Finally, they came to a halt back in the Nicholas Hall. The procession broke up and the dancing began. The Tsar was first to choose a partner, the middle-aged wife of a member of the Diplomatic Corps. Meanwhile Alexandra was forced to dance the quadrille with the woman’s rotund husband. Peter took hold of his wife, placing his hand around her waist as the orchestras at each end of the enormous hall began to play.
‘I am not sure your little move has been much appreciated,’ muttered Peter. ‘Half the eyes of the room are upon you.’
‘Really?’ replied Militza pretending not to care.?‘And the other half are on my sister.’ They both looked across at Stana who, dressed in pale pink, was surrounded by a small troop of young officers, waiting to take her hand.
‘I am not sure the other ladies look too pleased,’ suggested Peter.
‘Nor indeed does your brother,’ retorted Militza, noticing the tall figure of Nikolasha brooding slightly by an orange tree.
‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ declared Peter. ‘Your sister is a married woman.’
After the fourth quadrille, the orchestras struck up the mazurka and Peter immediately took his leave. Not the most co-ordinated of dancers, his spurs had ripped his wife’s expensive Worth dress at the last party and she had vowed never to dance the mazurka with him again. Relieved to be spared, Militza leant against a marble pillar and searched for the Tsar among the swirl of dancers. Instead, she spotted her sister on the other side of the hall, dancing with the Tsar’s younger brother. Militza smiled; if only her father were here to witness this, Stana in the arms of the Tsarevich, Grand Duke Georgie, who looked so very handsome as he swooped up and down on one knee. Papa would surely toast Stana with a glass of the sweet apricot rakia that he was so fond of.
‘May I?’ came a voice from behind her that made Militza jump slightly. She turned to see the unmistakable thick moustache of Count Yusupov.
‘May you what?’ asked Militza somewhat confused.
The Count did not reply, but merely gripped her hand a little too fiercely as he led her to the dance floor. Militza wanted to resist but she feared causing a scene; something, of course, Count Yusupov knew perfectly well. He said not one word to her as he spun and swirled her this way and that, manoeuvring her into the middle of the room. The more Militza tried to pull away, the tighter his grip became.
‘You probably think you are very clever,’ he whispered as he held her firmly against his chest. He smelt of vodka and tobacco. ‘Getting so close in the line behind the Tsar and Tsarina.’
‘Not at all,’ she replied, her mouth a little dry.
‘I saw you, pushing in.’ Militza attempted to say something, but he pulled her in tighter.?‘I don’t know what pushy little ideas you have, trying to befriend the new Tsar, but let me be the first to warn you: we don’t like trespassers here.’ He held her so tightly against him now and whispered so forcefully in her ear that she could feel the brush of his lips against her skin.
‘No,’ she whispered in agreement.
‘Some of us belong to families that have been here for hundreds of years – we have earned our places, our titles and the Tsar’s patronage.’ His fingertips were boring into her waist and her shoulders. She could feel her own skin bruising.
‘Doesn’t your family have more riches than the imperial family? You own lands the size of France!’ Militza attempted to laugh lightly, trying to flatter the man.
‘It’s not about money, you foolish Goat Girl!’ His mouth was now so close to hers, their lips were almost touching and she could taste his acrid breath. ‘It’s about power! Influence is power and power is influence. You pull a trick like that again and you will understand what real power is.’
Finally, the music stopped and the old Count released her; he clicked his heels, bowed his head and walked away. Militza could hardly breathe, her chest and throat were so tight. It took her a few moments to gather herself together enough to walk through the crowd. The music started up again and the couples in the packed ballroom began to dance once more. Militza was left to weave her way through them like a street drunk who’s imbibed too much.
‘I saw you dancing with Count Felix,’ commented Peter when she approached her husband.
‘Yes,’ replied Militza, her hands shaking.
‘An odd person.’ Peter sucked on the end of his cigarette. ‘I’m not sure I like him much. She’s the one with the title and all the money. He’s from nowhere – and that’s never good for a man. Poor chap, I think that’s what makes him so charmless. Are you all right, darling?’ Peter looked at her suddenly. ‘You look a little pale.’
‘I just think I need some air.’
It was all Militza could do to stop herself from running towards the open side door. But once through she let out a loud sob as she fell against a window. Tears of anger, fear and indignation poured down her cheeks. She had been so stupid! Overcome with ambition and giddy at the sight of the Tsar, she had made a foolish mistake. What she had done was reckless. And she was not the reckless type. It was Stana who rushed in regardless. Not her. What had she been thinking? Had Yusupov seen the ambition in her eyes? She must be more careful next time, must play a longer, smarter game. She was too clever, too talented, to be caught out that easily.
The windowpane felt cool against her hot forehead. Militza dried her tears and then suddenly caught a glimpse of herself in the glass. Her white skin, her black hair, her ruby necklace and tiara were reflected back at her. She was not a woman to be defeated. She would use all that her mother had given her to make her father proud. If Count Yusupov wanted an easy victory, then he had picked on the wrong woman. She looked at herself again and this time her deep black eyes shone back at her, brooding and burning. Her pupils quivered as they began to dilate and the fine hairs on her arms stood on end. She desperately needed a second chance. But so soon?
A pitter-patter of tiny feet came running up the corridor. Militza turned around. And there she was: a little girl with pretty blonde curls and a pale blue bow in her hair.
‘My goodness!’ said Militza bending down, a smile on her face. ‘You should be in bed!’ The little girl giggled and fluffed up her white party dress. ‘What’s your name?’
‘May,’ said the little girl dancing from one foot to the other.
‘How old are you, May?’
‘Four,’ laughed the little girl, holding up four fingers on her chubby little hand, then she turned and started to skip along the moonlit corridor, singing.
‘Where is your mummy, May?’ called Militza.
‘My mummy’s dead,’ came her reply.
‘Who are you talking to?’ asked a voice.
Militza looked up to see the young Tsarina as she stepped out of the shadows and shimmered in the moonlight. Militza quickly swooped into a deep and graceful curtsey.
‘Your Imperial Majesty,’ she said. ‘I am Grand Duchess Militza Nikolayevna.’
‘Good evening,’ replied Alexandra with a small smile. In the half-light and away from the intense heat and scrutiny of the ball, the Empress appeared calm, controlled – and certainly more beautiful. ‘Who were you talking to?’
‘Oh, it was just a little girl. A little girl who very definitely should be in bed!’
‘What was her name?’ The Tsarina fiddled with her fan as Militza stared into her blue eyes.
‘She said her name was May.’
‘May?’