The Tsarina's Legacy

by Jennifer Laam

  Perhaps Cleopatra and Mark Antony had the right idea, to end their lives willingly before matters came to a head, before the final humiliations. He imagined Zubov and Paul in another corner, staring at him as he struggled for breath.

  “You are trying to have it all,” she said. “As you always have. You want my affections but need more. You behave as any man toward a woman. Only looking to feed your own precarious ego. It isn’t enough merely to satiate your whim. We must also pretend—no, believe—that your whim is our greatest desire.”

  “Do not compare me to your other men. My ego has never required such attention.”

  “Exactly my point,” she said. “You show yourself as a mere delicate man at last.”

  “And what about you?” He gathered his energy and rushed toward the desk, so close to her that she stood and took a step back. “Will you speak of me as the grand love of your life while Platon Alexandrovich shares your bed?”

  He thought she might slap him. He was no stranger to slaps from women, but Catherine would not stoop so low. “You presume to tell me with whom I can and cannot share my bed? After all the women you have seduced?”

  “We are husband and wife,” he shouted, no longer caring who might overhear.

  “Husbands may take a wife and then as many mistresses as they please. But a wife must remain faithful no matter how far her husband strays? I never took you for such a prude. I think you wish to change the parameters of our singular arrangement not because of any great change in your feelings for me, but only because you grow selfish in your old age.”

  “Your silliness with Zubov is a whim. Discard him for me. Be with me…” His voice trailed off. He gripped the desk for support. He felt tears slipping down his cheeks. His thoughts returned to the monastery, the rhythm of the liturgy and the smoky-sweet incense. The icons in a blur of color around him and the birch trees outside the high windows.

  Catherine moved away, but her gaze lingered on him still. “I forgive you for your harsh words because it is clear you require rest. I wish you a safe journey home, Prince.”

  He waited. He felt her hand on his shoulder. But that was all. Pity. That was all she had left for him.

  * * *

  Grisha limped down the marble staircase, arm draped around Anton’s shoulders. His steps felt unsteady, even underneath the thick soles of his boots, and he found it increasingly difficult to hide his shivering. Perhaps the ghostly horseman would chase him all the way home. He shouldn’t have tempted fate by mentioning it earlier in the day.

  “You can’t make me leave.” He knew he was ranting but could not stop himself. “I only require a few more moments. The shouting was only our passion.”

  “She asked me to take you to the court doctor.”

  “I am your master. You will take me home.”

  Anton’s voice was not unkind, but it remained firm. “First of all, you’re not my master. You saw to that yourself. I am no serf bound to you by law. Not anymore. Secondly, even if you were my master, your orders would not outrank those given by the empress.” He paled. “She said she would flay me alive if I didn’t get you to a doctor. I told you she would blame me for letting you out.”

  Grisha had to stop and chuckle, but the laughter soon changed to coughing as his body rebelled at the effort. “She said that, did she? And she would attend to the matter herself rather than set her guards on you with one of the vicious rawhide knouts they so enjoy wielding.”

  “That’s right.” Catherine came bounding down the stairs, skirts flouncing, a greyhound nipping at her ankles, relishing this unexpected bout of play. “And I would hold true to that promise except obviously you have given this boy more trouble than I anticipated. Really, Prince. Will you force us to carry you all the way to a doctor?”

  Anton tried to bow to Catherine but couldn’t do so without releasing Grisha and having him tumble down the stairs. At least Catherine’s playfulness had returned. The quarrel between them wasn’t as dire as he’d feared. But he detected distress in her voice when she lowered it to speak to Anton. “I will help you get him to his carriage. I’ve never seen the attacks this bad before. Something is wrong.”

  “My lady, I must beg you not to do that.” Zubov now rushed down the stairs behind them. Had he been hiding in the shadows? Listening in on the most intimate moments of their interaction? Grisha wished he had enough fight left in him to challenge Zubov to pistols at first light, as the French and English gentlemen were so fond of doing when they felt their honor under siege. But fatalistic as Grisha felt, he had no desire to risk losing his other eye.

