The Winter Palace (32 page)

How easy for anyone
, I thought,
wishing to spy on those below
.

If there was emptiness in these days, I refused to dwell on it. Right before our move, Egor’s papers arrived. His departure was swift. One moment he stood in our parlor in his new uniform—gold buttons gleaming against his green coat—complaining that the collar was too tight. Darya was trying on his shako, and Egor bent over her to explain that the letters
EPI
crowning it stood for:
Elizaveta Petrovna Imperatriza
. Masha, red-eyed and sniffling, was hanging a Holy Icon around his neck. There were promises. There were jokes. There was Egor’s newly shaved face, flushed and happy, when he adjusted the red leather belt of his sword. There was a smile of triumph so clearly meant for me.

And then he was gone.

Every June 29, on the Feast of Saints Peter and Paul, the court celebrated the name day of the Crown Prince. It was always a lavish day filled with music, dancing, and military parades, a day without end, for during the white night that followed, the sun dipped beyond the horizon only to rise again almost immediately, dissolving darkness into a foggy mist of blue and violet. In 1755, Peter’s name-day celebrations were more spectacular than ever. That year the Crown Prince shared his name day with his new son and heir.

“Go to Oranienbaum, Varvara,” the Empress ordered. Nothing more than three words were needed for a tongue.

By the time I arrived, the yard of the Oranienbaum palace had been fitted with a vodka fountain and barrels of German beer. An orchestra played in the garden, a violin quartet in the palace courtyard. Footmen made their way through the throng, balancing platters of crayfish and mounds of roasted meat, replenishing the food that vanished as fast as it was placed on tables. On one of the sideboards rose a turreted fortress made entirely of pastries and fruit. The Grand Duke was there, wearing a smart-looking emerald-green jacket with gold trim instead of his usual blue Holsteiner uniform, graciously acknowledging another round of musket salutes.
Das Fräulein
, I noted, was delighted to stand by Peter’s side to greet the visitors.

There was no sign of Catherine.

I walked across the courtyard toward the palace in search of her. Around me, lagging conversations became lively only when something disparaging was said. So-and-so made herself look ridiculous with too much Valenciennes lace. So-and-so spent five thousand rubles on a dinner party and yet the food was revolting. So-and-so was lusting for another man’s wife.

Enough gossip to keep the Empress satisfied, I thought.

In the palace hall the Chancellor stood by an open window, watching the courtyard outside.

“Spectacular entertainment, wouldn’t you say?” he said gleefully, seeing me. “The flower of the court. The old players and the new.” His shrewd eyes missed nothing.
Das Fräulein
’s sharp laughter, my anxious looks at the door where Catherine should appear at any moment.

“Look at the British Ambassador. He is trying so hard to impress our Empress these days.” The Chancellor leaned over the windowsill. “My old friend has brought reinforcements.”

Sir Charles Hanbury-Williams, the British Ambassador to Russia, his ankle still not fully healed, hobbled beside a slim young man in a cherry velvet frock coat. No wig, I noted. The young man’s hair was frizzled and powdered, a black braid tied with a satin ribbon.

“Count Stanislav Poniatowski,” the Chancellor told me. “Straight from his European grand tour. He’s Sir Charles’s private secretary. And his protégé.”

Count Poniatowski, the Chancellor said, was taking his first steps into politics. His uncles had sent him to St. Petersburg to advance Polish influence at the Russian court. He had already been received by the best families. After an audience in Peterhof, the Empress gushed over his shapely calves so much that Ivan Ivanovich began to sulk.

In the courtyard Count Poniatowski gracefully returned someone’s bow, accepting a glass of champagne from a passing footman. Sir Charles was introducing him to Field Marshal Apraxin.

Beside me, Bestuzhev chuckled.

“The Shuvalovs think him quite dangerous, Varvara Nikolayevna. The dashing count should take it as a compliment.”

The medals on General Apraxin’s chest glittered. Count Poniatowski extended his hand.

“I should warn you that Countess Shuvalova has already started hinting at unnatural inclinations between master and pupil.” The Chancellor chuckled. “So don’t be surprised when the Empress becomes curious about our handsome Polish newcomer.”

