‘Why do they ever?’ said Militza.
‘An affair. Between Arvid’s wife Countess Marina Heiden and Nikolai,’ added Anna, shooting Militza a look. ‘It had been going on a while and the husband had asked them to stop. Many times. So there was nothing else to be done…’
‘But it was all so very avoidable,’ said Militza.
‘Quite,’ agreed Alix, nodding her head slowly. ‘How appalling.’
It was a few weeks later that Militza came across the ashen face of Count Felix Yusupov. They were at the Vladimirs’ for a soirée in Yalta and, despite the golden light of the dipping sun and the joyful, glamorous crowd, the man looked broken, standing by a tree, staring out to sea. It was a beautiful party. Some one hundred or so people floating across the lawns, serenaded by musicians, entertained by dancers, as they flitted from group to group, chatting about the summer, the picnics they planned, the fun they were organizing and who exactly had been to visit the Tsar and Tsarina since they arrived in the Crimea ten days ago.
‘Have you been?’ asked Militza, running her long string of pearls through her hands as she spoke to her hostess.
‘I can’t stand the German,’ said Maria Pavlovna, conveniently forgetting her own heritage. ‘She is the reason my beautiful Kirill lives in exile and for that I shall never forgive her.’
‘Of course,’ said Militza, taking a sip from her glass.
‘While they were very happily letting your sister marry her brother, they were banishing my son for marrying his cousin! I don’t see the fairness in that.’
‘No, well—’
‘And it was all her fault, her idea, but then it always is, isn’t it? Tell me, does he have any opinions any more? Or is he guided entirely by his wife?’ She sighed loudly, looking down the beautiful terraced lawns, lined by cypress trees, lit by flickering flares that dropped all the way down to the Black Sea below. ‘He hangs on to that shit Stolypin, who is nipping away at our power and gives in to Duma after Duma. The man has no judgement at all. And in the meantime, his prudish old wife prattles on about the sanctity of marriage. Just because Victoria divorced the Tsarina’s brother to marry my son. I don’t see that as a good enough reason for them both to be stripped of all their titles and banished from Russia!’
‘I am so sorry,’ said Militza, suddenly realizing quite how upset the poor woman must be.
‘So am I.’ Maria Pavlovna sniffed a little. ‘It’s just seeing your sister and Nikolasha so happy, laughing at my party.’ She nodded over at the pair as they walked down towards the sea, holding hands. ‘And I can’t help but wish my son was here too.’
‘You could ask Rasputin, I suppose.’ Militza felt her cheeks flush a little with embarrassment. She was sure she wasn’t telling the Grand Duchess anything she didn’t already know.
‘Him?’ she snorted. ‘Rasputin-Novy, as that is what we are supposed to call him these days! I thought those sorts of double-barrelled names were reserved for aristocrats not peasants from Siberia.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t think I need his help. I’m sorry…’ she said before walking off.
‘Upset someone else, have you?’ asked the Count, leaning against the trunk of a tree. ‘You and your little cabal of necromancers?’
‘I am sorry to hear about your son,’ she said quickly, for the man’s face was almost unrecognisable with grief.
His normally ruddy complexion looked pale and waxy, his eyes were blank and rheumy. His ebullient moustache that had been so aggressively thick and determined appeared thinned and limp, as if no amount of wax could stiffen its resolve. He also looked unsteady on his feet, as though he would struggle to climb the stairs. Sorrow drains the blood quicker than the sun dries a sponge.
‘Well, you were the one who knew,’ he said. ‘You saw it in the cards.’ He raised his eyebrows, as his voice trailed off.
‘I am sorry I couldn’t tell you more…’
‘More!’ He turned to smile at her. ‘If you think I believe you knew anything about the death of my son, Madame, then you are mistaken.’ He drained his glass of vodka. ‘You were simply taking a chance, like the charlatan you are. You guessed. You were lucky.’
