The Tsarina's Legacy (6 page)

“Most Gracious Imperial Majesty,” he said, bowing as best he could while astride, and extending the tassel.

He was nothing, a provincial boy and lowly guardsman. She was about to become empress of all the Russias. Catherine could have swept him aside with a mere brush of her hand. His commanding officer, seeing now what Grisha had done, bellowed his name across the field.

Catherine paused and Grisha thought she would call for her guards. His commander would slap his cheeks and send him to the brig.

And then she winked. His breath caught as she accepted the gold tassel and tied it to her sword. With that simple gesture, he knew she understood his burning ambition and saw it as not a threat but a mirror of her own desires.

“Thank you, soldier.” She spoke in Russian, but her German accent made the words oddly charming. “I shall remember this kindness.”

Later, Grisha fell asleep with the lilting sound of her voice singing in his head.

Grisha loosened his breeches to breathe more freely and reached into a side pocket to retrieve a collection of tiny rubies and diamonds to massage between his fingers. Such nonsense could occupy a man's time at twenty-two. Nearly thirty years had passed since that fateful night. By now, he should have known better.

So why did his heart still jump in his chest at the thought of seeing her?

A guard stepped out of the empress's study. He wore a long blue coat and a silver helmet adorned with a quivering ostrich feather. His bulging eyes and weak chin looked Hapsburg. Grisha frowned, wondering who had brought him to court. Ambitious diplomats were always placing spies near Catherine's inner circle.

“She'll see you now,” the guard said, “but take care to mind her schedule. She is a busy woman.”

Grisha transferred one of the little sparkling rubies from hand to hand, recalling a time when a guard would never dare speak to him in such a manner. Perhaps this was another case of Zubov's thorny influence. “And here I thought she had time for a trick of whist.”

“No, Your Highness. I've taken the liberty of calling for your valet to return at once.”

Grisha had sent Anton to the kitchen to fetch refreshments for the ride home. He'd hoped Anton might bond with some of the other boys or perhaps even sweet-talk a girl into divulging a palace secret or two. “He's running an errand for me.”

“I'm sure your boy can attend to it later. The empress is on a strict regimen today. She will see you, but she hasn't much time to spare.”

Grisha opened his hand to reveal the jewels: a few tiny rubies and emeralds, but mostly diamonds. He swirled them in his hand and the weak sunlight sent their reflections bouncing off the palace walls like a thousand stars. The guard regarded the reflections with disdain.

“Pity. I'd hoped the empress might indulge me. Must you fetch Anton? I'm feeling peckish. I'd hoped he'd gather some radishes for me.”

“As I said, the empress does not have time to play cards or for idle chat today,” the guard insisted. “That's why I've sent for your boy.”

“That's why,” Grisha said. “Of course. Not because Platon Zubov doesn't care for my servants having run of the palace, listening in at doors and what have you.”

The guard pressed his misshapen lips together.

“Never mind,” Grisha said. “I'm sure you have enough on your hands trying to keep that boy Zubov happy. I only hope I don't slip on monkey feces inside the empress's study.” He stepped past, jostling the guard as he made his way through the door.

Inside Catherine's study, Grisha found no monkeys. Zubov's influence had not extended so far yet. Light from crystal chandeliers reflected on the pale blue walls and the room was filled with the warm aroma of strong Turkish coffee. A sleek pair of greyhounds nestled at Catherine's feet and a fat Persian cat dozed on the mantel of the hearth.

He recognized the older of the two greyhounds as one of the canine Thomassin family, a son or grandson perhaps of Catherine's departed Sir Tom Anderson. This Thomassin lifted his head, half-blind now; he and Grisha had that in common. But the dog recognized his old friend's scent and rose to his feet on unsteady legs. He ambled to Grisha, who bent down to stroke his smooth head.

Now that Grisha had been admitted inside, he was reluctant to look at Catherine. He might find himself completely under her power, as he had been when he first handed her the sword knot. He slipped the jewels back into his pocket, gave the dog's head one last pat, and willed himself to face his sovereign.

