The Tsarina's Daughter Page 7

  ‘But does he taste as good? Shall I take a nibble?’

  ‘Please do.’ Petrushka grinned. I loved to see him like this, smiling with unabashed glee. It was too rare a sight.

  ‘My boy,’ Ostermann said as he stepped up to us: Father had awarded Petrushka no title at birth, neither Tsarevich nor Prince of Russia. The German’s impatience was palpable for once: it was so rare for the Tsar to summon his only grandchild and sole male Romanov heir that his guardian would not wish there to be any delay.

  ‘Welcome, Count Ostermann. Thank you for the good care you take of our nephew.’ Anoushka smiled at Ostermann. ‘I suppose in Father’s new Russia, learning never stops.’

  ‘Whatever it takes to please His Majesty the Tsar,’ Ostermann answered, bowing. Petrushka’s continued survival depended on Father’s scant mercy towards the boy. The Vice-Chancellor was well turned out, his thin body clad in the red jacket and soft kidskin breeches of the Imperial Guard, though he never had marched in any field of battle and moved only by sedan chair, carriage or sled. A good dozen honorary medals gleamed on his narrow chest. Pride of place, however, belonged to the brooch bearing my father’s portrait, which pinned down the blue sash of the Order of St Andrew, Russia’s highest honour; the diamonds framing it flamed imperiously in the sun. Was he dressed up like this to celebrate my engagement? I would never know as he kept his eyes carefully lowered; according to him, the gaze was the traitor of our thoughts and feelings. That lesson seemed lost on Petrushka, who beamed at me, his expression open and trusting, while Ostermann ruffled the boy’s thin dark hair, his fingers short and surprisingly gnarled. ‘Shall we go? The Tsar awaits,’ he said.

  Petrushka gave me a last rueful smile, straightened his dark, unadorned little waistcoat, and took Ostermann’s hand to head towards the Grand Palace.

  I watched them leave. In Ostermann’s grey eyes I had spotted that most unusual thing at court: true love and tenderness for this child. ‘I am surprised that Father asks Petrushka to witness my betrothal to the King of France,’ I said to Anoushka, who had watched in silence.

  ‘Oh, Lizenka. Please do not be disappointed if there is another reason why Father has asked us here.’

  ‘Why? What else could it be?’

  ‘You yourself wondered only weeks ago who Father’s heir would be. It was in Grandfather Alexis’ throne room. The same day that we… ’ She halted, unable to say more. I pleadingly rested my finger on my lips.

  ‘Don’t,’ I begged.

  All light and sunshine seeped from the day around us. ‘Oh, God. I have not slept well ever since,’ she said, tears welling up and the words tumbling from her mouth.

  I fought back tears. ‘I am so sorry. It was all my fault.’

  ‘No. You must not think that, ever. It was fate. Hush now.’ Anoushka took a deep breath, gathering herself. ‘But really: suddenly Petrushka appears in Peterhof. Can’t you guess what that means? Who if not he should inherit the throne once Father… ’ She stopped short of committing a crime tantamount to blasphemy: alluding to the Tsar’s mortality.

  Of course. Father was finally doing what was only right: welcoming little Petrushka to the family – his family! – and recognising his claim to the throne. I took a deep breath, chasing away my disappointment, feeling a wave of tenderness: Petrushka was blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh. I should support him wherever possible. ‘Well, what a reason to celebrate and be merry. In a couple of moments, Russia might have a new heir.’

  Anoushka smiled. ‘That’s what I love so much about you. Your heart is as big as your mouth.’

  ‘That big?’

  ‘Bigger still.’ She opened her arms to me. ‘The best things will come to you, little sister sunshine.’

  I wove Anoushka’s arm around my waist while wrapping my own around her shoulders. Together, we followed Petrushka and Count Ostermann inside the Grand Palace to hear Father’s big announcement. More than even the most advantageous engagement, Russia needed an official heir, a Tsarevich.

  12

  In the Grand Palace, light poured through the two-tiered windows of the Portrait Hall, warming its glacial majesty and making the gilt stucco embellishment gleam like sunrise. The fifty-foot-high, stark white walls were enlivened by the myriad paintings Father had acquired from Italy: they hung frame to frame from floor to ceiling, where I admired the recently finished work of another French master. A fresco showed the four seasons flowing from a Greek god’s bountiful hands. Fortune’s cornucopia doused and drenched me: whatever awaited me in Father’s study, I would do Russia justice. If I had pitied Petrushka before, I now felt proud of my young nephew.

