The Tsarina's Legacy (27 page)

“You have always held the only true affection in my heart.” He extended his hand tentatively but could not quite bring himself to caress her.

“We should never have come to this place. We should only have relied on one another as every other man and wife.”

“I may be like other men, but you are unlike any other woman who has walked this earth. And I have loved you since the moment I saw you.”

Grisha took her wrists in his hands and drew her close, pulling her on top of him in the settee. She softened at once in his arms and he felt her tiny heartbeat fierce against his chest. He pressed his lips to hers, parted them gently, and kissed her as ardently as when they were first together, after she had convinced him to return and pursue a life with her. When he had been willing to forsake everything else if only he could feel her tremble in his arms and know she belonged to him as he belonged to her.

Tears stained the powder on her cheeks as she pulled away. “Tell me you are not here for my patronage. Tell me you are here only for me.”

Grisha still held her wrists tightly in his hands. It would have been so easy to deny that one had anything to do with the other. Where was his shrewdness? His impulse for self-protection? Candor had always been of the utmost importance to him, and in this moment he hesitated.

As quickly as she had come into his arms, she withdrew, freeing herself from his grip and straightening her long gown. He felt the chill in the air. The pasha was in the room. Perhaps he had been there all along. But he could not see him. There was only Catherine.

“I love you,” he told her. “I have always loved you.”

“Is it truly the only reason you make love to me now?”

Grisha felt as though he were being suffocated and he wished she would open all of the windows, let the cool air in, anything to calm him and allow him to breathe freely once more.

The words slipped. “Now that Zubov has agreed, will you allow me this last wish for the mosque? I've heard nothing further of it. When will construction commence?”

Sighing, she rose and took a seat behind her desk, still in close proximity to the settee, but it might as well have been on the opposite end of the empire. “Can you no longer speak of love without requesting a token to cement your own glory?”

“This is no mere token. It is for the good of our empire. It does not diminish my feelings for you.”

“And what of Poland? Of your ambitions there?” She began to finger a carnelian rabbit, one of the trinkets on her desk. “Do you wish to be king of that land?”

Grisha reached into his pocket, but he had forgotten to bring his jewels, or even a bit of radish or turnip. He gnawed on his thumbnail. “What has Platon Alexandrovich told you?”

“He fears your ambitions have grown twisted and you truly believe you share power with me. I have eyes and ears. I know you wish to make your power known in Poland.”

Though it seemed less and less likely of late, Catherine might leave this earth before he did. All he wanted was a safe haven should Paul ascend to the throne. But he didn't dare explain his reasons, to articulate even the possibility of her death. “Only in your name,
matushka
.”

“Aren't you happy with your New Russia? Must you encroach into my domain as well?”

Perhaps Cleopatra and Mark Antony had the right idea, to end their lives willingly before matters came to a head, before the final humiliations. He imagined Zubov and Paul in another corner, staring at him as he struggled for breath.

“You are trying to have it all,” she said. “As you always have. You want my affections but need more. You behave as any man toward a woman. Only looking to feed your own precarious ego. It isn't enough merely to satiate your whim. We must also pretend—no, believe—that your whim is our greatest desire.”

“Do not compare me to your other men. My ego has never required such attention.”

“Exactly my point,” she said. “You show yourself as a mere delicate man at last.”

“And what about you?” He gathered his energy and rushed toward the desk, so close to her that she stood and took a step back. “Will you speak of me as the grand love of your life while Platon Alexandrovich shares your bed?”

He thought she might slap him. He was no stranger to slaps from women, but Catherine would not stoop so low. “You presume to tell me with whom I can and cannot share my bed? After all the women you have seduced?”

“We are husband and wife,” he shouted, no longer caring who might overhear.

“Husbands may take a wife and then as many mistresses as they please. But a wife must remain faithful no matter how far her husband strays? I never took you for such a prude. I think you wish to change the parameters of our singular arrangement not because of any great change in your feelings for me, but only because you grow selfish in your old age.”

