The Tsarina's Legacy

by Jennifer Laam

  The last part came out too quickly. Michael’s face remained still. Too still.

  “Presumptuous, don’t you think?” he said. “Maybe I’m seeing someone.”

  The comment nicked her feelings, but she pressed on. “If you were seeing someone, you wouldn’t be here with me. I only want everything out in the open. Since we’re friendly.”

  He looked down at the paper, but not before Veronica saw him flinch. She wound a strand of hair around her finger, not wanting to hurt him but not sure what else to say. She hesitated and then finally asked, “How are Ariel and Boris and Natasha?”

  Michael’s expression brightened and he whipped out his phone. “Look.” He showed her a picture of his beloved golden chow and two gray and white cats lurking in the background.

  “I miss them,” she said.

  “They’re getting spoiled this week by the pet sitter, but I miss them too. You should get a cat or something.”

  “I think I want a dog.”

  “You seem like a cat person.”

  “I am a cat person,” she said. “But I want a dog.”

  He smiled and put the phone back in his pocket. “A big dog?”

  “A giant. I want him to growl at anyone who comes near me.”

  Michael’s expression tensed. Veronica’s lip twitched. She was about to explain that she didn’t mean she wanted a dog to growl at him per se but then realized Michael was focused on something behind her. He straightened his back, the loyal bodyguard once more. “Of course,” he muttered.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, nothing.” His shoulders stiffened. “Okay, not nothing. Someone’s coming. I think I recognize him.”

  “Hello!” A baritone voice startled Veronica. The man approached from behind and then moved before her to offer a bow. Veronica recognized his face even though they hadn’t formally met: Dmitry Potemkin, the first person from the Russian Monarchist Society to contact her. Dmitry was trim and compact with a strong jaw and an alert look in his gentle eyes. He would have made a perfect all-American action movie hero except for the fair coloring and broad cheekbones that made his features so distinctly Russian.

  “I am running late. I apologize. I thought I had time to see Santa Monica Pier this morning before flight. And then I hear news about Reb.” His voice grew quiet and he looked away.

  Veronica glanced at Michael, who had started to scowl. “I’m sorry, Dmitry. It seems I’m bringing a guest.”

  Michael made himself taller in his seat before extending his hand. “Michael Karstadt.”

  “Mikhail.” Dmitry shook Michael’s hand. “You know Dr. Herrera how?”

  “I’m an old friend.”

  “If that’s what you call it,” Veronica muttered.

  Dmitry looked Michael over. “This is all right?” he asked Veronica, switching briefly to Russian.

  “I’m here to help keep her safe,” Michael responded pointedly, also in Russian.

  “It’s unexpected, but if he wants to tag along, it’s all right,” she said. “My grandmother asked him to do it. She’s worried about me.”

  “Ah!” Dmitry said, eyes widening. “I understand power of grandmothers.”

  Veronica caught herself staring at Dmitry’s face and auburn hair. A portrait from the late eighteenth century came to her mind, a rosy-cheeked and rotund Russian gentleman, also with auburn hair, wearing a military jacket adorned with gleaming medals and a vivid blue sash. “Dmitry is related to Catherine the Great’s Potemkin,” she told Michael.

  Dmitry smiled. “Grigory Potemkin was distant ancestor, great-uncle many times over. I always think of him as ‘Grisha.’”

  “Yet you don’t have a title,” Michael said. “Or am I wrong? Should we call you Prince?”

  “No titles,” Dmitry said. “Grisha Potemkin had numerous titles, of course, but family gave up during Revolution. It seemed diplomatic choice. I am spokesperson for Monarchist Society but not member at present.”

  “But you’re qualified to guide Veronica through this process? Given the tension between the American and Russian governments right now?”

  “I understand concern.” Dmitry turned to Veronica. “We weren’t even sure visa would come through. You are only to stay for week? We will need to be careful with time.”

  “I just saw the news,” Veronica said. “Is it true they’re sending Reb Volkov to prison?”

  “They are to let him have ten days under house arrest before he leaves for Siberia, to settle affairs and such.” Dmitry shook his head sadly. “He provoked government. He used church without permission. I appreciate your willingness to help him. A modern monarch is figurehead, of course, but powerful voice for reform on these matters.”

