The Last Days of the Romanov Dancers

by Kerri Turner

  Mathilde went through an open door halfway along the carriage, and after a nod of encouragement from the porter, Luka followed her in. It was a two-sleeper cabin, not yet set up for the night. Mathilde sat on one of the long padded seats that would later become a bed and pulled a light rug threaded with gold around her. Propped behind her back were cushions embroidered with her monogram, and on the seat opposite was a large cushion with little white hairs clinging to it. Silver dishes for Djibi—one full of water, the other empty—stood on a small fringed rug on the floor. Gauzy material hung at the windows, allowing in a thin veneer of sunlight, and the cabin had been scented with jasmine perfume.

  ‘Come into my private cabin—although you’ll have noticed the whole carriage is private.’ Mathilde laughed, as though it was some great joke, and kicked off her shoes to replace them with slippers. The toes Luka glimpsed under the hem of her long skirts were hard with calluses. ‘I detest noisy carriages when I’m forced to travel, so I booked this entire one for myself, Denisov there, plus my housekeeper, and her two lovely daughters you’ll have seen on your way in. And my Vova, of course.’ Mathilde tilted her head to the doorway, where the loud complaints of her son could be heard.

  Vova was around the same age as the boy who had challenged Luka outside his own sleeper, but the difference between the two could not have been more pronounced.

  ‘Now sit and tell me your name, young man.’

  Tentatively Luka perched on the edge of the seat across from Mathilde, their knees close to touching. She was fiddling with a pale pink cardboard box, and when she held it out to him the scent of sugar mingled with the artificial jasmine in the air. Luka took a piece of the hard candy, remembering as he unwrapped it the women in his neighbourhood who had worked in the candy factories. Their children had never complained of boredom; the ones too young to work in the factories had packed snow around the fingers of their mothers at the end of each day, watching the white turn pink with blood before it melted. He popped the sweet in his mouth, but barely tasted it. He was becoming more uncomfortable with every passing second. This woman was as close as one could get to the imperial family without actually speaking to a Romanov. She was the Tsar’s former lover, current lover to two Grand Dukes, and mother to a boy who might have borne the name Romanov if Mathilde hadn’t been so fond of fostering the mystery of who might be his father. Perhaps it would have been better to stay in his own carriage with the angry, grieving family.

  Mathilde sat back, resting her chin on slim white fingers that sparkled with gems, and regarded him with satisfaction. The effect of her eyes shining at him through thick dark lashes made Luka want to shrink away. For the first time he understood why men were so drawn to her. It was the power of that gaze, and the knowingness within that was almost obscene.

  ‘You know, I thought this trip to dance at a charity benefit with the Bolshoi Ballet would be unbearably dull. But I believe you, young Luka Zhirkov of the corps de ballet, are about to make it more interesting.’

  Thankfully, Mathilde did most of the talking. She peppered him with questions about how long he’d been with the ballet, laughing when she realised they had attended the same class of perfection for months. She showed a great deal of curiosity about his casting as Puss in Boots, musing that she remembered watching his dancing from her position onstage. All the time, sweet mouthfuls of food came and went, carried by the silent Denisov, and Luka tried to think of a way to excuse himself and return to his sleeper.

  ‘I believe I like you, Luka Zhirkov,’ Mathilde eventually said. She seemed satisfied with this conclusion. Luka had no idea how to respond. He wasn’t sure he could return the compliment.

  ‘When the season commences, you must come for a weekend at my country house. No—no arguments. Think it over, if you must, then come back to me with a yes.’ Mathilde leaned closer, cocking her head in a conspiratorial manner. ‘You know, I only invite other dancers to my dacha when I’m sure they have a great future ahead of them. Or I find them too amusing a distraction to resist.’

  Luka didn’t know which he was supposed to be, and didn’t dare ask.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Autumn 1915

  Luka pressed his fingers to his eyelids, trying to stem the encroaching ache in his head. The weekend hadn’t even started yet and already he wanted to run back home. He stood at the gate that led into the lush gardens of Mathilde Kschessinska’s country house. A cool breeze tickled the back of his neck, and the taste of salt on his lips told him the ocean was nearby. He opened his eyes and squinted into the sunlight. A wooden turret rose against a backdrop of birch trees, their leaves turning gold. If he had a desire to do so, he could have crossed the small canal running behind the house and been in the grounds of the Konstantin Palace. But he would rather have been back in Moscow, loading carriages and trains with munitions, instead of embarking on this unasked-for weekend of luxury.

