The Tsarina's Legacy

by Jennifer Laam

  “You know, Prince,” Zubov added slyly, “you have been through so much in your life. Your mind is quite impressive. Everyone said this was so. I confess I had anticipated your advanced age would have dulled you somewhat.”

  Grisha thrust his hands behind his back, rocking unsteadily on his feet. He had to keep his hands entrapped or he would end up throttling the boy.

  “Take your dead eye.” Zubov stood and began to stroll the perimeter of the room as though taking a constitutional through the empress’s gardens. “The Orlovs are responsible for the injury?”

  Grisha squeezed his hands so tightly he thought the pressure might make them burst. In truth, the Orlov brothers had nothing to do with the damage to his eye. It was an inflammation that would have resolved on its own, only he had been young and impatient and trusted a surgeon with a faulty knowledge of herbs and folk remedies. But Grisha far preferred the tale of the Orlov brothers beating him to a pulp to try to keep him away from the empress. He relished the image of himself, young and handsome, emerging from the ordeal damaged and bloody but triumphant, for it was he who would eventually win Catherine’s love.

  “You go through life, thrive even, with this affliction. And I see your wits are about you, sharp as ever.” Zubov’s voice altered slightly. The mockery was gone, although Grisha wouldn’t have gone so far as to describe the boy’s tone as sincere. “We should consider some sort of alliance.”

  “You and I?” Grisha asked innocently.

  “My God, man, were we to work together … think of the possibilities. Surely we can find some project on which we both agree. Something far more lucrative than a heathen shrine. Why, I understand your New Russia has untold riches in silk and vineyards.”

  Grisha remembered what Anton had told him of Zubov’s involvement with Paul. He decided to play a hunch once more. “You and I and Grand Duke Paul? Would we three work together?”

  Zubov fingered a delicate gemstone vase. Grisha imagined the look of fright in Catherine’s eyes had she been there, her motherly fussing and her small hand steering Zubov away from the vase. “Paul? Oh, you mean the empress’s son?”

  “The same,” Grisha replied. “The tsarevich. The one who hates his mother. The one who blames her for his father’s death. The one who thinks she tried to have him killed by having glass smashed in his pudding. Are you proposing some new triple alliance?”

  “Paul is not the cleverest, nor the most stable fellow, but he is heir to the throne. I can’t say I think the grand duke’s talents particularly profound. Still, he has his partisans.” Zubov made a show of examining his fingernails. “What do you think of him?”

  “I give no second thought to Grand Duke Paul,” Grisha lied. He had in fact given quite a deal of thought to Paul over the years, wondering how he might convince Catherine to pass over the sap and instead name her young grandson Alexander the heir.

  “You must wonder how our worlds will change with Paul as tsar.”

  Grisha reached for his lavender-scented handkerchief. “Someday he will be tsar. Until then, my attention is focused on my Catherine.”

  “Your Catherine.” Zubov made a little snort. “Priceless! How easily you fool yourself into thinking your relationship is what it once was. You are not my father, Prince Potemkin, no matter how much poor Catherine would like to see you behave in such a role. If you wish to believe I have some sort of special connection with the tsarevich I doubt anything I say could change your mind anyway.”

  Grisha was impressed with the boy’s adroit answer. He had an eye for merit, even in enemies. He wondered now if this wasn’t more a fault than a strength.

  “You never know about the grand duke, though,” Zubov continued. “Perhaps with the proper mentorship he might fill his mother’s shoes.”

  He had been wrong to give Zubov any credit for having a brain, but surely the boy could not be this stupid. “I assume you mean once the empress has passed.”

  “Of course!” Zubov exclaimed. “Good God, man, what else could I have meant? Even so, are you sure you have no desire to meet with Paul yourself? Who knows, perhaps he might surprise the both of us and show a singular flair for leadership.”

  Grisha attempted a smile, but the thought of Russia under Tsar Paul left his stomach feeling weighted with stones. “I have no desire to work with you and even less desire to meet with Paul.”

