The Girl Who Fought Napoleon: A Novel of the Russian Empire (6 page)

Chapter 9

Sarapul, Russia

June 1801

Life with my mother was a relentless march of tedium and regret, tangled crotchet lace, crooked hems, and tongue-lashings. My father spent less and less time at home. My mother would not let me ride Alcides unless he was with me. She threatened to burn my Cossack uniform and throw away my riding boots.

“I shall send you to the Ukraine where you will learn to be a lady!” she threatened. “You will live with my family and my grandmother will teach you some manners!”

A flurry of letters arranging my transport arrived. The maids packed my trunk. The Cossack riding outfit was not included. It hung on a peg on the wall, lifeless and discarded.

Though I welcomed the chance to leave my mother and live in the Ukraine—I had grown up with letters from a loving grandmother I didn’t know—my heart ached to leave my father. By this time, he had almost disappeared completely from our house. I yearned to see him before I left.

“I shall at least have a chance to say my farewell to Papa,” I said.

“Your father is too busy with his mistress,” my mother spat back. “You will find a new life in the Ukraine. You will learn and follow the old traditions.

“But Father will return to say good-bye, won’t he?”

My mother’s lips tightened into a brittle line across her mouth.

She said nothing.

“I know he will! He will!”

My mother shook her head. “Go and say farewell to your horse instead. He is more faithful than your Papa.”

I stood frozen at her words.
Good-bye to Alcides?

“But—what do you mean? Alcides will come with me, tied to the wagon, yes?”

“You are traveling by carriage as a lady should. Alcides will remain here.”

“No!” I ran from the house, slamming the door behind me. The stableman found me later, crying into Alcides’s neck. He dragged me back to the house and into my bedroom crammed with the packed trunks.

I flung myself on the bed and cried.

My mother was determined to change my life. To ruin my life.

And I was still too young to fight her.

Chapter 10

Winter Palace, St. Petersburg

May 1794

Alexander and Elizabeth ate silently. The convex sconces mirrored the flickering tapers, the candlelight reflecting bright on the gold-leafed room.

“I must be going,” said Alexander, dabbing his lips with the linen napkin. He rose to his feet as the servant pulled back the chair.

“Will you not stay at home tonight, Alexander?” Grand Duchess Elizabeth asked. “Please?”

Alexander regarded his wife, who seemed so small and wounded in her chair.

“No. I shall see you tomorrow for dinner,” he said, moving to where she sat and kissing her on her cheeks.

Elizabeth’s eyes filled with tears.

“My dear,” said Alexander. “Whatever is the matter? I honor you—”

“By having dinner with me? When I know full well where you go. To see Maria Naryshkina—”

“Yes,” said Alexander, drawing up to his full height. “Of course, you know full well. There is no secret here.”

Elizabeth could not trust herself to look in her husband’s eyes. She studied the porcelain saucer and its tiny, elegant rosebuds.

“Elizabeth,” he whispered into her ear. “Do not torture yourself. We were married too young. I knew her before I met you. These affairs happen. You are beautiful, wise—”

“Perhaps you should have married my little sister Frederika. She was witty and full of mischief. I feel I bore you.”

Alexander thought of the little Frederika, squealing with joy as she ran round and round the squawking mechanical peacock as it tolled the noon hour. But then his mind strayed, thinking of the night’s pleasures: a flash of Maria Naryshkina’s black hair across her white breast, a pink nipple peeking out between the strands.

“Alexander! Are you listening?”

“You are hardly boring, my dear. You possess a quick mind and wisdom that I treasure. I regard you in high esteem—”

Elizabeth’s face crumpled. “Wisdom and intelligence do not bring you to my bedchamber.”

Alexander glanced up at the two servants standing motionless against the wall.

“You are dismissed,” he said.

The servants bowed, exiting the door.

“Elizabeth, listen to me. I love you.”

“I beg you, call me Louise as you did when we first met. I hate my Russian name now, for it brings no joy to us!”

“Really, Elizabeth!”

“Won’t you do this small favor for me? How I hate Russia now without your love.”

“Stop, Elizabeth. The servants will hear.”

“I don’t care. I hate Russia and I wish I had never married you!”

Alexander walked close to his wife, whispering in her ear.

