‘Goodness gracious!’ announced Alix, pulling away swiftly and rapidly searching in her pocket for her handkerchief. ‘Look at me.’ She stared down her damp, milk-soaked shirt. ‘Even my breast is weeping.’
13
December 1901, St Petersburg
Militza was sitting in the back of the covered carriage, swathed in silver fox, watching her sister. From low in her seat, her stole covering half of her face, she stared through the gaps in the fur. She wasn’t sure if Stana could see her staring; perhaps she didn’t care. Either way her behaviour was verging on the flirtatious. In fact, it was not verging on the flirtatious, concluded Militza, it was completely flirtatious. Stana was sitting close to Peter’s elder brother, Nikolasha, very close, a large diamond necklace glinting around her neck, laughing at his every word, touching the back of his gloved hand, letting her sable fur hang loosely around her shoulders, exposing her pale white throat to his gaze.
‘I promise you, you will enjoy it,’ she said, stroking the sleeve of Nikolasha’s greatcoat. ‘The Black Salon is among the highlights of St Petersburg night life.’
‘Better than the gypsies in The Islands?’ Nikolasha had certainly been drinking, otherwise it was unlikely he’d be so candid about his choice of after-dinner activity.
Stana sat upright, opening her pretty mouth with faux prudishness. ‘I didn’t think you were the sort of man to frequent the gypsies?’
‘Well…’ Nikolasha blushed a little, unable to tell whether she was joking or not. ‘Don’t all men?’ he stammered. ‘After too much Madeira at the Cubat or the Donon? They say there is nothing more beautiful, more full of soul and melancholy than to hear Varya Panina sing? There’s many a man in St Petersburg whose huge debt and frequent visits to the moneylender are due to nights of carousing in the Villa Rhode. Or so they say.’ He hesitated. ‘Some would use their last thousand just to spend the night, hypnotized by wine and song, till dawn in Novaya Derevnaya.’
‘Personally, I am not overly fond of gypsies,’ replied Stana, biting her bottom lip, as she leant in closer, slowly turning the button on his coat with her white gloved fingers.
‘Really? I would have thought their bright clothes – the red, the violet, the purple – would appeal to you. Surely their dark exoticness must remind you of home?’
‘No, just her wedding party,’ Militza muttered through the tail of her silver fox. What was her sister doing, flirting so heavily with Nikolasha? ‘Look,’ she said, as she glanced out of the frosted window, ‘we are here.’
It was gone midnight by the time the three arrived at 26 Kutuzov Embankment and the Countess Ignatiev’s salon soirée was in full swing. Having tired of a rather boring dinner at Grand Duchess Vladimir’s, where the young actors and singers who were supposed to arrive from the Mariinsky Theatre had failed to materialize, it had been Stana’s idea to continue the evening at the Ignatievs’ as she was loath to let the handsome Nikolasha disappear off into the night. She had spent most of the summer in the company of her children, had seen her sister obviously and the Tsarina, but with George in Biarritz, she’d been deprived of male company. Not that she ever enjoyed her husband’s company: his wits were too slow and his conversation too dull for her liking. Nikolasha, however, was bright and sharp and rather attentive.
‘My darlings!’ declared the Countess, as the butler showed them in to the raspberry drawing room. ‘Grand Duke,’ she added, looking up at the imposingly tall and immaculately presented Nikolai Nikolayevich, ‘you are very welcome.’ She smiled. Dressed in a House of Worth evening gown of black velvet, embroidered with silver leaves and with a large frill across the shoulders, the Countess looked extremely glamorous. Gone was the yellowed court dress; popularity was clearly suiting her. ‘What an evening! What an evening. Toute le monde is here. How wonderful that you are here also! Your friend Philippe is next door!’
Weaving their way through the crowd of guests and the dense, sweet-smelling smoke, Militza spotted Dr Badmaev in the corner.
‘My dear,’ he said, putting down his clay pipe and getting out of his chair. His eyes were smiling as he came over to kiss her. ‘I didn’t know you were coming this evening.’
‘No, neither did we,’ replied Militza. ‘We were having such a very boring dinner at the Vladimirs’, discussing the Christmas Bazaar and the problems in Manchuria, waiting for some actors to jolly things up, but when they didn’t arrive, we made our excuses.’
‘Manchuria? How interesting.’
‘You would think.’
‘Was anything said?’
‘I am not sure many in the room knew where it was!’
He leant forward and muttered into her ear. ‘His Imperial Majesty and I have been discussing the very subject recently. He thinks I should travel there myself. He says I might be able to help, opening up some diplomatic channels, hand out some small change, line a few pockets.’
‘I could think of no one better to calm troubled water than you,’ replied Militza.
‘Or you!’ smiled Dr Badmaev.
‘Now you flatter me.’
‘I don’t believe so.’ He smiled again. ‘I hear the Tsar is giving your father thousands more rifles, mountains more grain and more roubles than he’s spent on any of his palaces.’
‘You are remarkably well informed.’
‘Isn’t he arriving in St Petersburg next month?’
‘Once again, may I remark on the reliability of your sources?’
‘It is amazing what you pick up at my simple little apothecary,’ he laughed.
‘Or indeed, during your little personal consultations.’
‘I hear also that your Friend, next door, is going to be made a doctor.’
‘Such a lovely idea. The Tsarina came up with it herself!’ It was Militza’s turn to smile.
‘I didn’t know The German had any ideas of her own.’
‘Oh,’ replied Militza, ‘I take it you don’t approve?’
‘Approve of him? Or the doctorate?’
‘Both.’
‘Of neither, I am afraid.’
‘But he is a man of God!’ Militza’s response was reflexive.
‘Really?’
‘He works between two worlds.’
‘The question is, which two?’
‘He can cure syphilis.’ Militza could feel her pulse rising.
Dr Badmaev had been her friend and ally ever since she and her sister had arrived in the city. He leant in very close and whispered carefully in her ear.
‘Let me give a word of advice. Rifles? Grain? Money? Your father arriving next month? All eyes are on you. Your time is running out. The knives are out. You need the boy, Militza, and you need him now.’
‘Oh, there you are!’ declared Stana, taking her sister by the arm. ‘We’re all waiting for you next door. Philippe says he won’t start without you.’
‘Me?’
Militza was confused. Dr Badmaev’s words had upset her, he had never spoken to her like that before and he was a man who knew much, everything perhaps. He had more direct access to power than anyone, even the Yusupovs or the Vladimirs. And moreover, unlike the Yusupovs and the Vladimirs, people trusted him. He was a doctor, after all.
Stana directed her sister into the darkened adjacent room where, clustered around a large, highly polished dining table was an expectant crowd. Countess Ignatiev was sitting across from the door, rubbing her hands with excitement. Next to her was a buxom woman in a defiantly low-cut dinner dress whose husband, so it was rumoured, had recently run off with a dancer who was great friends of the ballet-dancing courtesan, Mathilde Kschessinskaya. To her right was a French diplomat whose legendary fondness for wine often resulted in him slithering down the walls at parties. Tonight, observed Militza, he looked more sober than usual and opposite him was a heavily moustached general whose well-known fondness for paying for ‘conversation’ had seen him visit Philippe’s late-night clinic on more than one occasion. Next to him was a British journalist who Militza always tried to avoid due to his irritating habit of pinning one into a corner and talking at one like the captive audience you were.