“I can take care of myself.”
“I’ll stay three steps behind you,” Michael said. “I won’t even talk to you.”
He’d follow her around like a stray dog if she let him. She almost relented, but the rational side of her returned. “Why did you spend so much time looking at their records when you were younger?”
Michael stopped cold. “He told you that too?”
“You don’t deny it, then?”
He looked in her eyes and then shook his head. “No,” he said quietly.
“Did you want to pursue your claim back then? Do you want to pursue it now?”
He shook his head again. “No.”
“Then taking the DNA test shouldn’t matter one way or another. You can find out if you’re a relative. If you’re not, so be it. Who cares? But there are those of us who might be interested in finding out if the story about the fifth daughter is true.” She pointed to herself.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said softly. “Not now.”
“Why not?”
He said nothing. He gave her nothing. Perhaps Alexei Romanov was right. Michael didn’t want to take a DNA test because he knew the results would be negative. If he cared, that meant he wanted to pursue his claim all along. He’d lied to her.
The shell started to close around her heart. She walked toward the subway station, not daring to look back. She couldn’t bear to see the crushed look on Michael’s face.
* * *
Veronica didn’t want to return to the hotel. Michael would find her. Besides, she felt too depressed to go back alone. She’d taken the subway back toward Midtown. Now that she was aboveground once more, she tried to blend in with the other pedestrians. The crowd, the anonymity of it, helped clear her head. She felt apart from herself, like she could disappear.
As she approached Forty-second Street, she recognized the stone lions, cold sentries at the top of the steps leading to the public library. Businesspeople in suits and student tourists with bulging backpacks sat on the massive steps, an oasis from the commotion of the busy street below. Veronica plopped down next to a girl with burgundy hair who was smoking and reading a paperback.
Veronica bent to peek at the cover of the book. One Hundred Years of Solitude. Despite everything, she smiled. Márquez had been one of her mother’s favorite authors, or so Abuela said. She could picture her mother sitting on stairs like this in Madrid, smoking a cigarette and reading a paperback. It made her want to stay on the steps. It was freezing, but she liked the proximity of strangers, particularly ones who read Márquez. It distracted her from thinking that she was in Manhattan, the center of the universe, and yet had nothing more to show for this trip than an undefined relationship with some guy who was what? A liar? Delusional? Both?
And what would happen when she made it back to her safe little cubbyhole at Alameda University? She imagined the smug look on Regina Brack’s drab face. At this point, Dr. Brack may as well stuff Veronica’s career into one of the kill jars she used for her doomed butterflies.
Slowly, Veronica’s saving grace, rationality, returned. She had new information about Alexandra to consider. Michael was clearly a liar, but perhaps there was something to what Alexei Romanov said about this missing fifth daughter, some kernel of truth. When Romanov had first written her, hadn’t he promised access to files on Alexandra? New information? Veronica might yet salvage this trip. She might not return home in disgrace after all.
Besides, Abuela would be horrified if Veronica squandered an opportunity because she was upset over a man. Veronica was horrified at herself.
She reached inside her purse, found her phone, and punched in the number Alexei Romanov had given her.
He answered after only one ring. “Romanov Guardsmen.” He made it sound as though she’d reached a customer service center.
“This is Veronica Herrera.”
“Dr. Herrera! I’m glad to hear from you again. You bolted out the door, so eager to confront the pretender, and I didn’t even have a chance to say good-bye.”
“Michael won’t submit to a DNA test. I don’t understand why not.” She hesitated. “I guess I do understand. You were right. He’s not the heir to the throne.”
The girl with burgundy hair looked up from One Hundred Years of Solitude and shot Veronica a puzzled look. Veronica shrugged. On the other end of the line, Romanov clicked his teeth against his tongue. “Is Mikhail with you now?”
“No. I wanted time alone to consider everything you said.”
“Oh.” It was a simple syllable, but Romanov sounded pleased.
“I’m calling because I’d like to come back and look at your archives on Alexandra, as we discussed in the first place,” Veronica said. “You said you had new information. I’d still like the opportunity to see the files.”