Catherine sat at her amber-colored
secretaire
, bent over her correspondence, frowning and scribbling. The lines on her face had grown more pronounced. But then again his own face had grown more worn over the years as well. He thought it added character. Her complexion still glowed and her eyes were vibrant as ever.

Grisha dropped to his knees, ignoring the agony of his sore joints.

“I've only just now read the reports from the south, from your Black Sea Fleet.” Catherine paused to take a sip of coffee. She wore a
sarafan
in the old Muscovite style, and the wide sleeves nearly knocked over one of the tiny jade frogs she'd assembled in a corner of the desk. Despite her plump figure and white mane of hair, Catherine still exuded a powerful energy. “I do believe Peter the Great himself would have been proud.”

He remained on his knees. She hadn't bothered to arrange and powder a wig for this occasion, nor had she applied any rouge. At one time, this neglect would merely have signaled their intimacy. Now he feared she simply didn't care. Grisha didn't expect her to run into his arms. He hadn't expected to scoop her up and take her squealing into the bedroom. But he craved more than this, some echo of their former passion. Perhaps the chemistry would never again be perfect between them. Much as he might try, that first moment when their eyes met could never be replicated. It stood alone and pristine in time.

She began to twirl the feathered quill between her fingers. “When I see the reports, I understand why they call you emperor of the south.”

Grisha's pulse quickened. Did she still fear for her hold on power? Surely she did not think he would play the part of a usurper? And yet her new favorite, Zubov, might whisper such nonsense in her ear and then turn her chin so she gazed on his pretty face. Who knew what she might believe then.

“I suppose you were always meant to be a ruler, not a mere prince,” she mused.

“If you feel the title of emperor is unwarranted, even in jest,” he said carefully, “I will ensure it is not repeated.”

She put her pen down, finally looking at him. “Rise to your feet, Prince. It has been too long. I am glad you have returned.”

Grisha worked his way upright, pain shooting down the backs of his thighs.

“You look handsome as ever. Hair still the envy of all Europe,” she said, smiling.

Grisha touched his unruly mane. He'd powdered it but eschewed a wig, and instead had pulled his own hair back into a ponytail. “Best I could manage on short notice.”

“And I understand you have a ward now. You are training him to be a valet.”

“He is not my legal ward, but I keep him at my side. He's a sharp boy.”

“You know I always encourage the cultivation of young minds.” She tapped her finger on a weathered volume of
Candide
. “I should like him to have this.”

“He will appreciate your kindness,
matushka
.”

“I appreciate your sweet words, but what actually brings you here now, old friend?”

They were old friends, of course, but once they had been so much more. The phrase made him ache, and he wondered if he had come to the point in life where he would rather live with his memories alone. Still, he didn't mince words. Catherine never cared for that. “Platon Alexandrovich.”

She sighed. He wished he could have detected annoyance, but it was more the sigh of a smitten schoolgirl feigning disinterest. “Is it his monkey? Did the creature steal one of your wigs? If so, how much do I owe you?”

“You've given Zubov dominion over my new project.”

“A man needs dominion over something. Otherwise he is no man.”

“I'd rather his dominion stand apart from my interests.”

Catherine placed her hands gently on Grisha's shoulders. He no longer saw the light of lust in her eyes, only concern tinged with pity. He bristled.

The corners of her mouth turned down and she backed away from him. She had misinterpreted his reaction. He closed the space between them once more.

“Zubov is still a young man,” she said, voice cracking as Grisha drew nearer. “Allow him to find his path. Be patient. Guide him gently, like a father. For me.”

He had tried to act as a father figure, as he had with all of her previous favorites. But Platon Alexandrovich wanted more than her favor. He desired influence.

She couldn't see Zubov clearly any more than he could think straight with some nubile lovely whispering in his ear. Men and women both needed to feel vibrant and alive, especially as they aged. The philosophes so treasured by Catherine, even her darling Voltaire, might insist the sexes were different in this respect, but Grisha had never found it so. And he had to remind her of his ability to make her feel thus.

