The Tsarina's Legacy

by Jennifer Laam

  “Paul,” Catherine said stiffly. “You look well.”

  “It’s difficult to be anything but merry among such opulence,” Paul said. “It seems the prince has spared no expense.” He glanced at the guests gathered around the food, scarcely hiding his distaste. “Not the best choice when we may be so close to war.”

  “Oh, you haven’t heard,” Grisha said casually, intending to savor every moment.

  “Has my mother come to a decision then?” Paul said, ignoring Catherine as she scowled beside Grisha. “Has she put an end to her womanly dithering?”

  “We have it on good authority that the English prime minister gave quite a convincing speech to avoid war,” Grisha said. “We should have official word soon enough.”

  Catherine smiled up at him. “It seems Prince Potemkin’s counsel was correct. The English are backing down.”

  Paul’s cheeks blazed redder than his mother’s rouge.

  “We are here to enjoy ourselves this evening and I understand”—she glanced sympathetically at her daughter-in-law, hovering at Paul’s side—“that one of the entertainments this evening features two of my favorite people in this world, your two sweet sons, my dear.”

  Grisha led Catherine by the hand through the long central hall, past immense columns disguised as palm trees and other exotic plants, black crystal chandeliers aglow, and marble statuary half-hidden in shadow. Excited as a schoolboy, he steered her to the lush and tropical Winter Garden, enclosed in walls of glass, to the pedestal he had constructed for her.

  The children proceeded in two elegant configurations. Catherine reclined on one of the thick Persian carpets that lined the platform and gasped with delight. The beaded trimming of her kokoshnik swung to and fro, framing her face. She pointed at one of the dancers as they took their positions. “Monsieur Alexander!” She tried to wave, like the proud grandmother she was.

  Grisha smiled and clapped his hands. At once, the young grand duke took a spot at the front, dressed all in black with an elaborate hat on his head, in the Spanish manner, pom-poms dangling jauntily over the brim. Alexander began to perform a solo, punctuated with a complicated series of jetés choreographed to showcase his finesse with intricate footwork. By the end, Catherine dabbed tears from her eyes. “So precious,” she said.

  “He carries himself well,” Grisha commented. “Already in a regal manner some might say. I imagine him twenty years hence, tall and proud. Perhaps he will face some menace from the outside. He will be tested.”

  “You now have a gift for seeing into the future, Prince? Like a roadside Gypsy?”

  Grisha allowed himself a small shrug and looked at Catherine full on, eye twinkling. “I would not presume such talent. But I believe I have moments when the second sight comes to me. It is because I’m from the heart of this country, matushka. I see Alexander as tsar, tall and lean on a proud stallion, at the head of a cavalry, and his foot soldiers standing loyally behind him. I see snow pounding in drifts, opposing armies shivering and flailing in it. And I see more than that as well. I see Alexander ruling an expansive, secure, enlightened, tolerant empire. I see him ensuring your legacy.”

  “Indeed,” Catherine agreed, eying Grisha slyly. “What a grand vision, Prince. Nevertheless the heir to the throne remains my son Paul. For now.”

  “Of course!” Grisha said with sarcastic emphasis.

  “What else can I do?” She shrugged. “Dear Lord, what would Paul do if he were passed over? He already has the formation of his regiments taking an aggressive Prussian style.”

  Grisha fought the temptation to gnaw at his thumbnail. Paul was excessively cruel with his soldiers, just as Peter had been, taking a whip to them for the slightest offense. Not exactly a way to cultivate the loyalty he would so desperately need when he ascended to the throne.

  “You have something further to say?” Catherine gave him another sideways glance.

  “Paul is the heir,” Grisha said simply. God help them all if the empire faced a formidable threat under his watch.

  “The boy would throw himself off a balcony if I passed him over.” Catherine squinted at Alexander, who was chatting with other boys now. Her eyes misted over fondly when she looked at her grandson, in a way they never did when she gazed at her son. “But you never know. Perhaps Paul will surprise us.”

  “You have a generous spirit, matushka.”

