“As I have had time to reflect, I wonder if it wasn’t impetuous.” He stumbled on the words, hating every one of them, hating himself for destroying his one remaining dream in this world. “We have tried before. We have tried to live together as man and wife. It never worked.”
Catherine’s expression remained stoic, the carefully practiced and diplomatic neutrality she had honed over decades of reign. Her heart might have been torn to pieces, but she would never betray her feelings to the outside world. Not even to him. He was but her subject, after all. A husband in name only.
She removed her gloves and placed her soft hand on his, trying to still its tremors. He could not look at her face any longer but only stared at her small hand, still youthful and smooth. He caught the scent of her perfume, unchanged over the years, floral with an undertone of musk. “What are you saying?” she asked.
“It was but a whimsy on my part, Your Majesty. The whimsy of a deluded man.”
“I had not thought it whimsy.”
“You asked me to return to the south, to New Russia,” he told her. “You wished me to negotiate the final peace with the Turks. You said I was the only man who could do so. It was wrong of me to question your wisdom in this matter. You are the empress of all the Russias. You have always known best. I am but your servant. It is our fate.”
“Then perhaps it is I who am deluded. A deluded old woman.”
He grasped her hand tightly. “You are the most perfect woman to have ever walked this earth. But you were right. My place is in the south. I must see to the peace. But promise me, matushka. You must be careful. Your son…” He still didn’t dare speak Zubov’s name. He didn’t want her to get defensive. And deep inside he began to wonder if Zubov might not be her ally after all. “Consider handing the throne to Alexander. He is a kind boy. He will grow to be a tolerant ruler.”
Catherine gave a hoarse laugh. “What a dream,” she said. “But passing over Paul? The stir such a move would cause. Could I survive it?”
“You survive anything you set your mind to surviving. I have seen this with my own eye…” He gestured to his useless eye, no longer strong enough to hide the defect from her view. At least his humor remained.
Catherine smiled sadly. “I might survive such a momentous decision were you at my side to guide me, husband.”
“I wish that could be so. But, matushka, I don’t know that I will see you again.”
Catherine took his arm and tried to make him rise. Summoning every last reserve of his strength, he resisted. His weight was too much for her to handle and he remained in his submissive pose. He wanted her to understand the seriousness of the moment, the significance of his final words. “You are scaring me,” she said.
“I need to speak plainly.” His breathing came with difficulty, his chest and enormous stomach rising and falling only with great effort. His body could not last forever.
“But why? Why won’t you rest and have some peace? Why must you always push me?”
“I won’t see you again,” he said.
A few tears slipped from her eyes. She was not above playing such tricks, manipulating his emotions, but it was different this time around. He sensed she could not control the tears, only the rest of her expression. “Don’t say this, my little dove.”
“You know it as well,” he told her. “I will not live to see your reign come to an end. It is best I leave. That we let the past be the past so that you might have your happiness here. I have no part in that anymore. I shouldn’t have tried to distract you.”
“I thought … I thought perhaps your feelings were…”
“I cannot do it. I cannot return to that place in our lives.”
She bowed her head and he had to turn away. But better this than to be taken down by a cruel rumor planted by her own son. He thought of the pasha, of his own horrific memories, and considered mentioning the mosque one last time. But when he saw the crushed look on her face, he could not do it. He could not let her think their entire relationship boiled down to political favors. That must not be her final memory of him. He would need to find another path to atonement.
“You always make the just decisions,” he told her. “The difficult decisions. The decisions that have created an enlightened Russia.” She tried to pull him up again, but again he resisted. “Promise me you will continue to do so.”
“I promise,” she whispered. “Only please, husband, rise and let me hold you again.”
