Hello, Lovelies!
Apologies for the delayed posting. We should be back on schedule now!
Thank you endlessly to Mel and Pamela!
XXIII
ROSALIE
October 30, 1897
St. Petersburg, Russia
It has been over a month since we arrived in Russia, and I have still yet to set eyes upon the Russian court.
After our arrival in St. Petersburg, Dimitri brought us to the estate of a woman named Countess Morozova, a frightfully old and severe woman who does not speak even a whisper of English, and who rules her house with an iron fist. I am told that her son, the true Count, is away at court, but I have never met the man nor heard a word from him. I pray that he is not to be my intended, for I shudder to think of life with the countess as a mother-in-law.
My mother is dealing with our apparent exile far worse than I am. She is foul tempered and has more than once shouted at our hostess about letting us out and into town. Of course, the countess—or grafinya, the Russian word being the only title she deigns to answer to—never understands Mother, and with an imperious sniff, she manages to ignore every one of our complaints.
The Emissary left, after getting Mother and me settled in, and unfortunately, he took Mr. McCarty with him. Though my heart is still deeply devoted to Liam, I am surprised to find that the translator's soft confidence and kindness has steadily begun to win me over.
I miss his companionship deeply.
Gratefully, Liam is still around, and most days he manages to distract Mother and me from our boredom by telling us wild tales about the servants. I don't think I believe a single word he says, but it is delightfully funny nonetheless.
Poor Maggie, the maid who we brought with us from London, is getting the worst of it. She was at once put to task by the grafinya's head of staff and has faced new, harder labor than she's accustomed to. Often, I've thought about saving her from the work, but I don't know that I actually have the power to do so.
We are all trapped here, waiting.
…
The dining room is silent save for the light scraping of forks against porcelain. I am so weary from the cold stoic silence of the grafinya and the bitter, pursed-mouth scowl of my mother that I feel like I could sleep one hundred years after supper is over.
The grafinya sits at the head of the table, her thin shoulders wrapped in a lush brown fur that I have seen Mother eyeing enviously more than once. The grafinya has come to dinner bedecked in all her finery; ropes of white pearls are looped around her neck, garnets and emeralds sit on each of her spindly old fingers, matching the jewels hanging from her earlobes. Under the fur, she is dressed in dark red velvet, her dress encrusted with more freshwater pearls and gold thread. She looks as if she is expecting to be in the company of the czar himself, even though no one ever joins her for supper.
More than once, Mother has complained about the grafinya's jewels and how they are wasted on a bitter old crone who refuses to leave her home.
Mother—never one to be outdone—has overdressed for dinner. I eye the diamond and emerald necklace that sits high around her throat and barely resist rolling my eyes. We are not but three women having a supper of cold soup and fish. There is no need for such extravagance.
Mother lets out a loud sigh, prompting me to look up from my plate. She is glaring down the table at the grafinya. I follow her gaze, but the grafinya is unaffected by Mother's pouting.
"This is ridiculous," Mother says, her voice tight with her frustration. "We did not come all this way for you to be locked in the house of some shut-in."
"Mother," I start, but Mother is not to be stopped now that she has opened her mouth.
"When will my daughter be brought to court?" she demands, one hand striking the table, making the crystal rattle.
The grafinya looks up from her meal with a scowl. She mutters something in Russian, and though I don't speak the language, I can almost sense she is calling my mother all manner of rude names.
Mother seems to either not notice nor care.
"Look at my daughter!" Mother shouts. "Her youth is being wasted in this moldy old house!"
The grafinya sits up, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin before she reaches forward for a small silver bell. It lets out a sweet ring, and a moment later, a servant is in the room, waiting for orders. The grafinya glares at Mother before speaking.
I do not know what is being said, but I see the servant's eyes flicker up to Mother, and a cruel smile crosses his lips. Panic swells beneath my breast, and I take a sharp breath in.
"Liam?" I call out, a note of panic in my voice. He is not permitted to dine with the grafinya, but I hope that he is close enough to hear me.
Within seconds, he is in the room, his eyes immediately searching me out. His gaze is assessing before it flies across the room to the other man.
In halting—though admittedly impressive—Russian, Liam talks the man down, bowing to the grafinya in the process.
