The Tsarina's Legacy (10 page)

A young lady in a finely spun silver wig caught his eye. Her delicate fingers caressed an open locket with Grisha's portrait hanging from a copper chain. He'd heard such items were in fashion among the women of the service nobility and merchant classes, to celebrate Grisha's military successes. The young woman looked him over with a sly smile. Grisha was not delusional enough to suppose his oversized self cut a particularly appealing figure to women these days. Still, he liked to think he'd earned a fine enough reputation to attract one or two. He returned the smile as subtly as possible. No need to give Zubov any reason to start wagging his tongue.

Grisha had no wish to join the clan of older courtiers, with their empty gossip and jests they all deemed so funny in one another's company. Success bred jealousy and jealousy bred contempt. He made his bows and then found a spot toward the end of the table, across from the woman with a far more youthful version of his face on her chain. As he took a seat, he gestured toward the trinket. “Handsome chap.”

The young lady chattered about her father's service and his admiration of Grisha's military and diplomatic prowess while Grisha took a sip of sparkling wine from a crystal flute. A few of the other latecomers scribbled their preferences on slates, while already an array of delights was being rolled to the table on large platters tiered on portable shelves.

Catherine sat at the head of the table in traditional Russian dress, a loose-fitting vermilion gown with deeply cut sleeves and ermine trim. He watched her laugh along with a burly and aged ambassador who was no doubt relating some humorous vulgarity or another. She dipped a chunk of bread into a steaming beef broth. The movement was so familiar, so delicate and perfect, that for a moment, Grisha forgot himself, overcome with fondness.

Catherine smiled and laughed, but devoted more energy to the roasted pheasant sprawled across her Sèvres plate than to catching the eyes of those around her. Grisha took in the other delicacies before them on glittering golden platters: English mutton and game hen, French duck in orange sauce, and puffy cream pastries from Vienna. He thought of the wild mushrooms and strawberries he'd known as a boy. He wondered why he and his countrymen now considered the European forever superior to the homegrown.

Zubov, in his usual ridiculous velvet frock coat, had been seated away from the empress and pouted like a neglected puppy. The boy noticed Grisha and raised his voice over the vapid conversations and the chirping monkey on his shoulder. “Prince Potemkin! I thought a supper held at this late an hour would find you at home abed.”

Even as the laughter swelled around him, the jest rang false, as though Zubov had hired some professional wit to pen it for him. Grisha seldom retired before dawn. Still, the melancholia began its descent. If it settled in his soul, it would become a parasite intent on devouring him from the inside.

But he had learned to disguise his own distress well enough. Grisha arched his eyebrows and turned his gaze to the rules of polite behavior Catherine had posted to the cream-colored wall. Her Little Hermitage was meant to be a place of affection: a noble goal, if unrealistic. “How kind of you to tolerate me despite my advanced years, Platon Alexandrovich.”

Catherine hadn't joined in the laughter. Despite a profusion of rouge, shadows hovered under her eyes. She had always been abed by ten, even in her younger years. The empress forced herself to remain up late for Zubov's sake, but keeping pace with her young lover had taken a toll. Age had caught up with her, as it often did for mere mortals.

“Prince!” she said, squinting in his direction, her weak eyes getting the better of her.

Grisha stood, dipping into a bow, as deep as his knees and back would allow.

“Not in here.” She touched a linen napkin to her lips. “This is but an informal supper.”

“Even so, I recognize how fortunate I am to have the great pleasure to dine with Your Majesty and your current favorite.”

The term “favorite” had long since lost its sting, but Grisha took care to emphasize the word “current.” He doubted his meaning was lost on anyone. Zubov's pretty lips wrinkled.

Catherine picked up the gold-enameled base of her fan and twirled it. “It has been too long since we dined together. I wish us to remain family and rise above our petty squabbles.”

The laughter began to die and the last vestiges of it had a nervous ring. Perhaps the courtiers fretted over the empress's changeable moods and the affection she might reserve for her old adviser and lover. Perhaps Catherine had finally grown bored of Zubov.

The quartet struck up a new tune, the overture from Herr Mozart's latest,
Così
fan tutte
.

