City of Silence (City of Mystery) (14 page)

She
could only assume that the others were thinking thoughts along the same lines
as her own.  What the hell have we gotten ourselves into?  How far off the
earth have we fallen this time?  We are too small to be here, too insignificant
and too utterly out of our element.

And
finally the boat began to slow even more until the engines were screeching with
the effort.  They pulled parallel to the fourth dock.  It was the largest and
most ornate so far, with a wall of white marble dotted with sculpture, and
evidently was the entrance point reserved for honored visitors such as
themselves.  Although their Russian hosts could not have know the exact hour of
their arrival, a contingent of guards and workers stood ready to receive them.  The
Victoria and Albert, which had seemed so stately when it left London, occupied
scarcely a third of length of the landing berth.  A swarm of men spring into
action and the yacht was quickly secured and the gangplank lowered. 

“Granny?” 
Alix said with uncertainty.

“Come
along, my dear,” Victoria said.  “You and I must go first.”  She took her
granddaughter’s hand in her own, a plump black glove firmly grasping a
trembling pink one and the two moved down the gangplank.  Just as they reached
the bottom, Victoria paused briefly and turned to look back up at the others,
who were still waiting on deck. 

“I
know it seems very grand,” she said.  “But at least I’m not afraid to live in mine.” 
And with that her foot descended to the ground and they were in Russia. 

Chapter
Eight

June
18, 1889

The
Winter Palace – Ella’s Lounge

6:27
PM

“There
is no need to fight the inevitable, Granny.  I am Russian now.”

“You
are not and never shall be.”

“It’s
true. Your simple German princess is no more.”

“You’re
not even German,” Victoria said, the tremor in her voice suggesting that the
Queen was on the verge of actually losing her temper.  But Ella, standing haughtily
before her, clearly had no plans to retreat.

They
had been welcomed in a flurry of hugs, squeals, and tears.  Ella had greeted
them halfway down the long promenade leading from the dock up to the palace and
her joy at seeing her sister and grandmother had been touching to behold.  The
young grand duchess, whom Trevor considered even lovelier in person than in her
portraits, then had escorted them to her private apartments for a late luncheon
and it was there – amid tassels, gold gilt, great dangling prisms, and, in
short, the rather flashy sort of glamour that made the very roots of Trevor’s
teeth ache – that the conversation had devolved from reunion to argument with
shocking haste.  Now the entire group sat awkwardly in chairs scattered about
the cavernous room, holding their tea cups too tightly and striving without
success to ignore the royal tempest brewing around them.  

“A
woman becomes whomever she marries,” Ella said.  “The virgin is sacrificed on
the altar of marriage and reborn as a wife.  I was taught that from earliest
childhood and let us think, who might have been my council on such matters?  Why,
I believe it was none other than you, Granny dear, and if this is true, it must
also follow that a woman becomes a citizen of whatever nation she marries
into.  So when my mother married my father she became German, as were all the
children from that union.  I was German until I married Serge, and now I am Russian. 
Whatever position or influence I have within the walls of this palace stems
from that singular fact.  It is not a difficult thing to understand, no matter
how determined you are to not understand it.” 

“You
are the one who is being willfully foolish,” Victoria said, with ever the
slightest hiss to her voice on the word “foolish.”  “Your pedigree trumps that
of anyone within this palace and yet you have somehow let yourself forget from
hence you sprang.  Heaven knows, on your father’s side you can trace your
lineage all the way back to Charlemagne and any present power you have, any at
all, stems from the fact that your grandmother is Queen of England.”

“And
you may as well know that I have at last made the decision to convert to Orthodoxy,”
Ella plowed on, ignoring the fact that at, at least in the eyes of Trevor, the
Queen was scoring the majority of points in the debate.  “For it is the faith
of the realm and thus the people expect it of me, especially on the high holy
days.   Oh, and don’t look at me like that, Alix,” she added a bit guiltily to
her sister, whose mouth had dropped open at this latest declaration of defiance. 
“It is not really all that different from being Lutheran.  We worship the same
God and the same Christ, do we not?  And is that not what truly matters?”

“It
is as different from Lutheranism as two faiths can possibly be,” the Queen said.
 She had grown so angry that Tom was staring at her and his own hands gripped
the sides of his chair.  Whether he was merely surprised to find his normally
stolid monarch in such agitation or feared for the health of an elderly patient,
Trevor could not say.  “The rituals of Orthodoxy,” the Queen continued, “are
contrived to dazzle a peasant populace, not to encourage the development of a
rational mind.  You may as well announce that you intend to throw you head back
and bay at the moon.”

