***
I drift in and out of sleep as we ride on through the day. Just as dusk falls, Sergei nudges me gently.
“We have arrived, Princess.”
Pushing back the curtain, I watch out the window as we roll into the grand city of St. Petersburg. Even in the dim glow of the setting sun, the view is breathtaking. The iron-and-gold gates of the Winter Palace stretch before us, the Romanov crest, a glorious golden crowned eagle, watching us from the top. The carriage stops and Sergei steps out, speaking to the guards in quick Russian. The gates slide open and we roll inside, Sergei waving to me as we pass. The grounds are a menagerie of ice sculptures and glowing lanterns. I expect the carriage to stop in front of the grand entrance but it continues, rounding to the rear of the massive estate. Two guards step forward to assist us out as Sergei reappears and leads us into the servants’ entrance.
“Why on earth were we not greeted formally?” Mother demands as we weave through the empty kitchens. The hearth is roaring with fire, and I can feel the chill melting out of my skin.
“Surely you would not have the young princess introduced to court in just her petticoats?” Sergei says in the tone one might use with a whining child.
She sighs. “No, of course not.”
He tilts his head in a gesture of deference and leads on, up the back staircase and down the left wing of a long, ornate hallway. The walls are marble and granite with decorative, golden wreaths and swirling vines along the ceiling. Massive frescos and beautifully woven tapestries hang from the walls, while tables with fresh-cut flowers sit at every door. I’m tempted to remark on the absurdity of it—fresh flowers in the middle of winter. Being raised by a man who saw such things as unnecessary frivolities, it’s an instant reaction. But I’m sure here, at the Grand Imperial Court, they don’t have an old man hunched over a ledger complaining about the cost of tulips, so I bite my tongue. I must remember that here, excess is completely ordinary and I ought not to make a fuss about it.
“These are your rooms,” he says motioning to the last door at the end of the hall. The steward pushes the massive, oak door open, and the sitting room inside is nearly the size of my entire home back in Settin. There’s a writing desk, piano, and half a dozen chairs and chaises scattered about. A large, round table boasts a silver tray full of meats, cheeses, and breads. There are three doors beyond, two seem to be bedchambers, but I’m not sure about the third. I’m quite sure these rooms alone are the size of our entire home back in Germany. I look to Mother, who frowns, unimpressed.
“Are the accommodations to your liking?” Sergei asks me directly, as Mother begins touring the room, commenting on the color of the drapes and the size of the fireplace.
I nod. “They are; thank you.”
“Then I will leave you to rest. I will send up a maid with some nightclothes, and I will have the seamstress attend you first thing in the morning.”
Mother turns, “Do tell the empress we’ve arrived. I’m sure she will be most excited to see me.”
Sergei bows gallantly. His eyes flicker up for only a moment and catch mine. A sly grin spreads across his face as he stands and turns to leave, the white-wigged steward closing the door behind them. No sooner are they gone than Mother opens the third door and nods happily.
“A washroom. Good. I could use a hot bath after such a strenuous journey.” She turns to look at me. I hold up the hem of my soiled petticoat. She frowns. “You will need to wash too, of course. But I should go first. You will spoil the water with your muck.”
Opening our door, she orders the steward back, demanding hot water be brought up from the kitchens.
Sometime later, the water has grown cool as I finally slip out of my clothes and into the tub. Still, it’s warm on my cold skin. The soap smells like honey and goats milk as I wash away the last of the snow and mud from my body and hair. I rest back against the side of the copper washtub and try to imagine in my head what it might be like to see Peter again. He would have grown devastatingly handsome, that much I can be sure of, and he will see me and smile. He will take my hand, we will dance and laugh, and he will insist we go for a walk in the garden. The moonlight will be pale and glowing, he will look into my eyes, and… I let the vision trail off. For a moment, one insane second, it wasn’t Peter, but Sergei’s face in my thoughts. I brush it aside quickly. Sergei is a kind man, handsome, and not much older than I am. A gentleman who went out of his way to keep me safe. But even so, he is not the reason I’m here, and I cannot afford to be distracted by a few kind words and handsome eyes.
I must win the heart of the future king.
“Come along, dear. As I expected, we have been summoned to see the empress first thing in the morning. You will need to be rested.”
With a heavy sigh, I step out of the bath and dry myself before slipping into the soft, green dressing gown the maid brought for me.
When I walk into the room, Mother is sitting at the writing desk, furiously scribbling notes on parchment.
“Are you writing Father? To let him know we arrived safely?” I ask.
She looks up at me and blinks, as if the idea was so foreign that it never crossed her mind.
“Of course not. I’m writing to King Fredrick.”
“Oh,” I say flatly.
King Fredrick of Germany had been overjoyed at the prospect of my sitting on the throne when we stopped for a visit in Berlin on our way here. He sees it as a way to secure an alliance, Mother sees it as a way to regain her lifestyle, and I see it as the only alternative to marrying my Uncle Edward.
She points the feather quill at me. “Make no mistake, Sophia, this union is a political alliance sanctioned by the king himself. And if you are successful in securing the prince’s hand in marriage, our family will be rewarded with wealth enough to rival the most prestigious noble’s in Berlin.”
I freeze. The thought of facing this task alone is beyond daunting. Dread shoots up my back like spikes.
“Will you go back then? Back to Prussia?”
She pauses, then sets down the pen and holds her hands out to me. I step forward and take them. “Sweet child. I will never leave you. For as long as you need me by your side, I will remain. Even if it means living with these monstrous Russian winters.”
I smile, relief flooding through me. Mother might be shallow and, at times, callous, but what she does, she does for me and for our family. It’s easy to forget that sometimes.
