by Kerri Turner
The Last Days of the Romanov Dancers
Kerri Turner
www.harlequinbooks.com.au
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
KERRI TURNER is a historical fiction author who lives in Sydney, Australia, with her husband and miniature schnauzer. She trained from a young age to become a ballerina, but life had other ideas for her. After gaining an Associate Degree (Dance) and Diploma of Publishing (Editing, Proofreading and Publishing), she combined her love of ballet, history and books to discover a passion for writing which far outweighed anything she’d done before. She still dances, passing on the joy of ballet to those who never got the chance to experience it—or thought their dancing years were behind them—by teaching adults-only and over-55s classes.
She loves to share details about her writing process, and the books she is reading, and can be found doing so on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Goodreads, Pinterest and Litsy. For book updates and other material visit her website www.kerriturner.com.
The Last Days of the Romanov Dancers is her first novel. She intends to write many more.
I praise the dance.
Saint Augustine
To Ross,
My first reader, and first (and most ardent) believer
CONTENTS
About the Author
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
PROLOGUE
Winter 1917
Luka Zhirkov pulled out his rose-gold pocket watch: it was almost midnight. Two minutes until their arranged meeting time.
A footstep rang on the street. The gas streetlamps had been extinguished by vandals so he peered into dark shadows for a glimpse of her face. The person that looked back at him before disappearing underneath a dark hood was a disappointment. It had been that way all night: every footstep igniting a spark of wild hope; every face proving by a quick glance his way that it didn’t belong to her.
Waiting had never been so hard. Luka was tense with impatience, his palms damp with sweat despite the frosty air. So much was at stake tonight. If all went to plan, it would be the culmination of so many things he had never realised he wanted until it was almost too late. A gunshot sounded nearby. Luka didn’t jump. The violence that swamped the streets of Petrograd was no longer any surprise to him. He just hoped she would stay clear of those wielding weapons—policemen, Cossacks and revolutionaries alike. Freedom was being bought with guns and murder, and there was no way of telling any more who was the enemy.
Another glance at his watch—the same Buhré watch she had given him—showed it was five minutes past midnight. A new day had begun. Another day with more for them to fear. Luka’s stomach turned as he tucked the timepiece away and peered down the street again. The heavy coat he wore was pulled high around his ears in an effort to hide his face as well as keep him warm, but it also impeded his view. It didn’t matter; he could tell from the isolation that hung heavy in the frigid night air that he was alone.
He should have waited with her. He knew that now. He should have made himself deaf to her arguments until she had no choice but to leave with him. But he hadn’t. Instead, he’d allowed himself to be swayed by her logic and had left her alone, agreeing to meet at midnight.
Now midnight was slowly turning to morning.
By one o’clock his dancer’s muscles were starting to seize, unused to standing still in the cold for such a long stretch of time. He shifted his weight from foot to foot to relieve the tension, but there was only one thing on his mind.
Where was she?
‘She will come,’ he whispered, as if by saying the words out loud they would have to come true.
He repeated them over and over as the dark hours slowly ticked by. The icy air made the words stick to the walls of his throat, but somehow he forced them out. ‘She will come; I know she will.’
She had to.
CHAPTER ONE
Autumn 1914
Valentina Yershova gritted her teeth beneath her painted smile. The Queen of the Dryads, with its controlled balances and sudden but soft springs into the air, was a difficult variation and one she was ill suited to. The other dancers who shared the stage were frozen in their positions, watching as the electric spotlight glared down on her movements. There was nowhere to hide. Every minute wobble as she struggled to balance on the tip of her pointe shoe for longer than she’d achieved in rehearsals would be noticed. Valentina felt the sharp eyes of the new corps girls taking in her every movement, learning from her while simultaneously hoping she would make the very public mistake she was pushing herself to the edge of. But she had to take the risk; she had to show the company that these lithe young bodies couldn’t compete with her sheer determination.
She lowered her eyes briefly; a demure expression the audience expected. They would never know how her mind raced; how from beneath her lashes she scanned the watching faces in the bel étage. Valentina was always aware, always calculating. She knew the name of every balletomane, the face of every imperial hanger-on. And she knew what audiences wanted. As she turned to the backdrop, she quickly wet her dry lips. Now was her moment. The variation ended in a show-stopping series of controlled Italian fouettés—a moment of energetic bravado the crowds adored. She felt the shift in the audience’s energy, the held breath of anticipation. She had to deliver.
The music moved, and Valentina moved with it. After the first fouetté into an attitude, her smile became real. The first was her test; if she perfected it, the rest would follow. The audience began to clap even before she had finished. They were appreciative tonight.
As she curtseyed to accept their applause, she tried to look gracious rather than triumphant. Triumph was an expression best reserved for the likes of Mathilde Kschessinska, the prima ballerina assoluta. But she had noticed the two youngest Grand Duchesses were in the imperial box with the Tsarina, Empress of all Russia, and all three had risen to their feet. The Tsarina applauded with detached politeness, but the younger Romanovs with genuine enthusiasm.
