Stana was already in the drawing room when Militza came down the stairs. They sat in silence while the footman served tea and small slices of plain cake.
‘Anna Vyrubova told me,’ said Stana as soon the footman closed the door. She leapt off her seat and, in a rustle of maroon silk, she came to sit next to her sister on the divan, taking hold of her hand. ‘She was in Donon’s last night…’
‘What was she doing in a French restaurant?’ asked Militza, a little surprised.
‘She’d been to the theatre and she had drunk a glass of champagne,’ continued Stana. ‘I’d come fresh from the Vladimirs’ dance. Anyway, there she was – a look of delight on that face of hers. Apparently Alix knows it was you…’
‘Me?’
‘Who reported Rasputin as a member of the Khlysty.’ Stana licked her lips nervously.
‘How?’ Militza was horrified.
‘Olga Lokhtina.’
‘Olga?’
‘Olga told her and then Anna told Rasputin and the Tsarina…’
‘Both of them?’
‘Apparently. Militza, they all know. Only Rasputin doesn’t believe it. He says you would never do anything to hurt him, but the Tsarina…’
‘She believes Olga?’ Stana nodded. ‘But how? Everyone knows that Olga is a deluded fool who suffers from nerves. I have seen her with Grisha, her mouth in his trousers.’
‘People believe what they want to believe. The more you tell them otherwise, the more staunch their beliefs become,’ said Stana. ‘Olga says that’s why you went all that way to see him in Siberia.’
‘But the woman’s mad.’
‘Mad – and an old friend of Anna’s. They have known each other since childhood.’
‘Who doesn’t Anna know! Who hasn’t she played with since she was a child?’
Militza took a sip of her tea. Her hand was shaking and she was terrified; she needed some elixir. Just to think straight. She reached into her pocket and, pulling out a small red bottle, she poured its contents into her tea. Stana watched her.
‘What shall I do? I can’t think, I can’t think!’
‘No wonder,’ Stana said, looking at the fortified tea.
‘The Tsar takes twice as much as I do and anyway, it is good for the blood,’ snapped Militza. ‘You are not being helpful.’
‘Ignore it,’ said Stana simply. ‘It’s Olga’s word against yours and, most importantly, Grisha believes you.’
‘But for how long?’
‘You must remain above suspicion.’
‘How?’
‘By being more ardent than ever.’
Militza’s heart sank. Surely it could not have to come to this? Surely her close relationship with the Tsarina – the favours, the secrets, the things she knew – would hold her in good stead. Surely they had been through enough together before Rasputin? And after he’d arrived. Even the problem of Stana’s marriage had faded a little into the background. There were so many other problems, so many other storms brewing on the horizon; their love match was no longer a bone of contention, except with the Grand Duchess Vladimir who was still furious at her own son’s exile. But now, just as the seas and the sands were beginning to settle, this. How on earth could the monster she herself created be her last and only resort?
But that very evening she realized just how precarious her position was. What should have been an entertaining New Year’s Eve at Prince and Princess Orlov’s stunning Marble Palace – one of the city’s first and finest neoclassical buildings – turned very sour indeed. She and Peter arrived with two of their children in tow. Marina, dressed in pale yellow, nervously stood by her mother while Roman, who was by now fourteen years old and studying in Kiev, exuded the tentative confidence of a youth who was just beginning to discover wine and pretty girls. (Poor Nadejda, their youngest, being only twelve, was forced to stay at home.)
The party was in full swing, romances were beginning to unfurl within the younger members of the soirée, and everyone was looking forward to the end of what they acknowledged frankly had been a difficult decade. It was going to be a good evening. Prince Vladimir and Princess Olga were renowned for their well-judged, delightful parties where the food and Veuve Clicquot champagne were overly abundant. So abundant was their hospitality that the old prince had, over the years, become notably larger than his extremely thin wife. He was so fat that when he sat down he was unable to see his own knees, so fat that there was not a horse in the army that could carry him; so fat that on parades the poor man was reduced to panting alongside the Tsar so he could keep up with the retinue. She, on the other hand, was so exceptionally tall and thin that she was positively brittle in appearance. She was one of the Tsarina’s esteemed ladies-in-waiting, while he was a Lieutenant General in the army; they were an odd couple and when they appeared together at court it was once remarked: ‘Behold the Prince and Princess Orlov, in flesh and bone.’ Forever after they were known as Flesh and Bone. Everyone loved them and their generous parties, as indeed did the Tsar and Tsarina, who were both expected that night – out in Society for the first time in months.
‘Are they here yet?’ Militza asked Peter as they stood together alongside Marina in the corner of the ballroom.
‘Why on earth are you interested in the whereabouts of Nicky and Alix?’ asked Peter, taking a lengthy drag on his cigarette. Were it not for his son and daughter’s social life, he would not have been standing there; much as he loved Flesh and Bone and their generosity, balls and parties increasingly bored him.
‘I just heard they were coming and it would be nice to see them,’ lied Militza.
‘Nice?’ Peter looked at her quizzically. ‘I could think of infinitely more joyful company.’ Peter looked at his daughter. ‘And you, my darling, why are you standing here?’
‘I’m just a-a little—’ Marina stammered.
‘Your dress is beautiful, you are beautiful; now go and talk to some people.’ Peter nodded towards a group of pretty young girls standing near the door. ‘Those girls over there.’ He glanced across at a group of young handsome officers, dressed in smart red uniforms. ‘But those young men should be avoided!’
Inevitably, the Tsar and Tsarina were announced late. They came without any of the children, not even Olga, who at fifteen should certainly have been allowed out to celebrate New Year. And within minutes of the Tsarina arriving, she was under duress. She was uncomfortable in her gown and she kept pulling at the tight silver-embroidered sleeves, tugging at the high neckline because of the heat; her heavy sapphire earrings seemed to pain her, so she took them off, placing them carefully in her small evening bag. But it was the expression on her face that warded off any small talk. She was tight-lipped and large red patches across her cheeks seeped down the back of her neck. Poor Nicky, it was obvious he wanted to leave his wife’s side, but Alix clung grimly on to his arm as they made their way around the room. Eventually they ended up standing in one corner of the ballroom, she like a statue, staring mournfully ahead of her, while he twitched and itched, his pale gaze darting around the room, trying to catch someone’s eye.
Finally Fat Orlov went over to converse with his old friend, full of jovial bonhomie and after a few minutes Nicky managed to loosen his wife’s grip and moved to the other side of the ballroom, to be introduced to some of the blushing young debutantes out for their first season.
Seeing Alix on her own, Militza went over, taking the shy Marina with her.
‘Happy New Year!’ she began. ‘Well, almost…’ Alix looked at her and said nothing. Militza carried on, ‘And are you looking forward to Christmas?’ She smiled, but the Tsarina appeared to look through her. Militza felt colour pouring into her own cheeks. The woman was ignoring her completely and those around were beginning to notice. ‘Doesn’t Marina look lovely?’