He leaned in to kiss her soft hand and allowed his lips to linger, sensing a shallow spasm in her fingers. Her body still responded to his, even if her heart had been carried elsewhere. “I've missed you, wife.”

She pulled her hand away and returned to her desk. The cat on the mantel of the hearth stretched lazily and then opened her eyes, perturbed at the disruption.

“I am grateful you have finally returned to the capital, little dove,” she said, gazing up at Grisha. “Only I expect you to be useful rather than creating trouble where none previously existed.” She tilted her head. “And much as I enjoyed your sweet words, I wonder if your love note wasn't disingenuous. Who is this one girl I hear of? Praskovia, is it?” A hint of jealousy sullied her tone. “They say you promoted her husband in the field not based on his talents but so she might be closer to you.”

Grisha remained silent. He saw little point in denying his pursuit. Praskovia was but the latest of many, and Catherine had always maintained a high tolerance for games of the heart.

“Perhaps I could try again with Zubov,” he said. “I want only what is best for your glory and that of the empire. I will tolerate nothing that stands in the way.”

Catherine smiled. “No doubt, old friend.” She returned to her letters. “I've never questioned your interests. They have always been with Russia. But much as I trust your wisdom when it comes to negotiating terms with our blood enemies, I'm not convinced encouraging the Muslim faith is the best use of our limited means. Not when we have more important matters at hand.”

“You have constructed mosques before.”

“Never on such a scale.”

“This project will soothe bruised egos,
matushka
.”

“You have been away for nearly two years. I fear you may not understand Platon's objections to the project because you do not grasp our current affairs.”

“I do not understand because it makes no sense,” he said, pushing down a bubble of anger in his chest. “You have always extended goodwill to all subjects, regardless of their faith.”

Her voice rose to meet his. “We need to turn our attention outward. The Prussians and the English want us away from the Black Sea region all together. Ochakov back in Turkish hands? How can you of all people bear to give up such a prize?”

A prize. Zubov's words. How could Catherine ever refer to Ochakov in such a callous way? “Mollify Prussia. Let me talk to the English ambassador. You know I've always had a fondness for the people of that little island. I'm sure they're simply in a sour mood over losing their American colonies to a team of crafty republicans.”

“What if you're wrong?”

“The English are like vain children, only interested in this ‘prize' because it belongs to someone else. Children are to be flattered and outmaneuvered. You don't go to war with them.”

Her cheeks flared. “Don't lecture me like a pompous old schoolmaster. I have entrusted you with the care of our new world. Is that not enough for you? You must return to tell me how to run my affairs with the European powers as well? That is my dominion.”

“Your dominion or that of your new toy, Platon Alexandrovich?”

“You're acting like a jealous old fool.”

Grisha's hands balled into fists. He remembered what Anton had told him of Zubov's connections: his old enemy Saltykov and Catherine's insipid son Paul. He could have sent her running to her boudoir in tears with that choice tidbit. But he could not bear the thought of hurting her. “Zubov and his ilk are trying to goad you into a needless war.”

“Do not condescend to me like I'm one of your silly waifs. Remember what the founder of this city, Peter the Great, used to say: delay is death.”

“In this case, to delay is simply good common sense. Zubov has gotten to you. That or your damn pride.”

“Voltaire says women are the more jealous gender, but I never believed him. You're envious of a younger man. It's not like you. You refuse to acknowledge Platon's talents, and now you seek to degrade my authority.”

“I'm trying to stop madness. Our military forces are spread thin. What if the Prussians take a notion to march on St. Petersburg? Do you want an old Germanic toad on your throne?”

“Stop yelling, Prince.”

“Damn it, woman, I'll yell as loud as I please until you listen to common sense!”

She rose to her feet. “Prince Potemkin, stop shouting and turn around.”

The command in her voice cut through his anger, and he turned. Anton stood at the door, hat in hand, the guardsman with the Hapsburg chin sulking behind him.