  “I shouldn’t have imagined it should be of interest, but then we never know, do we? I had to be sure of your loyalties. Some in court prize the grand duke’s favor. Perhaps you are among their number.”

  Zubov’s reflections swirled all around Grisha’s in the room’s mirrors, taunting him. Did the boy really think he could be played this easily? Would this day not end? “Glad to have saved you the trouble.”

  “No trouble at all, Prince,” Zubov said. “Only take care with your words as you make your way around this palace.”

  “And why should I? To avoid your spies?”

  Zubov inclined forward, a languid smile plastered on his face. “You may act the pasha with your harem at your encampments. But here you are merely a subject of your great sovereign, as are we all.”

  “I am well aware of my relationship to the empress.”

  “I meant don’t overstep your boundaries.”

  “Between the empress and myself few boundaries exist.”

  “So you say. Nonetheless, I would watch my back were I you.”

  “I have always done so among the empress’s courtiers,” Grisha said.

  “Yes, but now the empress herself might turn on you if she feels her power threatened. I only tell you this as a newfound ally.”

  “Of course,” Grisha muttered.

  “Now that we are in agreement, I believe we should see the empress together and united on this point only, for now at any rate.” Zubov extended a hand. “Your shrine in the south, Prince Potemkin. So be it. We will work together as one happy family.”

  Eight

  FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

  Once her claim has been confirmed the honorary tsarina will be available for public appearances for a reasonable fee, which can be arranged through the number listed below.

  ST. PETERSBURG

  PRESENT DAY

  Veronica ducked into a corner alcove. Someone had left a business card on a cheap plastic flower stand, under a vase filled with synthetic daisies. Residue from stolen cigarette breaks clung to the cheap silk petals. A brown tabby perched on the windowsill, tail twitching, watching a pair of doves on a balcony opposite the hotel. Cars backed up on the flat length of the street below, and the gold cupola of a nearby cathedral peeped through the morning mist of rain and gloomy storm clouds. St. Petersburg was not a city of skyscrapers and industry. It was a city of low rooftops and church domes and ornate architectural flourishes, of history and operas and palaces and ballets.

  And Romanov heiresses.

  Veronica pressed call on her phone and waited for her abuela to answer.

  “What happened?” her grandmother asked frantically, without so much as a hello. “Have you been arrested?”

  Veronica picked up the business card and started tapping it against the stand. The tabby glanced over its shoulder, annoyed.

  “I’m fine,” Veronica said. “But I had quite the surprise at the airport.”

  “Oh?”

  “You asked Michael to come with me?”

  “He’s such a lovely man,” Abuela gushed. “And he knows Russian.”

  “I studied Russian for six years!” Veronica paused, counting to three in English, Spanish, and Russian in her head. “I just wish you had asked me first,” she added calmly.

  “What if you had said no?”

  Veronica looked down at the card and a sexy picture of a woman in a low-cut dress smiled up at her. The card was for an escort service. She wrinkled her nose and dropped it back on the flower stand.

  “There is so much happening in Russia right now.” Abuela’s voice faltered. “On the news tonight they said
the government might ban European airliners from Russian airspace. What if you’re stuck there? What will you do?”

  “I can practically walk to Finland from here, or at least walk to the ferry.” Veronica thought of the story of Michael’s grandparents, the servants Lena and Pavel, rescuing the Grand Duchess Charlotte, Veronica’s other grandmother. They had spirited her away from the palace at Peterhof and across the Gulf of Finland a century earlier.

  Not a story, she reminded herself. My history.

  “I only thought it would be good for you to have someone around who understands visas and passports and immigration law,” Abuela said. “And Michael was more than happy to come and keep you company. Be nice to him.”

  “I am being nice to him. Why wouldn’t I be nice to him?”

  “One more thing.” Abuela hesitated. Veronica heard the television blaring in the background. “You received a phone call today. From Laurent Marchand. I don’t know him. I only know what your mother told me…”

  The rain gathered force, beating now against the pipes on the outside of the building. The cat hopped off the windowsill and Veronica peered down at the street below. Morning commuters, men in trench coats and women in black tights and sophisticated ankle boots, opened up brightly colored umbrellas as they shuffled into a metro station.

