The Witches of St. Petersburg

⁶ August 1899, Tsarskoye Selo, St Petersburg

After that seminal dinner, the Tsarina continued to visit Znamenka with increasing regularity – each time revealing a little more about herself, each time shedding another layer. However it wasn’t until the morning of 10 August 1899, when Militza received that fateful telephone call, that all resistance crumbled.

Militza could hear the sound of the Tsarina weeping as she ran across the bridge. The agony and the raw emotion were all too obvious as her cries floated across the lake. Not since the death of Militza’s own stillborn daughter a year and a half ago had she heard a cry so painful. And how she remembered that agony. It was visceral; it stopped her heart and tore through her like a burnished sword. Dear Sofia. Poor, sweet Sofia, born to die so her twin sister, Nadezhda, should live. Born to never draw breath…

Militza picked up her skirts and ran faster.

‘Wait for me!’ begged Stana as she tried desperately to keep up. George was abroad, again, and so she had her hands full with her two children, seven-year-old Elena and nine-year-old Sergei, neither of whom were inclined to run on such a hot and humid day. Their clothes were uncomfortable, the sun was beating down and they were desperate to get into one of the rowing boats lying upturned on the grassy bank.

Militza didn’t look back. Ignoring her sister and hitching her white chiffon dress even higher, she held tightly on to her picture hat and the rope of pearls around her neck and ran faster. She could see Alix now through the leaves, under the shade of a large oak tree, reclined on a long wicker chaise surrounded by cushions. Her two daughters were playing on a rug in front of her and the prim and tight-lipped nanny, Miss Margaretta Eagar and the more elderly and yet robust nurse, Mrs Mary Anne Orchard, were also in attendance, entertaining Grand Duchess Olga and Grand Duchess Tatiana, so they did not disturb their grief-stricken mother.

‘Oh Milly!’ wailed Alix on seeing Militza approach. She half rose from the chaise, her tiny six-week-old daughter Maria still suckling at her partially exposed breast. ‘I am so glad you are here. Thank you for coming.’

‘I came as soon as I heard,’ said Militza, trying to catch her breath as she wiped the glow of sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand.

‘Isn’t it awful?’ Alix wailed. She began to shake, her red-rimmed eyes streaming with tears. She held her newborn to her bosom and tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle a cry. The sound was so miserable that her other children stopped playing with their dolls and stared. ‘When I think about it,’ she whispered, fighting her own emotions for air. ‘Him, lying there on the road, blood trickling out of his mouth, his motorbike lying next to him. He should never have gone for a drive. He was told not go out on his own. I can’t bear it.’ She struggled to inhale through her sobs. ‘No one should die like that, Milly. No one should die alone.’

Militza sat down on the end of the chaise and took hold of Alix’s hot hand, still gripping her handkerchief.

‘He didn’t die alone,’ she soothed. ‘A peasant woman held him in her arms until he passed.’

‘He may as well have been on his own,’ the Tsarina replied, flapping away the suggestion. ‘He was only twenty-eight.’ Her eyes filled again with tears.

‘Not many people live for ten years with tuberculosis – he did well. How is the Tsar?’

‘He is so upset, so sad.’ Alix shook her head as more tears tumbled silently down her face. ‘I know the agony of losing a brother, but I don’t think even I can help him. Georgie was not only Nicky’s younger brother, but also his best friend, he was so brilliant—’

‘And so handsome,’ interrupted Militza. She looked across towards the lake at her approaching sister. ‘I remember him dancing with Stana at the St Nicholas Ball. He was so dashing and fun. I will never forget how his eyes lit up when he smiled.’

‘Nicky’s been in his rooms, sitting at his desk, the door closed since yesterday. He keeps taking little jokes out of his box and reading them.’ Militza looked confused. ‘Nicky used to write down Georgie’s best jokes and put them in a box. He has been reading them constantly since we got the news, laughing and crying to himself.’

‘Maybe I can help him?’ offered Militza.

‘Oh, I am so sorry!’ declared Stana, rushing over to Alix and kissing her on the backs of her hands. ‘It is such a shock.’ She sighed loudly. ‘I feel as if I have been struck by lightning. How is the Tsar?’

‘I haven’t seen him this way since… the tragedy,’ replied Alix, sniffling into her handkerchief.

‘Khodynka Field?’ blurted Stana before her hand immediately covered her mouth.

Regretful, she looked quickly from the two nannies to the tall Cossack bodyguard who was standing in the shadow of the tree. Everyone shifted uncomfortably. The tragedy of Khodynka Field, where nearly fifteen hundred peasants were trampled to death in the sudden rush for the free beer, gingerbread and enamelled cups, all presents from the Tsar to celebrate his and Alix’s Coronation, was not something ever mentioned in polite company, let alone in front of the Tsarina.

‘That was slightly different,’ suggested Militza, glancing around.

‘Trampled running for free beer and a cup. It would be pathetic if it weren’t so awful.’ Alix looked up, with an air of slight defiance. ‘And I know you warned us – or at least the ghost of Nicky’s father did. And I know that Nicky should never have gone to the French Ambassador’s ball that night. You warned us about that too. I know. But his uncles were so very insistent that we showed the monarchy was undiminished. It was such a terrible mess. But what’s done is done. It’s all so very silly.’

‘No one blames you.’ Stana smiled at the weakness of her lie.

The three women fell silent; the stiff atmosphere was broken by the cries of Maria, as she rooted at the breast for more milk.

