‘How are you?’ she enquired, thrice kissing the air either side of Militza’s white cheeks. ‘And how was the little wedding? Do tell all!’
‘Intimate wedding,’ corrected Militza.
‘Very intimate. I hear poor Alix’s sciatica prevented her from attending?’ Maria’s face was positively contorted with delight. ‘Anyone else make it?’
‘Is she unwell again tonight?’ asked Militza, pretending to look around the room in search of the Empress.
‘Poor Alix,’ Maria nodded, looking over Militza’s shoulder. ‘To be so afflicted.’
‘Poor Alix.’ They paused to agree. ‘What a stunning dress,’ added Militza. ‘Gold.’
‘Isn’t it charming? I was inspired by my recent trip to Vienna. We took our little train and I met this very interesting artist, Gustav Klimt. I’m thinking of ordering a few works. He’s not terribly expensive.’
‘Is the Tsar coming?’
‘Why wouldn’t he?’ She looked around the room. ‘Ma chere!’ she called to a friend, waved and walked off. ‘Have I told you about my trip to Vienna?’
Militza smiled stiffly and took a sip of her champagne. It had been a long time since she’d felt this out of sorts. Surely her sister’s marriage could not have such dramatic repercussions? Was she imagining this feeling? They were four of the most powerful, connected people in the whole of Russia; everyone knew they had the ear of the Tsar and the Tsarina and control over Rasputin. There was no one more powerful than they were. Nikolasha was president of the Council of State Defence, in charge of rearming the troops and the navy, he was popular with his soldiers, well-loved. They were all well-loved, she concluded, walking towards the ballroom and the sound of the orchestra. Then why didn’t she feel it?
She paused by the impressive dining table that ran the length of the banqueting hall. It was groaning with curls of smoked salmon, silver bowls brimming with caviar and a mountain of exotic looking fruits – pineapples, cherries, oranges, apricots and grapes – that on closer inspection turned out to be made entirely of marzipan.
‘Well, if it isn’t one of the Black Crows,’ came the familiar voice of Count Yusupov.
Militza turned around. How dare he call her that! She’d heard that some referred to her and her sister as Crows, or Spiders, or Black Crows or Black Spiders, but never to her face. He was deliberately riling her and she needed to calm down. Why on earth was she feeling so vulnerable?
‘Good evening.’ She smiled briefly. ‘I was on my way to the ballroom. I’ve heard there’s a performance.’
‘Anna Pavlova and the rest of corps did a little Chinese thing organized by Diaghilev,’ he replied, popping a small marzipan apricot into his mouth. ‘You missed it.’ He chewed. ‘How were the heinous nuptials? Did the Lord strike with a thunderbolt? Did the heavens weep at such a union?’ He chuckled to himself, wiping the length of his thick moustache with the back of his hand. In fact, such was his mirth that his small eyes watered.
‘The wedding passed without incident,’ replied Militza. ‘How very kind of you to ask.’
‘And without witnesses?’
‘There were plenty who came.’
‘No one of significance. Poor Nikolasha, a man of his standing and not a Royal cousin to be seen; he has indeed fallen under some spell.’
‘I can assure you, the man is of sound mind,’ replied Militza.
‘Not that your little tricks are much good,’ he declared. ‘“Look after your son!” you said to me once in that silly salon of yours, “Look after him”. Pah! As if you knew what you were talking about. What rubbish! Both my sons are alive well. Felix is here tonight.’
‘Not singing in the Aquarium Café?’ The Count stared at her, his florid cheeks pulsating with anger. He slowly opened his mouth as if to speak but words failed him. ‘This is a small city,’ continued Militza. ‘And stories travel like head lice in a workhouse. Particularly the ones about naughty boys who like to dress up as pretty girls and sing cabaret songs for a living, despite being from the richest family in all of Russia.’ She smiled. ‘It’s going to take more than those daily icy showers to cure such flamboyance, I’m afraid. Now, if you will excuse me…?’
Militza walked through the large oak-panelled banqueting hall with its polished red copper chandeliers and walls decorated with traditional Russian fairy tales, painted to look like tapestries. It was an odd room that felt dark and solid and was in great contrast to the large, open, gilt and pale grey ballroom, with its elaborate ceiling of pert-breasted caryatids and well-nourished cherubs.
Inside the ballroom, the music was loud and the air was heady with the smell of cigarettes and champagne. Many of the guests had arrived in splendid oriental outfits, many borrowed from the Mariinsky theatre but others had been speedily made in the ateliers around Nevsky Prospekt. Some – the Grand Duchess Vladimir’s most certainly – had surely come from Madame Auguste Brissac’s studio on Moika. The overall effect was of effortless decadence as the shimmer of silk and the rustle of taffeta accompanied the glorious music. A green-liveried footman arrived with a silver tray heavy with champagne coupes. He bowed his head while Militza helped herself. As she sipped from the chilled glass, she watched the Tsar drift around the room. He looked well, nodding his head, smiling at the guests; it even looked for a moment that he might be about to dance. Alexei must be doing better, thought Militza. The Tsar’s health and happiness were now so inextricably linked to the welfare of his son and Alix that his humours were like some sort of medical weathervane.
She smiled as he approached. She could feel the eyes of the room looking sidelong at her. Would the Tsar still be irritated by the wedding? Would he hold a grudge? Would he punish her for her sister’s happiness?
‘So, it is done!’ he said as he came over to embrace her. ‘Stana and Nikolasha are at last united!’
‘They are.’ Militza smiled, trying not to appear too relieved.
‘My mother is furious,’ he whispered in her ear, ‘and my sisters are horrified. But they’re only upset because I refused Michael and Baby Bee.’
‘They were first cousins.’
‘Yes, and Nikolasha and Stana are brother and sister.’
‘Not really.’
‘I know.’ He paused. ‘You must come and tell us all about it. We miss you. It has been two months at least. And you missed Anna’s wedding.’
‘Anna?’
‘Taneyeva, now Vyrubova. Our Friend warned her a few days before that it would be an unhappy liaison, but she went ahead regardless.’ He shrugged his large golden epaulettes. Militza stared at him. How on earth could the Tsar be talking about the marriage of the plump, dull Anna? As if it would be of any interest to anyone! ‘She has a little cottage now, just by Tsarskoye Selo.’
‘Who has? Anna?’
‘Alix much prefers to meet people there these days,’ he declared. ‘Far fewer guards.’ Nicky patted her upper arm and turned to move on. ‘Oh, by the way, your father isn’t worried about being left out of the peace treaty with Japan, is he? It’s not like the Montenegrins did that much fighting or committed many troops. You lot don’t really have that much of an army or navy to speak of!’ He laughed a little. ‘Your father’s support was more symbolic, I feel.’
‘Of course,’ replied Militza.
‘Jolly good,’ said Nicky.
Three days later, Militza’s car pulled up outside a small yellow and white villa just 200 feet from the gates of the Alexander Palace. It was a low, two-storey building, more of summerhouse, really – absolutely not the sort of house Militza would have ever noticed before. There was no garden to speak of, but the surrounding trees were in bud and blossom, making the approach to the house a little more charming. As Militza walked up the short path, she stopped. She could hear the sound of piano music drifting out of the open window and there were two people singing. One was a high soprano voice, the other was low and unmistakable – the Tsarina. Militza had heard Alix sing before, a few times, but never outside her Mauve Boudoir.