Имоджен Эдвардс-Джонс - The Witches of St. Petersburg

‘There!’ he said, deftly wielding a small silver hand mirror. ‘Perfect.’

Stana got out of her seat and turned to look at herself in a full-length mirror. The tiara, the French lace veil, the silver dress, her dark hair all curled and smooth; she barely recognized herself. She looked ethereal, a princess from a different time and place. She looked across at her sister whose eyes were full of tears.

‘You look beautiful,’ Militza whispered.

There was a knock at the door and Brana, the elderly nursemaid the sisters had insisted on bringing with them from Montenegro, shuffled in. Hunched, dressed in a loose knitted shawl, with her thick grey hair plaited across the top of her head, she was an unusual sight in these rarefied surroundings. The refined Monsieur Delacroix took a step back, even Natalya, the maid, left her mouth open. From the coastal city of Ulcinj, one of the pirate capitals of the Adriatic, she had been with the girls since their birth and had looked after their mother, Milena, before them.

‘Since your mama is not here… Roses,’ she said, holding out the tightly bound bridal bouquet. She spoke in Albanian. The hairdresser and the maid were at a loss to understand. ‘And myrtle,’ she added, with a wide, toothless smile. ‘The height of fashion since Queen Victoria’s wedding, or so I am told.’

‘Oh Brana! Thank you!’ Stana bent down to hug and kiss her fleshless cheek. ‘You always think of everything!’

Stana returned to the mirror. The bouquet was the finishing touch. Her heart stopped. The wedding was suddenly real and she felt sick to the pit of her stomach.

‘It’ll be all right.’ She spoke softly to her own reflection, her mouth dry with nerves.

‘Be a brave girl now,’ said Brana smiling at Stana. ‘Your mother,’ she continued, rootling around in a pocket in her skirts, ‘was engaged at six, married at thirteen when she was not yet a woman. It took her a full four years to produce. And look at her now…’ She smiled. ‘Eleven children.’ She handed a small blue bottle to Militza. ‘And another one on the way.’

‘Open your mouth,’ demanded Militza, taking a step towards her sister.

‘What is it?’ asked Stana doing just as she was told.

‘Laudanum.’ Militza squeezed the top of the glass pipette. ‘A few drops of bitterness and then you won’t feel a thing.’

It was around two thirty when they set off from Peterhof towards the Sergeyevsko Estate in an open carriage pulled by six bay horses and festooned with white roses. Militza travelled with her sister, as did a substantial guard of honour all dressed in their immaculate scarlet uniforms. Arriving at the white marble church at exactly 3 p.m., they were met by throngs of newsmen and the official court photographer as well as crowds of excited onlookers who had gathered from all the nearby estates.

‘God help me,’ mumbled Stana, turning her glazed eyes on the crowds and then back towards her sister. ‘God help us.’

The carriage drew to a halt and the crowd fell silent. In attendance were some six grand dukes dressed in full plumed military splendour, their golden buttons and epaulettes glinting in the strong afternoon sun. At six feet seven inches, Grand Duke Nikolai Nikolayevich, Militza’s recently acquired brother-in-law, certainly stood out from the crowd. His straight nose, his intelligent, sharp blue eyes and elegantly waxed moustache, made him a welcome sight in the sea of unfamiliar faces. He smiled encouragingly at the approaching bride.

‘Papa would be so proud,’ Militza whispered in her sister’s ear.

‘Help me,’ Stana muttered listlessly in reply.

Stana stood up in the carriage and swooned slightly. The drugs, the weight of the dress, the heat of summer. Militza gasped, as did some members of the crowd. Stana gripped on the side of the carriage to balance herself, her white hands shaking as she fumbled. Fortunately, Nikolai Nikolayevich was swift enough to catch Stana before she fell. He rushed forward, pushing aside a footman, slipping his hands firmly around her waist as her legs went from under her. He pulled her close to his chest and her head fell against his shoulder; she shivered as she tried to control herself. Breathing in deeply, all she could smell was the lemon sharpness of his cologne.

‘Thank you.’ Her lips parted in a dry smile. The smallest bead of sweat slithered down her temple.

‘Your Highness,’ he replied, holding her firmly at the elbows. ‘Do you need a glass of water?’

‘No need.’

‘A little air?’

Stana shook her head.

‘Don’t worry,’ he added, turning to address the anxious-looking Militza. ‘She just needs a moment. You go inside. I will look after her, I promise.’

Militza hesitated, she was late, she should go inside the church, but… She looked at him again.

‘I promise,’ he said, again, holding Stana a little more closely to his chest. ‘Go.’

Militza nodded and turned. As soon as she walked through the open doors, the sweet, sickly odour of incense and lilies filled the air. It smelt more like a funeral than a wedding. Lit by the glow of a thousand candles, the cream of St Petersburg society was lined up, decked out in their finery and, as they jockeyed for the best position, their diamonds, emeralds, rubies, pearls, gold and silver silks all coruscated like a basket of wet vipers writhing in the sun. Militza was momentarily blinded by the opulence and gripped on to her fan all the more tightly as she walked through the church. She heard the conversation dip and felt the glare of a hundred pairs of eyes. Dressed in a yellow silk dress, with a yellow diamond necklace and the small diamond tiara her husband had recently presented to her, she nervously scanned the church.

The first to approach her was the Tsar’s sister, the Grand Duchess Maria Alexandrovna who was married to Prince Alfred, Duke of Edinburgh, second son of Queen Victoria. Her diamond and Burmese ruby parure was impressive, yet her little round face was impassive and sagging with boredom.

She yawned gently. ‘So here we all are, again. Twice in four weeks.’ She managed a pinched smile as she thrice kissed the air next to Militza’s cheeks. ‘What a horribly hot day.’ She flapped her huge mother-of-pearl fan by way of a demonstration. ‘And my brother is not coming. He is in Denmark. Copenhagen. With Mama’s family,’ she added with a little shake of her coronet. ‘A previous engagement.’

‘Shame,’ added Prince Alfred, who looked as weary as his wife as he surveyed the scene. ‘It makes it so much less of an occasion without the Tsar.’

‘And your father, the King of…?’ Maria Alexandrovna paused very pointedly, fiddling with her large ruby ring.

‘The Crown Prince of Montenegro.’ Militza could feel her cheeks beginning to flush with irritation. This was not the first time someone had pretended not to remember the name of her country.

‘Not here either?’ she remarked, her lips pursed, already knowing the answer.

‘Sadly, my mother is confined.’

‘What is it now – ten?’ The Grand Duchess giggled. ‘Not even the old serfs had that many children!’

‘Twelve,’ replied Militza her eyes finally alighting on the tall, slender frame of her husband. ‘Will you excuse me?’

She fled, weaving her way through the rustle of silk and glimmer of diamonds straight to his side.

‘There you are!’ He leant over to kiss her. ‘Everything all right?’ he whispered in her ear.

‘I’ve given her a little something for her nerves.’

He stood and smiled at her. Dressed in an immaculately fitting red Hussar’s uniform, with large gold epaulettes that highlighted his broad shoulders, there was a glint in Peter’s grey eyes, a generous curl on his moustachioed lips; he was a charming ebullient sort, who always looked as if he was about to tell the most excellent story.