Authors: Sara Judge
‘My father persuaded me that such an opportunity should not be missed,’ Valerie said. ‘And he has Mrs Duffy to take care of him, so I said yes.’
‘I am so glad that Mrs Duffy is there and you are here with us,’ said Olga.
The grand duchess was so pretty and warm-hearted, Valerie wondered if she had any male friends.
‘Do you meet many young noblemen?’ she asked, hoping Olga would not be offended by the question.
Olga looked across at Valerie with intense blue eyes.
‘There has been some talk of Crown Prince Carol of Romania,’ she said. ‘But Papa thinks I am too young to worry about such matters and I won’t leave Russia, Valerie.’ It was the first time she had spoken so passionately. ‘I have told Papa I am a Russian and will
remain
a Russian.’
‘What about the handsome soldiers I see guarding the palace? They are all Russian, aren’t they? Though I suppose even high-ranking officers are not the right quality for a grand duchess?’
She was thinking of Count Pyotr Silakov.
Olga shook her head. ‘They would not be suitable for any of us,’ she said. ‘But what about you, Valerie? Is there a gentleman waiting for you back in England? Or would you like to be introduced to some of our splendid Russian men?’
Valerie blushed. ‘I don’t know anyone special at home,’ she said, ‘but a very handsome officer met me at the railway station and escorted me here. His name was Count Pyotr Silakov.’
‘Excellent!’ cried Olga, putting down her sewing and clapping her hands. ‘A titled gentleman to escort you to the Grand Ball at the Winter Palace.’
‘What is the Grand Ball?’ Valerie was surprised by Olga’s enthusiasm. ‘And I don’t have the right clothes for a very special occasion. Besides, the count may be married. He wasn’t very friendly when we got talking in the motor car.’
‘I shall ask Papa to find out if this count has a wife. Then, if not, Papa must command him to partner you at the Ball. The Grand Ball is held in the Winter Palace in St Petersburg,’ she explained, ‘and marks the beginning of the season. And do not worry about clothes, dear Valerie. If you cannot borrow something suitable from me, one of our seamstresses will make you a beautiful gown.’
Valerie closed her eyes. To be invited to the Grand Ball in St Petersburg was exciting enough. But to go on the arm of a young and handsome count would be the most romantic thing that had ever happened to her. Just wait till her father and Mrs Duffy heard about that!
She opened her eyes and looked across at Olga.
‘I still cannot believe I am here,’ she said.
‘You are really and truly here,’ said Olga, with a contented little nod, ‘and your new life has only just begun, Valerie Marsh. You have still to meet our beloved holy man.’
‘Holy man?’ said Valerie. ‘Do you mean a priest? Or a monk?’
‘Just a very ordinary man,’ said Olga, ‘a peasant, really. But one with God-given powers. Now, no more surprises or your poor head will burst!’ She stood up and moved across to take Valerie’s hand. ‘Come on, English girl, let’s go out for a walk in the fresh air and see if you can point out your handsome count to me!’
‘
Y
ou are not yourself this evening, Petya,’ remarked Andrei Odarka, who was also a cavalry officer in the Tsar’s service. Both men were bachelors and shared a spacious apartment overlooking the Imperial park. ‘Can it be the arrival of the English girl that has disturbed you?’
‘Have you seen her?’ Pyotr turned his bright eyes on Andrei and looked at him properly for the first time that evening.
Andrei was relieved to see his friend appearing more normal. The last hour had been passed without a word being spoken and Andrei had begun to wonder if his companion were in a trance.
‘I have seen a small insignificant person with Grand Duchess Olga,’ said Andrei. ‘There is nothing striking about Miss Marsh, Petya.’
‘She is not beautiful – hardly pretty,’ admitted Pyotr, ‘yet I cannot get her out of my mind.’
Since that first meeting he had seen Valerie Marsh at a distance on several occasions, walking with the grand duchess, and to his astonishment Pyotr had wanted to know her better.