  He knew there was no point delaying any longer; sooner or later, he would have to go through that gate. Its hinges sighed as he opened it and stepped onto grass so thick it was a carpet beneath his shoes. Before he could close the gate, Mathilde’s dog appeared out of nowhere and zipped between his feet and onto the road.

  ‘Djibi!’ Mathilde, long ruffled skirt flying, came running from her dacha. ‘Bonjour,’ she panted as she reached Luka, speaking in French as always. ‘Excuse me for a moment—I just have to get Djibi.’

  Darting through the gate, she ran down the road to where the little dog was waiting for her, his stub of a tail wagging. Just as Mathilde reached him, the dog took off again, running another twenty or so steps before stopping to wag his tail once more. Mathilde shook her finger at him, then crept closer, her delicate steps showing her ballet training. The dog tried to repeat his trick, but with a smooth glissade Mathilde caught him. Muttering in his ear, she walked back to where Luka was standing, strands of dark hair coming loose around the cabochon sapphires of her Fabergé diadem.

  ‘My apologies, Malysh. Djibi here is a naughty little boy and insists on making a bad hostess of me.’

  Luka started at the sound of Xenia’s nickname for him in the ballerina’s mouth. He wondered where she had heard it. She hadn’t known it when they’d spent those few hours together on the train.

  Mathilde closed the gate behind her with one pointed foot, then let the struggling dog bounce free of her arms. He promptly crashed through a bed of tulips, flattening them.

  ‘Come, please,’ she said. ‘My other guests are enjoying a drink inside. Just leave your bag by the gate. Denisov will collect it.’

  Luka dutifully placed his small bag on the grass. Djibi immediately came to give it a sniff. Mathilde clapped her hands to chase the dog off, then beckoned for Luka to follow her to the house.

  ‘There are other guests joining us?’ he asked, relieved at the news.

  ‘Yes, a larger party is always better, don’t you think? Valya is one of my dearest friends, and I can’t go past any chance to indulge myself with her company. Especially now she has that charming man by her side.’

  Luka stumbled, and some speckled goats in a nearby paddock bleated as if they were laughing at him. ‘Do you mean Valentina Yershova?’

  Mathilde shook her head at the goats. ‘Ignore that lot. My pet goat is among them and he cries whenever he’s away from me. It only takes one bleat before the whole group chimes in.’ She turned her attention back to him, her bejewelled fingers twirling the curls around her face. ‘What did you say? Oh yes, Valya—have you met already?’ She didn’t give him time to answer. ‘It’s a large company and it can take some time to get to know everyone, what with new people joining and leaving every year.’

  Mathilde led him into her dacha. As they passed through two rooms, Luka attempted to take in his surrounds. But they were moving so fast all he saw was an impression of gilded frames, thick carpets and mosaic floors before he found himself in a room full of strangers.

  ‘Malysh is here!’ Mathilde announced, throwing her ar
ms wide.

  Luka cringed at being introduced by the nickname he’d thought private. He forced himself to stop fidgeting with his sleeve cuffs. His hands felt awkward dangling at his sides, but he didn’t know what else to do with them.

  Two gentlemen responded with polite nods, while a third, standing in a corner, simply raised an eyebrow. With cold unease, Luka saw it was the same man he’d asked directions of on his first day. The man whose presence made Valentina Yershova behave when she was working herself into a temper.

  Valentina herself was reclining in a gilded chair with padded seat and arms. She glanced at Luka, her cool eyes not registering any recognition before she averted them.

  ‘Malysh. What an interesting name,’ Valentina’s companion said. He took a sharp step towards Luka, then stopped, waiting for him to fill the rest of the gap between them. It felt like a challenge, one Luka wasn’t sure he wanted to take.

  ‘Actually, it’s Luka. Luka Vladimirovich Zhirkov,’ he said, staying where he was.

  Valentina’s eyes flitted towards the two of them, and this time they didn’t move away.

