The Tsarina's Legacy

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The Tsarina's Legacy Page 15

by Jennifer Laam


  Grand Duke Paul drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “Really, Mother, such a fuss over this man. Call a nursemaid to care for your husband, if you must.”

  Paul had spoken rapidly; the last part came under his breath. But as soon as the grand duke said “husband,” Zubov’s features grew dour and his skin pale as snow. Only a moment before, Zubov had seemed so smug, but that confidence had been as false as people claimed Grisha’s villages in the south had been. He gave the impression now of a death mask.

  Still, Grisha didn’t care to talk about the marriage in front of Zubov. “I do not need a doctor,” Grisha told Catherine. “Only a good night’s sleep.”

  The room started to roll beneath him, as they said the earth had moved in Lisbon so many years ago. Grisha prayed he could make it to his feet. He wondered how far Anton had wandered from this room and how quickly he could get inside a carriage. He longed to scream Anton’s name, to summon him to his side.

  “Perhaps I should save this discussion for another time,” Grisha said wearily. He stumbled to his feet and gave the Thomassin one last reassuring pat on the head.

  “I’ve never known you to abandon whist,” Catherine said, frowning. “I hope it is nothing worse than what you say. I still need you, as ever. We still have peace terms to negotiate with our old foes the Turks. I trust you will handle them.”

  “Either way, it seems rest would be just the ticket,” Zubov said, shaking off the death mask and returning to his former tone of merriment. Sensing the change in Zubov’s mood, the monkey clapped his tiny hands together and emitted a whooping sound of delight. “Now that your plans for the Mohammedans are in order, you can lie abed.”

  Grisha forced sharp words for Zubov back down his throat. He bowed and reached for Catherine’s hand. He would kiss it. He would declare his love for her, just as he had when he was still a boy and she newly crowned. Their bodies as one body and their minds as one mind. But his vision failed him. Where there should have been one hand for him to grasp, he saw several. It was no use. He could not manage it.

  He needed to show her he was still the man she loved, the man who could take her side as she led, support her as she needed. “I am pleased with your decision regarding the mosque, matushka. A celebration is in order! I plan to honor your triumphs with a ball.”

  Zubov withdrew a peanut from the pocket of his jacket and waved it in the direction of his monkey, who had returned to cowering in a corner. “That sounds like so much work for a man of your age.”

  Grisha expected Catherine to defend him. Instead she added, “And your condition.”

  Zubov curled his large hand around Catherine’s, looking pleased with himself.

  Grisha stared at their hands. He had been fooling himself after all. Zubov was the man she loved now. He had a higher mountain to climb than he had anticipated. He wasn’t sure he had the strength. He wanted out of this place now.

  “Please take quinine, giaour,” Catherine said. “And see a doctor.”

  “Yes, yes, take care.” Paul checked his gold pocket watch.

  Grisha nodded and headed for the door. Catherine’s gaze followed him, her eyes brimming with concern.

  As Grisha left, he heard Zubov say, “Malaria? Is that what ails him? Poor man, having to deal with such an affliction at his age. He should be encouraged to rest more often.”

  “Don’t worry about Prince Potemkin. He’s like a clever cat. He always lands on his feet.” But Catherine didn’t sound as confident in her words as Grisha might have hoped.

  * * *

  “A ball?” Anton exclaimed. “That sounds like so much work.”

  Grisha rubbed his head. Hadn’t Zubov just plagued him with those very words? “If you tell me it is a task beyond my years, I might rethink your place in my household.”

  The boy didn’t even flinch. “It is only that you don’t seem yourself.”

  They had returned to his newest palace, on the outskirts of the capital, built in the neoclassical style that had so enraptured Catherine, after the ruins uncovered in the ancient city of Pompeii. He had only recently taken up residence and the massive structure still felt unfamiliar. Anton held a candelabra aloft to lead Grisha through the central hall. It was lined with towering pillars that diminished their forms, calling to mind the grandeur of the ancient world. Their boots echoed in the ghostly emptiness. Grisha tried to imagine the palace made golden with reflected candlelight from scores of chandeliers, halls filled with courtiers and commoners alike, long tables heaped with delicacies and main courses from across the empire and beyond. He had heard maize from the Americas could be a colorful addition to a festivity but he didn’t think it was the right time of year for it. And the winter garden needed work. Hopefully, diplomatic difficulties with England wouldn’t hinder finding a fellow from that land to help him.