“When
we are in England, you control us all and you marry us off to suit your needs,”
Ella said coldly.  “But what you fail to realize is that once we are indeed
married, in that very instant we move beyond your control.  The continent of
Europe is not your personal chessboard.”

A
beat of silence.  And in it the Queen’s face changed from angry to sad.

“If
I saw the continent as a chessboard,” Victoria finally said, with a tender
simplicity, “do you honestly imagine I would set forth you and Alix as pawns?” 
 

At
the softening of her grandmother’s voice, Ella’s shoulders slumped, as if all
the fight had suddenly gone from her as well.  She paused in her pacing and
considered the small, round woman seated before her.  “Darling Granny,” she
said.  “I’m so happy you’re finally here and I don’t wish us to open our visit
with this sort of distressing discord.  But you simply must accept that Serge
is my husband and that Russia is my home.”  Then she turned abruptly toward the
others and said “But I fear I have been rude.  We’ve been so caught up in our
family tussles that I have neglected to formally greet your traveling
contingent.”

They
went through the circle of introductions with teacups clattering into saucers
and bows and curtsys all around.  It seemed a bit silly to resort back to such
pageantry just after having witnessed the sort of row one might more reasonably
expect from a working class family, but Trevor supposed that being in private
service to the royals would be much like working behind the scenes of a
theatrical.  Like it or not, they were about to witness the machinations of the
magic, and to see the principals devoid of their costumes and props.  

“Emma
Kelly,” Ella said thoughtfully, pausing in the round of formalities to consider
the girl more closely than the men.  The unexpected attention seemed to fluster
Emma, who blushed to the roots of her hair.

“Emma
has been tutoring me in Milton,” Alix said, surprising Trevor by even
speaking.  During the argument between her sister and grandmother she had sat
still and ashen, undoubtedly aware that beneath this clearly well-worn debate, what
the two women were truly discussing was the possibility of her own future in
Russia.  Besides, Trevor had never been entirely sure how Alix felt about being
accompanied to St. Petersburg by three members of Scotland Yard or the ruse of
presenting Emma as her governess.  The necessity of their presence was an
implied insult to the court her cherished Nicky would someday rule, so it
seemed she might resent them all.  But instead she had now leapt to her feet
and had linked her arm through Emma’s as if they had been devoted companions
for years.

“Milton,”
Ella said vaguely.  “Most excellent.  You must illuminate us all at the welcoming
banquet, which I’m sure my family will be holding within a day or two in honor
of our British guests.”   If these last lines, especially the pointed emphasis
on the words “my family,” were designed to take a final jab at the Queen, they fell
short of their mark, for Her Majesty had turned her attention back to the
luncheon and was merely prodding suspiciously at some sort of overblown pastry
with her fork. 

“Emma
will be dancing at the Tchaikovsky ball,” Alix said.  “As am I.”

“So
I understand,” said Ella, smiling at her little sister. “This means you shall
both meet Konstantin and your lives shall be instantaneously transformed.”  Her
large blue gray eyes flickered back to Emma. “But I find your name
inconvenient,” she said.  “Emma and Ella?  Far too similar and it shall leave
us all in confusion.  For the remainder of your time in St. Petersburg, you
must be known by your surname of Kelly.”  And she laughed, but in a way that
made it impossible to tell if she was truly joking, and then the royal women –
Alix, Ella, and the Queen – abruptly recessed from the room into Ella’s private
parlor, leaving the members of the Tuesday Night Murder Games club flattened
against their seats like the survivors of a hurricane.

“The
Grand Duchess is quite something, is she not?” Rayley finally said. “It’s hard
to think of the exact word.”

“Oh,
I can think of several,” Trevor said, shaking his head.  “I never would have
believed the Queen would have accepted such impudence from anyone.”  

Tom
winked at Emma.  “And what of you, Kelly?  I thought you were going to faint
when she turned the full force of her personality in your direction.  I suppose
the Grand Duchess is like Eve in the Garden of Eden – she’s been given divine
authority to name us all to her liking.”

Before
Emma could reply, another set of doors swung open – Trevor was already
beginning to suspect a building of this size and design would be next to
impossible to guard – and a small dark-haired woman in spectacles walked in.

“My
name is Cynthia Kirby,” she said.  “And the Queen has instructed me to brief
you at once.”

