We joined the crowds of Persian-dressed guests streaming into the high-ceilinged entry space and followed the crowd up the red carpet, past the usual magnificent guards at attention in their gold-braided, black jackets. We’d visited Anichkov Palace many times with our parents to call on the tsar’s mother and it was always one of my favorites, more intimate than the tsar’s official residence that was just minutes away, the immense Winter Palace.
Though I was in no rush to speak with them, I knew most of the belaya kost there, the “white-boned,” the blue-blooded Russian families full of princes, dukes, counts, and barons that held most of Russia’s wealth.
We entered the ballroom through gilded doors thrown open to reveal a wide ballroom, the walls shining in turquoise silk. Tall mirrors reflected the guests’ brocades, silks, and beadwork lit entirely by flickering wax candles burning in the chandelier above. Great clusters of towering palms, flowering orange trees, and great blooming azalea gently swayed in the breeze of the open windows.
Eliza drew a quick breath. “Oh, Sofya. I’ve never seen such a place. The plants alone.”
“The gardeners use massive hoists to lift these in through the windows—all from the tsarina’s imperial greenhouse. You should see it, Eliza: three stories high, full of lilacs, her favorite. Before I went off to school, I practically lived there.”
At the far end of the room, the dowager empress, the tsar’s mother, and the tsarina sat on golden thrones, with a throng of guests already jockeying for position before them, lining up to pay respects.
In the corner sat bearded men in evening dress, a string quartet segueing with ease from our Russian hymn to Persian melodies. They would accompany the Persian ballet we would all dance later.
“Can you imagine growing up here?” I asked. “It’s the tsar’s childhood home.”
We walked toward the golden thrones, which were placed just far enough apart that the two women didn’t have to speak to each other. After years of competition between daughter-in-law and mother-in-law for the heart of the tsar, their rivalry was well-known but only whispered about. Their public personas were very different. The tsar’s mother, beloved by the people, was more open and gracious, fond of dancing, while the tsarina Alexandra remained terribly aloof and barely tolerated public events, preferring quiet pursuits and family time.
“I shall introduce you to the tsarina, but we must wait our turn,” I said, steering Eliza to the end of the line.
“I can’t imagine what we’ll talk about.”
I pulled Eliza close to whisper in her ear and the heron feathers of her turban brushed my cheek. How many poor birds died to outfit this one party?
“She’ll ask you questions, mostly about whether you have children. She has a buzzer under her foot that she presses when it’s time to move on and her ladies-in-waiting will lead you away.”
The line moved slowly and as the room filled with guests we grew warm and the fur costumes smelled of wet animal. As we inched closer in line toward the tsarina I caught a glimpse of her, wearing her usual bored expression, a blaze of diamonds at her chest. Did she realize her face betrayed every thought?
I recognized many of her ladies-in-waiting, for I’d once been one of them, well before Max was born. They hovered near the tsarina, dressed in their white muslin dresses, the empress’s diamond monogram chiffre, a glittering letter “A” for Alexandra on a blue ribbon, pinned at each woman’s left shoulder. Madame Wiroboff stood at the tsarina’s side, a round, self-effacing woman with sleepy eyes, the empress’s best friend.
Eliza leaned toward me. “The tsarina is beautiful. Though not at all happy.”
“She hates big parties. Much rather be reading.”
“Where is the tsar?”
“Down in Kracnoe-Celo. He has a full plate right now.”
How tense things had become for the royal family with all the strikes and unrest on top of a looming war. Rumors abounded that Tsar Nicholas, afraid for his life, had food tasters check his dinners and would not allow even his longtime valet to shave him for fear of assassination. Though a dedicated ruler, the tsar was not at all suited to the monarch’s life of high-pressure decisions. He was happiest in the country at his beloved Alexander Palace, with the tsarina and their five children, playing tennis or dominoes.
I felt a hand at my back and turned to find Grand Duchess Olga, the royal couple’s eldest daughter, flanked by two colossi in palace dress.