‘Certainly not beautiful,’ agreed Andrei, with a grin, ‘and owner of the most dreary apparel. Why should such an uninteresting female attract your attention, Petya?’
Pyotr frowned. What was it about the English girl that so disconcerted him? She was very small with an upright carriage
and light, dainty footsteps. But most of all it was the calm of her grey eyes and the sweetness of her lips that fascinated him. He was not accustomed to such serenity in a female face.
His mother, Countess Irina, was a hard embittered woman, immensely strong both mentally and physically, who ran the family estate in the Ukraine as forcefully as any man. She had learnt to live that way ever since her husband had gambled away the Silakov fortune and then shot himself, unable to face the mountain of debts.
Grimly his widow had carried on alone, determined that her son should wed an heiress in due time. Money was desperately needed at Mavara and could only be obtained by the dowry of a rich bride.
Pyotr sighed, stretching out his long legs in the armchair and wishing life were not so complicated. Why should he have to marry a woman because of her wealth? And why were his thoughts continually returning to the dowdily dressed English girl, whose interest in everything around her had been so warm and delightful?
‘You are not listening, Petya,’ said his friend again.
‘I am sorry, Andrei.’ Pyotr turned his head to smile at the patient, fair-haired man who was sitting in the armchair beside him. ‘I promise to give you my closest attention from now on. What is it you wish to say?’
‘I was saying that I hoped you would forget all about this foreigner and not catch sight of her again,’ said Andrei. ‘We are both attending the Grand Ball at the Winter Palace, and you will not be seeking a suitable heiress if your mind is forever returning to Miss Marsh.’
At the beginning of November snow began to fall, and overnight Tsarskoe Selo turned into a sparkling white fairyland. The motor cars vanished, and horse-driven sleighs and toboggans
took their place. Morning lessons were curtailed, and the whole family went outside into the clear crisp air.
When the skies became overcast, or blizzards raged, life in Alexander Palace returned to normal, but on sunny days Valerie saw everyone put on his or her boots and furs and go outside.
One morning she was watching as the grand duchesses fitted skis to their boots, and the Empress was helped into a small horse-driven sleigh to take a drive around the park.
The Tsar was also there and, to Valerie’s surprise, was busily shovelling snow away from the paths. The tsarevich was with him and Tsar Nicholas was showing his son the best way to lift and hold the long-handled shovel.
Servants and guards were all around, enjoying the snow as much as the Imperial family. Valerie stood – warmly clad in her grey wool coat and mittens, but with a beaverskin hat from Olga on her head – absorbing the lively scene.
‘How do you like our Russian winter, Miss Marsh?’ asked a voice behind her, and she spun round having been unaware that anyone had joined her.
‘You made me jump!’ she said, thankful that the sudden rush of blood to her cheeks could be explained by fright, for the handsome officer was standing very close behind her, in a long dark green overcoat and black fur hat. ‘I love every minute of my new life, thank you, Count Silakov.’
Pyotr smiled for the first time, his teeth very white in his suntanned face.
‘For how long will you be staying in my country, Miss Marsh?’
‘For one year,’ she said, ‘unless the Imperial family wish me to remain for longer.’
Pyotr decided that the beaverskin hat suited her much better than the grey felt she had worn last time he saw her.
‘Valerie – look at this!’ Olga’s voice interrupted them. ‘It is not difficult and you should have a go.’
The grand duchess arrived with a flurry of snow as she drew her skis together and halted in front of them, panting and laughing.
Pyotr bowed.
‘You are Count Pyotr Silakov?’ said Olga, glancing up at the tall young officer and realizing why Valerie found him attractive.
‘That is my name. Always at your service, Your Imperial Highness,’ he said, bowing again.
‘For goodness sake call me Olga Nicolaievna in simple Russian fashion,’ said Olga. ‘It is only on grand occasions that my full title is used, and even then it embarrasses me, Count Silakov.’
