Empress of the Night (48 page)

For a moment, the world stops, and then twirls madly, in some incomprehensible romp. Blood rises to her brain. Tiny bells ring in her ears, a whole distant chorus of them.

“It happened,” she hears Morkov’s voice, “on Platon Alexandrovich’s insistence. To avoid the unnecessary arguments, he said. He assured us that Your Highness approved. Only when we noticed that the clause was missing …”

Her heart thrashes like a cornered beast. She has the urge to tear off the
robe ronde
, the stomacher, free herself from stays, the chemise. Morkov’s words fade and surge. “Platon Alexandrovich ordered … Platon Alexandrovich demanded …” With a courtier’s sixth sense, he has already gauged the true depth of her rage and is on the lookout for spoils. One courtier is down, another can climb up. The more unexpected a fall, the sweeter.

The thought crackles, bright like lightning, jolting her back into control. She has made a mistake. Not the first one, and not the last. A mistake that she needs to correct the best she can.

Her heart is slowing. She must be looking calmer, for she can discern growing disappointment in Morkov’s eyes. Whatever he was hoping for no longer seems as certain.

“Write down what I tell you,” she orders, and dictates to Morkov a short paragraph of intent.
I … Gustavus Adolfus … formally promise … assure for my future wife … the complete freedom of worship …

“Go back to the King,” she tells the Count. “Get him to sign this for now. Tell him we’ll work out the exact wording of the contract after the betrothal.”

This is a compromise. She is not happy with it, but she has no choice. Le Noiraud has been foolish, to say the least, but the Empress is also annoyed at the Swedish King. A puppy baring his milk teeth. She has been clear enough in her wishes, hasn’t she? What is he truly objecting to? Is he hoping he can corner her with his sulking?

In the antechamber, Maria Fyodorovna is telling Alexandrine to hold herself straight. A bit too late for motherly admonitions, but her daughter-in-law has always been slow.

They all come in. Her granddaughters and their mother, a cluster of excitement and expectations. Hands wave, handkerchiefs wick away tears.

Alexandrine shimmers in a white satin gown, embroidered with silver butterflies fluttering over flowery twigs. A muslin fichu covers parts of her neck. By the end of September, she will be on her way to Stockholm.

“Graman!” the child cries, throwing her arms around her grandmother’s neck.

“Let me look at you,” she says.

Alexandrine lets her hands drop and swirls to show the graceful sweep of her gown. “Chin up,” Yelena whispers, and her sister obeys.

“Remember what to do after the blessing, Alexandrine?” Maria Fyodorovna asks. “Remember to count to six before you make another step?” They have been rehearsing the lines and movements all morning,
but it is one thing to practice and another to remember everything when the whole court is watching.

Alexandrine rolls her eyes and smiles. Of course she knows. A few days only and the child has grown.

There will be an official blessing with the Holy Icon of Our Lady of Kazan right after the betrothal, but now there is still time for a few private moments. First of all, she, the Empress, announces her wish to adorn her granddaughter with a proper gift of jewels.

One of the pages brings the jewels on a plump, velvet cushion. An amethyst necklace, matching earrings, and a clasp for Alexandrine’s hair, which the hairdresser has loosely pinned up, leaving golden ringlets on the nape of her neck.

She places the necklace around her granddaughter’s throat. The purple stones are set in white gold and framed with diamonds. Her hands must be trembling slightly, for she fumbles with the clasp.

“He’ll faint when he sees you,” she whispers in her granddaughter’s ear. “But don’t tell this to your maman.”

Alexandrine giggles, her cheeks crimson. How young eyes glitter, even without belladonna! How precious youth is. And how brief.

Doors open again to admit the rest of the Romanovs, who flow in with cheerful smiles. Three generations of the Imperial Family. Her son and his wife, her grandsons with theirs, and her granddaughters. Even baby Nicholas is here, bundled up, asleep in the wet nurse’s arms.

Reverences are paid. Compliments exchanged. The imperial gown is declared exquisite; the ivory satin is of the most luxurious sheen, the embroidery reminiscent of most ornate mosaics. “Your Majesty will outshine us all,” Elizabeth, Alexander’s wife, says with a gasp.

