There was a tap at the door, which made Militza start.
‘Darling?’ It was Peter. ‘Darling…?’
‘Just a minute,’ she said, quickly grabbing and putting on her long white lace nightdress and picking up her silver hairbrush. ‘Just a minute… I am brushing my hair.’
‘Can I come in?’
‘Um… Of course, my darling.’
She held her breath and he opened the door. Would he notice? Could he sense the change? Could he smell the sweet smell of sex that seemed to permeate the whole room?
‘Are you all right?’ he asked. ‘Should I send for Brana or a doctor?’
‘I am fine,’ she said sitting at her dressing table, brushing her long black hair.
‘Only it’s so very unlike you not to have nightcap or a glass of champagne at the theatre.’ He walked towards the dressing table and stood behind her, looking at her in the mirror.
‘Darling, really, I am fine. I am much better now.’
‘You don’t look your normal self.’ He smiled at her reflection.
‘Really?’ A bolt of nerves shot through her.
‘Well…’ he paused and looked down the top of her white shoulder that nestled in the lace of her nightdress. ‘I think…’ He leant down and slowly kissed it. ‘You…’ He kissed her again. ‘Might…’ And again. ‘Be…’ He looked at her in the mirror, his lips still on her shoulders. ‘More beautiful than normal…’
Militza smiled at him sweetly, all the time trying to ride the terrible wave of panic. If she gave in to Peter’s conjugal demands, something, frankly, she was wont to do, he would surely know. He would surely notice she had already been ridden.
He leant forward and cupped her right breast from behind as he kissed the side of her neck. He had done this many times before and Militza usually felt nothing more than delight at being touched by her husband. But this time the fear and the panic were overwhelming.
‘Peter, Peter, Peter,’ she said pushing his hands off and spinning around in her seat. ‘My darling…’
‘Yes?’ he said, reaching for the buttons down the front of his trousers.
‘I really don’t feel well enough.’
He paused. ‘But you just said you felt much better?’
‘It comes in waves. The headaches, the nausea…’
‘The fever?’
‘And the fever.’ She smiled stiffly.
‘Oh.’ His arms hung limply by his side. ‘Very well then,’ he replied, clearly a little hurt. ‘I shall see you in the morning.’ He turned towards the door. ‘When hopefully you will feel better.’
‘I shall,’ replied Militza. ‘And I really am sorry, my darling.’
‘Of course,’ said Peter, standing by door. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking. You are not well. Very selfish of me. It was just something about the way you looked… Irresistible,’ he said, closing the door.
Militza slowly put her head in her shaking hands and sighed with relief.
Rasputin had driven a hard bargain, Militza later explained to her sister. Not only had he ridden her rough like a Cossack herding stallions across the steppes, he had also demanded the icon of St John the Baptist as payment for the favour. Her flesh apparently had not been enough for him. He wanted Philippe’s icon as well, otherwise the deal was off, he’d explained, after he sucked her nipples raw, he would not deign to approach the Tsarina without it. She’d had little choice.
So the icon was delivered to 12 Kirochnaya Street the very next day and Rasputin duly went to speak to Alix.
‘The marriage of the brother and the sister will be the salvation of Russia,’ he told her. He was a clever man. He didn’t say which brother and which sister; he was far too astute for that. What he did do was make a simple prophecy – and any form of salvation for Russia during this period was obviously extremely welcome, so Alix could not ignore it. Not to embrace Brother Grisha’s prediction was unthinkable for her. Her faith in God and her blind faith in him meant to demur would be impossible. It would have caused her such unnecessary worry and heartache. And yet to grant Stana her wish was to go against all that she, Alix, held dear: loyalty, honesty, fidelity and the sanctity of marriage and God. Yet she was prepared to give this all up for Rasputin…
And so on 15 November the divorce of Princess Anastasia of Montenegro and George Maximilianovich, 6th Duke of Leuchtenberg, was finally granted.
The Dowager Empress was furious. There was nothing now to prevent Stana from marrying Nikolasha and she continued to tell whoever would listen of Nikolasha’s ‘sick and incurable’ disease. She suggested he might have succumbed to some sort of ‘spell’. He’d been enchanted. The Black Peril, the Sibyl Sisters, had got to him. The man was a fool. A sick fool. An embarrassing sick fool. And she was appalled. But what galled her most was not only had Nicholas forbidden his own brother, Michael, from marrying his cousin, Baby Bee, but now he was about to allow both Goat Girls to be married to two of the most important men in Russia. It was too much for her cope with. How could Nicky have let this happen? How weak-willed was her son? How easily led? How influenced by his wretched wife? She was beside herself.
And she wasn’t the only one who felt that way.
‘It is the work of Satan himself,’ said the Grand Duchess Vladimir to Baroness Sophie Buxhoeveden as they prepared the lace stall for the Christmas Bazaar. The Baroness did not comment. She was not a woman who shared her opinion freely. Free opinions were dangerous, especially during these times. ‘Satan,’ continued the Grand Duchess as she riffled through the lace, putting it in piles. ‘In fact, that whole household is an axis of evil.’
It was only a few minutes past two in the afternoon and the four-day Christmas Bazaar had just opened. The cream of St Petersburg society was about the fill the House of Noblemen on Mikhailovsky Square, although since the doors stayed open until midnight, plenty of them were taking their time.
‘Is not Satan better than a large part of the human race we are trying to save from him?’ came a voice.
They both looked up from the lace.
‘Brother Grisha,’ smiled Maria Pavlovna. ‘What a delightful surprise! I didn’t expect a little trifle like this would interest you.’
‘On the contrary, Madame, trifles and any work for the poor are always welcome.’ He smiled and nodded his head. He had changed so much from the simple peasant who’d arrived a year ago.
‘Have you been introduced to Baroness Sophie Buxhoeveden?’
Sophie smiled. ‘Good day to you.’
‘This is Grigory Yefimovich Rasputin.’
‘Grisha,’ he said. He took hold of her hand, which she had somewhat reluctantly offered to him and he kissed it. It took all of Sophie’s willpower not to pull it away from him. She found him utterly repellent. ‘What pretty little hands,’ he said, continuing to hold them. ‘So small,’ he added turning them over. ‘So delicate… so soft.’
‘Thank you,’ she replied, snatching them back.
‘Do you know what they say about a woman with small, soft hands?’ he asked, staring into her eyes.
‘No?’ Sophie was intrigued, despite herself.
‘She has never toiled in her life.’
He smiled. Maria Pavlovna laughed. ‘Good God, Grisha!’ she said. ‘You terrible thing! Who on earth thinks a hard day’s toil is good? Far better to have never toiled at all, than to have ruined one’s pretty hands in the earth! Everyone knows that. Look at mine.’ She thrust her little pink fingers forward. ‘Just like a child.’
He looked down. ‘It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God.’ He paused. ‘It is the peasants who are closer to God, my lady.’