‘Why Nicolaievna?’ asked Valerie, wondering how she would ever learn all about the Russians and their language, yet eager to gather all the information she could about this fascinating land.
‘Because it is my patronym – my father’s name – like yours is Marsh,’ said the grand duchess. ‘Now, Valerie dear, I will leave you with the count, if he can spare the time?’
Pyotr smiled down at her.
‘I am off duty for the next two hours, Olga Nicolaievna,’ he said, ‘and will gladly walk with Miss Marsh.’
They both turned to look at Valerie, whose face had become pink again at this suggestion.
‘If the grand duchess wishes to go on skiing, I shall be delighted to walk at a slower pace,’ she said.
That morning spent with Count Pyotr Silakov walking in the Imperial park, was one of the happiest times Valerie could remember. Now that his initial coldness had disappeared, she really enjoyed the company of the young count.
And Pyotr was both stimulated and entertained by her.
He wanted to know all about life in England and how it compared to the Russian way of living. He asked what things she found better here and what she did not like at all. He even laughed out loud when Valerie confessed to disliking the cabbage soup and boiled fish that appeared all too often at mealtimes, and said how she missed Mrs Duffy’s roast beef on Sunday.
‘It is hard on the Palace chef,’ said Pyotr, ‘for it is said that the Tsar is fondest of the peasant’s simple cooking, and the Empress is not interested in food at all.’
‘Do not think me too critical of your land,’ said Valerie quickly. ‘There is much to enjoy here.’
‘I asked for your opinion and am glad you felt able to speak so freely,’ Pyotr said.
‘There is one thing that puzzles me,’ Valerie went on.
‘And what is that, Miss Marsh?’
‘Why does the Empress look so sad?’
Pyotr sighed as their boots crunched along the path in unison.
‘No doubt Olga Nicolaievna will tell you in time,’ he said. ‘But as it is now common knowledge in Court circles I might as well inform you, myself.’
He explained that the tsarevich suffered from haemophilia. Any fall, or cut, which started bleeding could be fatal to the boy.
‘He is watched all the time and understands his own problems but still manages to injure himself sometimes,’ said Pyotr.
‘How terrible!’ Valerie thought of all the pain and anxiety for both Alexis and his loving family, when such an accident occurred.
‘The tsarevich’s plight has been kept secret for years because it is not the condition one would choose for the future Tsar of
all the Russias,’ said Pyotr grimly. ‘But the boy has been ill so often of late that we all know of it here. That is the reason for his mother’s sorrow, Miss Marsh.’
‘Is there no cure?’
Pyotr shrugged. ‘The Empress is very religious and sets much store on prayer and faith-healing. And some say the peasant Grigorii Rasputin, helps the boy at times. But I do not believe it. Now,’ he went on briskly, ‘enough has been said on that subject and we are almost back at the palace. Do not say that I have told you about the tsarevich, please, Miss Marsh. Let the news come to you from Olga Nicolaievna when she feels ready to speak.’
‘I won’t say a word, but thank you for telling me.’
Warmed by the English girl’s sincerity and compassion, Pyotr watched as she disappeared across the forecourt, straight-backed and light-footed, despite her heavy winter boots. And he realised he was becoming perilously fond of the little foreigner.
Later that month, an invitation arrived for Valerie from Anna Vyrubova, asking her to come and take tea in her house which was close to the palace.
Valerie had seen Anna several times during the past weeks, but as she was always in the company of the Empress they had not spoken to each other. Now, an afternoon spent with the lady in her own home, would be a splendid opportunity to know her better.
Warmly wrapped against the bitter cold, Valerie set off for Anna’s house which was but a few minutes walk away. Halfway between the two buildings she almost bumped into Pyotr, who was also on foot striding towards her through the snow.
‘Miss Marsh! What are you doing out here in this cold wind?’ He halted in front of her. ‘Another blizzard is expected and you should not be out alone in this weather. You might lose your way.’
