Her stomach knotted, the calm receding. She refused to cry. He needed to earn her tears.
“It’s true,” he said softly in Spanish, the language they shared. “You’re as beautiful as your picture. I knew you would be.”
“Do I look like my mother?” The words felt awkward, but she needed something to say.
His odd accent combined perfect Spanish with a native French lilt. “Oh yes. I knew that would be the case as well. Of course she was much younger when I knew her.” He hesitated. “I hope you don’t mind me saying this.”
“I’m sixteen years older than she was when she died. I know.”
“May I hug you?”
“I’d rather wait on that.”
He nodded sadly. “I understand. I’m grateful you agreed to meet with me.”
Only because I need your help. But she said: “Why do you want to see me now? Why did you contact my grandmother? After all these years?”
“You were coming to Petersburg to work with the Monarchist Society. I was concerned.”
“Concerned? Why? I know next to nothing about you. I grew up without you. You never contacted me.” She hadn’t planned to get into this. Not here. Not now. She needed Laurent’s help. But after nearly forty years of frustration, she couldn’t help herself. Veronica’s sentences came out in short, staccato bursts that would have been better suited to English, although she spat them out in Spanish to make sure he understood. “All I knew was that you were my mother’s professor. Oh! And that you left her alone.”
“She wanted to be alone. What happened between us was never meant to be permanent.”
“It was a fling? I’m a random accident.”
“A fling, yes,” Laurent said. “I don’t know how else to put it. But I don’t believe anyone on this earth is a random accident.”
“You weren’t curious about me at all?”
“I thought of you all the time, Veronica.” He lifted his thin hands, pale and blue-veined and more fragile than the rest of his body. “I kept a picture on my mirror from when you were a toddler. Your grandmother sent it to me. As time passed, I wondered what you looked like as you grew older. What you were doing with your life. But after my experiences and my mother’s experiences during the war, I needed to make your safety my first priority.”
“It would have been better to let me know.”
“My family didn’t see it this way. Lena and her family agreed…” He looked down at his feet. “Even Lena’s grandson, your friend Michael. The one you’re so worried about now?” Veronica looked up sharply. He continued, “I’m sorry, I heard what happened. Michael agreed with us. Now more than ever he probably understands. Everyone wanted to keep you safe.”
Veronica thought about what had happened yesterday, the way Michael gave one slight shake of his head before he was sped away from her. Her heart made a quick, panicked jump.
“But it wasn’t just that,” Laurent continued. “I have never been good for women. I’ve hurt them. I thought I would hurt you. But I guess I did anyway.” He put his head in his fragile hands. “It’s difficult to explain. Sometimes I hear voices in my head, nagging me, berating me. Who do you think you are? You do not matter. You have never mattered. Every time something good happens, you ruin it.” He shook his head and looked at her again. “I honestly thought you would be better off without me in your life.”
Michael was alone in his cell, staring at the ceiling, face throbbing, no clue what would happen to him next. Perhaps he would have been better off without her in his life. “Look, Michael was arrested because of me. It’s my fault. That’s why I’m talking to you now. I need to make it right. I have to relinquish my claim, and you must make yours.”
He nodded. “I understand. And now that the secret is out, I can’t see the point in staying away. I want to get to know you, Veronica.” A thin shaft of sunlight played on his silver hair. “I noticed you published a paper on my grandmother Alexandra a few months back.”
Veronica’s bottom lip twitched. “You read that?”
“I tried to follow you as much as I could from afar.”
Her shoulders relaxed slightly, the tension flowing down the back of her arms and away from her, like a bad memory fading. “It was meant to be a book originally. But all that is over now. I didn’t make tenure. I’m a failed academic. I’m done.”
“I thought it was very good. You can still write and research and do whatever you want to do. Who can stop you? Where do you want to live? Go there. Find a job you like and don’t worry about tenure. Enjoy your life. Don’t settle for less.”
“How European of you.”
“And what’s wrong with thinking like a European?”
“I’m American,” she said. “Americans have steady jobs with health insurance and kids and houses.”
“That’s why you came here?” Laurent asked. “You didn’t feel right in California?”
“I don’t feel right anywhere. All of the things people do to make something of their life, a family or a strong career, I don’t have those. I’m always an outsider.”
“People on the outside are the most interesting, don’t you think? They pay more attention. They keep everyone else from growing complacent.”
Veronica bit her dry lips. She had to admit, hearing him say this made her feel a little better. “I suppose that’s true. But it can get lonely.”
“You want an ordinary life? Why? There are many forms of happiness. I hope you come to see this.” Laurent’s features remained serene, but he grinned. “You sound introspective, which makes you European enough.”
“Perhaps.” Veronica fiddled with the strap of her purse, avoiding Laurent’s gaze. “When you said you’re not good for women—what did you mean?”
His grin disappeared. “It is difficult for me to say. I know you probably have more romantic notions, but your mother was not the love of my life, it was a woman who came before her. I’m sorry. She probably wasn’t the love of my life either, come to think of it, but the relationship had a profound effect. I felt as though I was cursed.”
