The Tsarina's Legacy (36 page)

Veronica's shoulders tensed. “Because I'm American? Because I support Reb?”

Irina looked her up and down. “No.”

“I don't ‘look' Russian enough for you?”

“Oh, of course. The backward Russians must all be racists,” Irina said sarcastically. “No, we had a much deeper concern. Not only me. Dmitry as well.”

Veronica drew in a sharp breath.

“We worried about you because you're not a mother. Both Dmitry and I wondered if Russians would ever truly accept a woman who wasn't a mother. After all, you would be a mother to the people. Their
matushka
.”

Veronica focused on the wall behind Irina, at the portraits of Catherine and Potemkin, but the words hit their mark and wounded a tender spot in her heart, all the more painful because deep down she believed them to be true.

“I see how you look at that picture of Catherine, as though somehow she will give you inspiration. But remember she was a mother. You're not.”

The dry aching sensation, the hopeless longing, seized Veronica's heart, the same pain she felt when she saw small children. It was a part of life that had passed her by; her miscarriage had brought that chapter of her own story to a close. She tried to accept it gracefully, but the ache was still palpable, throbbing, worse than ever.

Her voice sounded small to her own ears. “I have a right to be here. I belong here.”

“You have been away from this country too long. I know you probably have some perverted Western feminist notions and think it is fine to choose not to have children. But Russians are traditional. They are true to the church and to the natural order. Russians will wonder if you are a real woman. How can they trust someone who isn't real?”

Stumbling away from Irina, Veronica tried to engage her brain, to remember that she said this only to hurt her. But the words were too powerful to ignore.

“I think your entire life, you've made a mess of things,” Irina said. “That's my sense of you now. I will pray for you.”

Veronica looked away, hating Irina and her version of God. “Please don't.”

“I should have known. A blasphemer as well, just like your precious Reb Volkov. You're not an Orthodox Christian. But I thought you had a love for this country. For Russian ways. For the Russian soul. I know better now. You shouldn't have come here. We should make other plans and have someone else in line as our honorary tsar.”

And what if Veronica hadn't come? She would still be back in Bakersfield, no children, no career, and no prospects. Likely still keeping Michael at arm's length. This was where she was meant to be and now it would all be taken away. “So you have some alternate person in mind?” The words felt broken as they came out of her mouth, dulled by pain.

“Perhaps Sasha can be traced to the Romanovs. I believe he has a more pragmatic view of these matters.”

Veronica doubted Sasha's Yusupov bloodline gave him any claim to the throne whatsoever. She also doubted, given how excited the paparazzi had been to follow her, anyone would care if his claim was legitimate. He would smile and look tall and rugged and masculine and date glamorous women. That would be enough for the papers to start calling him the second coming of Peter the Great.

Irina checked her phone. “Consider everything I said. I have a donor meeting this evening. Let me know by morning. I'll make all of the necessary arrangements and ensure your Mikhail is released safely. And I can get you a flight back to America quickly. I think now that I was wrong about you moving to St. Petersburg. You will be happiest back in California.”

Veronica felt like she had to say the words, even though she knew the answer. “And if I don't agree?”

Irina looked up at Veronica once more, gaze steady.

“Then I can't promise what will happen to your friend Mikhail,” Irina said. “But I know Russian prisons can be dangerous places.”

*   *   *

After Irina left, Veronica stumbled back into the leather chair, staring blankly at the itinerary. Her last day in Russia was to have been spent touring landmarks and visiting different bars around the city, trying to convince the owners to participate in the boycott. But of course Dmitry hadn't added that to the official itinerary. Veronica remembered what Irina had just told her, that Dmitry had doubts about her because she wasn't a mother, and then she rubbed the sides of her head until her skin chafed. For all she knew Irina was lying about that, just trying to get deeper under her skin. And Veronica was letting her do it.

