His question surprised them. There was no mention of the icon, no mention of the last time Militza had seen him, when he’d begged for her help. They came out with their excuses, pretended that they tried many times to see him; many times they’d drawn up their cars or their carriages but there had simply been so many people, or they had not wanted to disturb him. They’d glanced at him at court but he was always so occupied.
‘Everyone wants me,’ he confirmed, nodding magnanimously. ‘And I just can’t help them all.’
He poured himself a large glass of Madeira. Militza leant forward, her father’s request on the tip of her tongue. Rasputin raised his hand and immediately began to recount his visits to the palace, his close and intimate conversations with the Tsar and Tsarina, as well as the numerous times he’d been called up to help The Little One. On and on he went, describing each crisis, each episode and how terribly grateful the weeping Tsarina always was, how much she relied on him. And eventually how only his telegram to Spala had saved the heir to the throne and indeed Russia and the empire itself.
‘Extraordinary,’ agreed Stana.
‘I wonder…’ began Militza. ‘I have a note here from my father.’ Up went the hand again. ‘I’ll leave it here.’ She pushed the envelope, with its thick red royal wax seal, across the table towards him.
He glanced down at it briefly before he continued on. The more he drank, the more his chest expanded and the more pompous his attitude became. It became increasingly obvious that he was no longer talking to them, but was recounting some well-rehearsed stories and anecdotes that he told to everyone, anyone. The two sisters had ceased to exist; they were simply his audience. And all that was left was Rasputin himself.
32
22 February 1914, St Petersburg
It was not until some months later that the sisters realized quite how duplicitous Rasputin had been.
A few days after listening to his drunken, boastful ramblings in the over-heated, sex-soaked room, Stana and Nikolasha had managed to speak to the Tsar in private. As Commander-in-Chief of the army, Nikolasha’s opinions, ideas and advice were important to the Tsar, no matter what minor tribulations went on between both their wives, so they were invited to a meeting in his office in Tsarskoye Selo, where they fervently pleaded with the Tsar that Russia should commit to helping Montenegro in the Balkan War.
Their argument was quite simple: since Montenegro had backed Russia during the ill-fated Russo-Japanese War, it was now time for the Tsar to honour their alliance and stick up for his staunchest ally, Stana’s father. They were family, after all. They left the meeting, buoyed by Nicky’s response, safe in the knowledge that Rasputin would meet with the Emperor later that day to shore up the plan. After all, they’d left him the letter and had sat, listening attentively, while he’d drained a couple of bottles of Madeira and talked endlessly about himself, for over two hours.
Except, that was not what happened.
In February, while the poor stalked the snow-covered streets looking for food and the threat of war hung ominously in the air, the court celebrated the wedding, not of the decade, but perhaps the entire century.
The union of Princess Irina Alexandrovna, the only daughter of the Tsar’s sister Xenia and Grand Duke Alexander, with Prince Felix Yusupov, the richest and most eligible prince in all of Russia, was quite some match. The beautiful, aristocratic, educated, Irina, the Emperor’s only niece, was regarded as the finest catch in the empire and for her to marry the empire’s richest prince, made the ceremony and the party afterwards, the ultimate social occasion.
Held in the private chapel at the Anichkov Palace, the bride arrived in a state coach pulled by eight white horses. She eschewed tradition and instead of wearing the usual court dress with a kokoshnik, she wore a silk satin gown of the latest fashion, stitched with silver thread, with a rock crystal tiara from Cartier holding in place Marie Antoinette’s lace wedding veil. The groom, as he had no rank in the army or official military roll, wore a dark frock coat embroidered with gold and white broadcloth trousers. She was led down the aisle by the Tsar himself who gave her twenty-one uncut diamonds as a wedding present; he also bequeathed Prince Yusupov unlimited access to the Imperial Box at the theatre, in lieu of his original gift – a position at court – which the young prince had turned down.
It was indeed a splendid occasion. A glitter of expensive jewels, rich silks and dashing uniforms with the receiving line into the reception over two hours long. And while the happy couple stood there, along with their parents, accepting the congratulations from the guests, everyone else sipped champagne, ate spoonfuls of caviar and talked about the terrible increase in hostilities both at home and abroad, while occasionally glancing out of the windows at the canal and the grey streets below.
‘What did you think of the dress?’ asked the Grand Duchess Vladimir, her Bolin diamond pearl tiara quivering.
‘I thought it was beautiful,’ replied Stana, taking a sip of her champagne.
‘I thought it quite dull in comparison to the usual court dress; quite why Xenia let her wear that I have no idea.’ She smiled, before proffering up her small plump hand. ‘Do you like my little Christmas present to myself?’ On her index finger glinted a large cabochon ruby ring, the size of an emperor beetle. ‘Cartier.’ Since her husband’s death almost five years before, Maria Pavlovna had been in receipt of one million roubles a year as a pension, which she had mostly spent on jewellery.
‘It is beautiful,’ said Militza, for it was indeed stunning.
‘I hear your Friend is opposed to going to war,’ Maria said, retracting her hand and taking a large swig from her glass. ‘Don’t look so surprised!’ she continued. ‘I thought you knew? Only the other day he was asking the Tsar not to engage with the Ottomans.’
‘When was this?’ asked Nikolasha.
‘Not long ago,’ said Maria. ‘I heard he was actually lying on the floor, begging him not to support your lot.’
‘Begging?’ asked Nikolasha.
‘That’s what I heard.’ She smiled.
‘Begging?’ he repeated, a look of horror on his face. ‘That man will stop at nothing. Can you believe it?’ He turned to look at Stana. ‘After all that?’
‘He’s moving apartments too,’ continued Maria.
‘Where?’ asked Militza.
‘Gorokhovaya Street – number sixty-four, third-floor flat, apparently. A grubby street,’ she said. ‘The Tsar’s paying his rent – 121 roubles a month. But it is very close to the train station, with a direct line to Tsarskoye Selo.’
‘You seem very well informed, Maria,’ declared Nikolasha.
‘Of course I am,’ she laughed. ‘I had tea the other day with that weasel, Anna Vyrubova – that woman knows more than the Okhrana and is stupid enough to answer any question you ask!’
‘Who knows more than Okhrana?’ quizzed a small, neat man with a wide face and brown, thinning hair. ‘Oswald,’ he said, introducing himself. ‘Oswald Rayner, I am a friend of Prince Yusupov’s from Oxford University.’
‘Good evening,’ responded Militza, nodding. There was something about the fellow she found appealing. His face was intelligent and his manner charming; it was easy to see why the prince had befriended him. ‘We were just talking about an acquaintance of ours.’
‘Who is a dear, close friend of Rasputin,’ added Maria. ‘If you know who he is?’
‘I have learnt not to mention him by name,’ laughed Mr Rayner. ‘Talk of Rasputin is more dangerous than Rasputin himself.’