‘Your Imperial Majesty,’ replied the rotund Mrs Orchard.
‘Please could you take her to one of the wet nurses? All this grief has made me run out of milk!’
Mrs Orchard gathered the crying baby from Alix’s breast and disappeared off towards the Alexander Palace.
‘Mama, it is so hot!’ yawned Elena, flopping down on the rug.
Elena’s likeness to her father irritated Stana. ‘Have some iced lemonade,’ she suggested, indicating to the small picnic table and chairs to the right of the rug.
‘Isn’t there anything else?’ complained the girl. ‘I’m not fond of lemonade.’
‘Miss Eagar?’ said Alix, sounding slightly exasperated, ‘can you take the children boating on the lake?’
‘Oh yes please!’ squealed Sergei jumping up and down and tugging at the woman’s skirts. ‘Please, Miss Eagar.’
‘Calm down, Sergei!’ she ordered, her long thin finger in air. ‘Follow me, quietly now, down to the lake.’ She smiled stiffly before nodding at the Tsarina.
‘Take Ivan,’ added Alix, gesturing towards the bodyguard. ‘He can row the boat for you.’
As the children, Ivan and Miss Eagar made their way towards the lake, Alix turned to look at Militza and Stana, her eyes wide, her expression fearful. She looked terrified.
‘Now that we are all alone!’ She looked from one sister to the other, her pale eyes darting from side to side, her breath short. She appeared almost feverish. ‘You have to help me! You both have to help.’
Militza took her hands again. ‘Whatever you want.’
‘Now that poor Georgie is dead I have to have a son!’ Alix sobbed. Her golden hair fell down in wisps across her face, making her look like a young child. Her hands were shaking, her bottom lip quivering. ‘The whole question of the succession has come up again, now that, he – the Tsarevich – has gone.’
‘There’s Michael,’ interrupted Stana.
‘Michael can’t be Tsar, he is far too irresponsible. Everyone knows that. I need a son. You can almost hear the Vladimirs pawing at the ground, their eyes hungry for the fight and there are rumblings in the Duma… Everyone keeps asking when? When am I going to have a son? When am I going to produce an heir? When? When? It is all down to me.’ Alix’s eyes were hollow. ‘I have to have a son.’ Her hands were turning over and over in her lap.
‘But you’ve just had a baby,’ said Stana, looking up towards the palace.
‘If you could have seen Nicky’s face when Professor Ott told him Maria was a girl. Another girl! Nicky managed to smile when Tatiana was born but this time I saw him try – and he couldn’t. He pretended, but it never reached his eyes. He didn’t even touch the baby. He went for a walk. He walked for an hour. More. When he came back, only then did he take Maria in his arms.’ She turned and looked at the two sisters. ‘Is it too much to want to lie in my bed and hear the 300-gun salute ringing out over the city announcing the birth of my son to the world? Three times I have heard the guns stop after one hundred and one rounds and three times I have seen the dismay on the servants’ faces, three times I have seen my husband have to overcome his terrible disappointment… I just want him to be happy…’
‘I am sure he is not disappointed,’ insisted Stana. ‘You have three healthy, beautiful daughters.’
‘What use are daughters? Especially now,’ replied Alix, staring out across at the gang of children playing on the lake, more particularly at the thriving and boisterous Sergei, with the sun in his blond hair as he laughed and rocked the rowing boat back and forth on the water. ‘It is easy for you to say. You both have sons,’ she said turning back towards the sisters, her face haunted with longing. ‘You have Sergei, Stana and you have your beautiful Roman, Milly. Please, you have to help me. I will do anything, absolutely anything. I cannot rest, Russia cannot rest until we have son.’
Stana softly patted the back of Alix’s hand but the Tsarina snatched it away with irritation and glared. ‘You don’t understand! You have no idea of the pressure to produce a son while a nation of millions holds its breath! It is suffocating me! And every confinement is worse: the headaches, the fainting, the endless, endless sickness. D’you know, Nicky’s mother even suggested I eat cold ham lying in bed in the morning to stop the sickness? Cold ham with thick white fat! Can you imagine? I can barely stomach a slice when I am well, let alone five months pregnant with a mouth as dry as a desert. And I know what they whisper. They whisper that I am cold and aloof, that I don’t like their parties, their balls, their wretched games of cards. They say that I am a prude, that I tell women off for showing too much flesh at court, that I want to stop my husband going out. But it’s not true. I just feel so unwell. The room is spinning, my head is turning – and I feel sick all the time! And my back…’ She looked from one sister to the other and then burst into tears. ‘It is the whispering I hate most,’ she sobbed, into her handkerchief. ‘I just wish it would all stop!’
She looked up and, through the mist of her tears, she could see Militza and Stana completely understood.
What she didn’t know was that they more than understood; they themselves had heard those whispers, they’d felt the same loneliness. And they also knew what it was like to have a mother who was desperate for a son. They had seen the potions, the lotions, they had smelt the smoke, seen the fires and heard the incantations. Their palace in Cetinje had been full of it – the freaks, the fools, the endless spells. And they knew exactly what to do.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Militza, nodding fiercely, her lips pursed with determination. ‘You will have your son.’
‘I promise,’ added Stana.
‘Cross your heart?’ whispered Alix, before lying back, exhausted, in to her chair.
7
17 December 1899, St Petersburg
Monday night was the most prestigious night to be invited to perch on the Countess Ignatiev’s elegant, raspberry-coloured velvet upholstery and enjoy the sweet wines, cakes and the latest and most glamorous guru in town. And, as she collected her pack of Marseilles cards from her dressing-table drawer and wrapped them carefully in her peach silk scarf, Militza felt a shiver of excitement. The thrice-weekly Black Salons were always exciting, but this Monday was going to be different. Tonight, Countess Ignatiev had promised her someone special, someone very special indeed.
Walking into the large dimly lit drawing room, packed with usual princes, diplomats and divorcees, Militza was met by a rather overexcited Countess Ignatiev.
‘There you are!’ she exclaimed loudly, clapping her hands together and then clutching at her ample bosom. ‘At last! You’re late!’ Sophia Ignatiev was nothing if not dramatic. ‘Darling, there are so many people waiting for you to read for them. We almost have a queue! Here, here,’ she repeated, bustling Militza through the party to a corner where she had placed a marble and gilt card table, covered with a fringed gypsy scarf and two heavy armchairs. ‘Is this all right?’ She smiled, holding her arm out. ‘I was trying to make it as mystical as possible.’
‘It’s perfect!’ agreed Militza, for she was very fond of the Countess.
Sitting down at her table, Militza carefully took out her peach scarf and unwrapped her cards.
‘May I?’ came a familiar voice, as a bronzed hand placed a small clay hash pipe on the table.
‘Dr Badmaev!’ Militza immediately leapt out of her chair to embrace him.
A Buryat by birth, Shamzaran Badmaev (also known as Peter) had grown up on the steppes of Siberia and trained with the monks of Tibet. He was a master of Asiatic medicine and Tibetan apothecary, with a worldwide reputation. Along with his brother, Zaltin, they owned the most auspicious ‘chemist’ in St Petersburg, capable of curing the most stubborn and pernicious of maladies. There wasn’t an infusion, herb or tincture he did not know. His laboratory behind his shop off the Fontanka, was a veritable Aladdin’s cave of delights. Militza had once been very privileged to pay him a visit and even to her expert eye, many of the bottles and bags and powders were completely incomprehensible.