“I shall make a compromise. I shall from now on call you Elise. A marriage of Elizabeth and Louise. Quite perfect for you. Yes, Elise. Do you like it?” He smiled, lifting her chin with his finger.

“Elise. It suits you.”

Elizabeth pivoted her head away from him.

“Elise,” he said. “You must find contentment in your life, dear one.”

“I cannot without you, Alexander. You are my life.”

Alexander took his wife’s hand.

“My life . . . and
your
life can be shared with others.”

“What are you saying, Alexander?”

He squeezed her hand. A mischievous smile flashed across his face.

“You may take a lover,” he said, magnanimously. “I shall not object.”

Elizabeth’s mouth opened aghast. She withdrew her hand from his.

“Alexander!”

“Oh, come now, Eliz—Elise! You know my principles of equality and freedom. They must apply to marriage as well! I cannot bear to see you suffer, my dear. You are my eternal friend.”

“I don’t
want
to be your friend! I want to be your wife!”

“And you shall be my wife forever until we die. But there can be others who share our beds.”

“What a filthy idea, Alexander!” Elizabeth grimaced in revulsion. “I am not your grandmother Tsarina Catherine, with her many lovers.”

Alexander drew back as if he had been dowsed with scalding water.
How dare she insult my grandmother . . . and me! When I, grand duke
of Russia, give her permission to love another!

“Good-bye, Elizabeth,” said Alexander, turning on his boot heel without giving her another glance.

Grand Duke Alexander did not neglect his duties and the protocol of Catherine II’s court. The next day after the argument with his young wife, he proposed an outing, a walk along the Neva River together, to demonstrate his devotion to his marriage, and to quell any rumors that might have reached his grandmother’s ears.

The Neva was the heart of St. Petersburg, flowing in front of the Winter Palace. As great ships sailed into the Russian capital, the flags of every nation flapped in the sea wind. The granite embankments were bordered by sumptuous residences, as ornate as French lace. Swans floated along the canals that flowed from the Neva, winding their way through St. Petersburg.

As Alexander and Elizabeth walked, sharing a most uncomfortable silence, a green carriage with red trim drew next to them. The gilded moldings and smartly dressed drivers, their plumed hats waving, caught the eye of the fifteen-year-old grand duchess.

The coach, maneuvering around two slower wagons loaded with white cabbages, came to a partial stop. Inside, Elizabeth saw two young men—one extraordinarily handsome—with dark curly hair.

“Ah! Those must be the Polish hostages, the Czartoryskis,” said Alexander.

“Hostages?” said Elizabeth.

“Peace is never simple. The Czartoryskis are an ancient Lithuanian family and wield great power—Adam Czartoryski could be the next king of Poland and lead a revolt.”

“Against Russia?”

Alexander nodded. “Empress Catherine thought it wise to have the two Czartoryski brothers—Adam and Constantine—here at her court. That way she can quell any thoughts of rebellion among the Poles. In exchange she may return Czartoryski properties that Russia confiscated. Perhaps.”

Elizabeth studied the lush curling sideburns of the elder of the two passengers, black hair contrasting with his ivory skin. As if he felt her eyes, he shifted his gaze toward the grand duchess.

Their eyes met. Adam Czartoryski, the older of the two brothers, did not avert his gaze but stared directly at the young woman.

“Oh!” she gasped, instinctively pulling out her fan and spreading it before her face.

Her husband noticed the motion and recognized the spark in Czartoryski’s eye. It was the same fiery look he had exchanged himself with Princess Maria Naryshkina at court.

Alexander smiled at the new arrival to St. Petersburg.

Adam Czartoryski entered the hall of the Romanesque Tauride Palace, his riding boots clicking smartly on the marble floors. A servant took his gloves and cloak.

Alexander raised his hand. “Prince Czartoryski! Keep the gloves and coat. I’d like to take a stroll around the gardens.”

Prince Czartoryski bowed. “Yes, of course, Your Excellency.”

Alexander made a gesture of opening his arm behind his guest, guiding him toward the door. Together they walked past the white columns supporting the portico and down into the English-style garden, replete with canals and well-ordered rows of imported trees and shrubs.

“I feel the need of a long walk today, Prince,” said Alexander, his blue eyes blinking in the bright sunshine. “We’ll walk around the little harbor.”

