The Tsarina's Legacy (16 page)

And Romanov heiresses.

Veronica pressed call on her phone and waited for her
abuela
to answer.

“What happened?” her grandmother asked frantically, without so much as a hello. “Have you been arrested?”

Veronica picked up the business card and started tapping it against the stand. The tabby glanced over its shoulder, annoyed.

“I'm fine,” Veronica said. “But I had quite the surprise at the airport.”

“Oh?”

“You asked Michael to come with me?”

“He's such a lovely man,” Abuela gushed. “And he knows Russian.”

“I studied Russian for six years!” Veronica paused, counting to three in English, Spanish, and Russian in her head. “I just wish you had asked me first,” she added calmly.

“What if you had said no?”

Veronica looked down at the card and a sexy picture of a woman in a low-cut dress smiled up at her. The card was for an escort service. She wrinkled her nose and dropped it back on the flower stand.

“There is so much happening in Russia right now.” Abuela's voice faltered. “On the news tonight they said the government might ban European airliners from Russian airspace. What if you're stuck there? What will you do?”

“I can practically walk to Finland from here, or at least walk to the ferry.” Veronica thought of the story of Michael's grandparents, the servants Lena and Pavel, rescuing the Grand Duchess Charlotte, Veronica's other grandmother. They had spirited her away from the palace at Peterhof and across the Gulf of Finland a century earlier.

Not a story
, she reminded herself.
My history.

“I only thought it would be good for you to have someone around who understands visas and passports and immigration law,” Abuela said. “And Michael was more than happy to come and keep you company. Be nice to him.”

“I am being nice to him. Why wouldn't I be nice to him?”

“One more thing.” Abuela hesitated. Veronica heard the television blaring in the background. “You received a phone call today. From Laurent Marchand. I don't know him. I only know what your mother told me…”

The rain gathered force, beating now against the pipes on the outside of the building. The cat hopped off the windowsill and Veronica peered down at the street below. Morning commuters, men in trench coats and women in black tights and sophisticated ankle boots, opened up brightly colored umbrellas as they shuffled into a metro station.

“Well, he only waited thirty-nine years to get in touch with me,” she muttered.

“I know this is difficult, but,
mija
, listen. I talked to him for a bit. His English is weak, but his Spanish is beautiful. What else would you expect from a professor of literature? So elegant. And he seems like a gentleman. We managed. I think you would like him.”

Veronica knew her grandmother was trying to keep it together for her sake, but the last thing she wanted to hear about right now was her long-lost father and his perfect Spanish. She grabbed the business card and tore it to pieces. “Too little, too late.”

“He's an old man now,” Abuela said. “He would be what … in his seventies?”

“What did he want?”

“He wanted to know if it was true you were going to St. Petersburg. Apparently, he follows the news in Russia closely. He saw your picture. He sounded worried.”

“What I do is none of that man's business.”

“You know how much I resented him for what he did to your mother. Leaving her alone with a baby. But he lived in Spain under Franco for most of his life. It couldn't have been easy. And so much happened to his family during the war.”

“He's never even reached out to me.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you humoring him?”

“You can't blame him for being cautious.” Veronica heard her grandmother sigh. “But I feel as though the two of you would see eye to eye. I think maybe you should talk to him. Can I give him your cell number?”

“No.”

“You might regret not seeing him.”

“No.” Veronica felt pressure at the back of her eyes. “He's never reached out to me and now that I'm here in Russia, finally exploring this side of my family's history, he decides to make an appearance? Maybe he wants to pursue the claim himself.”

“He never expressed an interest in that before.”

“He never expressed an interest in me before either.”

“I won't force you into something you don't want to do.”

Veronica drew in a deep breath. The cat twitched its tail and hopped back on the sill, staring at the plump raindrops. “How many times did I want to see him? How many times did I ask about him when I was growing up?”