Dimitri was waiting for her in her dressing room when she returned to its quiet confines. He kissed her on the cheek, and handed her an expensive-looking bouquet of yellow and orange tulips surrounded by sweetly fragranced mock-orange blossoms. ‘A performance to bring even royalty to their feet,’ he told her.
Valentina enjoyed the pompous exaggeration, but wondered if his kiss had been a little perfunctory. Her protector was usually at his most excitable after she’d danced, and the attendance and recognition of the imperial family should have made him ebullient.
‘I should have been Kitri,’ she said, handing the bouquet to her dresser to deal with, as she had done with the rest of the flowers already received. She sat down on a silk-lined chair and picked at the kno
ts in her laces. Her feet were throbbing, a pain she’d been able to ignore when she was on stage. ‘These aren’t the roles I deserve, Dimitri.’
He grinned. ‘Don’t give me that face, my Valechka. I have news.’
Valentina’s fingers stilled. The dresser attempted to release the wig from her head, but she shooed her away impatiently. ‘What news?’
‘Les Millions d’Arlequin.’
‘You’ve heard the casting?’
‘The Good Fairy.’
Valentina took a deep breath, but showed no emotion. She peeled the battered shoes off her feet—angry red and marked with lines, but thankfully not bleeding—and set them on the long bench before her. She had to get two more performances out of the pointe shoes before she was allowed a new pair, and the thought made her press her lips together. She wanted roles that would grant her new shoes every performance.
‘A good role. Not principal, though,’ she said.
‘There’s more.’ Dimitri was bouncing on his toes, twitchy and smiling. He was waiting for her to ask, as though withholding information somehow made it more exciting.
Valentina didn’t show her irritation. Instead she gave him what he wanted. ‘Don’t leave me waiting in curiosity. What else do you know?’
‘The Tsarina has issued an imperial invitation. You’re to be received at the Alexander Palace.’
The world stilled around Valentina. Even her breath caught in her chest. The two other dancers, who had hovered at the back of the shared dressing room, stopped pretending not to listen; they gaped at her with eyes hot with fury and envy. Dimitri just about bounced right out of his shoes.
‘It’s because of Les Millions d’Arlequin, isn’t it?’ Valentina breathed. The whole country knew the ballet was a particular favourite with the Tsarina, to whom the score was dedicated. ‘She saw me tonight, and learned I would be dancing the Good Fairy.’
‘Exactly.’
Now, Valentina couldn’t help the expression of triumph that spread across her face. This would keep her a step ahead of the new corps girls, and cement her place in the ballet company. Being singled out by the Empress of Russia would make her unstoppable.
Valentina discreetly took in her surrounds. The Tsarina’s formal reception room had seven large windows that let in the golden autumn sun. Lace curtains dappled the light to create intricate patterns on the parquetry floors and Savonnerie carpet; and were in turn framed by heavy cranberry curtains, which, at night, would block out the view of the Alexander Park stretching beyond. Above the collection of apple-green chairs that sat in the centre of the room—designed for decoration rather than comfort—hung a crystal chandelier with a ruby-red glass centre. Valentina longed to study the exquisite piece, for red glass was exceedingly rare. Even Mathilde Kschessinska didn’t have any in her many abodes. The movement would be too obvious, though, so she contented herself with eyeing the paintings, tapestries and marble carvings that decorated every wall. There was a striking portrait of the Tsarina wearing a gown and tiara in the midst of a gloomy forest, and Valentina wondered how much it would cost to commission such a portrait of herself. It would look impressive in her entry foyer, and show those who entered that she had been in the Tsarina’s personal rooms. She filed the idea away for later.
The Tsarina and Dimitri were talking animatedly in English about the war. Valentina had hoped the conversation would dwell on Les Millions d’Arlequin, but the war was all anyone seemed to talk of these days. The Tsarina was no exception. She spoke at length about the German declaration of war against Russia—carefully avoiding any mention of it being the country of her birth—and how the Tsar was determined that Russia would not bow to Germany’s threats. The subject held little interest for Valentina; she had no one to lose to the fighting, and it was said Russia would emerge triumphant before long. Three months, at the most.
She shifted on her chair as a twinge of pain bit her littlest toe. The skin had split during her last performance, and her button-up boots were pinching the spot. She was trying to wriggle the offending toe away from the leather when a knock sounded at the door. Her lips twitched in relief and she turned to see who she had to thank for the reprieve from artillery rankings and munitions supplies.
The carved door opened to reveal the towering figure of Grigori Rasputin, advisor and close friend to the Romanov family. Valentina’s smile faded. The monk strode towards them, his black robes billowing behind him as though he brought a dark shadow into the otherwise sunny room.
The Tsarina stood, her waist-length pearls clattering. Valentina bit her lip to stop from gasping at the sight of the Empress of Russia rising to greet one who was beneath her. The Tsarina tilted her dark head to receive words from lips pressed far too close to her ear. There were those who said the monk’s hold over the Empress had to be sexual.