The grafinya hums, appeased for now, and returns to her meal. Her servant takes a step back, his eyes on Mother as he retreats.
Mother, who does not believe in showing weakness, only scowls.
"Liam," she snaps. "Ask the grafinya how long she means to hold us prisoner here."
Liam winces at the demand, his mouth opening once before he looks at the grafinya.
"Mother," I whisper. "That's hardly fair to put Liam in such a position—"
"Now, Liam," she snaps.
Liam lets out a breath and turns toward the grafinya.
He approaches her with a bow, and then in his broken, uncertain Russian, he begins asking her mother's question.
The grafinya watches him with cruel, cold eyes. It takes him so long to ask the simple question, and it is almost painful hearing him struggle through the language.
Finally, he appears to be finished and the grafinya's eyes flash toward Mother. She says something, her voice quick and cold as a smile tugs at her ancient lips.
Liam tries to catch it all, but I can see by the defeated slump of his shoulders, he cannot.
He turns to Mother. "The grafinya wishes to express that you are guests in her house, and if it does not suit you …"
When he pauses, Mother's eyes narrow. "What is it?" she snaps.
I realize too late what is happening. It's not that Liam hasn't understood; it is that the grafinya has given him a horrible message to relay to Mother.
"She says that if this home does not suit your ladyship, then you are free to leave."
I can see by his face this is not what the grafinya has said, or at the very least these are far kinder words.
I glance at the servant in the corner and shudder when I see him leering at Mother.
Mother in turn opens her mouth, prepared no doubt, to scream at the grafinya.
"Mother," I urge, willing her for once to use sense. "Please."
Mother looks at me, her face livid.
Before she can say anything, I turn back to Liam. "Please let the grafinya know we do not mean any offense and deeply appreciate her hospitality."
Liam nods and turns to the grafinya, delivering my message.
"Rosalie," Mother snarls.
"Mother, winter is upon us," I hiss. "We are far from home and unprotected," I remind her. "We do not have the luxury of offending our host and seeking other accommodations."
Mother's face is a storm, her fury palpable. It's because she's been drinking. She'd be more reasonable if she were sober.
Blessedly, Mother does not speak again for the rest of supper. It isn't until we are back in my room that she explodes, her hand striking so quickly across my cheek that I cry out in shock. "I am your mother," she snarls, her breath smelling of vodka. "You will never disrespect me like that again."
"Mother," I sob, my hand cupping my cheek. "It was not my intention to disrespect you."
"Rosalie, my gem," she cries, her hands coming around me. I flinch at her first contact, but when she does not strike again, I let her hold me, her tears falling against my hair as she embraces me. "Oh my precious, my treasure, forgive me," she cries.
She has never struck me before, but she has also never been so out of control. She must be far more frightened than I realized.
I wind my arms around her waist and hold fast. We are both frightened, and now more than ever, we need to stick together.
…
November 3, 1897
St. Petersburg, Russia
…
Mother and I are trying to keep ourselves busy with a game of cards—again—when a knock at the salon door makes us pause and look up.
I cannot help the smile that spreads over my face when Liam enters, even though I try a moment later to stifle the grin back.
I shan't seem too eager.
"My Lady, forgive the interruption," Liam says with a dip of a bow to Mother before he straightens again. "A carriage has just arrived carrying Mr. Vassiliev."
Mother is on her feet at once at the mention of the emissary, her eyes widening. "Rosalie, put on a better dress," she barks. "Send Maggie in here to fix her hair as well," she adds, turning to Liam.
He nods and slips out of the room, leaving Mother to whirl on me. "This is it," she hisses. "He's finally come to take us to court."
I scowl as she begins clawing at my dress to get me to change. "What if he isn't taking us?" I ask, feeling downtrodden. "How do we know we can trust him?"
"Don't speak such rubbish," Mother admonishes. "He's brought us here for exactly this reason."
I scowl. "Why do I need to dress up to see him? I look just fine in this."
