The Girl Who Fought Napoleon: A Novel of the Russian Empire (25 page)

“Mama. She suffers—”

“Suffers! Elizabeth has disgraced us!” she hissed. “Disgraced
you
! She is mourning for the captain who fathered that child, that bastard! The two of you bring shame to the Romanov name—”

“Shame?” said Alexander, stiffening. “A fine example my grandmother set. Some of her lovers were almost as young as me! Or my father with Princess Gargarina!”

“Alexander!”

“I beg you, Mama. Leave Elise alone. Never mention this affair again.” He stomped out of his mother’s apartments.

Alexander sent a card announcing that he would visit his wife in her apartments. When he was ushered in, he was stunned at the sight of Elizabeth, her face pale and drawn from lack of nourishment and sleep. Her eyes were swollen red from fits of weeping.

In her arms was the sleeping baby.

“Oh, Elise!” he whispered.

She looked up, her blue eyes spilling tears.

“You see, I can’t stop crying, Alexander.” She forced a smile and then looked down at little Lisinka. “She is a darling baby and I am such a sad mother.”

“Then let me hold her,” said Alexander, his hand resting on Elizabeth’s shoulder.

Elizabeth turned her face up toward her husband.

“You want to hold her?” she said. “After—”

“Of course, Elise,” he said, reaching out for the baby. “She is my daughter.”

Elizabeth began to cry again. But this time her smile showed through her tears like the sun through a passing rainstorm.

Chapter 37

Polotsk, Russia

January 1808

Our carriage pulled up in front of a splendid house where uniformed guards stood sentry.

An adjutant was waiting by the door.

“Good luck, Durov,” said Neidhardt.

“Thank you,” I said, puzzled more than fearful.

I was led to Count Buxhowden’s study. He stood immediately from his desk.

“Durov!” he said, smiling. “But where is your saber?”

“All my weapons were confiscated, sir.”

“I shall order them all returned to you immediately. A soldier should never be without his weapons.”

I was still a soldier?

He asked me to sit down and regarded me with an avuncular smile.

“How old are you, Durov?”

“I am in my eighteenth year.”

“Eighteen!” he repeated. “I’ve heard much about your bravery. Your commanders have reported nothing but the best from you.”

He put a hand on my shoulder.

“Now what I am about to say should not alarm you.”

I was immediately alarmed.

“I must send you to the emperor.”

The emperor! What had I done?

I felt my knees start to buckle.

“No, I told you, do not be alarmed. Our emperor is the embodiment of grace and magnanimity—”

“But, sir! He will send me home. Your Excellency, I will die of sorrow!”

The count shook his head.

“Have no fear of that. The emperor wants only to recognize your fearlessness and honorable comportment. I will add my own report to those of your commanders, Captain Kazimirski and Major General Kachowski.”

“Major General Kachowski wrote a report?”

“A very glowing one, indeed,” said the count, smiling at my amazement. “So you see, Durov, I don’t think the emperor will take away the uniform to which you have done such honor.”

Chapter 38

Winter Palace, St. Petersburg

January 1808

Alexander unfolded the wrinkled letter yet again:

Please, I beg you, my Tsar, Your Highness. Help me locate my daughter Nadezhda. Return her home to the father who loves her most dearly.

Alexander looked out the window of his study, onto the Neva River. Chunks of ice floated in the water, knitting up into solid frozen blocks anchored to the banks below.

Who is this girl who defies her father and runs away from home to fight for Russia? This mere girl who dashes into the bloody battlefield. To imagine her amid the death fields of war. A girl fighting Napoleon!

Alexander looked down at the bare-branched linden trees that lined the north face of the palace. He longed for spring, to see crocuses lift their garish colored heads from the snow.

My people despise me for making peace, when all I meant to do was save Russian lives.

A dove-gray and black crow settled in the branches of a linden. It scratched its beak against the bare twigs. Its perfectly tailored suit earned a half-hearted smile from the Tsar of all Russia.

I need the strength to resist this French tyrant who threatens the entire world. And here is a girl whose heart beats with Russian blood of courage, defiance.