“Your silliness with Zubov is a whim. Discard him for me. Be with me…” His voice trailed off. He gripped the desk for support. He felt tears slipping down his cheeks. His thoughts returned to the monastery, the rhythm of the liturgy and the smoky-sweet incense. The icons in a blur of color around him and the birch trees outside the high windows.

Catherine moved away, but her gaze lingered on him still. “I forgive you for your harsh words because it is clear you require rest. I wish you a safe journey home, Prince.”

He waited. He felt her hand on his shoulder. But that was all. Pity. That was all she had left for him.

*   *   *

Grisha limped down the marble staircase, arm draped around Anton's shoulders. His steps felt unsteady, even underneath the thick soles of his boots, and he found it increasingly difficult to hide his shivering. Perhaps the ghostly horseman would chase him all the way home. He shouldn't have tempted fate by mentioning it earlier in the day.

“You can't make me leave.” He knew he was ranting but could not stop himself. “I only require a few more moments. The shouting was only our passion.”

“She asked me to take you to the court doctor.”

“I am your master. You will take me home.”

Anton's voice was not unkind, but it remained firm. “First of all, you're not my master. You saw to that yourself. I am no serf bound to you by law. Not anymore. Secondly, even if you were my master, your orders would not outrank those given by the empress.” He paled. “She said she would flay me alive if I didn't get you to a doctor. I told you she would blame me for letting you out.”

Grisha had to stop and chuckle, but the laughter soon changed to coughing as his body rebelled at the effort. “She said that, did she? And she would attend to the matter herself rather than set her guards on you with one of the vicious rawhide knouts they so enjoy wielding.”

“That's right.” Catherine came bounding down the stairs, skirts flouncing, a greyhound nipping at her ankles, relishing this unexpected bout of play. “And I would hold true to that promise except obviously you have given this boy more trouble than I anticipated. Really, Prince. Will you force us to carry you all the way to a doctor?”

Anton tried to bow to Catherine but couldn't do so without releasing Grisha and having him tumble down the stairs. At least Catherine's playfulness had returned. The quarrel between them wasn't as dire as he'd feared. But he detected distress in her voice when she lowered it to speak to Anton. “I will help you get him to his carriage. I've never seen the attacks this bad before. Something is wrong.”

“My lady, I must beg you not to do that.” Zubov now rushed down the stairs behind them. Had he been hiding in the shadows? Listening in on the most intimate moments of their interaction? Grisha wished he had enough fight left in him to challenge Zubov to pistols at first light, as the French and English gentlemen were so fond of doing when they felt their honor under siege. But fatalistic as Grisha felt, he had no desire to risk losing his other eye.

“The prince makes his own poor decisions,” Zubov blathered. “He conquers the Turks, crushes them underfoot, and then wails for a mosque. He earns glory on the battlefield and then urges restraint when younger men might earn similar glory. He demands too much of your time and treasure.”

“Oh hush,” Catherine said under her breath, and Grisha thought she sounded as though she were talking to a child rather than a lover. Or perhaps one of her dogs.

“He is manipulating your affection to further glorify himself and his morbid designs for greater power,” Zubov insisted, oblivious to Catherine's mounting annoyance. “I hear that he has his sights set on becoming king of Poland now. As though the south were not enough for him. I wouldn't doubt this sudden spell is a farce to distract you from his dalliances. He has used you and betrayed your tender feelings. That is treason, I think.”

“I have served the empress well.” Anton reached for his head again with a damp cloth, but Grisha batted his hand away. “Despite your interferences.”

Catherine raised a gloved hand, still moving quickly to the front door. “Enough! If I want to see fighters tear into one another, I'll purchase bantam cocks. Not one more word. I'll make sure Prince Potemkin is attended to properly. Then I will return and we shall discuss this no further.”

She nodded to two figures by the door. Her guards, a pale Cossack in embroidered gold and a North African in a fez and scarlet waistcoat. They opened the door, and Grisha blanched at the blast of chilly evening air. Farther out, he spotted his coach and six dappled geldings.