“I know, I know.” Abuela softened her voice. “I'm sorry,
mija
. I should have realized how much this would bother you. Forget I mentioned it. Only take care of yourself. And try to let Michael take care of you too.”

*   *   *

A few hours later, Veronica was still thinking about her long-lost father, Laurent Marchand, and his mysterious phone call to her
abuela
. She stood before a full-length oval mirror encircled by a gilt frame ornamented with rusted miniature cherubs blowing horns. The overall effect was meant to be charming, but the cherubs' faces looked misshapen and smug. Veronica wanted to throw a drape over the mirror.

“Is only reproduction.” The seamstress, Elena, had fire-engine-red hair that gleamed under the lights of the chandelier, a stark contrast to her black sheath dress. She hardly looked a day over eighteen, young enough to be Veronica's daughter, at least in a
Gilmore Girls
sort of way, and had asked if they might speak in English. She was studying for a language certification and wanted to get some practice. Elena smoothed the material around Veronica's hips and adjusted the thick cape around her shoulders. “What is it you think?”

Veronica focused on her own face now, her wide brown eyes outlined in deep black. Her straight dark hair normally grazed her shoulders but now stood full and glossy around her head like a crown. The expertly applied cosmetics were far too heavy for her taste and made her face feel strangely waxen. Still, all of that was familiar enough. The rest of what she saw in the mirror took time to process.

“You are happy?”

Veronica touched the glossy gown, a reproduction of Catherine's coronation dress, impressed at its resemblance to the original. The snug bodice glinted in the light dancing from the electronic chandeliers, as though it were made of spun gold. Tiny double-headed eagles were embroidered into the silver satin, and the dress spread into an exaggerated width around her waist. She stood taller and felt stronger.

She looked like an empress.

She was supposed to be here.

Veronica gathered the long gown in her hands so she could walk without tripping as she made her way to the sink in the washroom adjacent to the office. Irina had reserved the Monarchist Society's office for the fitting. She had also given Veronica a key card and said she should feel “free to use the space” at any time while she was in St. Petersburg; as she was a tsarina, this was her “rightful place.” Veronica's gaze flickered over the drawings of old St. Petersburg, the musty sword tassel, and the official portraits of Potemkin and Catherine.

The heavy dress dragged against the carpet. Veronica threw the cape, lined in what she had been assured was faux fur, back over her shoulders so it wouldn't get wet. She turned on the water and reached for one of Irina's monogrammed towels.

“Careful! Careful!” Elena hopped over and grabbed a larger towel, wrapping it around Veronica's throat and shoulders. “You do not want to damage dress.”

Veronica moistened the face towel and began to rub her cheeks.

“What is this you do now?” Elena asked.

“I'm not used to wearing so much blush.”

“You look pretty!”

“I look pretty without it.”

“Pretty but too pale.”

Veronica held her wrist up to Elena's, comparing her own olive skin with Elena's pale Slavic tones.

“All right, maybe this is point,” Elena conceded. “But I still think you look pretty in makeup, like Disney princess!”

“Which one? Which princess?”

Elena shrugged. “Any of them. All of them. That is how you should look, Tsarina!”

“Ceremonial tsarina,” Veronica said, using her towel to remove some of the glittery silver shadow from her eyelids. “Not exactly the same.”

Elena rustled around in a cosmetics pouch she had tied on a belt around her waist and grabbed a fluffy brush. “Maybe you let me work on your face more and see what you think.”

“What's the point of being a princess if people don't take you seriously?”

“You can look pretty and be taken serious,” Elena said.

Veronica turned back toward the hanging rod Elena had set up for her in the office: sophisticated skirts and sweaters and blouses Irina deemed suitable for various events. She frowned, wondering how much money she might owe Irina by the end of this trip. “You send a message with clothes and makeup. I want to send the right message.”

“Yulia Tymoshenko always wore pretty makeup and pretty clothes. That braid! And she was prime minister of Ukraine. How many women have been American president?”

