Queen of Someday (19 page)

The bells ring out endlessly beginning at dawn. I’ve scarcely closed my eyes before my ladies come to rouse me from my bed.

Though Elizavetta is with them, I send her away, ordering her to go clean my shoes until they shine. It’s a petty command, but it keeps me from having to see her face. I’m nearly dressed when my valet announces a visitor.

“Lady Ekaterina,” he says to my surprise.

I nod and he waves her in. I cross over to her, taking her hands in mine. I dare not express my regret or sorrow, not with both the empress and my mother glaring at me suspiciously from across the room, so I pull her close and kiss each of her cheeks gently.

“I’m so glad you came,” I say honestly.

Tears swell in her eyes and she smiles, an unspoken forgiveness that I do not deserve.

I take a step back, really letting myself look at her for the first time in months. She’s pale, unnaturally so, and more slender than I remember. “Are you well?”

She frowns. “It’s a normal affliction, they tell me. I can’t seem to eat anything but broth and hard biscuits.”

“Well,” I take her hand and lead her over to the chair, motioning for her to sit, “that’s because you haven’t tried the wedding cake yet. The icing is made with strawberries and crème.”

She smiles weakly. “I will try it to be sure.”

“Do you know yet, is it a boy or a girl?” I ask curiously. “I can just see a tiny version of Alexander puttering around the palace, a tiny sword on one hand, a book of poems in the other.”

“Oh, it’s too soon to know for sure. I think though, that it might be a girl,” she says softly.

“There’s no shame in that,” Mother chimes in as she fiddles with her hair. “You can always use a girl to secure your fortune. But you must, of course, try for a son immediately. Only sons are of real value.”

I make a sour face that Mother cannot see, and Rina withholds a chuckle.

“We were thinking, if it is a girl,” Rina pauses, licking her lips, “that we might name her Sophie.”

I breathe out hard, and the maids use the opportunity to cinch up my corset more snugly than is comfortable.

“That would be lovely,” I say finally, once I am able to draw a small breath again. “I’m told you are leaving court?”

She nods, “As soon as it is safe for me to travel.”

I smile and hug her fiercely. “I hope you find so much joy.”

When I release her, there is a gleam of unshed tears in her eyes.

“And I, you.”

Once Rina takes her leave, the maids begin the tedious job of harnessing my panniers, the wide scaffolds that would hold my gown out across my hips. When they finally drape the gown over my head, I nearly collapse from the weight and Mother has to hold me upright. It’s stunning, all silver brocade with gossamer roses embroidered across the skirt that seem to shimmer as I move. The empress waves to a lady, who takes a measuring tape and wraps it around my waist.

“Seventeen inches,” she proclaims, and the empress nods in satisfaction.

I sit and they begin discussing how to fix my hair, what style would best hold the large crown upon my head. I catch a glimpse of it now, sitting on a red velvet pillow on the table. It’s tall, thick, and covered in diamonds. When the light hits it, it scatters into a million tiny rainbows across every surface of the room. I want to be impressed, dazzled, to feel anything at all. But I’m numb, as numb as I had been on our frozen journey through Russia, only now the bitter cold isn’t in my fingers and toes, but in my heart.

They decide not to powder my hair, preferring to leave it long and dark for the ceremony, adding only a slight curl and pinning it back from my face into a nest at the back of my head. The maids add the jewels, sparkling diamond raindrop earrings, bracelets, rings, and brooches. They add a little rouge to my cheeks and lips, and then I stand for my appraisal. I feel my legs shake, not from any measure of excitement, but from the sheer weight piled upon me.

The empress looks overjoyed. Lifting the crown off its pillow, she rests it upon my head. Then the maids hand her and my mother a long, silver lace train, which they affix to the shoulders of my gown.

At noon, Peter arrives in a suit made of the same fabric as my gown, and while the silver is lovely on me, it only pales him, giving his skin a sickly blue tint. He, too, is saturated in jewels—everything from the hilt of his sword to the tips of his pointy shoes is covered in diamonds. His face, normally so cheerful, is bland, as if he, too, is suffering from a lack of enthusiasm.

He doesn’t smile at me as he holds out his hand, which I take, and begins to follow the empress out of the room. As we weave through the halls and descend the stairs, others join us. I watch from the corner of my eye as we pass Rina and Alexander. They smile at me with sad eyes, but I do not respond. I cannot falter now, nor allow any momentary sliver of feeling to enter my thoughts. This is not my wedding, but my gauntlet, my trial by fire. If I survive today, then, perhaps, I can begin once more to seek out some small measure of happiness.

When we reach the doors, the trumpets sound, announcing the beginning of the royal wedding procession. The sound startles me just a little, and I twitch. Peter turns, looking at me for the first time, and winks quickly.

The empress leads us to the first of twenty-four dazzling white carriages, each pulled by eight white horses, which will carry us from the Winter Palace, down Nevisky Prospect, to the Cathedral of Our Lady of Kazan, where the ceremony will take place. As the empress steps into the massive carriage, I can’t help but notice the elaborate carvings etched into the sides. One, in particular, catches my eye. It’s a large, wooden horse standing outside a city gate. A depiction of the fall of Troy—the last stand of Helen and her beloved Paris.

How fitting.

When we reach the cathedral, those behind us depart first, leaving us to wait as they fill their seats. When we finally enter through the massive, ivory pillars, all I can see is a sea of jeweled icons, flickering candles, and puffs of smoke from burning frankincense. All around me are faces, some familiar, some foreign, and all eyes are fixed to my face.

