Имоджен Эдвардс-Джонс: The Witches of St. Petersburg

‘Good girl,’ he replied, tapping the back of her hand. ‘I wish you’d spared a little for me!’ he added, with a small sigh as he gazed across the church. ‘It’s quite a turnout. Difficult for a young girl. Well done you.’ He nodded, squeezing her hand. ‘I remember our wedding day,’ he added.

‘I should hope so!’ Militza smiled. ‘It wasn’t that long ago.’

‘Four weeks and five days.’ He smiled. ‘That tiara suits you.’

‘You chose well,’ she replied.

‘Thank you, my lady.’ He bowed in jest. ‘I have an eye for beautiful things,’ he declared, before turning to talk to the guests standing on his right.

‘For the love of Christ!’ hissed a rather beautiful woman as she bustled in front of Militza. Wearing an overly embroidered court dress trimmed with pearls, she had two heavy diamonds swinging from her earlobes and a substantial diamond and pearl tiara on her head. She exuded the ennui of entitlement. ‘I don’t know why we are here!’

‘I agree,’ mumbled her husband, stroking his thick moustache. ‘Who’s heard of a court wedding without the Tsar?’

‘Can you blame him? I only wish I too had managed to slip away to Demark. It’s embarrassing. Such a dark little shrew of a girl. With no money! And from some God-awful backwater no one has ever heard of. What on earth is George doing? Couldn’t he get anything better? Montenegro, of all places. The streets are full of goats!’

‘Have you heard they’ve even brought a crone with them?’ added her husband. ‘A crone! I suppose they can’t afford a proper lady-in-waiting.’

Militza dug her sharp fingernails into the palms of her hands. How she wished her father had not forced both her and Stana to come here. Even the nunnery on Lake Skadar was preferable to this.

‘Ah, Felix! Zinaida! Lovely to see you!’ declared Peter, turning towards his wife and noticing the couple in front of her. ‘Militza, my darling,’ he added, ‘have you met the Yusupovs? The most glamorous couple in all of Russia!’

Militza’s voice died in her throat as a hush came over the crowd and all eyes turned towards the entrance. Stana and Nikolai Nikolayevich stood in the doorway, the bright afternoon sunshine pouring in behind them. Thank goodness, her sister had a little more colour in her pale cheeks, but still Militza felt her chest tighten with nerves. Everyone stared. She looked back across the church towards the groom.

George Maximilianovich, sixth Duke of Leuchtenberg, stood dressed in his immaculate scarlet military uniform, complete with rows of gleaming medals and a bright turquoise sash, his back set firmly towards the door. Why doesn’t he turn around? she thought. All men turn around to watch their future wife enter the church. Militza looked back at her sister, who was holding so tightly on to Nikolai Nikolayevich’s hand that her knuckles had turned white. Not that he appeared to notice, he was so intent on helping her down the aisle.

Just as Stana raised her head high to walk towards the priest, there was a commotion behind her. Everyone turned to witness the late arrival of the Grand Duchess Vladimir, Maria Pavlovna, and her portly husband, the heavily moustachioed Grand Duke, younger brother of the Tsar. Amid much huffing, puffing and fan waving, they followed the bride into the church and took up their place just inside the entrance. Militza stared. Loaded down with jewels, a necklace, a collier de chien , a devant de corsage , a tiara, brooches and a sash, all made of sapphires and diamonds, the Grand Duchess sparkled with self-importance as her every facet caught the sun. Seemingly oblivious to the sensitivity of the moment, Maria Pavlovna smiled and nodded to the assembled company, overshadowing the arrival of the bride. She was not a woman known for her tact, that much Militza knew. She filled her enormous palace with gamblers and ne’er-do-wells and was the epicentre of St Petersburg society. No one could eat, dance or entertain in the city without her say-so. However, even for the Grand Duchess Vladimir, such an entrance was more than a little vulgar.

‘That woman just has to be the centre of attention all the time,’ Peter whispered into his wife’s ear. ‘Dreadful.’

More interestingly, thought Militza, watching Maria Pavlovna smile and nod and mouth little words, flapping her fan, Monsieur Delacroix’s gossip appeared to be well sourced. Maria Pavlovna’s normally angular face had filled out slightly and her dress was not as tightly fitted as high fashion dictated. She was definitely with child.

The priest, Father Anthony, valiantly ignored the attempted interruption and continued to bless the rings. George and Stana exchanged their vows, him with significantly more volume than her. Yet Stana looked serene holding her candle and barely faltered as she leant forward to kiss the icon. Even the tight-lipped Maria Alexandrovna managed to muster a small smile on her otherwise sour little face.

When the ceremony was over, George’s son, little Alexander Romonovsky, led the procession out of the church, holding the icon firmly in his young hands. He was clearly taking his responsibilities very seriously, for he bit his bottom lip all the way out of the church to Villa Sergievka and the reception itself.

And what a reception it was. One that few, if any, would ever forget.

Militza was sitting opposite her when it happened. Why didn’t she notice? she asked herself all those years later. She of all people. She might have been able to do something. To have prevented what happened? Or at the very least, made it better?

The party was in full swing, the feast – turtle soup, pirozkhi, veal, turkey, duck in aspic, and ice cream – all served on heavy silver platters, had been cleared away, and a gypsy band was playing. Regulars at the hugely fashionable Cubat restaurant in St Petersburg, they’d just ‘kidnapped’ Stana, and the singers were going from table to table, their caps out, collecting money to pay her ‘ransom,’ otherwise known as their fee for the night. The guitarists were working themselves up into a frenzy and most of the guests were laughing, throwing roubles into the boys’ caps, clapping along in time to the music

But Grand Duchess Vladimir was not. In fact, Maria Pavlovna was barely moving. She’d not spoken for a while, which was quite unlike her. Militza noticed she was turning pale despite the yellow candlelight and her mouth looked dry. Suddenly Maria Pavlovna turned, looked across the table and let out a low, loud, bellowing moan. It sounded primal, as if it came from the very depths of her soul. She stood up with a lurch, gripping the table with both her hands and the heavy diamond ropes on her devant de corsage swung forward and smashed two glasses. The red wine poured everywhere, a crimson stain seeping into the white linen cloth and trickling on to the parquet floor. She leant forward against the table, using it for support, as she tried to breathe. She stared at Militza, panting through the silver candelabra, her eyes glassy, blind with pain. One of the servants, standing behind the Grand Duchess, covered his mouth in alarm. Peter, who was sitting next to her, stood up and pulled back her chair. The silk cushion on which she’d been sitting was sodden and black with blood. Those close to her recoiled. The gypsy band, however, carried on playing and the guests further up the table continued clapping, as the full magnitude of the situation took a while to sink in.

It was the Grand Duchess Elizabeth Fyodorovna, the Tsar’s sister-in-law, not Militza, who was the first to react. Renowned for both her kindness and her beauty, she rushed over, pushing various guests and servants to one side, and grabbed hold of Maria Pavlovna by the shoulders.