Queen of Someday (8 page)

I feel my mouth fall open. I’d been unaware of their relationship. But looking at Sergei, I can certainly understand it. Though he is far younger than she is, he has a very rugged, manly cut about him. And he is infallibly charming. As I think upon him, an image of him appears in my mind. I push it away. He is my friend, yes, I am comfortable calling him such, and my advisor. I appreciate his counsel and his help. Beyond that, there can be nothing.

I continue, “My only chance is to make certain Peter is so enamored of me that he doesn’t even look in her direction. I think you can help me with that.”

She smiles warmly. “Of course, anything I can do.”

“Tonight, after the banquet, I am going for an evening stroll around the palace. It would do well if Peter were not too drunk to join me, so please have the kitchen staff water down his wine. Then tomorrow morning, have the maids set up an archery station in the meadow near the west wing just after sunrise, so that it will be visible from his window.”

“I can do that,” she agrees, just as the door swings open and Mother breezes into the room. She’s wearing a new gown—one of the ones the seamstress made for me—a golden brocade with yellow lace and black buttons that is so tight across her chest I’m surprised she hasn’t burst out of it. Her hair is tall, curled in rings, and powdered white, and she’s drawn a small beauty mark on her left cheek. Over all, she looks quite comical.

“Mother, what have you been up to this fine day?” I ask, trying to keep my tone light.

She pulls a lace fan from her sleeve and begins fanning herself quickly.

“I have been securing our family’s fortune. And what have you been doing?”

I straighten my back. “I took lessons with Sergei today, and we discussed a few other things as well. He is arranging for me to speak to a cardinal about conversion. Did you know that would be a requirement of marriage to Peter?” I know I shouldn’t ask, that it might upset her, but I can’t help the nagging feeling that she’s known quite a bit more about all this than she let on.

As I expect, she waves me off. “It’s all the same thing really. Nothing to prickle yourself over.”

“Father will be devastated,” I say gently.

She snaps, slapping the fan closed in her hand.

“That is precisely why your father was not invited to take this journey with us. He’s too stubborn for his own good.” She pauses, looking at me, and her tone softens, “Don’t worry. Once he sees how greatly this union will benefit him, he will have only good wishes to send your way. Why, the King of Prussia has already sent him a chest of gold and increased his lands two fold. Imagine the favors he will lavish upon your family once you are the Empress Consort of Russia!”

I try to smile, but it’s hollow. Of course, I want my father to be happy and have his lands and title secure; I only wish I didn’t have to sell my soul to Russia to do it.

Mother excuses herself to go have tea with the empress while Rina and I begin a game of chess. Soon, Elizavetta interrupts us.

She curtsies.

“My lady, I must apologize for my behavior before, and for the way I acted last night. I meant you no disrespect.”

Her face is still red and puffy, though it looks as if she’s tried to cover it with powder. I smile, patting the seat next to me.

“Of course I forgive you. Here, sit with me and watch as I thoroughly defeat Rina in this battle of wits.”

She takes her seat, relaxing into the chair beside me.

We finish our game, which I am almost certain Rina allows me to win, then the girls scuttle off to make the arrangements I’ve asked for. Two maidservants arrive with the seamstress as she delivers my gown for the evening. They set it across my bed and leave just as my page announces my visitor.

“His Lordship Peter von Holstein-Gottorp,” the young man announces just before Peter strides into my chamber. He’s changed into a pale green suit and breeches with golden trim. His hair is combed back tightly into a small tail at the back of his neck.

He bows.

“Princess, I have come to give you the tour as promised.”

Peter holds out his arm to me, his face serene, if a bit pink from our earlier time in the sun. I smile warmly and accept his gesture, locking my arm around his and allowing him to lead me from the room.

He begins recounting the discussion from his earlier meeting as we wind down elaborate corridor after corridor. He leads me past the library without pausing. I crane my neck to catch a fleeting glimpse of the room as we pass quickly, but I don’t ask to stop. His pace is quick, a man with a destination in mind to be sure.

“How are the lessons going with General Salkov?” he asks pointedly.

“Quite well, thank you. He is a wonderful teacher.”

Peter stops, raising his hand, “Make no mistake; he has my aunt’s interests at heart, not ours.”

As he says the word ours, he motions to the two of us, as if we are co-conspirators in some great plot. I force a smile, unsure what to say.

He continues walking and adds, “It’s not that I have anything against the man, to be sure. But there is a general tone about him that I dislike. An arrogance, perhaps. If I thought for a moment that his lessons with you had been in any way inappropriate…”

His words trail off but his tone is clear. He feels threatened by the handsome general. I quickly work to set him at ease.

“No need to worry there, he’s been nothing but a gentleman. I think he is much too smart to attempt any such nonsense.”