  “Well, he only waited thirty-nine years to get in touch with me,” she muttered.

  “I know this is difficult, but, mija, listen. I talked to him for a bit. His English is weak, but his Spanish is beautiful. What else would you expect from a professor of literature? So elegant. And he seems like a gentleman. We managed. I think you would like him.”

  Veronica knew her grandmother was trying to keep it together for her sake, but the last thing she wanted to hear about right now was her long-lost father and his perfect Spanish. She grabbed the business card and tore it to pieces. “Too little, too late.”

  “He’s an old man now,” Abuela said. “He would be what … in his seventies?”

  “What did he want?”

  “He wanted to know if it was true you were going to St. Petersburg. Apparently, he follows the news in Russia closely. He saw your picture. He sounded worried.”

  “What I do is none of that man’s business.”

  “You know how much I resented him for what he did to your mother. Leaving her alone with a baby. But he lived in Spain under Franco for most of his life. It couldn’t have been easy. And so much happened to his family during the war.”

  “He’s never even reached out to me.”

  “I know.”

  “Then why are you humoring him?”

  “You can’t blame him for being cautious.” Veronica heard her grandmother sigh. “But I feel as though the two of you would see eye to eye. I think maybe you should talk to him. Can I give him your cell number?”

  “No.”

  “You might regret not seeing him.”

  “No.” Veronica felt pressure at the back of her eyes. “He’s never reached out to me and now that I’m here in Russia, finally exploring this side of my family’s history, he decides to make an appearance? Maybe he wants to pursue the claim himself.”

  “He never expressed an interest in that before.”

  “He never expressed an interest in me before either.”

  “I won’t force you into something you don’t want to do.”

  Veronica drew in a deep breath. The cat twitched its tail and hopped back on the sill, staring at the plump raindrops. “How many times did I want to see him? How many times did I ask about him when I was growing up?”

  “I know, I know.” Abuela softened her voice. “I’m sorry, mija. I should have realized how much this would bother you. Forget I mentioned it. Only take care of yourself. And try to let Michael take care of you too.”

  * * *

  A few hours later, Veronica was still thinking about her long-lost father, Laurent Marchand, and his mysterious phone call to her abuela. She stood before a full-length oval mirror encircled by a gilt frame ornamented with rusted miniature cherubs blowing horns. The overall effect was meant to be charming, but the cherubs’ faces looked misshapen and smug. Veronica wanted to throw a drape over the mirror.

  “Is only reproduction.” The seamstress, Elena, had fire-engine-red hair that gleamed under the lights of the chandelier, a stark contrast to her black sheath dress. She hardly looked a day over eighteen, young enough to be Veronica’s daughter, at least in a Gilmore Girls sort of way, and had asked if they might speak in English. She was studying for a language certification and wanted to get some practice. Elena smoothed the material around Veronica’s hips and adjusted the thick cape around her shoulders. “What is it you think?”

  Veronica focused on her own face now, her wide brown eyes outlined in deep black. Her straight dark hair normally grazed her shoulders but now stood full and glossy around her head like a crown. The expertly applied cosmetics were far too heavy for her taste and made her face feel strangely waxen. Still, all of that was familiar enough. The rest of what she saw in the mirror took time to process.

  “You are happy?”

  Veronica touched the glossy gown, a reproduction of Catherine’s coronation dress, impressed at its resemblance to the original. The snug bodice glinted in the light dancing from the electronic chandeliers, as though it were made of spun gold. Tiny double-headed eagles were embroidered into the silver satin, and the dress spread into an exaggerated width around her waist. She stood taller and felt stronger.

  She looked like an empress.

  She was supposed to be here.