If only I could muster the same courage.

“Your Majesty? Recruit Durov has arrived.”

“Yes, show Durov in,” said Alexander. “See that we are not disturbed. We will speak alone.”

I stood erect, saluting the emperor and then bowing, not quite sure of the etiquette. He walked over to me and took my hand. For a moment—what a moment!—he looked directly into my eyes.

He spoke in a gentle voice that might have dispelled my anxiety—except for the words he spoke.

“I have heard, Durov, that you are not a man. Is that true?”

I couldn’t breathe. I looked down at the glorious Persian rug, wishing I could hide in its red and indigo designs, its intricate swirls.

When I looked up again, I met his blue eyes.

“Yes, it is true, Your Majesty.”

I saw that he was blushing.

A sob of remorse welled up in me, for I was so ashamed. I threw myself at his feet, begging forgiveness.

“Your Majesty! Forgive me for my deceit.”

My face met the polished leather of his boots.

“Rise, soldier,” he said.

I wiped the tears away with the back of my hand and rose. When I looked up into his face, his blue eyes twinkled.

“Such courage! You fought in Friedland. I have never heard of a similar feat—a girl in one of the fiercest battles of all our history! Your commanders list your honors, your sacrifices. I have read how you saved officers, risking your own life. You swam across a raging river to secure your horse. You and your horse engaged in every battle. You survived without food, supplies, or adequate clothing.”

He smiled.

“What is your real name, maiden?”

I swallowed. “My father gave me the name Nadezhda Durova. As a recruit I go by Durov. I beg of you, Your Majesty, please address me as Durov, not Durova . . . I—”

“You shall return home with honor—”

At the word
home
I threw myself once more at the emperor’s feet, groveling like a serf.

“Home? No!” I pleaded.

“Mademoiselle Durova! Whatever is wrong?

I winced at the feminine name—Durova—the name, the world, I would return to as a woman.

“Don’t send me back! I should surely die there! Don’t make me regret that there was not a bullet marked with my name.”

My tears streaked the leather of the emperor’s boots.

“Rise, Durov,” he said.

He called me Durov—the masculine form of my name. I said a silent prayer.

I felt his hand under my shoulder. I met his eyes. They too had tears.

“What is it that you want, then?” he said.

“To fight Napoleon,” I answered. “To wear a uniform and bear arms for Russia. That is the only reward I want. I was born in an army camp. The call of trumpets was my morning hymn.”

I crossed my arms over my breast as before an icon.

“And now Your Majesty wants to send me home? If I had foreseen such an end, nothing could have prevented me from seeking a glorious death in the ranks of your warriors!”

The emperor remained silent for an endless minute. I could see he was contemplating my words, my fate. At last his countenance brightened.

“If you presume that permission to wear a uniform and bear arms is your only possible reward, you shall have it!”

His face was so animated, so full of goodwill I could not help but gasp with joy.

“And from this moment on, you will call yourself by my name, Alexandrov!” he said, taking my hand.

Son of Alexander.

“Your Majesty!”

He was like a boy, his face lit with joy. “And I have no doubt that you will make yourself worthy of the name we will now share.”

I was beside myself in astonishment. To carry our tsar’s own name?

“I will promote you to lieutenant and you will be enrolled in one of our finest regiments of noble families: The Mariupol Hussars, a most valiant corps.”

The Mariupol Hussars! Me, an officer!
My ears hummed as if I had been struck a great blow to the head.

Then he bowed to me. Yes. Alexander, the Tsar of all Russia, bowed to me.

He pulled something from his desk. I recognized it immediately, once my eyes caught the colors, the bright orange and black stripes.

The Cross of St. George!

“The highest honor Imperial Russia can bestow,” he said. With his own hands, the angelic hands of our beloved Mother Russia, the Tsar threaded the ribbon through the buttonhole of my jacket.

“I hope,” he said, “that it will remind you of me at crucial moments in your life. We share the same name now.”

His eyes lingered on my cross.

Was he remembering something? Saying a prayer?