‘You see!’ declared Alix, looking down at the tiny red-faced baby, her short legs rigid with indignation as she inhaled deeply before letting out a loud wail. ‘I can’t even get this right. Orchie dearest…’ she said turning towards the rug.

‘Your Imperial Majesty,’ replied the rotund Mrs Orchard.

‘Please could you take her to one of the wet nurses? All this grief has made me run out of milk!’

Mrs Orchard gathered the crying baby from Alix’s breast and disappeared off towards the Alexander Palace.

‘Mama, it is so hot!’ yawned Elena, flopping down on the rug.

Elena’s likeness to her father irritated Stana. ‘Have some iced lemonade,’ she suggested, indicating to the small picnic table and chairs to the right of the rug.

‘Isn’t there anything else?’ complained the girl. ‘I’m not fond of lemonade.’

‘Miss Eagar?’ said Alix, sounding slightly exasperated, ‘can you take the children boating on the lake?’

‘Oh yes please!’ squealed Sergei jumping up and down and tugging at the woman’s skirts. ‘Please, Miss Eagar.’

‘Calm down, Sergei!’ she ordered, her long thin finger in air. ‘Follow me, quietly now, down to the lake.’ She smiled stiffly before nodding at the Tsarina.

‘Take Ivan,’ added Alix, gesturing towards the bodyguard. ‘He can row the boat for you.’

As the children, Ivan and Miss Eagar made their way towards the lake, Alix turned to look at Militza and Stana, her eyes wide, her expression fearful. She looked terrified.

‘Now that we are all alone!’ She looked from one sister to the other, her pale eyes darting from side to side, her breath short. She appeared almost feverish. ‘You have to help me! You both have to help.’

Militza took her hands again. ‘Whatever you want.’

‘Now that poor Georgie is dead I have to have a son!’ Alix sobbed. Her golden hair fell down in wisps across her face, making her look like a young child. Her hands were shaking, her bottom lip quivering. ‘The whole question of the succession has come up again, now that, he – the Tsarevich – has gone.’

‘There’s Michael,’ interrupted Stana.

‘Michael can’t be Tsar, he is far too irresponsible. Everyone knows that. I need a son. You can almost hear the Vladimirs pawing at the ground, their eyes hungry for the fight and there are rumblings in the Duma… Everyone keeps asking when? When am I going to have a son? When am I going to produce an heir? When? When? It is all down to me.’ Alix’s eyes were hollow. ‘I have to have a son.’ Her hands were turning over and over in her lap.

‘But you’ve just had a baby,’ said Stana, looking up towards the palace.

‘If you could have seen Nicky’s face when Professor Ott told him Maria was a girl. Another girl! Nicky managed to smile when Tatiana was born but this time I saw him try – and he couldn’t. He pretended, but it never reached his eyes. He didn’t even touch the baby. He went for a walk. He walked for an hour. More. When he came back, only then did he take Maria in his arms.’ She turned and looked at the two sisters. ‘Is it too much to want to lie in my bed and hear the 300-gun salute ringing out over the city announcing the birth of my son to the world? Three times I have heard the guns stop after one hundred and one rounds and three times I have seen the dismay on the servants’ faces, three times I have seen my husband have to overcome his terrible disappointment… I just want him to be happy…’

‘I am sure he is not disappointed,’ insisted Stana. ‘You have three healthy, beautiful daughters.’

‘What use are daughters? Especially now,’ replied Alix, staring out across at the gang of children playing on the lake, more particularly at the thriving and boisterous Sergei, with the sun in his blond hair as he laughed and rocked the rowing boat back and forth on the water. ‘It is easy for you to say. You both have sons,’ she said turning back towards the sisters, her face haunted with longing. ‘You have Sergei, Stana and you have your beautiful Roman, Milly. Please, you have to help me. I will do anything, absolutely anything. I cannot rest, Russia cannot rest until we have son.’

Stana softly patted the back of Alix’s hand but the Tsarina snatched it away with irritation and glared. ‘You don’t understand! You have no idea of the pressure to produce a son while a nation of millions holds its breath! It is suffocating me! And every confinement is worse: the headaches, the fainting, the endless, endless sickness. D’you know, Nicky’s mother even suggested I eat cold ham lying in bed in the morning to stop the sickness? Cold ham with thick white fat! Can you imagine? I can barely stomach a slice when I am well, let alone five months pregnant with a mouth as dry as a desert. And I know what they whisper. They whisper that I am cold and aloof, that I don’t like their parties, their balls, their wretched games of cards. They say that I am a prude, that I tell women off for showing too much flesh at court, that I want to stop my husband going out. But it’s not true. I just feel so unwell. The room is spinning, my head is turning – and I feel sick all the time! And my back…’ She looked from one sister to the other and then burst into tears. ‘It is the whispering I hate most,’ she sobbed, into her handkerchief. ‘I just wish it would all stop!’

She looked up and, through the mist of her tears, she could see Militza and Stana completely understood.

What she didn’t know was that they more than understood; they themselves had heard those whispers, they’d felt the same loneliness. And they also knew what it was like to have a mother who was desperate for a son. They had seen the potions, the lotions, they had smelt the smoke, seen the fires and heard the incantations. Their palace in Cetinje had been full of it – the freaks, the fools, the endless spells. And they knew exactly what to do.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Militza, nodding fiercely, her lips pursed with determination. ‘You will have your son.’

‘I promise,’ added Stana.

‘Cross your heart?’ whispered Alix, before lying back, exhausted, in to her chair.