‘I know. We all know. But that is no excuse, no reason for divorce. Marriage is for life. It is a promise made before God. And promises made before God must be kept.’
‘But you have the power to grant a divorce,’ said Stana. ‘You are my friend. My dear, close friend.’
‘I am your sovereign. The country is in chaos at the moment, you have no idea, I have no idea what is going to happen next,’ continued Alix staring at the floor, unable to look Stana in the eye. ‘There is terror everywhere. Poor Prime Minister Stolypin! A bomb? Thrown at his dacha right here in St Petersburg. How he survived I shall never know. But that bomb not only injured his children it killed thirty other people. Thirty.’ She shook her head. ‘That is why I keep my girls under lock and key.’
‘How is Natalya?’ Militza asked, endeavouring to empathize. ‘How is she progressing?’
‘His daughter? Well, I took Grisha to see her in hospital four days ago and he was so very helpful. He stood at the end of the bed and held up the icon of St Simeon of Verkhoturye and he prayed.’
‘You took Grisha to the hospital? With you?’ Militza glanced across at her sister.
‘Yes,’ continued Alix. ‘And after he prayed, he told the doctors, ‘Don’t worry, everything will be all right. And…’ she smiled gently. ‘It is. They think Natalya will walk again and walk quite soon. So,’ she added abruptly, looking up. ‘What the court needs is stability and we don’t get stability with a divorce, now do we? We don’t need scandals; we don’t need to give the impression that, while the whole of Russia is in turmoil, all we think of is our own amusement. Grisha explained it to me just the other day when we were discussing this very issue. “Little Mother,” he said. “The Russian people find the goings-on in court too debauched, too decadent.” And there is nothing that talks of decadence and debauchery more than a divorce, is there?’
She looked at the sisters. Her tone was patronizing, her face exuded superiority. It was as if she were admonishing her children.
Stana couldn’t help herself. Had she heard the Tsarina correctly? She stood up, her hands on her hips, glaring at Alix.
‘After all we have done for you?’ she said.
Her voice was surprisingly steady. Militza was waiting for her to shout and spit, like the explosive little cobra she remembered from childhood.
‘Don’t be silly!’ Alix blushed slightly as she fiddled with her gold bracelet. ‘That business is all in the past.’
‘I am not sure every business can be buried in the past,’ retorted Stana. ‘Stories always come out.’
She started to pace the room. The heels of her shoes brusquely tapped along the wooden floor. She stopped at the edge of a bearskin rug and turned.
‘Suzanna, for example? How long can she remain buried in the past?’
Militza held her breath. Did her heart just stop? What was Stana playing at? They had not discussed this? This was not their plan. They were supposed to charm the woman, make her see sense and cajole her into giving her permission. It was a simple plan, for what should have been a simple favour; neither of them had ever thought for one second the woman would say no. But this, this was an extremely dangerous game to play. The Tsarina was not the sort of woman to respond well to blackmail.
‘I think you have said enough,’ said Alix very quietly, clutching her heart. ‘My back hurts, my breath is short and the doctors say my heart is most certainly enlarged. I am not well.’ She leant across the arm of the wheelchair and picked up a bell. ‘I think you’d better leave.’
‘After all we did for you,’ said Stana shaking her head and walking slowly towards the door. ‘In your hour of need, we were there. In your darkest moments, we were there. When you had no one…’
The Tsarina simply stared at them; her eyes were dead with cold and denial. ‘Goodbye,’ she said in a voice that dripped rage. She rang her little golden bell.
Stana was hysterical in the car on the way home. Militza had never seen her so distraught, so angry, so completely out of control of her emotions. Tears poured down her cheeks, her teeth were chattering, her breath was snatched and panicked, her hands were shaking, her nose running, her whole body shaking with the trauma of the Tsarina’s response. The small ray of light that she’d so briefly glimpsed at the end of the long, miserable tunnel had been extinguished. Her life was in ruins, her reputation destroyed – she would be permanently known as a wronged woman turned adulteress and she and her husband were to be trapped in this hideous partnership forever.
Militza wanted to shout at her sister; she wanted to slap her face and berate her for being so damned selfish and foolish. It was just like her to throw all caution to the wind and ruin what had been a careful plan. Why was she still so naïve enough to think that her prince would come and she would be happy?
But Militza didn’t shout. She was too worried. For by the time they reached Sergievka, Stana had made herself quite unwell. She was white and sweating when they pulled up to the house and the footmen came to greet them, she was almost incapable of walking. She staggered across the gravel drive and fell against one of the Doric columns by the main entrance. She steadied herself with her right hand, only to retch violently on her own doorstep.
‘No one’s here,’ comforted Militza as she struggled to keep her sister upright. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘Of course no one’s here!’ Stana wailed, her eyes were wide with terror, her face dank with sweat, and her breath reeking of vomit. ‘He is never here! I am always alone! Quite alone! FOREVER ALONE!’ She screamed so loudly as she held on to the pillar that her whole body shook and her face turned crimson. It was as if decades of agony were pouring out of her. She shivered and panted, sobbing and struggling to breathe. An increasingly large pool seeped out below the hem of her skirts. She’d relieved herself all over her pale leather boots.
Horrified, she flung herself through the door and straight into the arms of Pierre Gilliard, her children’s French tutor, who was dressed immaculately in a black coat, his moustache waxed into two sharp points just above his mouth. Appalled at her sudden closeness, he swiftly attempted to disentangle himself from her.
‘Madame,’ he said, bowing and shuffling a step backwards.
‘Where are you going?’ demanded Stana, turning her puffed, pink face towards him.
‘It is 4 p.m. I am off to teach the Grand Duchesses,’ he replied with a nod, clicking his heels together. ‘Olga, Tatiana—’
‘I am well aware of their names,’ snapped Stana.
‘You were the person who suggested it, Duchesse. Sharing French lessons with the Tsar’s children,’ he added, stepping around her, departing as quickly as he could.
Militza managed to get her sister up the stairs and into her bedchamber where she stripped off Stana’s vomit-stained dress and urine-soaked underwear and rang for Brana to bring something to relax her and take her mind of the terrible last few hours.
‘Have some laudanum,’ said Militza, offering her sister the warm glass of brandy-laced tea, administering a few drops from her blue glass pipette. ‘Laudanum is always a good solution to any problem.’
Stana grabbed her sister’s hand. ‘Rasputin!’ she hissed, as the tea splattered on the bed. ‘Get Rasputin! He is the only person who can persuade her to change her mind.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Militza’s tone was mollifying, as she added some more drops to the half-spilt drink. ‘I think her mind is set.’
‘You’re wrong,’ replied Stana. ‘She will do whatever he says. She thinks he’s wise, she thinks he’s a miracle worker. You’ll have to persuade him to help.’ She stared at her sister. Her long hair lay in Medusa-like strands across her shoulders and her dark eyes were exhausted; she looked broken. ‘You have to help me. You have to persuade him.’