"Don't be an idiot, Rosalie," Mother snaps as the door opens and Maggie quietly slips into the room. "No woman will get anywhere in this world without her looks." Mother pinches my cheeks, making me wince. She pushes on my shoulders, forcing me to sit while Maggie moves behind me, picking up tendrils of my hair. "Sometimes, our beauty is our only tool, and we must wield it indiscriminately." Mother moves to my wardrobe, pulling out one of my best dresses. "The Russian must find you desirable. If he does, so too will his employers." She moves back to me, her face coming within inches of my own. "Hear me, Rosalie," she says, and suddenly I blink, my gaze meeting hers. I have my mother's eyes—forget-me-not blue—though in her gaze I can see something I've never seen before. A wild, reckless desperation that makes my heartbeat pick up in my chest. "You must be so charming, so irresistible, the entire country covets you. You must be better than their women, better than our women. You must be the very spirit of desire."
Mother waits impatiently for Maggie to be done touching up my hair. Once my curls are secured—though I cannot imagine Maggie has had enough time to change anything significant—Mother is yanking me to my feet, her fingers pinching at my dress until I shed the outer layers. She shoves me into the new dress, securing it so rapidly, I'm caught breathless. When I'm finished, Mother turns me around to look me over again.
"Your only value to your father is in your ability to secure a strong marriage," Mother says, meeting my eyes again. I flinch, even though I know this already. "If ever you sought your father's love, you will do whatever you can to marry the best man this miserable country has to offer."
I don't know what to say. Before I can even open my mouth, Mother is pinching my cheeks again before whirling me around and sending me toward the door. I stumble out, my stomach a twist of nerves. I do crave my father's love, and I know that this is certainly the way to get it, even though it wounds me to hear the truth of it.
Mr. Vassiliev is indeed in the parlor with the grafinya. My heart skips a beat when I see Mr. McCarty standing in the corner of the room. He flashes me a shy smile that makes me want to grin from ear to ear.
Instead, I duck my head so no one can see me blush.
"Grafinya," I say, curtsying to the woman. "Mr. Vassiliev," I acknowledge.
He speaks and Mr. McCarty clears his throat. "You look well, Lady Cullen. It seems Russia agrees with you."
I very much doubt that, but I smile nonetheless, pleased by his kind words, even though I know they have come from Mr. Vassiliev.
Mother enters the room, and as a duchess, she should outrank everyone, but neither the grafinya nor Mr. Vassiliev make a move to bow to her.
If this bothers Mother, she does not let it show. She has not had another outburst like the one several nights ago, though I can sense her frustration boiling just beneath the surface of her calm.
"Mr. Vassiliev," Mother says, her tone imperious. "I hope you are here to finally deliver on promises you made to my husband?"
Mr. McCarty translates and Mr. Vassiliev scowls, responding with a shake of his head. My heart sinks, fearing the worst.
"He says," Mr. McCarty says, turning back to us. "That he is more than ready to bring you to court, should your ladyships desire it."
My heart skips a beat. "Yes," I breathe, speaking out of turn.
Mother doesn't bother to chastise me though. "We have been since our arrival," Mother scolds. Mr. McCarty frowns but translates her message.
Mr. Vassiliev turns to the grafinya, speaking to her directly. She lets out a cruel laugh, her lip curling into a sneer. He chuckles and turns back to Mr. McCarty.
"Pack your belongings, My Lady," Mr. McCarty translates. "We are ready to depart."
…
The landscape is bleak as our carriage drives us forward through the streets of St. Petersburg. I know the hour is not late, and yet the day is rapidly dwindling into darkness. I have heard tales of the short winter days in the North, but in my mind, they had been magical fairytales, full of glittering snow and glowing candelabras. Not this grey.
Mother sits next to me, Mr. Vassiliev across from us. I wish Mr. McCarty were in the carriage, but he has been placed outside with the driver to give us more room.
Mother is peppering Mr. Vassiliev with questions, but so far, he has made no attempt to answer her, though the cruel smile on his face tells me that he enjoys seeing Mother's frustration. He does not speak English well, but I wonder if he understands it.
I turn my face to the window, wishing I could escape from this awkward ride.
The grafinya lives east of the city, so far out that apart from our arrival in St. Petersburg and the subsequent carriage ride from the docks, I have had no glimpse of the city itself.
My heart yearns to be back in a metropolitan landscape. I crave people around me, not the solitude of the countryside.
But as we drive on, I realize we are not headed where I thought. The road has continued to expand to more farmland, and after a while, I turn to look at Mother.