  When the evening meal was served, Grisha stood behind Catherine. As each dish was brought into the room, he lifted the silver top from the plate and offered it for inspection and approval. She smiled coyly and allowed him to serve her. He thought he did rather a fine job, all things considered, and wondered if he might have a future as a servant below the stairs. Or perhaps it was as those of an Eastern philosophical bent believed and he had lived a past life as a servant in one of the courts of old Muscovy.

  And yet even in this moment of triumph, the floor seemed to move uncertainly beneath his feet thanks to his illness. Nevertheless, he held his ground. He had planned this triumph for too long.

  After the final dish was served, and Catherine had her fill of the spun sugars and candied fruits he had ordered, he would find a deserted nook and ingest more laudanum. Grisha had no use for doctors. But their potions were sometimes worthy of his attention.

  He spotted Zubov on the other end of the table. He had arrived late, as Catherine had predicted, and yet just in time for the midnight supper, a gauche gesture in Grisha’s opinion. Zubov wore a long frock coat made of dark blue velvet, lined with fur, and a new pink cravat. The ensemble looked uncomfortable for a room so warmed by candles, but Zubov struck Grisha as someone who cared far more for appearances than comfort. Frankly, it was one of the few qualities he didn’t begrudge in the boy.

  Each time Catherine smiled at a dish and offered words of wonder—how delicious it tasted, how far Grisha’s servants must have traveled to find such a rare treat, how clever the presentation—Zubov pouted and Grisha smirked in his direction. Grisha’s place was at his empress’s side, just as it always had been. There wasn’t a damn thing Zubov could do about it.

  After supper, one of the servants announced they would gather in a different room. Catherine couldn’t quite conceal a yawn behind her napkin. For a moment, Grisha worried she would declare she was ready to retire to the Winter Palace for the evening. But once she stifled her yawn, Catherine turned to one of her ladies-in-waiting and nodded. Following her cue, the other guests left their linen napkins—embroidered with an elaborate “G” and “P” just in case they still had any doubt as to who was responsible for their revelries this evening—on their plates. They followed the empress to the room where the remaining performances were scheduled to begin.

  Elaborate woven tapestries portraying biblical stories draped the walls. Grisha had a particular fondness for the Book of Esther and had commissioned the tapestries to take a prominent place in the artistic vision of the room. He was even more particular about the artist’s portrayal of Queen Esther herself. His Jewish adviser, Jacob Zeitlin, had once spoke of a girl who had performed the role of Esther in a play staged to commemorate their holiday of Purim. Grisha had listened carefully to his description of this adored young woman. She had been re-created in the center of the back panel, a gorgeous and raven-haired Esther dramatically lifting her hand to point an accusing finger at her king’s disloyal adviser Haman.

  “You are already prepared for the merriment,” Catherine said in her low voice, sidling up to Grisha and placing her hand on his arm once more. Grisha took a moment to take in the feminine scent of her, the perfume and powder from her newly freshened face.

  “What is life if not merriment and love and learning,” Grisha replied. He shifted his attention, somewhat reluctantly, from the lovely lines of Esther’s face to those of her enemy, the adviser Haman. “Take the story of Esther, a fine example of love and loyalty triumphing over those who would do wrong to their sworn leaders.”

  “And do you have anyone in mind? Someone who would
do wrong to a sworn leader?”

  His gaze traveled pointedly to Zubov. The boy appeared out of sorts without his damn monkey perched on his shoulder. Grisha almost felt sorry for him.

  “You have something up your sleeve, Prince,” Catherine said merrily as Grisha guided Catherine into a makeshift throne beneath the tapestry of Queen Esther. “I can always tell.”

  Grisha rolled his sleeves up and bared his forearms for Catherine, who laughed. He clapped his hands. The curtains at the other end of the room rose, revealing the full-size stage Grisha had commissioned for the occasion. Catherine gasped. Grisha had not bothered to inform the empress of the latest addition to his palace, but he knew she would be pleased with the effect.

