The Tsarina's Daughter Read online

  I answered: ‘Of course she has. And I hope she has made her special stew – cauldrons of it! Kolomenskoye bacon is better than anywhere else’s and Illinchaya is not as stingy with it as Father’s cook. She cuts it nice and thick. Will you come with me to the stables first? A cat is bound to have had a litter. Perhaps there is a kitten I can take to bed with me.’

  ‘I will have no smelly little thing in my bed. And you’d better stop this nonsense,’ Anoushka warned me, but laughed all the same. ‘Very soon, you will have to tend to someone other than a kitten in your bed. Do you think the King of France will enjoy sharing his silken sheets with a hissing, scratching ball of fur?’

  The King of France. I rolled these words in my mind like marbles, feeling myself blushing, which enhanced my already high colour. Father had offered Versailles my hand in marriage when I was a child. It seemed a perfect match – young King Louis XV and I were of similar age – but France would give no firm answer, letting us wait and hope. This silence worried me less than what the jester d’Acosta had told me: the dwarf swore that Louis wore more paint than any lady at my parents’ court, as well as acres of lace in his jabot. I checked my unlaced, dusty cotton dress, which was crumpled from the journey and fell loose and comfortable to my feet, but clung flatteringly in all the right places thanks to my ample cleavage. Surely it would not withstand the scrutiny of the young King of France and his Versailles courtiers, who were said to change their clothes five times a day. Why not swap tailors if they were so unhappy? At least the cornflower-blue dress flattered my eyes and my blonde curls, which were braided and wrapped around my head for travel. My maid kept my hair shiny and luscious by a regular treatment with egg yolk, camomile and beer. That was not my only beauty remedy: a blend of kefir from the steppes and preserved lemons, which Mother ordered from Italy, ensured that our skin was soft and clear. Perhaps Louis would not need quite so much face paint if he tried it, too?

  ‘Better a small and smelly kitten than a big, hairy man. I would be scared to death to be in bed with him if he were like that,’ I giggled nervously. ‘What might he wear?’

  ‘A nightshirt?’ Anoushka guessed.

  ‘What? Like mine? Silken and lacy?’

  ‘Well, it might be a different nightshirt. Men are different, aren’t they?’

  I hesitated. ‘They ought to be. But different in what way?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Anoushka admitted.

  ‘Well, I shall stick to kittens until Father has a firm answer from Versailles.’ I shrugged, pretending not to care. In truth, the years of silence that had passed since my portrait had been sent to France were insulting, although the painter Caravaque, who also took Anoushka’s likeness, had been beside himself with compliments: ‘Mon Dieu. Your eyes are as lively as a bird’s!’ ‘That skin, that bust, that golden hair – just marvellous! Merveilleux! ’ We had copied him while skipping through the corridors, chanting MonDieuMerveilleux. Even the French envoy to Russia, de Campredon, was in favour of the match: in his letters, which the Secret Office of Investigation read and resealed, he described me as ‘Christianity’s most lovely princess’, possessing ‘the warmth that made the Tsar marry her mother’ – which was to me a rather puzzling comment.

  Anoushka’s smile lit up her normally serious face: ‘No news is good news. In the end, the beautiful princess always gets her knight in shining armour.’

  I was grateful for her uplifting words. What should I do without her once I left for France? ‘In your books, yes. But does it happen for real?’

  ‘You surely don’t doubt it. Things tend to go your way, Lizenka. Almost magically so. You know that. I can read your thoughts.’

  ‘Ah. So, what is it I am thinking right now then?’

  ‘You are wondering if Grisha the blacksmith’s big bellows are still in the stables. The ones we used as a seesaw?’

  I held up my hands. ‘You have won. But I can’t play on them on my own.’

  ‘Are you trying to corrupt my immortal soul?’

  ‘Yes, sinful as I am,’ I giggled, and snapped my fingers at her maids. ‘Take the Tsarevna Anoushka’s books to our rooms. The latest love story from Italy must wait. First there is some urgent bouncing on bellows to be done.’

  ‘It will destroy my hair,’ Anoushka moaned.

  I lunged to ruffle up her dark straight hair, which had been braided and rolled in coils at the sides of her head. ‘There. No need to worry now. All done.’ I kissed her cheek and pulled her along.

