Robert Alexander - The Romanov Bride

No sooner had I set foot on the ground floor than a uniformed guard opened a large side door, through which my husband and his aide-de-camp promptly stepped. With the exception of the Emperor, who took after his petite Danish mother in stature, Romanovs tended to be either as tall as a tree or as big as a bear, on occasion both. Sergei was among the former. His posture was always impeccable, if not unnaturally stiff, and he was toying then, as he so often did, with a jeweled ring on his little finger. And that night as he studied me with his small, intense eyes, he wore a brilliant blue uniform jacket with gold-thread epaulets and numerous diamond-studded medals.

I stopped before him for inspection, and stood as beautifully as I could. How could he possibly find fault with me?

“Open your cloak, my child,” he commanded as he screwed up his eyes and studied me with great intensity.

I did just that, pulling aside the sable and exposing my pale-yellow dress and sparkling diamonds.

Finally, he all but grumbled, “Fine.”

The Grand Duke then turned to the children and suddenly smiled, stretching out his arms. His obvious joy at seeing them did nothing but hurt my heart.

“Why, my children, don’t you look ever so beautiful tonight! ” exclaimed Sergei. “Come here, come into my arms and give your new Papa-yes, I’m your Papa now!-a great big kiss!”

I just stood there, my face stern, my anguish hidden, reluctantly watching as my husband scooped these children up into his eager arms. Yes, I had always wanted children of my own-I had wanted them almost as much as I still wanted the intimate affection of this man whom I had once so tenderly loved and looked up to.

Suddenly a footman rushed forward, placing a fur cape over the Grand Duke’s shoulders, and we were off. With great pomp, two uniformed guards threw open the Palace doors, and we four royals stepped into the cold, snowy night, followed immediately by my Starshiye Freilini and my husband’s aide-de-camp. As we approached the large, old-fashioned carriage-a remarkably heavy brougham, its carbide lamps now blazing brightly-the Grand Duke’s driver, Coachman Rudinkin, silently bowed his head and tipped his stubby top hat. A footman hurried ahead of us all, opened the carriage door, and the Grand Duke and I and our young charges climbed in, settling on the silk cushions. Once our attendants were settled in a lesser carriage behind us, the whips began to crack and we went dashing across the inner territories of the mighty Kremlin, soon to pass through its gates.

By the time I reached the end of the Upper Trading Row, the snow, which had promised to be heavy, had faded to a handful of flakes. Crossing onto the vast Red Square I could see no carriages or sleighs, merely a handful of peasants wandering this way and that, as they did round the clock. I imagined that I looked just like them, a lonely man, his purpose unknown and certainly not of interest, merely in a rush to cross the rather desolate space.

As I passed the corner of the tall redbrick History Museum, I eyed someone emerging from the shadows. They said half of the city’s street janitors were spies for the police, and at first I couldn’t tell who this person was. I pressed on, pretending not to have noticed him, thinking only that we were so close, so very close, to seeing our dreams fulfilled. All I had to do was deliver this bomb, which I cradled as dearly as if it were my unborn child. And then, of course, my next duty would be my greatest.

Suddenly the man behind me, the one who had blossomed out of the shadows, hurried alongside me. When he was right by my side, I glanced over and saw the familiar face of Kalyayev, our poet. I smiled, he grinned back, and in a single gentle movement I passed the bomb from my arms to his. It only took a second. No one could have noticed. And, with the goods delivered, I crossed the cobbles and melted into the white shadows of the snowy Aleksandrovski Gardens. Meanwhile, Kalyayev pressed farther on, disappearing into the gardens as well.

I felt such elation. Such happiness. We were assured success now, weren’t we? All I had to do was spy the carriage, cross onto the street, and if I saw the Grand Duke himself inside the coach I was to drop the black rag. Yes, it was black, the color of death and night, specifically chosen so that Kalyayev could see the signal on the snowy street, and then he would dart out and heave the bomb through the window of the carriage. The Grand Duke would be killed immediately and everything would change, right?

I felt no cold. No chill. And certainly no dread. Only excitement. The Grand Duke and probably his wife would come, I thought, staring up the slight hill toward the towering Nikolsky Gate. They would emerge from the Kremlin via that gate, turn left, and pass us by. And they would do so within minutes, perhaps even seconds, for the opera was due to start shortly.

I waited, my eyes trained on that very spot, and I don’t think I blinked until it appeared like a mirage in the night, not a sleigh but a carriage exiting the Kremlin. It was like some kind of fantasy, yet when it turned and crossed the corner of Red Square and started down the low hill it became real, for I saw the carriage and its two bright lights. That had to be the Grand Duke on his way to the Bolshoi. He had to be inside. How wonderful!

Stepping out of the shadows, I followed our plan exactly. The carriage was making its way toward me, I was making my way toward it. And all I had to do as it passed was glance inside. If by chance it wasn’t the Grand Duke’s carriage, I was to do nothing. If the Grand Duchess was inside and alone, I was to do nothing. But if he was in there, with or without his wife, I was to pull the black rag from my pocket and drop it on the cobbles. That would be the signal. Kalyayev would rush from the shadows of the gardens and hurl the bomb through the glass window and onto his lap.

The lights of the carriage became still brighter and larger as it neared, and within a few steps I saw the white harnesses on the beautiful dark horses. And I saw, too, that the driver was wearing a fine coat bundled over his livery. There was no doubt about it, I thought as I reached into my right pocket and clutched the dark rag, this was the vehicle of a highborn gentleman. And, yes, when the carriage was but twenty paces away, there it was on the door itself, the Grand Duke’s royal crest.

Now the only question was who exactly was inside…

I felt the eyes of the coachman upon me, for he was most certainly protective of his master. I knew he was studying me, wondering if I posed some kind of danger, and so to look a simple, harmless fool I pulled both hands from my pockets and rubbed them together as if to beat away the cold. Satisfied that I carried no gun or bomb, the coachman drove on at his normal pace.

And then like any Russian fool upon suddenly seeing his master, I stopped, took off my hat with my left hand, and bowed as the carriage passed. With my right, I reached into my pocket and clutched the black rag, eager to drop it onto the street. A lamp burned inside the large old carriage as well, and in its soft light I saw him, the royal bastard, our Grand Duke, bearded and caped and looking remarkably smug. Sitting right next to him, of course, was his bride, and it’s true, I was stunned by her beauty. Never had I seen a more pleasing creature, the gentle shape of her face, the softness of her lips. This was the first time I had ever laid eyes on the Grand Duchess Elisavyeta Fyodorovna, of course, and her skin glowed and diamonds sparkled all around her. Nevertheless, I retained my sense of duty and pulled the black rag from my pocket and was all set to drop it when Her Highness saw me standing out there in the cold. Looking directly at me, she caught my eyes with hers, lured me like a golden icon of the Mother of God, and smiled softly, even gently, as if she understood my misery and even felt a kind of compassion for me and my life.