The Witches of St. Petersburg

⁹ 18 May 1900, Tsarskoye Selo

It was the beginning of May and a blanket of purple crocus carpeted the woodland surrounding Tsarskoye Selo; Militza and Stana had been invited to an intimate luncheon to celebrate the Tsar’s thirty-second birthday.

By the time Militza and Peter arrived, most of the guests were already assembled in the Rosewood drawing room. Felix and Zinaida Yusupov were just back from Moscow and talking to Baroness Sophie Buxhoeveden, the Tsar’s old friend and the Tsarina’s new lady-in-waiting. Grand Duke Sergei Mikhailovich and his eldest brother, Uncle Bimbo, were ensconced in the corner with the Countess Marie Kleinmichel and, on the right, wearing a brand-new couture dress of spring yellow silk teamed with a diamond and pearl collier du chien, was the Grand Duchess Vladimir. Standing next to her portly husband, she was sipping champagne and admiring the view over the park, when Militza and her husband approached.

‘How are you, Militza, darling?’ she said, looking Militza up and down and kissing the air beside her cheeks.

‘Very well, Maria Pavlovna,’ replied Militza, slightly taken back by her apparent friendliness. ‘Um,’ she floundered. ‘What a nice dress.’

‘From that little place on Moika, Madame Auguste Brissac. You must go,’ smiled Maria, raising her eyebrows. ‘She always says she drops her prices for me because I wear her clothes so well, but then I hear she says that to all the ladies! Oh!’ she continued, turning to talk to Stana who had entered behind her sister. ‘Still no George?’

‘Sadly, no,’ replied Stana, with a formal smile.

‘Not still in Biarritz, surely? No one can possibly fathom quite what keeps him there!’ The portly Grand Duke Vladimir chortled into his vodka shot as he exchanged a knowing glance with his wife and whispered loudly in her ear. ‘I hear the prince is washing his filthy body in the waves of the ocean!’

Stana flushed. It was becoming abundantly clear the nature of George’s ‘business’ in France was something that could not be contained en famille any longer.

‘Isn’t the new decoration looking wonderful?’ suggested Militza as she looked around the room with a deliberate fascination.

‘Haven’t you been here since Roman Meltzer supervised the renovations?’ asked Maria, her top lip curling slightly as she eyed the endless watercolours of Hesse palaces. ‘Very homely, don’t you think?’

‘I have been here a few times since,’ replied Militza, unable to control herself.

A butler announced luncheon was served. Peter finished up the joke he was sharing with Uncle Bimbo, while Militza and Stana walked through to the Corner Salon, where Monsieur Cubat’s famous suckling pig with horseradish sauce would be served.

‘Here come the Black Pearls,’ mumbled Zinaida Yusupova as the girls walked past her.

‘Don’t you mean the Black Peril?’ added the Grand Duchess Vladimir.

Count Yusupov remained silent and sipped his drink. He had not spoken to Militza since his visit to the Monday Salon. In fact, he rather avoided her. Her dark hair, her large oblong black eyes and unusually pale skin gave him the creeps. As for her pleading with him to look after his son, it was obviously all nonsense – but there was something about her tone that still haunted his dreams.

‘The knives are still out for us, Milly, let me tell you,’ Stana hissed.

‘Jealousy is the weakest and the most powerless of emotions,’ whispered Militza as she took hold of her sister’s arm. ‘Don’t worry.’

‘But I do worry.’

‘Our position is secure.’

‘How can you say that?’ Stana pulled her sister aside into the Small Library opposite the Corner Salon. ‘We are not at all secure. Quite apart from my marriage becoming the laughing stock of the whole city, they are waiting for us to slip up. And we’re just about to. We have trawled town and country and found nothing. The Tsarina is not even remotely pregnant, let alone carrying a son. The people are watching her belly like a hawk. Where’s the heir? Where’s the son? Where’s the Tsarevich? And just as long as that is the case, our position is perilously weak – we could be dismissed at a moment’s notice.’ She looked intensely at her sister, before adding in a soft voice, ‘We could use the “Price” – the one we extracted from Maria Pavlovna. It wouldn’t take much and you could do it.’

‘You panic too easily, little sister. You always overreact. You’re not thinking clearly.’

‘I’m thinking perfectly clearly.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Militza looked affronted. ‘We’re not going anywhere near the “Price”.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because we are not desperate!’

‘But we are.’

‘Not after today,’ whispered Militza.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Have faith.’

‘I have plenty of faith,’ replied Stana, more than a little irritated. ‘I say my prayers every night. In the absence of my errant husband that is all I have! Faith and a loveless future.’

‘Someone very powerful has just arrived in the city.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I have been waiting for him.’ She smiled contentedly. ‘And what is more, he will be much more to the Tsarina’s liking.’

‘He better had be,’ snapped Stana, staring fiercely at her sister. ‘Because you and I are rapidly running out of time. We need a son! And we need him soon!’

‘Everything all right in here?’ The Tsar was standing in the doorway looking curiously at the two sisters. They both had their hands on their hips and the atmosphere was as frosty and frigid as the steppes in winter.

‘Fine,’ they both replied rather too quickly.

‘Shall we go through?’ he suggested.

‘Of course.’ They nodded.

‘Militza?’ he said. ‘May I have a word?’

‘Of course, Imperial Majesty,’ she replied.

