The Winter Palace (54 page)

At the end of March, Herr Gilferding announced that the rehearsals would be moved to the court theater and a select audience would be allowed to observe.

I noticed that Darya did not seem as excited about this news as I’d expected, but I put it down to stage fright. So I was taken by surprise when she came into the parlor on that spring day. “Maman, would you be very upset if I didn’t dance in the ballet?” Her eyes avoided mine.

“Why wouldn’t you dance?” I asked.

Only the day before, Herr Gilferding had praised my daughter’s grace, her endurance, her expressiveness. “She may be only thirteen, but there is more poise in her than in the dancers of the Imperial Theater School,” he’d bragged.

“You can tell me,” I coaxed Darya when she didn’t answer. “Are you worried that you are not ready?”

She shook her head. I saw her bite the tips of her fingers. She had never been a nail-biter before.

I patted the spot beside me on the ottoman. Reluctantly, she sat down.

I told her how there was no need to be shy now. Once she was there, onstage, I promised, all these worries would vanish. Her father would have been so proud to see her dance with the Grand Duke, admired by the entire court. After all, hadn’t the Empress often said she wished to do much for her? And wouldn’t Catherine herself be in the audience that evening?

It was then that the gold pendant around her neck caught my attention. I hadn’t seen it before.

“Where did you get this from?” I asked, fingering it to take a better look at a cluster of gemstones set in the shape of forget-me-nots.

“It’s from the Empress,” she muttered, still not looking at me.

“Was it a reward for something you did? You don’t have to be shy about pleasing the Empress.”

She nodded, a nod of such slightness I might have missed it.

“Was it for your dancing?”

“Yes,” she said, too hastily, her cheeks turning crimson.

“So why this silly blushing, my love? You might as well get used to praises. If you ever stop slouching, you will be the most beautiful of nymphs.”

She straightened herself, immediately.

“So no more stage fright now?” I asked, and was relieved when Darya nodded.

I watched her as she walked away, her spine straight, her shoulders back, her head held high. Herr Gilferding’s tutoring had made all her movements languid and poised. A remarkable teacher, I thought. No wonder Catherine had been so eager to keep him at the Winter Palace. She would be pleased to learn he began talking about finding a house in St. Petersburg. Only to rent, his valet reported, but with an option to buy.

I am still not sure how Bestuzhev managed to get into my parlor.

Later, Masha assured me that she hadn’t heard anything. The servants swore on the Holy Icon they had not seen him come in, let alone accepted a bribe for defying my orders, but I didn’t believe them. It isn’t difficult to soften a footman’s or a maid’s resolve. I had done it many times myself.

The former Chancellor could barely stand up on his own. His breath reeked of vodka. His puffed eyes were glassy.

“You have not responded to my requests, Countess Malikina,” he slurred. “Did you ask the Empress to see me?”

I said I had many requests to consider.

“I remember you being far more willing to please me once.”

For a moment I thought I had misheard him. Then I saw by the smirk on his lips that I had not.

Blood drained from my face. “Get out of here,” I managed to hiss, reaching for the bell to ring for my footman.

But Bestuzhev was faster.

“Why are you so stubborn?” he asked coldly. “Because you are so sure she needs you? An old friend she has always trusted? You still don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?” I stared at his sweaty red face, hating my curiosity, unable to stop myself from asking the question the Old Fox so clearly wished me to ask.

“That you were never her only tongue, Varvara. Even then, in Elizabeth’s bedroom, there were others.” He tapped at his own temple as if prompting me to think harder. “Many others. I often wondered when you’d find out, but you never did.”

I felt my knees buckle. A tremor shot up my spine. “Leave before I throw you out,” I said, ringing the bell.

“You did her bidding then as you do now, nothing more. You were commonplace, Varvara. Another disposable spy. The only difference with you was that you believed you were
special
.”

He blinked and turned away from me.

What is taking that damned footman so long?
I raged.

But the former Chancellor was already opening the door, making the man jump with fright.

After he left, I sat alone. When Masha came in, asking if I needed anything, I sent her away.