The title made him smile.
Women are like that
, he translated silently. He began to hum, hoping to retain her attention.

Catherine touched her white hair, which was immaculately dressed, and beckoned him with a tilt of her chin. Grisha felt a wave inside, a sudden rush of energy. He strode to her side, light on his feet despite his girth.

“Ah! How you used to make me laugh,” Catherine said. “How I miss it.” She turned to the ambassador seated next to her. “Our prince is a fine impersonator.” Catherine turned again to Grisha. “Make me laugh. Please.”

“You seem to be enjoying yourself as it is, Your Majesty.”

“Come. Pretend I'm someone important and you must do as I command.” She caught the fan in her hand and opened it, fluttering the silk gauze as the ambassador attempted to conceal his boredom.

Grisha repeated the first impersonation he had ever performed for her. “Someone important?
L'etat c'est moi.
The state demands amusement.” He raised his voice to a higher pitch and hit the words with a distinctive German accent to mark his target not as a native speaker but merely an apt learner. “Make me laugh, Grisha. Say something funny, my kitten.”

He heard a sputtering from the lips forced shut around him. He dared not draw his gaze away from Catherine's face. But her laughter came easily enough. And then there was laughter all around and a hard slap on his back from the ambassador.

“Exactly so,” Catherine kept saying. But there was no special warmth to her tone, only the formal admiration she might express for any amusing acquaintance. “I treasure you as a friend, Prince. With such wicked wit, I would hate to have you as an enemy.”

Never an enemy.
He forced himself to concentrate on the clink of silver on porcelain and the obnoxious slurping sound as the ambassador polished off his fish soup.

“Yes, quite amusing.” Zubov draped an arm over the back of his chair. “Now that you honor us with your presence, do you plan to regale us with tales of this Mohammedan monstrosity?”

“If you're so eager to be apprised of my work, we should arrange for an evening of whist and chatter. Perhaps my secretary might contact yours,” Grisha added, knowing Zubov had no secretary.

Zubov reddened and Grisha heard a few low chuckles, momentarily drowning out the rapid notes of
Così
fan tutti
.

But the boy recovered quickly enough. “Why wait? We all want to hear of your newfound desire to defile Catherine's Christian empire. Or is it even Catherine's land anymore? Are you not emperor of the south?”

The laughter stopped. Grisha still heard crunching and slurping as some of the older courtiers focused on their meals rather than the unfolding political game.

Grisha bowed again, not as deeply. “As I've told Her Imperial Majesty, that title is nonsense and I've asked its use be stopped even in jest. Empress Catherine is still in charge here, is she not?”

“Of course,” Zubov sputtered. “It's treason to suggest otherwise.”

Zubov's monkey emitted what sounded like a taunting bray and Zubov shooed him away. The creature retired to a corner where water and peanuts awaited him in sparkling china dishes. Once Zubov was banished, Grisha would make the monkey a pet for one of his niece's children.

“I would be happy to share the plans,” Grisha said, “if it pleases the empress.”

Grisha had staged such performances before and always she'd rewarded him with a smile and a gleam in her eye. When he held Catherine's attention, Grisha held the world. He turned to her, confident once more in his own charisma.

But she was focused on Zubov, the smooth lines of his face, his broad shoulders and biceps shown to full advantage under the velvet. Grisha knew he couldn't divert her romantic attentions easily and yet he'd hoped she would find him a more powerful distraction.

“I would like to hear Prince Potemkin's plans,” she told her favorite. “How clever of you, teasing to coax him to speak. I believe I've employed similar tactics over the years. Our two minds are as one.”

She wanted to help Zubov save face. Grisha tried to stuff the jealousy down his throat. At what point would she wake from her dream, as Titania had in Shakespeare's comedy, and see the boy for the jackass he was?

Catherine sat back in her seat and twirled the fan to the side, addressing Grisha once more. “Please speak,
giaour
.”

The word was one of Catherine's favorite endearments, a term for a non-Muslim. He had heard the phrase many times campaigning in the south, and not in the loving manner with which Catherine bestowed it now.