So there is gossip already
, I thought, listening to the rest of the Chancellor’s account of Count Stanislav’s first days at court. The French faction was eager to disgrace the British by whatever means.

I ignored the questioning look in Bestuzhev’s eyes.
Tell him I change my mind every time you talk to me
, Catherine had said.
Let him grow desperate
.

The time of war
, I told myself,
rapacious and fraudulent. Cruel
.

When I entered her rooms, Catherine stood in a dazzling flood of sunlight, surrounded by her maids-of-honor, a constant buzz of talk around her. She was still being dressed. The maids were lacing up her stays, adjusting the panniers, tying the pockets around her waist. One of her maids was powdering Catherine’s hair, curled in elaborate locks for the occasion; another attached a beauty spot above her lip. A court gown of ivory silk was laid out, its skirt frosted with intricate silver lace.

“Varenka,” Catherine exclaimed, as I curtsied. She gestured for me to rise. “Is the move complete? Is the new palace as ready as everyone says it is?”

I wondered if it were belladonna or laudanum that made her eyes look so wide and so blue.

It was her son’s first name day. Had she at least been permitted to embrace and kiss him? Or did she have to hold back tears and speak of her gratitude for his well-being? Had she had to force herself not to reach for her baby, even when he extended his hands to her? The “darling boy,” the Empress ordered, must be spared the undue agitation of his mother’s presence. Longing for her son, I’d heard Elizabeth declare, would make Catherine’s womb more receptive for another pregnancy.

“The palace is awaiting Your Highnesses’ arrival,” I replied.

Catherine raised her hands so the maids could slip on her petticoats, inner and outer, and her stomacher. By the time she was ready for the gown itself, I had answered all her questions. The palace was small but clean. The Great Perspective Road was noisy in the morning, but her windows were facing the canal. Besides, Monsieur Rastrelli swore we would all be back at the Winter Palace a year from now.

The silk gown rustled softly as Catherine made a slow turn. The silver lace sparkled. The maids were now on the lookout for the smallest of imperfections, a loose thread, a fold too supple or too tight, a smudge of rice powder on her neck.

I thought Catherine hadn’t looked so fine for quite a while.

Outside, in the Oranienbaum yard, someone shouted, “Long live the Crown Prince!” The cheers that followed lingered. I thought of
Das Fräulein
’s eagerness to seize Catherine’s place beside her husband.

Another round of musket shots rang in the air.

I was relieved when after a moment of silence, tense and uncomfortable, Catherine smiled and told me that she was ready to join the Grand Duke at the feast.

“Who is he, Varenka?” Catherine wanted to know.

From a bowl of fruit Count Poniatowski picked out a pitted plum and slipped it into his mouth. Then he took another.

I repeated the Chancellor’s introduction.
Count Poniatowski … the British Ambassador’s Polish protégé … his private secretary … but more like his friend and pupil
.

“He seems to like plums,” Catherine observed. “Does your plum-loving Polish count have a Christian name?”

“Stanislav.”

“Has
she
seen him?”

I said that Count Poniatowski had been officially presented to the Empress several days before.

“Did she like him?”

“Yes.”

“More than her Shuvalov?”

“I don’t think so. He made a grave mistake.”

“He ate all her plums?” A playful flicker came into Catherine’s eyes.

“No.” I stifled a smile. “I heard that he quoted Voltaire before Ivan Ivanovich had a chance to do so.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Count Poniatowski bow in front of the oldest of Prince Kurakin’s daughters and lead her to the dance floor. The Count’s turns and steps showed the mastery of practice and a delight in his own dexterity. Each time he bent toward his partner, a warm smile softened the fine lines of his face. Not a smudge of Sergey Saltykov’s arrogant manliness, I decided, hoping Catherine would see it, too. Just the worldly ease of someone who feels at home everywhere.

It was then that the Grand Duke motioned for me to approach him.

“She doesn’t like my ensemble, Varvara,” Peter complained, pointing at
Das Fräulein
, who was hanging on his arm, sulking. “Tell her what you heard.”

He sounded like Darya when she needed my approval.

“Everyone remarks Your Highness looks especially fine today,” I said. “The Grand Duchess and Chancellor Bestuzhev particularly praised the choice of the jacket.”

Countess Vorontzova gave me a scowl.

