Curse Not the King (28 page)

But not only the Empress sensed his interest in the woman who had appeared before them all so briefly; another equally keen pair of eyes had observed it, and the man who had pandered to the need of the sick and lonely master of Gatchina by introducing Katya Nelidoff into his bed, now considered the problem of replacing her.

Koutaïssof's hopes of honour had been realized; in recognition of his many services, Paul had made him Master of the Wardrobe, a position carrying wealth and virtual control of the royal household.

While the Empress Consort journeyed back to Petersburg in the magnificent State coach, confident that the old order of domestic life at Petersburg would be resumed, Paul's former valet was certain that after that visit to Moscow the Nelidoff's reign could be ended with one decisive blow, and with her would crash the influence of the Empress and the uneasy truce concluded with her eldest son.

A new mistress was all the Gatchina faction needed in order to entrench itself in positions of unrivalled power, protected by a grateful Emperor. And should the influence of the woman selected to amuse Paul Petrovitch become too strong or deviate from the interests of her sponsors, why then she could be served as they meant to serve the Nelidoff.…

Koutaïssof was already wondering which fortress to recommend as suitable for her retirement, when the Guards escort rode into the streets of Petersburg.

Soon after her return to Petersburg, the Empress sent for the Grand Duke Alexander.

Whenever possible, Marie spent part of the afternoon with her son, and those few hours of his companionship were the happiest of her day. The great personality of Catherine no longer stood in the way of Alexander's friendship with his mother, and though in fact he felt neither affection nor respect for her, he was shrewd enough to see the wisdom of weaning her completely away from his father.

He knew that she loved him, and he exerted all his charm to flatter her vanity and increase her affection.

He went to her rooms regularly, stifling his yawns at her self-conscious attempts at erudition, discussed music and art with apparent enthusiasm, carefully concealing the superior knowledge of most subjects which the brilliant mind and advanced standards of education of his dead grandmother had ensured for him. With his fair head bent over some book and his cheek almost touching hers, Alexander humoured his mother and afterwards extracted much information from her.

That day they abandoned Marie's heavy-footed pursuit of culture to discuss Paul's ukase on the succession.

“But I thought you'd be pleased,” the Empress questioned, and Alexander shrugged slightly.

“Oh, Madame, how happy I'd be if only I believed it genuine!” he said sadly.

“But of course it's genuine,” she insisted and linked her plump hand through his arm. “Why else would he do it? Whatever his faults, your father's never been deceitful.… Besides, I'm always interceding for you, Alex. I never cease to tell him how obedient and loyal you are!”

He kissed her hand affectionately.

“I know that, Mother. But I'm afraid, and I can't help it. I don't believe he means me to succeed, I can't believe it! Every man in power around him is an enemy to me … Rastopchine, Araktchéief, the Chancellor Bezborodko.… But I don't like to worry you,” he whispered, hesitating, and the Empress bent and kissed his half-averted cheek, her heart breaking with love of him and fear for his safety.

“Tell me, my son,” she said in German, lapsing into that mother tongue which showed her to be still a stranger in the land her husband ruled. Understanding that spoken symbolism, Alexander answered her in her own and Catherine's native language.

“I've heard rumours that he means to have me arrested in due course and name Constantine in my place. It seems he hates me because the late Empress talked of passing the throne to me and excluding him. You know I would never have agreed to that!” he protested, and he lied with such vehemence that he surprised himself. “But since then he doesn't trust me … and you've seen what happens to those who fall under suspicion, Mother.”

Marie sat in silence, holding fast to her son. She stared over his head and frowned, fighting the terrible suspicions that he had aroused, and even as she struggled to refute her doubts, remembered the expression in her husband's eyes when they rested on the son she loved so dearly, remembered that queer vengeance which tormented Plato Zubov with the promise of friendship and forgiveness before it stripped him of all honour and sent him in exile across the world.

“What can we do, Alexander?” she whispered.

“I need a friend at Court to help me,” he said to her, his eyes averted, making the suggestion as casually as he dared.

