The Tsarina's Legacy

by Jennifer Laam

  Catherine picked up the gold-enameled base of her fan and twirled it. “It has been too long since we dined together. I wish us to remain family and rise above our petty squabbles.”

  The laughter began to die and the last vestiges of it had a nervous ring. Perhaps the courtiers fretted over the empress’s changeable moods and the affection she might reserve for her old adviser and lover. Perhaps Catherine had finally grown bored of Zubov.

  The quartet struck up a new tune, the overture from Herr Mozart’s latest, Così fan tutte.

  The title made him smile. Women are like that, he translated silently. He began to hum, hoping to retain her attention.

  Catherine touched her white hair, which was immaculately dressed, and beckoned him with a tilt of her chin. Grisha felt a wave inside, a sudden rush of energy. He strode to her side, light on his feet despite his girth.

  “Ah! How you used to make me laugh,” Catherine said. “How I miss it.” She turned to the ambassador seated next to her. “Our prince is a fine impersonator.” Catherine turned again to Grisha. “Make me laugh. Please.”

  “You seem to be enjoying yourself as it is, Your Majesty.”

  “Come. Pretend I’m someone important and you must do as I command.” She caught the fan in her hand and opened it, fluttering the silk gauze as the ambassador attempted to conceal his boredom.

  Grisha repeated the first impersonation he had ever performed for her. “Someone important? L’etat c’est moi. The state demands amusement.” He raised his voice to a higher pitch and hit the words with a distinctive German accent to mark his target not as a native speaker but merely an apt learner. “Make me laugh, Grisha. Say something funny, my kitten.”

  He heard a sputtering from the lips forced shut around him. He dared not draw his gaze away from Catherine’s face. But her laughter came easily enough. And then there was laughter all around and a hard slap on his back from the ambassador.

  “Exactly so,” Catherine kept saying. But there was no special warmth to her tone, only the formal admiration she might express for any amusing acquaintance. “I treasure you as a friend, Prince. With such wicked wit, I would hate to have you as an enemy.”

  Never an enemy. He forced himself to concentrate on the clink of silver on porcelain and the obnoxious slurping sound as the ambassador polished off his fish soup.

  “Yes, quite amusing.” Zubov draped an arm over the back of his chair. “Now that you honor us with your presence, do you plan to regale us with tales of this Mohammedan monstrosity?”

  “If you’re so eager to be apprised of my work, we should arrange for an evening of whist and chatter. Perhaps my secretary might contact yours,” Grisha added, knowing Zubov had no secretary.

  Zubov reddened and Grisha heard a few low chuckles, momentarily drowning out the rapid notes of Così fan tutti.

  But the boy recovered quickly enough. “Why wait? We all want to hear of your newfound desire to defile Catherine’s Christian empire. Or is it even Catherine’s land anymore? Are you not emperor of the south?”

  The laughter stopped. Grisha still heard crunching and slurping as some of the older courtiers focused on their meals rather than the unfolding political game.

  Grisha bowed again, not as deeply. “As I’ve told Her Imperial Majesty, that title is nonsense and I’ve asked its use be stopped even in jest. Empress Catherine is still in charge here, is she not?”

  “Of course,” Zubov sputtered. “It’s treason to suggest otherwise.”

  Zubov’s monkey emitted what sounded like a taunting bray and Zubov shooed him away. The creature retired to a corner where water and peanuts awaited him in sparkling china dishes. Once Zubov was banished, Grisha would make the monkey a pet for one of his niece’s children.

  “I would be happy to share the plans,” Grisha said, “if it pleases the empress.”

  Grisha had staged such performances before and always she’d rewarded him with a smile and a gleam in her eye. When he held Catherine’s attention, Grisha held the world. He turned to her, confident once more in his own charisma.

  But she was focused on Zubov, the smooth lines of his face, his broad shoulders and biceps shown to full advantage under the velvet. Grisha knew he couldn’t divert her romantic attentions easily and yet he’d hoped she would find him a more powerful distraction.

