‘How wonderful to see you!’ exclaimed Militza, taking Alix by both hands, then escorting her into the Yellow Salon. ‘How are the girls?’
‘Well,’ she replied. ‘I have taken on a tutor for them, John Epps. They need a little help with their English, although I have to admit he is in fact Scottish, so I do hope he doesn’t pass on his accent. They have already picked up Irish from Miss Eagar – it’s a wonder they can be understood at all.’
‘And…’ Militza almost didn’t want to ask.
The topic of the ‘Hesse disease’ or the ‘Curse of the Coburgs’ had not been broached by either of the women since Militza had tidied up the bloody rags from Alix’s bed the day Alexei was born. Militza had discussed it with Nicky over the telephone a few times, urging him to tell the doctors at Tsarskoye Selo, so at least they knew what they were dealing with. But all her pleas had fallen on deaf ears. Alexei’s illness was to be kept a secret. In precarious times like these, the monarchy had to appear strong and any weakness was to be denied. Neither of the Tsar’s sisters even knew how ill their little nephew was.
‘Alexei?’ asked Alix, her voice straining with levity. ‘He is so well, so very well. He has a new rocking horse that he bounces back and forth on far too vigorously! But he is such a healthy big boy – he doesn’t stop eating and his sisters adore him. Don’t they, Nicky?’ He turned and looked at her blankly. ‘Don’t Alexei’s sisters simply adore him?’
‘Yes, my darling, they do.’
A footman served the tea while they took up position and waited for Rasputin to arrive. Nicholas and Alexandra were sitting next to each other on the yellow silk divan, while Stana and Militza perched on two smaller chairs. Another chair was placed between them.
‘Bishop Theofan has been most effusive in his descriptions of Rasputin,’ said Nicky. ‘He keeps insisting that he is the voice of the Russian soul and its people.’
‘I think you’ll find him inspiring,’ said Stana.
‘Yes,’ agreed Militza. ‘Don’t be put off by the way he greets people. He is not used to the ways of the city and is unfettered by manners. He is a free spirit. An honest soul.’
The man has no idea about protocol, she thought. She had not spoken to him or seen him since the night of the party. She’d been overcome with humiliation the following morning. The images of her flirting and his rejection had haunted her for days afterwards. They’d returned in vivid flashbacks, each more appalling than the last. But she’d decided it was far better never to mention the car journey. They had both drunk a little too much – he was most certainly very drunk. Far better, she concluded, to pretend it had never happened. Militza was nothing if not determined. She was determined to sit firmly on the moral high ground, determined to concentrate on the matter in hand. She had a favourite to promote and promote him she would.
‘He’s from Siberia,’ said Stana.
‘But he is truly a holy man. He is well-travelled and has lived amongst holy men and has learnt much along the way,’ added Militza. ‘Philippe’s words have come to pass, as I knew they would. He predicted someone new.’
‘Philippe taught us much,’ replied Alix, taking a small sip of tea.
They sat in silence, then, looking at the sandwiches, listening to the mantel clock.
‘Where is Peter?’ asked Nicky eventually.
‘He’s having luncheon at the Yacht Club,’ replied Militza.
‘On his own?’
‘No, Nikolasha is with him,’ said Stana. ‘Those brothers never seem to run out of conversation!’
Alix coughed a little and shifted in her chair. ‘Nicky was out rowing on the lake this morning,’ she said. ‘Can you believe the weather? Sun in November – it is virtually unheard of.’
‘I almost went out without shawl,’ agreed Stana. ‘Although I didn’t.’
‘No,’ nodded Alix. ‘But all the same… sun…’
Just then the double doors opened and Rasputin burst into the salon. Dressed in a long black tunic, a large brass crucifix around his neck, he looked a little unkempt. He immediately went over to kiss Militza three times, embracing her forcefully as he did so. He clearly had no compunction about the other night. Or maybe he simply couldn’t remember it… Turning immediately to Stana, he cupped her chin in his hand. ‘Mamma!’ he exclaimed and kissed her with equal vigour. Alix stood up, still holding her teacup.
‘Little Mother!’ he said turning towards her. ‘We meet at last!’ He walked over and fell to his knees in front of her, clutching her around the calves. ‘I kneel before you and all of Russia!’ Alix was rigid. She had no idea what to do.
‘Please, stand,’ she said quietly. ‘There really is no need.’
Rasputin moved on to the Tsar. ‘Little Father,’ he declared, throwing himself once more to the floor. ‘I kneel before you and all of Russia.’
‘Please sit, Grigory Yefimovich,’ said Nicky, placing his hand on the top of Rasputin’s head. ‘Sit, sir. We have heard so very much about you.’
But Rasputin did not sit. Instead he paced around the room, explaining how excited he was that God had seen fit to send him here, how his journey had been so long and arduous and how now he’d been filled by the Holy Spirit by the very fact that he was standing before them. He went on to say how very much the people love their ‘Little Mother’ and ‘Little Father’; how they were the soul and spirit of the true Russia and the absolute opposite to these new government officials inhabiting the Duma.
‘They are the true charlatans, they are the leeches on the soul of the true Russia. You were put there by God, you rule by the rule of God!’ he said, walking up and down in the front of the fireplace. ‘There is a Chukchi saying,’ he added.
He finished by fixing Alix with his pale eyes. She slowly lowered her gaze, uncomfortable under the scrutiny.
It was a tour de force: the pacing and the proclaiming, the sheer vitality of the man, bursting into their quiet, introspective world. Nicholas and Alexandra could not take their eyes off him. By the time he finally sat down to drink a cup of tea with a teaspoon heaped with jam, Alix was a convert. She sat up, her back straight, her eyes shining. Militza had not seen her this alive and alert since she and Stana had introduced her to Philippe, all those years ago.
‘Tell them about your impressions of St Petersburg,’ enthused Stana.
‘Little Father and Little Mother don’t want to hear about that,’ he replied, licking his spoon. ‘Why don’t I tell them about their own land, the land that stretches as far as the eye can see?’ He smiled, pointing out of the window with his spoon. ‘Where the horizons are wide and the sky touches the earth; the coldest inhabited place on earth, where a mound of snow can change into a girl hiding from the moon and a young boy can change into a whale, his spear into a fin. Where trees have souls and the woods whisper with the sounds of the spirits?’
‘I have been to Siberia,’ said Alix. Nicky looked at her a little surprised. ‘Sarov.’
‘It is nearly there, Little Mother. Not quite. But close.’
‘The canonization.’