“What friend … what for?”

“Someone who might counteract the influence of my enemies … a man my father might listen to, instead of them.…”

“Do you know such a person?” Marie questioned doubtfully.

“I've been trying to think,” he lied. “And I remember a certain nobleman who used to come to Court while the old Empress was alive. I liked him, Mother. He was very witty and amusing. I think my father might favour him if once he came to Petersburg. And I know he'd be a friend to me.…”

“Then who is he? I could try and send for him. If he really did ingratiate himself it would be invaluable.… Tell me the name, my dearest boy, and your mother will see what she can do.”

The Grand Duke rose and kissed her fondly before answering.

“He used to be Governor of Riga until he fell into disgrace for some slight fault which I've forgotten. His name is Count von Pahlen.…”

With Marie's assurance that she would secure a pardon and a summons to Petersburg for the Count, Alexander left her and hurried to his own apartments, for he felt the need to be alone.

It was a need that came upon him whenever he committed some wrong that even his pliable conscience would not excuse; and with the guilt of his action weighing on his soul, he knelt in his oratory and prayed for hours on end, until a condoning peace was granted him.

On that day he fell asleep before the golden ikon, worn out with a long repentant vigil, unable to admit even to his God that he had sent for the man he hoped would help him kill his father.

13

The State apartments in the Kremlin were being swept and aired, the priceless furniture and pictures cleaned, while an army of servants prepared the banqueting hall and the ballroom for a reception to which all Moscow had been invited.

They had talked of nothing else for weeks, consumed by curiosity and delight at the prospect of a royal visit out of season—until the inevitable rumour spread and gained ground. The rumour became almost an accepted fact when it was announced that the Empress Marie was remaining in Petersburg.

The Czar was coming to Moscow for reasons of his own, and all those who had seen Anna Petrovna Lapoukhine's presentation recalled it and decided that they knew precisely what his reasons were.

And for once, the gossips were correct in their assumption.

For months on end, whether engaged in governing his country or walking in the gardens with the subdued, silent Katya Nelidoff, the image of Anna Lapoukhine kept recurring in Paul's mind. For a long period he fought against it, reminding himself that immorality had never appealed to him, and then retreated in the face of his own argument as his restless senses stung him and renewed their clamour. It was too late, he insisted, disturbed by the discontent that possessed him; had she appeared at Court a second time, or come to Petersburg, he might have acted, but the promptings of his heart were only folly, dictated by imagination.

When he expressed these sentiments to Koutaïssof, the confidant smiled and shook his head.

It was never too late for the sovereign to have his will, he murmured, unconsciously echoing his master's thoughts on the night after his coronation. The Czar could command the lady to attend at Court … perhaps if he saw her, his longing might disappear. If it did not, why then it could be satisfied.

Paul listened, struggling against an overwhelming temptation to use his tremendous power and send the order out to Moscow, an order that no one would dare disobey. Then he frowned and shook his head. That was the tyrant's way, he answered, and it would not do to humiliate the Empress publicly.

But for these objections Koutaïssof had a ready answer. If the Czar went to Moscow, he suggested, he could see Mlle. Lapoukhine and make his choice. Provided that the Empress Marie stayed in Petersburg. With Mlle. Nelidoff, of course, he added quickly.

The next day couriers set out for Moscow, bringing the news of the Czar's visit, and carrying an invitation to the Senator Lapoukhine to attend with his family.

Anna Petrovna's angry prophecy had been fulfilled at last, but when they told her she was strangely silent. For once her spirited tongue refrained from comment, from expressions of hope or triumph. Instead she retired to her room, and shaken by some intuition of what her brief, momentous future held in store, she went upon her knees and prayed.

The Emperor's arrival was marked by a ball, and Paul, who loved uniform and despised elaborate costumes, dressed with unusual magnificence that night. Koutaïssof still attended him, performing the humble duties of valet, suggesting this choice of colour or that style of wig, watching his master with cunning eyes, divining the meaning of that dissatisfied, unhappy glance that always came to rest upon the mirrored reflection of an ugliness that no amount of jewels or lace could minimize.