  Veronica gathered the long gown in her hands so she could walk without tripping as she made her way to the sink in the washroom adjacent to the office. Irina had reserved the Monarchist Society’s office for the fitting. She had also given Veronica a key card and said she should feel “free to use the space” at any time while she was in St. Petersburg; as she was a tsarina, this was her “rightful place.” Veronica’s gaze flickered over the drawings of old St. Petersburg, the musty sword tassel, and the official portraits of Potemkin and Catherine.

  The heavy dress dragged against the carpet. Veronica threw the cape, lined in what she had been assured was faux fur, back over her shoulders so it wouldn’t get wet. She turned on the water and reached for one of Irina’s monogrammed towels.

  “Careful! Careful!” Elena hopped over and grabbed a larger towel, wrapping it around Veronica’s throat and shoulders. “You do not want to damage dress.”

  Veronica moistened the face towel and began to rub her cheeks.

  “What is this you do now?” Elena asked.

  “I’m not used to wearing so much blush.”

  “You look pretty!”

  “I look pretty without it.”

  “Pretty but too pale.”

  Veronica held her wrist up to Elena’s, comparing her own olive skin with Elena’s pale Slavic tones.

  “All right, maybe this is point,” Elena conceded. “But I still think you look pretty in makeup, like Disney princess!”

  “Which one? Which princess?”

  Elena shrugged. “Any of them. All of them. That is how you should look, Tsarina!”

  “Ceremonial tsarina,” Veronica said, using her towel to remove some of the glittery silver shadow from her eyelids. “Not exactly the same.”

  Elena rustled around in a cosmetics pouch she had tied on a belt around her waist and grabbed a fluffy brush. “Maybe you let me work on your face more and see what you think.”

  “What’s the point of being a princess if people don’t take you seriously?”

  “You can look pretty and be taken serious,” Elena said.

  Veronica turned back toward the hanging rod Elena had set up for her in the office: sophisticated skirts and sweaters and blouses Irina deemed suitable for various events. She frowned, wondering how much money she might owe Irina by the end of this trip. “You send a message with clothes and makeup. I want to send the right message.”

>   “Yulia Tymoshenko always wore pretty makeup and pretty clothes. That braid! And she was prime minister of Ukraine. How many women have been American president?”

  Veronica spun around, cape swishing. “All right,” she admitted. “Not a terrible point.”

  Elena zipped her cosmetics bag shut. “Maybe remember me when you need to dress again for important events, Tsarina Nika.”

  Someone rapped on the door. Before Veronica could manage a “come in,” Irina entered, wearing a flawless cream-colored pantsuit that flattered her trim figure. Irina stopped short and looked at Veronica.

  “You’ve done well enough,” she told Elena. “But I think we need some nips and tucks to make sure the gown fits perfectly. After all, this is our inspiration.”

  Irina held a copy of the portrait of Catherine the Great, looking rosy and clever, at the time of her coronation. The imperial crown sat heavy on her head. It must have weighed a ton, but you would never tell from her serene expression. Veronica imagined Catherine posing, stately and magnificent, for the portrait, and then screaming afterward for her minions to get that thing off of her head.

  Two long dark braids spilled over Catherine’s creamy shoulders. Irina tapped those. “Your hair isn’t long enough for the braids.” She set the picture back down on the little stool in front of the mirror and fluffed Veronica’s hair. The dark floral scent of Catherine the Great’s perfume on Irina’s neck wafted around them. “But I like what they’ve done. I only wish you would let someone work on your poor fingernails. And then there is this…” She pointed to the orb Catherine clutched close to her waist and the scepter she held daintily in the other hand. “We thought that might be a little much, but we do have some props that might work.” She turned to Elena. “What do you think?”

  “We could try,” Elena said. “I brought props. I will go get.”

  As Elena left, Irina stared at Veronica’s reflection. “You look wonderful, Nika. Majestic. Dmitry told me you did very well with the reporters yesterday. You are meant for this.”

  Veronica started to fiddle with a pincushion Elena had left behind. It was soft and shaped like a little tomato. She imagined it growing heavy in her hands, transforming into a royal orb.