The Last Romanov Page 2

  “So much the better,” she replies, plucking an obstinate butterfly from the bowl and collecting the rest of the berries, enough to keep her excitement at bay until the meeting this afternoon.

  Darya rests her head on the pillow, sighs contentedly, and shuts her eyes to imagine a time 104 years ago, a time before her birth, a time when aurochs roamed wild in the Belovezh Forest and Sabrina was a woman free of care.

  Chapter Two

  — 1887 —

  Grand Duke Boris Spiridov raises his binoculars to his eyes and gazes at an endless vista of forest rich in game—stag, elk, and bison—dotted with meandering streams and sandy paths, ancient oaks, pine, and white firs. The imperial entourage is expected at his Belovezh Estate in eastern Poland, and Boris, second cousin to Tsarevich Nicholas Alexandrovich Romanov, looks forward to the excitement of the chase and the pleasure of spending time in the company of the ladies.

  A vast expedition has been planned to hunt the elusive aurochs, a fierce species of European bison, raised and maintained for the hunting enjoyment of the young Tsarevich. In the last year, however, the cunning aurochs have multiplied, trampling the delicate nesting grounds of the rare birds of paradise the Tsarevich dispatched to the forest. The birds, with their lacy plumes and dazzling shades, are on the brink of extinction. And the Tsarevich is not pleased.

  Boris gallops from one hunting lodge to another, calling out in his authoritative voice how the serfs should prepare the lodges, adorn them with carefully selected artwork, bring in provisions, disperse fire logs, clear the brush, and mill oats to mix with meat as hound forage. As for how to prepare the private lodge of Princess Alix of Hesse, the Tsarevich’s companion, he is at a loss. What added amenities would a woman require? A net over her bed to keep the mosquitoes away? A bouquet of flowers and a box of chocolates? Recalling her long reddish hair, he makes his way toward the main lodge to fetch the set of silver-backed hairbrushes that had once belonged to Catherine the Great and which he had acquired at auction.

  At dusk, he is back in the saddle, straight-backed and alert to the slightest sound carried on a gathering breeze, a red cravat carelessly tied in a loose bow, his shirt and billowing sleeves as white as the dolomite cliff towering behind him. He hears the gallop of approaching hooves, followed by the wooden roar of wheels, snippets of speech, and then the ring of laughter.

  Boris flips the reins and canters toward the source of laughter.

  The imperial entourage advances like thunder. Tsarevich Nicholas is on horseback. Princess Alix Viktoria Helena Luise Beatrice of Hesse and Rhine is on his right, riding sidesaddle on a honey-colored stallion from the imperial stables.

  Wearing oversized earrings and bright-colored scarves, flung about her neck as if to gift wrap her laughter in her throat, is the red-haired Sabrina Josephine, the daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Corinin, a small European principality known for its two mines that supply Europe’s royal families with the much-coveted pink diamond.

  A large contingent of serfs clad in scarlet livery are followed by dozens of trunks and a hospital on wheels, a mobile kitchen, the master of hounds to his majesty, and large packs of borzois, grooms, and falcons.

  Ninety-eight huntsmen—aristocrats and Romanov grand dukes—rein their Arabian thoroughbreds into a trot to keep at bay the churning dust gales, an inconvenience to the ladies.

  Sabrina adjusts a shotgun slung over her shoulder and reins her dappled steed into a trot to keep pace with the princess. “My dear Alix, are you tired? Perhaps you might want to rest. How far are we?”

  “Not far, not at all,” Princess Alix replies. “It is my back, you know, as always. But how are you, dear? Your cheeks have no color. Apply some rouge, tuck your hair behind your ears…yes, the right side…good. I shall personally introduce him to you. You will be pleased. Grand Duke Boris Spiridov is of royal blood and a fine gentleman at that.”

  Sabrina struts her steed closer to the princess. “Don’t be upset, Alix, but I’m more interested in the hunt than in the grand duke.”

  “I don’t know what you see in this sport, my dear. Perhaps this time you’ll find the grand duke more interesting than shooting aurochs. Promise to withhold judgment until after you meet him.”

  “I shall,” Sabrina replies, steering the steed away from a clump of daffodils.

  Farther back, behind the serfs and the thoroughbreds, Jasmine the Persian Dancer—invited by Boris Spiridov to entertain the imperial entourage in the evenings—is astride a brown stallion. Her muscular thighs hug the saddle; her white-knuckled hands grasp the reins. Her dark hair, studded with sparking rhinestones, is braided on top of her head and covered by a veil the color of the sky. Her dulcimer accompanies her in a leather box on the back of a mule.