‘Ah,’ she said, a pleased look softening the lines on her face. ‘Our other guest has arrived.’
Dimitri nodded as if he knew what the Empress was talking about, a twitch of a smile showing beneath his greying beard. Valentina gave him a quizzical look.
‘Show him in,’ the Tsarina ordered.
Rasputin nodded once and turned, but instead of leaving, he rested one oversized hand on a Wedgwood bust of Tsar Alexander I, as though blessing it. His head turned slowly, owl-like, until his dark-circled eyes were staring at Valentina. The back of her neck tightened. She had the impression that his long features were being pulled towards the floor, as though some demon were trying to draw him to hell, where many said he belonged. Even his dark hair, parted severely in the centre and knotted tight behind his head, contributed to the downward pull. Only his wild beard, flecked with food from his last meal, defied it. Valentina had heard the stories about Grigori Rasputin. Society women whispered that he was a drunken lecher with a penchant for seduction. He advised that to be cured of sin, one first had to be guilty of it—and offered both sin and redemption in one convenient package. The way his eyes stared at her from beneath his pronounced brow made Valentina feel as though he were making the same offer to her.
She couldn’t be outrightly dismissive of Grigori Rasputin—it would damage her position with the Tsarina irrevocably—but she shifted her gaze away slightly, and hoped to hear his footsteps retreating. A moment later they did, weighted sounds that expressed ownership over the palace room, and she let out a long breath through her nostrils so the Tsarina wouldn’t detect it. There was a heaviness in the air around the monk, an oppression so tangible she wondered how the imperial family didn’t feel it.
Valentina forced herself to smile at the Empress. ‘Might I ask who is joining us, Your Imperial Majesty?’
‘Of course. We have the pleasure of Maxim Sergeivich Ilyn’s company today. Perhaps you have heard of him? He is an art critic for the Novoe Vremya newspaper, and a personal favourite of Grigori Rasputin’s.’
Valentina had heard of Maxim Sergeivich. The son of a famous painter, he had moved from Moscow to Petrograd a few years ago and quickly made a name for himself with his exacting standards and razor-sharp takedowns. He was reportedly rich, educated and very well connected.
‘I know of him, Your Imperial Majesty. I hear his taste in art is immaculate. I’m sure we are lucky to have him join us today, especially if he comes recommended by Grigori Rasputin whose own tastes are unsurpassable.’
‘You should thank Dimitri Mikhailovich,’ the Tsarina said. ‘Maxim Sergeivich has long admired your dancing, and when Dimitri Mikhailovich heard this he begged Grigori Rasputin’s assistance in arranging a meeting.’
Valentina glanced in surprise at the man who had been her protector since she was eighteen, with whom she had shared not just a bed but all his thoughts and dreams. Or so she had thought. ‘Well … thank you, Dimitri,’ she said, unable to think what else to say. She stared at him, wordlessly asking why he hadn’t confided in her this sudden expansion of his vast network of svyasi. Yet her protector was studiously avoiding her gaze.
The Tsarina was a
lready greeting her new guest, who had walked in with such silent footsteps he could almost have been a dancer himself. Valentina turned to face them, noticing the Empress stayed seated this time.
‘Maxim Sergeivich, welcome. I’d like to introduce Dimitri Mikhailovich, although I believe you’ve met before. And this is one of our imperial dancers, the ballerina Valentina Fedorovna Yershova.’
Valentina stretched out her hand to greet the dark-featured man standing before her. He was tall, slim but well built, and his starched collar and tailored jacket were of an expensive cut and cloth, giving him the aura of being accustomed to money that Valentina always found so alluring. When he took her hand she noticed that his was fine-boned, not fleshy like Dimitri’s paws. But his grip had an undercurrent of strength, as though here was a man whose slender build shouldn’t be mistaken for weakness.
When he smiled at her, his eyes ran down her body then up. It was a more subtle gesture than Rasputin’s open stare, but its intent was the same. Valentina’s innards shivered. It was suddenly clear to her why this man had been invited, and why she hadn’t been told about it. She was being traded to him.
‘It is an unparalleled pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle Yershova,’ Maxim said. He spoke in English, the Tsarina’s preferred language. ‘I’ve seen you dance at the Mariinsky many times.’
‘Thank you. I hope it was an enjoyable experience for you.’
Valentina felt an ugly flush creeping up her neck, and swallowed twice, trying to force it down. Her lips curved into a polite smile, but her mind was unable to move past the realisation that this meeting had nothing to do with the Tsarina recognising her achievement in gaining the Good Fairy role. That had merely been an excuse created by Dimitri, Grigori Rasputin and this Maxim Ilyn. And the role itself had probably come to her because of Dimitri—he had used his influence to bring about this moment without Valentina becoming suspicious or alert. Her pride was wounded: for falling for the ruse, and even more so for having believed she had taken a step towards the promotion she so longed for.
