The Tsarina's Legacy (37 page)

“But you must consider the greater good,” Dmitry said. “Mikhail is American. He will be released. Reb…” His voice started to break, his steady composure finally melting. “He will die in the
gulag
. You know that. Please don't do this to him. Please don't do it to me. You can't throw away everything we've worked toward.”

“Dmitry…” The tears were starting to form, the dam threatening to burst. She needed to keep it together. She took Dmitry's hand. It felt like ice. He was so frightened. How could she not have seen it before? “I'm not throwing anything away,” Veronica insisted. “Laurent can take my place. We can make this work.”

“How do you know he will do the right thing for Reb? Support him?”

“I will make sure,” Veronica said. “I promise.”

Dmitry turned slowly to Anya. “What do you think?”

“I believe Nika,” Anya said, nodding. “I believe she will get her father to help. But I have another concern.” Anya crossed the room, to the sketch of the mosque, and bit her lip thoughtfully. “Irina wanted to work with the Muslim community. Maybe not for the right reasons, but she wanted to build Grisha Potemkin's mosque. I don't want to lose sight of this.”

“The Islamic community has prejudices as well,” Dmitry said. “Same as the Orthodox Christian community. If we are supporting Reb, we may have to let go of the mosque.”

Anya touched her head scarf thoughtfully. “So the tsarina can call herself a believer and be tolerant. And yet I cannot?”

“I didn't say that,” Dmitry told her. “I only said we might need to choose.”

“Not necessarily.” Veronica pressed Dmitry's hand one last time before releasing it. “Anya, I think you can help. You said you have contacts in the Muslim community. Perhaps we can bargain with them. We support the mosque, same as Irina did. She wanted help restoring property. We ask for something different in return. We ask them specifically not to interfere when it comes to Reb.” She glanced at Dmitry. “We shouldn't have to choose.”

Dmitry placed his hand on Veronica's arm. “I have to admit, I am impressed with what you have come up with here,” he said with a slow smile. “Perhaps Grisha did inspire you after all. But are you sure about this? Meeting with your father.”

Veronica stiffened, even at Dmitry's gentle touch. “It's the only way.”

“But he has never tried to talk to you before? He never wants to talk to us. Why now?”

“I don't know for certain. But I need to trust that he will help us.”

Dmitry tapped his chin thoughtfully. “If he does agree, Anya and I can get him in front of reporters.” He hesitated. “Do you want me to come with you to see Laurent?”

“No,” she told him. “I need to do this alone.”

Dmitry nodded once more and there was a moment of silence, broken by the thud of heavy male footsteps in the hall.

“What's going on?” Sasha peeked his head inside the door. For once, he wasn't smiling. His beard was fuller now. On the one hand he looked like a typical California hipster, but the beard also gave him the trim bearing of Nicholas II. As Irina might have said, Sasha would play very well on Russian television.

“Thank you for coming,” Veronica said. “We need to talk.”

Sasha stepped inside. His brows pinched as he surveyed their faces. He must have heard at least part of what they'd said. A deeper understanding of the situation began to register in his expression. “What has my stepmother done now?”

Veronica shook her head but didn't explain anything further. She was sure he had heard and simply needed a few minutes to process the information. Somewhere in his heart, he knew what Irina might do to other people when she didn't get her way. She only hoped Sasha hadn't fallen so in love with the idea of reclaiming his fortune that he would go along with anything she told him to do.

“You know what happened to Michael Karstadt?” Dmitry said, switching to English and exuding confidence once more with his rich baritone.

Sasha's gaze landed on Veronica. “I know what happened to your friend Michael. And I heard what you said about my stepmother. I'm sorry. I know she's stubborn, but I never expected anything like this. I don't know what to say.”

“Do you want to help us?” Anya said in tentative English.

Sasha hesitated. “What she did to Michael blows.”

Dmitry frowned, misunderstanding what Sasha meant. “He doesn't agree with what she did,” Veronica said quickly.

“I didn't know anything about it,” Sasha said “And I don't agree with her politics. I don't think my dad would have either.”