  A sea breeze filled Father’s wood-panelled study, even though its four latticed windows gave on to the quiet of the Upper Garden. It was undisturbed by even the sound of lapping waters, allowing him to concentrate. The study’s panelling was carved with depictions of all that captivated and inspired him: trophies and arms, globes as well as astronomical and nautical instruments, the signs of the zodiac – I spotted my own, Capricorn – and musical motifs, together with flower garlands, scallop shells and foliate scrolls. Both worlds, the natural and the intangible, were celebrated side by side.

  ‘Welcome, Tsarevny,’ Father said, leaning on his desk. He wore the green uniform jacket of the Imperial Preobrazhensky Regiment and the blue sash of the order of St Andrew on his chest. While the gold buttons shone as much as the gold galloon of his epaulettes and the military medals he had been awarded for bravery in the field, he wore his old boots, which he had earned the money to pay for by working in a Dutch shipyard as a young man. Their tips and soles had been mended dozens of times. He paused a moment, his face set. The air thickened with his authority. The change in him from the humorous, loving father we had seen in the pantry just a couple of hours ago, to absolute monarch and incalculable and unpredictable Tsar here in his Grand Palace, was awe-inspiring. His whole being was infused with his Divine calling as ruler of Russia. Anoushka and I curtsied, my gaze skimming his desk, looking for correspondence bearing the Bourbon coat-of-arms. But I only saw the usual array of scrolls, papers and open books, next to all sorts of interesting objects, ranging from nautical instruments, which he ordered from England, to strangely shaped shells he gathered during his morning walks along the shore. A frayed wig lay crumpled up next to a half-empty jug of kvass, an oily film on its surface. His precious Augsburg bronze table-clock with its curious horizontally placed dial – making it look like a compass even when Father was not at sea – ticked steadily. It was a symbol of the philosophy he lived by; lost time, like death, could not be reversed.

  Mother stepped closer to Father. She was swathed in a purple silk gown, lace foaming at her cleavage and sleeves. A diamond headband studded with amethysts sparkled as brightly as her eyes. Her shiny curls, which she wore pinned half up, half down, tumbled onto her shoulders in a luscious wave. If Father mostly looked down-at-heel, he preferred his ladies to be elegantly turned out and expensively adorned.

  ‘Ready?’ he asked her tenderly, before turning to glance at Feofan Prokopovich, the Archbishop of Novgorod and Father’s most trusted adviser. I smiled at him: he had baptised both Anoushka and me and had married our parents. Feofan Prokopovich always found a way of supporting even Father’s most daring dreams. He returned my smile warmly and touched his golden cross, which covered his chest from his collarbone to his belt and was studded with pearls, crystal, rubies and emeralds – the panagia – yet his dark brown eyes, assessing Anoushka and me, were as alert as spiders in their nest of wrinkles.

  ‘Petrushka, this is an important moment for you and for us, as it is for All the Russias,’ Father said in a clipped voice but without turning to look at his grandson.

  Petrushka stood and smiled at him, his gaze open, and then he bowed, shyly and sweetly, prompted by Ostermann, who seemed determined that his charge should make a good impression. As he straightened up, the Vice-Chancellor clasped Petrushka’s still childishly bony shoulder. What had he
told the boy to prepare him for this moment? Inheriting the world’s largest and wealthiest realm ought to come as no surprise. If Petrushka’s face was even paler than before, Ostermann’s pride to be witnessing this moment after long years of carefully instructing his charge was palpable. I gathered my thoughts, ready for the elevation of my young nephew to heir of All the Russias.

  Father cleared his throat and unearthed a freshly sealed ukay from the mayhem on his desk. No chamberlain was allowed to impose what he took to be order there. Ink glistened on the crisp paper and the Imperial seal had been forced deeply into an oozing mass of crimson sealing wax. His hands trembled ever so slightly when the door opened one more time.

  I looked up.

