Queen of Someday (18 page)

She doesn’t move as I brush past her and gather my ladies, heading down to the banquet.

Click above for access to bonus video footage.

http://bit.ly/1Bj1LrQ

The days leading up to the wedding are frantic. I barely have time to breathe. To be honest, the distraction is welcome. Elizavetta returns to court after taking news of Rina’s wedding—and a trunk full of gold to smooth things over—to their family. She’s as arrogant and rude as ever, though more openly now. I ask the empress to reinstate her as my lady, not because I want her but because Sergei suggested I keep her close.

“It’s easier to watch your enemies when you always have them in sight,” he says.

I hear her high, nasal voice and see that mop of unruly, red curls and part of me wants to strangle the life out of her. But I smile softly, paying her antics no mind, and that seems to drive her most crazy. She takes to flirting with Peter again, which is easy enough to shrug off.

Two days before the wedding, I’m summoned to the physician’s chamber. Sergei accompanies me, holding my hand the whole way. He leaves me at the door, but tells me to be brave and that he will be waiting outside.

“Don’t worry, dear,” the doctor says. “This is a simple thing; it will only take a moment.”

Then he hands me a small vial of blue liquid.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Belladonna, just a touch, to help you relax. Drink up,” he says calmly.

I obey. Pulling the cork, I quickly drink the bitter contents.

“Good, now sit here,” he says, waving to a long, white lounge.

I do, and he gently pushes me back from the shoulders until I’m lying down.

“Now take slow, deep breaths and count to ten.”

I do as he asks, barely aware as he starts rolling up the hem of my gown. I want to sit up, to protest, but I’m suddenly so weak that I can barely keep my eyes open. I count as far as six before the darkness washes over me. The next thing I know, Sergei is standing next to me, helping me sit up. I blink down and I’m fully dressed, though my legs are tingly and numb.

“Can you stand?” he asks.

I shake my head, and it feels like a sack of rocks.

He lifts me easily into his arms, my head rolling against his chest. He and the doctor walk into the hall, talking about me.

“Please let the empress know everything is in order. She’s young and healthy. And perfectly fit for childbirth, so far as I can tell.”

“I will relay that. Thank you,” Sergei says.

The doctor adds, “We will check her again after the wedding, to confirm the consummation.”

Sergei nods and turns away briskly.

“Are you all right?” he whispers to me as he walks.

I sigh. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

He sings softly, a lullaby, as he carries me. I let my eyes close and don’t open them again until I’m at my room.

The empress lets me skip dinner that night, citing stomach pain. Instead, I sit with my ladies, whose names I can scarcely remember. I’m very careful now, not to get to close to any of them, lest my affection for them be used against me later. We play cards and read until I excuse myself to my room for bed.

The next day the seamstress comes, along with the empress herself. They present me with my wedding gown. It’s quite lovely, pale blue and silver and encrusted with diamonds. The bodice is cut so low that I have to ask for bits of taffeta to be added for modesty.

Four hours later, my back and legs ache and I can scarcely wait to be unbound. It’s less a gown, more a torture device, and I’m thankful that I only have to wear it for one day. The nobles have all arrived, as well as the priests, cardinals, and senators. It seems as though the entire country is in attendance, making the already loud, crowded palace nearly unbearable.

As soon as I can escape, I change into my riding habit and flee for the stables. As the groom saddles my mare, I can’t help wondering where I would be right now, if the empress hadn’t caught us. Would we be in Sweden? Married and happy, with a child of our own on the way?

I brush the thoughts aside. Alexander has no part in my life now, as much as it pains me. I must release him from my heart. It is only then that I might be able to find some small happiness for myself in this life, carve myself a little sliver of joy to make my existence bearable.

It’s funny, how I once swooned at the thought of being married to Peter, and then later was so horrified at the idea. Now, it seems somehow neutral. We are both so broken and damaged, perhaps we will find comfort in each other, perhaps our affection will grow.

I snort derisively.

Perhaps we deserve each other.

I ride off through the meadow and into the woods, much faster than I probably should. Peony is a clever horse, and she navigates the brush with ease. I ride for hours at a relentless pace, until my hands are raw from holding the reins and my behind aches. Rounding the lake, I head toward the palace, stunned when I come across a gown hanging from a low tree branch. I slowly approach the billowing skirts, a strange sound drawing my eye to the ground.

There, spread out on a wool blanket, Peter and Elizavetta lay, tangled in each other’s arms.

Peter’s shirt is removed and Elizavetta wears only the thin, sheer slip from beneath her dress. Her red hair is loose and rumpled. They both turn, seeing me approach, look startled for a second, and then laugh.

For a minute, I’m too stunned to speak.

“Are you just going to sit there on your high horse and watch?” Peter bellows, making Elizavetta snicker. “Or, I suppose you could join us, if you wish,” he offers with a wink.