‘I would be very stupid to lose my way even in a snow-storm,’ said Valerie, smiling at the look of concern on his face. ‘I am going to Anna Vyrubova’s for tea and it is that house there, isn’t it?’
Pyotr nodded, still looking perturbed. ‘You are visiting Anna Vyrubova?’ he repeated, his dark brows drawn together in a frown. ‘Has she invited you?’
‘Of course.’ The brusqueness of his tone had surprised her. ‘I wouldn’t go without an invitation.’
‘I wish you were not going,’ he said. ‘That lady has some strange friends.’
‘But Grand Duchess Olga knows about it and wished me a happy time.’ Valerie stared at the man. ‘Goodness, Count Silakov, you do say some extraordinary things. Anna is so well known at the palace I’m certain her friends would be acceptable to the Empress.’
‘It is one particular friend who troubles me. Has the grand duchess mentioned the name Rasputin to you?’
Valerie shook her head.
‘Then beware of Grigorii Rasputin, Miss Marsh.’ Pyotr’s eyes were as cold and bleak as the snow-laden sky as he looked down at her. ‘I am sure he will be at this tea party, and I am also sure that he is dangerous. I beg you to have a care and shield yourself against this peasant.’
Rasputin was known and disliked by all. But as long as he found favour with the Empress and her family, his visits had to be tolerated.
Suddenly Valerie remembered Olga telling her about a holy man. An ordinary man, Olga had said, but one with God-given powers. Was Grigorii Rasputin this man?
Shrugging her shoulders in bewilderment, Valerie assured Pyotr that she would take care, then left him to walk up the path to Anna’s little house.
Thank heavens the count had not been invited to the tea party, she thought. He would have ruined her enjoyment of the afternoon and any meeting she might have with the intriguing peasant.
Valerie would never forget the first time she met the holy man, Grigorii Rasputin. His powerful presence was so fascinating that she took in little of her surroundings. Anna’s house was painted white on the outside and only one storey high, but the parlour in which they gathered was almost bursting with the personality of the man.
Anna spoke in whispers, her eyes never leaving the visitor who sat solid, and deeply relaxed, in a chair by the fire.
‘I shall translate for you,’ she said to Valerie.
Rasputin wore a long black robe with black breeches above black leather boots. A brown belt held the robe in place for there did not appear to be any buttons or fastenings, and on his broad chest glinted a heavy gold cross.
‘This is Valerie Marsh from England,’ said Anna, as the girl’s hand was taken in a large warm grasp and she felt light-coloured eyes pierce into her very soul.
In that first moment of greeting Valerie felt as if Grigorii Rasputin knew her thoughts, her history, everything about her. Yet she was not afraid. She was comforted and reassured, and a glow of affection began to burn within her as she smiled at the seated man.
Dangerous? The count must have been thinking of someone else. Or was he jealous of the holy man’s contact with the Imperial family? Certainly Olga had spoken of the man with great fondness. And there was something godly about his penetrating eyes and enthralling presence.
Rasputin spoke in a thick Siberian accent, but Anna relayed to Valerie that he was pleased to meet someone from such a far
away country, that he could tell she was a good girl born of good parents, and she would find happiness with the man she loved after many difficulties had been overcome.
How did he know so much? Valerie fell on her knees beside his chair, wanting to stay close to him as a wonderful peace spread through her body.
Her mother had been, and her father most certainly was, a really good person. And
she
always tried to be kind and considerate towards others. But Valerie was not sure about the man she was supposed to love. She found Count Pyotr Silakov very attractive, but she couldn’t say she loved him.
‘I am a disciple,’ whispered Anna beside her. ‘And I believe you have become one of us, dear.’
Valerie nodded. ‘I have never felt so content,’ she said wanting to reach out and touch the man again.
Grigorii Rasputin was not handsome. His long brown hair was parted in the middle and straggled onto his shoulders. And his skin was an unhealthy yellow above his beard, as if he did not go out-of-doors much.