‘Well, I thought it was all very jolly,’ declared Peter, brightly, opening up a large silver cigarette box and offering them around. ‘Fascinating stuff, don’t you think?’
‘If you say so,’ muttered George, taking a cigarette and lighting it. He looked from one sister to the other. ‘A rum business.’
‘Who knew my wife was so talented!’ declared Peter.
‘A very good show indeed,’ said George, staring at Militza as he exhaled. ‘Where did you learn such tricks?’
‘Indeed!’ laughed Peter, walking over to his wife’s side. ‘Indeed… So,’ he said turning his back on the room, his face etched with nerves, ‘are you all right?’ he whispered, holding on to Militza’s arm. ‘That was quite something. I have never seen anything like it.’
‘I’m perfectly fine.’ She smiled. ‘It could not have gone better.’
‘Oh good, because you know I would hate…’
‘Don’t worry,’ she smiled again, patting him on the arm. ‘You worry too much.’
It was another half an hour or so before the Tsar felt suitably recovered enough to leave.
‘An extraordinary evening,’ he said, embracing her, caressing Militza’s cheek with his soft moustache. ‘Thank you, we shall most certainly return to do that again,’ he murmured into her ear, before walking rather slowly towards the waiting carriage.
‘Thank you,’ agreed Alexandra, holding Militza’s hand in hers, her eyes still full of tears. ‘I can’t tell you what it means to me to know my sister is safe and well and being looking after.’ She smiled, still holding on to Militza’s hand. ‘Eating baked apples! You have made me so happy tonight. For the first time in this sad and lonely city.’
6
August 1899, Tsarskoye Selo, St Petersburg
After that seminal dinner, the Tsarina continued to visit Znamenka with increasing regularity – each time revealing a little more about herself, each time shedding another layer. However it wasn’t until the morning of 10 August 1899, when Militza received that fateful telephone call, that all resistance crumbled.
Militza could hear the sound of the Tsarina weeping as she ran across the bridge. The agony and the raw emotion were all too obvious as her cries floated across the lake. Not since the death of Militza’s own stillborn daughter a year and a half ago had she heard a cry so painful. And how she remembered that agony. It was visceral; it stopped her heart and tore through her like a burnished sword. Dear Sofia. Poor, sweet Sofia, born to die so her twin sister, Nadezhda, should live. Born to never draw breath…
Militza picked up her skirts and ran faster.
‘Wait for me!’ begged Stana as she tried desperately to keep up. George was abroad, again, and so she had her hands full with her two children, seven-year-old Elena and nine-year-old Sergei, neither of whom were inclined to run on such a hot and humid day. Their clothes were uncomfortable, the sun was beating down and they were desperate to get into one of the rowing boats lying upturned on the grassy bank.
Militza didn’t look back. Ignoring her sister and hitching her white chiffon dress even higher, she held tightly on to her picture hat and the rope of pearls around her neck and ran faster. She could see Alix now through the leaves, under the shade of a large oak tree, reclined on a long wicker chaise surrounded by cushions. Her two daughters were playing on a rug in front of her and the prim and tight-lipped nanny, Miss Margaretta Eagar and the more elderly and yet robust nurse, Mrs Mary Anne Orchard, were also in attendance, entertaining Grand Duchess Olga and Grand Duchess Tatiana, so they did not disturb their grief-stricken mother.
‘Oh Milly!’ wailed Alix on seeing Militza approach. She half rose from the chaise, her tiny six-week-old daughter Maria still suckling at her partially exposed breast. ‘I am so glad you are here. Thank you for coming.’
‘I came as soon as I heard,’ said Militza, trying to catch her breath as she wiped the glow of sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand.
‘Isn’t it awful?’ Alix wailed. She began to shake, her red-rimmed eyes streaming with tears. She held her newborn to her bosom and tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle a cry. The sound was so miserable that her other children stopped playing with their dolls and stared. ‘When I think about it,’ she whispered, fighting her own emotions for air. ‘Him, lying there on the road, blood trickling out of his mouth, his motorbike lying next to him. He should never have gone for a drive. He was told not go out on his own. I can’t bear it.’ She struggled to inhale through her sobs. ‘No one should die like that, Milly. No one should die alone.’
Militza sat down on the end of the chaise and took hold of Alix’s hot hand, still gripping her handkerchief.
‘He didn’t die alone,’ she soothed. ‘A peasant woman held him in her arms until he passed.’
‘He may as well have been on his own,’ the Tsarina replied, flapping away the suggestion. ‘He was only twenty-eight.’ Her eyes filled again with tears.
‘Not many people live for ten years with tuberculosis – he did well. How is the Tsar?’
‘He is so upset, so sad.’ Alix shook her head as more tears tumbled silently down her face. ‘I know the agony of losing a brother, but I don’t think even I can help him. Georgie was not only Nicky’s younger brother, but also his best friend, he was so brilliant—’
‘And so handsome,’ interrupted Militza. She looked across towards the lake at her approaching sister. ‘I remember him dancing with Stana at the St Nicholas Ball. He was so dashing and fun. I will never forget how his eyes lit up when he smiled.’
‘Nicky’s been in his rooms, sitting at his desk, the door closed since yesterday. He keeps taking little jokes out of his box and reading them.’ Militza looked confused. ‘Nicky used to write down Georgie’s best jokes and put them in a box. He has been reading them constantly since we got the news, laughing and crying to himself.’
‘Maybe I can help him?’ offered Militza.
‘Oh, I am so sorry!’ declared Stana, rushing over to Alix and kissing her on the backs of her hands. ‘It is such a shock.’ She sighed loudly. ‘I feel as if I have been struck by lightning. How is the Tsar?’
‘I haven’t seen him this way since… the tragedy,’ replied Alix, sniffling into her handkerchief.
‘Khodynka Field?’ blurted Stana before her hand immediately covered her mouth.
Regretful, she looked quickly from the two nannies to the tall Cossack bodyguard who was standing in the shadow of the tree. Everyone shifted uncomfortably. The tragedy of Khodynka Field, where nearly fifteen hundred peasants were trampled to death in the sudden rush for the free beer, gingerbread and enamelled cups, all presents from the Tsar to celebrate his and Alix’s Coronation, was not something ever mentioned in polite company, let alone in front of the Tsarina.
‘That was slightly different,’ suggested Militza, glancing around.
‘Trampled running for free beer and a cup. It would be pathetic if it weren’t so awful.’ Alix looked up, with an air of slight defiance. ‘And I know you warned us – or at least the ghost of Nicky’s father did. And I know that Nicky should never have gone to the French Ambassador’s ball that night. You warned us about that too. I know. But his uncles were so very insistent that we showed the monarchy was undiminished. It was such a terrible mess. But what’s done is done. It’s all so very silly.’
‘No one blames you.’ Stana smiled at the weakness of her lie.
The three women fell silent; the stiff atmosphere was broken by the cries of Maria, as she rooted at the breast for more milk.
‘You see!’ declared Alix, looking down at the tiny red-faced baby, her short legs rigid with indignation as she inhaled deeply before letting out a loud wail. ‘I can’t even get this right. Orchie dearest…’ she said turning towards the rug.