She, the Empress, gives Alexander a quick assessing glance. Bezborodko has told her that her grandson didn’t sleep much last night. Walked across his bedroom back and forth. Broke into a sob he tried to muffle. Wrote for a long time, then burned all the pages and scattered the ashes from his window. Alexander is hurting, but pain cannot always be avoided. It will pass. The decision he has made will make him stronger. He is still young, though. Still soft. She’ll have to be tender with him for now.

Maria Fyodorovna rushes to embrace Alexandrine and to admire the amethysts.

Paul clears his throat, then retrieves a folded page from his breast pocket. “Since there will be no time for it later,” he says.

Her son has prepared a speech, which he now reads with excruciating slowness. Alexandrine is admonished to be virtuous and faithful to her future husband, to defer to him in all matters. To remember her womanly duties, keep the purity of her thoughts and the chastity of her deeds.

Catherine wonders who has written it for him, for the words flow far too smoothly to be Paul’s. Maria Fyodorovna? It does have a touch of her gushing sentimentality.

Alexander embraces his sister and whispers something in her ear. She nods and hugs him back. Constantine pinches her cheek and makes her laugh. Yelena places a quick kiss on her sister’s lips. “I can’t believe you will really leave us,” she weeps. Maria asks if she could go to Stockholm, too. “Just until Christmas,” she says. “Graman … please … may I?”

“You?” Constantine teases. “You don’t even know how to curtsy!”

“I do!”

Paul has put his hands on Alexandrine’s shoulders and is repeating the same admonitions he has just read. “Remember, my dear daughter, a woman’s place.
Never
contradict your husband in anything.”

Even the tone of his voice annoys her.
How is it that there is nothing of me in him?
Catherine wonders, brushing away the memories of her husband’s grunts, the gropings of clammy hands, these few suffocating moments before his sweaty body would slide away from her. The queasy smell of bedsheets, stained with vodka and his stink, for Peter refused
banyas
with a vehemence that bordered on rage. “I won’t submit to these monstrous customs. You always do what these Russians want! You’ve become like them, Sophie! I won’t.”

Could Paul be Peter’s son after all? For he has none of Serge Saltykov’s looks. None of his seductive charm. Could it be that a child does not resemble either parent? Or were those rumors right? Did Elizabeth replace her baby with another? One of her own bastards, perhaps?

Paul finishes his admonishments and then makes a step toward her, then another. Does he know she is thinking of him? He must, for his skin reddens, his pug nose lifts in a pathetic attempt to make him look somewhat bigger. She should let him come up to her, exchange a few polite inquiries, but, suddenly, this is too much of an effort. It is so much
easier to talk to the young. It is their exuberance, their hopeful trust, that she craves now.

“I wish to speak with Alexandrine alone,” she says.

Paul hesitates. Before he can consider his next move, she takes Alexandrine’s hand in hers and leads her granddaughter away to her dressing room.

Alexandrine approaches the mirror, eager to admire her new jewels. “Such a beautiful hue, Graman,” she exclaims. But then she turns and asks with a childish lisp: “From where I sit, will I see the peacock clock?”

“You will. Why not let the maid rouge your cheeks,
cherie
?” she asks. The child’s face looks wan.

“This is how the Lord has meant me to look, Graman.”

“The Lord has meant you to look as pretty as you can, my silly girl,” she says and opens a box of rouge. “Just a tiny bit of color,” she continues as she dabs the rouge on Alexandrine’s smooth skin. “See,” she says, pointing at the reflection in the mirror. “So much better, isn’t it?”

The melting wax of the candles that light St. George’s Hall mingles with the heavy scents of perfume. It is an imposing hall, the ceiling supported by white, gray, pale red, and blue marble columns. The throne is elevated above the floor. She is wearing her crown, meticulously polished after Vishka spilled wax on it from her candle. A heavy ermine mantle is draped over her shoulders, a scepter is firm in her hand. Above her is a canopy with the two-headed Russian eagle; behind her a shield with her initials—C II, Catherine the Second, the Empress of All the Russias. Along the walls the Imperial Guards stand at attention, their blue coats faced with blood-red.

Lev Naryshkin is whispering something to the Austrian Ambassador, who nods vigorously, stifling a laugh.