“Splendid! But I have an even better idea. Beforehand, why don’t you let me introduce you to a lovely woman of my acquaintance? Her mother worked for the royal family. I think you’ll want to hear what she has to say about Mikhail’s story.”
Veronica felt a quick pitch of excitement. “About the fifth daughter of the tsar?”
“Related to that tale, yes. I’m sure she would like to meet you. She doesn’t make her way out of her home much anymore, though, I’m afraid. Perhaps we can arrange to visit her this afternoon. Would you like that?”
“Should I come back to your office?” Veronica asked.
“Where are you?”
“At the library on Forty-second Street. By the lions.”
“Ah!” he said. “You’re with the lions called Patience and Fortitude. How à propos. I retain a car service. Let me fetch you. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Once they ended the conversation, Veronica rubbed the back of her shoulders, trying to relieve the tension. She fumbled in her purse for her iPod. For a few minutes, she would disappear into the Strokes’ “Heart in a Cage,” fast and chaotic. It relaxed her more than a massage ever could. Luckily, she had an entire playlist just like it. The music helped drown out thoughts of Michael while she waited for Alexei Romanov.
* * *
Ten minutes later, a long black sedan double-parked in front of the library. One of the tinted windows in back rolled down. Alexei Romanov stuck his head out the window and mouthed something. Veronica removed her earbuds.
“Dr. Herrera.” He shouted to be heard above the traffic, but kept his voice polished as a debutante. “Thank you for agreeing to this on such short notice.”
Veronica turned off her iPod and rose to her feet. Alexei Romanov stepped out of the car in a long overcoat trimmed with black fur. He held a file folder, overlaid with plastic sheeting, in his hand. Cars and taxis honked at his sedan, but nothing broke his concentration. “I’m glad you agreed to meet Ms. Rubalov. We have reason to believe something remarkable happened between the births of Anastasia and Tsarevich Alexei. She will provide further insight.”
“Wait.” Veronica tried to organize her thoughts. She glanced back at the steps. The girl with the burgundy hair had stashed her book in her purse and was smoking now as she watched Veronica and Alexei Romanov. “You called Michael ‘a notorious pretender.’” Veronica lowered her voice. “Do you believe him or not?”
“Our organization is determined to uncover the truth. We need your help.”
“My help?” Veronica said. “Why me?”
“My joints don’t do well in the cold air anymore,” Romanov said. “It’s an old man’s curse. Why don’t you join me inside the car?”
It seemed he wasn’t going to answer any of her questions. She decided to try one last time. “Uncover the truth about what?”
With tremendous care, Romanov removed the plastic sheeting from around the manila folder and withdrew a thin, curling piece of white paper.
“This is what I wanted to show you,” he said. “It may be a missing link in the story of the fifth daughter.”
A tingle of delight coursed through Veronica as he stepped c
loser. Even on the pale copy of a copy she recognized Alexandra’s neat, slanted penmanship. She gasped.
Romanov smiled broadly, handing Veronica the letter.
5 September 1902
Dearest Lena,
How sorry I was to hear of your parents’ sudden illness. I miss you so and cry in my pillow to think I couldn’t even bid you good-bye. I wish we had time to speak. I beg your forgiveness for the tardiness of this letter.
When I walk through the palace now, I see the looks on the faces of the servants and of those in Nicky’s family who still bother to visit. They think I’m hysterical and that I would fool my own body into maintaining such an illusion.
The empress wrote not in Cyrillic, but in English, the same language she used with her husband and daughters. Veronica heard Alexandra’s desperation, recognized her phrasing. If someone had forged this letter, they did an expert job. She pictured Alexandra holding a piece of stationery between her long fingers and blowing softly on the ink.
But who was Lena?
Veronica strummed her fingernails against the sedan’s immaculate paint job, too excited to remain still. “You’ll need a paleographer to date the original copy,” she said, “and to verify the handwriting isn’t a forgery.”
“We were hoping you could do that. Ms. Rubalov is a friend to our association, though not a member, I’m afraid. Her lineage doesn’t warrant it. But she is devoted to the cause and is willing to show you the original letter in its entirety. What do you make of the portion you’ve seen so far?”
