The Tsarina's Daughter (Reading Group Gold)

by Carolly Erickson

  I nodded. I saw a new firmness come into Michael’s eyes. Constantin and I had once been in love. Therefore Constantin was a rival.

  “If I release you,” Michael said to Constantin, his tone harsher than before, “do you give me your word that you will sit down and keep your temper, and behave as a man of honor should when speaking to the tsar of all the Russias?”

  “I will attempt to.”

  “Your Imperial Highness—” the war minister began, having found his voice at last.

  “Never mind, Ignatiev. I will hear your deputy, provided he does not go on for too long.”

  I watched the seated Constantin struggle for self-mastery. When next he spoke he was calmer.

  “Your Imperial Highness, I apologize for my outburst. I speak bluntly because of my love for Russia and her people—”

  “And her ruler, let us hope,” Ignatiev put in.

  “And her ruler, and his family. Let me tell you what I believe must happen.”

  “Very well.”

  “I believe that you need to look beyond the army and its losses and needs, beyond the likelihood that Russia will lose this war.”

  The war minister gasped, but papa held up his hand. “Let him go on.”

  “I believe you must pay close attention to the situation in Petrograd.”

  “Petrograd? What situation in Petrograd? When I left it the city was fairly peaceful—as peaceful as it ever is.”

  “Things have worsened since you left. The workers are striking, the city is filled with refugees who have nothing to eat and nowhere to go and who are listening in greater and greater numbers to the speeches of the revolutionaries.”

  “Agitators!” papa cried. “They are only agitators—and criminals at that! Let the soldiers deal with them just as they always have.”

  I could tell what effort it was costing papa to speak up in this way, to listen to dire news, to argue with Constantin. His voice was becoming hoarse, his breath came in shorter and shorter gasps.

  “Sire, there are not enough soldiers to fight the enemy and subdue the revolutionaries. They cannot keep order. They cannot prevent chaos. Day after day, Russia is being destroyed, not by foreign enemies but from within, by her own people. People who want change, who demand power for themselves, since those in power cannot seem to govern effectively.”

  Papa set down his empty snifter. I noticed that his hand was shaking.

  “If things in Petrograd have gone as far as you say, then there is nothing I can do to stop what is happening.”

  “With Your Imperial Highness’s permission, I have drawn up a brief memorandum listing all the immediate steps that are required.” Constantin took a folded paper from his pocket and handed it to papa, who did not read it but tucked it into the cord wrapped around his waist.

  The war minister got to his feet. “We will await your orders in Mogilev, Your Imperial Highness,” he said with a bow. With a glance at Michael, Constantin stood, bowed, and, murmuring “Your Imperial Highness” one more time, followed the minister out of the tent.

  “What a relief!” papa said when they had gone. “I thought they would never leave. Now, Tania, let me offer you and Michael a good dinner. You have come a long way and you must be hungry and tired.”

  We were indeed very hungry and very tired, but when we had eaten and drunk our fill (there seemed to be no shortage of food in Mogilev) and retired to the tents prepared for us I could not get to sleep. I was alone in my tent, having urged Niuta to join her husband in a tent of their own rather than stay with me as she usually did. Wrapping a blanket around me I lifted the tent flap and went outside.

  The air was cool and moist, but there were no overhanging clouds, and the sky was brilliant with stars. I found my favorites: the great red star called Betelgeuse in the constellation of the hunter and fiery Aldebaran in the constellation of his prey, Taurus the bull, and the bright white dog star that always followed the hunter in his progression across the dark bowl of sky.

  Enjoying the quiet, I stood and mused on the immensity of the spangled worlds above me, trying not to let my worries about papa intrude. I stayed where I was until I smelled the rich, sweet, fragrant aroma of pipe tobacco. I looked around and saw the glow of a pipe. It was Michael, sitting not far from me, looking up at the night sky just as I was.

  “Come and look at the stars with me,” I called out.