“Whose idea was it to dress in fur in July?” Olga asked in English, with a smile. Dressed in a white chiffon gown of the Grecian style and necklace of seed pearls, she was a natural beauty without even a trace of powder.
I curtseyed. “Cousin.”
Olga kissed me three times, alternating cheeks.
“Grand Duchess Olga Nikolaevna Romanova, may I present Mrs. Eliza Woolsey Mitchell Ferriday of New York?” I asked, using the full complement of Eliza’s names, in the Russian tradition.
Eliza curtseyed low and Olga nodded back. “So nice to meet you all the way from America.”
With her wide smile and candid, blue-eyed gaze, it was impossible not to be enchanted by Olga. For a woman of her regal position she remained remarkably down to earth.
“Did you come by rail?” Olga asked. “Such a long trip.”
“Yes, steamer and train. It flew by—Sofya and I talked the whole way.”
“I am terribly jealous of you having a bosom friend. What did you talk about, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Oh, our favorite paintings. Sofya’s dream garden and what she would plant. Which philosophers truly understand the female mind—which is none, we decided.”
“We graded the world’s best cities,” I said. “And, of course, we chose Paris as our favorite, for the best museums and the profiteroles.”
“May I say you and Sofya look remarkably alike?” Eliza asked.
I glanced at Olga, with her tipped-up nose and waved hair pulled up in a chignon. “That is what they say. Maybe a much older sister.”
Though I was several years older than Olga who was eighteen at the time, for distant cousins we shared many other similarities: the same height, round face, and almond-shaped eyes.
Olga smiled. “Of course, I didn’t get your glorious hair.”
She linked arms with me, drew me closer, releasing a sweet scent of orange blossom soap and cinnamon. “I’ve met a new officer,” she whispered. “He wants to call on me soon. Can you advocate for me with Mother?”
“Of course, my darling, but remember, men know you are sheltered for a reason. They like a challenge, so remain refined. And keep to your reading. Men may leave, but books will always remain true.”
The guards shifted in their boots and Olga released my arm. “Here it is I’ve found you and now have to go. Mother is nervous as a cat—there’s trouble at the factories.”
The guards rushed Olga off through the crowd and she called back to us. “Tatiana is getting a little dog, a French bulldog. You must visit when she comes.”
Olga exited through a side door and we continued in line, inching closer.
Eliza stood on her toes to better see the tsarina. “She surrounds herself with noblewomen. Does she greet the common people as well?”
“No. Only when they summer in the Crimea. Too dangerous to be out among the people here, with every vagrant about.”
A tall, red-haired woman hurried toward us through the crowd.
I leaned closer to Eliza. “Here comes Karina, cousin on my mother’s side.”
“Heavenly day, is everyone here related?”
“Karina was in prison for two years, been out for one year. I helped her return to society—she spends her days at my women’s home, completing her sentence with service to the country.”
As Karina grew closer, the bell sleeves of her white caftan fluttering behind her, she
seemed less like a criminal and more like a great, kind moth.
“Whatever for?”
“Her boyfriend, from a fine family himself, belonged to a secret society whose object it was to bring violence to subvert the state, to bring down the tsar.”
“Why would a nobleman want to hurt the tsar?”
“Not every person of wealth is a monarchist, Eliza. Many here oppose the tsar. Being young and silly, Karina had allowed her boyfriend to keep his printing press in her apartment. A gifted pianist, she played her piano loud enough every day to conceal the sound of the press in the back room.”
“How were they arrested?”
“An informant loyal to the tsar turned them in but only Karina was caught. Received a fifteen-year sentence.”
“The boyfriend escaped?”
“He has a talent for evading the authorities while others take the blame. She’s not seen him since, but holds out hope. They would’ve sent an ordinary girl to the mines but the tsar has always doted on Karina and he considered two years’ confinement enough. She’s not allowed to play the piano again. And is never to see Ilya again, either. Not sure which is worse for her.”