I soothed myself with the memory of Catherine’s dismissive words as she set aside yet another of Bestuzhev’s elaborate plans for reforms. The previous batch had concerned foreign policy, which annoyed Panin. The current one proposed reforming the army, and made Grigory Orlov sneer.

This is who he is, I reminded myself. A has-been. A loser who cannot bear his own defeat. Trying to poison the well he can no longer draw water from.

I closed my eyes and waited until my heart stopped racing.

The court performance of
Acis and Galatea
was scheduled for the end of May. At the end of April, Catherine showed me the design for the invitations, which were to include a list of the cast members.

I hurried to our rooms to tell Darya the news, but she didn’t come when I called her, so I looked for Masha. I found her in the pantry where she stored our supplies, despairing, for mice had gotten there already. The sack of flour was chewed through, and mouse droppings were everywhere.

“Where is Darya?” I asked her.

“Asleep,” she said.

“In the middle of the day? Is she ill?”

Masha wasn’t sure. Darya had gone to the bedroom, she insisted, saying only that she wanted to rest for a bit.

“How long has she been there?”

“Ever since the cannon,” Masha said, meaning the noon blast from the Petropavlovsky Fortress. “As soon as the teacher went away. Our
kison’ka
is tired from all this dancing.”

“She has slept long enough,” I said, walking toward the bedroom. I pressed down the door handle, but the door did not give in. It was locked.

“Darya,” I called. “It’s Maman. Open up.”

I tapped gently at the door, then more firmly, for there was no answer.

“Darenka! Are you awake?”

There was no reply.

My heartbeat quickened.

I placed my ear to the door, but I couldn’t hear anything. Then I banged on it.

It was Masha who stooped and put her good eye to the keyhole.

“She is not there,” she reported.

I, too, peeked through the keyhole. In the light that came through opened curtains, I saw an empty bed.

For a dreadful moment, I thought she had fainted and rolled off the bed and was lying there unconscious.

I rattled the door handle.

Again, nothing.

In the next few moments the maids came running. Darya’s shawl was gone, they told me. So were her walking shoes, her hooded traveling coat. Finally, Masha found the bedroom key, left in the calling-cards tray.

I grabbed it, rushed to the bedroom, and unlocked the door.

Inside, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The bed had been carefully smoothed. Darya’s slippers were lined up by the footstool. Then I noticed that my old cedar trunk was opened. She must have searched for something there, for my mother’s white muslin dress had been pushed aside.

And then I saw it. Egor’s letters untied, a red ribbon cast aside. “
I still talk to Papa
.…” I recalled my daughter’s words, her pale face drawn and shriveled with sadness.

I guessed where she might be.

I sent the maid to get the carriage. I ordered the driver to take me to St. Lazarus Cemetery.

“Hurry,” I urged the coachman.

As the carriage sped eastward, past the Fontanka River, my eyes followed any girlish figure rushing through the streets. I thought of the time when Darya came to me to tell me how she didn’t want to dance in the court ballet. I remembered how I’d made her change her mind.

When the carriage stopped at St. Lazarus’s gate, I alighted, picked up my skirts, and ran down the gravel-lined paths. I ran awkwardly, in my silly heeled shoes, in my full court dress. I ran until I saw my daughter, a huddled figure at the foot of her father’s grave, her face hidden in her hands. On Count Orlov’s orders, my husband’s plain headstone had been replaced by a monument of marble: an imposing figure of a soldier leaning on a musket, skull and bones under his feet. His face, smoothly handsome, bore no resemblance to Egor.

“Darenka,” I called.

She raised her face, her face wet with tears, toward me.

I mumbled my relief, my accusations. Everyone had been so worried. We’d looked for her everywhere. Masha was beside herself.

“Don’t be angry, Maman,” Darya said.

“I’m not angry,” I said.

I took her in my arms and caressed her shiny black hair. No court honor, I thought, merited my child’s pain.

“You don’t want to dance in the ballet?” I asked, ready to admit my error. “You don’t have to,
kison’ka
. We will tell the Empress tomorrow to find someone else to dance your part.”

But Darya was sobbing, not at all appeased by my words.

“What is it, my love?” I asked.