  Grisha stopped short, dizzy, and grasped one of the pillars for support, the marble cold underneath the thick flesh of his palm. From where he stood, he could see into one of the side rooms, a library from the looks of it, with no door to hinder his view. A boy of about the same age as Anton sprawled across a fine silken chaise longue, muddy boots propped on an embroidered pillow. He chewed on a loaf of black bread, smacking his lips as he perused one of the volumes Grisha thought he had hidden, a folio of illustrations based on a short work by a prisoner locked up in France. The marquis had managed to smuggle copies of the work to a privileged few outside of France, something about a young woman named Justine. Grisha had spent an enjoyable night with the folio himself.

  The boy turned the folio, appraising the pictures from different angles.

  “Ho there!” Anton thrust the candelabra forward. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  The servant snapped to attention, kicking his feet out from the pillow, tossing the book to the side and then gathering it back onto the chaise so it didn’t hit the floor. He managed a bow in Grisha’s direction.

  Grisha looked at Anton. “Impressive.”

  “I’m sorry, that was your prerogative, Your Highness. Only he shouldn’t take advantage when you’re away.” Anton caught a glimpse of one the drawings that accompanied the story and his cheeks turned beet red.

  “What is your name?” Grisha asked.

  The boy had lanky yellow hair that fell to his shoulders. He gave Grisha a sheepish shrug. “Oleg Ivanovich, Your Highness.”

  “Oleg Ivanovich, I don’t mind if you borrow volumes from my collection, only please mind your shoes stay away from a spot where I might want to rest my head. Understand?”

  “I do.”

  Grisha turned to Anton. “I believe that settles the matter.”

  Anton scowled but led Grisha out of the library. Catching the boy with the folio had raised Grisha’s mood somewhat, but he knew this evening was hopeless. Usually when his mind felt lost, he would call for his carriage and go out to play faro. None of that tonight. He’d had enough cards for one evening, watching Zubov’s smug face as he tossed another card on the table and his monkey chattered like an idiot. Grisha planned only to bathe, change into his ermine robe, and sleep until he felt himself again.

  His body was vulnerable to both melancholy and malarial fever. He wasn’t sure which attacked him now. Perhaps both. Either way, he’d found the best defense: a combination of rest and sensual pleasure. He would try to focus on a picture on the wall or a particularly lovely piece of music he’d commissioned from his orchestra. And then he would steer his mind to a peaceful place, perhaps accompanied by a religious chant his friend Jacob Zeitlin had taught him, in the manner of the devout Orthodox Jews.

  He would have his cook prepare hot chocolate with amaretto or some other such delight. And then he would lie on his back and relax and put Platon Alexandrovich Zubov as far from his mind as possible. He refused to think of the besotted look on Catherine’s face when she gazed at the boy. It made him sick inside.

  He gave instructions to Anton to relay to the chef. Once Anton had gone, he entered his bedroom. It
felt overly warm. He had expected the chill of the pasha in the master bedroom, tormenting him with further memories of Ochakov. Grisha did not think he could tolerate any more visions.

  But the person waiting for him tonight was no mere apparition. The finely sculpted face, dark eyes, and soft curves were all too real.

  Praskovia lounged lazily on his Turkish divan, leaning nearer the fire in the hearth to warm herself, casually thumbing through a political tract from Poland—a dry piece of work that had been quite effective in helping him get to sleep the last few nights. Seeing her now, when his attentions were so focused on Catherine, seemed incongruous, like a spring lily sprouting from its bulb in the middle of winter: lovely in its own right, but strangely disruptive.

  “Grig!” The same endearment his family used for him. It caught him off guard. In the instant before her presence fully registered in his mind, he was suddenly transported back to his family’s home in the provinces. He was a boy lying on his back under the broad blue sky, nibbling on an apple, as golden blades of grass swayed in the wind.