  ‘Everyone calls him Malysh, though,’ Mathilde said. ‘It’s a company nickname. Charming, don’t you think?’

  Luka couldn’t stop his eyebrows from rising. He caught the man’s smirk before Mathilde darted out of the room to search for her housekeeper. Dislike rose in him, but he told himself to ignore it. He was just unsettled by the unfamiliar setting and company, and the shock of seeing the man he’d accidentally annoyed so long ago.

  ‘A man who mistakes me for a dancer and carries the name of a baby.’ The man cocked his head to one side, fingertips brushing his thick moustache.

  Luka noticed his pink nails were perfectly trimmed; they’d probably never seen a day of real work. His dislike reared again, followed immediately by a sense of shame. Although Luka himself had been destined for the factories like his father, mother and brother, his acceptance into the Imperial Ballet School had meant he’d never set foot in one. Aside from his brief stint at the Union of Towns, he was no more a working man than this stranger. He was in no position to judge.

  ‘It’s rather an odd nickname, even if given affectionately,’ the man continued. ‘Wouldn’t you say, Malysh?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not the one who made it.’

  ‘No. You’re just on the receiving end.’

  ‘Maxim, my love, let the boy be. He doesn’t know your name, nor those of the rest of us, and you’re making fun of his pet name. You have him at an unfair disadvantage.’

  Both men turned to look at Valentina. During their exchange, she had stood up and moved to one of the long windows overlooking the garden, her back to them. Her voice was melodious with a gentle, enticing appeal, but the fact she had called him ‘boy’ stung Luka.

  Valentina turned and her dark hazel eyes met his. Luka remembered the time she’d helped him practise the Puss in Boots pas de deux. It had been a kind act from one who outranked him, but it had also made him uncomfortable. It had seemed wrong to put his hands on the waist and legs of the famous Valentina Yershova. Heat crept up his neck at the memory, a crawl he knew wouldn’t end until it had reached the very tips of his ears.

  ‘If no one else is going to do the introductions, I suppose I had better,’ Valentina murmured. Luka wondered if he detected a hint of displeasure in her tone, but her face didn’t show it. ‘Please meet His Serene Highness, the Grand Duke Sergei, and His Serene Highness, the Grand Duke Andrei.’

  The two men nodded at Luka. They were separated by the expanse of the room, yet inextricably joined by their bloodline and the woman they shared. Luka knew from gossip that it was rare for them to be in each other’s presence.

  ‘And the man who finds your name so amusing is Maxim Sergeivich Ilyn,’ Valentina said.

  Maxim didn’t acknowledge the introduction. Quiet settled over the room, and Luka once again felt the urge to fiddle with his sleeves. He took a deep breath and tried to appear unconcerned.

  ‘Before you came in, we were talking about the situation in Moscow,’ the Grand Duke Sergei said, breaking the silence. He had to be as old as Luka’s father, but instead of a persistent cough and a sour temperament, he sparkled with vitality. ‘Shameful business, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’ll all blow over soon enough.’ Mathilde’s voice preceded her into the room, removing the need for Luka to reply.

  Behind her came a woman with an aristocratic face carrying a glass of fizzing champagne on a silver tray. Luka took the glass, thanked the woman’s quickly retreating back, and sipped. The champagne was very different from the thick yeasty beer he favoured, and its bubbles were so light they tickled his nose.

  Mathilde threw herself onto one of the upholstered chairs. ‘What are Malysh’s thoughts on the matter? You were in Moscow, after all; you must have seen the protesters. Do you think Niemka should be exiled to a convent?’

  Luka flinched to hear the almost treasonous nickname in the mouth of one so close to the imperial family. Perhaps it was because the Tsar was away at the front that Mathilde spoke so boldly against their Regent. Or perhaps it was just a long-held jealousy for her rival.

  ‘I can’t say I know enough to have an opinion,’ he replied.

  ‘What a very delicate answer!’ Mathilde laughed. ‘Perhaps you’re a diplomat as well as a dancer?’

  Luka shook his head, denying the charge.

