Chapter Ten

 

Early the next morning, all Moscow awoke to learn of the Tsar’s return. After spending the night at the summer palace at Proebrazhenskoe, enjoying the voluptuous charms of his ‘loyal friend,’ Anna Mons, and secretly plotting revenge on his less than loyal subjects, Peter, Imperial Tsar of all of the Russias, was officially back!

Following Peter’s first official meeting with his nobles, officers and boyars, gossiping tongues licked up the news, and rumors spread like wildfire. Within hours, grumbles of dissent erupted like distant thunder and rolled across political skies, already black with deceit, as the Tsar’s wrath began to rain down on his beloved city.

The feverish foment of insurrection was on nearly every tongue. Had Peter gone mad? his nobles demanded to know. And how dare he sign into law changes that went completely against longstanding traditions? Many predicted that these changes would spur every Russian to revolt, from the highest born in the land to the lowliest peasant serf.

All Moscow convulsed with wild speculation, and fears ran rampant. The young Tsar’s reign teetered on thin ice. His own half-sister, wielding her power like a broad axe, opposed him. What madness, to flaunt his ungodly new practices—adopted from Western monarchs, whose ideas and customs were already highly suspect!

“The height of recklessness,” his boyars whispered behind his back. “Insane! He will not long stand, but send his noble house crashing down around his head,” others predicted.

The first flurry of court gossip to reach English ears centered around Peter’s bizarre de-bearding ceremony. Ambassador Stewart, his face an angry crimson, paced back and forth in the English embassy's parlor, reporting to his aides on what he now called “The Russian Problem,” referring to the Tsar himself. “Peter personally shaved several high ranking officers and statesmen,” he sputtered. “Outrageous! Especially when he did this while they were gathered to welcome him back to Moscow.”

“Clearly the Tsar has gone too far,” echoed other diplomatic underlings.

“Oh, dear! I suppose he means to use shaving as a test of loyalty.” Mrs. Bradshaw shook her head over the latest happenings and passed another plate of tea cakes.

“Peter has enough problems without offending his nobles, I should think,” said Mr. Nelson, who had taken over Rosalyn’s post as secretary upon the ambassador’s arrival.

“I quite agree," the slightly balding Mr. Bradshaw piped up, adjusting his cravat in the mirror over the fireplace. “How the Tsar handles the Streltsy rebellion led by his sister Sophie could very well alienate powerful nobles from the court.”

“It’s the worst possible time to introduce radical reforms,” Mr. Nelson affirmed.

Sitting quietly through this diatribe, Rosalyn found it hard to reconcile all this with the playful, inquisitive Peter she knew in England. “Why should it seem odd that he desires his court to show a ‘new face,’ as he calls it?” she asked. “Are people so fearful of new fashions?”

Never having forgiven her for deserting her post in Poland, Ambassador Stewart bared his teeth in an irritated grimace intended for her. “Mrs. Watermann, change takes time.” he reminded her. “Yet in one day the Tsar has signed edicts to outlaw beards—excusing only the clergy—and to encourage smoking. In addition, he has liberalized any number of laws.”

A military officer accepted a piece of cake from Mrs. Bradshaw before adding his tuppence: “The Tsar has young ambitious dreams for Russia. Why do you think he invited so many of England’s top advisors? He wants to bring about sweeping reforms! Let us hope he succeeds!”

Rosalyn nodded. “He plans to build a strong navy, too,” she said. “I heard him say often that he wants to open seaports and build a summer palace on the Baltic.”

Mrs. Bradshaw sniffed. “But will he be in power long enough to carry out such ambitious plans?” she asked.

Interrupting all the speculation, the housekeeper appeared, followed by a Russian servant from the palace. “Beg pardon, Mr. Ambassador.” He bowed with a flourish. “An invitation has just arrived from the Tsar for Mrs. Watermann and her companion, Miss Mercy Wallins.”

Rosalyn quickly read the card, written in English and signed by Peter himself, then passed it over to Mercy. “It seems we are to present ourselves at Terem Palace without delay.”

Mercy’s eyes opened wide. “Such an honor!”

The servant bowed. “I am instructed to say that His Majesty’s personal carriage is waiting outside.”

“It sounds more like a royal edict than an invitation,” Rosalyn told Mercy, and looked to their countrymen for their reaction.

Mr. Stewart gave the decisive nod. “Since you were his guide in London, Mrs. Watermann, it would appear ungracious to refuse the Tsar’s kind invitation.”

Mercy stood and curtsied to the Ambassador. “Of course, we shall accept. I am doubly grateful now that you had our luggage forwarded from Rawa, my lord.”