  “The prince makes his own poor decisions,” Zubov blathered. “He conquers the Turks, crushes them underfoot, and then wails for a mosque. He earns glory on the battlefield and then urges restraint when younger men might earn similar glory. He demands too much of your time and treasure.”

  “Oh hush,” Catherine said under her breath, and Grisha thought she sounded as though she were talking to a child rather than a lover. Or perhaps one of her dogs.

  “He is manipulating your affection to further glorify himself and his morbid designs for greater power,” Zubov insisted, oblivious to Catherine’s mounting annoyance. “I hear that he has his sights set on becoming king of Poland now. As though the south were not enough for him. I wouldn’t doubt this sudden spell is a farce to distract you from his dalliances. He has used you and betrayed your tender feelings. That is treason, I think.”

  “I have served the empress well.” Anton reached for his head again with a damp cloth, but Grisha batted his hand away. “Despite your interferences.”

  Catherine raised a gloved hand, still moving quickly to the front door. “Enough! If I want to see fighters tear into one another, I’ll purchase bantam cocks. Not one more word. I’ll make sure Prince Potemkin is attended to properly. Then I will return and we shall discuss this no further.”

  She nodded to two figures by the door. Her guards, a pale Cossack in embroidered gold and a North African in a fez and scarlet waistcoat. They opened the door, and Grisha blanched at the blast of chilly evening air. Farther out, he spotted his coach and six dappled geldings.

  “I must see the prince home,” Catherine said. “Get him into his carriage.”

  The guards appraised Grisha’s large frame and the pale one winced.

  “I will accompany him myself,” Catherine added.

  “You can’t do this,” Zubov began to sputter. “It is unseemly. Even if he is your husband, you must not treat him like a cherished pet.”

  Zubov seemed to know he had gone too far. He couldn’t look Catherine in the eye.

  She marched toward him. “I supposed it would get out sooner or later. Your manly virtue is offended? It seems I’ve made an adulterer of you. But then perhaps you don’t mind so much seeing as how you have put the cuckold’s horns on the prince. Isn’t that what you truly want, love? To humiliate your rival? Shame on you.”

  With that, the guards at the door hoisted Grisha onto the padded cushions inside his carriage. Catherine shooed away the hands the guards offered to help her. She lifted her long skirt and made her way to his side. “And no arguments from you either,” she told him as Anton climbed in behind her. “The last thing I ever wanted to become was an old woman bickering with my doddering husband.”

  When the carriage shot off, she tucked a thick fur blanket around his lap while Anton held him upright, hands shaking, no doubt due to being in such close quarters with his sovereign.

  The horses jolted over bumps and potholes in the cobblestone road. Grisha tried to focus on Catherine’s face as his body slowly relented to pain. “I told you we needed to pay better attention to the infrastructure of this city. Hasn’t Zubov attended to any of it?”

  “Why do you begrudge me this happiness?”

  “I am not asking you to abandon happiness.” The chills wracked his body and he started to shake. “I believe with all my heart that your true happiness in this world is with me.”

&nbs
p; Catherine moved her hand to Grisha’s forehead, her touch cool and light on his feverish skin. “Voltaire told me once he thought a female ruler might be rid of such distractions. I never had the heart to tell him he was wrong. We are all enslaved to our bodies, men and women.”

  “You were never enslaved. You only made a poor judgment or two.”

  “You have always helped me avoid poor judgments.”

  “You will rid yourself of Zubov then?” he asked, heart soaring. “So that we might be together again, as we were meant to be?”

  “Care for yourself first, so that you might be of greater use to me now and in the future. I expect you to be around for a long time. I require it.”

  She had avoided his question, but he hadn’t yet abandoned hope. Only the fever was growing worse and his eyelids had started to droop. Her voice still sounded in his ear, but she seemed to be speaking to him from much farther away than the confines of the carriage.

  “He’s slipping again,” he heard Anton say.

  “But you cannot do this,” Catherine insisted, imperious once more. “How can you leave this earth without finishing your work, your great projects in our New Russia? You are to negotiate a lasting peace with the Turks. It is your duty, Prince. Don’t shirk destiny.”

