Anastasia Romanov: The Last Grand Duchess #10 (15 page)

She felt dwarfed here, a small speck of a girl in a fancy dress.

But her dress paled in comparison to the gowns the women ascending the staircase now wore. Their jewels glistened in the light, like millions of fireflies were escorting them inside.

Palm trees lined the corridor leading to the ballroom. Two different types of troopers stood at attention along the vast corridor: one kind wore all white with shiny silver helmets. The others wore bright red.

Felix and Anastasia joined Maisie and watched the people climbing the State Gala Staircase.

“How many people are coming, anyway?” Maisie finally asked.

“Three thousand,” Anastasia said simply.

“Three thousand?” Maisie blurted.

Anastasia nodded. “It's an Imperial ball, after all,” she said.

“Who are those guys in the tight fur pants?” Maisie asked.

“Hussar soldiers,” Anastasia said. “It takes two men to pull those on.”

Suddenly, a man in a black-and-gold uniform appeared. He held a walking stick like Great-Uncle Thorne used. His was black and topped with an enormous gold double-headed eagle.

The man tapped his stick three times, and everyone grew silent.

“Their Imperial Majesties!” the man announced.

Enormous doors decorated with gold opened, and all the women bent their knees and dropped their heads.

There sat Nicholas and Alexandra on giant thrones, wearing enormous jeweled crowns, like a king and queen in a fairy tale.

The orchestra began to play, and soon the guests were waltzing past Maisie, Felix, and Anastasia.

One of the Hussar soldiers asked Maisie to dance, and before she could decline, he had one hand on her waist and the other was holding hers high. He swirled her away from Felix and Anastasia.

“Is it true,” Maisie asked him, “that it takes two men to pull those pants on?”

The soldier laughed.

“Yes! It is true!” he said.

Anastasia led Felix outside to a balcony overlooking the gardens, though they were snow-covered, with high drifts and icicles.

“I wish you never had to go back to America,” Anastasia said.

In the moonlight, she looks beautiful
, Felix thought. He felt a tug of something. Something pulling him home, back to Newport and Elm Medona. But he felt the tug of something else, something pulling for him to stay. Was Alex Andropov right? Could they escape in January 1917? Or even sooner? Could he take Anastasia with him, and save her life?

“You look so serious,” Anastasia said, placing one hand on Felix's cheek.

“I was just thinking about how much I would like to stay here,” he said, his throat feeling suddenly dry.

Inside, the orchestra had stopped.

The man who had called everyone to attention was tapping his staff again.

“Oh,” Anastasia said, disappointed, “we need to go inside.”

“Why?” Felix asked, also disappointed.

“He's going to introduce the special guest from America,” she said, taking Felix's hand and leading him back inside.

Everyone was silent.

The man announced:

“Ladies and gentlemen! We present to you Mr. Phinneas Pickworth!”

Chapter Twelve

THE END

M
aisie gasped. There, right in front of her, was her great-great-grandfather, the very man who had created The Treasure Chest. If only Great-Uncle Thorne had hidden in the chest like Alexander Andropov thought to do, he would be standing face-to-face with his father right now.

Beside Tsar Nicholas and Tsarina Alexandra stood a giant of a man. Six feet six, with a shiny bald head and eyes so blue that even from this distance Maisie could make out their color. His face was craggy, as if he'd spent a lot of time at sea. Tanned and handsome, he towered over the Tsar and Tsarina.

Maisie searched the crowd for a glimpse of Felix. She needed to find her brother, to stare up at their great-great-grandfather with him.

But there were too many people for her to find him.

“Greetings, our esteemed guests,” the Tsar announced, “Phinneas Pickworth is a diplomat, an explorer, a gentleman, a citizen of the world. He is here in St. Petersburg to begin his visit to our glorious country of Russia!”

Applause rang through the crowd.

“And Mr. Pickworth would like to address you all,” the Tsar said, grasping Phinneas's large hand in his own.

Again the crowd applauded.

When the applause died down, Phinneas looked down at everyone.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “I have traveled the globe. From the tombs of Egypt to the viaducts of Rome, from the Amazon River to the Himalayas, from Madagascar to Mozambique, I travel the world to learn how to live.”

The silence in the room grew thick, as every person, all three thousand guests, listened to Phinneas Pickworth speak. He did not boom like Great-Uncle Thorne. Instead, he spoke in a low, gentle voice that commanded attention.

“Recently,” he went on, “I brought a sarcophagus back from the Valley of the Kings, to my home in America.”

He paused and glanced at the high ceilings and marble columns.

“In America,” he added with a slight smile, “my home, Elm Medona, is considered a mansion. An enormous house. But this palace makes it seem like a mere grain of rice in comparison.”

The crowd laughed.

“I brought a sarcophagus there, to Elm Medona, and had a party to open it. We ate and drank and danced in the ballroom, much like you are doing tonight. And then we went into the room where I'd placed the sarcophagus, a hidden room at the top of a staircase hidden behind a magical wall. Press the right spot on the wall, and it opens, revealing the staircase.”

He paused.

All eyes were gazing at him.

Except Maisie's.