She forced her hands back down on the desk and then gazed once more at the portraits of Catherine and Potemkin, their clever eyes and steady gazes. Well, perhaps Prince Potemkin's gaze wasn't particularly steady. You could tell he had commissioned the portrait to be drawn as a three-quarters profile, his bad eye hidden. And narrow cracks split the oil around the corners of the painting. Still, he looked formidable.

Veronica wanted to forget everything, even her reasons for coming here and wanting more out of life in the first place. She wanted to retreat to her hotel room, hide under a blanket, and cover her eyes, the way she used to when she was a child, thinking that if she couldn't see anyone perhaps no one could see her either.

Instead, she stared at Prince Potemkin. As she looked at his portrait, it occurred to her that he had no children, no direct descendants. Dmitry was related to him through one of his nieces, and Sasha was an even more distant relation than that.

Veronica rose to her feet, still eying Potemkin, her heart beating fiercely now. For all she knew, he felt the same way she did about not having children. Perhaps he had regrets. But she bet no one had ever told the prince he couldn't lead because he didn't have children, or that somehow other Russians wouldn't find him “real” enough.

Still standing, Veronica flipped to the back of the binder and withdrew the letter she'd tucked away there earlier. In her previous academic life, she never would have handled such a delicate document with bare hands. She would have used latex gloves and the long tweezers archives provided to turn pages. Fortunately, she was no longer an academic, and she needed to know what Grigory Potemkin, Dmitry's Grisha, had told Catherine. She needed to know right now.

His handwriting in the first two paragraphs was shaky and she struggled to read and translate. But his hand seemed to have steadied somewhat as he finished the letter.

Matushka,

I can't believe we are separated this one final time, especially when I feel the end is so near. I want to be near to hold your little hand and help you with the hundreds of small tasks that occupy your day. But this time, darling wife, even from afar, I must ask you to grant me one last favor to make our legacy to this great empire complete.

We spoke of empire and expansion and absorbing the continent into an enlightened and prosperous whole. I know my project to build the mosque may seem a minor part of this grand vision, but think of the implications. We are rulers who do not need to impose their wills on the people of this land. You, the empress of the greatest land on earth, do not need to rule with an iron fist, but can merely lead by gentle and intelligent example.

I believe you were put on this earth to do just that.

Forgive me for our petty squabbles and shouting matches. Forgive me for my arrogance and all the times I let my ego stand in the way of true communion with you. Forgive my anxieties. Know that I love you for both your beguiling womanhood and your holy destiny as our tsarina. I feel my end drawing near. I know whatever happens, your legacy for this world is greatness and compassion. I wish you were here with me at the end, but I take comfort in the memory of your small hand in mine and the certainty that you will soldier on, as you always do, and many will have been blessed and enriched by your courage and your destiny. You may be the greatest woman who has ever walked this earth. I was honored to even have been near you, let alone allowed to treasure and love you and aid in your mission. I love you.

Your devoted husband as ever,

G

Below that, Potemkin had added curving arabesques, elegant Arabic figures scrawled along the bottom of the page. Veronica didn't believe they were actual letters. They looked more like symbols, a secret code between Potemkin and Catherine.

Veronica stared at the letter, so precarious in her hand. If she had tugged too hard when she pulled it from its hiding place in the frame, the paper would have crumpled to dust between her fingers. She wished she could break the code at the bottom of the page, draw some wisdom from it. Potemkin must have had something monumental to say to Catherine to bother with a code at all. How fragile the message and how many circumstances could have prevented her from receiving it. And yet, this simple letter from Grisha Potemkin, his final letter from the sound of it, had made it into Veronica's hands.

Veronica's academic impulse lingered still. She always liked to play the “what if” game, guessing how figures from history might respond to present-day problems. It was an exercise her colleagues found pointless. Academic history had become the realm of data and statistics and cold analysis. Their loss. History was a connection to the past, spiritual and transcendent. She was connected to a country that prized those two traits, whose Orthodox Christian religion was built on them. And yet the religion had been twisted into a hard political doctrine and the result was hate.