  Onstage, a line of the dancers from the ballet joined Grisha’s own servants, all dressed to represent the many peoples of the empress’s empire, from the colorfully kerchiefed peasants of old Muscovy to the Sami people from the far north in thick wool capes and fur-lined boots. And of course, the Muslims of the south were represented as well, pashas in high turbans and bodyguards brandishing scimitars.

  Catherine watched the tableau for several minutes, squinting, enraptured. Grisha smiled to himself.

  “It is a fine display,” she told him softly.

  “It is your legacy, matushka,” Grisha bent low to whisper in her ear. “God is smiling in heaven at the thought of it. Once wars are over and an empire is safe … is this not the true purpose of our religion … peace on earth? Or at least on the part of it for which we are responsible.”

  When she gazed at him, Grisha saw love glimmering in her eyes. The old passion that had never truly died.

  “Thank you, husband,” she whispered back. “Thank you.”

  * * *

  The tableau gave way to a theater troupe Grisha had hired to perform a pair of popular French comedies. The actors mimed outrageously and strutted about the stage in the manner so beloved of European audiences. Personally, Grisha had little taste for such nonsense. Amid the raucous laughter, he slipped out and found an alcove, praying some pair of lovers had not sought out the same space before him.

  Sweating profusely, Grisha sank into the folds of the silk covering the divan, swearing under his breath at the stains he was no doubt leaving on the fine material. He fished in his breast pocket for the vial of laudanum he had stashed there earlier in the evening. He hadn’t realized until now how much of his energy had been expended keeping up appearances for Catherine. In truth, the preparations had turned him into one of the walking dead, alternating between the brink of tears and the sensation of flying.

  “Abandoning the empress so soon, Prince? Why, I would think you’d want to remain at her side all evening, distracting her with your homemade bread and circuses.”

  Grisha rubbed his hand against his head, maneuvering away from the vial. God help him if Zubov caught a glimpse of it. By the break of dawn, he would have the entire capital believing Grisha a hopeless addict.

  He bowed his head slightly, not caring for Zubov to see the ruin of his eye. “Lonely without your monkey? Are you so desperate for company you seek mine?”

  “You don’t look well. I worry for your health, believe it or not. For Catherine’s sake, if not my own.”

  Grisha looked up at last, trying not to think about his desperate need for the laudanum he had slipped beneath him and out of Zubov’s line of vision. “Your concern for your benefactress is touching.”

  Zubov’s smooth forehead wrinkled. “You really believe that is all she is to me?”

  “Don’t worry.” Grisha waved his hand, hoping the gesture would encourage Zubov to go away. “I’m sure you’ll be well provided for one way or another. I’ll see to it myself if need be.”

  Zubov snorted. “Never mind, Prince. I only sought you out because I want you to know how grand this entire sham appears.” Zubov stepped forward, ducking so he wouldn’t bump his elegant head against the alcove’s low entranceway. “Yet another sad artifice constructed by Prince Potemkin to fool the poor shortsighted empress. Another Potemkin village.”

  “I don’t follow,” Grisha said.

  “I suppose we should all be used to such nonsense by now. But I wanted to tell you personally, Prince, since you were so hell-bent on ruining me, I thought I would return the favor. This whole miserable enterprise is a failure.”

  “The empress seems well pleased, as do the other guests. Is envy really your best play right now?”

  “In the moment the empress is pleased, perhaps,” Zubov said, examining his cuticles, rearranging his ridiculous pink cravat, and trying to match the lazy note in Grisha’s voice. “But in the end, I believe you have played into her worst fear.”

  “You presume to understand the empress so well. What is her worst fear?”

  “You.”

  Grisha’s stomach tightened. “The empress knows I am her truest friend.”

  “It was not enough to be a friend,” Zubov snapped, “you had to be her lover. It was not enough to be her lover, you had to be her husband. You forget your place. You fashion yourself an emperor. No, not even an emperor. A pasha. You only dress in the Western style for show this evening. We all know that any other night you can be found lounging abed in your robes with a hookah pipe, concubines in harem pants dancing about. You wish to be pasha in the south. You wish to be king of Poland. You desire too much and you are a threat. And if she did not see it before, how could she help but see it tonight with all this showy fuss.” Zubov retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket and waved his hand. “Your time is over. You have ruined yourself.”

