But Stana, poor Stana, had not been so fortunate. She had met her soon-to-be husband just four weeks before, their father selecting him from the shallow pool of eligible suitors at Militza’s wedding. Quite what made the widower, with a motherless seven-year-old son, stand out for their father, neither of them knew.
All Militza knew was there was to be no celebratory cannon fire on Stana’s wedding day, no party at the Tsar’s palace. In fact, neither the Tsar nor even their father were going to attend. It was as if Nikola could not wait to give Stana away, at any price.
Militza sighed. What were they doing here, two sisters so far from home? How could their father have done this? She couldn’t help but think how cruel it was to be born a woman, how cruel it was to be powerless and unable to decide one’s own fate. However, she said nothing, did nothing, except continue to stare out of the window and try to quell her own misgivings.
It took Stana half an hour to compose herself enough to sip her tea. She had it strong and sweetened with a little cherry jam dipped in on a silver teaspoon. The maid had delivered a plate piled high with warm blini with soured cream and honey, but neither of them could stomach anything.
‘You’re right,’ Stana declared flatly, as she licked the jam off her spoon. ‘There is nothing else to be done. I have no choice. It is either George—’
‘Or the nunnery on Lake Skadar.’
They looked at each other. It should have been a funny joke: it was something they’d laughed about as children, that they’d end up in the nunnery their father was building. Militza had often declared, in lofty tones, that she was looking forward to a life of learning without distraction. But the older they became and the steeper and thicker grew the convent’s walls, the more of a terrifying reality it was. How could their father truly think this was a good solution to the problem of having so many daughters? Anything, anywhere, anyone – even George – would be better than the nunnery on Lake Skadar.
Militza leant over and took the spoon out of her sister’s mouth. ‘Don’t do that. We are not at home any more.’
‘Don’t I know it! I hate this place! The Grand Palace!’ she snorted. ‘It’s like a cage!’ Stana leapt out of her chair and walked towards the large open windows. ‘Why does it have to be him?’ She turned back towards Militza with her large imploring eyes. ‘Why does it have to be now? I know people are talking. I hear them whisper. I feel them stare. What is that stupid saying of theirs? “An uninvited guest is worse than a Tatar?” Well, that’s us. A couple of uninvited Tatars. They don’t like us. They disdain us.’ Her pretty lips curled. ‘I’m scared. I’m scared of these big, cold palaces. I’m scared of the people who live here – and most of all I’m scared of my husband. He doesn’t love me, I know he doesn’t. He can barely look me in the eye.’
‘He proposed to you and that’s all that matters.’
‘How can you say that?’
‘I don’t know what else to say.’
The sisters sat in silence and drank their tea. The only noise was the scraping of Stana’s spoon as she stirred more jam around her cup.
‘I just wish Mother were here,’ said Stana, suddenly putting down her cup and pulling her knees up under her chin. ‘Both Mother and Papa came to your wedding.’
‘You will be fine.’ Militza squeezed her hand.
‘I miss our little palace.’
Militza looked out through the large open window to the beautifully manicured lawns beyond. ‘So do I…’ She added swiftly, turning back to her sister, ‘You will be fine. You are not alone. You have me to look after you.’
‘You?’ Stana’s eyes filled again with tears.
‘I will look after you.’
‘Please… I am not sure I can do it without you. You’ve always been the strong one, the clever one – the one everyone looked up to.’ She grabbed hold of her sister’s shoulders and gripped them tightly. ‘Promise you’ll make it all right? Promise!’
Her grip was strong, her pain evident. Militza looked deep into her sister’s black eyes. Perhaps it was guilt that fate had dealt her the better hand, perhaps it was instinct, the older sibling’s duty to look after the other, or perhaps it was just the raw vision of her sister’s shattered heart, but Militza did not pause. She did not waver. ‘I promise,’ she whispered. ‘Cross my heart.’ She hooked a strand of hair behind her sister’s ear, before cupping her chin. ‘Together, we can do anything,’ she said softly, then kissed Stana’s cheek.
Years later, Militza remembered, then and there, that with one small kiss, she had sealed both their fates. Forever after she was obliged to help her sister, to come to her rescue. She’d promised. She’d crossed her heart. There was nothing more to discuss.
‘Smile,’ she said. ‘You’re getting married.’
The wedding was at 3 p.m. and Stana had much to do. As was traditional, her dress was in the style of the court. Made of white silk, it was embroidered with silver thread, pearls and a scattering of diamonds around the neck and it took her over an hour to put on. Her fine lace stockings were difficult to fit in the heat, and her new lady’s maid, Natalya, took an age tugging them over Stana’s knees. The lace underskirts were fitted next, to give the dress volume, followed by the starched petticoats. A wider dress, made of silver and silk, was layered over the top. The inverted V at the front allowed the other skirt of finer silver tissue to peek through. Due to the late summer heat and humidity, instead of a more usual heavy velvet train Stana had opted for a simple mantilla and veil of delicate handmade Chantilly lace. It was attached to a diamond and pearl tiara, her wedding present from the Tsar. Fortunately, Monsieur Delacroix was on hand to make sure her coiffure was perfect. A corpulent fellow with a florid complexion and a long, waxed moustache, he arrived amid much flamboyant fanfare, accompanied by a phalanx of flunkies and a fug of lavender. Monsieur Delacroix had been court hairdresser for so long he knew more secrets than the police, more gossip than the servants, but most especially he knew about nervous brides and he never travelled anywhere without a chilled bottle of Roederer champagne. His energy, and indeed alcohol, went a little way to lightening the mood.
‘So, have you heard the Grand Duchess Vladimir is pregnant?’ declared Monsieur Delacroix, combing Stana’s hair. ‘That’s number four or five.’
‘How fortunate,’ replied Militza, sipping her champagne.
‘That’s a lot of babies,’ commented Stana, staring into the mirror.
‘All that money and all those children – and still no nearer to the throne!’ he laughed into his round chest. ‘You know when the Tsar was in that railway accident at Borki in the Ukraine last year? When twenty-one people died?’ He turned to heat up his curling tongs. ‘Rumour has it that neither she nor her husband returned to Russia, or even asked about his older brother’s health. They were sitting in France with their fingers crossed, spitting at the Devil, hoping against hope the Tsar and all his children would be wiped out, and they’d inherit the throne! Ouch!’ he said, burning his index finger on the hot brass as he pulled a set of tongs out from the gas-fired heater. ‘I don’t think the Tsar has forgiven him. It’ll be you soon,’ he joked, pausing mid-comb and nodding towards Stana’s slim belly.