  *

  We crossed the vast vegetable garden that lay between the kitchen and the stables. Onions, leeks, turnips, beetroots and cabbages grew amongst a lavish carpet of weeds that spoke of seasons of casual neglect: everywhere clover and daisies blossomed already, and the bees were busily taking advantage of each minute of the longer days, gathering pollen for the delicious Kolomenskoye honey I loved to spoon in thick dollops on my kasha. I breathed in deeply, enjoying the fresh air. Come spring in St Petersburg, the Neva flooded its banks and all the blossom of the scented plants that Father had ordered far and wide, from France to Persia, could not blot out the musty smell that reigned once the water receded. It blended with the whiff of rotten market leftovers and clotted blood on the gallows, which, as a warning to the Russian people, were habitually situated on all the busiest squares and crossroads.

  ‘What is this?’ I asked, stopping at a big stone just outside the kitchen door. At the back entrance to the palace, the cook welcomed deliveries during the day, while at night thieves among the household servants sold off their loot.

  ‘That is where the kitchen maids whet their knives. Look, the stone is all chipped and pockmarked,’ Anoushka told me

  ‘I know that,’ I said impatiently. ‘But why is there a plate with a pancake and sour milk set on top of it?’

  ‘Already hungry again? Hold yourself back,’ Anoushka teased me. The thick pancake was dripping with honey; just add a sprinkle of nuts and it would be perfect for me after the long hours on the road!

  ‘You should have some, beanpole!’ I countered, and we started to tussle together, giggling.

  ‘Yes, girls, hold yourselves back! This is an offering.’ Mother appeared on the kitchen threshold; her pale cheeks were already flushed with faint colour now that the endless lurching was over. She lacked all airs and graces, moving about as casually as if she were still a serf living in a tiny Baltic izba, owning nothing but the clothes on her body. ‘Don’t you know that the Domovoi rules the woods of Kolomenskoye?’

  ‘The Domovoi?’ I asked, still eyeing the pancake, and remembered one of Illinchaya’s fairy stories. ‘The spirit of the woods?’

  ‘Yes. His heart breaks with every tree that is felled. Imagine the forest that had to give way for Tsar Alexis to build Kolomenskoye here. Illinchaya wants the Domovoi appeased,’ Mother said. She was smiling at the housekeeper’s belief in old myths and fairy-tales. Seeing her like this, my mood soared: Mother would surely be able heal here, and she might even have another son, despite the doctor’s gloomy verdict.

  ‘Indeed! I appease all spirits!’ Illinchaya appeared behind Mother. ‘Kolomenskoye is old earth and alive with them.’ My heart leaped when I saw her. Despite the years that had passed since our last meeting, in which Anoushka and I had turned from little girls to young women, our childhood nurse seemed unchanged. Her cheeks were red-veined and her broad face flushed; she seemed out of breath from climbing just two or three shallow steps. Her clothing brazenly defied Father’s laws. He had ordered all Russians to dress in the style of the West, even though such clothes were tight and uncomfortable, and their thin, cheap cloth not woven to withstand our weather. Illinchaya wore a long-sleeved linen blouse and a traditional apron dress, the wide, warmly quilted sarafan, which she had adorned with intricate floral embroidery. The patterns were like a secret language in Russia. The women of each family had their own, filling long winter evenings with perfecting that beautiful craft, while sitting around the warm oven, chatting.

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bsp; ‘Old earth alive with spirits?’ Anoushka said, her face flushed. ‘Oh, I remember your fairy-tales about the witch Baba Yaga whose house is built from chicken bones! It rests on three pillars and spins with the sun. Then there are the Leshy, mischievous rascals, who lead people astray with their prophecies—’

  ‘These are not fairy-tales.’ Illinchaya frowned.

  ‘Old earth? What rubbish,’ laughed d’Acosta, suddenly appearing from behind Mother, as always sliding in and out of places in the blink of an eye. ‘Silly superstitions, invented to torment the peasants so as to squeeze the last kopeck from them.’ He raised his caterpillar eyebrows at Illinchaya and made the coins rattle in his pockets, like a bear-baiter taking wagers at a spring fair.