  Praskovia tossed the tract carelessly on the lush carpet and rushed to him. Grisha thought she might throw herself into his arms and feared if she did his muscles would fail and he would drop her to the floor. But she stopped short and raised her chin so she could look into his eyes, regarding him with a distinct mix of admiration and desire. His ego’s weakest points.

  “Why are you here?” He saw no need for an overture.

  “The officers told me you had changed your plans and that you were staying longer in St. Petersburg. They didn’t know when you would be back, and I had to see you.”

  “I thought we agreed you were to return to your husband.”

  “That was a foolish idea.” Her chest was heaving and for a moment he had the strange notion that perhaps she had run a great distance only to be with him for a night. “How could I possibly stay away from you for so long? What was I thinking?”

  She stepped back, but her gaze still held his in a most provocative fashion. A low, throbbing hum began in his head and then slowly coursed through the rest of his body. “Who let you in?” he asked, only because he could think of nothing else to say.

  “Your servants seemed to expect me,” Praskovia purred. “They didn’t think it unusual for a woman to call on you without warning.”

  A dull pain thudded in the back of Grisha’s head, warring with the stirring hum. He thought he had expressed his intentions from the beginning. It was true he had promoted her talentless husband so they might have more time together. But he had also made it abundantly clear that their arrangement was to be temporary.

  “I explained I had business with Prince Potemkin and they did not question me. It seems I belong here.” She lowered her face but then regarded him again behind her long lashes in a most appealing manner, as though he were the center of the world. “I always suspected as much.”

  “You do not belong here.” Grisha’s voice was both gentle and firm, although already her nearness provided a welcome respite from the images of Zubov and Catherine. He began to wonder if Praskovia had developed feelings for him beyond physical passion. And in that moment further wondered if he might appreciate a young and simple woman as a companion during his declining years.

  A fire blazed in the hearth, but she still wore her sable coat. This seemed odd to Grisha but he soon found the scent of the citrus perfume she dabbed on the back of her ears robbed him of all sensible thought.

  Once he had spoiled her with an outfit in the Turkish manner, of the finest silk and in a rich shade of turquoise. At first it had been a shock to see a woman in trousers, even the loose ones favored by the Turkish women, but then he had fondly remembered Catherine in her tight-fitting guardsman trousers.

  Praskovia had been thrilled with the ensemble, though it took her time to get used to exposing her trim and pale stomach. But she delighted in the gold bangles running up her arms, the charms tinkling around her ankles, and the thin veil she seductively tied behind her ears so that Grisha could only see her eyes.

  It might not be so bad to live out his days indulging in such fantasies.

  Now she slid her hand to the top of the coat and slowly drew it open at the chest. She wore nothing underneath.

  “I don’t expect anything,” she said. “I only desire the comfort of your presence for the evening. And I understand you are staying in tonight. Please don’t turn me away.”

  She caressed his face. He thought he caught her glancing at the tracts once more, but then her finger trailed over his cheek and her gaze met his and he knew he would never order a woman he desired out of his bedroom.

  Ten

  FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

  Dr. Herrera’s first notable public appearance will be the opening of the “Treasures of the Romanovs” exhibit at the Hermitage Museum, where she will be available to answer questions for members of the Monarchist Society and others in attendance.

  THE WINTER PALACE AND HERMITAGE

  PRESENT DAY

  Veronica’s hand lightly rested on the cold, gray-white marble. The Jordan Staircase towered before her. Golden ornamentation curled around the high windows and alcoves and up the creamy walls. Glowing light fixtures illuminated classical statuary with firm torsos, solemn expressions, and gracefully curved arms. The Romanovs had descended this staircase every year in January for the Blessing of the Neva River to honor the baptism of Jesus on the Jordan. Catherine the Great had done it, no doubt magnificent in her elaborate eighteenth-century apparel. Veronica’s great-grandmother had done it as well, nervous and shy Alexandra. Veronica imagined Alexandra taking care to remain a few steps behind her beloved husband, Nicholas.