At last, he pulled himself up. She fell into his arms, weeping. As he held her soft and pliable body in his arms, he began to cry as well. The courtiers had gathered at the perimeter of the Winter Garden, pretending an interest in the exotic plants and their jeweled fruits. Grisha wasn’t fooled. He glared at them over Catherine’s shoulder. They knew what was happening and wanted to witness the final farewell, get a glimpse of how matters stood between the empress and her old favorite. Grisha didn’t see the grand duke but had no doubt Paul’s spies were among the courtiers.
Reluctantly, Catherine pulled away and straightened her back. She was a head shorter than Grisha and yet at that moment she seemed to tower above him. This is why she was the empress and he a mere subject. She could survive anything.
“Hot tea,” she said. “Rest. I command you attend to your health.”
Grisha bowed low. “As you say.” He looked up to see her one last time. “Farewell, wife.”
She turned and slanted her fan in his direction. “Au revoir, husband. Take care of yourself. I will see you again. I cannot bear to think otherwise.”
* * *
A few guests lingered still in the main hall of the palace, faces he didn’t recognize or that were disguised under colorful Venetian masks. His servants in their blue and yellow livery cleared the remains of the feast. Oleg had put the jewel-encrusted hat away for safekeeping and now sampled one of the last of the sugared pears, licking the sweetness from his fingers. Anton stood by the door, frowning at the other boy.
Grisha was so happy to see Anton he could have fallen into his arms. Instead, he settled for a quick click of his heels and a little military salute.
Now his thoughts raced with more he could have said to Catherine, words he could not manage in her presence. But he was so tired he did not know if he could take his quill to vellum. “Do you have time for a letter? I have a few words to commit to paper tonight.”
“I can manage it, Your Highness.”
Grisha had planned fireworks for the culmination of the night, but they had been late in starting, as the servants waited for the rainstorm to pass. He heard them pop from the courtyard now. The scent of gunpowder seeped through the windowpanes. Blue and silver spirals of light illuminated the dark sky and wispy gray clouds, eclipsing the stars and even the moon itself in honor of the empress.
She said she could not bear life without him. Grisha knew better. Catherine could bear anything. God had ordained her as empress. He might serve her better from a distance. It was God’s will.
Anton approached timidly and Grisha beckoned for him to join him at the window.
“Have you any desire to see the southern lands of our empire?” he asked the boy. “Our New Russia. It is my legacy here on this earth.”
Anton pulled on the tail ends of his new jacket and frowned. He knew Grisha’s moods well now, sensed the melancholy’s descent. “Is everything all right, Your Highness?”
“It will be,” Grisha said. “In the end I have faith it will be.”
Eighteen
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE (FIRST DRAFT)
ROMANOV HEIRESS TO LEAD BOYCOTT OF VODKA PRODUCTS ST. PETERSBURG, RUSSIA
Dmitry Potemkin, spokesperson for the Russian Monarchist Society, can now confirm that Romanov heiress Dr. Veronica Herrera has called for a boycott of Russian vodka. The honorary tsarina hopes this action will bring greater attention to the pending imprisonment of Reb Volkov and other issues facing the gay community in Russia.
ST. PETERSBURG
PRESENT DAY
When she saw Veronica in the doorway, Irina pressed her lips tight and smoothed her silky blouse. She tilted the phone away from Veronica and glared, recovering her composure quickly enough. “You should have let me know you were here. How rude.”
“You had Michael arrested. How could you?”
“How could you?” Irina glanced behind her in the corridor and then pushed her way into the office, not actually shoving Veronica back but forcing her to move abruptly to avoid Irina’s smacking right into her. “We had everything arranged for your visit. Dmitry even created that ridiculous itinerary.” She gestured to the red leather binder behind Veronica on the desk. “Everything was in place. And then you had to ruin it by turning your presence in our country into a controversy. Reb, Reb, Reb. I am so sick of that name!”
“I want to help him. I never kept that a secret.”
“Do you understand how close we are? We have the votes we need in the Duma for restoration of property to rightful owners. Do you know how much Sasha could inherit?”