  ‘Silence, imp,’ Illinchaya scolded. ‘I must properly greet the Tsarevny!’ She curtsied deeply to us, kissing our fingers, and pressing the back of our hands to her forehead while murmuring blessings; the ruffled cap covering her white-blonde hair brushed my wrist. She rose, smiling broadly, showing her dozen or so remaining teeth. ‘Anoushka Petrovna and Elizabeth Petrovna: welcome back to Kolomenskoye. It is for the saddest reason that you come – may God have mercy on another of your brothers’ little soul – but the house, and all of us, greet you with love and loyalty.’

  Anoushka and I swapped a quick glance – normally, no one dared spell out Mother’s misfortune in having buried six sons altogether, some straight after birth, others living just a couple of years. Yet Illinchaya’s years of service and utter lack of malice excused a lot, and so we rushed forward to embrace her.

  She clapped her callused hands and spread her strong arms, exclaiming: ‘Finally! The day you moved away from Kolomenskoye, to be grown up and important, you took my soul with you. Oh, I might burst with joy!’ Then she clamped us in an embrace like a vice and we had to struggle free, giggling, as we had done as little girls when her affection had grown too much for us to bear. Illinchaya dabbed at her narrow light-blue eyes, which spouted tears. Like many Russians of Finnish descent, she was almost uncannily pale and fair. ‘How tall and beautiful you are. If my eyes do not recognise you any longer, my heart always will. Soon, I pray, I will cook a feast for your weddings.’

  ‘Oh, I wish that could be so,’ Anoushka said, shyly eyeing Mother, who smiled enigmatically and answered: ‘Who knows what the future holds for my lucky girls.’

  At that I could not stop my eyes from welling up with tears. Mother turned to me, surprised: ‘What is it, Lizenka?’

  Anoushka put her arm around my shoulders, full of silent understanding.

  ‘I am just so glad that we are all together. All will be well again. I know it,’ I cried, before we began to sob and embrace: Anoushka and me, Tsarevny of All the Russias, our mother the Tsaritsa and Illinchaya the cook, holding each other close, while d’Acosta sank onto the stone next to the pancake, lamenting out loud in the fashion of his Mediterranean people, bleating away, all snot and tears, his funny little face scrunched up.

  Already, the magic of Kolomenskoye’s old earth wove a bond of ease and simplicity between us, a thousand threads to its loom, sanctified by our shared sorrow and suffering. Our tears were as much of an offering to peace and friendship as the pancakes on the whetting stone had been. Mother was right: we were lucky to be back here. For how often in life do pancakes, honey and sour milk suffice to appease an evil spirit?

  3

  We settled for the spring in Kolomenskoye. Even if half of the corridors had been hastily blocked off upon our arrival, as the beams beneath them would not carry our weight, the palace had not changed. It was so large that we all lost ourselves in its more than two hundred and fifty rooms, not needing to see another soul for days on end. Illinchaya swore that the woodworms were by now so big and mighty that she heard them chewing at night: ‘Stop telling porkies, Illinchaya. We are not children any more,’ I scolded her.

  Room by room, we regained possession, filling our grandfather’s hunting lodge with our youthfulness and joy. We slid down the big staircase, sitting or lying on mattresses, pretending they were toboggans, and loved how the steps made our teeth chatter. We chased our spinning tops down the corridors, placing bets on their speed. Anoushka dusted off her doll’s house: a master cabinetmaker from Nuremberg had copied the Summer Palace’s sunburst splendour in every detail, down to its panelled walls shaded in the Neva’s icy green and the honey-coloured, patterned parquet flooring. She would move about her families of dolls; their porcelain faces blank and their lower limbs rigid. The dolls’ beautiful dresses, once fashioned according to the latest European tailoring, were long gone – mice had probably bolstered their nests with them – so Anoushka pinned sun-bleached scraps of fabric that Illinchaya gave her into their soft bodies. I watched her, fascinated: she applied the same thought and care I would to my tack and saddle, seeing them properly soaped and waxed for the next day’s ride.

  One last room we had not so far revisited was the Great Hall, my grandfather’s Throne Room. As we slipped into its vast space, one leaf of the high double doors creaking in its hinges, I halted on the threshold, staring in awe. The midday light filtered moodily through the stained-glass panes; every inch of the intricate wood panelling on the walls and ceilings had once been gaily painted, but the colours had faded. It felt as if I had shrunk and stepped into a former favourite toy, the kaleidoscope that Father’s envoy to Persia, Prince Avram Volynsky, had once given me.

