They avoided mentioning their biggest sorrow, the loss of their youngest daughter, Alexandra, three summers before. It was an emptiness they tried to fill in vain, and neither of them had been able to surmount their pain. She had died just months after getting married, at nineteen, while giving birth to a premature son who did not survive her. The empress’s great affection for Anna of Georgia was no doubt influenced by the resemblance of her maid of honor to her lost child. The family kept up appearances, surrounding themselves with young people and entertaining often, but they had never gotten over this loss.
“I’m glad Jamal Eddin is here with us,” Alexandra Feodorovna sighed, leaning on her husband’s arm as they turned into the lane that led to the back of the house. “There’s something reassuring about his presence.”
“Reassuring? Mouffy, that’s a funny way of putting it.”
“And yet I choose my words carefully,” she smiled apologetically.
“If, as you put it, this boy is reassuring, where do you suppose that comes from?”
“Why, from you, Nicks. You are the one who has made him the prince he is becoming. You taught him everything.”
“True, I wish I received letters from Constantine like the ones he writes to his father. From all our sons, for that matter.”
“What does he tell him?”
“Oh, he thanks Almighty God for his life. And he thanks Mohammed the prophet. And he thanks his father.”
“He thanks the imam Shamil? Whatever for, for heaven’s sake?”
“For being allowed to learn all that he is learning here with us. He tells him that the infidels have shown him incomparable generosity, that no one humiliates him in Russia. That he’s grateful for his destiny.”
“I’d expect nothing less from such a noble nature. And what does the imam answer?”
“Nothing. You don’t think I’d send a single word back there! All the letters land in my desk drawer, and when I’m done reading them, they end up at the war minister’s. Good old Chernychev says there are so many that he doesn’t know where to file them all. But then, he gripes about everything.”
“But then,” she said, a bit surprised, “why do you tell this child to write? Why do you encourage him?”
“So that he will remember.”
“Oh, Nicks. If you only knew how he longs for an answer, how much he hopes for one.”
The emperor frowned, sensing the shadow of a reproach.
“Hope never killed anyone,” he said curtly. “I do not want him to forget his origins, at least not completely. Speaking of which, I’d like you to have a little talk with La Potemkina soon. Our good nun needs to temper her zeal. She must stop pestering him with sermons and invitations to attend mass at Gostilitsy. I need this Muslim to remain as he is, a Muslim. Do you understand? I forbid her to convert him.”
“But he belongs to our world now. He is part of us.”
“You’re right, but then again, you’re wrong. I want him to be both Russian and Cherkess. Completely Russian and just a little Cherkess—that’s what I’m aiming for with this boy.”
“I can’t imagine him any other place,” she persisted, “or any other way. What if he falls in love one day? What if he should want to marry, to start a family?”
“Mouffy, whatever are you talking about? He’s only sixteen.”
“And you were only twenty when you married me.”
“What does one have to do with the other?”
“What would happen if he were taken with a young girl in our entourage? In his entourage, I should say. One of the maids of honor, for example? Like Constantine, like Nicky, like Mischa, and all their friends, like every one of you here.”
By alluding to the czar’s conduct, Alexandra Feodorovna was venturing out on shaky ground. Three years ago, when their daughter had died, he had taken a mistress, one of the maids of honor at the palace. He had fallen in love with her and pursued her mercilessly, and she had finally consented.
The empress had accepted this liaison, just as she accepted everything about him.
Her many pregnancies and the exhausting pace that the emperor demanded of her when they were not at the cottage had taken their toll upon her health. She had already suffered several cardiac alerts. The doctors, fearing that the next one would be fatal, had forbidden her from indulging in her conjugal duties. Nicks, full of energy and in constant need of activity, had no choice but to form other ties, elsewhere. She forgave him.
The emperor of Russia was so good, so just. So perfect.
Nonetheless, her jealousy was palpable. The proximity of the young woman, whom the czar had installed in a pavilion in the park and whom he insisted be present at every meal, caused the empress unbearable suffering.
In a sense, her marked preference for other young women, for Anna, for all the youngsters of the Georgian family who would serve her one day, was a means of distancing the czar’s chosen one from her own intimate circle.
“I understand Jamal Eddin has a penchant for one of the princesses,” she continued.
“What normal, healthy young man wouldn’t have a weakness for Anna? I’m glad he knows enough to appreciate all the beauty around us, Mouffy. The beauty that you yourself incarnate.”
“So do they,” said the empress pensively, nodding toward Varenka and Gayana, who stood among the hydrangea blooms. “So do they, Nicks, they are beautiful.”
Alexandra Feodorovna hurried down the slope to greet her guests.
The curtains fluttered, white and diaphanous, and floral scents from the garden floated in with the breeze. Light streamed into the dining room. Jamal Eddin loved nothing more than these meals with the entire family gathered around the long table. He loved the sonorous voice of the czar commenting on military reviews and the empress’s soft, melodious inflections. He anticipated the rustle of Anna’s petticoats before she even appeared. He loved her sparkle and how passionate she was when she spoke of the Georgia of her forbears. He even liked Nicky’s asides when he leaned close to Jamal’s ear to point out the young girl’s charms. He loved the delicate clarity of the glass in the bay windows and the streaks of sunlight on the pastel-painted walls, the warmth of the parquets and the shouts of the imperial grandchildren—Grand Duchess Maria’s four sons and the czarevitch’s two—as they played at his feet. Everything felt so familiar to him now.
And now, this miracle, the long-dreamed-of appearance of Varenka. His friendship with her sister and their bond of complicity within the circle of the imperial family had strengthened the tie and kept his memory of her alive.
Every night since he had met Varenka at Sacha Milyutin’s, he had relived that moment in the Hercules Rotunda, that face, as he drifted off to sleep. Varenka’s presence made this new day at the cottage perfect. Dazzling.
Calm down, Jamal Eddin told himself. Control the turmoil inside for a moment. Stop and think. Varenka was here. And he was going mad.
Sitting on the bench in the shadow of the sculpted bust, he breathed deeply.
At the cottage, an impromptu ball was about to begin, a country dance on the lawn in honor of the visitors. And he was possessed by a desire to join the festivities, perhaps even dance with her.
Get a hold of yourself.
A rumble of unusual activity from the Peterhof Palace nearby signaled that the carriages were coming for the guests. A line of teams clip-clopped down the lanes leading to Alexandria, and he could make out lights beyond the trees. In the glade behind the house, he knew they were setting up a buffet and stringing Chinese lanterns between the trees. But he would respect his spiritual meeting with Shamil. He would force himself to stay seated in this quiet place longer this evening than on other evenings after prayers.