  Michael looked at Veronica and then Dmitry. “What do you mean?”

  “I discussed Reb’s case with Dr. Herrera, even before verdict,” Dmitry said. “It is her choice how to play role of tsarina, of course. It is ceremonial only. But I have press conference planned for end of week. This gives her chance to speak out. Reb’s case has received some publicity in West, but not enough.”

  “I didn’t realize the Russian Monarchist Society was political,” Michael said.

  Dmitry blinked rapidly but kept his voice steady. “Not in past. No.”

  “Why are you involved with Reb’s case then?”

  “We are to decide now what new Russia will be. We are at a crossroad.” He had been speaking in English but veered into Russian as the words grew more complex. “We need to determine who we are: an oppressive or progressive nation. Dr. Herrera is the first modern celebrity Romanov. She can affect how people view such matters as what happened to Reb Volkov. The injustice of it.”

  “Sure, but once Reb Volkov involved the church he pissed plenty of people off. Is it safe for Veronica to get involved?”

  “I’ll be fine,” Veronica said shortly. Just because Michael needed to play the bodyguard, that didn’t mean she needed to accept his services.

  “I didn’t realize you were being groomed as the tsarina-reformer,” he told her.

  “You may not be aware, but there is precedent,” Dmitry said. “Catherine II was enlightened empress. Alexander II freed serfs.”

  “And was assassinated right where your friend Mr. Volkov held his exhibit—where the Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood was built.”

  Dmitry forced a smile. “We can discuss security. Is priority of course.”

  “We should discuss it now. Our flight leaves soon.”

  “I will review with Dr. Herrera on plane. We are sitting together, correct?” He compared his boarding pass with Veronica’s. “I know you will not mind … I am sorry. I forget your name.”

  Michael nodded a little too quickly. “Michael Karstadt.”

  “Right!” Dmitry frowned. “Wait. I think I know this name.”

  “Can’t think of why. Excuse me.” Michael hopped out of his seat and headed for the counter by the boarding area, where yet another svelte Slavic blonde tapped at a computer keyboard. He smiled and she hunched forward to see his boarding pass and passport.

  “Never mind him,” Veronica said. “He thinks he’s my bodyguard.”

  “He wants to keep tsarina safe. I understand.” Dmitry gave a guarded smile. “Irina Yusupova will join us in Petersburg. She is current head of Society. If your friend has concerns for your safety, he may wish to speak to her.”

  “Yes,” Veronica said, staring at the slinky woman at the ticket counter. And Michael smiling at her.

  “If Irina asks anything … assertive … please do not take offense. Irina simply has her own wishes with regard to position and future of Monarchist Society. On politics, we do not always agree. But she will be strong advocate for you and for your safety.”

  “Of course.” The computer spit out a new boarding pass and the woman exchanged it for Michael’s. He headed back in their direction.

  “Good news! We’re all sitting together.” Michael drummed his fingers on the table casuall
y as he addressed Dmitry. “You can tell me all about the security measures you’ve taken. Veronica told you I made a promise to her grandmother in Los Angeles to keep her safe while she was in Russia. Before that, I made a promise to her Romanov grandmother to keep her safe.”

  “Romanov grandmother?” Dmitry said. “You knew Grand Duchess Charlotte? The daughter of tsar?”

  Michael looked down at his hands for a moment before meeting Dmitry’s steady gaze. “Charlotte Marchand, yes. She asked me to look after Veronica, her only grandchild. I was twelve years old. I’ve kept that promise ever since.”

  “I understand,” Dmitry told Michael, nodding. “As I say, I understand power of grandmothers. All Russians do. I will help you honor this commitment.”

  Three

  THE WINTER PALACE

  MARCH 1791

  Grisha shifted in his seat, wondering how anyone of normal size managed to squeeze into Catherine’s petite armchairs. Perhaps his frame had grown a tad larger over the years, but the point remained valid. If he’d had any idea how uncomfortable these chairs made one’s arse, he would have sweet-talked Catherine into switching to velvet cushions stacked on the floor, as he had adopted for his military encampments long ago.