  ‘Look, Anoushka. It is still here,’ I said in a hushed voice, pointing to the only piece of furniture always to have remained in situ in Kolomenskoye: my grandfather’s ebony throne. Its back was high and each arm ended in a mighty carved lion’s head. Like the rest of the palace, the throne had gently gathered the dust of decades since Grandfather Alexis’ death and our moving away.

  ‘Come,’ I told Anoushka and we slid over the parquet, as if skidding on a frozen lake, to reach the throne. The lions’ jaws were closed but their gold-leaf manes flamed and their eyes were inlaid with rubies. The gems had promised our Grandfather a sound mind, helping him to make wise decisions. Their crimson fire gleamed at Anoushka and me. I stepped up, polishing the jewels with my sleeve, before moving a secret lever behind one head. ‘Waaaah!’ I roared as the beasts opened their jaws in a creaky, rusty motion. Anoushka jumped and I giggled. The mechanism had probably scared witless the peasants who came to see Grandfather.

  I stepped back next to her and stood facing the throne. ‘Go on. Sit on it.’ I gave Anoushka a little shove. ‘You are the elder.’

  ‘I’d never dare. What if Father found out?’

  ‘He would laugh,’ I said, trying to sound convinced.

  ‘Is that so? Why don’t you sit on it then?’

  I checked the throne on its dais. The red velvet canopy above it was musty, flecked with spiders’ webs and had been attacked by moths. The high ebony chair-back was intricately carved and a footstool of embossed silver lay carelessly toppled, as if our grandfather had just risen to go hunting with his falcons, a favourite pastime. Even as little girls growing up here, carefree and far removed from all pomp and protocol, we had never dared to climb onto the dais and sit on the throne. I swallowed hard.

  ‘All right then,’ I said. My palms were clammy as I took a step forward. The chair seemed to grow in size and towered over us, its dark outlines a dire warning not to trespass on a Tsar’s power

  ‘Lizenka!’ Anoushka seized my elbow. ‘Don’t. This is not for us.’

  ‘Of course not,’ I said and stood still. ‘No woman has ever ruled Russia and no woman ever will. Do you remember what Illinchaya told us about father’s evil half-sister Sophia? The one who acted as Regent for Father and mad Uncle Ivan when they were Tsars as boys, and too young and too ill to reign? Even she never dared take the throne.’

  ‘I do. I also remember that Illinchaya did not call our uncle mad Ivan.’ Anoushka grinned.

  True: naughty, outspoken Illinchaya had called my father’s elder half-brother, who had been stricken by a terri
ble illness since his birth, ‘Ivan the Idiot’. Such lack of respect could earn our nanny anything from a thorough flogging to being flayed alive, depending on the mood of the judge interpreting the Tsar’s laws. Oh, I could not wait to sit in her kitchen again and listen to stories from the past about our family, as we had done as children.

  ‘Father must never hear that. Ivan and he were Tsars together, ruling Russia, whether Ivan was mad or an idiot or both – or neither,’ I said. After Ivan’s death, Father had locked up his usurping half-sister Sofia but took generous and loving care of Ivan’s widow Praskovia, whom we called our Aunt Pasha, and her daughters, our much older cousins Ekaterina and Anna Ivanovna. Once we had left Kolomenskoye we had even lived for a couple of years with Aunt Pasha in Izmailov Palace. Father’s wish was clear and our command: the family, as the country, should stand united. Russia needed a single, strong and anointed ruler, instead of being torn apart by siblings squabbling for the throne.

  I glanced at the throne once more, as if the shadows around it could eavesdrop and betray me. ‘But, Anoushka, I wonder… Alexey is dead,’ I whispered and hastily crossed myself with three fingers, ‘and Aunt Pasha and Tsar Ivan had only daughters, Ekaterina and Anna, who are married off and far away.’ I crossed myself again, averting the evil eye from my cousins.

  ‘Yes?’ Anoushka probed me.

  ‘So if Mother should bear no more sons, who then would inherit Father’s throne?’

  Anoushka turned to check that we were truly on our own. Any allusion to Father dying one day was high treason and our half-brother Alexey’s fate served as a dire warning to everyone – even us! No one was safe from the Tsar’s wrath. ‘You know what Father made Feofan Prokopovich declare: a Tsar would rather leave Russia to a worthy stranger than to his own unworthy child.’