Stana was light and full of life, her dark eyes shone and a smile played on her lips. ‘Oh Militza,’ she declared, adjusting her Bolin diamond tiara, her hair piled graciously up on her head, ‘thank you!’ She smiled, leaning over to kiss her sister. ‘Thank you for all you’ve done. I know it’s been difficult and I know you have sacrificed much for me, but I can’t tell you how much I am in your debt. When anyone has been as unhappy as I, she is glad to have a home with a kind husband and to be quiet.’
‘Quiet?’ laughed Militza. ‘I am not sure your life will ever be quiet.’
‘But that is all I want.’
Militza looked at her sister. ‘But you’re only thirty-nine years old – there is much ahead of you.’
‘Nikolasha is fifty.’
‘And still playing politics and soldiers,’ said Militza.
‘He wants nothing to do with politics and he says he wants to retire from the army and hunt wolf with his borzois.’
‘Of course!’ laughed Militza. ‘So what was last summer about?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Me, persuading Nicky to replace Prime Minister Goremykin with Stolypin? Who do you think was behind all of that?’
‘Peter?’
‘Nikolasha! Nikolasha and his friend General Rauch. They begged me to ask Nicky and Alix. They were desperate for Stolypin to be Prime Minister. So I asked. And it happened. You don’t get more political than that.’
‘Well, he’s not interested any more,’ she said, taking a small sip of champagne. ‘Quiet. That’s what we want. Nice and quiet.’
‘This coming from a man who sliced his borzoi in half at the dinner table just to demonstrate how sharp his sword was?’
‘That was years ago and no one remembers that,’ mumbled Stana. ‘Anyway, he’s happy now.’
That much was certainly true. Nikolasha was unrecognizable from the fractious giant he once was. Famed for his quick temper and rash actions, he had become a much more jovial, affable fellow since he’d been with Stana. Militza had once joked it was the power of regular intercourse that had changed the man, much to her sister’s annoyance. Stana put it down to the far more cerebral meeting of souls. She even credited Philippe, posthumously, with granting her fulfilment at last. Nikolasha himself, when talking of happiness, told Militza, ‘For a long time I sought it, and when I had lost all hope of finding it, unexpectedly I received it.’
The wedding was simple. Despite Peter’s offering, Stana chose to walk down the aisle alone because none of her brothers, nor indeed her father, were able to attend. Her brother-in-law had been terribly charming but she preferred to stand firm. Meanwhile, Nikolasha was flanked by a guard of honour led by Colonel Dundadze, commandant of the Yalta garrison. There were representatives from Montenegro and Italy, as well as various members of the army present, but the most notable absence was the Royal family. They all stayed away, their excuses, Militza remembered, were too numerous to recount. An illness. Urgent travel. Business abroad. Nicky and Alix sent the delightful Prince Vasily Dolgorukov in their place, but the others were not so diplomatic. Xenia was so horrified she told everyone who’d listen she couldn’t believe they’d found a church that would actually marry them! Her husband, Sandro, refused even to send a telegram of congratulations and the Dowager Empress was said to have been so appalled when she’d heard the news that the wedding had actually taken place she’d had to retire to her chamber and be administered with tranquilizing drops.
Stana and Nikolasha smiled broadly as they left the church, apparently oblivious to the outrage they had unleashed. After the ceremony, the luncheon that followed the service was a subdued, abstemious but nonetheless joyful affair. Plates of smoked sturgeon were followed by spring lamb, pheasant in aspic, fresh asparagus, forced rhubarb and sweet fruits in wine and ice cream, plus plenty of toasts. There was a gypsy band playing, but they did not kidnap the bride as usual; instead, Nikolasha insisted on paying them beforehand – the idea that anyone might relive, or be reminded of that hideous night, of Grand Duchess Vladimir’s bloodied skirts and the scarlet trail she left across the ballroom, was more than anyone could bear. So the guests retired into the balmy southern spring evening with memories of a pleasant afternoon that was neither ostentatious nor inappropriate.
Later that week, Stana and Nikolasha went on a honeymoon tour of his many country estates, where the groom hunted wolf and fox with his hounds while his new wife read, and walked his expansive grounds, delighting in her own company, her pain, loneliness and humiliation a thing of the past.
Meanwhile, Militza returned to St Petersburg, alone.
Still engulfed in the last gusts of winter, the city felt cold. Perhaps it was simply the inclement weather, after the longer, milder days spent in the Crimea, or maybe it was her reception that was enough to chill the blood. Either way, Militza felt a certain froideur every time she entered a room. Before her sister’s wedding, all eyes had naturally turned towards the two of them, even at a discreet dinner at the Yacht Club. But now, suddenly on her own, with her sister enjoying the first flush of marriage, Militza found herself isolated.
And Peter was no help. The fact that he had helped persuade her father and, thereby, Montenegro to back Nicky in the failed war against Japan was enough for him to want to maintain a low profile. He’d believed, like the late Minister of the Interior, Vyacheslav von Plehve, that ‘a short victorious war would save Russia from all its internal problems’. The war had indeed been short, but it was not remotely victorious: it was catastrophic, with appalling loss of life and it had gone a long way to exacerbating Russia’s internal problems, with strikes, insurrections and insubordination on the rise all over the country. So much so that no one who held office was safe; death in the form of ardent revolutionaries stalked the streets, ready to strike at any moment. Even Plehve, who’d survived at least two assassination attempts, had finally succumbed to a bomb back in July 1904.
So Peter had suddenly, rapidly, become very interested in the running of his estates. His conversion was practically Tolstoyan; he developed an all-encompassing fascination in land management and the welfare of his workers. He was happy to spend the occasional evening with the Tsar at Tsarskoye Selo, as well as giving little dinners for twenty or thirty or so at Znamenka in the countryside. But that’s where he wanted to stay, at Znamenka; therefore he was much less inclined to come into town to attend the Grand Duchess Vladimir’s parties or any of the court balls. He left Militza to go on her own.
Towards the end of May, she accepted an invitation to a Soirée Chinoise at the Vladimirs’ on Palace Embankment. Given the recent defeat at the hands of the Japanese, some would have thought any Oriental theme tasteless, but such nuances had never bothered the Grand Duchess and with Alix always detained in the countryside, so prone to ailments and aches and so terribly, terribly frail, there was a vacuum at the heart of St Petersburg society which Maria Pavlovna thought it her duty to fill. ‘One ought to know one’s job,’ she would say. And her job was to make up for the darkened windows of the Winter Palace where not one glass of fizz was served, nor a note played.
As she entered the Raspberry Parlour in the first floor of the palace, Maria greeted Militza with unusual enthusiasm. A symphony of golden thread and diamonds, the Grand Duchess Vladimir shimmered with delight.