I take a moment to compose myself, drawing back to Madame Groot’s advice about meeting cruelty with kindness, or at least indifference.

I lower my head. “I’m very sorry to have interrupted, Peter, I know you are a man with,” I hesitate, “physical needs. But I’m sorrier you thought that you could not come to me with them. For you, my dear future husband, my arms are always open.”

Peter blinks, looking for a moment as if I’ve struck him with a stick. It’s Elizavetta who answers crudely.

“It’s not your arms he would have to pry open,” she spits.

I take a moment to glare at her before riding forward, tugging her gown from the tree, and laying it across my lap.

I bow my head to Peter and ride off. His laughing voice follows me until I’m almost at the palace. Leaving Peony with the groom, I storm through the halls, gown in hand, until I reach Alexander’s door.

I pound on the wood with my balled fist. He answers it, looking both stunned and confused as he reads the anger across my face.

“Sophie?” he asks softly.

I brush past him to where Rina sits on a lounge, sewing a tiny shirt. The sight is almost enough to make me retch. Recovering quickly, I throw the gown at her feet.

“I know my marriage isn’t one of romantic intentions, but I would appreciate it greatly if you could, at the very least, try to keep your whore sister’s hands off my future husband.”

Her face falls, flushing with shame.

I turn to stomp by and Alexander grabs me by the arm, spinning me to face him. His green eyes are wide, his voice deep and firm.

“That’s not fair. She can’t control Elizavetta any more than you can—”

I pull my arm from his hand.

“Don’t ever talk to me about what is fair. And don’t you dare ever lay a hand on me again,” I practically scream in his face.

“Or what?” he demands, folding his arms across his chest.

I’m so angry that I don’t know if I want to slap him in the face or grab him and kiss him until he can’t breathe. Neither seems like a good option.

He shakes his head, his dark hair falling into his eye so he has to brush it back with his fingers.

“This isn’t you, Sophie. Don’t let them do this, don’t let them make you something you aren’t.”

“What do you know about what I am or am not?” I challenge.

He sighs. “I know you. You aren’t cruel, never that.”

I step back, realizing I’m no better than Elizavetta, standing here, coveting a man who is not mine, a man who belongs to another. I feel my chest begin to cave in, and I know I have to get out of there before I lose my mind.

I lower my eyes, looking back over my shoulder at Rina.

“I’m sorry,” I manage in barely a whisper.

I rush out of the room, holding my breath until I’m far away and the sound of his slamming door hits me like a nail in my heart. Only then, do I slow down and take a breath. Closing my eyes, I begin recovering my strength, rebuilding the wall I’ve so carefully erected around my heart. Eventually, the pain fades, replaced by the ice-cold resolution to find something, anything, that I can hold onto here.

Passing the library on the way back to my rooms, I feel my feet slow, against my will, and turn inward. I know I should not do this, but I move, as if in a trance, and take the book from its shelf. There is a note inside. The ink is smudged, the paper obviously months old, folded and unfolded many times by the look of it.

My path is lost, my wandering steps do stray; I cannot go, nor can I safely stay; whom should I seek but thee, my path, my way?

I consider igniting the paper, but think better of it, stuffing it inside my sleeve instead. Taking a quill and paper from the table, I scribble my reply.

Hence Cupid! With your cheating toys, your real griefs, and painted joys, your pleasure which itself destroys. Lovers, like men in fevers, burn and rave, and only what will injure them do crave.

I fold it once and place it in the book, returning it to the shelf.

I turn around and am momentarily shocked to see the empress, her cold, blue eyes fixed on me.

“A little light reading to ease your nerves?” she asks, circling the table and sitting on one of the tall, red velvet chairs.

I nod, trying to force a smile and failing miserably.

“I assume tour lessons with Madame Groot have gone well?”

I nod again, this time taking a seat of my own.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Good. Then hopefully you will have no trouble producing an heir right away. The physician tells me you are fit enough.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. But Peter—”

She cuts me off.

“Peter will be fine. Men play such a small, simple role in the matter after all. We do all the hard work.” She smiles slyly.

I bow my head, not wanting to anger her.

“This wedding planning has been so taxing on me,” she complains, drawing on the wooden table with her finger. “I’m going to take a vacation after it’s done, go to Kiev with Bestuzhev.”

“That sounds lovely,” I say honestly.

She puckers, her expression like a viper preparing to strike.

“I had hoped Sergei would join me as well, but he seems to think he would be better served joining you and Peter at Oranienbaum, where you will set up your own court. Do you agree?”

I frown. The idea of being without Sergei sits like a stone in my heart, but I know that if the empress suspects I have any affection for him at all, she will use it against me.

“I admit, I have never held a court of my own, but surely, Sergei would rather join you, and I can manage without him.”