“It sounds like Alexandra,” Veronica admitted. “I would like to see the original.”
“Ms. Rubalov has the original.” Romanov indicated the open car door and gracefully stepped aside to let her in. “Let’s pay her a call.”
Curiosity churned inside as she slid into the backseat, taking in the scent of newly upholstered leather. Warm air blasted in through vents. A panel separated the backseat from the chauffeur.
Romanov tapped the panel at the back of the driver’s seat. “We can go now.”
The driver started the engine, flicked on his turn signal, and then accelerated into the farthest left-hand turn lane, nearly sideswiping a bike messenger in the process. Veronica twisted around to watch the bearded hipster on the bike wobble to the side of the road, shake his fist, and then recede into the distance.
“What’s the hurry?” Veronica asked uncertainly.
As she turned again, the panel before her lowered. Veronica saw the driver’s reddish hair and his knobby knuckles gripping the steering wheel. He adjusted the rearview mirror. She caught a glimpse of the acorn-shaped scar on his left cheek, below his eye. At once, the harsh scent of his cologne registered. The driver was the man who had followed her into the Forbes Gallery.
Veronica felt the fear again, so intense it clawed at the lining of her stomach. She heard her own voice, but it sounded more like a croak. “Where are we going?”
“Brighton Beach,” the driver said, in his brusque Russian accent. “I’ll make sure Mikhail knows where to find us.”
Twelve
Historians find it odd no one noted much of that night. After all, the palace buzzed with suspicion. Alexandra failed to call any of the court doctors to her room. This made the family and the servants question the true nature of her condition.
—VERONICA HERRERA, The Reluctant Romanov
PETERHOF ESTATE
AUGUST 1902
Lena struggled to keep her eyes open. Her shoulders slumped. All of the windows in the master suite were tightly shut and the room stunk of a metallic, medicinal odor. She patted another damp towel on Alexandra’s white forehead and nodded at the skinny parlor maid in the corner. The maid had been standing in the same spot for ten minutes now, scratching at a mole on her chin, trained to receive permission before leaving the presence of a royal. Unfortunately, Alexandra was in no condition to grant anything of the sort now. Lena’s nod would have to do.
The maid straightened her back, mouthed a thank-you, and gave a sloppy curtsy before scurrying out of the room. Lena felt sure ugly gossip would follow. Where were the doctors? Why wasn’t word sent to the waiting family members as to Alexandra’s health? Lena wished she had an answer. She wanted to leave.
Marie entered the room, brows knit in disapproval. “Who was that girl? I ordered the servants to stay outside. What did she want?”
“Nothing. She probably didn’t hear the orders. She was just going about her normal routine.”
“No one else is to come inside. I don’t care about their normal routine.”
Marie opened the door a crack and gestured to someone on the other side. A man in a long white coat entered the room. He was balding and short, with wispy whiskers sprouting from layers of fat under his chin. Lena flashed back to the morning in Alexandra’s boudoir when she’d watched Monsieur Vachot murmur to Alexandra and caress her head.
Lena covered her mouth. Her skin felt clammy and smelled like salt. She couldn’t believe Marie would let Vachot anywhere near the empress. Yet he hovered over the bed now. He withdrew a stethoscope from his thick leather bag and pressed it gently against Alexandra’s still chest.
Lena was too exhausted to take care with her tone. “Where are the court doctors?”
Marie shot her a dirty look. “Hush.”
“I’ll take good care of our little mother.” Vachot patted Alexandra’s hand.
This wasn’t right. Lena’s mind raced. At least five doctors should attend to Alexandra. She didn’t think the tsar would agree to this arrangement. He’d call for the others at once. The tsar loved his wife beyond reason, certainly enough to defy his mother’s shrill demands. Maybe he had called for more doctors, but somehow Marie intercepted his orders. They were in the palace somewhere. Lena only needed to find them.
