‘Don’t!’ hissed Militza. The women recoiled slightly. One of them stepped behind a plant as protection. It was clearly amusing to gawp and giggle at the Goat Princesses from afar, but saying anything straight to Stana’s determined face was obviously something else.
‘Oh, at last! I was hoping to bump into you,’ began a large bustling woman. Her elderly looking court dress was slightly faded and yellowed around the neck. ‘I have been searching the halls, looking for you both. I am dying to invite you to my salon!’ She beamed, flapping a substantial ostrich feather and mother-of-pearl fan in front of her flushed face. ‘I’m Sophia Ignatiev!’
Militza and Stana smiled. Everyone knew about the Countess Ignatiev and her thrice-weekly salons, where the enlightened, the mysterious and the divorced would meet and exchange ideas. It was a veritable crossroads for mystics and healers, a place to discuss radical theories, exchange ideas, and indulge in a little table tipping and some coffee-ground reading. The Countess Sophia Ignatiev’s reputation did indeed precede her.
‘Enchanté,’ said Stana, holding out a white-gloved hand to the countess. ‘We know exactly who you are.’
‘Oh, do say you’ll come!’ said the countess, enthusiastically taking hold of Stana’s hand. ‘I know you’d enjoy it.’
‘You do?’ asked Militza.
‘Oh yes.’ She smiled, encouragingly. ‘There are so many people I want to introduce you to.’
‘We shall be sure to attend,’ replied Stana.
‘As soon as you can!’
‘Of course,’ smiled Stana.
‘You two would be such an exciting addition!’ exclaimed the countess, silently clapping her gloved hands together. ‘I shall send over my card. I am at 26 Kutuzov Embankment.’
‘We should hurry,’ said Militza, glancing towards a large gilt clock in a nearby alcove. ‘It is nearly nine, time for the procession.’
The sisters wove their way through the mass of embroidered dresses and brocaded uniforms towards the Malachite Hall, where the atmosphere of anticipation was growing as courtiers, counts and countesses, princes and princesses all manoeuvred themselves into better positions. Large palms were pushed out of the way as everyone readied themselves for the arrival of the Tsar and his new wife.
‘Ah!’ said Peter, taking his wife’s hand. ‘I have been looking for you.’
‘As soon as the Tsar passes we follow on behind,’ whispered Militza to Stana.
‘Are you sure? I think we should hold back,’ she replied, looking nervous. Not only was Militza asking her to push to the front, which was neither their place nor position to do so, but she was also suggesting Stana parade through the halls on her own, advertising the absence of her husband.
‘Nonsense,’ hissed Militza. ‘We need to assert our affiliation early. We need to start as we mean to go on.’
‘But—’ Stana’s heart was racing. She could not walk behind the Tsar and Tsarina alone. People would talk. They’d ask questions.
‘My brother is here to hold your hand for the polonaise should you so wish?’ suggested Peter, reading her mind.
‘Grand Duke Nikolai?’ Her face lit up.
‘At your service,’ replied Nikolai, clicking his heels together and bowing his head slightly. Dressed in a red hussar’s uniform, he looked even more attractive than the day he’d escorted her down the aisle. Elegant, a little bronzed by the sun and so very tall, he exuded the clean health of a man fond of fresh air. ‘No George tonight?’
‘He’s in Biarritz.’ She smiled.
‘Biarritz?’ he replied. ‘I can’t think what keeps him there. It’s such a dreary little town.’
‘So they say,’ said Stana, her voice a little clipped.
‘Nikolasha has just come back from a hunting trip outside Moscow. He’s got some of the most beautiful borzois you have ever seen. He breeds them,’ enthused Peter looking up at his older brother. ‘You should go and see them, Stana.’
‘I’d like that,’ Stana smiled, offering up her hand.
‘It would be my pleasure,’ replied Nikolasha, gently kissing it.
It was odd, thought Militza, as she watched his lips press against her sister’s white glove, that a man of his standing should not yet be married.
‘Are you looking forward to this evening, my darling?’ asked Peter, looking his wife up and down.
‘I am a little nervous,’ whispered Militza.
‘I’ll look after you,’ he said, smiling.
The Grand Marshall of the Imperial Court, Count Benckendorff, appeared and thumped his ten-foot ebony staff, embossed in gold, down on the wooden floor three times. The hall fell silent.
‘Their Imperial Majesties – the Tsar and Tsarina!’
The two six-foot-four Abyssinians, wearing exquisite twisted golden turbans, heaved open the great mahogany doors inlaid with gold and the Tsar and Tsarina slowly appeared. She shimmered with silver thread and the light of a thousand diamonds and pearls, while he was dressed in a red hussar’s uniform, covered in the thick golden ropes and tassels of various orders and honours.
Militza stared at them. The Tsarina was indeed beautiful with her exquisite pale eyes, her delicate features and her red-gold hair, but she had not expected the young Tsar to be so attractive. She had made his acquaintance on several occasions before, where she’d always found him a little frivolous and perhaps a little short, but now, standing within a few feet of her, dressed in his uniform, in his new role of Tsar – ruler of the largest and richest country on earth – she felt the unmistakable allure of power. She held her breath as his pale eyes scanned the room and then rested on her for a moment. She smiled and slowly curtseyed, careful to lower her thick, dark lashes last of all.
‘Your Imperial Majesty,’ she breathed.
The Tsar and Tsarina stepped forward. A deferential wave of bowing and curtseying swept through the hall and out into the corridors beyond. The orchestra struck up the lugubrious ‘God Save the Tsar’ as the imperial couple began to walk through the hall.
Behind them, there was a mad scramble between the most well-connected in the land as each couple vied for position, prestige and proximity to the royal couple. The Vladimirs were in first, the Yusupovs not far behind. Momentarily, a gap opened up. Militza saw it and seized her chance. She grabbed hold of a deeply reluctant Peter, dragging him in her wake.
‘What do you think you are doing?’ he hissed, his face flushed with embarrassment. ‘This is not the way it is done!’
‘Trust me!’ she replied. ‘Come on, Stana!’ She pulled on her sister’s arm. And she and Grand Duke Nicholas had little choice but to follow.
‘There they go,’ muttered someone. ‘Scylla and Charybdis, pushing their way to the front.’
‘Ignore them,’ said Militza holding her chin aloft as she stepped forward in time to the music.
The procession began to weave its way through the Winter Palace. Led by the Tsar and Tsarina, it graced every room with its magnificence as the lengthy column danced three times around the building. Only several steps behind the Empress, Militza could feel her heart pounding with adrenaline as she gripped her husband’s hand. It was the Tsarina’s first outing and here she was, so very near to her! Yet her moment of triumph was somewhat dissipated by the Tsarina’s evident discomfort.
The expectation, the anticipation, the examination, the scrutiny of thousands of pairs of eyes were all proving too much for her. A virulent rash started to spread up the back of Alexandra’s neck and across her shoulders and her ears began to throb a bright scarlet. The bowing crowds began to mutter and whisper their disapproval as she passed. And the more they muttered, the brighter the rash became. As the Tsarina turned a corner, Militza could see the bright pink blotches all over the Empress’s face. She did not look like a proud, glamorous Imperial Majesty, parading in front of her adoring public, but more like a nervous young woman on the verge of tears.