  The carriage came to an abrupt halt, shaking him back into the moment. The driver opened the door, allowing a blast of cold air into the coach.

  “Your guards,” the driver told her. “They must speak to you now.”

  Catherine scowled. A minute later, her personal guards were at either side of the carriage, astride their white stallions.

  “Forgive us,” the one nearest her said, removing his tall, feathered hat. “But we wouldn’t have stopped you unless absolutely necessary. You’re needed back at the palace. Platon Alexandrovich is raising a terrible ruckus. He won’t stop. He demands you return.”

  “Oh dear Lord,” Catherine muttered.

  “We can ensure the prince gets to the doctor.”

  Catherine cast a regretful look at Grisha. “I’m afraid to let you out of my sight. Who knows where you might end up this evening?”

  “I’ll see to him,” Anton told the empress. Grisha detected a quiver in the boy’s voice as he addressed Catherine, but otherwise he remained strong and Grisha flushed with pride. “I’ll make sure he gets the medical attention he needs.”

  “You won’t let him drag you to a brothel or a faro table instead?”

  Anton reddened. He attempted to answer, but Grisha watched his lips move as he stumbled on his attempt at words.

  “I can assure you I’m in no condition to do anything of that kind,” Grisha told her.

  Catherine rested her hand on his shoulder again. “Very well. But I am holding you to this.” She slanted her fan at Anton. “Once I’ve attended to this nonsense, I will check on you.”

  The guard opened the door, hand extended, ready to escort Catherine to a waiting horse. Grisha wished he could have been the one to offer her a hand and help her out, a service he had offered many times in the past. But then, Catherine was never the sort of woman to need help anyway. She managed well on her own. It was the quality he loved most about her.

  “You will see me at my palace and at the ball in your honor,” he said weakly. “To celebrate your triumphs against the Turks, the English, and the Prussians.”

  Catherine turned around and cupped Grisha’s face in her gentle hands. “I suppose there’s no point in trying to convince you otherwise. Very well, Prince. Perhaps this ball will be just the thing to bring you back to this world.” She kissed him lightly and smoothed his hair back away from his face. “I love you, husband. With all my soul.”

  Fourteen

  FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

  Dr. Herrera will speak on at least one issue confronting the country: the arrest and conviction of Nikolai “Reb” Volkov on charges of hooliganism.

  ST. PETERSBURG

  PRESENT DAY

  Irina insisted on a final fitting before the photo shoot for Ekaterina Restaurant. Again Veronica tried to summon Catherine’s power, to think of how she might have behaved in Russia today, to draw strength from it. But the gown no longer looked authentic, only tacky and cheaply made. Perhaps it was the poor light, the grayness outside as another storm gathered force and inside as one of the chandeliers malfunctioned and flickered out. The creepy cherubs hovering on the mirror’s gilded frame sneered. Who do you think you are?

  Veronica put her head in her hands and rubbed her temples. Elena had a few pins stuck in her mouth as she adjusted the hem of the gown. She removed the pins and gazed up at Veronica, pursing her pink lips. “You are not happy. Skirt is still too long?”

  “It’s not that.” Veronica scrutinized her reflection. It made no sense to see her own face hovering above that gown. In some ways, it seemed even more surreal than the Photoshopped version Irina had shown her on the plane. A part of her felt ridiculous, like suddenly she’d been enlisted to play Glinda the Good Witch in The Wizard of Oz but didn’t know any of her lines. “It just doesn’t feel the same today.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “I don’t think so. It’s not the gown. It’s me.”

  She watched Elena’s reflection as she stood upright and tried to fluff Veronica’s straight hair. “It is most important you are comfortable, Tsarina Nika. You must take good care of yourself so you can help others.”