“I must see the prince home,” Catherine said. “Get him into his carriage.”

The guards appraised Grisha's large frame and the pale one winced.

“I will accompany him myself,” Catherine added.

“You can't do this,” Zubov began to sputter. “It is unseemly. Even if he is your husband, you must not treat him like a cherished pet.”

Zubov seemed to know he had gone too far. He couldn't look Catherine in the eye.

She marched toward him. “I supposed it would get out sooner or later. Your manly virtue is offended? It seems I've made an adulterer of you. But then perhaps you don't mind so much seeing as how you have put the cuckold's horns on the prince. Isn't that what you truly want, love? To humiliate your rival? Shame on you.”

With that, the guards at the door hoisted Grisha onto the padded cushions inside his carriage. Catherine shooed away the hands the guards offered to help her. She lifted her long skirt and made her way to his side. “And no arguments from you either,” she told him as Anton climbed in behind her. “The last thing I ever wanted to become was an old woman bickering with my doddering husband.”

When the carriage shot off, she tucked a thick fur blanket around his lap while Anton held him upright, hands shaking, no doubt due to being in such close quarters with his sovereign.

The horses jolted over bumps and potholes in the cobblestone road. Grisha tried to focus on Catherine's face as his body slowly relented to pain. “I told you we needed to pay better attention to the infrastructure of this city. Hasn't Zubov attended to any of it?”

“Why do you begrudge me this happiness?”

“I am not asking you to abandon happiness.” The chills wracked his body and he started to shake. “I believe with all my heart that your true happiness in this world is with me.”

Catherine moved her hand to Grisha's forehead, her touch cool and light on his feverish skin. “Voltaire told me once he thought a female ruler might be rid of such distractions. I never had the heart to tell him he was wrong. We are all enslaved to our bodies, men and women.”

“You were never enslaved. You only made a poor judgment or two.”

“You have always helped me avoid poor judgments.”

“You will rid yourself of Zubov then?” he asked, heart soaring. “So that we might be together again, as we were meant to be?”

“Care for yourself first, so that you might be of greater use to me now and in the future. I expect you to be around for a long time. I require it.”

She had avoided his question, but he hadn't yet abandoned hope. Only the fever was growing worse and his eyelids had started to droop. Her voice still sounded in his ear, but she seemed to be speaking to him from much farther away than the confines of the carriage.

“He's slipping again,” he heard Anton say.

“But you cannot do this,” Catherine insisted, imperious once more. “How can you leave this earth without finishing your work, your great projects in our New Russia? You are to negotiate a lasting peace with the Turks. It is your duty, Prince. Don't shirk destiny.”

The carriage came to an abrupt halt, shaking him back into the moment. The driver opened the door, allowing a blast of cold air into the coach.

“Your guards,” the driver told her. “They must speak to you now.”

Catherine scowled. A minute later, her personal guards were at either side of the carriage, astride their white stallions.

“Forgive us,” the one nearest her said, removing his tall, feathered hat. “But we wouldn't have stopped you unless absolutely necessary. You're needed back at the palace. Platon Alexandrovich is raising a terrible ruckus. He won't stop. He demands you return.”

“Oh dear Lord,” Catherine muttered.

“We can ensure the prince gets to the doctor.”

Catherine cast a regretful look at Grisha. “I'm afraid to let you out of my sight. Who knows where you might end up this evening?”

“I'll see to him,” Anton told the empress. Grisha detected a quiver in the boy's voice as he addressed Catherine, but otherwise he remained strong and Grisha flushed with pride. “I'll make sure he gets the medical attention he needs.”

“You won't let him drag you to a brothel or a faro table instead?”

Anton reddened. He attempted to answer, but Grisha watched his lips move as he stumbled on his attempt at words.

“I can assure you I'm in no condition to do anything of that kind,” Grisha told her.