Grisha's waistcoat pinched his stomach and his head began to hurt. He withdrew a lavender-scented handkerchief from his pocket and patted his forehead. He'd planned to retrieve the scroll from his greatcoat and speak of the mosque. But Zubov would likely make a fuss, and then Catherine would make yet another pallid attempt to preserve the boy's reputation.

So he changed tactics. “Our long conflicts with the Turks have expanded our empire and brought us great glory and riches.”

“Yes, we all owe you,” Zubov said. “We owe you palaces and furs and jewels.”

Catherine had awarded Grisha those prizes. He imagined Saltykov on the other side of a wall, cup pressed to his ear to better eavesdrop, cringing at his protégé's misstep.

“We cannot expect to hold these lands in peace without proper development,” Grisha said. “Her Imperial Majesty has been clear on this point.”

Catherine waved a hand in vague acknowledgment.

“What drivel,” Zubov said. “How much of the imperial treasury has already been poured into these developments? Besides, weren't you the one who wanted to chase the Muslims out of Europe altogether? Take Constantinople itself back and claim the city for our holy faith?”

Grisha bit his lip hard to keep from chewing his thumbnail; it already smarted from previous abuse.

“Although you were a younger man then, I suppose,” Zubov added, regarding a small wine stain on his cravat and readjusting the ruffled linen folds so the stain wouldn't show. “With greater energy.”

“Our attentions to a mosque would help smooth our peace negotiations and mend our relations with the people of this faith, particularly were it located in Moscow.”

“I suppose it would not hurt to see your plans. It might make for lively discussion this evening.” Catherine waited. Grisha did nothing. “Well?” she said.

“Unfortunately, when the plan was presented to your charge, it was roundly dismissed.”

“Surely you are here now to fix that error.”

“I was told in no uncertain terms that the funds for such a project were not available in the imperial treasury.” Grisha drew in a deep breath, felt the pressure of his waistcoat loosen. “And he made it equally clear he was empowered to speak for you.” Grisha turned to Zubov and smiled. “Perhaps you have now styled yourself emperor of the north.”

Zubov threw a linen napkin down on his plate and rose to his feet. Catherine's cheeks flushed and Grisha's spirits rose. How he longed to see passion once more in her eyes.

“If Your Majesty feels differently,” he said, “I welcome your opinion but would prefer to speak to you directly. Platon Alexandrovich has no authority to make such decisions, pleasant though you may find his companionship in other respects.”

Grisha raised a crystal flute and tilted it in Zubov's direction before enjoying a long sip of the sweet champagne.

“Thank you, Prince,” Catherine said dryly. “I shall take your words under advisement.”

“I look forward to a more intimate conversation, Your Majesty.” Grisha returned to his seat. Though he hadn't found time to write down his order, a bowl of lobster bisque had been placed near his plate. He drew in its rich scent and gathered a spoon in hand, finding he suddenly had a great appetite.

*   *   *

After another hour, when the conversation had sufficiently dwindled to drunken blather, Grisha felt ready to have Anton call for his horses. Outside, the chill in the air had turned bracing. Grisha buttoned his fur-lined greatcoat and crunched through the layer of snow. Ice-flecked marble statuary of glaring tritons and serene Roman maidens kept watch over the courtyard. The wind whistled past his ears but didn't drown out the music and merry laughter of waltzing guests inside the palace. His horses were taking too long. He supposed other guests might have left early, eager to head home before the snowfall transformed to a full-blown storm. He'd interrupted Anton's study of
Candide
and sent him to investigate the delay.

Grisha's gloved fingers flexed in the cold. The night had gone well, all things considered, even if he had departed from supper early enough to arouse curiosity. He wondered if the pasha would appear here in the courtyard. He was more likely to pay a visit when Grisha felt ridden with guilt, but he would have enjoyed his company now.

Instead, he heard Catherine's firm voice and the crunch of her small boots following his in the snow. “That wasn't a fair trick.”

Grisha eyed the ground. If he went down at a sloppy angle he'd be sure to injure himself sliding on some hidden patch of ice. Nevertheless, he prepared to drop to his knees.