Veronica didn’t know the exact number, but since Sasha was an heir to the Yusupov fortune, she imagined it was no small amount.
“Our supporters in the Duma are the same people who supported the propaganda law. They count on the Society to support their social views and they don’t approve of the homosexual lifestyle. They believe Moscow is the third Rome, an example of true faith for the rest of the world. Your support for Reb and this ridiculous boycott will turn them against us.”
“I don’t care. I don’t want to have anything to do with those people.”
“This is the problem when Americans get involved in other nations. You are so sure you have the moral upper hand. You want to impose your worldview on everyone else.”
“I’m not trying to impose my worldview on anyone, but that doesn’t mean I can’t speak my mind.”
“You’re the heiress to the Romanov throne. When Dmitry suggested we find you and bring you here, of course I went along with that plan. But Dmitry … and then you…” She put her hands on her head as though trying to contain her frustration. “Neither of you truly understands. The Russian people believe Reb’s lifestyle is immoral. No one can help how they feel. That is their imperative. It’s none of our concern. Certainly none of yours.”
“When something is wrong, it’s everyone’s problem,” Veronica said. “It’s not just about how they ‘feel.’”
“Reb broke the law.”
“With his paintings? Come on. And why did you have Michael arrested? I just heard you say they would hold him as long as you want. This is under your control. You know someone who will keep him there for you. Do you know what they’re doing to him?” Veronica heard the tremor in her voice. “He has a black eye. They beat him.”
“It is a Russian jail. One black eye is nothing.”
“That’s all you have to say for yourself? A black eye is nothing? You did this to him.”
Irina fiddled with the slender diamond tennis bracelet on her wrist. “You have some sort of proof?”
“I heard you on the phone. I think you planted pamphlets in his coat and told the police to search him. Why? What do you expect me to do?”
“I expect you to be reasonable,” Irina snapped.
“You expect me to be your puppet.”
“First you meddle in Reb’s case. Then you call for a boycott of a major Russian export and insult Vasily Turgekov, one of our strongest allies and a beloved figure in our community.” Irina moved closer to Veronica and lowered her voice. “You are a traitor to the true Russian cause. The new Russia. I want you out.”
“I’m the Romanov heiress. I’m here to help Reb.”
“I understand that. I’m not a monster. I’m not opposed to projects with political implications. For example, the mosque that Dmitry included in your dossier? Grigory Potemkin’s old ambition? You could focus your energies on that as a show of goodwill to our Islamic residents. Isn’t that worthy of your attention?”
“You only support the mosque because it will smooth out the transition of property to the old families in Muslim regions.”
Irina took a step back. The shift in her movement was subtle enough, chin tilted defiantly upward, index finger slowly tapping against her hip. But her features hardened and her voice remained perfectly crisp. “You know, we always had our doubts about you, even if you were a clear descendant of the last family.”
Veronica’s shoulders tensed. “Because I’m American? Because I support Reb?”
Irina looked her up and down. “No.”
“I don’t ‘look’ Russian enough for you?”
“Oh, of course. The backward Russians must all be racists,” Irina said sarcastically. “No, we had a much deeper concern. Not only me. Dmitry as well.”
Veronica drew in a sharp breath.
“We worried about you because you’re not a mother. Both Dmitry and I wondered if Russians would ever truly accept a woman who wasn’t a mother. After all, you would be a mother to the people. Their matushka.”
Veronica focused on the wall behind Irina, at the portraits of Catherine and Potemkin, but the words hit their mark and wounded a tender spot in her heart, all the more painful because deep down she believed them to be true.
“I see how you look at that picture of Catherine, as though somehow she will give you inspiration. But remember she was a mother. You’re not.”
The dry aching sensation, the hopeless longing, seized Veronica’s heart, the same pain she felt when she saw small children. It was a part of life that had passed her by; her miscarriage had brought that chapter of her own story to a close. She tried to accept it gracefully, but the ache was still palpable, throbbing, worse than ever.
