‘Alicky?’ Ducky groaned. ‘She made a poor enough Tsarina before Alexei’s birth. Why, being so naturally antisocial and disliking mixing with anyone but close family, she thought she could make a good job of being Tsarina, I can’t imagine. Now, with Alexei a victim of the family bleeding disease, things have gone from bad to worse. She is rarely seen – and neither, of course, is Alexei. Her entire life is bound up with caring for him and living the lie that there is nothing seriously wrong with him. The outside world no longer has any meaning for her. If people were to know the reason for it, they would, I think, have some sympathy, but they don’t know and so the sympathy is nil.’
She took a deep drink of her champagne and said, suddenly no longer full of joie de vivre, but deathly serious, ‘As doctors can offer Alexei no relief from the pain he suffers whenever he has an internal haemorrhage, she has turned to religion in the hope of a cure and, tragically for Russia, religion has come in the form of a so-called holy monk, Father Grigory Yefimovich Rasputin. According to Alicky, he can bring the bleeding to a halt and, whether he can or can’t, Alicky believes he can, so Rasputin has become part and parcel of life at Tsarskoe Selo – and part and parcel of every brothel in St Petersburg as well, if what is said about him is true.’
She took a Fabergé cigarette case out of her handbag and, after they had lit-up gold-tipped Sobranies, said, ‘Now who shall we talk about next? Saint Ella or Sinner Missy?’
‘Ella. I used to be very close to her, but we lost touch almost completely after she married Sergei.’
‘As did nearly everyone else. Sergei was a mystery I think only Ella ever really understood. Did you know his head was found days after the explosion, on a nearby roof?’
May gasped and Ducky said apologetically, ‘Clearly you didn’t. Would you like a brandy?’
‘No.’ May’s voice was unsteady. ‘Has Ella really become a nun, or has she simply moved out of the palace and into a convent? I’ve heard so many bizarre stories I don’t know what is true and what is rumour.’
‘Then I’ll tell you what is true.’ Ducky waited while a waiter refilled their glasses before saying, ‘Within days of Sergei’s death, Ella began getting rid of all her worldly goods – which, let’s face it, were considerable. Then she began spending all her time caring for the poor and the sick. Up to that point the family simply thought she was in shock and would begin acting normally again, given time. It was only when she began divvying up her Romanov jewels that alarm bells began ringing.’
She gave a despairing lift of her shoulders and elegantly blew a thread of blue smoke into the air. ‘Then she bought land, built an orphanage, a hospital for the poor and a convent that she named the House of Mary and Martha. When the Church granted the convent official recognition, Ella took vows of poverty, chastity and obedience, created herself Abbess of the Order and has worn nothing but a rather fetching pearl-grey habit and wimple ever since. The people regard her as a saint. The family think she’s barking mad, but then perhaps religious madness lurks in her bloodline. Little sister Alicky is proving to be just as barmy, when it comes to religious fanaticism.’
‘No one could accuse Vicky, Irène and Ernie of religious fanaticism.’
‘That’s true and, as siblings, they are all still very close. All three of them regularly visit Tsarskoe Selo and, when they do, Vicky and Irène always stay at the far side of the imperial park with Kyril and me. Ernie visits Alicky as well, but when he does, he doesn’t cross the park and visit me. A husband visiting an ex-wife would be seen as very bad form. Kyril puts up with a lot, but even for Kyril that would be a step too far.’
‘And then who should walk in on us but Margaret, Kyril and Thaddeus!’ May said later to George, when she was back at Marlborough House. ‘I do so wish you had been there to meet Thaddeus, George. He was born in Ireland and we had what he calls “great crack” together – meaning much fun and laughter – before we all said goodbye to each other.’
‘I’m glad you and Margaret had a splendid three-day jaunt, but I’d prefer it if you didn’t have another one for quite a while, May. I miss you when you’re not here.’
It was rare that George put his feelings into words. In all the years of their marriage there had only been a few occasions when he had told her that he loved her, although it was obvious to her that he did.