Veronica glanced backward at the picture of pretty Felix Yusupov on the wall. “Your father was proud of his family's heritage.”

“Of course.
Konechno
,” he added, trying out the Russian word and not completely mangling the pronunciation.

“And as a Yusupov,” Dmitry said, “he would have been proud of connection to the Potemkin family.” Dmitry gestured to the portrait on the wall. “To the prince.”

Sasha gave Dmitry a guarded look. “Yes.”

“I can't believe your father would have wanted you to pursue any kind of claim to the throne under these circumstances,” Veronica said.

“If you will help,” Dmitry said, “I promise we will remember when we review property claims.” He opened his arms expansively. “Remember, you and I are family as well.”

Sasha exhaled slowly and then glanced at the painting of Prince Potemkin. “I think I can help,” he told Dmitry.

“Are you sure you want to cross your stepmother?” Veronica asked. “She thinks she can make you rich.”

“Hey, I won't lie, I still want that to happen,” Sasha said. “But you're right. It shouldn't happen this way. Who's to say I won't piss her off later and then next thing I know I'm in jail? I know what she's like. I got a taste for it growing up. She cares about herself. That's it.”

“So you'll help us?” Veronica said. “Behind Irina's back?”

He gave her one of his easy smiles. “Just tell me what you need me to do.”

*   *   *

Veronica returned to her hotel for the night. She was too worried about Michael to get any sleep, but she needed to at least close her eyes for a bit. When she checked in with the floor attendant, the woman grasped her hand and let out a string of exclamations about the lateness of the hour. Veronica gave her a reassuring smile, wishing her
abuela
were there.

“I want to show you something.” The attendant reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a T-shirt. She unfolded it on the desk before her. It was the same shirt Veronica had worn at the press conference earlier. Free the Wolf.

“It is too small,” the woman said, clearly perturbed and gesturing at the simple cotton item as though it had a mind of its own. “Otherwise I would wear. I bought it on the street from a young man.”

Veronica stared at the logo, and the old woman's hands, spotted with brown freckles, curled around her own hand. Memories of the evening rushed through her mind: what Irina had said to her about not having children, the sad look on Dmitry's face when he related his concerns for Reb's safety, and Michael with his bruised eye, trapped and alone in that tiny cell.

She felt the tears coming and tried to push them back. “Thank you for supporting Reb. It means so much to me,” she told the woman in Russian.

“Pfffft.” The woman released Veronica's hand. “I am believer.” She reached under the collar of her lumpy sweater and withdrew an Orthodox cross hanging from a chain as proof. She kissed the cross and then tucked it back under her sweater. “Who is anyone to tell us what to think?”

This was the third time she'd heard something like this from a Russian, first the woman at the ticket counter at LAX, and then the policeman at the rally, and now her floor attendant.

“Thank you,” Veronica told her. “Thank you. I agree.”

“One of my grandsons … he is … well, he was never quite like the other boys. I think he will appreciate. I love him. I don't want anything to happen to him. What else could a grandmother do? I must show support.”

At that moment, Veronica knew she was exactly where she was meant to be. “I am going to do everything I can for him. I promise.”

The woman shrugged. “And maybe tomorrow I find shirt in bigger size so I can wear,” she said. “We all will do our part.”

*   *   *

Veronica waited patiently on a bench, glad for the solitude and peace. The day was cold, but the hazy morning fog had cleared and pale sunlight sparkled on the crisp Neva. The bells of Peter and Paul Cathedral chimed in a sharp, clear rhythm across the water. Nearby, a man in a sagging beret and a thickly lined jacket buttoned against the cold had set up an easel and started to paint a bright orange Rostral Column, focusing on the ship prows hanging from the thick base. Grim vendors bundled in winter coats sold fur hats, old Soviet military medals, and coffee mugs featuring shirtless pictures of the Russian president. Veronica scanned the goods but didn't see any more postcards of Grand Duchess Charlotte. She wondered if the card in her purse was one of a kind.