What course would Paul's life have taken had he been born a handsome man, Koutaïssof wondered idly, a man that women could have loved and wanted for himself, instead of submitting to the lure of power and a great crown.

His mother had hated him for his resemblance to that other ugly man, the wretched Peter; his first wife had betrayed him, his second bore with him; and as for the Nelidoff … pah! Koutaïssof spat contemptuously. The shy, gentle creature, whose timid virginity had exerted a certain appeal, was now a sallow, downcast woman of forty years; the soft brown eyes were dim and red with frequent weeping and she clung to the good-natured toleration of the Empress to keep her near her lover. Her former lover, he amended, for he knew that for months past Paul had not gone to her bed.

But as he followed Paul into the ballroom he was well content, satisfied that the Nelidoff was about to be ruined and discarded, and that by providing his master with the object of his desire, yet more power and favour would accrue to him. Everything now depended on the cleverness of Anna Lapoukhine.

They saw each other at almost the same moment.

Paul's searching eager eyes rested on her where she stood, placed in a prominent position among the ladies of the Court, and immediately the blood rushed into his face. Even as he looked she turned and saw him, and her olive skin flushed with an emotion the twin of his own. Then she sank down in a curtsy, followed by the glittering ranks of women, and he passed down the ballroom, acknowledging his subjects, smiling and nodding to those particularly favoured, willing himself to continue to the end of the great floor, without turning and sending for her where she waited, feeling her eyes on his back as if their gaze were burning him.

Koutaïssof had talked of disappointment, and he himself had dreaded it, afraid that the woman in his mind was less beautiful and less dreadfully familiar than the creature of flesh and blood that he had only once beheld. But now that doubt was answered.

The likeness to Natalie Alexeievna was still there, but it was a shadow, strong enough to wound but not repel, and overlaid with a physical loveliness and a sensuous appeal so strong that it was almost tangible.

Deliberately he hesitated, sipping wine and talking perfunctorily to a group of dignitaries, while his hundreds of guests waited for his signal to begin the ball.

After some minutes he turned to a gentleman-in-waiting who stood near.

“Ask Mlle. Lapoukhine to come here.”

He saw her approaching without appearing to observe her and managed to drain his wine goblet and set it down carelessly before he turned and found her facing him.

She curtsied, and the flower simile recurred to him as on the first night that he saw her.

By this time the bloom was red. She wore a blood red Court gown scattered with some crimson stone, not rubies, he thought mechanically, and the wish to hang Catherine's gorgeous set of gems round that narrow, fragile throat hashed through his mind, as he acknowledged that his mother's favourite colour and therefore the one which most offended him, only enhanced the kneeling woman's beauty in his eyes.

“Mademoiselle, will you do me the honour of dancing with me?”

“The honour is mine, your Majesty.”

He made a movement and the orchestra in the gallery began to play the first bars of a minuet. The great ballroom floor was empty, the guests were waiting for the Czar to lead and open the ball with the lady on whom he thus bestowed an honour usually reserved for Princesses of royal blood. He bowed to her, bowed deeply and with a grace surprising in one so muscular, and she placed the tips of her fingers on his sleeve and followed him on to the wide, polished floor, aware that hundreds of eyes were fixed on them in curiosity and envy.

For all her self-assurance she was nervous, the hand holding his in the set figures of the dance was trembling slightly; the phrases of flattery and wit so carefully composed and painfully rehearsed in weeks of waiting now deserted her, and while they danced he too was silent. Only his eyes betrayed him, for they never left her face.

“My compliments, Mademoiselle,” he said gravely, “you dance excellently.”

“Thank you, Sire.”

Since she was fourteen years old, men had courted and complimented her and long before Paul's eyes beheld her Anna Lapoukhine had learnt the power and value of her own attractions.

No one had succeeded in subduing her spirits or possessing her body—for it suited her better to be no man's mistress and all men's desire—until a husband or protector of suitable means secured her favour.