‘And when I’m away from you, I miss you,’ she said truthfully. ‘But I did so want to see Thaddeus’s Paris exhibition, and you know how you hate being dragged around an art gallery.’
‘God, yes.’ George shuddered. ‘I don’t know which I would have hated more. The gallery or finding myself in France.’
She fought down the desire to say that if in the past he had troubled to learn French, then visits to France would be much more pleasurable for him. From the day they had married, she had always been careful not to remind him of how inadequate his education had been, and to constantly remind herself of all George’s good qualities. Basic decency was one of them; dogged steadfastness another. As Prince of Wales, he didn’t have many official duties, but those that he had he performed with painstaking care. Also, and unlike his father, he was a reassuringly faithful husband.
That he was so mattered to her, for something rather wonderful had happened between them, when they had been six years into their marriage. George had been performing his marital duty – something he was rather keen on – and May had been wondering how long it would be before he collapsed with perspiration from his efforts, when she had begun experiencing the most bizarre, pleasurable sensations. They had grown and grown until she had lost all control of herself and had given herself up to the most indescribable, all-engulfing pleasure.
‘Well, May,’ he had said minutes later, pushing himself up on his elbows and looking down at her with great satisfaction, ‘that was a turn-up for the books.’
‘Yes, George,’ she had said, blushing rosily. ‘It was rather, wasn’t it?’
A week after May’s return from Paris, the King cut short a holiday he had been enjoying in Biarritz with his long-standing mistress, Mrs George Keppel. For a long time he had been suffering from frighteningly severe bronchial attacks and breathing difficulties.
‘But this one is by far the worst,’ an anxious George said to May, after having visited his father who had taken to his bed in Buckingham Palace. ‘Motherdear has informed Maud, and Maud and Carl are already on their way to London.’
Over the next few days the King’s breathing difficulties became worse, not better, and other members of the family began congregating at the palace. Looloo and Fife travelled down from Scotland with both of their daughters. Irène and Heinrich arrived from Germany with one of their two sons. Vicky and Louis arrived from the Isle of Wight. Lenchen and Christian visited daily from Kew. Louise returned from a visit to Nice. Russian Aunt Marie came all the way from Coburg. Marie-Louise came and, signalling how serious Bertie’s condition was, so did the Archbishop of Canterbury, Book of Common Prayer in hand.
On 6 May, sitting by his father’s bedside, desperately wanting him to take a turn for the better, George said, ‘I have some news that will please you, Papa. Your horse, Witch of the Air, has won at Kempton Park.’
Bertie’s bulky figure was propped up on a mountain of pillows and he attempted a cackle of pleased laughter, and then began gasping for breath. Doctor Laking, who had been his doctor for more than a decade, held an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth.
When he removed it and Bertie was again wheezily breathing unaided, Alix took Laking to one side and said in a low voice, ‘Please tell me when the end is near, for there is someone not here whom I know my husband would like to see before he dies.’
‘Then in my estimation, Ma’am,’ Laking said gently, ‘the person in question should be contacted immediately.’
Ashen-faced, Alix turned to Louis of Battenberg. ‘Would you please send for Mrs Keppel, Louis.’
And then in explanation, to a stunned-looking George, ‘It is the last th
ing I can do that will make your dear papa happy. He will want to say goodbye to her.’
On Alice Keppel’s arrival at the palace, everyone other than Alix left the bedroom, heading for the nearest drawing room or smoking room.
Aware of how close to a breakdown George was, May said, ‘I think the library is the best place for us, George.’
Once in its blessed privacy, he held onto her like a drowning man holding onto a rock. When he could finally trust himself to speak, he said, ‘I’ve lived every day since dear Eddy’s death dreading the moment when I would not only lose the best father there ever was, but would become King. Now that hideous moment can only be days – possibly hours – away.’ He held her even tighter. ‘But when it happens, the burden won’t be mine alone, will it, darling May? You will be here to be my strength and comfort?’
‘I will always be that, George.’ It was a promise as solemn as a vow. ‘And when the moment you so dread arrives,’ she said firmly and with great conviction, ‘you will, I know, handle it superbly. No tears. Tears can come later, when we are on our own. At the moment of kingship you must be in full command of yourself.’