  Not that he should have been sitting outside of her study at all. She used to hunger for his insights, lust after his ideas. Even when the thrill of their physical relationship ended, she had never made him wait. His time was too valuable. Catherine herself had said as much.

  Grisha rose to his feet and paced, the thick soles of his boots squeaking against the parquet floor. Catherine was sure to hear. It was the sort of random sound she detested. But right now, he would do anything to be noticed, even pique her anger.

  He had been reduced to behaving like a child. What a laugh. It was never meant to be this way. But then nothing in this earthly life ever lasted.

  Catherine had summoned him to her study as soon as she received the letter he’d dictated to Anton. Her reply came in vellum sealed with the imperial sigil. So you think of the day we first met? I have reflected on that moment myself as of late. What dreams we had, my kitten. I wonder if we are people who can be satisfied. Perhaps we are forever fated to want more.

  The first time Grisha stood in Catherine’s presence, he was but twenty-two, the same age as Zubov now. The coup to bring the empress to power was already in motion. Everyone knew of the humiliations her husband, that weasel of a tsar, had heaped on his gifted wife. He abandoned her bed, took to calling her a fool in front of foreign dignitaries, smacked the dogs, terrorized the servants, and held mock trials for palace rats. Before the coup, Peter had tried to send Catherine to a convent so he could marry his drab and slow-witted mistress, a woman better suited to fortifying his fragile ego.

  As the force readied before the Winter Palace, it was nearing ten at night, but the sun still hovered low, the white violet of the northern summer. Palace Square hummed with activity, as though for an Easter carnival. No one expected the tsar to put up a fight. Laughing drummers marched while drunken soldiers pushed one another in jest and stripped to their undergarments to shed the stiff uniforms of the hated tsar. Their horses whickered impatiently, stomping hooves on cobblestone and jingling their harnesses. Entire families, from the oldest babushkas to babes in swaddling, gathered with baskets of food in hand, hoping to catch a glimpse of the new empress; the scent of fried pirozhki and pickled herring hung in the air.

  Even before Catherine attempted to consolidate power, Grisha had heard whispers of her bookishness, her unnatural interest in masculine affairs, and her displeasing, assertive nature. He’d never put much stock in such nonsense. Such rumors only intrigued him more.

  Catherine had assembled the uniform of the Preobrazhensky Guard. She wore tall boots, tight trousers, and a fitted dark green coat edged with fine gold embroidering, all of which flattered her shape. She found a hat, a tricornered affair, and set it on her head, adjusting her hair into a long black braid underneath. Captivated, Grisha watched her gather the reins of a massive stallion in her small, capable hands, and he knew he would follow her gladly into battle, into certain death if need be.

  Catherine held up a long saber and her delicate black brows furled. It was bare, missing a sword knot. Grisha glanced at his commander, who seemed preoccupied with a spot on his glove. This was his chance. Grisha quickly gave a little click to his faithful gray gelding. On cue, the horse galloped across the busy square and to Catherine’s stallion. Grisha unfastened a gold tassel from the hilt of his own sword.

  “Most Gracious Imperial Majesty,” he said, bowing as best he could while astride, and extending the tassel.

  He was nothing, a provincial boy and lowly guardsman. She was about to become empress of all the Russias. Catherine could have swept him aside with a mere brush of her hand. His commanding officer, seeing now what Grisha had done, bellowed his name across the field.

  Catherine paused and Grisha thought she would call for her guards. His commander would slap his cheeks and send him to the brig.

  And then she winked. His breath caught as she accepted the gold tassel and tied it to her sword. With that simple gesture, he knew she understood his burning ambition and saw it as not a threat but a mirror of her own desires.

  “Thank you, soldier.” She spoke in Russian, but her German accent made the words oddly charming. “I shall remember this kindness.”

  Later, Grisha fell asleep with the lilting sound of her voice singing in his head.

  Grisha loosened his breeches to breathe more freely and reached into a side pocket to retrieve a collection of tiny rubies and diamonds to massage between his fingers. Such nonsense could occupy a man’s time at twenty-two. Nearly thirty years had passed since that fateful night. By now, he should have known better.

  So why did his heart still jump in his chest at the thought of seeing her?