“What do you have to say to that now?” the Grand Duke asked her with glee.

By the time I returned to Catherine’s side, she was standing by the refreshment table with Count Poniatowski, Sir Charles right beside them. Count Poniatowski was laughing at something Catherine had just said. Her lips were parted, and I thought her beautiful then, in that rare way joy can suddenly rearrange a plain face and make it sparkle.

“You are luckier than I’ve been,” I heard Catherine say. “I arrived here in the middle of the Russian winter, which is not for the faint of spirit.” She didn’t acknowledge my presence; I didn’t mind.

Sir Charles Hanbury-Williams limped away from Catherine and Stanislav and gestured for me to join him. The Empress, I recalled, liked to mock the Ambassador’s stout frame and full lips.

“It was entirely my fault, Madame Malikina,” the Ambassador said when I expressed my concern over his injured foot. His French, though fluent, carried the slight awkwardness of an English speaker who took to it too late in life. “I had been warned of the perils of renovations. I should’ve watched my step.”

It pleased me that he remembered my name. We had exchanged a few polite words when I came across him in the Empress’s antechambers, but this was the first time we talked without others present.

Sir Charles eagerly reported the details of the official introduction that had happened in my absence. “I called Count Poniatowski my political son, the child of my heart,” he informed me, “and the Grand Duchess most graciously congratulated me on my taste.”

Around us the din of voices melted into laughter. At the other end of the room, Chancellor Bestuzhev was explaining something to the Austrian Ambassador, placing his hand on his shoulder, a friendly gesture meant to be seen. Sir Charles didn’t hide how much he was taken with Catherine. “What intelligence, what grace,” he gushed. “No one else in this room can measure up to that smile.”

I let Sir Charles speak, but my thoughts drifted to Catherine and Stanislav. Not so much to what they said—for only snatches of their words reached me—but the subtle message of their gestures. Catherine’s fan touching her lips, a glitter in Stanislav’s eyes.

“I’ve been in Poland long enough,” Sir Charles continued, “to see the possibilities. A country half as large as France, intended by nature to be the granary of Europe, is rotting away in obscurity. Waste is not in Europe’s best interests. This is what we talk about with Count Poniatowski every day, Madame Malikina.”

Glancing at his protégé, who was bending his head toward Catherine, Sir Charles spoke of the balance of power needed to keep all players in check. France was reaching for more than was her share. France, who liked to form factions in every country with much passion, only to abandon them with levity. Poland had learned it already, to her detriment. Poland was looking for more solid alliances now.

“Poland and Russia, Madame, linked by common interest and common good.”

These were an Ambassador’s words, I thought. Sir Charles was planting the seeds of his mission, seizing opportunities whenever he could. To whom did he wish me to repeat his words? Elizabeth? The Chancellor? Or Catherine?

In the sunlight of the white night I heard Catherine’s voice, joyful, teasing, entangled in Count Poniatowski’s soft chuckles.

When the feast ended, I went into Catherine’s bedroom. In Peterhof the Empress awaited my report of the celebrations, and I needed to know what Catherine wished me to say to her.

But Catherine refused to talk about the Empress.

The chambermaids had left the windows open, and the curtains of thick crimson velvet billowed, letting in a breeze of cool, fragrant air from the sunlit gardens. I could smell lilac and heavy jasmine blooms.

“I asked Count Poniatowski about Paris, Varenka. Do you know what he said? That he loved its radiance. That cities are like people: They emanate their desires. Paris, he said, lives for pleasure.”

My carriage was waiting. I rose to leave, but Catherine stopped me.

“Do you ever think I will go there?”

“To Paris?” I asked stupidly.

“Yes.”

“If you truly wish.”

Her eyes narrowed and then softened, two shining pools of light. “I cannot live any longer without love, Varenka. Not one single hour.”

I smiled. “It seems to me you won’t have to,” I said.

The Empress sent me to Oranienbaum once more before the court came back to St. Petersburg for the winter.

This time it was the Grand Duke whom Elizabeth wished me to see. There have been complaints of the new regiment her nephew had summoned from Holstein. Unwelcome and annoying, when Russia was on the very brink of war with the Prussian King.

“Tell this fool, this nephew of mine, that my patience doesn’t last long, Varvara,” the Empress raged.