Peter and I approach the alter slowly, hand in hand. At one point, he gives it a reassuring squeeze, which I return. Perhaps love is not part of our destiny, but I take small comfort that there may be, at least, an understanding. That there remains an opportunity for friendship between us.

I fight to keep my feet under me as we walk, finding myself leaning on him heavily. The gown is hot and heavy and the crown is making my head and neck ache. I hear very little of what the bishop says, focusing only on keeping my breathing steady, my face serene. He chants, and we join in.

Hymns are sung, candles lit, all adding to my general discomfort.

As he speaks holy words over us, I silently pray, either for the strength to make it through this day, or for the grace of God to strike me down where I stand. When we exchange rings, I notice that he’s chosen a smaller, more humble ring than I expected. It’s a ruby cut in a square, surrounded by smaller diamonds. As he slips it on my finger, I wonder if he chose it himself, or if the empress had a hand in it. And then I wonder to myself if it matters either way.

The ceremony lasts nearly four torturous hours. When it finally ends, Peter and I exit back to the carriage, followed by the empress.

I begin to lift the crown from my head, and she stops me.

“Leave it,” she commands.

“Please, Your Majesty, my head aches terribly.”

She frowns, glaring at me. “Heavy is the head which wears the crown.”

I sigh and sit back, closing my eyes.

Back at the palace, they have arranged for a ballet, then a feast, then a ball. Peter never releases my hand, even as we enter the theater and take our seats. It takes me a while to reconcile his expression. I might have mistaken it for anger, had I never seen his anger before. But this is something quite different.

He is nervous.

I smile sweetly, hoping he sees. If he does, his expression remains unchanged.

Finally, at dinner, I can barely open my eyes. The ache in my head has grown into a constant, relentless pounding so strong it turns my stomach. Luckily, I don’t have to wait long. The empress stands, announcing that Peter and I are to retire to our wedding bed, causing great cheers around us. The empress again leads a procession down the hall, much smaller this time, only Peter’s men, my mother, and my ladies following us.

It’s only now that my nerves overtake me. My stomach flutters as if full of bees and my hands shake. I had been so confident, so ready to take this step with Alexander. I could have lost myself and allowed our passion to override my judgment. I think now that it must be my one regret—that I was never with him in that way. Because the idea of holding Peter in such a tender embrace makes me feel ill.

Hand in hand, once again Peter and I walk to our new apartments, in a new wing of the palace, which consists of four large, extremely elegant rooms. One sitting room, which splits into two side chambers, both of which connected to a bedroom in the rear. They make the room I first had in the palace seem like little more than maid quarters.

Large, silver tapestries cover the walls and scarlet velvet trimmed in silver adorns every piece of furniture. There are huge, silver-gilt mirrors, and every manner of finery. The bedroom is the same in color and finery, a huge, gold-and-silver bed with the image of a large, golden crown at the head. Once in the bedroom, Peter and I split, his men follow him to his chamber, the empress, my mother, and my ladies follow me to mine. The empress removes a long, sheer pink nightdress from an oak trunk. It has no lace or frills, but even so, is shocking in its beauty.

“I had this brought from Paris,” she offers excitedly. “They are all the rage in Versailles.”

As my ladies unlace my corset and unstrap my heavy panniers, relief washes over me. I can breathe again, and for the first time all day, I feel the cold fog in my mind lift.

I know what to do. I’d had enough lessons with Madame Groot to be at least comfortable in my practical knowledge of how this will happen. The empress watches me, her cold eyes reminding me what is at stake now.

I must produce an heir, and quickly. Should I fail in this, she will make me suffer, make the people I care about suffer. To her, it is a matter of practicality. But I hold her gaze, knowing I will never forget her cruelty, and I will never forgive it either.

They brush out my hair and lead me back to the main bedchamber, tucking me in bed. Soon, Peter’s men depart his chamber, though Peter is not with them, and the group exits. Alexander does not look back at me, lying in my wedding bed, and for that, I’m strangely grateful.

Soon, my anxiety cools into boredom. I watch as the candles burn down, straining to hear Peter’s footsteps or even his breathing behind the large, oak door that separates us. Finally, I drift off, only to be startled awake when that door slams open.

I sit up, clutching the covers to my chest. Peter is glaring at me, his blond hair disheveled, his face flushed. The smell of vodka hits me the moment he steps into the room.

He points at me. “You filthy whore.”

Startled, I straighten.

“Excuse me?”

He rounds the bed, pouring a glass of wine from the table.

“I should have sent you away the moment you arrived.” He falls onto the edge of the massive bed, barely able to sit upright.

He’s slurring his words, barely coherent. I slip out of bed slowly, walking around to him with my hips swaying, the way I’d been taught.

“Please, husband, come to bed.”

I reach out to him, and he slaps my hand away so hard that I cry out.

“Don’t call me that. You are no wife of mine.”

I hug myself tightly.

“Please, tell me the source of your anger, and I am sure I can put your mind at ease.”

Lifting the wineglass, he throws it, narrowly missing me, and it shatters against the far wall. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” He stands, grabs the entire wine bottle, and throws it in the same manner. “He was my dearest friend, and you whored yourself with him!”

I shake my head. “I do not know who has filled you with such lies—”

He cuts me off.

“The only person who loves me in this entire damn country, Elizavetta. She told me the truth of it. That you were going to run away with him? That you would rather have him in disgrace than rule Russia as my wife? If I had known of this betrayal sooner, I would have had you flogged!”