He pulled a monogrammed handkerchief out of his front pocket and began turning it over and over in his hands. Veronica recognized the motion of those hands. She made the same movement often enough herself.
“I’m not explaining this well,” he said. “I must sound heartless. I cared for your mother.”
“Yet you didn’t try to find me. When she died, you pretty much made me an orphan.”
“By that point I didn’t think it would do any good. Your grandmother had taken over raising you. She is a determined woman and quite capable.”
Despite everything, Veronica smiled. That was the least anyone could say about Abuela.
“Maybe you understand a little better now,” he said. “At least I hope you do.”
Veronica stood up. She still wouldn’t look at Laurent but began to pace in front of him.
“You remind me of my mother,” he said. “She could never stay still.”
“Like Nicholas II.”
“Yes. I’ve read that as well.” He hesitated. “So what are you thinking? I don’t expect forgiveness. But have I made myself understood? At least a little better?”
“I feel like I’ve heard this before from men who claim to care about me,” Veronica said. “They keep secrets, supposedly for my own good. I don’t like it.”
Laurent nodded. “I understand. I only hoped you would hear me out.”
Veronica needed to get to the heart of the conversation. “Did you hear anything about my press conference?”
“Oh, you don’t know? It’s been on the news all day.” When he laughed, Veronica heard an echo of her own voice and twitched in recognition. “You handled yourself very well. Reporters are asking for comments from the Kremlin. You made an impact already.”
Veronica’s stomach clenched. The Kremlin? But Laurent sounded proud of her. That was a good sign. She needed to make sure they were in agreement. “Do you have a strong opinion
on Reb Volkov?”
“Of course!” Laurent said defensively. “I think what is happening to him is wrong. The boycott of vodka is a good idea. It will put pressure on the government. Between that and the Romanov heiress speaking about Reb, it can make a difference.”
Relief flooded her chest. “I’m glad to hear you say that.”
“If my mother were still alive, she would be proud of you. If your mother were still alive, she would expect me to stand with you. And I want to stand with you. I don’t agree with what is happening in this country. I never contacted the Monarchist Society because I thought they were taking Russia backward. But what you are trying to do … this is different.”
Veronica kicked a random pebble beneath her feet. “Technically you are the heir to the throne,” she said carefully. “Not me. Even if you’ve been a recluse.”
“I never wanted a claim for myself. I never even wanted to be found.” Laurent’s voice trembled. “That is why I had to talk to you. I saw what happened to my mother. A Nazi officer knew of her connection to the Russian throne. He wanted to use her. He killed my father. I saw it. He shot my father and I’m sure the wound killed him. He died because of my mother’s claim to the Romanovs.”
Veronica stared at Laurent. “I never knew that.”
“I barely knew my father. And I’ll never know for sure what happened to him. That’s how it is in war. And that is our family’s legacy. How could I not think you would be better off without it?”
“Your father couldn’t go to Spain with you?”
“We parted ways so the Nazis wouldn’t follow. We thought it would be better in Spain. I loved it. I returned as an adult. But it was a dictatorship under Franco. I’ve hated our family’s roots. I’ve hated the idea of monarchy, of absolute rule, of the Romanovs. But now I see that there are positive ways to handle a monarchy. I see what you wish to accomplish here.”
Veronica leaned over, fishing in her purse until her fingers clamped around the postcard of Charlotte. “Here,” she said, waving it in his direction. “I want you to have it.”
Laurent looked at the card and then took it gently, staring at the picture of his mother. His gaze softened. He placed it lovingly in the front pocket of his coat. “A strong likeness. I shall treasure it.” He stood up and took Veronica’s hand.
“Relinquish your own claim,” he said, “if that will help your friend Michael. I certainly don’t want anything to happen to Lena and Pavel’s grandson. They were so kind to our family. I owe a debt and I am happy to repay the favor. I suppose it’s time I accept my own legacy and that of my mother. Consider the throne in good hands now.”
Nineteen
THE BESSARABIAN HILLS
OCTOBER 1791
Orange sunlight filtered through the massive branches of the oak tree. Leaves gently swayed in the breeze while squirrels scampered to and fro between the limbs, bushy tails shaking as they ran. The wind kicked dust into Grisha’s eyes and tiny insects ran through the grass beneath, finding exposed spots on his moist skin, under the furs and the fine silk of the dressing gown Catherine had sent him. A choir of birdsong echoed from above.
Why had it taken him so long to find such a place again? The natural world where one might commune with God. Where all was stillness and bliss.
“I was meant for the monastic life,” he heard himself say aloud. “I was called into the service of the empress. I thought it God’s will. But I always missed that simple life.”
He closed his eyes and sensed a light pressure as another cool towel was applied to his perspiring brow and then gently wrapped from chin to forehead. The end drew near. He was sure of it. His affairs had been careening downward the past few months until it seemed inevitable. His body had finally grown tired of life’s games.
When had it all started going wrong? Was it the money? He hadn’t left St. Petersburg as quickly as Zubov had hoped, and his debts from the ball continued to accrue, higher than even he had imagined possible. For the first time, Grisha was glad he had no direct heirs who might be forced to pay after he had departed from this world. Then again, he had been in debt before. And Catherine had always laughed and covered the expenses.