Veronica reread the letter and carefully returned it to the plastic sheeting in her binder.

She picked up her phone and texted Dmitry.

*   *   *

Veronica huddled over the heavy desk with Dmitry and Anya. She had opened the curtains wider and thin moonlight and street lamps cut through the haze outside. Dmitry and Anya both remained stoic, their mouths set in grim lines. Anya's floral
hijab
was slightly askew, and shadows fanned in half circles beneath Dmitry's eyes.

“How is Reb?” Veronica asked.

“He has had death threats before.” Dmitry picked up one of the little jade frogs on the desk. His fingers trembled, but he kept his voice steady. “So, unfortunately, he is used to such a tense situation. He will be fine for now, but he is anxious. He is scheduled for transport to Siberia day after tomorrow.” Dmitry looked over his shoulder, at the portraits of Catherine and Potemkin, and then back at Veronica. “So you said Grisha now inspires you? Because of this letter. I don't understand. Tell us how this is so?”

“I feel as though I was meant to find this letter. I felt hopeless and then it inspired me.” Veronica explained the situation, what she had overheard. She told them Irina was responsible for Michael's arrest, that she had planted pamphlets in his pocket. It was how she intended to manipulate Veronica.

“She wants you to relinquish your claim?” Dmitry said slowly.

“Right,” Veronica said. “It caught me off guard. I knew she supported restoration of property to noble families. But I never realized how strongly she saw my involvement with Reb's case as an impediment to this. She's a true believer. She honestly thinks my viewpoint is anti-Russian, that I'm an interloper.”

“Does she think the same of me?” Anya said, adjusting her
hijab
. “Or Dmitry?”

“I might be a meddling American, but I think she sees us all as traitors.”

At that, Dmitry cringed.

“Irina always had strong opinions,” he said in Russian, pensive, catching Anya's gaze. “I thought ultimately she was the best means to get someone like Dr. Herrera in a position to change things. I should have known better. I am sorry.”

“If I have to relinquish my title to get Michael out of that hell, I'll do it,” Veronica said.

“I only ask that you consider the ramifications,” Dmitry said quickly. “You said she wants you to step down, but what will that mean for Reb? I do not think Grisha would approve of anyone forfeiting so easily. He would want you to fight.”

“She still wants a ceremonial tsar. She even has a replacement in mind. She thinks Sasha should take my place.”

Anya gnawed on her lip and said, “You think this is a good idea?”

“Not exactly,” Veronica replied. “I think someone should take my place. But I have someone different in mind.” She rapped on the desk with her knuckles and looked once more at the letter, at the scrawl of Grisha Potemkin's handwriting, and then at the portrait of him on the back wall. The cracks in the oil gleamed in the moonlight. “I will ask Sasha to take my place. But only temporarily. Only long enough for Irina to think I've caved.”

“Why would he do that?” Anya cut in.

“I don't think he feels the same way Irina does. And I don't think he's as desperate for money or his rightful title or whatever it is Irina thinks. I've asked him to come here to talk it out.”

“And then who will take your place?” Dmitry asked.

Veronica straightened her back, tried once more to project a regal air. “My father. Laurent Marchand. He's in St. Petersburg. My
abuela
told me. He wants to see me.”

“What?” Dmitry cried. “He has never taken an interest in us before.”

“He's tried to contact me. Michael was looking into it before…” She felt a catch in her throat. “Well, before what happened. My grandmother gave me his number. We've agreed to meet. I think he will help us.”

“Nika…” Dmitry leaned forward on the desk, hands flat, holding her gaze. “I understand how difficult this is for you.”

Veronica didn't want to hear any platitudes. Not even from Dmitry. “You can't possibly understand what it was like to see Michael in that jail cell.”

“Of course I can,” he said firmly. “I am thinking about what will happen to Reb.”

Veronica lowered her gaze. She hadn't meant to force that image to Dmitry's mind.