At dawn, the bugle signaled the beginning of one of the military parades that both the sovereigns adored. Held in a clearing behind the house, the parade ended at ten. Their majesties then went inside to change for their morning stroll. Every morning at eleven on the dot, rain or shine, whether guests were expected (as was the case today) or not, the couple took off across the park, without an escort, like lovers, for an intimate walk and a chat. Whether on foot, on horseback, or in a landau, after thirty years of marriage they still treasured these moments alone together.

And it was precisely at those moments that Anna would find herself in an uncomfortable tête-à-tête at the cottage, alone with Grand Duke Nicholas Nicolaïevitch. She was aware of her own beauty. During the long stays with relatives and friends at the great houses of Tiflis, in Georgia, she could not help but realize the extent of her power. She understood what the men’s looks and smiles conveyed. But the grand duke wasn’t content to just sigh like the others, dreaming of her charms as any well-bred prince would. His experience with other young women and the certainty that Anna, out of sheer modesty, would never complain—to whom?—made him bold. He would wait for her in the corridor and grab her in passing, forcing his embrace upon her. Nothing she did—vehement protests, slaps across the face, even indifference—discouraged him in the least. He always came back for more. His greedy appetite and brutal nature compelled him to act.

So in the absence of the imperial couple, the young girl desperately sought the protection of someone else, anyone who was not a servant. Where on earth had Jamal Eddin gone? Every morning was the same. Oblivious to Nicky’s imminent assaults, blinded by his own happiness, he was doing whatever he pleased. But where? In the boat house? The gazebo? The atelier? Was he busy breaking in his little Kirgese mare, the czar’s exquisite gift to him on his sixteenth birthday? Was he riding her in the corral, as he often did? The beach, the garden, the telegraph tower, the library—he could be anywhere. He never rested in the summer; he lived at the cottage as though every day were his last.

“Who among us,” La Potemkina paused to collect her words, then continued, addressing her two interlocutors and the group of children. “Of all men, who would refuse to punish the son of his enemy and treat him instead like his own son? One, and one only. The father of us all, who lives in Our Lord Jesus Christ.”

She paused in meaningful silence for a moment before uttering the sovereign’s name. Like the czar’s sixty million subjects, she claimed to have no will of her own, no personal judgment. She was solely an instrument of His will, the will of the Almighty, creator of the emperor as well.

Today her story of Jamal Eddin’s destiny in Russia was marked by even more pregnant pauses. She pretended to be so overwhelmed by the enormity of the czar’s imperial kindness that she literally had to catch her breath. And in this respect, the wife of the imperial marshal reflected the attitude of all the aristocracy. The portrait she drew was that of a just and benevolent guide.

Nicholas took great care to propagate the myth and publish the accomplishments of this irreproachable master and valiant knight, a legendary figure in whom he sincerely believed. The tale of the mercy he had shown his prisoner was peddled far and wide and had served him well in the hearts of all.

The young people gathered on the grass behind La Potemkina understood that her stance was indicative of her infinite devotion and reverence to the house of Romanov.

“They live to do good, be useful, and spread progress everywhere,” the dowager continued as she walked through the hydrangea bushes and the beds of roses. “They are so close to God, our angels, that they fail to realize that a pagan who is ignorant of the truth—”

There. She had said it. Now she could zero in on her main point and express what had become her newest obsession, which she did with great emotional fervor.

“—that a pagan who has not received the word, who does not know the Lord, has developed bad habits here. He has lost all sense of discipline, and he is being corrupted and spoiled.”

“But the example of Their Majesties is the very best model,” Anna of Georgia protested. “He’s receiving an incomparably excellent education.”

Sensing that the young woman had taken her observations as criticism, La Potemkina toned her comments down a bit.

“He’s not studying what he should, my dove, I’m just saying… what does he read?”

“Goethe, Schiller.”

“And the French writers,” she interrupted triumphantly, “who talk of nothing but liberty and revolution.”

“The empress doesn’t fancy French novelists. We read Walter Scott and Fenimore Cooper.”

“The Last of the Mohicans, I’ll bet,” Gayana interjected, “which just happens to be Varenka’s favorite book.”

She shot her two older sisters a waggish look.

“Is Jamal Eddin in love with you too, Anna? Have you turned his head like all the others? Is he flirting with you?”

