‘What lovely little dolls,’ she whispered, stroking the smooth, featureless face of the one closest to her with a quivering hand. ‘Rock-a-bye baby…’ she began singing in a thin, quiet voice, gently under her breath. ‘On the tree top…’ She slowly swayed the poppet back and forth. ‘When the wind blows, the cradle will rock, and when the bough breaks…’ She paused and turned to stare at Militza. ‘The cradle will fall…’ Her eyes were so haunted and pale and, although she was looking at Militza, Militza wasn’t sure if she could see her at all. ‘And down will come baby… cradle… and… all.’ She suddenly looked at the wooden poppet and threw it across the room. It smashed into a small mirror sitting on one of the many cluttered shelves, which fell to the floor and immediately shattered into a thousand little pieces. The shocked silence that followed was only broken by the gurgling noises from the tightly swaddled baby lying on the bed.
‘Philippe says you will have a son,’ declared Militza, taking back hold of Alix’s hands. Alix did not reply. She simply stared into the darkness, her face devoid of expression. ‘Philippe promises you will have a son – and Philippe is never wrong.’
‘Really?’ she responded eventually, sounding so very hopeless and so very unconvinced.
‘Yes! You just have to believe.’
‘Yes,’ added Stana joining in. ‘You just have to believe.’
‘Believe in what Philippe said. He’s been sent from God. Believe in God and the Will of God. Believe with all your heart,’ confirmed Militza, taking hold of both of her thin white hands and squeezing them.
‘Just believe…’ Alix sighed and closed her eyes, all her fight gone.
‘Just believe, my darling, open up your heart and it will happen,’ whispered Militza, gently stroking the back of her hand.
‘Believe,’ hushed Stana.
They carried on whispering, caressing her hand, stroking her hair, until it almost became some sort of mantra; they rearranged the small wooden poppets, moving around the bed in the half-light, like shadows in the night, their footsteps light, their movements slow. It was like a dance. They lit the heavy rose oil incense burner in the private oratory just off the bedroom and the sweet, sickly smell wafted into the room, its odour overpowering. The more the girls moved, the more the airless atmosphere was rendered claustrophobic. The chanting, the cloying perfume, the whispering around the bed – the effect was hypnotic. Alix was slowly drawn into their vortex so when they came to administer the drops, she was powerless to resist. She opened her mouth like a compliant child as they slipped the pipette between her gently parted lips.
‘Adam’s Head,’ Militza whispered in her ear. ‘The Tsar of plants, for the Tsarina.’ Alix managed a small smile. Militza leant in closely and her lips brushed against Alix’s cheek, then slowly, tenderly, she moved lower, gently kissing Alix on the mouth. The Tsarina inhaled sharply, her eyes suddenly wide open, her face questioning. Undeterred, Militza continued: ‘Two drops a day, every day, my darling.’ Militza whispered, kissing her again, then when your menstrual blood flows again, four drops every day after that until you conceive again. Which you will… I promise.’
‘I will,’ repeated Alix, smiling slowly at her friend as her pale cheeks flushed pink. She stared into Militza’s deep black eyes, her own burning more brightly than before. She caressed her cheek before she turned her head and, with a relaxed and heavy sigh, let her lids slowly close. Finally, a few minutes later, her chest began to rise and fall. At last she’d fallen asleep.
Outside the room, the anxious Tsar was pacing up and down the corridor, his polished boots tapping on the wooden floor. He looked gaunt, his eyes emanating a deep sadness; it was as if he had aged a dozen years overnight.
‘How is she?’ he asked, taking hold of Militza’s shoulder as the two sisters exited the room, chased by a heavy cloud of incense. His grip was urgent. ‘Dr Ott wants to prescribe aspirin?’
‘He always wants to prescribe aspirin, that’s his answer to everything,’ said Militza. ‘She is asleep now and she needs to rest. Let the wet nurse take the child.’
‘You know Alix doesn’t like that.’
‘Alix needs to sleep – desperately needs to sleep. She can feed her child later,’ asserted Militza.
There was a noise at the end of the corridor and Nicholas turned to stare as his two eldest girls, Olga, aged five, and Tatiana who had just turned four, appeared. Dressed in identical white frilled dresses, their long hair tied back with large pale blue ribbons, they rushed towards him.
‘Papa!’ exclaimed Olga, as she fell against his legs and embraced him.
‘Papa!’ cried Tatiana, doing exactly the same.
‘How is Mummy? Is it a “one”, or a “two” today?’ Olga asked, her pretty face upturned towards her father. ‘I hate it when her back pain is a two because I know we are not allowed to see her.’
‘It is not her back that is hurting today,’ said Nicholas, kneeling down and stroking the top of his daughter’s head. ‘It is the new baby, she’s making Mama tired.’
‘When will she be awake? When will she be better?’ continued Olga.
‘I want to see Mama,’ Tatiana announced, trying to push her father to one side to get into the room.
‘No, no, no,’ said the Tsar, taking both his daughters gently by the hand. ‘Mama needs some rest, she needs to sleep. Why don’t you come outside with me? It is a beautiful day; let’s go for a walk? A walk always makes everything much better.’
12
August 1901, Znamenka, Peterhof
Militza remembered the summer of 1901 as a blissful few months. She and Peter were happy. She knew he loved her, for he told her often, not in so many words, but by his deeds. He was kind, protective and he adored his children, was forever trying to engage them in his favourite subject of architecture. However unwilling, Marina, Roman and little Nadejda were well and thriving. Even Stana was content. George was in Biarritz, of course, but she and her children had become so used to his absence that no one questioned where he was any more.
Perhaps it was the calm before the storm? Although, truthfully, no one really knew then that there was a storm brewing, or what a terrible storm it would be. Granted, the spark of unrest was being heartily fanned in the countryside and the city was increasingly crowded and fractious, but out in Peterhof, idyllic Peterhof, surrounded by the gentle, lush forests, rocked by the cool breeze off the gulf, there appeared to be few concerns. The weather was not unduly hot and the afternoons were bathed in a glorious golden glow, the evenings light and languid – and the Tsarina was an almost daily visitor.
Her morning telephone call from Lower Dacha was generally followed by the loud sound of her carriage wheels as they came up rattling the drive, usually in time for tea. She was very fond of tea, as were her girls. English tea with milk and sugar, not the usual Russian jam. Sometimes she would bring all of the girls with her, including the baby Anastasia, so that they might amuse themselves with Marina, Roman and Nadejda as well as Stana’s Sergei and Elena. (George’s son Alex was thankfully away serving with Hussars.) Sometimes the Tsarina would just bring along the ‘bigs’, Olga and Tatiana; sometimes she would come on her own. And if she didn’t manage to come – if her back was hurting her, or more recently her heart, or one of the children was unwell – then she would always make another telephone call in the afternoon. A lengthy telephone call, where all manner of intimate minutiae was discussed. It was as if the sisters had become her daily fix and, like a laudanum addict, she could not manage without them.