She was still desperately searching for her brother.

“The sarcophagus was made of alabaster, pure white, and carved with hieroglyphs. I broke the seal. I opened the lid.”

A woman gasped.

“And inside it . . .”

Here he paused again.

The entire crowd seemed to lean forward.

“Another coffin. And inside that one, another. And inside that one, another. Much like your nesting dolls here in Russia.”

Everyone smiled.

“Except, finally, when we opened the last coffin, there was the mummy of a pharaoh. Of a man who had once ruled. Here he lay, wrapped in linen, amulets on his body, a grimace on his face.”

Phinneas Pickworth dabbed the corners of his eyes.

“In that moment, I realized that history can teach us lessons, my friends. Lessons on how to live better, how to be better. And I promised myself, and my children, that the Pickworths would do just that. We would travel through time, if need be—”

And here Maisie would have sworn he looked right at her.

And then at someone across the room.

Maisie followed Phinneas Pickworth's gaze, and saw that it landed on Felix.

“Excuse me,” she said, again and again as she pushed her way through the crowd toward him.

“—to learn the lessons history had for us. What would Leonardo da Vinci, or Alexander Graham Bell, or Julius Caesar, or King Tut tell us if they could? They would tell us simple things. To love each other. To listen to what our elders have to say. To be kind to each other.”

The lessons Phinneas Pickworth spoke, Maisie realized, were the very ones that had been given to Felix and her.

She had almost reached Felix when Phinneas said, “They would remind us that our families are everything to us.”

“Felix!” Maisie called.

Felix turned toward her.

“I have spent my life acquiring pieces of history,” Phinneas Pickworth was saying. “And I say now to you all, that Russia is at a crossroads. Tread carefully, dear, dear people. Love each other!”

“Felix!” Maisie said. “What should we do?”

The Tsar had stood again, and he was thanking Phinneas Pickworth and wishing him safe journeys.

“The Tsarina and I have asked our Imperial jeweler, Carl Fabergé, to create one of his famous eggs just for you. Now I know that you have purchased others from him, for your late wife, Ariane, and your children. We want to give you yet another, one that we believe will delight you, Mr. Pickworth.”

To Maisie and Felix's utter surprise, Jim Hercules appeared, holding their egg on a silver tray.

“The egg!” a voice shouted.

That voice belonged to Alexander Andropov, who burst through the crowd, charging toward the dais.

Phinneas Pickworth had opened the egg and found the surprise of the Pickworth peacock there.

But Felix and Maisie had stopped watching him.

Instead, they ran after Alex.

“What in the world . . . ?” the Tsarina asked, peering into the crowd at the three running children.

Now Anastasia joined them.

“I need that egg!” Alex shouted.

“Don't give it to him!” Maisie screamed.

Felix saw the confused look on the Tsar's face, the wide eyes of the Tsarina, and . . .

And the big smile on Phinneas Pickworth.

He gave Felix and Maisie a slight nod, just as Alex
dove
at him, knocking him off balance and sending the egg flying into the air.

“Oh no!” Felix groaned.

The egg, with its glistening jewels, tumbled once in the air.

Then tumbled again, each time getting closer to crashing onto the marble floor.

Eight hands reached out to catch it before it landed.

But two actually did. The right two: Anastasia's.

Felix let out a cry.

Phinneas Pickworth said, “Well done!”

Maisie sighed with relief.

And then Maisie and Felix lifted off the ground, and they, too, began to tumble toward home.

Soon, they would be back in Elm Medona telling Great-Uncle Thorne all about what had happened to them and who they had met in Imperial Russia. He would weep when he heard their story—with joy and wonder that somehow the Pickworth Paradoxia Perpetuity made it possible for his beloved father to appear, and for history to carry on, even as the modern world continued to move forward.

But in this instant, Alexander Andropov, much to Maisie and Felix's surprise—and Alex's—was firmly on the ground there in Russia in 1911.

Phinneas Pickworth smiled up at them.

Anastasia's upturned face was twisted in sadness, the egg clutched tightly in her hands.

Felix tried to stop it all, tried to keep from leaving even as he realized it was impossible. They had not done what the message asked them to do. They had not helped Anastasia, or any of the royal family.

“Felix!” she called, her voice already distant.

With all his might, he shouted, “Anastasia! Don't worry! I'll be back!”

Anastasia shouted something in reply.

But it was too late.

Maisie and Felix were home.

I
n Imperial Russia, as with most monarchies, it was important to have a son to be the heir to the throne. Anastasia was the fourth daughter born to Tsar Nicholas II and his wife, Tsarina Alexandra. Her older sisters were the Grand Duchesses Olga, Tatiana, and Maria. When the Tsar learned that his wife had given birth to yet another daughter, he was so disappointed that he went for a long walk rather than rush to see her. In honor of Anastasia's birth, her father pardoned and reinstated students who had been imprisoned for demonstrating in the capital months earlier. The name
Anastasia
means “the prisoner opener.” Three years later, her brother, Alexei, was born to great celebration across Russia.