“Otherwise we wouldn't have a thing to wear!” Wondering what had inspired the Tsar to make such a magnanimous gesture, Rosalyn turned to her hostess. “Ma’am, might we prevail upon you to help us?”

Hurrying upstairs to gather their belongings, Mercy paused in the midst of her haphazard packing. “I hope this won’t interfere with my visiting Nicky.”

“Can’t live a single day without him, can you?” Rosalyn teased. “I confess, I cannot imagine what you two have in common.”

Mercy laughed, and the more she thought about Rosalyn’s remark, the more her eyes twinkled. “Rosalyn, you goose!” she chuckled. “All that matters is that I love Nicky as he is, a lovely, rowdy male, and he’s all mine.” She ignored Rosalyn’s “Bah!” and went on. “Oh, he has his faults, I won’t deny it! But what a loving heart! I tell you, Rosalyn, he completes me as a woman. If we were alike, how dull that would be! Indeed, I am shocked that you haven’t noticed the similarities between him and Grant Watermann!”

Already touchy on that subject, Rosalyn’s lips tightened. “In what way are they alike? Fie, you must be mad! Your Cossack makes Grant look like a polished gentleman, instead of the wily scoundrel that he is!”

“Oh, Rosalyn, why must you be so hard to please?” Mercy sighed.

Only half-listening, Rosalyn surveyed the room to make sure they hadn’t forgotten any trinkets. “All right! I am through trying to give you advice, Mercy,” she said, in staunch defense of her refusal to fall headlong into Grant’s arms and let him walk all over her. “And in exchange for my silence, I would appreciate it if you didn't discuss my love life—”

“Or lack of it,” Mercy chimed in with a wicked smile.

Rosalyn raised her hand, seeking a truce. “Peace, Mercy. The less said, the better on that score! Well, it looks like we’re packed. Are you ready to depart?”

Mercy rose with a twinkle. “Always ready for a new adventure.”

Descending the stairs with a clatter, they bade a cheery farewell to the Ambassador and his household, while the Russian coachman and the palace footmen struggled with their trunks.

“Goodbye, all!” they called, waving their handkerchiefs from the brightly lacquered gold and cream colored coach. They could scarce believe their good fortune. Having arrived only the night before, already they were being whisked away to live in palatial splendor!

“Can you imagine?” Rosalyn laughed. “Two Puritan ladies from Boston riding around Moscow in a royal coach!”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Entering the magnificent main hall of Terem Palace, Rosalyn and Mercy followed the lackey upstairs to their rooms in the south wing.

“’Tis a far cry from the humble sailor Peter pretended to be in England!” Mercy whispered, awestruck, as they mounted the majestic marble staircase, gaping up at high vaulted ceilings decorated with gold leaf carvings and ornate crown moldings.

“No wonder foreigners living in Moscow talk incessantly about Peter,” Rosalyn marveled, for the palace’s luxurious accommodations were unexcelled. “They must be dying of envy!”

Everywhere they looked, they saw Russian emblems beautifully carved into the woodwork, banisters, doors, and furniture. In the late afternoon, an English-speaking nobleman took them on a tour of Terem Palace’s public rooms on the main floor and the grounds. "The architecture is a blend of old and new," the clean-shaven boyar explained, "designed to remind Peter’s nobles of the city’s earliest origins as a trading post on the Moskva River."

When they came to the second floor, their escort made a point of showing them one of the beautiful marble bathrooms Peter’s father had installed in all the sumptuous bedroom suites. “It was done even before Versailles was built,” he informed them with obvious pride.

Terem’s carefully oiled wood trim, and fine tapestries, its magnificently decorated porches, gables, and copular roofs reflected the Eastern influences of invading hordes from the not so distant past. In this setting, reflecting East and West, Peter held his informal, often boisterous court gatherings. Among his many delights, they soon discovered, were his collections of scientific inventions, nautical instruments, ship models, sailing caps, and even Dutch pipes.

Left to browse awhile on their own, Mercy and Rosalyn continued to explore. “Look, Mercy,” Rosalyn called softly, as she pressed a fleur-de-lis on the wall. The slightest pressure of her hand opened a secret panel in her bedroom.

Rumor had it that Peter’s deep-seated mistrust of his wealthy nobles dated back to his earliest memories of intrigues in his father Alexis’s court. As a result, numerous hidden passages and interconnecting corridors had been added to facilitate escape, intrigue and romance, as the occasion demanded. And here was the exciting proof!

