually call on servants.” Pavel’s tone grew serious. “Watch yourself. Remember, she doesn’t care for disagreement.” He threw a quick glance over his shoulder, eying the doorway the same way Masha had earlier. “Of course when it comes to the topic of Phillipe Vachot, I agree with the dowager. You care for the welfare of Empress Alexandra? Convince her to dismiss him. He’s causing more harm to her reputation.”
“You give my persuasive abilities more credit than they deserve.”
“I have a good sense of people. I have a good sense of how to protect myself. I learned that skill as a boxer. It’s the only way to keep the blows from destroying you. I think it’s a skill you possess as well, little seamstress.”
Lena now took note of Pavel’s large and nimble hands. She could easily imagine those hands curled into fists, and Pavel bare-chested, within the boundary of a chalk outline ring, like the men used in Archangel. She lowered her head, trying to appear modest despite her thoughts. “You were a boxer?”
Pavel smiled. It was genuine, not a smirk or even a flirtatious grin. It changed his entire face, made him seem more vulnerable. “The sport got me out of Virginia.”
He hesitated and their eyes met. Lena didn’t look away. Pavel leaned in closer, inclining toward her ear so he could speak in a whisper. She drew in the scent of something woodsy and comforting. “Until she produces a son, your mistress is in a precarious position. You can be a friend to her, only don’t turn the dowager against you.”
Lena nodded. Pavel withdrew. At once, she missed his scent and his lips so close to her ear. He bowed to Lena one more time as he backed out of the room.
Marie appeared a moment later, dressed in an ivory gown and delicate wrap that made the tiny garment in Lena’s hands seem fit only for a rag doll. Lena stood to curtsy.
“Sit down,” Marie commanded in her husky voice, flapping her hands. “I’m on my way to meet Nicky and the girls at a reception for the Serbian ambassador. I don’t have much time.”
Lena wished the dowager didn’t
move so quickly. It made her feel clumsy and stupid. She lowered herself back into the chair, set the sewing aside, and folded her hands in her lap.
“So my daughter-in-law trusts her servants more than her own family.” Marie fingered a crystal paperweight on the desk. “But then I’ve always found the Germans an odd race. Apparently, they can’t even keep their rooms warmed to a civil temperature.” Marie pulled her lace wrap tighter around her shoulders. “I’ll get straight to the point. When we last saw one another, Alix began to talk about your family. I’d like to hear more from you. Tell me about them.”
Lena remembered the letter from her mother. She willed herself not to feel for it in her pockets. She felt certain Marie could hear the beating of her heart. “We are good, simple, patriotic country folk—”
Marie raised her hand. “Not your prepared speech. I meant about your mother, the midwife.”
Lena nodded miserably. “What would you like to know?”
“You must have the highest regard for your mother’s skills. After all, you have promised the Empress of Russia an heir. You truly believe you helped Alix conceive a boy? I’m listening, if you wish to explain.”
“That’s not true. I never promised an heir,” Lena sputtered. “Empress Alexandra begged for my advice. She wants a son so badly. I only shared a few things I’d heard from my mother and other women.”
“Your advice is probably more sensible than the claptrap Vachot feeds her.” Marie’s dark brows slanted. “Alix is convinced the child is a boy. What if she’s wrong and bears another girl? A fifth daughter?” Marie’s gaze ran up and down Lena’s form, evaluating her as though she were a serf to be sent out to the fields. “Surely you understand the danger if Alix fails again. I don’t expect you to fully comprehend the consequences, but I expect you to behave as a patriotic subject should.”
“I’ve done everything the empress asked.”
“I’m asking now. I want you present at the birth.”
“I’ve never delivered a child,” Lena said. “I never claimed I could do so.”
“I’m not asking you to play court physician, but seeing as how Alix trusts you implicitly it’s only natural for you to be with her at such a momentous occasion.”
Lena moved her shoulders uncertainly. For an instant, the sharpness in the dowager’s eyes reminded Lena of her mother’s. She checked the impulse to shrink away.
“I know you trust Alix. You think she can protect you,” Marie said. “I don’t know what you need protecting from, but I can help you far more than poor Alix.”
Lena didn’t care for the dowager’s tone on that last phrase, poor Alix. Lena often felt sorry for Alexandra as well, but she still merited her respect. Lena remembered what Masha had told her earlier. Perhaps the dowager wanted to replace Alexandra. Lena tried not to put faith in palace rumors, but the cold seed of suspicion had already taken root.
“My only wish is to help the empress,” Lena said. “I know I’m only her servant, but sometimes I think she would like a friend. I only want to make her happy.” In a smaller voice, she added, “That is what we all want, I should think.”
Marie patted her fringed bangs, looking thoughtful. Then she took Lena’s hand. Her skin felt smooth and cool to touch.
“Alix needs a friend desperately,” Marie said. “You can help her. You can be that friend. Stay at her bedside during the birth. And do exactly as I say.”
PARIS
OCTOBER 1941
Judging from the frail autumn sunlight, Charlotte guessed it was late morning. She had hardly slept the night before. She pulled the bed linens tighter around her shoulders, not caring yet to face the day. She stared up at the ceiling, where patches of peeling paint clung to plaster. Then she stretched her arm out to where Laurent had cuddled alongside her back all night. When at last she’d fallen asleep, it was to the gentle rise and fall of his breathing.
Her son’s voice cooed from downstairs. “Which one,” she heard him ask, “the chicken or the egg?”
“No one knows, mon petit. That’s the mystery.”