Perhaps the end truly began when the scribbled notes from Zubov arrived, all flattery and begging for advice, clearly dictated by Catherine to make the two of them friends.
As though Grisha had never redeclared his love for her at all.
In her latest care package, Catherine had sent a fur coat along with a dressing gown. He huddled deeper into the fur now. He could not let the antics of Platon Alexandrovich Zubov annoy him any longer, not when he had so little time left.
Voices murmured, at first muffled, but then as though shouting in his ear, sending searing bolts of pain through his head. All of the members of his makeshift New Russian entourage had gathered: boisterous Cossacks with thick black mustaches alongside taciturn Orthodox bishops, a rabbi with a long gray beard, and a mullah in pantaloons so loose they billowed in the wind. All waiting for him to finally pass from the earth.
“From what I gather, he has suffered from malaria since his service in the Crimean peninsula, nearly ten years ago,” he heard one of the voices say, high and sweet above the others, though tinged with pain. One of his nieces had accompanied him on this last trip. “He is too stubborn and refuses the drugs. It is only a matter of time.”
If only he could make them understand. His own actions could never lead to his end, for this was God’s will alone. Soon the angel of death would descend and he would put this world behind him once and for all. He wasn’t sure he was ready but had learned not to fight the inevitable. This was the ultimate test of faith.
Soft hands pressed the cool cloth gently on his eyes and then removed it. Anton’s youthful features hovered above him. The boy’s lips quivered and his eyelids scrunched in a way Grisha had not observed before. What would happen to the boy after Grisha left this earth? He had distinctly outlined Anton’s fate in his will. The boy should remain free and clear of any obligations to his landlord back home. He would not return to serfdom. Instead, Grisha suggested a number of relations who might take the boy into their household. But his preference, carefully worded as a dying request, was for the boy to go to the palace, to Catherine’s court. Even with Platon Zubov puttering about and Paul plotting in the background, Grisha knew Anton would thrive. If Zubov knew what was best for him he would watch his back around the boy.
He wished he could explain all of this to Catherine.
Anton tipped Grisha’s head and helped him take a few sips of sour soup. The taste of cabbage may not have comforted everyone, but for Grisha it was a delight. It tasted of the earth. When he lowered himself back down onto the blanket, blades of grass beneath tickled his back.
“Some people in Europe think he is already dead,” the mullah murmured.
Dead and buried in the ground, a corpse already starting to rot. Perhaps it was only wishful thinking on the part of foreign diplomats or a rumor spread by his old enemies at court. He drew in the uncontaminated scent of woodland air, the slight movement causing agony.
Memories of home rushed through his mind, days tramping through fields of long grass, trying to keep up with his older sisters as they played blind man’s bluff. He stumbled and hurt his knee. His sisters laughed and he ran home to his nurse, who bundled him in blankets and covered his face with a warm towel. She sang a song about a troika lost in the snow.
“Don’t they have a custom for the dying…,” the rabbi said, “something about coins to send them off to the next world?”
All of his wealth in this world came from Catherine. If someone were to take a look at his financial records, they would see Grisha had not a coin to his name. He tried to laugh at the irony but only ended up wracking his body with another bout of hacking, as though his insides might explode from the effort.
One of the sturdy Cossacks began to make the rounds, picking at the ends of his mustache and asking if anyone had some coins he
might use. He was greeted by shrugs and apologies. A bishop protested with a grunt. He said the Cossack shouldn’t encourage Grisha, that it was inappropriate for an Orthodox believer to die on the grass. Grisha lifted his head.
“Move me and you’ll have to contend with that one.” He jerked his head toward Anton. “He won’t let you interfere with the final wishes of a dying man.”
Anton crossed his arms and the bishop fell silent. Grisha rested his head back on the ground, satisfied. Anton bent over and pulled Grisha’s gown tighter around his chest. Catherine had spent the entirety of her last letter to him fussing over his health and imploring him to take care of himself. He had managed to write back to her one last time. He didn’t trust the regular couriers with this letter though. He had given the note to Anton and watched him safely tuck it inside a pocket. He patted the pocket in his own gown, where a few of Catherine’s love letters were still carefully held together with a velvet ribbon.
“Please forgive me,” he repeated to the small crowd assembled before him. “Everything I did was in the interest of Empress Catherine. But if I have caused any suffering to any of you present, let us make our amends now.” He looked at the Islamic scholar, but the man had shuffled toward the back of the group.
“We all know, Your Highness.” Anton added lavender water to a new towel he wrapped firmly around Grisha’s neck. “You can be at peace.” The boy wiped a tear from his eye.
“And the letter…”
“I will see it gets to Catherine, Your Highness.”
“No one else?”
“Directly to her. I promise.”
Except that Grisha had not been able to adequately express his final wishes and the strain pushed hard on his heart, the last tendril of melancholia having its way with him, telling him he was nothing, that he had never mattered. “I need to finish. I had a thought for a postscript to better explain my feelings.”
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