Her voice sounded small to her own ears. “I have a right to be here. I belong here.”
“You have been away from this country too long. I know you probably have some perverted Western feminist notions and think it is fine to choose not to have children. But Russians are traditional. They are true to the church and to the natural order. Russians will wonder if you are a real woman. How can they trust someone who isn’t real?”
Stumbling away from Irina, Veronica tried to engage her brain, to remember that she said this only to hurt her. But the words were too powerful to ignore.
“I think your entire life, you’ve made a mess of things,” Irina said. “That’s my sense of you now. I will pray for you.”
Veronica looked away, hating Irina and her version of God. “Please don’t.”
“I should have known. A blasphemer as well, just like your precious Reb Volkov. You’re not an Orthodox Christian. But I thought you had a love for this country. For Russian ways. For the Russian soul. I know better now. You shouldn’t have come here. We should make other plans and have someone else in line as our honorary tsar.”
And what if Veronica hadn’t come? She would still be back in Bakersfield, no children, no career, and no prospects. Likely still keeping Michael at arm’s length. This was where she was meant to be and now it would all be taken away. “So you have some alternate person in mind?” The words felt broken as they came out of her mouth, dulled by pain.
“Perhaps Sasha can be traced to the Romanovs. I believe he has a more pragmatic view of these matters.”
Veronica doubted Sasha’s Yusupov bloodline gave him any claim to the throne whatsoever. She also doubted, given how excited the paparazzi had been to follow her, anyone would care if his claim was legitimate. He would smile and look tall and rugged and masculine and date glamorous women. That would be enough for the papers to start calling him the second coming of Peter the Great.
Irina checked her phone. “Consider everything I said. I have a donor meeting this evening. Let me know by morning. I’ll make all of the necessary arrangements and ensure your Mikhail is released safely. And I can get you a flight back to America quickly. I think now that I was wrong about you moving to St. Petersburg. You will be happiest back in California.”
&nb
sp; Veronica felt like she had to say the words, even though she knew the answer. “And if I don’t agree?”
Irina looked up at Veronica once more, gaze steady.
“Then I can’t promise what will happen to your friend Mikhail,” Irina said. “But I know Russian prisons can be dangerous places.”
* * *
After Irina left, Veronica stumbled back into the leather chair, staring blankly at the itinerary. Her last day in Russia was to have been spent touring landmarks and visiting different bars around the city, trying to convince the owners to participate in the boycott. But of course Dmitry hadn’t added that to the official itinerary. Veronica remembered what Irina had just told her, that Dmitry had doubts about her because she wasn’t a mother, and then she rubbed the sides of her head until her skin chafed. For all she knew Irina was lying about that, just trying to get deeper under her skin. And Veronica was letting her do it.
She forced her hands back down on the desk and then gazed once more at the portraits of Catherine and Potemkin, their clever eyes and steady gazes. Well, perhaps Prince Potemkin’s gaze wasn’t particularly steady. You could tell he had commissioned the portrait to be drawn as a three-quarters profile, his bad eye hidden. And narrow cracks split the oil around the corners of the painting. Still, he looked formidable.
Veronica wanted to forget everything, even her reasons for coming here and wanting more out of life in the first place. She wanted to retreat to her hotel room, hide under a blanket, and cover her eyes, the way she used to when she was a child, thinking that if she couldn’t see anyone perhaps no one could see her either.
Instead, she stared at Prince Potemkin. As she looked at his portrait, it occurred to her that he had no children, no direct descendants. Dmitry was related to him through one of his nieces, and Sasha was an even more distant relation than that.
Veronica rose to her feet, still eying Potemkin, her heart beating fiercely now. For all she knew, he felt the same way she did about not having children. Perhaps he had regrets. But she bet no one had ever told the prince he couldn’t lead because he didn’t have children, or that somehow other Russians wouldn’t find him “real” enough.
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