Paul sits on her right, Alexander on her left. At her feet, on a low stool, is Alexandrine, her slender hands clasped. “Will you keep looking for Bolik, Graman?” the child has asked. “Even when I am in Stockholm?”

And yet angry thoughts hover, furious, distracting. Is there no one around her with any sense anymore? No one she can rely on with even
the simplest of tasks? “Do you not trust me even that much?” Le Noiraud wanted to know.

The betrothal ceremony will begin in a few minutes. The Archbishop will deliver his blessing. She will make her speech, the parents will bless the young couple, and then—finally—much-awaited respite. As soon as the reception begins, she’ll ask Bezborodko to take over the negotiations. She wants no more delays, no more surprises.

The peacock clock begins to move. At her feet, Alexandrine leans forward for a better look.

What a child she still is
, Catherine thinks, but then she, too, gets ensnared in the spectacle.

First the little bells on the owl’s cage sound their warning. Then the owl, the golden peacock, and the cockerel begin their solemn dances. The bird of wisdom, the bird of unity between what is and what has perished, and the bird of resurrection. “You’ll always think of me when you look at it,” Grishenka said when he first showed her the clock fifteen years ago. Grinning with pride, a magician displaying his newest illusion. Only he is no longer here and no magic can bring him back.

The birds freeze when their dance is finished.

It is seven o’clock.

On her right, Paul is thrusting his chest forward, drawing the air through his nostrils with a faint whistling sound. Her son, who still thinks himself her heir. Those who aspire to the throne should struggle for it among themselves first. In the animal kingdom, the young fight for their place. The mother has only that much milk in her teats. The strongest are the ones to live.

She doesn’t think it cruel. It is part of nature. It serves a purpose. She has made these calculations before and she knows the pitfalls of easy mercy. The happiness of the greatest number is what matters in the end.

Time thickens, becomes heavy. At her feet, the child closes her eyes. Alexandrine, her sweet Princess, motionless, as if waiting were a game of hide-and-seek and she had already found her place and was determined not to move. How will she survive in a foreign court? Still unaware that innocence flies in the face of nature’s laws. It spells submission. It spells weakness.

The blessing she, her grandmother, has prepared is short but elegant.
May you always be safe and true to the virtues of your upbringing. For you are our beloved child, the ray of sunshine in this house, our joy and our hope
.

The Swedish King has still not arrived. Neither has Le Noiraud. How long does it take to scribble a few signatures?

The ceremony, once it begins, will be tedious and long. Two hours, if she adds all the necessary toasts, speeches, and congratulations. The stomacher is still too tight, in spite of the seamstress’s efforts. It digs into her body. There will be red welts when she finally removes it. The weight of the scepter makes her elbow sink into the arm of the throne. And she can feel the spot where the hairdresser clumsily burnt her scalp with the curling iron.

Alexandrine and Alexander exchange glances. Alexandrine flashes her brother a shy smile. Her first granddaughter to be married. Two more to go. Thank goodness Nicholas is a boy.

Prince Adam, Bezborodko has told her, has dispatched a letter to his father, granting old Prince Czartoryski full powers of attorney over the family estate, to be administered as he sees fit until his death.

The doors should open any moment now.

To break the boredom of waiting, Lev Naryshkin amuses everyone with his antics.

“If I were a princess who is about to go to Sweden, I would take with me a fox stole, a bear blanket, a pelisse, a snuffbox, a carriage wheel, a bucket of water, a cat, a fish.”

Even Alexandrine chuckles.

“Why a fish?”

“To have something in the bucket.”

“But why a fish in the bucket?”

“To take it out of the water and then put it back in again.”

“But why?”

“To remember what the water is for.”

Alexander twists in his seat, as if trying to catch a glimpse of someone. Dolgoruka with her wild Tartar eyes? Or Golovin’s big-breasted daughter? He is not looking at his wife much these days. There are remedies for that, but one should not suggest them too early. Monsieur Alexander will make his own discoveries, learn what is worth the effort and what could be endured. Queenie is right. Elizabeth should’ve given Alexander
a son by now. She wouldn’t cling to her husband so much if she had a baby to think about.

“What is taking them so long?” Paul asks, snorting like a sow.

“Are you in such a hurry?” Catherine snaps, but instantly regrets the sharpness of her words, for Alexandrine hunches her shoulders as if readying herself for a blow.