  A guard stepped out of the empress’s study. He wore a long blue coat and a silver helmet adorned with a quivering ostrich feather. His bulging eyes and weak chin looked Hapsburg. Grisha frowned, wondering who had brought him to court. Ambitious diplomats were always placing spies near Catherine’s inner circle.

  “She’ll see you now,” the guard said, “but take care to mind her schedule. She is a busy woman.”

  Grisha transferred one of the little sparkling rubies from hand to hand, recalling a time when a guard would never dare speak to him in such a manner. Perhaps this was another case of Zubov’s thorny influence. “And here I thought she had time for a trick of whist.”

  “No, Your Highness. I’ve taken the liberty of calling for your valet to return at once.”

  Grisha had sent Anton to the kitchen to fetch refreshments for the ride home. He’d hoped Anton might bond with some of the other boys or perhaps even sweet-talk a girl into divulging a palace secret or two. “He’s running an errand for me.”

  “I’m sure your boy can attend to it later. The empress is on a strict regimen today. She will see you, but she hasn’t much time to spare.”

  Grisha opened his hand to reveal the jewels: a few tiny rubies and emeralds, but mostly diamonds. He swirled them in his hand and the weak sunlight sent their reflections bouncing off the palace walls like a thousand stars. The guard regarded the reflections with disdain.

  “Pity. I’d hoped the empress might indulge me. Must you fetch Anton? I’m feeling peckish. I’d hoped he’d gather some radishes for me.”

  “As I said, the empress does not have time to play cards or for idle chat today,” the guard insisted. “That’s why I’ve sent for your boy.”

  “That’s why,” Grisha said. “Of course. Not because Platon Zubov doesn’t care for my servants having run of the palace, listening in at doors and what have you.”

  The guard pressed his misshapen lips together.

  “Never mind,” Grisha said. “I’m sure you have enough on your hands trying to keep that boy Zubov happy. I only hope I don’t slip on monkey feces inside the empress’s study.” He
stepped past, jostling the guard as he made his way through the door.

  Inside Catherine’s study, Grisha found no monkeys. Zubov’s influence had not extended so far yet. Light from crystal chandeliers reflected on the pale blue walls and the room was filled with the warm aroma of strong Turkish coffee. A sleek pair of greyhounds nestled at Catherine’s feet and a fat Persian cat dozed on the mantel of the hearth.

  He recognized the older of the two greyhounds as one of the canine Thomassin family, a son or grandson perhaps of Catherine’s departed Sir Tom Anderson. This Thomassin lifted his head, half-blind now; he and Grisha had that in common. But the dog recognized his old friend’s scent and rose to his feet on unsteady legs. He ambled to Grisha, who bent down to stroke his smooth head.

  Now that Grisha had been admitted inside, he was reluctant to look at Catherine. He might find himself completely under her power, as he had been when he first handed her the sword knot. He slipped the jewels back into his pocket, gave the dog’s head one last pat, and willed himself to face his sovereign.

  Catherine sat at her amber-colored secretaire, bent over her correspondence, frowning and scribbling. The lines on her face had grown more pronounced. But then again his own face had grown more worn over the years as well. He thought it added character. Her complexion still glowed and her eyes were vibrant as ever.

  Grisha dropped to his knees, ignoring the agony of his sore joints.

  “I’ve only just now read the reports from the south, from your Black Sea Fleet.” Catherine paused to take a sip of coffee. She wore a sarafan in the old Muscovite style, and the wide sleeves nearly knocked over one of the tiny jade frogs she’d assembled in a corner of the desk. Despite her plump figure and white mane of hair, Catherine still exuded a powerful energy. “I do believe Peter the Great himself would have been proud.”

  He remained on his knees. She hadn’t bothered to arrange and powder a wig for this occasion, nor had she applied any rouge. At one time, this neglect would merely have signaled their intimacy. Now he feared she simply didn’t care. Grisha didn’t expect her to run into his arms. He hadn’t expected to scoop her up and take her squealing into the bedroom. But he craved more than this, some echo of their former passion. Perhaps the chemistry would never again be perfect between them. Much as he might try, that first moment when their eyes met could never be replicated. It stood alone and pristine in time.