He offers a satisfied grunt. “Good. I know my aunt is fond of him and I’d hate to see how she would react if I were to have to punish him.”

His words chill me to the core. I’ve never heard Peter sound so cold and harsh before.

As soon as we turn the next corner, I know where he’s leading me. The great hall is lined with suits of armor, tall pedestals of marble displaying all manner of weapons, and in the very center is a stone statue of his namesake, Peter the Great. He leads me past each display, describing their bloody lineage in vivid detail. I nod, feigning interest. Some of the battles he describes I’ve read about in books, others are wholly unheard of to me.

When he was a child, Peter had a set of toy soldiers that were his dearest possessions. He’d loved nothing more than recreating his favorite battles. His obsession, it seems, has only grown.

With a sudden burst of gusto, he leaps atop a chair and pulls an old pair of crossed swords from their places on the wall. He flips on in his hand, grabbing it by the dull blade and holds it out to me.

“Here, Princess. How about a real lesson?”

I take the hilt warily.

“What are you doing?” I ask in a whisper. “Surely we aren’t meant to use these.”

He offers me a wicked smirk, and then raises his sword.

“Prepare to defend yourself, Prussia!” he screams and advances. I manage to swing the heavy sword just in time to block his blow.

Encouraged by my move he continues, circling me like a predator, sword firm in his grasp. I watch him move, trying to emulate his posture.

In an instant, he lunges and I am only barely able to spin out of his way. He laughs and I can hardly keep the irritation off of my face. Thinking back to all the times I’d played wooden swords with my father I place one hand in the small of my back and swing the blade, drawing his attention to my left as I step forward and lunge half-heartedly. He blocks my move easily. Our swords come together with a loud clang and he takes his free hand and grabs me, pulling me to him until we are pressed together, only the cold steel between us. I push back and prepare to defend myself.

“Put the tip higher,” he orders, moving again. “Keep your weight on your back foot.”

He circles me, barking commands.

“Lunge!” he orders and I obey, trying to look more uncoordinated that I really am. I do manage to trip on the hem of my massive skirts and fall forward just a little. Though I catch myself before I fall, the maneuver gives Peter enough time to come up behind me and slap my backside with the flat part of his sword. Though I really can’t feel it through the layers of pannier and skirt I give a little yelp of surprise. I look over my shoulder to see a wide, devilish grin set in his face. A sense of unease fills me in that moment that I cannot quite explain to myself. Peter doesn’t look malevolent, but something in his expression reminds me of a child who has recently discovered a new toy.

The sound of trumpets blaring behind us startles me, making me jump. Peter turns away from me, looking curiously down the hall.

I’m glad he’s not watching me because I feel my expression fall, my expression souring.

Princess Charlotte of Saxony has arrived early.

Peter replaces our swords and then, taking me by the arm, he leads me back through the maze of corridors and to the main staircase. Four more trumpets blare and drummers beat their drums. The empress sweeps into the room from my right, descending the steps in front of us. Chancellor Bestuzhev and Count Lestocq meet her at the massive palace doors.

We flood outside just in time to see a white-and-gold sleigh pull to the front, tall, purple banners flowing behind it. The sleigh is pulled by an army of white horses so lovely that they could be made of snow and ice.

The sleigh stops and four people climb out, three young ladies and one young man. The young man steps forward, and they all bow and curtsy before the empress. I spot Princess Charlotte immediately. Her large, flowing gown is deep purple, nearly black. It perfectly accents her hair, though I don’t think black describes the color. Her hair is raven, the color of midnight, and her eyes are just as dark. Her lips are large and puffy like Elizavetta’s, only, somehow, they sit just right on her face. In every possible way, this new princess is stunningly, breathtakingly beautiful. As she walks forward, taking the young man’s arm, I glance over at Peter. He’s watching her impassively, as if her beauty hasn’t reached his eyes yet. Then he looks over at me and winks. Raising my hand in his, he grazes a kiss across my knuckles before releasing me to join his aunt.

I release a long breath, feeling myself relax at his reaction.

The young man bows again as they reach the empress.

“Your Majesty. I am Hans Svetten, Duke of Dresden, Saxony. I would like to present my sister, Princess Charlotte, and her ladies.”

Charlotte curtsies deeply.

“Your Majesty,” she offers in a rich, deep voice.

“Welcome to St Petersburg. I am overjoyed you could make the journey,” the empress responds coolly. “This is my nephew, Grand Duke Peter von Holstein-Gottorp.”

Peter bows, but he does not extend his hand. I feel my shoulders straighten, my chin raise, all without conscious thought. The empress, probably sensing Peter’s apathy, motions to the chancellor. “Please, Chancellor Bestuzhev will show you to your apartments.”