‘I lost a child…’
‘Dear lady, we have all lost children. Babies. Not sons. There is a large and profound difference. My wife wept for her babies – but for her son my wife is mute. She does not laugh, she does not smile, she does not move, such is her grief, such is her pain, such is the misery that has torn at her soul. So don’t talk to me of loss and how you empathize. You don’t. You’re a sibyl. A witch. An odious little soothsayer with some trick cards up your sleeve. Some around here think you have a gift, with your prophecies and your gurus and your séances. But I think you are nothing. I despise you as I despise your black cabal of lechers and lepers – and I despise that man who you introduced to our Tsar.’
‘Good evening, Count Yusupov, I am so sorry to hear about Nikolai,’ said Stana, as she approached, smelling a little of champagne and the roses she’d picked from the garden.
‘Go to hell!’ he said, as he slowly walked away, back up the stone pathway leading towards the house.
Stana was shocked at Count Yusupov’s outburst. A rose fell from the small bunch that she’d picked. Militza reached into the pocket of her cream silk dress for the small red bottle of Badmaev’s tincture. Her hands were shaking a little as she opened it and knocked the solution straight back in one. She shivered as she swallowed.
‘The man’s upset,’ she said to her sister. ‘He’s grieving. I am sure he didn’t mean to be so rude.’
‘I know. It’s just I am tired of all the enmity, tired of being the focus of so much hatred. I was trying to be kind. That is all.’ She sighed. ‘Have you seen Nikolasha?’
‘Is that the other son?’ asked Militza, ignoring her sister, her eyes half closed as she tried to focus on a slight, eccentrically dressed young man striding towards her.
Clean-shaven, his blond hair parted and smoothed flat, he was very handsome; he smiled and his white silk, open-necked shirt ballooned as he walked. He was wearing a pair of loose-fitting crimson trousers with a sash around the waist, which was held in place by what looked like a heavily diamond-encrusted clasp.
‘Grand Duchess Militza? Grand Duchess Anastasia?’ He bowed and his heels clicked together. ‘At last I make your acquaintance!’
‘Prince Yusupov,’ smiled Stana.
‘Felix Felixovich,’ replied Militza.
‘I believe we have a mutual Friend.’ His smile was conspiratorial as he glanced around the party.
‘We do?’ asked Militza.
‘His name is not allowed to be mentioned in our house – come to that, neither is yours,’ he laughed. ‘But I have a friend, Munia Golovina, who is an ardent follower. Ardent,’ he repeated. ‘And so is her mother. My friend, Munia, even collects his hair to bring her good fortune. She has a stunning little box of his strands that she swears can cure most things.’ He paused and leant in, putting his hand up so he could whisper behind it. ‘I know a little of what you can do! I myself have seen a clairvoyant in Paris, Madame Freya. Do you know her? You probably do. She’s very good. She told me many things! Some are hard to believe – but fascinating. I have also visited the Isis Urania Temple in St James’s Street, London, and I have even been to Blythe Road.’
‘Blythe Road?’ asked Stana.
‘The battle of Blythe Road, Madame,’ he said, his eyes twinkling with amusement. Where Mr. Crowley dressed in the black mask of Osiris, god of the dead and the underworld, attacked Mr. W. B. Yeats, shouting spells and wished the man burn in hell! The prince laughed. ‘It was a fantastic place!’ Militza stared at him. The young man was clearly a flamboyant, spoilt sort who knew little of what he was talking about. ‘I have premonitions you know,’ he continued, smoothing down the front of his shirt. ‘I see things. Everyone says I am gifted, that I am special. The other day,’ he lowered his voice, ‘when in Oxford, I was having dinner with a friend of my parents’ and a great dark cloud descended. No one else could see it but me. But I knew, right then and there, it was a bad omen. Terribly bad. And do you know what?’ He paused, his bright eyes dancing from one sister to the other. ‘The man died. He died! The very next day. Well, almost. And I knew he would! I knew it. Amazing, don’t you think? I saw that!’