  The most favoured of all my father’s courtiers entered the room: Prince Alexander Danilovich Menshikov. ‘I beg your pardon for being late,’ he murmured, bowing to us carefully so as not to make his wig slip. It was high, white and curly as a French grandee’s. Nothing in his appearance, from the abundant fine lace of his jabot, the brocade jacket with aquamarine buttons, the fabric stiff from gold embroidery – according to Mother, a serf household could live a dozen years on the proceeds of one thread – his ivory silk trousers and his shoes of polished black calfskin with huge ornamented silver buckles, gave away his humble background. Like Mother, he had risen from dirt-poor beginnings to the most dizzying heights of power. Father and he had met as young boys in the Moscow suburb of Preobrazhensky, which means ‘transformation’ in Russian. It was an auspicious meeting: the pie baker’s son Menshikov, who peddled pastries in the suburb’s freezing streets, and the young Tsar, who was shunned by his half-sister the Regent Sophia, became firm friends. Menshikov accompanied Father on his early travels to Germany, the Netherlands and England, and finally gained his lifelong admiration for conquering the swampy wilderness around Lake Ladoga, then home to only bears and wolves, where Father founded St Petersburg. The Tsar’s trusted friend Alekasha could do no wrong – rising from abject squalor to Grand Master of the Teutonic Knights, Field Marshal, Senator and hereditary Prince of Russia as well as of the Holy Roman Empire.

  Father grinned: ‘Lateness is not a problem but speak once more without permission and I’ll train my whip on you, Alekasha.’ He threateningly wagged his dubina, the omnipresent knout dangling at his side, at Menshikov, then winked at his friend and blew him a kiss. Their tiffs fizzled out as quickly as they flared up. Mother, too, gave Menshikov a warm smile. He had spotted her beauty when she had been taken as a prisoner-of-war by the Russians and had placed her in the Tsar’s path.

  ‘I shall gladly take any beating if it is for the glory of Russia,’ Menshikov chuckled, and casually took a place by the fireside. Petrushka stared at both Father and him: the boy was not accustomed to their banter. Court life was a dark and dangerous maze; I should help my nephew understand the forces at work here, I decided. Menshikov leaned against the vast fireplace next to Ostermann, who ignored him, a slight that Menshikov returned. He winked at Petrushka but did not greet him further. Instead, he slapped his soft, cognac-coloured riding gloves impatiently against one broad peasant palm, as if he had just got off his horse from Oranienbaum, his neighbouring estate, which rivalled Peterhof in beauty, elegance and luxury.

  Father closed his eyes as if pained. Feofan Prokopovich clutched the panagia hanging on his breast and soundlessly recited a prayer. I smiled at Petrushka, readying myself to drop into the perfect curtsy my music teacher, the bear-sized yet nimble Herr Schwartz, had taught me.

  ‘Anna Petrovna Romanova. Elizabeth Petrovna Romanova. My daughters, Tsarevny of All the Russias. Our time is an era of great change for which we have to be ready. Your nephew, and Our grandson Petrushka is only a boy.’ Ostermann shifted, barely able to master his impatience to hear the words he longed for, though they had so far been left unsaid: Petrushka, however shunned, was the sole surviving male Romanov heir.

  Yet Father kept his eyes fixed on his daughters. ‘The way from the playroom to the throne is fraught with peril, treason and hardship. I have sought counsel from God before taking this enormous decision… ’ He nodded to Feofan Prokopovich and Ostermann laid his other hand on Petrushka’s shoulders as well, fingers splayed protectively.

  Father stepped around his desk, but instead of going to Petrushka, he placed his hands flat on Anoushka’s and my foreheads: heat emanated from his callused palm. Mother folded her hands in prayer and closed her eyes while Feofan chanted, praising the Lord and the Tsar’s decision, his voice as solemn as a bronze bell. A shiver chased down my spine as Father announced: ‘My daughters, I herewith declare you Crown Princesses of All the Russias – Tsesarevny. Serve the realm. If Russia is not great, we are nothing.’

  Sweat prickled on my neck as heat rose from deep inside me. This was impossible; my nephew, the last male Romanov, stood just an arshin away from us with no title conferred on him. I felt like embracing Petrushka to console him. He should know himself loved, despite everything. Had Father truly brought him here for the sole purpose of witnessing our elevation? Was he mocking us as well, turning the world on its head as he loved to do? Menshikov stared: his gaze sought out Anoushka and me, seeing us in a new light, before his eyes moved on to Petrushka, taking him in as if for the first time. He seemed as surprised as we were, which was something he disliked. Petrushka winced as Ostermann’s fingers clenched his shoulders before he could mouth an objection. Instead his little face darkened; his gaze fixed on Father with palpable disappointment and rage.

