‘Really, Grisha! Who on earth wants to be close to God?’
Maria laughed again, although her mirth failed to reach her eyes. How dare he? The man was really beyond the pale. How Alix and Nicky tolerated him, she could not comprehend. Spouting his dull little platitudes. It was like conversing with a clairvoyant at a fair! Thankfully he walked off over to another stall where a collection of delightful young ladies vied for his attention as they laid out some homemade biscuits on pretty little plates.
The two women watched as he flirted and chatted and eventually helped himself to a tray of biscuits, handing over not so much as a kopek in return.
Maria glanced around the room to see if anyone else had noticed, but they had not. Everyone in the vast atrium was busy. All along the horseshoe-shaped line of stalls, Grand Duchesses, Princesses and their ladies-in-waiting were arranging and rearranging their collections of decorated boxes, cloved oranges, knitted mittens and embroidered samplers, as well as a veritable treasure trove of other knickknacks and objets. Although the majority of stalls were selling homemade craft and fayre, there were other stalls, such as Fabergé, there ready to take advantage of the illustrious clientele.
To the melancholy tunes of the guards’ band, whose music filled the hall all afternoon, the flower of St Petersburg society mingled, trading gossip and intrigue, while helping the poor.
‘That man really is too much,’ announced Maria Pavlovna, looking down at her small hands.
‘Yes,’ muttered Sophie. ‘And look who he is talking to now.’
They both stared across the room, as Militza, Stana, Peter and, now of course, Nikolasha entered the hall.
‘The Black Peril,’ said Maria, raising her eyebrows. ‘I was wondering if they would come. Given the circumstances.’
‘Unbearable,’ mumbled Sophie.
‘They are now.’ Maria observed them all gathered together over the other side of the room, as they presented a united and indomitable front. ‘Now that the divorce has come through and she will marry Nikolai Nikolayevich…’
‘Are you sure?’
‘That’s what everyone says. Apparently, there is a ceremony planned.’
‘But they are brother and sister!’ exclaimed Sophie.
‘Not in the eyes of the Tsar.’
‘But in the eyes of God.’
‘It depends which God.’ Maria shook her head. ‘And anyway, those Black Princesses don’t deal in God; they are Satan’s handmaidens and now they are the most powerful family in Russia.’
The two women continued to stare as Rasputin approached the group.
‘And with him,’ sighed Maria, ‘they are untouchable.’
‘And how are you, my children?’ asked Rasputin, as he kissed the sisters with overt familiarity, running his thumb down each one’s cheek in turn.
‘So well,’ beamed Stana, who since the announcement of her divorce had bloomed remarkably.
‘You are blushing like a new flower,’ he replied. He leant forward and whispered in her ear, ‘No need to thank me.’
Stana smiled and patted his arm, before graciously looking around the room. She knew all eyes were on her and him, so she continued to smile, but how she disliked being in thrall to this man. How many more times was he going to take credit for her happiness? How many more times would he take liberties? How she wished that both she and her sister had not stirred up the Fates that desperate dark night of All Hallows’ Eve. How she wished she’d refused her sister, begged her to change her mind. But Militza was impossible to refuse when she put her mind to it. And even now, when she felt at her most happy and fulfilled, Stana could not help but feel anxious.
‘You are so kind, Grisha,’ she continued, bowing her head slightly. ‘And how are you enjoying the bazaar?’
‘It amuses,’ he said. ‘And you, my dear?’ He turned and kissed Militza on the corner of her mouth. Peter bristled with irritation. He’d noticed Rasputin’s fondness for kissing all the ladies on the mouth, but even so, to have one’s own wife kissed in front of one, was very poor form indeed. ‘Are you here for the biscuits, or the Fabergé?’
Militza’s dark eyes narrowed while her heart beat wildly in her chest. His teasing was unbearable. It was almost as unpleasant as the smell of his hair and the heavy scent of garlic and gherkins on his breath – and yet, all she could think about as she stood so very close to him was the thickness of his shaft and the way he’d ridden her so hard astride his filthy armchair… She felt her pulse quicken and her breath grow shallow as she tried to control herself. Slowly, she sank her teeth into her bottom lip.
He referred to the episode as a ‘healing’ and had suggested she come to his flat for several more. It was part of the teachings of God, he’d assured her quietly, whispering in her ear, as they conversed at Countess Ignatiev’s salon. God was there to help the sinner. ‘Go out and sin so that you don’t think yourself so holy,’ he’d said, pulling her closer to him. ‘The Lord abaseth him that is exalted and exalteth him that is abased,’ he’d added as he’d rubbed his tumescent cock up against her thighs and she’d felt its urgent excitement even through the silk of her skirts.
So far she had resisted another visit to his apartment, although in private she’d thought of little else and longed for nothing more than to be ‘healed’ once more.
‘I am here to help the poor,’ she said quietly.
‘The poor?’ he asked, as he moved a little closer. ‘Now what would you know about them, Mamma?’
‘Brother Grisha!’ came a call from across the room. ‘Do come and try my biscuits!’
Militza looked across the room and there, behind a stall, was the pretty blonde girl who had been at the Yacht Club.
‘Ah!’ He waved before turning briefly to face Militza. ‘Madame Ekaterina Ostrogorsky, the little doctor’s wife.’ He smirked before he leant over and whispered, ‘The only woman I have met who is wetter than you.’ He laughed silently, his hot breath whistling in her ear, before he walked across the room, his first three fingers raised, ready to make the sign of the cross at whoever he felt needed it.
‘My darling,’ said Peter, exhaling boredom through flared nostrils as he surveyed the scene. ‘Shall we at least take a look at the Fabergé? I am afraid I can’t bear to feign interest in another little piece of stitching.’ Militza looked up at him in a state of confusion. ‘Fabergé?’ he repeated.
‘Oh, yes, yes,’ she stammered, trying to gather herself as her head swam and her heart palpated. ‘Fabergé, why ever not?’ She snatched at her husband’s arm.
‘Are you all right, dear?’ he asked giving her the briefest of glances.
‘I am quite all right,’ she replied. ‘It is just very hot.’
‘It is always ghastly here,’ he concurred. ‘There are far too many people. Frankly, I have never seen the appeal of it myself. It always feels like one large vanity trip for the Vladimirs – and as far as I can see they need no encouragement in that department.’
They began to walk through the crowd, past a stall of shawls and another covered in cloved oranges tied up with purple ribbons.
‘I see the Dowager Empress has deigned to join us,’ muttered Peter, smoothing down his moustache. ‘With Cousin Xenia.’
Militza felt him move in the opposite direction. Normally she would chastise him. Why should they give way? After all, they were the more powerful couple these days. But this time she felt too weak to say anything. She didn’t have the strength for a fight. Instead, she faltered along at his side, holding tightly on to his arm as they wove their way towards the other end of the hall.
Peter didn’t seem to notice his wife’s uncharacteristic unsteadiness. Had he heard Rasputin? she wondered. No, he admired Rasputin, thought him a man of God despite his little dalliances with the gypsies; he couldn’t suspect anything. She shivered. There would be no telling how he would react if he found out. Militza tried to steel herself; she was good liar, she knew that, however, this was going to be a test even for her.