  ‘Unrest isn’t new to Russia.’ Valentina’s low voice cut through the room. She was seated again, and one arm dangled over the side of her chair, holding an upside-down empty champagne glass by its base. With her other hand she twisted the ends of her bobbed, honey-coloured hair. ‘I’ve been caught in the midst of it before. The revolution that happened in 1905 was far worse than these impassioned grumblings. All the country believed murder had been royally sanctioned, and the people answered with whispers of revolution. But it all went away in the end.’

  ‘That only settled because the Tsar agreed to create the Duma,’ Luka ventured.

  The new government had appeased the rage of the people after the imperial family had ordered their soldiers to fire on protesters who wanted better working conditions. Men like Luka’s father had never forgotten though, and they’d raised their sons to remember the shame of Bloody Sunday.

  ‘And we still have the Duma now,’ Maxim said, as if putting an end to the matter. ‘Not to mention Grigori Rasputin. With his divine powers we can hardly go wrong.’

  Luka hesitated, but the words on his lips wouldn’t be held back. ‘We weren’t given the government people thought, though. It wasn’t the one we were promised.’

  Maxim Sergeivich made a sound that was half-laugh, half-snort. ‘The people got exactly what it said in the peace treaty. If they were too stupid to understand what that meant, it’s hardly the fault of anyone but themselves. That’s what you get when dealing with muzhiki, though.’ Maxim looked Luka up and down and the inference was clear. ‘Peasant brains in peasant people.’

  The conversation turned stilted and dull after that, until Mathilde moved them into the garden. By then, the light had faded into the cool blue tones of an autumn evening, and she had decided such unseasonably fine weather meant the perfect opportunity to dine outside. Lanterns strung all around illuminated their faces, making their features seem soft and fuzzy. Or perhaps that was the Moët et Chandon Brut Impérial Luka had been drinking. The night was warm, and he could smell salty air drifting in from the sea. Mathilde owned a nearby beach and was planning to take them there for a picnic the following day.

  The table, brought up from her cellar, was decorated with a Limoges porcelain dinner service, and such an array of knives and forks that Luka fiddled with his lace napkin until the others had picked up their own so he could copy their choice. They dined on salted cucumbers, partridge, mushrooms in cream sauce, and tiny sausages. Forget-me-nots in Imperial Porcelain Manufactory vases stood between the plates, waving gently in the breeze. Piano music drifted from the
house, but was drowned out by the voices of the guests. Vova joined them for a while, stealing sips of champagne when he thought no one was watching, before one of the housekeeper’s daughters took him off to bed.

  ‘Superb dinner as always, mademoiselle,’ Maxim said, bowing his head towards their hostess.

  Mathilde smiled at him lazily. ‘You’d never expect less, not from me. Now, shall we play some poker? You know I never finish a night without a game of poker.’

  The guests laughed as if she had made some great joke. Luka opened his mouth to join in, but found he couldn’t muster any sound.

  ‘What about bridge?’ Maxim asked. He slipped a cigarette into a mother-of-pearl holder and lit it, leaning back in his chair. ‘I’m rather partial to bridge myself.’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Mathilde said. ‘I can’t abide the game. It’s poker, or baccarat if you prefer, but I won’t have bridge played at my dinner party.’

  The guests laughed drunkenly again, all but Maxim. His hand had frozen halfway to his mouth, and the smoke from his cigarette curled around his face in a way that made Luka think for a moment that it was coming from the man’s own ears and nostrils. Realising he was being watched, Maxim bared his teeth at Mathilde in an expression meant to be a smile. His voice when he spoke was brittle. ‘Of course. Poker we shall play, and I couldn’t be more pleased about it.’

  Luka thought he was poised to say more, but the group was interrupted by the woman who had brought Luka the glass of champagne when he’d first arrived: Mathilde’s dvornik. She had been on the train from Moscow that day, but hadn’t ventured out of her sleeper, leaving all the work to her daughters and the porter. She carried a chair with her now, which she squeezed in between Luka and the Grand Duke Sergei. She shifted her backside, making herself comfortable, then pulled out a packet of cards and looked at the group expectantly.

  ‘What is it tonight then? Poker or baccarat?’

  Laughing, Mathilde reached over to squeeze the woman’s hand. ‘You know me too well. We’re playing poker. Won’t your daughters join us?’