Militza’s dark eyes darted back and forth between Rasputin and Ekaterina Ostrogorsky. Was the woman aware of what she was saying?
‘Those who he can’t cure by laying his hands on them, come into the back room for a more in-depth healing,’ she continued. ‘And they leave with their cheeks flushed and a light in their eye. It’s amazing!’ She turned slowly to look at him, gently stroking his hand. ‘He really is a man of God.’
‘Yes,’ concurred Militza, her eyes narrowing. ‘A man of God, indeed.’
26
10 April 1907, St Petersburg
Rumours of Rasputin’s spectacular ‘healing’ powers swept through the city, tormenting Militza at every turn. He’d ignited a fire within her that she could not control. Every meeting she had with him, every party they spoke at, every time they prayed together in the freezing chapel at Znamenka, all she could think of was the long, lapping length of his tongue, the rough thickness of his powerful fingers and the pleasurable enormity of his shaft. She could not bear it. The slightest giggle from a general’s wife, the warm smiles of a compliant debutante, the high-pitched squeal from a countess sent her heart pounding with jealousy and her blood coursing with rage. And the worst was Anna Alexandrovna Taneyeva.
That plump little nobody, whom she’d met the year before sitting on the sofa in the Grand Duchess Vladimir’s salon, had managed to ingratiate herself with the Tsarina to such an extent that Alix herself had asked Militza to introduce her to Rasputin.
It was not the easiest of carriage rides. The fallout from that afternoon in the Maple Drawing Room had carried on for months. Despite the intervention of Rasputin and the agreement of the Tsar, an atmosphere hung between Militza and Alix that was as cold and dank as a crypt. As the horses took their well-worn route around the park at the Catherine Palace, Alix defiantly did not bring up the subject of Stana’s wedding plans. She’d never been the sort of woman to back down in an argument or to knowingly change her mind, so preferred to remain silent on such unpleasantries. And Militza studiously followed suit. Children and the weather were topics that filled the afternoon affably enough, so when Alix did eventually ask Militza to make the introductions between Anna and Rasputin, she agreed with alacrity. Apparently, it had been Anna’s abilities as nurse that had impressed Alix. One of her older ladies-in-waiting had been taken ill and Anna had made herself absolutely indispensable by the bedside. And there was no quicker way to Alix’s heart, according to Alix, than devout and devoted selflessness. Plus, the little woman was all of a twitter about her impending marriage to Alexander Vasilievich Vyrubov and it was all she could talk about. Should she marry the naval officer, decorated in the Russo-Japanese War? Or should she not? Militza would watch her plain moon face looking for answers around the Mauve drawing. She and Stana found her a dreary irritation and were more than a little annoyed that Alix had taken her so easily into her confidence.
However, with Stana’s marriage just over two weeks away, any straw was to be grabbed with both hands.
Militza, therefore, reluctantly shared ‘Our Friend’ with the foolish little woman, inviting her to tea at her mansion on English Embankment. Rasputin was late. It was an hour before he arrived. An hour, during which time Militza had discussed God and Anna’s unswerving faith since she’d escaped the jaws of death and been blessed by Father John of Kronstadt, no less, who’d cured her from a mortal typhus by sprinkling her with holy water. Apparently, she’d seen him in a dream and begged her father to call for Father John and he’d come and cured her the very next day with a blessing and a splash of water.
‘The Lord is indeed kind,’ said Militza, nodding her jaded head.
‘Very kind,’ agreed Anna, adding another spoon of jam to her tea.
They sat in silence save for the scraping of Anna’s spoon round and round the bottom of her glass cup.
‘Her Imperial Majesty says that Rasputin is a man of God,’ she ventured, eventually.
‘He is,’ sighed Militza, despite herself. ‘Now,’ she said turning towards Anna, ‘don’t be shocked if I kiss him three or more times when he arrives. It is customary for him to greet those he knows well in a familiar fashion. It’s his way. He is a man of the people, a true man – a real man whose being is closest to the Russian soul.’
‘Of course,’ replied Anna, her small eyes widening. ‘Are you feeling well?’
‘Yes.’ Militza’s tone was irritated.
‘Only your cheeks are a little red?’
‘It’s the fire; I have no idea why the servants insist on a fire in April, when it is perfectly clement outside.’
Before she needed to explain any further, the door to the salon burst open and Rasputin strode in wearing a short black kaftan, accompanied by a cloud of violet cologne.
‘Mamma!’ he exclaimed, his three fingers raised in a blessing. ‘How are you?’ He turned briefly to glimpse Anna before planting a kiss very firmly on Militza’s mouth. ‘Bless you,’ he said, holding her face in his hands before kissing her hard again on the lips.
Anna simply stood and stared. She had never seen anything like it before. Thankfully, Militza had warned her, otherwise she might have run from the room in indignation and shock.
‘How are you, my child?’ he asked, kissing Militza for a third time.
‘Well,’ Militza replied, before dabbing her lips with a handkerchief. The man was showing off, she knew he was. He had a new audience and there was nothing he liked more. Torn between slapping him and demanding he take her now on her lilac buttoned divan, she inhaled and exhaled rapidly, trying to take control of her emotions. She knew she had to stop feeling like this. She’d been ‘healed’ once and she was not going to offer herself again, even if she wanted to. Desperately.
‘May I introduce you to Anna Alexandrovna Taneyeva?’
‘You may.’ He turned to look at the lady-in-waiting.
‘This is Grigory Yefimovich Rasputin.’
‘Grisha,’ he replied.
‘I have heard a lot about you!’
Anna smiled and Rasputin did what he always did when he did not know what to say, he stared. His piercing blue gaze had already unnerved so many at court and Anna was not immune. She simply stood and smiled back at him, saying nothing more.
‘Ask him to pray for you,’ suggested Militza.
‘Oh yes,’ said Anna.
‘Shall I pray for you?’
‘Yes,’ she declared, more than a little flustered.
‘What shall I pray for?’
‘Pray, pray… um… that I may spend my whole life in the service of their Majesties!’
‘So it shall be,’ he declared, before he turned immediately on his heel and left.
‘Is that it?’ asked Anna, her head twitching from side to side.
‘Yes,’ replied Militza with mild amusement. The poor woman had only garnered his attention for a few minutes. ‘Grisha has no need of incantations and incense. If he says it is done, then it is done.’
‘But I wanted to ask about my marriage! About marrying Alexander Vasilievich.’
‘Another time,’ Militza said, smiling, placing her teacup down on the small occasional table in front of her. A signal for the woman to leave. Which she did. Eventually. A full forty-five minutes later.
A little over two weeks later on 29 April outside the chapel at the Livadia Palace, Crimea, the sun shone and the flowers bloomed for the wedding of Stana and Nikolasha. A small and intimate affair, it was the antithesis of the ruinous day when she had walked down the aisle to marry George, in a haze of heat and hatred, the cream of St Petersburg looking on with their tight mouths and heavy jewels. There was no need for drops or little pick-me-ups; in fact, all she and Militza had before the ceremony itself was glass of chilled champagne.