Karina made it to us and embraced me. “How good to see you, cousin. Welcome back to Russia. You look better for childbirth.”
She turned to Eliza. “I’m sure Sofya told you about my sordid past.”
“A bit.”
Karina smiled. Her skin glowed pink, almost translucent in the candlelight. Such an oddly beautiful girl and altogether different from me, taller and thin, with a glorious head of deep red hair. Hard to believe we were from the same family.
“My life so far is stranger than any novel, but I confess it’s good to be out.” Karina pulled me closer. “Ilya has sent word he will contact me.”
“You believe him?” I asked. “There are so many good men here tonight.”
“Of course I believe him. He may be reckless, but not a liar.”
“He always gets off free as a bird, Karina, while others—”
All at once there came a great commotion echoed in the front vestibule, of shouting and ladies’ screams. At the golden doors, a man in velvet palace dress appeared, held high a gun, and shouted, “Long live freedom!”
Eliza put her arms about me as the man shot his gun into the ceiling and plaster rained down on us both. The musicians stopped playing and stood.
I barely breathed as guards rushed the tsar’s mother and the tsarina out of their seats, their ladies-in-waiting following. Other guards wrestled the man to the ground, then hustled him away.
The crowd stood stunned, holding gentle conversation. A member of the palace guard turned on the monarchy?
The scent of gunpowder wafted through the air as waiters wandered the crowd with their silver trays, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the gunman. In seconds the string quartet resumed their song and the crowd huddled in groups to discuss the gunman’s assault, looking strangely out of place in their Persian clothes.
We lost Karina in the crowd and Afon rushed to us, his face pale against his deep blue uniform.
“I am taking Agnessa home,” he said. “She had to be revived with smelling salts. I only have room for the two of us.”
He hurried off, pushing through the crowd, with only a glance back at me.
“Will Peter know to come early to get us?” I called after him.
“I’ll be back as fast as I can,” he shouted back over his shoulder.
Soon, with the festive mood broken, guests started for the gilded doors and the musicians packed their instruments. Eliza and I joined the great crush of the crowd moving down the red-carpeted stairs, now muddy as the streets, wet with muck from Persian boots and shoes.
At the bottom of the stairs an American woman I recognized brushed by us through the crowd and I touched her arm. “Princess Cantacuzène.”
She turned, a tall, handsome woman with kind, expressive, dark eyes, beautifully turned-out in a deep emerald and gold coat trimmed in sable. An American by birth, her husband, Prince Mikhail Cantacuzène, was a decorated general in the tsar’s army and a regular at court.
“Sofya.” She took my hand in hers. “Just dreadful, that shooter. With all the tsarina has been through.”
We joined the crowd, spilling out into the rainy night. As one motorcar came and went, I searched the night for our coachman.
Princess Cantacuzène leaned closer and I caught the scent of jasmine and ylang-ylang. “I would drop you at home but our coach has not arrived, either. The roads are flooded.”
“We could take the tram,” Eliza said.
“Princess Cantacuzène, Countess Speransky Grant, may I introduce Eliza Woolsey Mitchell Ferriday of New York?”
“Lovely to meet you,” Eliza said. “Grant?”
“President Grant was my grandfather. Under better circumstances we will compare notes. But for now, I doubt any of us are getting home anytime soon.”
A friend of Agnessa’s, Count von Orloff, wedged his turbaned head into our little circle. A small, thin-faced man, he’d taken the Persian costume directive seriously. In his ostrich-feathered turban, embroidered, thick, velvet coat, and with kohl makeup lining his eyes, he could have been mistaken by an actual Persian as one of their own.
“The tram is the reliable way home,” the count said. “I hear the rain has closed two streets.”
“I never ride trams at night,” I said. “And besides, they cannot pass on flooded roads, either.”
The musicians rushed by us toward the tram stop, instruments in hand.
