The Diamond Secret (16 page)

Empress Marie takes the diamond. "That foolish, foolish woman," she comments softly.

"I should bring it to Mother."

"Don't worry. I will bring it to her. Go to the sewing room. I have had special petticoats made for you and your sisters. You are not to tell anyone this, not ever. It will be our secret. There are jewels sewn into the waistbands of these special petticoats."

"But what good are jewels if no one can see them?" Nadya asks. "Isn't the fun of jewelry to show it off?"

"These are dangerous times, my pet," Empress Marie says in a serious but gentle tone. "The hidden jewels are like insurance. Guards can be bribed. Favors may be purchased."

"Will we need to do those things?"

"I pray not. Perhaps someday you will use the jewels to build your own fine summer palace like the one your parents have overlooking the Black Sea," she says. She smiles fondly. "Go now so the seamstresses can be sure your petticoat fits before they sew the finishing touches."

"Should I tell Mother you have this missing diamond?" Nadya asks.

"No," Empress Marie says. "Do not tell your mother anything. Let it be our secret for now. I will take care of it."

"You're sure we're doing the right thing, Grandmother?" Nadya checked.

"Absolutely, my darling," the empress said, stroking her cheek tenderly. "Don't bother yourself about it any further."

Nadya awoke on the pink-and-blue bedspread, mentally clutching at the few fragments of the dream that she could recall--the gentle voice, the luminous diamond, the ominous feeling that an unnamed, invisible danger was silently mounting around her.

Sitting upright, it occurred to her that she was now in a position to ask someone who might know why she was having the dream: the empress Marie.

As Nadya got up off the bed, she checked the clock on the night table. It was just a little after five. Maybe the empress was up from her nap. Nadya had so many questions for her.

Nadya stepped out of her room into the quiet hallway and down the grand central staircase. As she descended, she scanned the foyer for a servant to ask for the empress's whereabouts but saw no one. On the first floor she checked the large room where they'd first spoken and then the dining room. They were both empty.

Moving farther down the hallway, Nadya went through an archway leading into a library. There she found the empress seated on a velvet couch in the center of the room. Empress Marie was slumped to the side, but her gentle snores assured Nadya that she was merely napping.

A scrapbook of photos lay open on the empress's lap. Coming behind the couch, Nadya peered down at them. Four lovely blond girls sat together with a much younger boy in the middle.

The face of the youngest girl riveted her to the page. No wonder Ivan had wanted her for this scheme of his! The resemblance was incredible, although the face of the girl in the photo was fuller and younger.

Anastasia's eyes sparkled, completely lacking the haunted expression Nadya sometimes had noted on her own face. Nonetheless, there was an uncanny similarity.

Below that photo was another picture of the same group, smiling and skating on a frozen pond with the huge palace looming behind them. Coats lined in ermine and full fur hats and muffs kept the girls warm. With them was a man she recognized from news photos as Czar Nicholas. How happy they all appeared!

On the opposite page were two formal photos, one of Nicholas and one of Alexandra. Nadya could see that Anastasia strongly resembled her mother. Curious to see more, she reached across the empress's shoulder and turned the page.

Nadya gasped sharply and drew back as if she'd been stung!

The fiery eyes of Grigory Rasputin stared up at her from the photograph. He stood beside the czar and czarina. And on the other side of Rasputin was the man who had frightened her at the train station--the one with the terrible twisted scar.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
  

A Showdown

From their Paris hotel room, Ivan looked down at the lush and colorful Luxembourg Gardens. His dark mood made it impossible for him to appreciate its bounty of spring blooms. Instead, he scowled out at the sunny day.

Turning from the window, Ivan cast a desultory glance at Sergei, who lay on his bed, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. "Look at us!" Ivan cried. "What a pair of mutts we are! We've almost achieved our goal. Why are we acting like this?"

"You know why," Sergei replied. "We should have told Nadya the truth about the reward."

"She'd never have come with us."

"It was wrong not to tell her. And what if that sharp-tongued old lady doesn't believe she's Anastasia?" Sergei asked, sitting up. "She'll be in a foreign country where she knows no one and has no papers. At least back in Russia she had a job and a place to live."

"You call what she was doing there living?"

"Don't avoid the subject."

"The old bat isn't going to reject her," Ivan insisted. "You heard the empress. She sounds like her mother the czarina.
Sounds
like her! When I heard that, I couldn't believe it. What luck! Who would have expected that?"

"And you're still convinced that she's not Anastasia?" Sergei questioned.

"Yes, I'm convinced. Nadya might be some aristocrat's lost daughter, but she's not the grand duchess Anastasia."

"Why not?" Sergei pressed.

"Firstly, I saw her get shot. Secondly, how likely is it that we decide to find a girl to play Anastasia and discover the real grand duchess?"

"Look at it a different way," Sergei suggested. "We set out to find the grand duchess because rumors were circulating that she was still alive. The rumors turned out to be true and we did, in fact, succeed in finding her."

Ivan waved him away. It was too preposterous!

"It's possible," Sergei said.

Ivan threw up his arms, vexed by Sergei's insistence. "No, it's not possible! I will tell you why I am sure beyond all doubt that Nadya is not Anastasia."

"I'm listening. Why?"

"You saw her last night in that strapless dress?"

"Yes. She was breathtaking in it."

"I watched Anastasia Romanov get hit right in the chest with a bullet. Even if some surgeon worked a miracle and saved her life...there would be a scar."

Sergei nodded thoughtfully, considering Ivan's words. "You're right," he admitted. "There was no scar."

"No scar," Ivan echoed.

"That's good, I suppose. At least now we are sure we really are perpetrating a most outrageous swindle," Sergei said quietly. "There is nothing uncertain about it."