  The entire evening had been designed to celebrate Catherine, but he supposed with a few clever tweaks and whispered words his intent might be misconstrued. “And you are the man to be at her side from now on.”

  “Not only me,” Zubov said, lowering himself, squatting before Grisha. “I have powerful friends on my side. Grand Duke Paul for example. These symptoms you display now? Catherine says it is a recurrence of the malarial fever. The tsarevich has a different theory.”

  “Pray tell.”

  Zubov reached over and wiped perspiration from Grisha’s brow. Grisha shuddered, understanding how a woman must feel when subject to the unwanted grope of a lecherous man. He grabbed the boy’s slender wrist, but Zubov was more powerful than his lithe frame suggested and easily broke from his grip.

  “Grand Duke Paul thinks your prick has finally got the best of you.” Zubov stuffed his handkerchief back in his pocket and stood upright once more. “Could this not be the tertiary stage of syphilis? In its last stage, syphilis attacks the brain, fills one with all manner of delusions of pomp and glory. It explains your physical ailments, your moodiness, and your grandiose dreams of power. In a way, it is the only logical explanation for the spectacle you have made of yourself these past months. And all these years … married to the empress but sharing a bed with any woman who would have you? Such behavior would catch up with you. This is your fault.”

  Grisha’s hands shook so badly he feared the vial might fall and clatter onto the floor. He tried to tell himself Zubov didn’t know what he was doing, didn’t know the implications of what he was saying, what this vile rumor would do to Catherine. It was Grisha’s fault, for testing the boy and for making light of Paul. He had underestimated them both. He had failed Catherine.

  “You know the last stage of this dreadful venereal illness, Prince?” Zubov stroked the folds of his cravat. “Death. It’s only a matter of time. Anyone can see that. You look as though you have one foot in your grave already.”

  “The empress may sense death near me,” Grisha said in a low voice. “And may feel more apt to grant my wishes so that I might leave a legacy.”

  “But then what if it is syphilis, Prince? Your paranoia. Your grandiosity. All symptoms of a brain addled by the disease in its final stages. The empress may pity you, but she can hardly wish to indulge the insane wishes of a barren old fool intent on usurping her power.”

  He lunged
at the boy, but Zubov was quicker and backed away in time. Grisha fell to the floor, winded and coughing, feeling cowardly and impotent.

  “Nice try, Prince,” Zubov told him. “If you can’t struggle to your feet, I’ll be happy to accompany the empress to her carriage and back to the Winter Palace.”

  Sixteen

  FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

  Dr. Herrera has made plans to participate in St. Petersburg’s Pride Parade and other organized efforts to oppose both Reb’s prison sentence and the so-called propaganda law.

  PALACE SQUARE

  PRESENT DAY

  Veronica stood alone, panting from the sudden sprint, watching the black sedan pull away from the curb and maneuver past tour buses. Everything around her—the heavily clouded steel sky, the protesters chanting, even the black iron double-headed eagles on the railings—seemed to close in on her. Despite the cold, she felt overheated and sick to her stomach. Gasping for breath, she stared up at the stormy sky, at the angel on the column towering above—built to commemorate the victory of Catherine’s grandson Alexander over Napoleon in 1812—and the grim line of statues atop the long façade of the palace. She felt insignificant, useless. She needed to pull herself together. She needed to get to the American consulate and talk to an ambassador, a diplomat, anyone who could find Michael. Dmitry would help. She would figure out a way to get Irina’s help as well. Hadn’t Dmitry told her Irina had influence in St. Petersburg?

  But why did Michael shake his head? Like a warning.

  She ran back across the square, tripping on stones slick now with streaks of icy snow, flinging her arms to her sides for balance. As she righted herself, she ran smack into Irina, bundled into a long silvery fur coat and scowling as someone squawked on her phone. Anya stood next to her in a thick red head scarf and matching wool coat.