Without waiting, Peter turns his back to the princess and her entourage, walks toward me, and offers his arm, which I take without hesitation. The empress spares us only a quick glance over her shoulder, but I think I see a sly smile curl across her lips.

As soon as we are out of earshot, Peter leans down and whispers into my ear.

“If Bestuzhev thinks he can control the alliance by controlling my heart, he is sadly mistaken. No one controls me.”

I raise one eyebrow. “Not even the empress?”

He chuckles. “Not even the empress.”

***

That night at the banquet, the room is very clearly divided. The empress sits at the head of the table, Sergei to her left and Bestuzhev at her right. Princess Charlotte and her brother sit beside the chancellor. I sit on Sergei’s other side with my mother beside me. A few other dignitaries fill the remaining seats and Peter is at the other end of the table, chatting with Mikhail and Alexander, who flank him.

“How was your journey?” Sergei asks Charlotte politely.

“Lovely,” she responds automatically, staring down the table to Peter. “Russia is truly a lovely country.”

Peter snorts and raises a glass of wine.

“Russia is a truly cold country, at least this time of year.”

He inclines his glass in my direction before taking a long drink. Setting the cup down, he frowns.

“This wine is terrible,” he winks at me, “must be Portuguese.”

I grin at the remark.

“And how are you enjoying your time at court?” Charlotte asks me pointedly. “It’s your first time here, isn’t it?”

I smile. “It is my first time in Russia, though I met Peter years ago at Swedish court. We were actually good friends as children.” It’s a slight exaggeration, but Peter doesn’t correct me so I continue, “And I have been having a wonderful visit. Only today, His Highness surprised me with the most beautiful breakfast picnic.”

I watch her face and see her smile slip, just a touch, before she takes a bite of food. A roar of pride fills me, followed immediately by guilt. I should not be so cruel. She is only a girl, like myself, being used as a pawn in a much larger game. Under any other circumstances, we might even be friends. But here, in this court, we are rivals.

And we must each do whatever it takes to win.

Turning to the empress, I continue.

“Sergei has set a meeting with the cardinal tomorrow so we can discuss my conversion,” I say boldly. Truthfully, I hadn’t yet decided to go through with it, but as soon as the empress hears the words, she rewards me with a warm smile. I know there can be no changing my mind now.

“That’s excellent.”

At the end of the table, Peter snorts. “I see my aunt has convinced you of the merits of Orthodoxy. Congratulations,” he says bitterly. “She tried to convince me to do the same, but I refused.”

I glance quickly at Sergei, who doesn’t meet my eye.

Recovering as best I can, I simply say, “Being the future king has its benefits, I suppose.”

After dinner, we retire to the massive theater where the empress has staged a production of Ariadne—a respite from her preferred entertainment of Italian Opera, Peter assures me. Peter is flanked by his men, as always, but motions for me to take a seat next to Alexander. I almost feel bad for Charlotte. She smiles warmly, trying to catch Peter’s eye, but he looks right past her. I watch the smile slip off her face, replaced by a confused frown. I doubt any man has ever looked beyond her in such a manner. It’s his man, Mikhail, who finally steps in and offers the princess and her brother a seat beside him. She looks grateful, her brother, however, looks completely put out as he takes his seat.

The lamps are put out as the stage lights are lit. Immediately, the room is thrown into shadows as the first actors appear.

And the play is in Russian, of course.

I sigh deeply and sit back, watching as a man in yellow brocade struts across the stage. In the darkness, Alexander leans over and whispers.

“You don’t speak Russian, do you?”

I shake my head silently.

He leans in closer. “Then I will translate for you,” he offers softly.

Alexander leans over, his shoulder grazing mine. In the darkness, the gesture seems too intimate, too deliberate. “He is narrating, saying that Theseus has killed the Minotaur and now he and Ariadne have fled to the island of Naxos, to the protection of King Oenarus.”

The narrator steps off stage and the long, golden curtains open to reveal a young woman’s room. She’s weeping in the arms of another woman. They exchange words in a sad, rushed conversation. One strokes the other’s long, brown hair and soothes her softly and begins a low, wistful aria

“The one crying,” I say quietly. “She’s Ariadne?”

Alexander nods. “She’s upset because she’s in love with Theseus, but he has refused to marry her. The other girl is her sister, Phaedra.”

The play goes on, each character draped in nearly sheer togas, garlands of ivy upon their heads. It would be quite indecent, except for the art of it. Though I don’t understand what’s being said, I am able to follow the story very well—a testament to the skill of the actors.

“I don’t understand. If Theseus is in love with Phaedra, and she with him, why don’t they just tell Ariadne? Surely, she would understand?” I ask quietly to Alexander.

“Because, they both care about Ariadne. They want her to accept the love of the king and find happiness before they tell her, for fear that the truth would destroy her,” he explains.