It was the Grand Duchess Elizabeth Fyodorovna, the Tsar’s sister-in-law, not Militza, who was the first to react. Renowned for both her kindness and her beauty, she rushed over, pushing various guests and servants to one side, and grabbed hold of Maria Pavlovna by the shoulders.
‘We need a doctor,’ she declared, looking down at the floor. Her pretty face winced. ‘Right now!’
Finally, Militza forced her way through the crowd of guests, most of whom where rooted to the spot with shock. The amount of blood on the floor was distressing and, with every bellow and moan, more poured out from below her skirts. Elizabeth Fyodorovna snatched napkins and started to wet them in the silver water jug on the table to cool Maria’s brow. Maria’s face was now completely drained of colour and covered in a film of sweat. Militza took hold of her hand. It felt cold. Maria looked up at her but didn’t appear to know who she was.
‘You need to lie down.’
Elizabeth and Militza each took an arm. Holding Maria firmly by the elbow, they helped her through the party. The guests looked away as they passed. Only when they neared the band did the music finally stop.
The women reached the door in silence. Maria collapsed and, as Militza struggled to pull her upright, she turned back to see the horror-struck faces of the guests. Maria’s drenched skirts had dragged across the parquet floor, leaving a thick, wide trail of blood in their wake.
Just then Stana came racing back into her own party, her ‘ransom’ having been paid, shouting, ‘I am back! I’m free!’
But where was the applause? Where were the rapturous cheers? The whole room should be on its feet! The ‘ransom’ had been paid; the band could play all night long.
But Stana ran into a room in shock, a room steeped in tragedy and covered in blood. It brought her up sharp, like being slapped in the face. Militza saw the terrified look in her sister’s eyes. Her wedding day would be forever marred by Maria Pavlovna’s terrible loss. Stana and Militza’s arrival in St Petersburg society would be marked in blood. The foetal blood of an unborn baby.
‘For God’s sake,’ shouted Peter, stepping forward. ‘Someone call for a doctor!’ He looked around the inert crowd and rushed out himself.
Elizabeth and Militza managed to escort Maria into the yellow drawing room. Within minutes there were servants with towels and jugs of warm water but there was little that could be done.
The dead baby came about forty minutes after her exit from the party. Fortunately, a sturdy woman from the village with strong forearms was there to help. One of the servants had raised her from her bed and brought her to the palace, while they waited for the doctor Peter had sent for to arrive. She’d helped deliver something like thirty babies in the village and her experience proved invaluable. She dosed Maria with a strong liquor of brandy and herbs to dull the pain, which made the passing of the baby much easier. It was less than four months old – almost formed but red raw. The village woman immediately wrapped it up in a towel and took it away.
The second foetus was, of course, rather a shock for everyone in the room. They had all concluded the worst was over, so when Maria began panting again and arched her back before delivering a dreadful scream, they were completely taken off guard. They had no towel ready and no one was prepared. The clot slapped noisily on to the parquet floor, spattering the village women’s skirts and some of the silk chintz furniture. Fortunately, Maria herself was completely feverish, so she was spared the true realisation of what was happening to her. She was moaning and rolling on the divan and though her dress had been loosened, she was still fully clothed, for they had not had the time, or indeed the presence of mind, to remove it. She was propped up on some cushions, delirious with pain, covered in blood, but still wearing her magnificent tiara.
After the second child was delivered, the blood did not stop. They used sheets, rags, towels – anything they could find – to stem the flow, but the situation was becoming critical. When Dr Sergei Andreyevich finally arrived, the Grand Duchess Vladimir was unconscious, her temperature high and her condition very grave indeed. The loss of blood, the doctor concluded, was most definitely life-threatening. They just had to wait and see.
By the time Militza left the yellow drawing room, the reception was over and most of the guests had disappeared into the night. However, some were still seated in small groups in the grand dining hall, waiting for news. As she walked in, Stana leapt out of her chair and George stopped pacing the room. She could see a few other members of the court turn towards her.
‘You’re covered in blood!’ said Stana as she rushed towards her exhausted sister. Somehow her glorious coiffure, tiara and silver dress looked completely incongruous after what Militza had just witnessed. ‘Is she all right? Will she live? Has she lost the baby?’ Her questions came thick and fast. The rest of the room was quiet, a dozen pairs of eyes trained on Militza’s face.
‘I don’t know,’ she said shaking her head slowly, wiping her bloodied hands down the front of her pale silk dress. ‘There were two babies. Twins.’
There was a small but audible gasp. Out of the corner of her eye a man collapsed into one of the dining chairs, head in his hands. It was Maria Pavlovna’s husband.
‘Twins?’ Stana repeated.
Grand Duke Vladimir Alexandrovich made a small whimpering noise, like a dog that’s been kicked by its master. He appeared to bite the back of his hand. No one moved. No one wanted to appear vulgar, crashing in on his private moment of grief. Eventually, Peter picked up a delicate crystal decanter of Armenian Cognac and a small glass and walked slowly towards Vladimir Alexandrovich. He squeezed the man’s heavily brocaded shoulder, poured a drink, put down the decanter and pushed the glass slowly towards him. Vladimir took the glass and, without saying a word, knocked the amber liquid back in one. He put the glass back down on the table. Peter refilled it and Vladimir drained it once more. Then, in one swift movement, Vladimir stood up from the table, sniffed deeply, smoothed down his thick, lengthy moustache, cleared his throat, and clicked his heels together.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said quietly, before he nodded and left the room.
The remainder of the party took this as their cue to leave. With the husband gone, the idea of loitering in the hope of hearing any more news suddenly appeared a little unseemly. The two sisters, one dressed in silver, the other covered in blood, stood next to the door as the guests began to walk out into the warm, pale night and their carriages beyond. Some muttered ‘thank you’ under their breath, as they left. But for others the recriminations had already begun. ‘It’s all their fault,’ mumbled someone from behind their fan. ‘They shouldn’t have come here,’ declared another. ‘It’s not a good omen for the wedding,’ added another, as she drifted past. ‘Did you notice they both smelt of goat?’
The doors closed behind them, leaving only Stana, Peter, George and Militza in the room.
‘Do something!’ implored Stana. Her face was white. Her eyes were burning as bright as the candles. ‘Her babies may be dead, but we cannot let her die. Not her! Not the grandest of all Grand Duchesses. If she dies at my wedding – our wedding – what will they say?’