  She is furious, her heart an aching rock in her chest. Throughout the trip, hundreds of ravenous male eyes have been trailing her every move, the flip of her wrist sending the horse into a canter, the sway of her ample buttocks on the saddle, the wink of a date-black eye behind her veil, the flash of her ankles when her pants ride up. Yet, to the Tsarevich, she is nothing, stone dead, as if she never was. As if he did not recently shower her with gifts and adoration, did not enjoy numerous quiet evenings at a secluded café, where they held hands and gazed into each other’s eyes, discussing poetry, Persian music, the many enchantments of the dulcimer, and how he, the Tsarevich, Nicholas II of Russia, feared the inevitable day he would have to occupy the throne.

  And now, here he is with his German consort, whose frail legs, Siberian smile, and mournful gaze would banish the germ of any passion before it has a chance to bloom. Jasmine aims her stare at the Tsarevich, lifts her veil, and wraps it around the braid on top of her head. Even seated as she is on the saddle, a head taller than Alix of Hesse, he refuses to take note of her. But she will not go unnoticed, the dancer vows. She did not travel for days by train and on mule from Azerbaijan to Russia to be tossed aside by any man, not even the heir to the Russian throne.

  Sabrina retrieves her lorgnettes from the saddlebag and gazes at a man on horseback in the distance. He seems alert, waiting, his red cravat and hair flapping in the breeze. He canters straight toward her, coming into clearer focus, wild fair hair, sunburned complexion, reins clasped in hands as solid as a blacksmith’s. Sabrina removes the rifle from her shoulder and lays it on her lap. One hand grasping the pommel, the other resting on the rifle, she tilts her head and gazes intensely, mercilessly, at the advancing Boris Spiridov.

  His stallion comes to an abrupt stop in front of her, nose to nose with her steed, its flanks heaving, front hoof pawing the ground as if to charge. Boris holds her gaze. This red-haired woman, who rides as a man does, wears no gloves to protect her hands, her large earrings a riot of colors. He takes count of her every feature: the rounded lines of her cheeks that blush under his gaze, her mischievous green eyes that do not shy away, her languorous smile that frames the corners of her lips like tiny question marks.

  She acknowledges him with a slight nod.

  He lifts his hand to the brim of an invisible hat, flips the reins, and changes course.

  The Tsarevich and his beloved Alix are his guests, and they must not be kept waiting. He canters on toward the German princess, helps her down from her stallion, and welcomes her with a kiss on her hand. She offers him one of her rare smiles. She gestures with a great flourish of one hand toward Sabrina. “My dear friend, Princess Sabrina Josephine of Corinin. You must know her father, Duke Joseph Leon IV of Corinin.”

  “Yes, my lady, I certainly do. We hunted together in Peterhof,” Boris replies, leading the princess toward the Tsarevich, who hands the reins to his groom and walks toward Alix. The Tsarevich is a man of strong build, not tall. The eager expressions in his eyes are readable to everyone. He longs to have Alix to himself, to show her around the grounds, to introduce her to the birds of paradise. But most of all, he wants to hold her in his arms and assure her that despite her Lutheran upbringing and his parents’ strong anti-German sent
iments, he will marry her one day.

  Boris greets the Tsarevich with a bow and a kiss on each shoulder. His cousin is not as tall as he, but his strength and energy make him a worthy adversary in their hunting expeditions, so much so that, in his eagerness, the host has sent word out that the hunt tomorrow will start at an earlier hour than customary.

  Princess Alix pulls out a gold-embossed box from her purse and hands it to Boris. “I meant to give this to Sabrina, but it was forgotten in the excitement of our journey. Be kind enough, Grand Duke Boris, to assist her with the lock.”

  Boris bows his respect to the princess. “My honor, of course, if it will please my lady Sabrina Josephine.”

  Sabrina is on the saddle, caressing the shotgun on her lap, a feral glint in her eyes. She gestures toward the box in his hand. A gentle, persuasive tilt of the head asks what he is waiting for.

  Boris opens the box to find a superbly crafted miniature Fabergé egg necklace, encrusted with pearls and diamonds, resting on velvet. He takes his time to snap the egg open and admire the image of Sabrina Josephine’s profile hidden inside. Clicking it shut, he loops the delicate gold chain around two fingers and walks toward the red-haired woman. He grabs her around her waist and, with one powerful motion, lifts her off the saddle, setting her down to gaze into the depth of her teasing eyes. He reaches out to lock the chain behind her neck, their breath mingling for a fleeting instant, before the catch snaps shut and Sabrina turns away to thank Princess Alix.