  “I would like to hear Prince Potemkin’s plans,” she told her favorite. “How clever of you, teasing to coax him to speak. I believe I’ve employed similar tactics over the years. Our two minds are as one.”

  She wanted to help Zubov save face. Grisha tried to stuff the jealousy down his throat. At what point would she wake from her dream, as Titania had in Shakespeare’s comedy, and see the boy for the jackass he was?

  Catherine sat back in her seat and twirled the fan to the side, addressing Grisha once more. “Please speak, giaour.”

  The word was one of Catherine’s favorite endearments, a term for a non-Muslim. He had heard the phrase many times campaigning in the south, and not in the loving manner with which Catherine bestowed it now.

  Grisha’s waistcoat pinched his stomach and his head began to hurt. He withdrew a lavender-scented handkerchief from his pocket and patted his forehead. He’d planned to retrieve the scroll from his greatcoat and speak of the mosque. But Zubov would likely make a fuss, and then Catherine would make yet another pallid attempt to preserve the boy’s reputation.

  So he changed tactics. “Our long conflicts with the Turks have expanded our empire and brought us great glory and riches.”

  “Yes, we all owe you,” Zubov said. “We owe you palaces and furs and jewels.”

  Catherine had awarded Grisha those prizes. He imagined Saltykov on the other side of a wall, cup pressed to his ear to better eavesdrop, cringing at his protégé’s misstep.

  “We cannot expect to hold these lands in peace without proper development,” Grisha said. “Her Imperial Majesty has been clear on this point.”

  Catherine waved a hand in vague acknowledgment.

  “What drivel,” Zubov said. “How much of the imperial treasury has already been poured into these developments? Besides, weren’t you the one who wanted to chase the Muslims out of Europe altogether? Take Constantinople itself back and claim the city for our holy faith?”

  Grisha bit his lip hard to keep from chewing his thumbnail; it already smarted from previous abuse.

  “Although you were a younger man then, I suppose,” Zubov added, regarding a small wine stain on his cravat and readjusting the ruffled linen folds so the stain wouldn’t show. “With greater energy.”

  “Our attentions to a mosque would help smooth our peace negotiations and mend our relations with the people of this faith, particularly were it located in Moscow.”

  “I suppose it would not hurt to see your plans. It might make for lively discussion this evening.” Catherine waited. Grisha did nothing. “Well?” she said.

  “Unfortunately, when the plan was presented to your charge, it was roundly dismissed.”

  “Surely you are here now to fix that error.”

  “I was told in no uncertain terms that the funds for such a project were not available in the imperial treasury.” Grisha drew in a deep breath, felt the pressure of his waistcoat loosen. “And he made it equally clear he was empowered to speak for you.” Grisha turned to Zubov and smiled. “Perhaps you have now styled yourself emperor of the north.”

  Zubov threw a linen napkin down on his plate and rose to his feet. Catherine’s cheeks flushed and Grisha’s spirits rose. How he longed to see passion once more in her eyes.

  “If Your Majesty feels differently,” he said, “I welcome your opinion but would prefer to speak to you directly. Platon Alexandrovich has no authority to make such decisions, pleasant though you may find his companionship in other respects.”

  Grisha raised a crystal flute and tilted it in Zubov’s direction before enjoying a long sip of the sweet champagne.

  “Thank you, Prince,” Catherine sa
id dryly. “I shall take your words under advisement.”

  “I look forward to a more intimate conversation, Your Majesty.” Grisha returned to his seat. Though he hadn’t found time to write down his order, a bowl of lobster bisque had been placed near his plate. He drew in its rich scent and gathered a spoon in hand, finding he suddenly had a great appetite.

  * * *

  After another hour, when the conversation had sufficiently dwindled to drunken blather, Grisha felt ready to have Anton call for his horses. Outside, the chill in the air had turned bracing. Grisha buttoned his fur-lined greatcoat and crunched through the layer of snow. Ice-flecked marble statuary of glaring tritons and serene Roman maidens kept watch over the courtyard. The wind whistled past his ears but didn’t drown out the music and merry laughter of waltzing guests inside the palace. His horses were taking too long. He supposed other guests might have left early, eager to head home before the snowfall transformed to a full-blown storm. He’d interrupted Anton’s study of Candide and sent him to investigate the delay.