  He got up and came over to join me, knocking out his pipe on the ground and stomping on the burning ashes.

  His face gleamed in the starlight, his dark eyes soft, his full lips warm and inviting, his caress thrilling yet at the same time soothing, making me feel safe and protected.

  “No guns pounding tonight,” he said. “No war.”

  “Only the stars. Monsieur Gilliard says the universe has no edges and no center—how can that be?”

  “Perhaps it is like love—immense and unending.”

  He kissed me then, and our kisses went on and on, until we found ourselves inside my tent and under the blankets of my camp bed.

  “So beautiful—so very beautiful,” he murmured as he kissed my throat, my shoulders, my breasts, my nightgown tossed aside. Lovingly I helped him undress, though the sight of his strong, lean body was already very familiar to me—nearly as familiar as my own. He lifted me so that I lay on top of him, kissing and nipping at him playfully, feeling him growing hard against my groin, my own desire increasing to match his.

  No words of mine can tell of the splendor of those moments, the first time our bodies joined and we reached love’s most rapturous heights together. Nothing could have prepared me for the boundless joy I experienced again and again that first night with Michael, our first night as lovers in the deepest sense. I told him that I loved him, but the words fell so far short of my feelings that they sounded hollow.

  “My own dear Tania, my very own at last,” he said, holding me close. “Promise me you will never love anyone else.”

  “I promise.”

  “Swear on the stars.”

  “I swear on the bright dog star, and the hunter and the bull. I swear on the universe that has no end, like our love.”

  “Then we are pledged.”

  “Yes.”

  “Come what may.”

  “Come what may, Michael, I am yours.”

  Thirty-eight

  We were blissfully joined, and pledged—and then we were separated.

  The longer papa spent with Michael, the more he felt he could trust him, as servant, companion and protector. Chemodurov had served papa faithfully since his boyhood, but now Chemodurov was aging; a younger man was needed to replace him. Papa offered the position to Michael, who thought it his duty to accept. He retained his military rank but was assigned to papa’s personal staff instead of serving in his regiment.

  And since papa was in Mogilev, Michael was to be there too, for the foreseeable future.

  I wept when I left papa and Alexei and Michael to return to Tsarskoe Selo, as I did not know when I would see any of them again, and I could not know when or if the Austrians and Germans might overrun the camp, putting all their lives at risk.

  There was another danger too, a more private one. Papa took me aside before I left, and we talked frankly about it.

  “I want to keep your brother here with me, Tania, even though I am aware of the risks to his health. If he should fall, or cut himself, or bump his head, there would be nothing the local doctors could do for him. He is alive by the grace of God and because of the prayers of Father Gregory, we all know that. It is nothing short of a miracle that he is still alive, when nearly everyone in the family expects him to die.”

  “I expect him to live. He looks stronger than I thought he would, and he is happy being here with you.”

  “He is my great comfort. But we both know that this may be the last time you see him.”

  “Cousin Waldemar has the bleeding disease, and he is still alive. He is much older than Alexei.”

  “Your cousin is remarkab
le, yes. But remember, his brother Henry died.”

  “I will continue to believe that Alexei will survive.”

  “You are a good girl, Tania. Always remember that I love you.”

  “I love you too papa. So very much.” And we hugged each other tearfully.

  It was a terrible leavetaking, my departure from Mogilev on a wet morning, with Alexei in tears and Niuta trying to hurry me along and Michael trying his best to delay me.

  How soon would Michael and I be together again? How would I bear not knowing?

  Finally I ran out of excuses, and with a last embrace I broke away from Michael and got into the carriage beside Niuta. Our military escort in place, and all the luggage and supplies for the journey loaded, the driver cracked his whip and we were off.

  Once we reached Petrograd, I saw all too clearly that what Constantin had tried to warn my father about was true. An angry mood prevailed throughout the city. Our carriage was pelted with stones and pieces of filth as we made our way along the broad avenues. Peasants, striking workers and ragged people I took to be refugees were gathered at street corners, talking together, reading newspapers—most of those in Petrograd could read—or, in some cases, listening to fiery speechmakers standing on benches or stone walls and haranguing the crowds.