Despite the vast wealth of the Tsar of Russia, Nicholas believed in a spartan lifestyle. His daughters all slept in one room, on hard cots without blankets, took cold baths, and had household chores as well as community service. He was a reluctant heir to the throne, preferring travel and society to more serious matters. Nicholas's father, Tsar Alexander III, was a powerful man, so strong that he could bend iron pokers with his bare hands. He began every day by going into the woods to hunt. Alexander III believed that true Russians were simple in every way, and it was this philosophy that shaped his son's household as well.

Although Alexander III was considered a progressive ruler by some, during his thirteen-year reign he maintained full control of Russia. There was no parliament and no voting by Russian citizens. He had complete control over every decision, the army and navy, and every citizen. This kind of control is called an
autocracy
, and Alexander III devoted much of his energy as Tsar to crushing opposition to this idea of governing. When he died suddenly in 1894 at the age of forty-nine, his son became Tsar at a time when unrest was spreading throughout Russia. Lacking the strength of his father, Nicholas was unable to keep control of his throne and his country as his father had.

By 1901, when Anastasia was born, protests by workers, farmers, students, and ethnic minorities were erupting. In 1905, the massacre of nearly one thousand unarmed protestors at the Winter Palace, called Bloody Sunday, led to a formation of parliament as well as other concessions by the Tsar. But most of these agreements were on paper only, and Nicholas still maintained complete control of Russia.

The Tsarina Alexandra was also blamed in part for the lack of trust that Russians developed for their monarchy. Her predecessor, Alexander's wife, Marie, was beloved by everyone. Born Princess Dagmar of Denmark, Marie charmed everyone she met. She loved parties and dancing and was embraced by the Russian people as a role model. In contrast, Alexandra was considered cold and aloof, and she alienated her subjects by keeping to herself and presenting a stern face in public. However, it is believed that part of her isolation was to keep her son, Alexei, safe.

Alexei was born with hemophilia, an inability to clot blood that is inherited through the mother (sometimes called the royal disease because it afflicted royal families in Spain, Great Britain, and Russia). Alexandra could trace her genetic connection to her grandmother, Queen Victoria of England, whose youngest son, Leopold, had the disease and died at the age of thirty-one. A year before Alexei was born, Alexandra's four-year-old nephew, Prince Henry of Prussia, died from bleeding. It's no wonder that Alexandra became overly protective of her own son. But because the royal family hid their son's illness from the public, her behavior was judged as insulting.

Anastasia and her sisters led a charmed life despite their brother's illness. They had private tutors, attentive parents, and most of all, each other. The four Grand Duchesses played only with each other, calling themselves OTMA (for Olga, Tatiana, Maria, and Anastasia) as a sign of their closeness and solidarity. Together they swam and hiked, ice-skated and sledded, studied their lessons, put on skits, and entertained each other and their parents and brother.

Because Anastasia died so young, at the age of seventeen, little is known about her. We do know that she was the naughty sister, known to go under the table and bite the legs of guests at royal dinners. She was an excellent mimic, and her imitations, though mocking, were also funny and very accurate. A tomboy, she loved to climb trees, run, swim, and skate. Olga was known as the shy, smart one; Tatiana, the talented, opinionated one; Maria, the beautiful one; and Anastasia, the clown.

By 1917, the Russian Revolution was spreading quickly across the country, from Petrograd to St. Petersburg, and citizens stormed the freezing cold streets, demanding bread. At 3:00
PM
on March 15, 1917, on the advice of his generals, Nicholas II abdicated his throne. The royal family was put under house arrest at the Alexander Palace in Tsarskoe Selo. Eventually, they were moved to Siberia, and then when the Bolsheviks seized control of Russia, moved again to Ekaterinburg. The Grand Duchesses, hoping to escape, sewed jewels into their clothing.

Russia quickly broke out in civil war, and negotiations by other royal families of Europe with the Bolsheviks to free the Romanovs ended. The civil war was between the Reds—the Bolsheviks—and the Whites, who were anti-Bolshevik, though not necessarily pro-Tsar. When the Whites arrived at Ekaterinburg, the royal family was gone, and assumed to have been murdered. It was not until 1989 that an accurate account of Anastasia and her family's last hours was revealed.

The family was awakened in the middle of the night and told to dress so that they could be moved to a new, safer location. Instead of leaving, they were brought into the basement and told that they were going to be executed. Then the bodies were burned and buried in a mass grave. The murders were so terrible that for many years, despite an official announcement about the murders, people debated if the family had really been executed. But in 1991, their grave was found.

In 1991, the family was given a state funeral, followed by a ceremony of Christian burial seven years later. The bodies were laid to rest with the other monarchs dating back to Peter the Great in the St. Catherine Chapel in the Peter and Paul cathedral in St. Petersburg. President Boris Yeltsin attended the funeral. The Russian Orthodox Church praised the family for their humbleness, patience, and meekness. And in 2008, the Russian Supreme Court ruled that Nicholas II and his entire family were victims of political repression. Although nothing can diminish the horror of the fate of the Romanovs, history, Russia, and the Russian Orthodox Church have made reparations, giving the Romanovs the honor and dignity they deserved.