‘Also, never forget, he saw his uncle assassinated in front of him as a child,’ added Militza. ‘For him, death’s cold breath is never far away.’
‘Death stalks us all,’ whispered Rasputin, taking hold of Militza’s hand under the table and slowly stroking the soft white skin on the inside of Militza’s wrist. ‘It waits in the wings, sharpening its scythe.’
Militza vividly remembered his touch, the roughness of his skin against the smoothness of her own, the quiver of excitement that shot through her body, right to the pit of her stomach. She knew she should pull her hand away, but she couldn’t. It felt too delightful, too sensual; combined with the wine and the brandy, it was hypnotic. There was something about him that made her feel careless, reckless. She shifted a little in her seat.
‘He is right,’ replied Nikolasha. ‘Our cousin should be more dynamic. He signed the Manifesto, and now he should get out amongst his people and gather their support. Indecision will be the death of him.’
‘The atrophy of power!’ declared Peter, with a shrug. ‘What is to be done?’ He sat back in his chair and sighed. ‘I must say the food here has much improved.’
‘They have brought in a little man from France,’ said Stana.
‘And while you sup on your caviar and your sturgeon, the people in the streets are starving,’ replied Rasputin, moving his index finger a little further up Militza’s arm.
‘I note where you are eating tonight!’ said Peter.?‘You are such a contradiction!’
‘Contradictions! What of them? For you, they are contradictions, but I am Grigory Rasputin and that’s what matters. Look at me!’ He threw his hands in the air. ‘See what I have become.’
It was true; soigné and clad in silk, he certainly looked different from the wild man of the steppes they had first encountered less than a year ago, although his manners and manner had changed little.
‘Brother Grisha!’ came an enthusiastic voice.
Rasputin turned. Militza placed her hands back in her lap.
‘Frenchman,’ he said.
‘Monsieur l’Ambassadeur,’ corrected a rather attractive young woman standing behind.
‘Madame?’ Rasputin nodded.
‘May I present a close friend of mine,’ said Maurice. ‘Madame Ekaterina Ostrogorsky.’
Rasputin bowed his head, still staring at the girl. ‘Are you married?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she giggled; her pretty cheeks shone in the candlelight.
‘Do you have children?’ he continued.
‘Only one,’ she replied.
‘Why so few?’
‘I have not been married long.’
‘How long?’
She giggled again. ‘Three years.’
‘More than enough time to breed,’ he said, taking up his glass and swigging his brandy. ‘Do you believe in God?’
‘Yes, she does,’ came the reply. ‘Dr Serge Ostrogorsky,’ the man introduced himself.
He was a small, earnest-looking fellow of little consequence, thought Militza, looking him swiftly up and down. His wife, on the other hand, was a ripe peach, pink and perfect and ready for plucking.
‘A doctor?’ Rasputin flared his nostrils. ‘I have no time for doctors.’
‘I am Honorary Physician to the court,’ Ostrogorsky retorted.
‘The court?’ Rasputin snorted. ‘Tell me, Madame…’
‘Yes?’ she asked, her pale eyes gleaming as she anxiously licked her lips. ‘I have been so desperate to meet you.’ She spoke quickly. ‘I have heard so much about you. You are a great man,’ she added. ‘A very great man. I am honoured to be in your company.’
‘You are kind, your soul is kind. I can see you have a kind soul.’
‘A soul! I have never heard anything so foolish,’ the doctor scoffed. ‘In all my autopsies I have never found a soul.’
‘Tell me, how many emotions, memories or imaginations have you found after you have sliced and diced, dear doctor?’ asked Rasputin. The man opened his mouth to reply, but Rasputin turned and looked at the pretty girl. ‘If you need to come and see me in my apartment, I will be happy to help.’
‘Thank you.’ Ostrogorsky bowed his head and, grabbing hold of his wife, they disappeared.
‘What a funny little couple,’ said Stana, picking up a little candied fruit from the silver basket in front of her. ‘I wonder how they came to be here?’
Maurice was still standing there, a little awkwardly, on his own.
‘I hear you have been visiting the palace?’ he ventured.
‘You do?’ replied Rasputin.
‘I hear you are a regular,’ the ambassador continued.
‘Don’t believe all you hear, dear friend,’ said Rasputin, pouring himself more brandy.
‘I hear you go to give them spiritual counsel.’ The Frenchman smiled. ‘Which must be very gratefully received in these dark times. One can only imagine how it must feel, being the only beacon of hope in such a storm.’
‘I have been there to pray and to help, to offer guidance, succour to their souls,’ Rasputin finally conceded, flattered by the ambassador’s suggestion. ‘A few times,’ he added for good measure.
‘I knew it.’ The ambassador nodded rapidly, his little eyes shining.
‘But never on his own,’ chipped in Militza.
‘Oh, no.’ Rasputin smiled in agreement. ‘Never on my own.’
23
7 October 1906, St Petersburg
It was rare for Militza to receive an invitation to call at the Vladimir Palace on the Palace Embankment. She attended parties there, of course, but an invitation to call was different. It was intimate, private and suggested friendship. Militza could not help wondering what Maria Pavlovna’s motive might have been.
‘Perhaps it is some form of rapprochement?’ suggested Peter over breakfast, pouring himself coffee, dressed in his navy silk dressing gown.
‘I wouldn’t have thought so – you know how much she has always disliked me.’
Militza looked at her husband; at forty-two he was still neat and dapper with his broad shoulders and slim figure, his fair swept off his face, his grey eyes alert and mischievous.
‘Perhaps, after all these years, Maria is keen to bury the hatchet,’ he continued over his newspaper. ‘Nikolasha says she is desperate to get back into favour. Now that the succession has been secured she can’t afford to be so grand. And these days you, let’s face it, are significantly more important than she is.’
But Militza was not so naïve. Women like Maria never really change and, no matter how powerful she and her sister had become, to Maria, they would always be the daughters of a goatherd smelling of goat. A fact she continually liked to remind them of. However, her barbs were a little more subtle these days. A small question as to whether there were any roads yet in Montenegro, or if their father’s desire to open a few schools had come off yet. How was the new currency going? Had they recently been home to their dear little country?
So it was with a certain amount of trepidation that Militza stood in front of the giant grey granite palace, staring at the absurd griffin doorknockers, waiting for someone to open the door. She glanced across the Neva at the Peter and Paul fortress glistening in the late afternoon sun. The Vladimirs, with their 360-room palace, their extensive river frontage and Venetian gondola, really did have one of the best spots in the city. A footman, dressed in their signature green and gold livery, eventually opened the door and Militza managed a smile as she walked into the hall towards the gilt and marble French Renaissance-style staircase. Her plan was to play her cards close to her chest and get in and out of the afternoon tea party, giving away as little information as possible.