He nodded, knowing that he would never be able to manage without her and that, thank goodness, he would never have to, for she would always be at his side as his queen.
A thought so glaringly obvious that he couldn’t imagine why it had never occurred to him before was: what would May’s title be then? It couldn’t be Queen May. May was her family pet name. And it couldn’t be her first Christian name, because that was Victoria, and as Granny Queen had only been dead for nine years, for May to become known as Queen Victoria would be highly insensitive and unpopular. It would have to be one of her other Christian names, and he couldn’t for the life of him remember what they were.
‘What Christian names do you have, other than Victoria, May?’
‘Mary Augusta Louise Olga Pauline Claudine Agnes. But why on earth?’
‘Because the instant I become King, you will become Queen and you will have to have a name, and for obvious reasons it can’t be Victoria.’
‘I always sign letters and official papers as Victoria Mary. Surely Victoria Mary wouldn’t cause offence? It is how I have always assumed I would be known.’
George frowned. He didn’t care for double-barrelled names, and he didn’t much care for the thought of her second name becoming the name she would be known by. The last queen called Mary had been nicknamed ‘Bloody Mary’, for her habit of having Protestants burned at the stake. It had been four hundred years ago, but Englishmen had long memories.
Mentally he went through the other options. Augusta was too old-fashioned. Queen Louise might work – or might have, if Aunt Louise’s reputation with men wasn’t so well known. Olga was far too Russian. Pauline wasn’t stately enough. Claudine was too French. And a Queen Agnes would quickly become known as Queen Aggie.
By a process of elimination he was back to Mary, a name that did at least have the benefit of being straightforward and one it was impossible to shorten.
‘Mary,’ he said, anxious to get back to his father’s bedside, Mrs Keppel or no Mrs Keppel. ‘You will be known as Queen Mary, May.’
And sixteen hours after his father had died peacefully in his sleep, and when, at the Court of St James’s, George had officially been proclaimed King George V, May, for the first time, answered to her new title of Queen Mary.
Born a Serene Highness not royal enough even to have been marriageable until Queen Victoria had come to her rescue, it was a very sweet moment. As a very old lady, she remembered it as being the sweetest moment of her life, for in becoming a queen and an empress she knew, without any apprehension or uncertainty, that she was fulfilling what had long been her destiny – and she was determined to be the most regal queen and the most imperial empress England and India had ever had.
Chapter Thirty-Six
SEPTEMBER 1912, ALEXANDER PALACE, TSARSKOE SELO
Alicky looked at herself in the gold-framed mirror hanging in her mauve boudoir. Although she was now forty, her willow-slim figure, superb bone structure, the English-rose complex-ion she had inherited from her mother and her gloriously thick red-gold hair ensured that, even in maturity, she was still beautiful, but it was beauty without radiance. How could she ever look or feel radiant, when she lived every hour of every day with such terrible fears and anxieties?
For seven years Russia had lived on the edge of full-scale revolution, but she couldn’t remember any time being as bad as it was now, for there was violence in every single corner of the country and assassination was an ever-present threat. She thought of what had happened to Sergei and was seized by a fear that was crippling in its intensity.
Making the situation a dozen times worse than it was already was her dear darling’s inability to be the kind of strong and forceful Tsar that his father had been. Nicky was too gentle, too kind. Desperately trying to do his best and never to hurt anyone’s feelings, he often made situations worse by dithering over decisions and then, having finally made one, changing his mind about it.
Her most overriding terror was that he would be assassinated. Exactly a year ago, and while Nicky was at the Kiev Opera House, his Prime Minister, who had also been attending the performance, had been twice shot in the chest and had died as a result of his wounds.
On top of her ever-present terror that, despite all the security that permanently surrounded him, Nicky, too, would die at the hands of an assassin, there was the non-stop nervous strain of keeping Alexei safe from any falls, knocks or bumps that might result in a life-threatening bleeding episode.