  Elena patted her shoulder, a bare spot underneath the cape. This is what it would have been like to have a daughter. She would have loved having a daughter. She smiled at Elena in the mirror, liking the feeling, the twinge of sadness underneath soon forgotten as her thoughts turned to Laurent. She had received only one text from Michael since she’d seen him yesterday at the hotel:

  IRINA DOESN’T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT LAURENT, SO I CALLED YOUR ABUELA. LAURENT SENT HER AN E-MAIL SAYING HE IS COMING TO ST. PETERSBURG. I CONFIRMED WITH MY MOTHER. LAURENT WANTS TO MEET WITH YOU. HE’S WORRIED ABOUT WHAT YOU’RE DOING. HE’S WORRIED ABOUT THE IMPLICATIONS. WILL YOU TALK TO HIM?

  The thought of the message still made her angry. First, her long-lost father, suddenly appearing out of nowhere to inject himself in her life. That took some nerve. And then Michael’s tone. All business. She didn’t know what exactly she had expected from him, but the stiff formality of the message made her want to throw her phone across the room.

  After another ten minutes had passed—and she hadn’t responded—she received another text from Michael:

  I’M SORRY I GOT UPSET EARLIER. ONLY PLEASE REMEMBER I’M WORRIED ABOUT YOU. I PROMISED YOUR GRANDMOTHER I WOULD KEEP YOU SAFE. THAT’S WHY I’M HERE.

  “Not too much makes sense to me right now,” she told Elena.

  Irina clamored into the office on heels. Sasha trailed after her, smiling and affable as ever. Another man followed Irina as well, short and dark haired in a pressed shirt and slacks, head shyly bent, carrying a long garment bag.

  “Now that you are set for the photo shoot, we need to think about the press conference. As I suspected”—Irina waved her hand contemptuously at Veronica’s open suitcase and the clothes hanging from a rack—“this looks like the wardrobe of a second-rate office manager.”

  “Gee, thanks,” Veronica said.

  “Not to worry. This only makes the fairy tale all the better. We’ve found something of which even Catherine herself would approve, were she living today of course.”

  The man handed Sasha the garment bag and retreated into a dark corner near the washroom. Sasha unzipped the bag, revealing an elegant lilac skirt and matching blazer trimmed in silver: exactly the sort of thing Irina would wear, but in Veronica’s size. “What do you think?”

  “You shouldn’t have.”

  Irina regarded her with cool judgment. “You don’t like it? I prefer neutrals, but we thought the color suitable. Purple is the color of royalty, after all.” She took the blazer and held it next to Veronica. “Are you afraid you’ve gained weight and it won’t
fit? Elena can easily make a few tucks here and there.”

  Elena huffed at that and Veronica gritted her teeth. “I meant you shouldn’t have bought this for me because I can’t pay for it.”

  “Oh, is that all?” Irina shrugged.

  Veronica glanced at Elena. “What do you think?”

  Elena ran her hand over the silky fabric approvingly. “I can see Yulia Tymoshenko wearing something like this.”

  “I don’t know that you need to be so generous.” Veronica tried to summon a diplomatic way to tell Irina she didn’t want to be obligated to either the Society in general or Irina in particular. “I’m sure something I brought will be appropriate for the press conference.”

  “It’s nothing,” Sasha offered. “You’re going to help us bring in so much money.”

  Veronica wheeled around to face Sasha, narrowing her eyes. “Really? That’s the main reason I’m here then?”

  Sasha was still smiling but hunched his shoulders. She’d rattled him, at least a little. He even looked slightly abashed. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “What did you mean?”

  “He doesn’t mean anything,” Irina said, tossing her hair back and glaring at Sasha.

  “Do you mean I’ll have more ‘branding’ opportunities?” Veronica realized then how much she hated the word “branding.” It made her feel like a prize cow. “More photo shoots?”

  “He didn’t mean you personally. He didn’t even mean ‘us’ in terms of the Society, but ‘us’ in terms of Russia. Tourism. Celebrity. Promotions. The possibilities are endless.”

  Sasha gave Irina an apologetic shrug and her gaze became tender once more.

  “You should look your best regardless,” Irina told Veronica. “And we are in a position to help you. Let us do that.”

  The man who had entered with Irina and Sasha emerged from the shadows, head still low, so Veronica couldn’t see his face. He approached her, clicking his tongue between his teeth at something on the dress. At last he met her gaze and in a low voice said: “For what it is worth, I think this suits Your Majesty.”