  Feofan gave his feline smile, caressing his grey beard as if it were one of his many Persian cats. Once more he had encouraged my father to express his most daring dreams, going against all custom and tradition. No wonder the Old Believers and the white clergy, the simple country priests, hated him for his courage and progressive thinking. I sought Father’s eyes. Now that it was done he beamed at Anoushka and me, looking elated. Behind him, beneath his desk, I caught a movement: the dwarf d’Acosta lay there curled up like a kitten, his eyes squeezed shut and fists pressed to his ears.

  I drew a breath that sounded like a hiccup. Feofan Prokopovich stepped forward, his smile warm and his gaze deep as he drew the Sign of the Cross on our foreheads. ‘May God’s will guide you and His wisdom give you good counsel, Tsesarevny,’ he said, addressing us by our new title, his dark eyes fathomless.

  Ostermann’s hand fell slack. Petrushka stood unsupported, his lips pinched into a thin line and his amber gaze lit with rage. Once more he had been cruelly punished for being Alexey’s son. In Father’s eyes no water in the world would wash him clean of that sin.

  ‘But is the eldest male inheriting the crown not God’s will?’ Anoushka dared to ask, casting a confused glance at our little nephew.

  Feofan calmly said: ‘God’s will is the Tsar’s will. Only He knows the secrets of a ruler’s soul.’

  Mother rushed forward, smothering us in her embrace. ‘My daughters are Tsesarevny of All the Russias,’ she marvelled. Warmth and pride rose from deep inside me. Father had trusted us with this enormous honour. I understood him. Russia needed to be able to take its pick from a multitude of heirs. Who knew what fate had in store for Petrushka? D’Acosta left his hiding place, took Petrushka’s hand and drew the boy towards us. Petrushka made a perfect bow. His voice faltered as he said: ‘My sincere congratulations, Tsesarevny Elizabeth and Anoushka.’

  I embraced him but he would not return my show of affection. Petrushka stood stiffly, arms hanging, fists clenched. ‘Don’t you ever dare stop calling me Lizenka,’ I said. My feelings for him had not changed. ‘I won’t,’ he whispered, tears welling in his eyes.

  Menshikov pushed himself upright, clearly wishing to be part of this process. He was seething that Father had left him out of the decision-making. ‘Don’t we have any Champagne to celebrate with? That slimy kvass on your desk will not do, minher Peter. It’s worse than horse piss,’ he said, hiding his humiliation behind a joke. Father grinned at him as Menshikov addressed him in Dutch, which w
as their secret language.

  ‘Ostermann, you may take the boy back to St Petersburg,’ ordered Father, not even looking at Petrushka. He had neither touched the boy nor directly spoken to him. But Petrushka would have none of it. Instead of bowing and leaving, he wriggled out of Ostermann’s grasp. ‘No! I do not want to return to that stuffy place. What are you punishing me for? I have done nothing wrong. If my father was a traitor, I am not!’ Tears overwhelmed him and I bit my lip. ‘Grandfather, please, allow me to stay. I want to feed the fish with Aunt Lizenka. She said I could be captain of a boat—’

  Father turned his back on him, ignoring Petrushka’s plea. Ostermann seized the boy, clutching both his upper arms. ‘I, too, have a fish pond in my garden. And we can study the world’s most famous captains—’

  ‘No! Lizenka is fun! I want to be with her.’ Petrushka fought him.

  I shook my head at him, just enough for him to notice: he was making things worse for himself. He ceased struggling, hanging limp in Ostermann’s grip, looking at me with utter despair. Father stood tall, towering over the boy, his eyes glacial. If he had once vilified his half-sister Sophia, a woman, for assuming the Regency in his and his half-brother’s name, today he had elevated Anoushka and me beyond our imagining. He stood staring out of the window, shoulders slumped, weighed down by questions, looking out as if expecting the answers to arrive by messenger.

  Ostermann grimaced, straightened his gouty leg and bowed, before bundling a still-protesting Petrushka out of the door. We waited until it had closed and the sound of their footsteps had faded.

  ‘Starik,’ Mother whispered – old man, her nickname for him – as she stepped up to Father. She laid his hand on her belly in a movement that made me blush. ‘God may still grant us a son.’ She smiled hopefully. Father nodded curtly. We lowered our eyes. Was she really still hoping for it to happen? Even we knew it would not.