The grand duke led the way, his long legs stretching in contentment to be out of the palace and away from ivory hills of paperwork.

“It is brisk but just look at the St. Petersburg blue skies! We are in for a grand day!” The grand duke’s cheeks colored in the cool air. “I know of course, Prince, that you and your brother were brought here as political hostages by my grandmother the Empress Catherine, on her order,” said Alexander, his hands clasped behind his back. “In the strictest confidence—for I have heard you are an honorable man—I wanted to offer my condolences.”

Adam Czartoryski hesitated, not sure how to take these words.
The grand duke of Russia apologizing to a Pole!
He took care with his reaction.

“I thank you, Your Excellency. But I must say that the empress and my treatment at court have thus far been nothing but delightful.”

“Yes, yes,” said Alexander, waving away his companion’s remarks. “But I am certain you would far prefer to be in your native country, would you not? Rather than being here as a perpetual hostage!”

“Your Excellency.” Adam Czartoryski stopped walking, forcing Alexander to stop as well. The Polish prince looked into the grand duke’s eyes. “There is nothing more dear to my heart than Poland. There never will be. I will forever be dedicated to my mother country and stop at nothing for her independence.”

“Bravo, Prince! You know your soul!” said Alexander, his face animated with joy. “So few men do! Let me be clear. I despise despotism. All men have the right to liberty.”

Is he sincere? Or is this a test, a trap?

Alexander nodded. “Yes. You are wary. But you see, I was taught by Monsieur La Harpe, a Swiss revolutionary. I take as my models the works of Rousseau, Voltaire, Hobbes, and Locke. Thomas Jefferson is my hero. I know well the Declaration of Independence. And the French Constitution. I admire both.”

Czartoryski’s dark eyes blazed in astonishment and then joy. But he remained guarded, as such words could be construed as treason—even from the grand duke.

“I could never talk to Russians about these things.” Alexander beamed at his new confidant. “But I pity Poland, Adam Czartoryski. Yes, pity! The country that gave birth to such a great hero as Thaddeus Kosciuszko! That glorious general fought alongside the American patriots to win independence from Britain. Now he rots here in a St. Petersburg prison—for what? For defending his own Polish homeland from Russian tyranny!”

“The American Revolution has given hope to many nations,” offered the prince, still struggling to comprehend what he was hearing. A Romanov condemning his own country’s imprisonment of a Polish revolutionary!

“As has the French Revolution after a mangled and hideous birth,” answered Alexander. “Still the dignity of the human soul and rights to liberty have resulted in its aftermath. Monsieur La Harpe schooled me in all the French philosophers and democratic ideals.”

Czartoryski looked up at a patch of blue sky through the branches of the trees.

Can I have found a kindred spirit in this most unlikely of incarnations? The grandson of Catherine, our great oppressor? The future heir to the throne of Russia dares to say such things!

“I hope that you do not think this some trap for you, Prince Czartoryski,” said Alexander, noticing his companion’s reticence. “I assure you I am most sincere.”

Czartoryski stopped walking. He allowed himself to scrutinize the grand duke, Polish dark eyes looking into Russian blue ones.

“I swear to you upon all that is holy that my repugnance for tyranny is sincere,” said Alexander. “I could never share these opinions with my countrymen, except for my dearest friends. Nor speak of democracy. You cannot comprehend how I have longed for a friend such as yourself.”

“You cannot know how your words astonish me,” said Czartoryski, feeling the lifelong wall of hatred for all that was Russian crumbling. Or if not the entire wall—for that could never happen to a proud Pole—at least a fissure large enough for Alexander Pavlovich Romanov to extend his hand of friendship.

“What Russia has done to Poland is despicable,” said Alexander. “Someday the Poles shall have their freedom if I become tsar of Russia.”

“In that case,” said the Polish prince, the last stumbling block to friendship kicked away, “I think we will become fast friends, Grand Duke.”

The two clasped hands, forming a bond that would last a lifetime.

Adam Czartoryski would learn that his new friend had an open heart and a conscience that would not endure guilt and the suffering of humanity, be it the Poles, the serfs, or even his wife.

These were Grand Duke Alexander’s good qualities. Prince Czartoryski would also learn the bad.