She sends me off to bed; the warm blankets and soft pillows soothe me into an instant slumber. All too soon, I see the first rays of daylight sneaking through the slit in the curtains. The maid from last night rushes in and throws them open, flooding the room with warmth and light. I sit up, rubbing my eyes.
“Thank you,” I mutter. “I’m sorry; I’ve forgotten your name.”
The maid curtsies. “Isobel, my lady.”
“Thank you, Isobel. Is the seamstress here yet?”
“She only just arrived.”
“Thank you,” I say, throwing back the blankets. Isobel gathers them and begins making the bed as I step out into the foyer.
There are three trunks of gowns, all open and overflowing as Mother and the seamstress bicker. As soon as I enter, the seamstress bows her neck.
“My lady.”
I nod. “What is all this?”
“Fifteen gowns,” Mother says, throwing her hands in the air dramatically. “You are getting fifteen new gowns.”
I step forward. “That’s wonderful.”
Mother snorts in disagreement. “No, it’s barely enough to replace what we lost. And I am only getting nine.”
I don’t remind her that we only had four gowns between us, and that they were mysteriously destroyed. Or that all four were old and had been remade at least half a dozen times already.
Instead, I turn to the seamstress. “The empress is too generous. We are grateful.”
The seamstress smiles and motions for me to come to her. She appraises me thoughtfully.
“You are about the size of my daughter, lucky enough. She often stands for me to try new fabrics and styles on. And your coloring, the brown hair and dark blue eyes, you will look lovely in most colors. I’m so glad. Only last week we had to work for a lady with hair orange as fire and pale skin. There were so few colors we could put her in that didn’t make her look sick.”
She prattles on under the watchful eye of my mother as she discusses patterns, bustle sizes, and sashes. I just close my eyes, lift my arms when told to, and let them choose. There’s a sharp tap at the door and the steward comes in, a large box in his arms. He sets it on the floor and backs up.
“A gift from Lord Salkov.”
Mother shoos the steward out and opens the box, pulling out a lovely pink-and-black lace gown. The style is French, a low bodice and tight sleeves. Compared to anything else I’ve ever had, it’s downright scandalous. Yet, I remember seeing many ladies dressed in similar styles in Berlin and the idea of wearing it, looking so grown up, makes my heart pound. The notion of Sergei admiring me in it makes my heart pound harder.
Mother holds it up to herself and grins wildly. “It’s just lovely. I think I’ll go put it on.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s for the princess. See the cut of the waist? It’s far too narrow for you,” the seamstress says, not looking up from her work.
Frowning, Mother drapes the gown over her arm. “Insolent girl. The gown is obviously for me.”
I shrug, “Maybe he’s put a note in the box?”
Mother walks to the box and pulls a tiny scrap of paper out, reading it aloud.
“‘Since you have no gown to wear today, please accept this humble gift.’ It’s signed Sergei Salkov. It doesn’t say who it’s for.”
I point to her bedchamber. “You have the gown you were wearing yesterday. I have no gown at all,” I say simply.
She glares at me. “I can’t wear that. It’s filthy.”
The seamstress looks up at me with sympathy in her eyes.
“Well, then I suppose I will have to meet the empress naked. I’m sure she will understand, Mother. I mean, it wouldn’t make her think less of me—of my fitness to marry her nephew—to meet her like this, don’t you think? Yes, I’m sure she will understand.”
I hold my breath. I’ve never employed this particular tactic with her before, and I’m not sure how she will react. I’ve put her vanity against her plotting as I’ve seen my father do so many times. It’s always a risk. Sometimes, she would react with a quiet acceptance of his will. Other times, she simply tightened her mouth into a line and left, scheming behind his back until she achieved her goals.
She stares at me for a second before tossing the gown on the seat beside me.
“You are quite right, of course. A kind gift though it is, I will simply have to let you borrow it for the day. I’m sure Sergei will understand.”
And with that, she spins on her heel and heads into her bedchamber, closing the door behind her. On her knees in front of me, the seamstress smiles widely and winks at me.
The maid is helping me into my gown when the steward arrives with a request from the empress to join her for breakfast in her private chambers. Mother, dressed and leaving her room for the first time since her tantrum, accepts the invitation graciously and helps Isobel finish buttoning the dress. Behind me, Mother drapes something across my neck. Catching a glimpse of it in the mirror as she fastens the clasp, I gasp softly. It’s one of the few jewels her family passed down to her, and one of her prized possessions. A dozen black-onyx teardrops dangle from a strand of black beads at the base of my neck. The stones are warm against my skin and I wonder if she’s been holding them all this time, debating whether to put them on me or wear them herself. Apparently, her desire to put me on the throne is greater than her own vanity—which is something I won’t soon forget.
After all, Johanna of Holsein-Gottorp was born a princess, the great-granddaughter of the King of Denmark, but after being forced to marry a man beneath her rank, she lost nearly everything. The jewels were all she had, the last link to the bright future that had—in her mind—been stolen from her. Now, with an opportunity to set me on a throne, she hopes to reclaim a little bit of that future. I’m not about to complain. Not when, until the empress’ invitation arrived, she had been content to marry me off to the highest bidder, no matter how wretched the prospects might be.
And I have no doubt that if I fail in this endeavor, that is exactly the fate that I will return home to.
With that in mind, I straighten myself up, smooth my bustle, and raise my chin. Mother twists my hair into a lovely, but simple roll across my forehead and secures it with a pin. Finally ready, we follow the steward out of the room ant toward the empress’ chambers.
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Queen of Someday Page 3