Her face softens.

“Well, he is quite skilled at planning and arranging things. He would probably be more useful to you. Though I’m sure being so far from me will be very difficult for him.”

I nod solemnly. “I’m sure it will.”

“And young Alexander and his wife have asked to be released from court, to travel back to his homeland for the birth of their child. What is your opinion on the matter?”

Her eyes are narrowed, eagerly awaiting my reaction. I try not to react at all.

With an indifferent flicker of my hand, I answer.

“Let them stay or go as you wish, it is of no matter to me.”

“Does seeing them together make you unhappy?” she prods, unwilling to let the matter drop.

I lean forward.

“Happiness and unhappiness are in the heart and spirit of each of us at times. But I think that if one feels unhappy, they need only resign to set themselves above it. To make it so that their happiness is not dependent on any one thing… or person,” I add simply. “It was Your Majesty that taught me that, and I have learned the lesson well.”

She sits back, impressed.

“Yes, I see that you have.”

“Come to my room tonight, so that you might sit for the painter before the wedding. Skip the feast and straight to bed after. Tomorrow will be a very long day,” she orders, standing and taking her leave of me.

As she requested, I dress in my yellow gown, her favorite, adorning myself with my sash and jewels, and make my way to her chambers. There are two painters, each with their own canvas, Sergei, Bestuzhev, and a few other generals and cardinals gathered in the room. They are all whispering furiously when I walk in. Slowly, all their heads turn my way, their voices going silent as they stare.

“Where shall I sit?” I ask, and though no one answers, I feel the weight of their eyes on me. Refusing to let nerves get the better of me, I cross the room to where two empty chairs sit across from the artists, and take a seat, folding my hands in my lap. The door opens again and a mop of blond hair bounds though the door, straightening his jacket. Through the crowd, I first think its Peter, only when he gets closer do I see that it’s Mikhail in Peter’s suit.

“Mikhail?” I ask, confused. “Where is Peter?”

Mikhail coughs, flipping his hair back.

“His Highness had other things to do this evening. He asked me to come and sit for him.” The empress, who has just arrived, lowers her chin and glares at the boy.

“He asked me to sit until it is nearly done, then he will come on the morrow so they can finish his face.”

The expression on her face is truly frightening. If Peter were not her only heir, I might have feared for him. Finally, she nods, giving her consent for the painters to begin.

We sit for hours, long after the lamps are lit, taking small breaks for food and drinks. Around me, the heads of state chat idly about everything from taxes to the serfs to the treaty with Prussia. I comment, when asked to, in my newly perfected Russian. As I’ve been trained to, I smile warmly, offering the occasional flirtatious eyelash bat or coy tilt of the head. Sergei looks on proudly, the empress, however, looks a bit put out to find herself—for possibly the first time ever—not at the center of attention.

By the end of the night, I have several requests for audience at Oranienbaum Place and even more promises of lavish wedding gifts. When I finally leave on Sergei’s arm, I’m so exhausted that I can barely stand and my head is light from all the wine.

“You were radiant tonight,” he offers.

I grin. “Thank you. I have had excellent instructors.”

We are nearly back to my room when I sigh deeply. I would give anything to wake up and be back in Germany, at my small palace surrounded by chickens and goats. Without a thought, I touch my bodice, where a small pouch of German soil sits between my breasts—a constant reminder of what I have lost, what I have sacrificed to be in this place. If I had the whole thing to do over again, I wonder, would I change any of it? Would I go back and spare myself the pain, by denying myself my brief joy? No, I do not think that I would. But somehow, knowing what my choice would have been, had it ever been mine, is a small comfort.

“What is it?” he asks, as if somehow sensing my distress.

“I feel a bit anxious suddenly,” I admit.

He takes my hand, rubbing small circles into my palm with his thumb.

“That is to be expected of any bride to be.”

I shake my head. “I feel less like an anxious bride and more like a criminal about to sign my own death warrant.”

I stop, realizing what I’ve said.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Sergei stops, taking my shoulders so that I’m facing him.

“Never apologize for speaking your feelings to me, Your Grace. But take comfort in this; I will never let anyone harm you. Not Peter or his aunt or anyone else who might be lurking in the shadows. You will outlive them all, I will personally see to it.”

I stare up at him. There’s such sincerity in his words, such devotion, that I can feel the warmth of it all the way to my toes.

“Sergei. My champion.”

He takes my hand, kissing it softly, his eyes never leaving my face.

“Do I have your heart, as well, my dear Sergei?” I ask. It’s a bold, brash thing to say, but I have to know. We have more than a passing flirtation, that much I am sure of, but it feels safe somehow. Because I know that while I care for him deeply, he could never break my heart. For my heart rests in no one’s hands but my own now.

“I am yours,” he whispers, “always.”