‘Well, she hasn’t really, not where she’s from,’ grimaced Peter. ‘Tell me, where is George tonight? Doesn’t he know what he’s missing! He can’t still be in Biarritz?’
‘Isn’t he always?’ replied Stana, digging deeper into her sable muff and hunching her fur-clad shoulders.
‘When is he coming back?.’
‘I am the last person who’s privy to his plans,’ Stana replied, looking firmly out of the window.
‘I can’t think what keeps him there,’ mused Peter. ‘It’s such a dreary little town. Especially out of season.’
‘Good evening!’ announced a footman as he opened the carriage door his frost-blasted nose, poking over the top of his grey coat. ‘Your Imperial Highnesses…’ He bowed low, holding on to the top of his heavy astrakhan hat. He held out a sturdy black-gloved hand to help Stana out of the carriage first, followed by Militza and finally Peter.
In front of them the dark red walls of the Winter Palace were illuminated from every window like an overdressed Christmas tree. Outside, the thick snow and the cold air swallowed the noise of the arriving carriages, yet as they approached the door the excitement was palpable, the entrance hall abuzz. Who was here? Who was not? Who had made the cut?
The guests entered the palace according to rank and the Grand Dukes used the Saltykov Entrance. Once inside, Peter, Stana and Militza deposited their coats and furs with the white-stockinged footmen and changed into their silk party shoes.
‘Right.’ Stana braced herself as she handed over her fur. The two sisters faced each other. ‘How do I look?’
‘Beautiful,’ declared Militza, taking in her younger sister’s pale skin, her fine nose and deep, black eyes. Even at twenty-eight years of age, her fresh face and unusual colouring still drew admiring glances. ‘So, we try to make her acquaintance tonight.’
‘Two or three words?’ asked Stana, reaching into her bag, thinking to add a little more rouge.
‘More. She may not make friends easily, but every queen needs a confidante.’
‘Or two!’ added Stana with wry laugh.
Briefly pausing to rearrange their jewellery in the large gilt-framed mirror on the wall, they left the cloakroom to rejoin Peter and all three proceeded towards the grand Jordan Staircase. Flanked by crimson-coated footmen in velvet breeches, their hair powdered white and stiff with a thick paste, they slowly made their way towards the Malachite Hall.
‘I wonder who the Tsar will favour with a few words tonight?’ Militza mused to her husband, plucking a glass of champagne off a silver tray.
‘I imagine it will be impossible to engage in any sort of conversation with dear Cousin Nicky. Every aristocrat in the country will be buzzing around them like flies,’ replied Peter, with a vague disinterest as he began to scan the crowd.
‘Are we not to be introduced?’ quizzed Stana nervously.
‘Hush!’ Militza shot her a frosty look. ‘Oh, Maria Pavlovna! How very lovely to see you,’ Militza said and nodded charmingly.
‘Militza Nikolayevna.’ The Grand Duchess Vladimir nodded briefly in reply and the three women looked at each other in silence.
Despite her fine fashions and exquisite jewels, the parties, the late nights and the years were beginning to take their toll on Maria Pavlovna. Her waist had thickened and her skin no longer glowed, yet her lust for power and position remained undiminished. In fact, rumour had it that she was contemplating converting from the Lutheran to the Russian Orthodox faith to advance her eldest son, Kirill, closer to the crown. It amused Militza to watch the Grand Duchess’s irritation at bumping into them. Her keenness not to be delayed by two women so low down in the pecking order at court was obvious. Maria Pavlovna actively twitched as she desperately surveyed the crowd, searching for her exit.
‘Looking forward to meeting the new Tsarina?’ ventured Stana.
‘Meet her? I have known little Alix since she was a child at Hesse-Darmstadt,’ replied Maria, looking over Stana’s shoulder. ‘Such a quiet, mousey little thing. She speaks practically no Russian at all.’
‘I suppose it’s all happened so quickly, what with the Tsar’s sudden death. I don’t suppose she thought she’d be on the throne that soon,’ replied Militza, her eyes fixed on the Grand Duchess.
‘Yes,’ she said, glancing around the room.
‘I hear her English is good,’ added Stana brightly.
‘She is virtually English,’ Maria replied, her eyes closing with a jaded boredom that verged on disdain. ‘She’s Queen Victoria’s favourite grandchild and spent many summers with her English cousins.’
There was another pause.
‘I do think your new tiara is quite delightful,’ enthused Stana.
‘The pearls and diamonds are fashionably large,’ agreed Militza.
‘Thank you.’ Maria’s head swung contentedly. ‘It was very expensive. Ma chere…!’ she declared loudly at a passing guest. ‘Comment c¸a va?’
‘Sometimes I wish you’d left that appalling woman to die,’ Stana whispered to her sister, taking a sip of champagne as she watched Maria disappear into the crowd.
They walked along the high-ceilinged corridors, the air redolent with the smell of pine from the festive evergreen boughs overhead, plus the sweet scent of a thousand perfumed candles. Huge floral displays of exotic blooms shipped in from the Crimea filled the alcoves, along with potted palms and fragrant orange and lemon trees. Music, played by string quartets and roaming gypsy bands, competed with the loud noise of conversation. The further they walked through the marble, jasper and russet porphyry columns, the denser the crowd became and the greater the heat. Princes, princesses, dukes, barons, diplomats and government ministers all dressed in their brightly coloured military uniforms, their chests sagging with medals, traded nods and greetings, mingling among the haze of pale blue cigarette smoke.
In the bottleneck at the doors to the Nicholas Hall, Peter bumped into his favourite relative, Grand Duke Nikolai Mikhailovich, fondly known as Uncle Bimbo, sipping iced vodka and talking to the French Military attaché; they immediately engaged in conversation.
‘Make way for the Yusupovs,’ whispered Stana, as Zinaida and her husband, Count Felix Sumarokov-Elston, barged through in a rustle of silk and a shimmer of expensive stones. ‘Honestly, Militza, I give up sometimes! These people…’
‘Don’t you feel it?’ declared Militza suddenly taking hold of her sister’s wrist. A powerful pulse coursed through her body and her nostrils flared. ‘Can’t you sense it?’ She inhaled as if smelling the sweetest, headiest scent, her eyelids fluttering with intoxication.
‘What?’
‘Look around you.’ Militza’s black eyes darted left and right. ‘Don’t you see? The old guard are in retreat. The hierarchy is changing. An era is over. Nicholas is very different from his father. He is new. He is young. He never expected to come to the throne this soon. The wind… Listen!’ Militza pushed her sister gently up against a pillar. ‘Father managed to use his friendship with the last Tsar to the benefit of our country and now that the old Tsar is gone, it is up to us.’
‘But how?’
‘I don’t know yet, but I can feel it. Look.’ Militza proffered up her right arm. All the thin black hairs were standing on end.
The sisters chose two more flutes of champagne from a footman’s heavy silver tray and passed a group of Cossacks dressed in scarlet coats and dark breeches with a red stripe down the side. They approached three of Tsarina’s ladies-in-waiting who, wearing their special encrusted diamond-framed brooches with the Tsarina’s portrait, were standing near a table of chilled beluga caviar. The ladies looked across and, flapping out their fans, immediately began to whisper.
Stana took a step forward.