Veronica spun around, cape swishing. “All right,” she admitted. “Not a terrible point.”

Elena zipped her cosmetics bag shut. “Maybe remember me when you need to dress again for important events, Tsarina Nika.”

Someone rapped on the door. Before Veronica could manage a “come in,” Irina entered, wearing a flawless cream-colored pantsuit that flattered her trim figure. Irina stopped short and looked at Veronica.

“You've done well enough,” she told Elena. “But I think we need some nips and tucks to make sure the gown fits perfectly. After all, this is our inspiration.”

Irina held a copy of the portrait of Catherine the Great, looking rosy and clever, at the time of her coronation. The imperial crown sat heavy on her head. It must have weighed a ton, but you would never tell from her serene expression. Veronica imagined Catherine posing, stately and magnificent, for the portrait, and then screaming afterward for her minions to get that thing off of her head.

Two long dark braids spilled over Catherine's creamy shoulders. Irina tapped those. “Your hair isn't long enough for the braids.” She set the picture back down on the little stool in front of the mirror and fluffed Veronica's hair. The dark floral scent of Catherine the Great's perfume on Irina's neck wafted around them. “But I like what they've done. I only wish you would let someone work on your poor fingernails. And then there is this…” She pointed to the orb Catherine clutched close to her waist and the scepter she held daintily in the other hand. “We thought that might be a little much, but we do have some props that might work.” She turned to Elena. “What do you think?”

“We could try,” Elena said. “I brought props. I will go get.”

As Elena left, Irina stared at Veronica's reflection. “You look wonderful, Nika. Majestic. Dmitry told me you did very well with the reporters yesterday. You are meant for this.”

Veronica started to fiddle with a pincushion Elena had left behind. It was soft and shaped like a little tomato. She imagined it growing heavy in her hands, transforming into a royal orb.

“Think of Catherine for inspiration.” Irina gestured at the dress. “Catherine began her life baptized as Sophia, a little German girl. She wasn't a Romanov at all except by marriage.”

“I know. I know.” Veronica set the pincushion back on the counter and stared at the gown, wondering if some of Catherine's power might reside within, even in a reproduction.

“Catherine was renamed. She fashioned her own image. Her own
glamur
. She made herself the true heir of the tsars and changed her world.” Irina stepped back, once again taking stock of Veronica in the dress. “Our donors will be thrilled. The opportunities you will have to make a name for yourself, to be a true tsarina, will be endless.”

Veronica remembered the video of Reb Volkov on YouTube. Perhaps Irina had decided it was appropriate for Veronica to assume a political role after all. “I hope so.”

“This is not the time to hope. This is the time to act.” Irina began typing something on her phone. “I want to take a picture of you in the gown and see what Sasha thinks. One of our donors asked if he might see a picture of you in Catherine's regalia. You should talk with him … I think he might fund a tour of the country for you if he gets access to your image. Of course if you promote the Ekaterina Restaurant as a spokesperson, they may want exclusive rights. Sasha's the branding expert so I'll ask him.”

“I don't want to be a company logo.”

Irina smoothed the gown around Veronica's hips. “Your decision, but I hope you will take advantage of such opportunities. You will find we have friends in the Duma as well. I believe they are going to make great things happen for us and help restore the nobility to its former glory. You can do very well for yourself here. I wonder if you might consider making Russia your permanent residence. Of course Petersburg is hardly Russia at all. It is a special place in and of itself.”

“St. Petersburg is beautiful,” Veronica said, “but I'm American. I want to make my home in the United States. In California, near my family.”

“You no longer have a job in California, from what I understand.”

The dress suddenly felt too tight. “I'll manage.”

Irina fussed with a lacy ruffle at Veronica's elbow. “Your friend Mr. Karstadt seems to be enjoying his room at the Ambassador. I understand he received free room service last night.”

“What?” Veronica spun around.

“Food. Dinner. Room service. I have sources in the hotel keeping tabs on him and this is what they tell me.”