  Grisha’s gloved fingers flexed in the cold. The night had gone well, all things considered, even if he had departed from supper early enough to arouse curiosity. He wondered if the pasha would appear here in the courtyard. He was more likely to pay a visit when Grisha felt ridden with guilt, but he would have enjoyed his company now.

  Instead, he heard Catherine’s firm voice and the crunch of her small boots following his in the snow. “That wasn’t a fair trick.”

  Grisha eyed the ground. If he went down at a sloppy angle he’d be sure to injure himself sliding on some hidden patch of ice. Nevertheless, he prepared to drop to his knees.

  “Don’t.”

  He struggled upright, wondering if he had miscalculated by challenging Zubov so soon.

  “It is just you and me here now, husband. I invited you to the palace for supper, not as a performer in one of those circus sideshows that so enrapture the English.”

  “It was necessary,” Grisha replied.

  “You wanted to embarrass a rival. You should have spoken to me privately.”

  “I tried. You would not listen,” he said. “You are too indulgent of your new pet.”

  Catherine’s diamond earbobs swung as she stepped forward. “I never interfered in your trysts, even when they broke my heart.”

  He refused to be distracted. Not with an old argument. He had never engaged in any trysts until his heart had already been broken again and again by the widening gulf between an empress and a prince. No matter the long-buried scrap of paper that confirmed they were husband and wife. They had never been equals. “When the tryst involves you, it’s a different matter than those that involve me.”

  “Because I am a woman?”

  “You know me better, matushka. You are an empress. Your choice of companion has consequences for us all. I have never interfered before. I’ve taken care with your favorites, taken them under my wing, just as you asked. This is no mere jealousy. It’s heartfelt concern.”

  “So that is all,” she said flatly. “You merely play the adviser?”

  “I have always freely offered my honest opinion, as you asked of me.”

  “You’re obligated to tell me Platon Zubov is a preening fool giddy with power.”

  “Don’t attempt sarcasm when you speak plain truth.”

  To his relief, she laughed. Her laugh hadn’t changed. She used to turn to her pillow and make that sound when he’d joked at some poor courtier’s expense. And then she would turn back to him, ready to open herself to him, body and soul. “You don’t see Platon as I do. His gifts.”

  Grisha couldn’t defeat Zubov by sniping behind his back. “As you say.”

  A gust of wind blew her white hair back from her face. She had neglected to bring a hat.

  She drew her sable stole tighter around her shoulders, shivering in the cold, tired and drawn around the eyes. Catherine’s appearance was far from perfect, not anymore. But then what dullard sought perfection in a woman when complexity was far more alluring?

  “Perhaps I hoped there was more to it,” she said, “that your heart was involved. I dared to hope you had grown tired of chasing other women and were jealous at last.”

  Grisha leaned in close. The scent of fresh leather on her gloves mingled with the rose-scented cream she used to soften her hands. “You make it difficult to speak the truth when you employ hypotheticals. Speak plainly, woman.”

  “Don’t expect me to share my heart freely. Not after all we’ve endured. I have an ego, husband. Surely you’ve taken note of it.”

  He took her hand gently. When she didn’t withdraw it, he lifted the flap at the edge of her glove and planted a light kiss on her wrist. Catherine’s gaze lingered on the spot where his lips had pressed her skin. He thought she might ask for more time with him, but her gaze shifted and she extracted her hand from his. “No … that was only wishful thinking on my part. After our affair ended, you were never possessive. I could take a hundred lovers and you would only assume they all pale in comparison to you.”

  “Do they?”

  She tapped him lightly on the chest with her fan. Bells jingled as his carriage approached. His geldings held their snouts back to avoid the strong gusts of wind.

  “I will not make your poor horses wait in this weather. We will speak again soon.” She lifted her skirts and ascended the stairs. Two of her chevalier guards waited outside the door, dependable as always in their silver and blue.