  Some of the people we passed held up big signs. “The land belongs to God, not to the landlords,” was one that I remembered long afterward. “Little Father, Feed your People” read another, crudely scrawled in red paint—or could it have been blood?—on an old board. I felt a chill when I read several signs saying “Kill the German Bitch,” for I knew only too well who the “German Bitch” was. Niuta tried to distract me when we passed the worst of the ugly signs—those that had no words, but only crude filthy pictures of my mother, a crown on her head, embracing her bearded lover, meant to be Father Gregory.

  Such hatred, such venom—and such hardship. Even as the sights I saw frightened me and made me want to protect my family, they also aroused my compassion, for winter was coming and I knew that many of the people we encountered in the streets would have no way to survive it. I remembered what Daria’s apartment had been like the first time Avdokia took me to see it, the single crowded filthy room, the crying babies and the stinking water on the floor, the hunger on the faces of the people living there that I had done so little to assuage. I had been in peasant cottages before, and though they were small and cramped, at least they were warm and had charm, with an old stove in the corner and icons gleaming on the walls. Daria’s squalid apartment provided shelter but nothing more—not even decency.

  When we reached Tsarskoe Selo and the immense ornamental metal gates closed behind us I took a deep breath and thought, now we are safe. At least here, on the palace grounds, with so many soldiers and guardsmen to protect us, we will be safe. The first thing I did when we arrived was to find mama and my sisters and hug each one, and I did not even mind when Olga chattered on endlessly and annoyingly about Victor. I did not share with her all that had happened between Michael and me, that was far too private and too precious—and besides, I didn’t want mama to find out how much he meant to me or how I had risked my reputation by letting him share my bed.

  With Michael constantly in my thoughts, I did my best to settle back into a routine of family life. Olga, Marie, Anastasia and I all continued to volunteer at the hospital, and also helped out with the new charity mama founded, the Mothers and Babies fund, meant to provide warm clothing and food for the many destitute soldiers’ widows in the capital. In the evenings we gathered in the mauve salon and I read aloud from some old novel (I avoided War and Peace) or Olga played the piano for us. While mama knitted wool mittens and sweaters for her charity we sat at a table doing jigsaw puzzles or playing cards, though Marie sulked if she lost and Anastasia could never keep her mind on the game, which made Olga irritated with her.

  There was very little time for lessons, but sometimes Monsieur Gilliard read to us from books of Russian history or listened to us practice our French conversation. He also brought us the latest war news from France (he had a cousin in the French embassy who provided him with newspapers), where month after month the English and French were fighting the Germans at Verdun and it seemed as if the terrible battle would never end.

  I wrote to Michael every day and sent my letters along with mama’s letters to papa by courier to Mogilev. He wrote me letters too, as often as he could, though his duties kept him busy from sunup until late in the evening, as papa liked to spend his evenings watching the American movies he had sent to the camp and wanted Michael beside him for company while he watched.

  Month after month our life went on in this fashion, until one day in the summer of 1916 I was shocked to see Father Gregory entering mama’s mauve salon. He was just turning the handle of the door as I was coming along the corridor. He saw me but did not acknowledge me, his face remained expressionless as he continued turning the handle, went inside and shut the door. He was bearded and his long stringy hair—almost entirely gray by then—hung down over the satin collar of his expensive tailored shirt. Even from a distance I could see the flash of jewels on his rings.

  I went to the door and tried the handle. The door was locked.

  “Mama,” I called out. “Mama, are you all right?”

  “Perfectly all right, dear,” came her response.

  “What is that man doing here? I thought papa sent him to Siberia.”

  “He has come back from Pokrovsky to help us dear. You know how I rely on him.”

  I heard laughter on the other side of the door at this remark, the low-pitched laughter of the villainous Father Gregory.