He was now eight and, like any small boy of that age, Alexei loved to run and play, to have games of tag with his sisters and kick balls and ride a bike. And every time he did so, her heart was in her mouth. Two sailors were always on hand in case of any accidents, but if and when an accident happened, their usefulness was nil. All that could be done was for Alexei to be carried to bed and for the vigil to begin. Some bleeds were not as agonizing as others – although they still could end in death. The most crippling bleeds were when the blood flowed into a joint, and that joint became excruciatingly deformed. She then had to endure the agony of hearing Alexei shrieking, ‘Please, Mama. Please take the pain away. Please, Mama! Please!’
Night after night, week after week and month after month she had knelt on the cold stone of the chapel in the imperial park and prayed for the bleeding episodes to come to an end. They never had, but five years ago God had answered her prayers. He had sent her Father Grigory.
Father Grigory Yefimovich Rasputin had arrived in St Petersburg from Siberia, a self-styled starets, or holy man, who had the reputation of being a faith-healer. When Alexei had injured his leg while playing at bunny-hops, Alicky, in utter despair and remembering what she had heard of Father Grigory, had sent for him.
In his mid-thirties, tall and muscular with an unkempt beard, night-black hair hanging to his shoulders, ingrained dirt in his hands and nails, deep-set eyes of a disturbing intensity and wearing knee-high boots and the ankle-length coat of a peasant, he had been brought from St Petersburg to Tsarskoe Selo. Once in Alexei’s bedroom in the Alexander Palace, Father Grigory had shown not a flicker of awe or intimidation at finding himself in the presence of the Tsar and Tsarina of All the Russias, and had addressed them not as their Imperial Majesties, but as ‘Batyushka’ and ‘Matushka’ – Little Father and Little Mother. Then he had raised his hand, made the sign of the cross, knelt by the side of Alexei’s bed and begun to pray.
Throughout his long prayer Alexei’s whimpers of pain came less and less often, and then at last Father Grigory had risen to his feet. ‘Your pain is going away, my child,’ he had said in a hypnotically soothing voice. ‘You will soon be well. Thank the good God for healing you, and then sleep.’
That Alexei was able to do so was proof to Alicky that she hadn’t summoned Father Grigory in vain. Although it wasn’t until the next morning, when the hideous swelling s
howed every sign of reducing in size and there was no recurring pain, that she had known without a shadow of a doubt that Father Grigory had been sent to her by God.
Since then, both she and Nicky had come to regard Father Grigory as a miracle-worker they couldn’t do without. He alone was able to halt Alexei’s haemorrhages, and he did so with nothing more than his presence and his prayers.
To the doctors and blood specialists who had been in attendance on Alexei since he had first been diagnosed with haemophilia, there was no rational explanation for how the presence of the starets brought the bleeding to an end. With his filthy hands and dirty clothes, he was an affront to their profession and they labelled him a fraudster, accusing the holy man of being able to judge when an internal bleeding episode might end of its own volition and taking advantage of that moment.
Not knowing of the dreadful disease Alexei suffered from and that it was the reason for Rasputin’s presence at Tsarskoe Selo, Nicky’s family were equally outraged by his presence at the palace. For as well as having a reputation as a healer, Rasputin also had a reputation for depravity.
When Nicky’s ministers had come to Alicky with police reports detailing Rasputin’s visits to St Petersburg’s brothels, she had refused to believe them and then, over time, she had begun ignoring them. Not even the report of his having raped a nun could shake her faith in him, or her need of him. Only Rasputin could bring an end to the agonies Alexei suffered, and that he could accomplish that miracle and relieve Alexei’s suffering and keep him alive was all that mattered to her. Anything else she treated as wicked lies.
A human whirlwind burst into the room.
‘Mama! Mama! Aunt Ella has arrived and, when the two of you have finished talking, can I show her the new puppies?’ Alicky’s eleven-year-old daughter Anastasia threw her arms around her mother’s waist. ‘Please do say I can, for perhaps she would like to take one of them back to Moscow with her?’
The Summer Queen Page 37
