Queen of Someday
Page 28
“A little light reading to ease your nerves?” she asks, circling the table and sitting on one of the tall, red velvet chairs.
I nod, trying to force a smile and failing miserably.
“I assume tour lessons with Madame Groot have gone well?”
I nod again, this time taking a seat of my own.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Good. Then hopefully you will have no trouble producing an heir right away. The physician tells me you are fit enough.”
“Yes, Your Majesty. But Peter—”
She cuts me off.
“Peter will be fine. Men play such a small, simple role in the matter after all. We do all the hard work.” She smiles slyly.
I bow my head, not wanting to anger her.
“This wedding planning has been so taxing on me,” she complains, drawing on the wooden table with her finger. “I’m going to take a vacation after it’s done, go to Kiev with Bestuzhev.”
“That sounds lovely,” I say honestly.
She puckers, her expression like a viper preparing to strike.
“I had hoped Sergei would join me as well, but he seems to think he would be better served joining you and Peter at Oranienbaum, where you will set up your own court. Do you agree?”
I frown. The idea of being without Sergei sits like a stone in my heart, but I know that if the empress suspects I have any affection for him at all, she will use it against me.
“I admit, I have never held a court of my own, but surely, Sergei would rather join you, and I can manage without him.”
Her face softens.
“Well, he is quite skilled at planning and arranging things. He would probably be more useful to you. Though I’m sure being so far from me will be very difficult for him.”
I nod solemnly. “I’m sure it will.”
“And young Alexander and his wife have asked to be released from court, to travel back to his homeland for the birth of their child. What is your opinion on the matter?”
Her eyes are narrowed, eagerly awaiting my reaction. I try not to react at all.
With an indifferent flicker of my hand, I answer.
“Let them stay or go as you wish, it is of no matter to me.”
“Does seeing them together make you unhappy?” she prods, unwilling to let the matter drop.
I lean forward.
“Happiness and unhappiness are in the heart and spirit of each of us at times. But I think that if one feels unhappy, they need only resign to set themselves above it. To make it so that their happiness is not dependent on any one thing… or person,” I add simply. “It was Your Majesty that taught me that, and I have learned the lesson well.”
She sits back, impressed.
“Yes, I see that you have.”
“Come to my room tonight, so that you might sit for the painter before the wedding. Skip the feast and straight to bed after. Tomorrow will be a very long day,” she orders, standing and taking her leave of me.
As she requested, I dress in my yellow gown, her favorite, adorning myself with my sash and jewels, and make my way to her chambers. There are two painters, each with their own canvas, Sergei, Bestuzhev, and a few other generals and cardinals gathered in the room. They are all whispering furiously when I walk in. Slowly, all their heads turn my way, their voices going silent as they stare.
“Where shall I sit?” I ask, and though no one answers, I feel the weight of their eyes on me. Refusing to let nerves get the better of me, I cross the room to where two empty chairs sit across from the artists, and take a seat, folding my hands in my lap. The door opens again and a mop of blond hair bounds though the door, straightening his jacket. Through the crowd, I first think its Peter, only when he gets closer do I see that it’s Mikhail in Peter’s suit.
“Mikhail?” I ask, confused. “Where is Peter?”
Mikhail coughs, flipping his hair back.
“His Highness had other things to do this evening. He asked me to come and sit for him.” The empress, who has just arrived, lowers her chin and glares at the boy.
“He asked me to sit until it is nearly done, then he will come on the morrow so they can finish his face.”
The expression on her face is truly frightening. If Peter were not her only heir, I might have feared for him. Finally, she nods, giving her consent for the painters to begin.
We sit for hours, long after the lamps are lit, taking small breaks for food and drinks. Around me, the heads of state chat idly about everything from taxes to the serfs to the treaty with Prussia. I comment, when asked to, in my newly perfected Russian. As I’ve been trained to, I smile warmly, offering the occasional flirtatious eyelash bat or coy tilt of the head. Sergei looks on proudly, the empress, however, looks a bit put out to find herself—for possibly the first time ever—not at the center of attention.
By the end of the night, I have several requests for audience at Oranienbaum Place and even more promises of lavish wedding gifts. When I finally leave on Sergei’s arm, I’m so exhausted that I can barely stand and my head is light from all the wine.
“You were radiant tonight,” he offers.
I grin. “Thank you. I have had excellent instructors.”
We are nearly back to my room when I sigh deeply. I would give anything to wake up and be back in Germany, at my small palace surrounded by chickens and goats. Without a thought, I touch my bodice, where a small pouch of German soil sits between my breasts—a constant reminder of what I have lost, what I have sacrificed to be in this place. If I had the whole thing to do over again, I wonder, would I change any of it? Would I go back and spare myself the pain, by denying myself my brief joy? No, I do not think that I would. But somehow, knowing what my choice would have been, had it ever been mine, is a small comfort.
“What is it?” he asks, as if somehow sensing my distress.
“I feel a bit anxious suddenly,” I admit.
He takes my hand, rubbing small circles into my palm with his thumb.
“That is to be expected of any bride to be.”
I shake my head. “I feel less like an anxious bride and more like a criminal about to sign my own death warrant.”
I stop, realizing what I’ve said.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
Sergei stops, taking my shoulders so that I’m facing him.
“Never apologize for speaking your feelings to me, Your Grace. But take comfort in this; I will never let anyone harm you. Not Peter or his aunt or anyone else who might be lurking in the shadows. You will outlive them all, I will personally see to it.”
I stare up at him. There’s such sincerity in his words, such devotion, that I can feel the warmth of it all the way to my toes.
“Sergei. My champion.”
He takes my hand, kissing it softly, his eyes never leaving my face.
“Do I have your heart, as well, my dear Sergei?” I ask. It’s a bold, brash thing to say, but I have to know. We have more than a passing flirtation, that much I am sure of, but it feels safe somehow. Because I know that while I care for him deeply, he could never break my heart. For my heart rests in no one’s hands but my own now.
“I am yours,” he whispers, “always.”