Empress of the Night (42 page)

Alexander, bent over an open drawer, pauses before turning toward her. It is not a question, so it does not require an answer, so he is silent.

“Are your parents as well as they look?” she continues. “I had so little time to talk to them at the Tauride ball.”

“Quite well,” Alexander answers, straightening. “Though Maman is wearing herself out, for she checks on the baby far too often.”

He has left the drawer open.

The Empress motions to her grandson to take the chair beside her. Alexander sits and immediately squints, for he is right in the line of the setting sun. His eyes are bloodshot from lack of sleep. But when she tells
him to move the chair to the right, he protests that it’s not worth the fuss. The sun will go down in a few moments. He will not be bothered by it for long.

She lets him talk of his baby brother, the latest family addition, whose education she is already planning, even though—with two older brothers—his chances for the throne are slim.
Big Nicholas
, Alexander says fondly. Always hungry, wearing the wet nurses out. But never crying without a good reason.

“I’ve heard that the trees are gone from the front Gatchina courtyard,” she says when he pauses.

“Are they?” Alexander says, blinking in genuine astonishment.

How does one
not
notice a line of old trees gone? Cut not because of disease, but so that these ridiculous Gatchina regiments have more space for their endless parades. Ruled “without dissipation, lassitude, and leniency,” as her son likes to say, implying that hers are ruled by all three. In Paul’s world, uniforms, cracking heels, jingling sword chains, and spurs trump old, shade-giving trees.

“All gone, I hear. Oaks, too. Let’s not talk about it, though,” she continues. “I wanted to ask you about that poor Captain Uspensky. His father has petitioned Platon Alexandrovich again.”

At the sound of Le Noiraud’s name, Alexander winces. No love is lost between these two, which is not a surprise, for Alexander has never liked any of her Favorites. But if she were to pay heed to all instances of childish jealousy, she would be entirely paralyzed. And entirely alone.

“But Papa already pardoned Captain Uspensky!” Alexander flashes her a bright smile of triumph. He is happy to narrate what has happened. Captain Uspensky was summoned, and Alexander was allowed to question him in person. “As long as I wished, Graman,” Alexander stresses. “Without anyone present.” The Captain confessed to negligence in taking care of his uniform and his hair. He begged forgiveness for letting his commander down. “It was not just the length of his pigtail,” her grandson adds quickly, anticipating her sneer. “And it wasn’t his first offense.”

“I’m very pleased you have resolved the matter with such speed.” She decides not to point out that the hapless Captain may have been instructed in what to say in front of the eager young Grand Duke.

“But I didn’t do anything,” Alexander protests. “Papa pardoned him
before I even mentioned the man. Papa was right, too. He merely had to set an example. Discipline is important, isn’t it, Graman?”

She doesn’t answer. The library clock chimes. Enough time has passed already. “There is something else I wish to talk to you about, Alexander, something of enormous importance.” She takes a deep breath: “Being a Tsar—”

He doesn’t let her finish. “No, Graman, please!”

The words she has decided on fly away, unsaid. This is just as well, for it pleases her that Alexander knows or has guessed what she wishes to say. Foresight bodes well for a future Tsar.

“It’ll kill Papa … He’ll never forgive me.”

Alexander’s face proclaims emotions like a manifesto pasted on city gates. He is cringing at the thought of his father’s wrath. Of being yelled at, accused of betrayal. Or pushing his father to his grave. No, that’s not what Paul would say. He will say:
Why not tie a stone around my neck and throw me into the Neva? Why not jump for joy as I gasp for my last breath?

Dear Monsieur Alexander with his soft heart. Forgetting how pleasing one will always hurt others.

“What nonsense you speak, child,” she chides softly, ignoring the crimson hue of her grandson’s cheeks.

It’s never easy to hurt someone we love. But she has made up her mind.

“When I die, Alexander, you—not your father—will succeed me. I am not asking you to agree. I just want you to know.”

Blunt, perhaps, but this is the time to state her decision, not to give the reasons for it. To soften the moment, she puts her arm around him. She feels him stiffen.

“We are talking of the distant future. I’m not ready to die just yet, Alexander.”

He listens, nodding, though still frowning. No matter. Monsieur Alexander will accept his destiny. He always has.

“We shall speak about it again, later. When Alexandrine is gone to Stockholm, perhaps,” she says. His reddish hair is thick, springy under her fingers. Like fleece.

“Yes, Graman.”

“Just remember, you are not responsible for what your father thinks or does. You are only responsible for yourself.”

Alexander is looking at her with his blue eyes in which she can see the brown speckles. The Anhalt-Zerbst eyes, her father’s legacy. “You are right, Graman. I promise I’ll remember your words.”

Surrender? Already?

But it is no surrender. Her words didn’t convince him. She can see it in his face, in the quiver of his jaw. He has merely lost enough ground to decide he needs reinforcements. Withdraw, pretend to agree. For now.

Not a bad strategy, when you think of it, even if it won’t work.

She hoped that after a few days of not being admitted to her side Rogerson would be less sure of himself, less judgmental. She was wrong.

“In Scotland, people believe that a horsehair thrown into the water will turn into an eel,” her doctor mutters as he scrutinizes her leg with a magnifying glass, clucking at a new patch of reddened skin that has appeared overnight.

“The pain has diminished, though,” she insists.

Rogerson pokes the reddened spot with his finger as if he has not heard her. There is a deep frown on his forehead as he puts the magnifying glass away. “And that rubbing the skin with eel oil makes one see fairies.”

The Empress lets her court doctor grumble. He will not admit any improvement that does not come from his own treatments. To him, Lambro-Cazzioni is an ignorant quack.

“In Greece,” Rogerson continues, “everyone is a doctor.”