  Behind them, in the blink of his one good eye, he caught a glimpse of the pasha, turban in hand, still dressed in pantaloons as though for the Ottoman court. The pasha lifted his chin, the regal gesture echoing Catherine’s. The memory of the last failed attempt to negotiate flooded Grisha’s mind, shaming him.

  “And the mosque,” he called after Catherine. “You’ll consider it?”

  Catherine turned to him once more, frowning. “Always business, Prince?”

  Her cheeks flushed red from the cold. It reminded him of their time together seventeen years earlier, after he had returned from the monastery. They would meet in one of the banyas deep in the basement of the Winter Palace to discuss the latest court intrigues, their skin pink and glowing in the steamy air, until they tired of chatter and the snap of birch twigs and fell into one another’s arms.

  “Business and pleasure together,” he said. “As always.”

  Catherine let out an exaggerated sigh, likely for the benefit of the guards.

  “What did I do wrong?” he asked. “How have I displeased you?”

  “You’re toying with me to get what you want. I see it in your eyes. You drifted off to another world. No doubt to another woman or perhaps countless others.”

  He shook his head. “I am not toying with you. How could I even think of another woman when I’m in your presence? You eclipse them all.”

  She lifted her small hand. “Leave your sweet words at your bedside and don’t trouble me with them again. My heart cannot bear it.”

  She regarded him one last time before gathering her skirts and ascending the steps two at a time, returning to Zubov. If she wouldn’t back away from her young lover, then Grisha needed to take a direct route, to convince Zubov that he might entertain Catherine, but affairs of state were to be left with Grisha.

  “I will never hurt you again, wife,” he murmured. “And I will never let anyone else hurt you either.”

  Six

  FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

  Dr. Herrera will spend a week in St. Petersburg as a guest of the Monarchist Society and will make herself available for interviews as time allows.

  ST. PETERSBURG

  PRESENT DAY

  “Reb Volkov is a blasphemer!” A disembodied Russian voice shouted over the static of the radio. “He broke the law. The deviant is getting what he deserves.”

  Veronica rubbed her forehead, fighting the urge to tell the driver to forget all this, to turn around and head back to the airport. Her eyelids kept drooping. Irina had
sped off from the airport in a hired car, so Veronica was now squished between Michael and Dmitry in the back of the taxi. The three of them had spoken little during the ride, only Dmitry’s curt directions and the driver’s grunts of reply. Veronica tried not to mind the stale tobacco and gasoline stink.

  “But an archaic law, wouldn’t you say?” a calmer, more cultured voice asked.

  “Who cares? Let him rot in the gulag.”

  Veronica could only see the back of the driver’s massive blond head, but it shook at the word “gulag.” He tapped his gloved fingers on the steering wheel and veered to dodge one of the other smoggy little cars crowding the boulevard.

  “Hooliganism,” another voice chimed in, “is hardly an archaic law. The government is within its bounds to protect citizens from dangerous influences.”

  The driver’s shoulders tensed but his gaze remained fixed on the road. Veronica opened a map of St. Petersburg and spread it on her lap, forcing herself to focus and appreciate Peter the Great’s city. Golden streetlights, trios of round bulbs, flickered on, softening the gloom of storm clouds to gently illuminate baroque palaces, cathedrals, and snow-dusted bridges over canals. St. Petersburg rivaled Venice, an imperial city as elegant as any in Europe. Across the Neva River, she spotted the svelte spire of Peter and Paul Cathedral glimmering under the fading light in the pale sky. The remains of Nicholas and Alexandra and three of their children, the last Romanovs, were buried inside.

  She wondered if her Romanov grandmother, the secret grand duchess Charlotte, would ever be buried with them, if she would even want to be buried with a family she had never known. Unfortunately, Veronica hadn’t met Charlotte’s son—her father. So Veronica would never know what Charlotte wanted.

  They passed a neoclassical opera house painted pastel green with white Grecian columns adorning the entrance and a red, white, and blue Russian flag flapping in the wind. Slender birch trees lined the streets, branches naked and vulnerable. Veronica looked down at her lap again. Her hands shook. She’d fiddled nervously with the map of the city too long and her fingers had frayed the edges.