"Where are we going?" I ask her.
She huffs, her lips mashed in a scowl. "Probably somewhere barbaric," she hisses.
I blink at her, studying her face. She looks quite ill. Is it from carriage riding? She needs a rest.
I am about to ask Mr. Vassiliev for a break to stretch our legs—even though I know it is likely he will not listen nor respond to my request—when I feel the carriage begin to slow. I look out the window eagerly, but instead of a city, I am surprised to see more countryside.
"Where are we?"
The horses slow further, and I have to fight the urge to press my face to the glass of our window. Patience has never been one of my strengths.
I hear the driver speaking to someone as we come rocking to a stop, and I twist around to see if I can catch a glimpse from Mother's window.
The door opens before I can bend enough to peer through, and Mr. Vassiliev climbs out. A white gloved hand reaches into the cab, offering Mother assistance. She takes it, gathering her skirts, and climbs out.
Where can we possibly be?
As soon as Mother is out, the hand returns, and I take it, allowing the man to help me step down from the carriage. The moment my skirts are fixed, I look up. I am surprised by the large palace before us. The warm yellow and white paint makes it appear to be glowing in the darkening winter day, and the countless pillars that ornament the facade lend to the height of the building. It is not the extraordinary Winter Palace that I have heard tales of, nor is it the grandeur of the Peterhof Palace which is legendary. This feels small, intimate even.
"Lady Cullen?"
I look to my left to find Mr. McCarty, patiently waiting to escort me into the building. In my gawking, Mother has left me behind, striding forward being escorted by Mr. Vasilliev.
I clear my throat and take his arm.
"Thank you," I whisper.
He gives me a kind smile as he leads me forward.
"Pray tell, where are we?" I ask, my voice low.
Mr. McCarty glances up at the building. "This is the Alexander Palace," he says. "The private residence of the czar and his family."
I frown. "They live here?" I ask, my voice skeptical.
"It offers the czar and his family solace while in residence in St. Petersburg," he explains. "And better security."
I consider that as I am led inside.
As soon as we are indoors, Mr. McCarty lets go of my arm, stepping away from me with a small bow. I am surprised by his abruptness, but when I turn, I understand why.
A man dressed in an impeccably kept uniform approaches us, his posture rigid and dignified.
He addresses Mother with a deep bow. "Duchess Cullen," he says through heavily accented English. "Welcome to the Alexander Palace. The czar wishes to meet you and your daughter."
Mother sniffs. "Of course. Bring us to him at once," she commands.
The man nods, and Mother turns to me as he begins guiding us deeper into the palace. "Straighten your posture," she hisses, tugging at my shoulders. "Do not speak unless spoken to," she says, pinching my cheeks as we walk. "And remember what I told you."
Be desirable. It feels like a difficult task, though I vow to myself that I will do what I can to make my family proud.
Mother and I are escorted into a small throne room, and I have to fight the urge to crane my neck to take in the decor. Though it is handsomely designed, everything about the palace is small, lacking both grandeur and sophistication. Where was the lavish Russian court I was promised?
My eyes land on a young man sitting on the throne watching us approach. I recognize Czar Nikolai of course. We have been introduced once before, though I have never spoken to the man. Beside him is a woman I know at once, Alexandra, Czarina of Russia. Though she was born in the German Empire, the czarina and I have crossed paths frequently during her many trips to England to spend time with her grandmother, Queen Victoria. She is only two years my senior, and though we may not be counted as friends, we have had a great number of conversations in the past.
Mother and I dip low into curtseys as one of the courtiers announces us to the czar.
"Welcome," he says, his English surprisingly clear. "Duchess Cullen and Lady Cullen." He nods to us each. "I hope that you have found Russia agreeable with you."
I pray that Mother keeps her mouth shut. She hasn't been drinking, so there is a chance she will remain civil.
"Your country is beautiful," Mother says, laying on the charm I've seen her work up for guests and visiting dignitaries. "We are grateful and humbled by your invitation to my husband."
The czar smiles, glancing at his wife. "On this matter, I had little to do with it." He chuckles. "It is the czarina you have to thank for your visit."
I look to her to see her sharp eyes on me. I attempt a small smile at her, and in return, I see her face soften, the very corners of her lips tugging upward.