“Go, Alexandrov,” he said finally. “Serve the Hussars nobly. And never forget that this name must always be above reproach, and I will never forgive you for the shadow of a stain upon it.”

I mouthed my new name.
Alexandrov
. The son of Alexander.

The emperor rose to his feet. “Go now. Until we meet again, Alexandrov.”

I nodded and bowed. I turned for the door but could not work the handle.

The hand of Alexander reached past me and opened the door. It may as well have been divine intervention, the hand of an angel.

As the emperor opened the door to the antechamber, he saw Adam Czartoryski standing in the smoke-laced room.

He will depart two days from now to Poland. I have banished my best friend from the Russian Court.

“Czartoryski!”

“Your Excellency,” said Czartoryski, striding across the room.

“I want you to follow the Polish uhlan to his horse. Talk to him. He is the most unusual lad I have ever met. You will not regret meeting him.”

“Brave, Your Excellency?” said Czartoryski, raising an eyebrow.

“Beyond brave. I just awarded him the St. George Cross. His name is Alexandrov,” said the Tsar, pronouncing the name with satisfaction.

He smiled. “Alexander Andreevich Alexandrov. Go on now. Exchange a few words with him. You will never see the likes of him again.”

Czartoryski bowed to the emperor.

“Adam,” said Alexander. “Meeting Alexandrov makes me remember priorities in my life. Forgive my cross words with you. I shall miss you when you return to Warsaw.”

As Czartoryski turned to leave, the Tsar reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder to hold him there a moment longer.

“You remain my most faithful—and honest—friend.”

An equerry stood holding my Alcides for me as I exited the Winter Palace. My faithful friend nickered, recognizing me at once.

“That is a stunning horse you ride, soldier,” said a voice behind me. “From the Caucasus?”

“Yes, he is,” I said. “He is a brave horse, too.”

The man approached closer. With dark curling hair and velvet eyes, he was the most handsome man I had ever seen.

“The emperor has told me you are brave,” he said. “I am Prince Adam Czartoryski, minister of foreign affairs.” He winced when he said this as if he had bitten the inside of his mouth. “Former minister,” he added.

“I am . . .”

“Alexander Andreevich Alexandrov. Congratulations, Alexandrov. It is usual when the emperor awards the St. George Cross of Honor for the recipient to drink with the Imperial Guard. We would like to toast your honor, your bravery. Please come inside.”

I froze, looking at him.

How shall I disengage myself from such a cordial man—a minister of the emperor’s! But I would surely blush and stammer, and reveal my gender.

“I am sorry, Your Honor. I must return to quarters immediately. It is quite urgent.”

I swung up on Alcides, nodding to the equerry to let go the rein.

The prince approached a step closer. He wore a look of astonishment on his face at my refusal.

“At least let me exchange a few words with you, Alexandrov! It is not every day a uhlan receives the St. George Cross, especially at such a young age.”

I realized I had been unforgivably rude to refuse the officer’s toast and congratulations.

“Forgive me, sir. Yes, of course, the matter can wait a few minutes more. I only regret not accepting your invitation to celebrate.”

Prince Czartoryski ran his open hand along Alcides’s neck. “You belong to the Polish uhlans, the emperor told me. What brave lancers they are! I am originally from Poland, as you might tell from my accent.”

Suddenly I realized just who he was. This was the emperor’s closest confidant!

“You must have done something extraordinary to merit the emperor’s highest honor,” he said, clapping my kneecap in camaraderie.

His hand lingered there. He smiled up at me in the saddle.

“Are you sure you won’t indulge us in a toast, Alexandrov?”

“Quite sure, Your Honor,” I said, fidgeting with my reins. “I really must go.”

Those velvet-black eyes met mine. He studied my face—cheekbones, throat. He nodded.

“Very well. It was an honor to meet you, Alexandrov,” he said, removing his hand from my knee. “Fight bravely for Russia. My regards to my old countrymen, the Polish uhlans.
Odwaga!
” he said in Polish.

Courage.

“Yes, sir,” I said, reining Alcides away from the Winter Palace. I left Czartoryski standing there, watching me in the gently falling snow.