  The guests are led to their lodgings, where cotton-gloved footmen welcome them with warm piroshki, jellied ox tongue, and brandy-laced tea. Tomorrow will be a long and strenuous day, and rest is essential for the imperial entourage.

  For Boris Spiridov, tomorrow is already alive with the scent of the redheaded woman.

  ***

  At dawn, the blare of hunting horns echo through the forest. The earth gleams with early autumn dew. The leaves are a kaleidoscope of reds and oranges. Sunrays warm the sandy paths, and winter chill is a fading memory. The serfs have cleaned the fireplaces in the imperial lodges and started new fires. The pantries have been stacked with provisions: grape leaves stuffed with nuts and dates, buttermilk pancakes, fresh caviar from the Caspian, port, brandy, herb-scented vodkas, and cases of 1787 Château Lafite.

  Paths have been cut through the enclosures and shooting positions set up. Packs of dogs and houndmen were dispatched to cut off the aurochs from behind. Falcons, trained to ignore the birds of paradise, have been flown against smaller prey: hares, squirrels, and all types of birds. Having sensed looming danger, many of the wild animals and their litters have retreated deep into the shadows of grand oaks and pine.

  The imperial party in hunting attire—coats cinched with leather belts, pants tucked into knee-high boots—pour out of their lodges onto a vast clearing spread with silk carpets and set with tables brimming with delicacies: beef stroganoff, sturgeon, black caviar, red blinis, stuffed suckling pig, and pelmeni pastries with reindeer meat roast. Serfs, grooms, and servants replenish the food and serve all manner of libation.

  Boris Spiridov’s large-eyed, strong-backed hounds, having rested for three days and been kept inside the day before, yelp excitedly at the aroma of biscuits and mushrooms frying in butter. Hot mead and spiced brandy are ladled into jewel-encrusted cups, and toasts are raised to the young Tsarevich and his honored guest.

  Princess Alix of Hesse is not fond of hunting. She would much prefer to spend her time introducing herself to the birds of paradise, stroking their colorful feathers and feeding them ripe figs and grapes. But with this massive hunt about to take place and aurochs on the loose, she decides not to stray too far from the main lodge, remaining behind with other women, servants, children, and their nannies. Conveying her prayers and good wishes to the men, she gestures to her lady-in-waiting to walk back to her accommodations.

  Sabrina Josephine emerges from her lodge, followed by her long-haired borzoi. She wears a leather skirt cinched at the waist with a brass-buckled belt, the hem grazing heavy riding boots, her oversized earrings shimmering like aspen leaves, her silk blouse draped low to reveal her plump cleavage. She lingers at the threshold to gauge her surroundings, her dismissive gaze gliding over man and beast as if none is worthy of her universe. Shouldering her rifle, she strolls to a table and pours herself a cup of mead, which she raises, wishing everyone long life and victory. She drinks the libation, hands the cup to an attendant, then crosses the clearing and, undaunted by the dangers ahead, walks deep into the thirty-thousand-acre forest that is alive with birdsong, the chatter of insects, and the snorting and whinnying of thoroughbreds.

  Boris leaps off his mount and hands the reins to his groom. He steps away from the ranks of men and follows the woman whose laughter had echoed in his chest the entire night. He is responsible for the safety of this bold woman, a guest on his estate, and he will make sure no harm befalls her.

  He quickens his step as she vanishes behind one tree then another, surefooted and swift as a lioness in familiar territory. He pursues the flash of her gold earrings, the blaze of her curls, the flip of her skirt as she appears and disappears from view like a cat on the prowl. She whistles to her dog as she crosses a clearing of decaying leaves, an undergrowth of aspen, and splashes across a shallow pool, the hem of her skirt darkening with mud. For an instant, he loses sight of her, and then a beam of sunlight catches the silver glint of her rifle. His silent steps hasten toward her, his rifle at the ready, alert to the distant cry of hounds and rising voices of huntsmen on the scent.

  Then silence. He freezes in place.

  Sabrina has anchored the butt of her rifle against her shoulder, the barrel pointed slightly to the left. Her borzoi’s ears are pricked, a low growl emanating from him.

  Boris comes down on one knee, releases his safety catch, and points the barrel of his gun with the precision of a veteran hunter.