  “Send him away, mama! Don’t listen to him!”

  “You are being foolish, Tania. We are fine. I need Father Gregory’s advice.”

  I pounded on the door. “No, mama, no. Send him away!”

  But I knew, even as I was protesting, that nothing I said would do any good. Finally I went away and put my fears and worries in a letter to Michael.

  Constantin came to the palace one evening, with the recently dismissed war minister Polivanov (Ignatiev having been dismissed soon after my visit to Mogilev, and Polivanov appointed in his place), and asked to speak to mama.

  “It is very important, Tania. Can you please ask her if she will see us?”

  I shook my head. “No, Constantin, I don’t want you yelling at her the way you yelled at papa. Besides, she never sees anyone in the evening. She takes her Veronal, and then after awhile she complains that her stomach is hurting—the Veronal always makes it hurt—and then she takes her opium to relieve her stomach pain and soon she is asleep.”

  Constantin shook his head sadly. “You know she is injuring herself by doing that, don’t you.” It was a statement, not a question. “You know how serious addiction can be.”

  “I can’t stop her. I’ve tried to explain how bad the drugs are for her body, but she only says her poor legs hurt and her poor heart hurts and her poor nerves are always on edge and what else can she do? I have no answer for that.”

  “I urge you to find one. Meanwhile, Polivanov and I have some news about this new war minister of hers, Boris Stürmer.”

  “What about him? I will tell her in the morning.”

  “We want her to know that when the next Duma convenes—I am going to be a member, Tania, did you know that? For the Cadet party—we will reveal that this corrupt Sturmer, who is now prime minister, war minister and interior minister all in one, has been taking bribes and selling army contracts. He is also selling military secrets to the highest bidder.”

  “I will tell her.”

  “This Stürmer is in league with your corrupt Father Gregory. They are making a fortune together.”

  “He was here just last week. I thought he was in Siberia, but he has come back. Father Gregory has come back.”

  Constantin’s expression hardened.

  “Where is your Michael? He should be with you now.”

  “He is
still with papa in Mogilev. He has become a member of the imperial household.”

  “I see. Well then, keep your pistol with you, Tania, and stay away from Father Gregory. Don’t let him near your bedroom, or your sisters’ bedrooms.”

  “I think he only comes to see mama now.”

  “He’s at the root of it all, you know,” Constantin went on, taking out his handkerchief and mopping his troubled brow. “All this corruption. All this rot at the heart of government. He must be gotten rid of somehow.”

  “Twice people have shot at him, and twice he’s survived. The last time was in Pokrovsky. A woman he raped tried to kill him, or so I have heard.”

  Constantin took me gently by the arm and led me from the sofa we sat on to a curtained alcove at the far end of the room. He stood very close to me and spoke in a whisper.

  “What I am going to tell you now is never to be repeated. There are people in the imperial family that are planning to eliminate him. It will happen soon. Make sure your mother does not hear of this or she will try to prevent it.”

  Something in Constantin’s tone and expression made me fearful for him.

  “Are you a part of this, Constantin?”

  “Not directly, no. But I will help in any way I can.”

  “But why murder? Why not just have him arrested?”

  “You know how your parents protect him. And he has allies among the police. People hate him—but they fear him too. No, the only way is to treat him like a mad dog and kill him.”

  I thought for a moment. “He says he is immortal. No one can kill him.”

  “I will enjoy putting that myth to rest!”

  Before he and Polivanov left I murmured, “Be careful, Constantin. Don’t put yourself too much at risk.”

  “What must be done, must be done,” he said darkly. “And it must be done soon.”

  Thirty-nine

  Aloud shriek woke me one snowy night not long before the Christmas season began. I listened, and the shrieking came again.

  It’s mama, I thought, and hurried to put on my dressing gown. “She must be having nightmares again.” Niuta was faster than I was and was already out the bedroom door, going down the corridor toward mama’s bedroom.