‘I need to see you. Alone.’ Militza blushed. ‘It is urgent – I need to speak to my father. I need to talk to him about Japan, Manchuria, about foreign policy. This evening?’

‘Absolutely, Imperial Majesty.’

‘Nicky. Please. It’s my birthday,’ he said smiling, taking hold of her hand.

‘And what a wonderful day for a birthday,’ replied Militza, gesturing to the pale spring sunshine in the park outside.

‘The day of Job. The long-suffering Job.’ He laughed a little. ‘Only the unluckiest man alive is born on the day of Job. I can’t help but think my life is predestined to be unhappy. I have a deep certainty I am doomed to terrible ordeals.’

‘We can all change our fate,’ she replied. ‘No one’s life is predestined.’

Although, as she looked at his pale eyes and his troubled face, she couldn’t help thinking how truly plagued by misfortune he was. To have married through his mother’s tears, to have a wife who entered the city behind a coffin, and to have his Coronation tainted by the tragedy of Khodynka Field, when nearly 1,400 people died in the stampede and yet while the field still flowed with the blood of his trampled subjects to have gone to a party afterwards, as if he didn’t care, showed foolish judgement in the extreme. Maybe his misery was preordained, written in the stars before he was even born… Or just maybe he was weak, poorly advised and too powerless to do anything about it.

‘I wish I could believe you,’ he replied.

Most of the guests were seated when they entered the Corner Salon. The Yusupovs were at one end of the table and the Vladimirs at the other. In the middle were the Tsar and Tsarina’s high-backed gilt carved seats and either side of them were three empty places. A hush went over the room as Militza entered on the Tsar’s arm. They all watched as he escorted her to sit next to him. As Militza sat down, Maria Pavlovna could not stop herself from kicking her husband under the table.

The luncheon was not protracted. The Tsar only ever drank two glasses of wine at lunchtime, even on his birthday, and the Tsarina was almost entirely teetotal. The conversation was mainly dominated by the presents the Tsar had received – a cage of songbirds from the Yusupovs and a delightful Fabergé box from Alix. There was much made of the recent Peasants’ Ball held at the Vladimirs’, where the ballroom had been redecorated to resemble a cottage, real cows had wandered around and the servants had been dressed in tunics and loose-fitting breeches as they had handed out the drinks. It had been lauded as one of the top five parties they had ever held – and they’d held many. The Tsarina expressed great regret that she had been unable to attend what had obviously been such a marvellous and much-praised event.

The three courses started off with hors d’oeuvres of caviar, smoked goose and pickled herring, followed by the famous suckling pig and horseradish and then fruit and cheese. The waiters, with their soft-soled shoes, were discreet and efficient and, as soon as the last plates were removed, the Tsar lit a cigarette, indicating that the rest of the party were allowed to follow.

Coffee and birthday cake, with port wine and Allasch kummel, were taken standing up in the Maple Drawing Room, which, although full of Fabergé-framed photographs and trinkets, was still awaiting renovation.

‘How long are you here for? Is Felix enjoying his new posting in Moscow? We must come and see you now that you are here?’ Peter suggested to Zinaida Yusupova as she sipped a cup of strong coffee.

Her delicate features formed a small smile. ‘Yes, that would be nice,’ she lied. ‘Be sure to bring your charming wife.’

‘She is so busy these days – I hardly see much of her myself,’ joked Peter. ‘She is always here!’

‘So I gather,’ laughed Zinaida. ‘It’s quite the little group!’

‘If you will excuse me?’ said Militza as she walked across the room towards the Empress who was engaged in conversation with Sophie Buxhoeveden. With a surefooted directness, she went straight to the Tsarina’s side. ‘I have some good news.’ Her voice was hushed so that only Alix could hear. Alix’s face lit up.

‘Meet me in the Mauve Boudoir in five minutes,’ she whispered, before turning back towards the baroness and looking out of the window. ‘Aren’t the flowers so beautiful at this time of year?’

Militza found herself waiting a full fifteen minutes for Alix to extricate herself from the party. She sat on the chaise longue in the corner of the room, furnished entirely by Maple & Co of London, in the Empress’s favourite colour, pale purple. From the Chinese bowls to the furniture, to the striped Parisian silk wallpaper, it was all mauve. The only exception was the cream-coloured enamelled upright Becker piano.

‘I am sorry,’ declared Alix as she burst through the door. ‘Felix Yusupov would not let me go. He kept fingering that giant moustache of his, talking about some dull military parade he saw in Moscow.’

‘I have found someone!’ Militza declared immediately, leaping off the chaise. ‘Someone so powerful, so clever, so brilliant. He lives between two worlds and he has power, real power…’

‘Does he believe in God?’

‘He was sent from God. He is the answer to your prayers, all our prayers… to all Russia’s prayers!’

‘When?’ asked Alix.

‘Now. He is here.’

‘In St Petersburg?’

Militza nodded. Alix fell upon her, enthusiastically kissing her cheeks. ‘Thank you!’ she said, kissing her hands, her forehead. ‘Thank you, thank you. I knew you’d find him. I knew you’d find The One. I knew you would not let me down.’ The Tsarina pulled Militza closer and embraced her tightly.

‘Don’t worry, my darling,’ soothed Militza, her soft cheek caressing the Tsarina’s. ‘Help is on its way.’