She checked her phone for the time, strangely calm. She wished Michael could have been there for a chat beforehand, to boost her confidence, but she knew she needed to face Laurent alone.

Even though she had never met him, she recognized him instantly.

Laurent Marchand approached her bench slowly, walking with the aid of a cane. Even though he was bent over, she could tell he was tall. That surprised her; she supposed he'd inherited his height from Alexandra rather than Nicholas. He was handsome too, silver-haired and dignified, with a soft hint of Charlotte's sister Grand Duchess Tatiana in his gracefully aging features. He wore nice gray slacks and dress shoes and a dapper woolen coat. He had the monarchist ribbon on the lapel of his coat as well, the Russian flag with the double-headed eagle.

Laurent had to stop and lean on his cane as he caught his breath. She rose to her feet.

He looked up again. Now he was close enough to catch Veronica's gaze. His coloring was fairer, but she saw the shape of her eyes and the contours of her own face. He approached faster now, at least as fast as he could manage with his cane, and then stopped before her, eyes tender.

Her stomach knotted, the calm receding. She refused to cry. He needed to earn her tears.

“It's true,” he said softly in Spanish, the language they shared. “You're as beautiful as your picture. I knew you would be.”

“Do I look like my mother?” The words felt awkward, but she needed something to say.

His odd accent combined perfect Spanish with a native French lilt. “Oh yes. I knew that would be the case as well. Of course she was much younger when I knew her.” He hesitated. “I hope you don't mind me saying this.”

“I'm sixteen years older than she was when she died. I know.”

“May I hug you?”

“I'd rather wait on that.”

He nodded sadly. “I understand. I'm grateful you agreed to meet with me.”

Only because I need your help.
But she said: “Why do you want to see me now? Why did you contact my grandmother? After all these years?”

“You were coming to Petersburg to work with the Monarchist Society. I was concerned.”

“Concerned? Why? I know next to nothing about you. I grew up without you. You never contacted me.” She hadn't planned to get into this. Not here. Not now. She needed Laurent's help. But after nearly forty years of frustration, she couldn't help herself. Veronica's sentences came out in short, staccato bursts that would have been better suited to English, although she spat them out in Spanish to make sure he understood. “All I knew was that you were my mother's professor. Oh! And that you left her alone.”

“She wanted to be alone. What happened between us was never meant to be permanent.”

“It was a fling? I'm a random accident.”

“A fling, yes,” Laurent said. “I don't know how else to put it. But I don't believe anyone on this earth is a random accident.”

“You weren't curious about me at all?”

“I thought of you all the time, Veronica.” He lifted his thin hands, pale and blue-veined and more fragile than the rest of his body. “I kept a picture on my mirror from when you were a toddler. Your grandmother sent it to me. As time passed, I wondered what you looked like as you grew older. What you were doing with your life. But after my experiences and my mother's experiences during the war, I needed to make your safety my first priority.”

“It would have been better to let me know.”

“My family didn't see it this way. Lena and her family agreed…” He looked down at his feet. “Even Lena's grandson, your friend Michael. The one you're so worried about now?” Veronica looked up sharply. He continued, “I'm sorry, I heard what happened. Michael agreed with us. Now more than ever he probably understands. Everyone wanted to keep you safe.”

Veronica thought about what had happened yesterday, the way Michael gave one slight shake of his head before he was sped away from her. Her heart made a quick, panicked jump.

“But it wasn't just that,” Laurent continued. “I have never been good for women. I've hurt them. I thought I would hurt you. But I guess I did anyway.” He put his head in his fragile hands. “It's difficult to explain. Sometimes I hear voices in my head, nagging me, berating me.
Who do you think you are? You do not matter. You have never mattered. Every time something good happens, you ruin it.
” He shook his head and looked at her again. “I honestly thought you would be better off without me in your life.”

Michael was alone in his cell, staring at the ceiling, face throbbing, no clue what would happen to him next. Perhaps he would have been better off without her in his life. “Look, Michael was arrested because of me. It's my fault. That's why I'm talking to you now. I need to make it right. I have to relinquish my claim, and you must make yours.”