Luc’s voice sounded calm, smooth, almost seductive, the voice she fell in love with. Charlotte half-expected Luc to bound up the rickety old stairs, ready to caress her shoulder and drag her back under the sheets. The warm smell of melting butter brought back memories of better times. Once, she’d carved thick slices of butter from creamy wheels and used it to cook chanterelle mushrooms and delicate crepes. Now she couldn’t remember the last time she’d prepared anything more exciting than rutabaga and dry boiled potatoes.
A familiar pain made her stomach clamor for food. Charlotte closed her eyes. Despite her hunger, she wanted to remain in bed, thinking of those days when food was plentiful, and she danced on stage, and Luc still loved her.
She heard Laurent’s strangely raspy laugh. Charlotte realized she hadn’t heard her son laugh properly in months. Her shoulders relaxed and she managed to find her way out of bed.
Charlotte dressed quickly, shivering in the chilly room. She smoothed the pleats of the skirt she’d worn yesterday and ran her fingers through her hair to work out the tangles. She lifted her hair to clasp her necklace, and then splashed water on her face, balking at the pale image reflected in the cracked mirror above Luc’s sink. Tiny lines creased the edges of her eyes. She grabbed a sliver of soap and scrubbed her cheeks.
She stopped. She wouldn’t scrub so hard at home. Charlotte set the soap back on the cold basin, patted her face dry, and headed downstairs.
Laurent sat at the table, swinging his legs, staring at Luc as he cracked eggs and they sizzled in the frying pan. Charlotte kissed the top of Laurent’s head and gently tilted his face up. One eye gave off a watery discharge and his skin felt too warm. Still, he seemed happy. He’d emptied his pockets, which he kept filled with string, rocks, and old coins. The contents had been spread out on the table for Luc to admire.
“Where did you find eggs?” Charlotte asked.
Luc glanced over his shoulder, a cigarette dangling in his mouth. The tobacco smelled as good as the eggs. He gave her a lazy smile. “Good morning to you too.”
“Thanks for letting me sleep in.” She ruffled Laurent’s hair.
“You looked as though you could use a good night’s rest.”
Charlotte’s fingers clenched. “How kind of you to say so.”
“As for these…” Luc reached for salt and shook it over the pan. “I got lucky.”
He scooped scrambled eggs onto three chipped plates and set them down on the table. Then he poured boiling water over the coffee grounds in his press. The powerful smell shocked her. Real coffee, not the hickory shavings that passed for it these days.
Luc stamped his cigarette out in a metal ashtray. “Bon appétit. Such as it is.”
They ate silently. Laurent’s lips moved determinedly over every bite. Charlotte wracked her mind for something to say. Outside, the previous night’s rain had given way to sunshine. Droplets of water clung to violets in the courtyard. “Look, Laurent,” she said. “The garden is sparkling, like in a fairy tale.”
Luc jabbed at the eggs with his fork. “Really? That’s what you see?”
She waited, ready for him to tell her what she’d said wrong.
“The landlord grew pinot noir grapes. Don’t you remember? You’re the daughter of a farmer—I’d expect you to notice. The Hun soldiers ripped the vines out. The Nazis control everything now, even our wine.”
Charlotte stared at one of the misshapen rocks Laurent had placed on the table. When she last heard from her father, he said the Germans hadn’t come to them yet because they were too busy destroying vineyards in Bordeaux. He’d guessed it was only a matter of time. She couldn’t bear the thought of soldiers trouncing through her father’s vineyards in their hobnailed boots. The retrievers would bark at the soldiers, they might even try to nip their ankles. The soldiers would shoot the dogs. Her heart froze.
Luc wiped his mouth with a soiled cotton napkin. “I want to show you
r mother something,” he told Laurent. “It’s rolled up on top of my desk in the other room. Will you fetch it for me?”
Instantly, her son obeyed. She’d never seen him move so quickly for her. Jealousy pricked her heart.
Luc also watched Laurent as he ran from the kitchen, his backbone sticking out against the flimsy fabric of his shirt. “He’s too thin.”
The next bite of egg stuck in her throat. Charlotte set her fork down and clasped her fingers together. Like so many other children, Laurent had experienced a dangerous drop in his weight over the last year. Did Luc really think that was her fault? “I tried to get nutritional supplements,” she said. “There’s none to be had.”
“If this winter is as cold as the last, he’ll get sick.”
“All the more reason to get him to my parents’ house as quickly as possible.”
“It’s my fault, too,” Luc admitted. “I don’t see him as much as I should. From now on, he’ll stay with me more often.”
Charlotte imagined her entire body staggering back. She choked back tears. “We’re leaving the city. I told you.”
“Yes. I want to talk to you about that.”
Laurent returned to the kitchen and solemnly handed Luc a rolled-up map.
“Look what I have for you.” Luc reached under his chair and withdrew a brightly illustrated field guide of birds. Laurent smiled shyly and gathered his things off the table, shoving the string and coins and rocks back in his pocket. He accepted the book and moved to the living room, curling up under a worn patchwork quilt.
“You’ve probably seen this before.” Luc moved the plates to the cluttered sink and spread the map out on the table, flattening it with the base of his palm.
Charlotte stared at the faded map, its thick black line of demarcation dividing the curving northwestern region of the country, directly under Nazi control, and the southeastern region under the Vichy regime. She wrapped her hands around the mug of coffee, taking some comfort in its warmth, and tried to ignore Luc’s disapproving stare.
“Look at Sainte-Foy-la-Grande,” he said. “That’s the nearest town to your parents’ farm. It’s on the border of the occupied zone.”
The Secret Daughter of the Tsar Page 10