He advises stopping the seawater baths right away, before they can do real harm. He advises returning to a regime of blisterings and purgings of the body from accumulated poison.

“No,” she says, covering her sore leg with her petticoat before he has time to wrap it in his bindings.

Rogerson gives her a hurt look.
You are Empress
, his eyes say.
You will do what you want
. He gathers his instruments into the leather bag, slowly, placing each one meticulously in its place.

She doesn’t want Rogerson to leave in anger. He has been the court doctor for almost twenty years. The secrets of her body are open to him.
Secretions, rashes, swellings, and love bites. So far, he has been discreet. He watches over her as well as he can. She is still alive.

“Why would poisons cause my leg to swell?” she asks. “Wouldn’t they affect my stomach first?”

Her doctor’s desire to instruct is stronger than his jealousy and wounded pride.

“The stomach and intestines, irritated by poison, sympathize with the integumentary system, which includes the skin. This is what causes inflammation. It’s like one eye becoming infected from another.”

He takes a piece of paper from his pocket and draws a system of connected vessels that fill up when water is poured at one end. This is what is happening in her body. Nothing is truly separated. Everything touches on something else.

She lets him talk until the last notes of irritation melt in his voice, and only then promises to rethink his recommendations. He bows deeply as he leaves.

“Nothing I did not anticipate,” she tells her minister as she recounts her conversation with Alexander.
It takes time to harden up
, she thinks.
There are some drawbacks of a happy childhood. No one breathes down your neck
.

“May I make a suggestion, madame,” Bezborodko offers, with a quick furtive shake of his head. He gives her a sheet of paper. A greasy mark where his thumb has been is a trace of Pani’s treat.

It is a letter from Maria Fyodorovna, addressed to her grandson. Short, without adornments or flowery preambles. It assures Alexander that his acceptance of the throne over his father’s head is not only wise but unavoidable.
You will save our beloved country
, it reads.
You will fulfill your destiny and earn your mother’s most heartfelt blessing
.

Clever!

She understands Bezborodko’s scheme immediately. Pat, maybe, but precisely what will soothe Alexander’s misgivings, ease his troubled conscience. Sweeten the bitterness of what he—the young Prince of the realm—so foolishly considers a terrible betrayal.

Bezborodko is not Grishenka; no one can be. But he is close enough.

As soon as the Count leaves, she takes a clean page from the pile Queenie has placed in front of her and writes a plan of action:

1. First thing tomorrow I will send for Maria Fyodorovna. Ask her to come alone, for I need her advice.

2. I will let her prattle about the baby. I will not interrupt her.

3. I will tell her that the Swedes have asked about her Chinese pavilion, of which they have heard even in Stockholm. Tell her how pleased Gustav Adolf will be to see the Gatchina gardens. Then I will ask if she has engraved any stones lately, for I have a great need for unique and personal gifts from the Imperial Family.

4. I will congratulate her on Alexandrine’s deportment. Tell her how pleased I am with the way she has brought up her daughter. We shall speak of the arrangements for the trip to Stockholm.

5. I will tell her how highly Alexander thinks of her.

6. I will mention Paul’s rages. Mention my motherly concern over them.

7. Coffee should be served with apple puffs and macaroons. Maybe linzer torte, too.

8. Silence until she has eaten.

9. I will explain what she has to do. Why she needs to write a letter to Alexander to assure him of her support, and then I will hand her the draft and ask her to copy it in her own hand before she signs it.

Maria Fyodorovna arrives when the clock in the corner shows fifteen minutes past three. Her hands are pudgy. Her face is round. She has armed herself with excuses. The baby was choking and squinting its eyes. The wet nurse was terrified. “I hope, dear Mother, you haven’t waited for me long,” she says.

“You are not late, my child,” she says. The many faces of Maria Fyodorovna,
reflected in the ornate mirrors of the silver salon, loosen and break into a smile.

They sit on the sofa, beside each other.

“Nicholas is perfectly healthy.” Maria Fyodorovna continues her report from the nursery. “He is bigger than Alexander was at his age. Bigger even than Constantine.”

The servants bring in trays of refreshments. The coffee is served with warmed cream and sugar. Latticed with dough strips, the linzer torte is filled with raspberry and red currant jam and sprinkled generously with sliced almonds. It smells of lemon zest and butter.

“Linzer torte,” Maria exclaims, clasping her hands just like Alexandrine. “I haven’t had it for so long. Was it in Berlin? Or in Vienna?”

She, the Empress, doesn’t answer. Or point out that it makes no difference now when Maria had linzer torte last.

Maria eyes the thick slice of torte with delight before digging her fork into it. She is a slow eater. “Chew your food well,” she tells all her children. They still laugh about it when they are alone.

But these are all minor irritations. They can be endured.

The afternoon unfolds as she has planned it. Maria, given so many reasons for pride, is beaming. Gustav Adolf has praised her Pavlovsk gardens? Liked her engraved cameo stones? She will present the King with a choice collection of her latest efforts when he comes to Gatchina. They are all looking forward to this visit.

“One more piece of torte?”

“I really shouldn’t. But if Maman insists …”

“I do insist.”

Maria is so predictable. She won’t change a subject on her own accord. She cannot bear silence, and will fill it with endless prattle. She won’t ask why she has been summoned, though it’s clear that she assumes it is because of Alexandrine and Gustav Adolf.

And so they talk of Alexandrine, a topic they fully agree on. How handsome the young couple look together, so straight, so graceful. How well mannered Alexandrine is. They fret about her first months in Stockholm. The child will miss them all so much! There is no escaping loneliness, even with the best of husbands. It takes time to build a new life.
Get used to a new palace. New servants. New customs. Swedish is a difficult language.