“Look, half the party is catching the tram,” the count said. “The rain will keep the hooligans away. Only a cat hates rain more than they do. And besides, I will protect you all.”
Princess Cantacuzène pulled me close. “The Cossacks are guarding these trams on the Nevsky.”
A bad feeling grew in my belly as we followed the crowd to the tram stop, but it was a short walk and the rain-slicked, red tram soon came along.
The conductor stepped down from the rear platform, a bearded man in a black, belted uniform tunic and pants and knee-high boots, with a leather bag slung over his shoulder. From his chest hung paper tickets of all colors for the different routes. He helped each of us up the single step into the tram and then pulled a rope, which rang a bell up front near the driver.
“Yellow tickets, next stop!” he called out as the car set off.
What a relief to make it onto the brightly lit car. The princess, Eliza, and I found room near the driver, who stood at a big red wheel. We sat on the long, slatted, wooden seats that ran lengthwise along the walls of the interior, and shook the rain from our clothes.
The princess handed the conductor sterling for our fares.
“You’re lucky,” the tram driver said to us over his shoulder. “This number four is still running all the way to the Neva. It’s my last run though. Things are bad outside the city.”
Halfway down the tram sat the cellist, an older man with a pronounced widow’s peak and sad eyes, his instrument clamped between his legs. He pulled from his pocket a bottle of the Arak from the party and passed it around the tram. The violinist, a younger man with graying hair, squeezed his violin chinpiece between neck and shoulder and played a rousing chorus of Katyusha, which had been my mother’s favorite.
Eliza clapped to the music and called out to me across the aisle, high color in her cheeks. “I have no idea what it means, but I feel so Russian.”
The Arak soothed my sore throat and we all sang. How it raised my spirits to hear everyone sing as one.
All at once the tram slowed.
In the glow of the headlights we could see a group of ten or so roughly dressed men blocking the way.
“Bandits,” I said, trying to keep the tremor from my voice.
The driver rang h
is jangly little bell, operated by a pedal at his foot, to warn the men, but they stood fast.
“God help us,” the driver said under his breath as he braked.
Eliza sat up straighter. “Button your coat, Sofya.”
Of course. Mother’s necklace. With trembling fingers, I pulled my coat up.
The music ended abruptly as we ground to a stop and the men surrounded the tram, peering in the wide windows.
A stout fellow wearing a wool fisherman’s cap pounded on the driver’s glass door. “Open up!” he called in Russian.
The driver brandished his radio. “I’ve called the police.”
The stout fellow laughed. All at once the glass door fell to pieces and he scrambled onto the tram, hammer in one hand, a jagged-edged knife in the other. He slipped the hammer into his jacket pocket and removed his cap to reveal a smooth, bald pate that shone in the electric lights overhead, a ring of tangled, mouse-brown hair around it like a furry halo.
He walked down the tram shoving his hat at the riders. “Contributions to my university fund. Don’t be shy.” Passengers eyed his knife as they removed earrings and bracelets and pocket watches and placed them with a muffled clink into the hat.
The bandit kicked Count von Orloff’s pointy-toed boot and the count retracted into his thick coat like a snail in its shell. People of good breeding, we awaited our fate in silence.
He moved on to the conductor and with the tip of his knife raised the flap of the leather bag. “Open that up, good fellow.”
“I have nothing yet. This is the first run.”
“I know you have change. It’s not your money. Just give it up and we’ll part friends.”
The conductor handed the bandit a stack of bills.
“And the sterling.”
The conductor reached into his bag and handed him the coins. “There was a time when people acted properly.”
The bandit added the money to his hat. “I’ll act as I want.”
He walked back to the front of the tram, stopped and considered me, his stance wide, head tipped to one side. Up close, it was hard not to notice one side of his face had been burned somehow, as if a pointed iron seared the flesh there and it healed ham-pink and shiny. I tried not to look at the dirty fish knife in his hand.
Lost Roses Page 3