  The metallic click of the safety catch sounds explosive among the gathering of trees. Sabrina glances in his direction, a silent warning for him not to interfere. The cunning aurochs will allow no more than a single shot. A wrong move, an accidental sound, could be fatal.

  The raging animal emerges from a narrow path between two massive firs. With his harplike horns, flaring nostrils, and fur dark as obsidian, he lumbers toward Sabrina.

  She aims her rifle and fires a single bullet between the animal’s eyes. An excruciating howl reverberates through the woods, alerting the huntsmen that the first aurochs has been felled. The animal shudders, disturbing the wet underwood and raising the stench of decay. She finishes off the aurochs with a second shot.

  Cheeks flushed, face beaded with perspiration, a drop of blood blossoms on her lower lip, which she has bitten in her excitement. She pulls out a hunting knife from her belt and slowly, calmly, approaches the aurochs and severs the right forehoof, a strong, clean cut through skin, bone, and sinews.

  Boris steps out from behind the trees and strides toward her. She holds his gaze, reaches out for his hand, and places the forehoof in his palm, closing his fingers around her trophy.

  He wipes her lips with his thumb, raises it to his mouth, and licks her blood.

  She lets loose laughter that hums like a hundred harps. The moment she saw him on his black stallion with his wide chest and big hands against the backdrop of that great cliff, she knew he would belong to her.

  She unbuckles her belt, lifts her skirt, and tucks the hem into her waist.

  Boris falls to his knees and slides his hands up her thighs to her linens and slips them low, his caressing tongue between her breasts as she eases herself onto him and the humid carpet of moss and earth.

  ***

  Nine months later, mother and father hold their newborn daughter in the Belovezh Estate they have made their home since the day of the imperial hunt. Half-naked among pine trees, comfortable with the wild animals and a population of aurochs that continues to diminish since Sabrina and her borzoi arrived, they gaze at their daughter unti
l the half dome of the sun rises above the jagged edge of the dolomite cliff and the skies turn into a fury of colors.

  She is beautiful, they whisper to one another. Look at her golden eyes, they murmur. But God works in strange ways. What, they wonder, is the Lord attempting to tell them? Why is their daughter born with an opal eye? Not dull and lifeless as mined opal can be, but gold-colored, vibrantly translucent, observing them with the unexpected wisdom of second sight.

  Boris tells Sabrina that this child, their daughter with an opal eye, must be a punishment for some unknown sin he might have committed. Sabrina will not hear of it. She is certain that their daughter is a blessing that will further embellish their love.

  Chapter Three

  — 1894 —

  Sabrina Josephine holds her seven-year-old daughter’s face between two hands and kisses her on her opal eye. “You are special, my darling. Different than other girls. You’ll change our world one day. This I know. But to do that, you’ll have to keep evil at bay. Come, I’ll teach you a secret. Turn and spit three times behind your left shoulder to ward off the evil eye.”

  Darya plants her hands on her hips, cocks her head, and replies that she does not believe in the evil eye or any other such superstitious nonsense and that she will certainly not spit like a fool behind her shoulder. She is unaware that in a few hours, she will do just that, and in ten years, she will spit not only in the face of bad luck trailing behind, but here, there, and everywhere, each time she is ambushed by a looming sense of foreboding.

  Sabrina adjusts her rifle behind one shoulder, bunches up her ruffled skirts, and plunges her suede boots into a stream running the length of the Belovezh Estate. Her carefree laughter peals about the forest as she wades across the stream, water hissing and splashing around stones and boulders. She skips past a rock, down one corner, winds her way around a pebbled path, then climbs a set of planks set to divert the stream toward a wide meadow. She does not care that her suede boots are darkening with mud, water rising up her legs and the hem of her velvet skirts. She likes all manners of stylish attire but also this freedom, the Belovezh Forest, and to live as one with wildlife, lush vegetation, birdsong, and the call of animals. Home for more than seven years, this is where she and Boris continue to plan vast hunting expeditions for the pleasure of Nicholas II, who is the Emperor now. And to his wife’s endless joy, the billing and cooing birds of paradise, with their vibrant colors, flowing feathers, and penchant for procreation have multiplied, their love chatter bouncing around the forest. The demanding females are drawn to the most eccentric costumes: the goldie with its narcissistic mating cry that sounds like a trumpet, the Carola parotia with its wiry whiskers and exaggerated courting rituals, the ribbon-tailed astrapia with its cumbersome diaphanous tail that has a way of attracting numerous mates, and the whispering blue bird of paradise with its modest ways that is especially endearing to Empress Alexandra.