Militza never did make it to see if Anna was recovering from her ‘sudden turn’ at the ball. Not that she felt remotely guilty. She’d acted in haste, she knew that; it was fortunate that there had been no ‘dead’ candles to hand, otherwise Anna’s ‘turn’ might have been something else. But she needed to think about what she might do to neutralize her, bring the fat woman down, make sure that whatever she said in the future would not be taken seriously again.
In the meantime, she had an afternoon tea with the Grand Duchess Elizabeth (or Mavra, as she was more usually known) at the Yacht Club, followed by an evening at the ballet to think about. Militza was very fond of Marva and her husband, the flamboyant Grand Duke Konstantin Konstantinovich, whose penchant for poetry, the theatre, and late-night trips to obscure banyas made him more entertaining than most of the other dreary souls at court. Also the two women were attempting to encourage the small flame of romance that was kindling between the charming, talented, poetic Prince Oleg (the fifth of their eight surviving children) and little Nadejda, still aged only twelve.
‘Did you hear the Tsarina called for Rasputin last night?’ declared Mavra, playing with a small piece of buttered bread and red caviar.
‘In front of everyone?’ asked Militza.
‘No, I gather a car was sent to collect him. Apparently, it trawled the city until they found him in a private room at the Villa Rhode.’
‘What was he doing at the Villa Rhode?’ asked Militza, already knowing the reply.
‘I heard he was so drunk that he swore and yelled, screaming he didn’t want to leave his nice warm whore!’ She grinned. ‘But the driver was having none of it and they forced him to leave; they dragged him kicking and screaming down the stairs and eventually he slept in the car and managed to sober up by the time he arrived at the palace!’
‘Really?’
‘It gets worse. Last night, Fat Orlov told Nicky he wasn’t fond of Rasputin! Only for Alix to overhear. Her face was thunderous to say the least. Apparently, the Orlovs are now personae non gratae, to the Tsarina at any rate. That woman’s not well!’ Mavra shook her head. ‘I also hear she wasn’t nice to Marina?’ She raised a fine eyebrow.
‘She was charming,’ said Militza quickly. ‘I think Marina was a little overawed by the ball.’
‘Indeed,’ smiled Mavra, biting the most delicate corner off her piece of bread. She paused. ‘Are you going to the ballet tonight?’
‘We are invited to the Imperial Box.’
That night was one that Militza would try in vain to forget. What ballet she and Peter went to see, she could not afterwards recall, perhaps because she never actually saw the performance.
She and Peter arrived early at the Mariinsky Theatre, Peter dressed in white tie while she wore her favourite ruby silk dress with diamonds, sapphires and long white evening gloves. There was nothing out of the ordinary. In the crimson bar, with the red velvet banquettes and the gilt ceiling, just behind the Imperial Box, the cream of St Petersburg sipped champagne and waited for the first strains of the orchestra to strike up before taking up their places in the golden auditorium. The conversation was as usual. Who was in? Who was out? And what on earth had happened at the Orlovs’ the night before? Poor Anna’s crisis was much discussed. But the festering, fermenting swill of revolution in the countryside and the slums of the cities were not topics that bothered anyone.
Still, Militza was nervous as she sipped her champagne; her sixth sense was making her feel twitchy, anxious, paranoid.
The orchestra struck up a few chords and the glittering crowd drained their last few bubbles from their flutes and moved, en masse, towards the door. With a surge of entitlement they pushed at each other with discreetly pointed elbows, for the seating in the Imperial Box was something of a free-for-all. The Tsar and Tsarina were, naturally, on their thrones in the middle of the box where they could see and be seen, but the other chairs were not allocated. The Tsarina might pat one close to her to indicate where a favourite might sit, but other than that, tickets were not issued. With Anna still prone in her bed, fighting what Rasputin had declared was little more than a slight fever, Militza jostled her way forward with confidence. Her eyes were firmly on the prize, a seat to the right of Alix. The Tsarina looked directly at her. The trumpets sounded, the blue velvet curtain began to part and Militza smiled and prepared to move forward, but instead Alix turned suddenly around and gently tapped the shoulder of her lady-in-waiting, Sophie Buxhoeveden. And that was it. Militza had no seat. There was surely a seat for her somewhere, in among the shadows and tucked away in the pleats of velvet, but she couldn’t see it. Peter had been swept up over to the other side of the box and was chatting away to Uncle Bimbo; he had no care for his wife, why would he? She had always been seated close to the Tsarina in the past, why would tonight be any different? Militza’s head swam. She turned around and around and the lights in the auditorium dimmed. She could not see anything.
The orchestra began the overture and Militza realized she must get out before the lights on the stage went up and it was noticed she was standing on her own, without a chair. With seconds to spare, she stumbled swiftly out of the box.
‘Madame?’ queried a voice, as she made her way into the private bar, flushed and blinking. ‘Are you all right?’
Militza looked around, confused. Furious indignation coursed through her veins. After all she’d done for that woman! That disloyal, half-brained idiot!
‘Prime Minister,’ declared Militza, cauterizing her feelings as quickly as she could. She offered up a gloved hand for him to kiss.
‘Your Imperial Highness.’ Peter Stolypin kissed her hand. ‘Are you not watching the ballet?’
‘I don’t feel the inclination,’ she replied with a wave of her fan.
‘Oh?’ He looked at her quizzically.
‘I felt like a glass of champagne.’ She nodded towards the bar and the large silver bucket, full of ice, where there lay a bottle of the Tsar’s favourite champagne, Louis Roederer Cristal. ‘And you?’
‘A meeting at the Duma. It went on for hours.’
‘Well, I won’t keep you, sir, have a good evening,’ she said brusquely. She wanted to get outside into the street, to breathe in some of the ice-cold St Petersburg air, to steady herself, her brain and her emotions. Whatever was going to happen next, the Tsarina would pay.
‘Is the Friend in the box?’ he asked, looking at her directly. ‘Rasputin. Or Rasputin-Novy as we are now supposed to call him?’
‘Him? No.’ She shook her head.
‘I can’t stand the man,’ he said, running his hand through his thick beard. He scrutinized her expression as he slowly turned up the corners of his curled and pointed moustache. Militza revealed nothing. ‘I cannot stand him at all.’
‘But didn’t he help your daughter?’
‘It is what he is doing to Russia that I can’t abide.’
‘Then you’ll be pleased to know he is not in the theatre tonight.’ Militza smiled.
‘I believe you and he are well acquainted?’
‘I know Rasputin,’ she confirmed.
‘Well?’
‘Quite well.’
‘Well enough to go to Siberia, if I am not mistaken?’ Militza was taken by surprise. How did he know?
‘It was a brief visit.’ She smiled charmingly. ‘And now, if you will excuse me, I simply must go.’
‘Was that before, or after, you went to the police?’ he asked.
Militza glanced around the room. Had anyone heard him? How did he know so much?
‘If you will excuse me, Prime Minister, I really must leave.’