"We never set out to hurt anyone," Ivan argued. "Why should I feel badly about that?"

"Because it was dishonest right from the start."

Ivan opened his mouth to protest, and then he slowly shut it as he felt the weight of Sergei's words. Ivan settled thoughtfully into an armchair, tapping the tips of his fingers together and trying to reconcile his swirling emotions with the facts.

What was he feeling?

Guilt?

Guilt was an emotion he loathed, but it was undeniably there. He could rationalize his actions for a hundred years and still it would not erase the raw look of betrayal he'd seen in Nadya's eyes.

Shame?

He
was
ashamed of having deceived her about his true intentions. There was no sense in denying it.

There was another emotion lurking just below those two. Ivan rubbed his face with both hands, frustrated that he could not name it.

"You're afraid of losing her, aren't you?" Sergei suggested gently. "She loves you too, you know."

Ivan dropped his head in despair. "What should I do, Sergei?"

"It seems to me that you must be perfectly honest with her. Share your thoughts and your feelings with her."

"No. I can't. If Empress Marie believes she is Anastasia, how can I rob her of that future?"

"Would life with you be so terrible?" Sergei asked.

"I am not a rich man, even if I do collect a reward."

"I believe that when I find my Elana, she will still love me, even though I am no longer a wealthy aristocrat."

Ivan concentrated on keeping his face immobile. He didn't want even the slightest facial expression to betray his true feelings about what Sergei had just said. The chances that Elana and Peter were still alive were very slim, in his estimation. Otherwise, why wouldn't someone have heard from them? Ivan knew that Sergei would never give up the search for his wife and son, though. Ivan did not have the heart to convince his friend otherwise.

"That's different," Ivan said evenly. "You two are already a devoted couple. Nadya and I haven't even really begun. Why start something that can't be finished?"

"Because you love each other."

Ivan stood and went back to the window. "Sergei, you're a romantic fool," he snapped, continuing to scowl.

"You should write her a letter. Tell her how you feel," Sergei suggested.

Ivan considered this. Perhaps his friend was right. Then she would know his feelings for her had been real, and though it was not his desire for them to be kept apart, he knew he was helpless in the face of her grand destiny.

Ivan sighed. Whether she was Anastasia or not, he felt sure that somehow it was Nadya's fate to live out her life as the grand duchess. Every bit of his gut intuition told him that the empress would believe Nadya really was her granddaughter. Somehow, he just knew it.

"Do you still have that ink?" he asked Sergei.

"Not much, most of it spilled. What's left is in my bag. Help yourself."

Sergei's bag sat open on his bed. Rummaging through, Ivan pulled out Nadya's ink-stained old white petticoat. "What's this?" he asked, holding it up to Sergei.

"Nadya's petticoat. We used it as a rag when the ink spilled," Sergei replied. "When Count Dubinsky's men came to get us, everything got tossed together."

Ivan noticed the scorched bullet tears in the waistband. Turning over the fabric, he saw another hole in the bodice of the petticoat.

Suddenly his blood felt like ice. Gooseflesh rose on his arms. "Did you see this?" he asked.

"Yes, they look like bullet holes, don't they?" Sergei answered. "They gave her that petticoat in the asylum."

"What if they didn't?" Ivan asked with mounting excitement.

"I don't follow."

"I've heard stories that there were jewels sewed into the petticoats that the grand duchesses wore."

Sergei arose and came to Ivan's side to reexamine the petticoat. "I didn't know that," he said.

"It wasn't something the soldiers wanted generally known, because they stole the jewels. But they bragged about it to the other soldiers."

Sergei visibly shuddered with repulsion.

"It's unbelievable," he murmured. "I
saw
her die. See this hole?" Ivan showed Sergei the tear in the bodice. "Anastasia was shot in the chest. But it's impossible."

Sergei put a hand on Ivan's shoulder. "Apparently not."

"It
is
impossible," Ivan insisted. "Remember...Nadya has no scar."

That evening, Ivan ate supper alone in an outdoor café on the Left Bank of the city. The weather was warm with a gentle breeze. The last light of the lengthening spring day threw a soft cast over the bustling city.

Filled with nervous energy, he absentmindedly tapped on the coffee cup in front of him. Had he really found Anastasia? Ivan laughed softly to himself, shaking his head and marveling at the sheer improbability of it.

How had she done it? She'd been utterly trapped there in the forest. He had seen them shoot her as she'd tried to escape.

That
he couldn't reconcile. He was sure the bullet had hit her squarely in the chest. It should have been a fatal shot to the heart.

That petticoat, though...not only was it bullet-ridden, but he'd seen it before. There had to be other petticoats like it...but still...Anastasia had been wearing just such an undergarment; he'd seen it beneath her torn dress.

From his pocket, Ivan took out her small rag doll. Sergei had found it with the petticoat. Ivan had it on him now with the intention of returning it to Nadya. He knew it was only an excuse to visit her. The truth was, he missed her already.

Ivan paid his bill, and then he hailed a cab to take him over a bridge, across the darkly flowing Seine River that ran through Paris, and to the wealthier Right Bank. He had the driver continue on until they were nearly out of the city, in the more suburban section. He got out at the empress's gated estate.

He convinced the groundskeeper to admit him through the gates but, at the front door, the butler reported that Nadya would not see him. Ivan was turning to leave when a sudden intuition redirected him. He hurried along the side of the estate until he came to a well-manicured garden, with flowing fountains and paved paths.

As he'd hoped, Nadya was there. She sat on a bench beneath a row of flowering cherry trees, looking at a book. The slightest breeze sent a shower of pink blossoms raining down on her, catching in her hair and in the folds of her clothing. She was so engrossed in her reading that she didn't appear to notice.