“That’s all we need!” exclaimed their mother, who had never accepted the presence of a Chechen bandit’s son in Their Majesties’ midst.

She had experienced firsthand the terror that Shamil’s men had spread when they swept down upon her husband’s lands and attacked the villages on the plain—raids, kidnappings, and ransom had been rampant. At home in Georgia, the Muslim threat was real and close, and with it loomed the shadow of carnage and death. And the sale of kidnapped Christians in the slave markets of Persia and Turkey.

“One good thing about the Cherkesses is that they don’t drink or gamble,” La Potemkina pontificated.

“And that they would make great sons-in-law?” Anna teased impertinently. “Then why do you want to convert them?”

“Ask Varenka what she thinks,” Gayana said snidely. “Hmm? She’s so pious, our little Varenka.”

Her sister blushed perceptibly but said nothing.


Late in the morning, returning from their walk, the imperial couple stopped for the second time near their cottage. From afar, they could see the group of young people running down the steps of the perron, the girls in pink dresses, the boys in white uniforms. A searching glance told them that Nicky and Jamal Eddin, the young men of the house, were nowhere to be seen. They stopped talking, sharing their unspoken sadness over the fact that none of the youngsters on the lawn were theirs.

Their second daughter, Grand Duchess Olga—Ollie—had gotten married the summer before, and a year ago she had left Russia to live with her husband in Wurttemburg. Her brother Constantine had accompanied her as far as her new kingdom, then continued his travels. He was sorely missed at the cottage. Even Mikhaïl—Mischa—the youngest at fifteen, was spending the month of August elsewhere. Yes, children always grow up, and inevitably they leave. Of the seven, only Nicky was presently at home. They had recalled all these departures during their long walk and agreed to invite plenty of friends to the domain so that Nicky would have plenty of other young people around.

They avoided mentioning their biggest sorrow, the loss of their youngest daughter, Alexandra, three summers before. It was an emptiness they tried to fill in vain, and neither of them had been able to surmount their pain. She had died just months after getting married, at nineteen, while giving birth to a premature son who did not survive her. The empress’s great affection for Anna of Georgia was no doubt influenced by the resemblance of her maid of honor to her lost child. The family kept up appearances, surrounding themselves with young people and entertaining often, but they had never gotten over this loss.

“I’m glad Jamal Eddin is here with us,” Alexandra Feodorovna sighed, leaning on her husband’s arm as they turned into the lane that led to the back of the house. “There’s something reassuring about his presence.”

“Reassuring? Mouffy, that’s a funny way of putting it.”

“And yet I choose my words carefully,” she smiled apologetically.

“If, as you put it, this boy is reassuring, where do you suppose that comes from?”

“Why, from you, Nicks. You are the one who has made him the prince he is becoming. You taught him everything.”

“True, I wish I received letters from Constantine like the ones he writes to his father. From all our sons, for that matter.”

“What does he tell him?”

“Oh, he thanks Almighty God for his life. And he thanks Mohammed the prophet. And he thanks his father.”

“He thanks the imam Shamil? Whatever for, for heaven’s sake?”

“For being allowed to learn all that he is learning here with us. He tells him that the infidels have shown him incomparable generosity, that no one humiliates him in Russia. That he’s grateful for his destiny.”

“I’d expect nothing less from such a noble nature. And what does the imam answer?”

“Nothing. You don’t think I’d send a single word back there! All the letters land in my desk drawer, and when I’m done reading them, they end up at the war minister’s. Good old Chernychev says there are so many that he doesn’t know where to file them all. But then, he gripes about everything.”

“But then,” she said, a bit surprised, “why do you tell this child to write? Why do you encourage him?”

“So that he will remember.”

“Oh, Nicks. If you only knew how he longs for an answer, how much he hopes for one.”

The emperor frowned, sensing the shadow of a reproach.

“Hope never killed anyone,” he said curtly. “I do not want him to forget his origins, at least not completely. Speaking of which, I’d like you to have a little talk with La Potemkina soon. Our good nun needs to temper her zeal. She must stop pestering him with sermons and invitations to attend mass at Gostilitsy. I need this Muslim to remain as he is, a Muslim. Do you understand? I forbid her to convert him.”