Trevor
and Rayley exchanged a look.  If being held hostage to the unfolding dramas of
the royal family was not bad enough, it appeared they were now about to be
lectured on their duty by a lady in waiting.  The four men had leapt to their
feet as she entered.  Or perhaps “leapt” was not the proper word; so many women
had been coming and going and the Russian divans were so demonically soft and
deep that Trevor found himself growing increasingly ridiculous with every
arrival.  He rolled, he foundered, he flopped his way up from the cushions and
onto his feet and then he struggled not to openly gasp for air in the face of
the Kirby woman, who had evidently elected not to sit herself.  She stood
before them in the manner of a general, her legs planted far apart, her arms
folded across her chest.  

“Please
sit,” she said.  “I shan’t, for there are only a few points to be covered.  Mr.
Mabrey?”

“That’s
me,” Davy croaked.  “I mean, Ma’am, that is I.”

The
woman studied him over the top of her spectacles.  “You do indeed look like a
schoolboy, which is just as I hoped.  The revolutionary group with which Yulian
Krupin was affiliated, and which his brother Gregor still dominates, is rooted
in the University at St. Petersburg.  We have a friend there – a man by the
name of Elliott Cooper who serves as a teaching assistant in their government
program.  He shall be your liaison.”

Complete
confusion covered Davy’s face.  “Liaison, ma’am?”

“Good
heavens, haven’t they told you anything?  Perhaps this meeting will not be concluded
as efficiently as I had hoped.”  Mrs. Kirby dropped gracelessly into a chair.  Her
appearance was oddly all of one note, Trevor thought, with her hair, eyes, and
dress the same color of dull brown.  But he supposed such blandness could prove
useful in her line of work.

“We
do know that the Volya originated in the University,” Trevor said, sitting once
again too, with his intrusion into the conversation earning him a look of
profound gratitude from Davy.  “But our understanding was that during this
visit Davy would pose as the Queen’s private message boy.”  

“And
so he shall,” Mrs. Kirby said.  “Cooper, as his name suggests, is most thoroughly
English and presented himself to the University as a visiting professor from
Cambridge, which on one level is precisely what he is.  But alas, the Russian universities
are like everything else in Russia – insular, suspicious, and riddled with
ceremony.  Despite Professor Cooper’s stellar academic credentials, or perhaps
because of them, it has taken him two years to gain the position of assistant
to a professor named Tomasovich”  She paused, as if to give them time to
assimilate her barrage of information.  “Tomasovich is a mentor to the students
in the Volya, for his field of expertise is Marx and the Communist Manifesto. 
I assume you are all familiar with the Communist Manifesto.”

“Of
course we are,” Emma said quickly.  At least she was. The file marked
Unofficial History had been full of it.  For the benefit of the others,
especially the horrified Davy, she gave a brief summary.  “It advocates a
completely egalitarian society and thus the overthrow of all existing
governments.  In this case, I presume the emphasis is on overthrowing the
tsar.”

Mrs.
Kirby nodded, tossing Emma a look of grudging respect.  “Tomasovich can hardly
advocate revolution from his lectern, but he comes close, and Cooper, who poses
as a communist sympathizer, has successfully gained the trust of both the
professor and the young members of the Volya.  He is prepared to introduce Davy
as a student he knew back in Cambridge who is also sympathetic to their cause.”

“You’re
suggesting that our Davy is to infiltrate the Volya?” Trevor said in true
disbelief. 

“Of
course.  Cooper is older than the boys, separated from them by both age and his
position as an instructor.  But this lad before us seems quite the proper sort,
does he not?  If they believe him to be a British comrade, they shall perhaps
more readily confide in him.”

“And
why would they talk openly to a complete stranger come from a country they most
likely despise?” Trevor asked.  The idea not only sounded mad, but it could
place Davy in the most extraordinary sort of danger.

“Two
reasons.  Cooper is an accepted adjunct to the group and he will vouch for
him.  Secondly, the Russians brag.  They can’t help themselves.”  Mrs. Kirby
took off her glasses, immediately stripping a decade from her appearance, and
once again looked at Davy.   “All you have to do, my young friend, is claim
that your fellows back in England are cowardly and slow to action, nothing at
all like the true revolutionaries of St. Petersburg, and then sit back and let
the Russians tell you everything they know.  The whole nation falls to
flattery, especially if you contrast them favorably with the rest of Europe.”