"We were disappointed to hear of my sister's careless indiscretions." The czar continues, "We hope that a suitable match can still be made and bring our families together in kinship."
Mother and I both duck our heads. "It is our greatest wish as well," Mother tells him.
"Wonderful. I will have someone show you to your rooms. You shall dine with us tonight."
With a clap of his hands, a servant steps forward, motioning toward the doors. We both bow to the czar and czarina before exiting the room.
We are shown to neighboring bedchambers in the west wing, and once we are alone again, Mother excuses herself to rest, leaving me blissfully alone.
I move to the windows of my room, trying to take in the gardens from here, but the world is too dark to make much out.
There is a knock on my door, and I look up in surprise. "Come in," I call.
The door opens, and I swallow hard when I see the czarina enter. I drop into a rapid curtsy as she closes the door.
"It's good to see you, Lady Cullen," she says, her voice soft.
"You too, Your Majesty."
A small, flat smile pulls at her lips when I call her that.
"I hope the room is to your liking," she says, her eyes roaming around the space.
"It is beautiful," I tell her honestly. "I was just trying to see the view," I say, gesturing to the window.
"When the weather is good, you can see the gardens from here," she tells me. "Soon, it will be covered in snow and you won't be able to see anything."
She strides toward me, pulling gently at the curtain with her fingertips. "Sometimes, I think I can see all the way home from this part of the palace."
Her sentimentality is surprising and puts me off kilter. "It is a long way away," I say quietly.
She looks at me. "Indeed," she agrees.
She is standing so close to me that I could reach out and touch her. I don't dare. We've never been on such personal terms, and that was before she was the czarina of Russia. Now that she holds such a title, I would never dream of being so impertinent.
"Thank you," I tell her. "For arranging this opportunity for me."
Her lips pull into a flat smile. "Rosalie, may I be direct with you?"
I am caught off guard by her casual use of my name, but I nod. "Yes, of course."
I watch her swallow hard, her eyes flitting back to the window. "I need someone I can trust," she says, her voice a whisper. "I need someone on my side."
I am surprised by her words and immediately wary. "What's the matter?"
"This country is cruel and beautiful in equal measure," she tells me. "Much like the fate of many women in our positions"—she looks me over—"there are whispers in my country. A growing unrest." She shakes her head. "I have tried to do what I can, but I am near powerless."
I cannot imagine what she will ask of me. If she is powerless, then I am practically nothing beside her.
"What help can I be?" I ask.
"Tying the court closer to the British throne will ease concerns," she explains. "The constitutional monarchy has been viewed by many in my country as a wise arrangement." She shakes her head. "They do not see all the effort behind it, nor the time that it has taken to become so."
Her voice is proud when she speaks of the English throne. I don't fault her for her pride. Her grandmother, Queen Victoria, is beloved, and has certainly done tremendous things for the empire.
I smile a little. "Your grandmother is too good a ruler. She makes it appear easy."
The czarina looks sharply at me before smiling. "Indeed," she agrees, her voice softening now that I have complimented her beloved grandmother. "Rosalie, your time here will be difficult," she says, turning to face me. "I'm going to do what I can to arrange good matches, but I cannot guarantee anything for you."
I let out a tight breath. "I understand."
"I hope that I can rely on you as an ally … and as a friend."
I cannot mask my surprise quick enough. I nod, feeling slightly flustered but pleased that she thinks so highly of me.
"I'm with you," I tell her softly. "I will do everything in my power to help you, Czarina."
She reaches out, one of her hands gently resting on my shoulder. "Here, amongst friends we may know each other informally," she says softly. "Please call me Alix."
It is the name I knew her by in England, the one her family often heard her family call her, though she has been known only as Alexandra Feodorovna since her marriage to Nikolai.
"Call me Rose," I tell her. She is the only person outside of my family I've ever granted permission to call me by my nickname. Not even Liam has been given leave to do so.
Alix smiles and steps back from me, her face hardening slightly as she dons the mantle of the czarina once more. "I look forward to seeing you and your mother for dinner," she says, her voice smoothing out until it is cool and impossible to read.
I bow my head and she turns to exit the room. The moment the door clicks behind her, I let out a heavy breath.
What have I gotten myself into?