  “It is impressive, yes?” Dmitry offered his hand as they ascended a scarlet runner on the massive staircase. “And now you are here. The Romanov heiress. You will be enlightened empress for our time … as Catherine once was. This is fate.”

  Veronica threw her head back to take in a painting of gods and winged angels floating on dark gauzy clouds. Would she be asked to bless the waters of the river Neva as well? She was from Bakersfield, for God’s sake. She reached for her heart, fierce underneath the thin purple silk of the blouse Irina had suggested she wear this evening. The air didn’t feel right. She detected an artificial undertone of vanilla.

  Dmitry put his hand on her arm. “Are you well?”

  She hated to admit it, but she wished Michael had come. After his encounter with the reporter, they had agreed it was best if he didn’t attend the reception tonight, if he kept his distance at public events. In some ways Veronica felt relieved. She had enough on her mind without him around. But she would have liked to talk to him now, to have the reassurance of his hand on her back.

  Veronica closed her eyes, trying to push the anxieties out of her head, focusing instead on the background noise, the murmur of voices and sound of shoes thumping as tourists began to tramp down the stairs. She opened her eyes and saw a family descending the staircase, a little girl with long black hair in pink ribbons carefully following her mother’s footsteps. How nice it would be to join them, to lose herself in the crowd, to be only a dazed tourist like any other, showing paintings to a wide-eyed child.

  She thought then of the cold tile on her cheek, the twisting pain in her middle, and the pounding on the bathroom door. The dark lumps of blood clotting in the toilet and the sudden collapse of a dream she hadn’t even known she desired. The end of a pregnancy and soon the end of her engagement and the life she thought she would have back when she was still in Los Angeles, still in graduate school. A lump caught in her throat.

  “Try to enjoy.” Dmitry’s even voice summoned her back to the present. “This is informal event. Have fun. And look who is waiting.” He nodded his chin.

  “Hey! You made it. Sweet!”

  Sasha Yusupov stood at the top of the staircase, before a pair of high granite columns. He smiled down at her, jawline adorably scruffy, monarchist ribbon affixed to his lapel. Two
girls stood to his side, a willowy blonde and voluptuous brunette, in jewel-toned cocktail gowns and stiletto heels that made them almost as tall as Sasha. No wonder he seemed happy all the time. As Sasha spoke, the girls appraised Veronica with their heavily lined eyes. She had the sense they found her a tepid heiress to the Romanov throne.

  Irina stood on the other side of Sasha in a low-cut, off-the-shoulder blue gown that flattered her creamy skin and blond hair and made her seem almost as young as Sasha’s leggy girlfriends. “Borya and Zenaida will be here tonight,” she told Veronica, not bothering with niceties. She tapped her hip, as though she longed for a cigarette.

  “Who?” Veronica said.

  Irina cocked her head and looked at Dmitry, her eyes wide. “You didn’t tell her about Borya and Zenaida?”

  “Not yet,” Dmitry said.

  “It is imperative you talk to them. Borya’s brother is in the Duma, and you are the representative of the Romanov family this evening.”

  Veronica tried to nod, but her hands had suddenly grown cold. The State Duma was the lower house of the Russian parliament.

  “Avoid anything controversial,” Irina said. “If you want to talk politics, bring up Prince Potemkin’s mosque. Not Reb Volkov. Borya’s brother has spoken in favor of property restoration for the nobility. Reparations. You need to be charming.”

  “Reparations,” Veronica said. “For the nobility.” This wasn’t exactly a cause for which she felt undying passion, but she supposed she could play nicely enough with Irina’s friends. “I was hoping to see some paintings.”

  Irina swept her arm grandly. “The reception won’t begin for a little while still. You have time to visit a gallery or two in the Hermitage. One of my late husband’s ancestors helped Catherine acquire paintings for her collection. Now that I think about it, a show of good faith with reparations is the least this country can do to express gratitude.” Irina lifted her hand up and let it rest on Sasha’s shoulder. “You agree, don’t you, darling?”

 

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