Please tell me
, I thought.
Please do not hide from me
. I embraced her, thinking how quickly her chest, once so flat and narrow, was taking on flesh.

“It’s all my fault,” she wept.

I pried it out of her, bit by bit.

At first she had noticed small things. Catherine’s glances had made her uneasy, though she didn’t know why. Maybe it was because of that silly thing Paul had said, that when he got to be the Emperor he would make Darya Queen of Poland. She’d even told Catherine that the Grand Duke was just saying such silly things, but he didn’t mean them. And the Empress said she knew that and that she was not cross at all.

Then the Empress started coming by every day to watch the ballet practice. She applauded and praised both Darya and Paul, and my daughter was deliriously happy. But one day, when the practice ended, Catherine called her aside and started to ask questions. Did she like the ballet they were practicing? Was Herr Gilferding truly happy with the Grand Duke’s progress, or did he say so only to her? Would Paul be ready for the big night?

Herr Gilferding thought that the Grand Duke was dancing very well, Darya assured the Empress. She also confessed that while she liked the story of Acis and Galatea, a nymph in love with a shepherd, she didn’t like the way it all ended.

“What don’t you like about it?” Catherine asked her.

“That the shepherd must die,” my daughter replied.

The Empress nodded and told Darya that she had a kind heart. But then the Grand Duke got impatient and began calling her, so Darya had run to join the other dancers.

The Empress came back the next day, and the next, and she always asked Darya something. Odd questions: Did she have her own bed, or did she sleep with me? Did she wake up at night? Was she allowed to stay up, and how long? Finally, Catherine asked, “Does anyone come to visit your Maman at night?”

My daughter answered that she went to sleep early and slept soundly, so she wouldn’t know. She didn’t even hear when I rose before dawn, as I always did.

“So you never heard anything?” the Empress asked. “Ever?”

This is when Darya remembered the ice cream she never got, and so she told Catherine of Uncle Grigory coming with a bowl of ice cream for her in the middle of the night. Of Masha having to throw it away because it all melted. Of the beautiful presents she got from Uncle Grigory the next day.

The Empress asked her many more questions then. How did Count Orlov look? What was he wearing? What did he say? What kind of presents did he send? And why didn’t she ever know about it?

Because Maman asked me not to tell anyone about them, Darya had answered, only then remembering the promise she had given me.

She must have looked worried and unhappy, for the Empress assured her that it didn’t matter. Then she gave her the pendant and told her not to tell anyone about their little talk. It would be their secret, she said.

So Darya had promised. She’d felt awful when she had to lie to me about why she got the pendant. And then Uncle Grigory started looking at her in a strange way, so he must know as well and must be angry with her, too.

“And today I found this,” my daughter sobbed, pulling something from her coat pocket. A slip of paper, folded in half. I thought she had taken one of Egor’s letters from my trunk and wanted to return it, but I was wrong. It was a crude drawing of two figures. A big fleshy man, his face distorted with a cruel smile, was stretched naked on a bed, reaching for the imperial crown with a two-headed eagle. A woman, with her nose torn off, was climbing into his bed.

“It means nothing,” I assured her, tearing the paper to pieces. Somehow I managed to keep my voice even.

She had found the drawing under my pillow, Darya confessed. She’d thought I had left her a secret message, like the ones Papa used to hide for her when she was little, to lead her to a surprise.

“I’m not angry with you,” I said, wiping tears off Darya’s cheeks.

I promised I would talk to the Empress.

I promised that all would be well.

When we returned to the Winter Palace, I questioned Masha and the maids if anyone had been to my bedroom that day. They all swore I had no callers. The day before, the Grand Duke’s footman had come to fetch Darya for her ballet practice, but the man was made to wait in the corridor and never crossed our threshold.

I sent them away.

It’s a nasty feeling, suspicion. The curse of all spies. The long minutes spent examining the seals on the letters I received. The voice that questions every cheerful smile, flares up at the first display of curiosity. Watches for the unusual and doubts what is routine.

What was the chambermaid doing in my room alone? Why this sudden flow of eagerness to scrape the grate of the fireplace?