Then she remembered what Pavel told her about the time he spent boxing and the need for self-protection, how such skills were valuable when dealing with the imperial family. If she planned to defy Marie, she needed to do so with subtlety. Lena bowed her head as she approached the dowager. “Forgive me. May I leave the room for a moment?”
Marie regarded Lena as though she were a mosquito in need of swatting. “Why?”
“I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t urgent.” Lena shifted her weight from foot to foot.
Marie sighed. “Very well. Don’t dawdle.”
Once outside the stifling room, Lena drew in a deep breath, ridding her lungs of the sickly smell from Alexandra’s boudoir. The storm had passed and weak rays of early daybreak filtered into the palace through the bay windows. Even the flimsy light was enough to revive her senses and strengthened her resolve. Lena balled her skirt in her hands and rushed toward the stairs.
Before she could descend, she heard the patter of footsteps from one of the bedrooms at the end of the hall. Lena stopped short. The door creaked open and a woman’s head stuck out. She had her hair covered in a turban and wore a scarlet kimono with a bright yellow dragon scampering up one shoulder.
“Girl,” the woman called. “Girl!”
Lena turned and recognized the shrewd blue eyes and thin lips of Grand Duke Kyril’s lover, Ducky.
“No one has brought fresh water this morning,” Ducky said in clipped and precise English. “Could you attend to it?” And then in a lower voice, “If you hear any word of the tsarina’s condition, we would like to know about that as well.” Ducky grasped a twenty-ruble note between her manicured fingers.
Lena’s foot tapped the floor, beyond her control. She couldn’t risk offending Ducky since she was such a high-ranking visitor.
But then she realized Ducky had spoken in English. Why would this woman assume she spoke the language? Lena squinted and offered a pallid smile. She shrugged with her entire upper body, palms upward, and responded in Russian. “What is this?”
“Oh…” Ducky must have communicated to Kyril in English, just as Alexandra did with the tsar. “Voda.” Ducky pantomimed drinking a glass of water.
/> Lena put a finger up to indicate she understood, gave an exaggerated sigh of relief, curtsied quickly, and turned to head off.
“No, wait. Nyet.” Ducky grabbed Lena’s arm to drag her back. “There’s more. The empress…” Now Ducky released Lena’s arm so she could pantomime a full stomach and rocking a baby.
“Ah!” Lena said. And then in heavy English, “Water. You. Water. For empress.”
“No! Damn. Kyril!” she cried, turning over one shoulder, but Lena had already taken off. She rushed down the stairs, taking them two at a time.
Gray tendrils of smoke seeped from the crack at the bottom of an arched door downstairs, near the entrance to the gardens. The door led into the tsar’s private study, yet no guard stood watch outside. The tsar must not be there. Someone else in the room might help her though. She heard a faint hum of voices and laughter.
Lena glanced over her shoulder to make sure Ducky wasn’t watching, then placed her hand lightly on the knob, and tugged.
Through the haze of smoke, Lena saw photographs of Alexandra and the grand duchesses hanging on the walls alongside mounted heads of reindeer and bears, souvenirs from the royal hunts. Lena averted her eyes to avoid the vacant stare of a dead elk. The trophies reminded her of late summer in Archangel. Her father hunted and trapped while her mother cured and salted the meat. The fetid smell of fresh carcasses made Lena nauseous. Her mother always scolded her for her weak constitution.
Near the center of the room, four men gathered around a circular table, cigars clenched between their teeth. They lounged in chairs upholstered in dark leather that squeaked whenever they shifted their weight. Each of them held a hand of cards.
“Well played, Konstantin,” one of the men said as the others laughed. “You’ll be the ruin of us all.”
The man sitting nearest the door sensed Lena’s presence and turned. A cloud of fresh smoke from his cigar irritated her throat and she coughed. All of the men swiveled to face her.
“What do you want?” The man who spoke was younger than the others. His hair hung in lanky strands along the sides of his face. He looked more like one of her brother’s friends than a court doctor, yet his voice bore the unmistakable cadence of the privileged class. He swept a pile of bills from the middle of the table to a larger pile directly in front of him.
The Secret Daughter of the Tsar Page 17