“Clearly Peter has an inventive mind!” Mercy whispered. Eager to begin their search for clandestine excitement, she and Rosalyn furtively prowled the backstairs of the palace, taking care not to be discovered by th servants.

To them it was a lark. But to the Tsar, this labyrinth of secret passageways was clearly a necessary means to survival. Evidence of Peter's fertile mind was at work everywhere. No wonder their imaginations ran wild, as they speculated about the centuries-old intrigues with which he and his father before him had to contend.

From the moment Rosalyn entered the palace grounds, the Tsar’s preoccupation with matters of security became unmistakable. She saw heavily armed guards everywhere. And when they went down to dinner later, Peter sat at the head table, surrounded by bodyguards, even though accompanied by his most intimate friends.

All this made Rosalyn wonder: Why had the Tsar invited two such inconsequential young English women to this amazing palace? Though the Tsar went through the motions of playing the gracious host, Peter was not the same congenial fellow she'd known in London. Indeed, he seemed curt and easily provoked, instead of being his formerly relaxed and outgoing self.

That evening the Tsar led off the Russian New Year with a dinner and dance. Russian nobility and boyars rubbed shoulders with common sailors from the burgeoning Russian fleet. The Tsar’s new technical advisors, including Major Leonard van der Stamm, master shipwright from Deptford, were on hand, along with Peter’s longtime friend and military advisor, General Patrick Gordon.

Accustomed to court manners, the old General received a severe shock early in the evening. When Gordon prostrated himself before the Imperial Tsar in the customary manner, Peter lifted him up and vigorously shook his hand. Throughout the evening, Peter made a point of embracing commoners with the same enthusiasm he showed his most revered courtiers. Clearly, such familiarity between royalty and even the most honored subjects was unheard of. Indeed, a murmur of disapproval went up among the boyars, who felt that God’s anointed should show greater respect for the office to which Peter had been called by divine right. Stripped of their beards, which symbolized the “old ways” Peter loathed, the city’s most influential men almost tiptoed around their ruler, as if fearing to stir up his wrath and prompt him to commit additional outrages against his people. As for the Russian ladies, they reacted with a flurry of shocked reactions behind lace fans and jeweled hands!

Rosalyn was amazed by Peter’s determination to bring together such divergent social groups. For many guests, this was their first glimpse of what Peter desired for his beloved Motherland. By the same token, many of his English guests were getting their first look at the medieval court’s strong resistance to modern ideas.

After dinner, the tables were removed and the chairs pushed back for a time of dancing. Wearing the latest Western fashions, Peter himself led off the first dance, a minuet, with his dark sloe-eyed mistress, Anna Mons.

Again, eyebrows lifted. That he would publically humiliate the Tsaritsa by flaunting his mistress set his court ablaze with scandalous whispers. His wife Eudoxia’s absence reinforced rumors that he not only meant to force her into a nunnery, but that he had forcibly removed their eight-year-old son Alexis from her care upon his return.

Even more talk focused on the fate of the four Streltsy regiments being held in the dungeons at Proebrazhenshoe. The Tsar’s harsh measures seemed justified to quash the rebellion, but his clear preference for Western ideas added to a long list of unpardonable offenses. Conservative boyars regarded his demands that his subjects abandon the venerated traditions of church and state as sacrilegious.

But Peter did not tolerate open criticism. He was the Tsar, and he let them know it.

Like most of the English, Rosalyn had perceived Peter as a rather undisciplined ruler who delighted to roam about London dressed in sailor’s garb, drinking and carousing, with little concern for protocol. Here, he was very much the royal despot, albeit still given to unorthodox views.

All evening an undercurrent of tension pervaded the ballroom. Hoping to escape, Rosalyn excused herself briefly and went upstairs to refresh herself. When she reappeared shortly thereafter at the top of the grand staircase, her gaze fell on a group of men engaged in conversation with General Gordon and Major van der Stamm. Among them, a familiar dark head chanced to glance up. At once his unforgettable tawny eyes raked over her, making her heart leap and sing for joy. As she continued to descend, he lifted a snifter of cognac in an unspoken salute. His bold smile sent a flood of memories sluicing through her. By the time she reached the bottom step, her heart was racing as if she’d been dancing nonstop for hours.

“Grant!” Tears sprang to her eyes, as his fingers closed around hers in a light squeeze.

“Hello, partner,” he drawled. His eyes swept over her in bold assessment, and she found herself grateful that her modestly rounded bodice hid a full body flush. “I like you in that shade of blue,” he said. “Matches your eyes.”

“You are really and truly here,” she breathed, overwhelmed by his unexpected appearance. She had never seen him so well dressed—in black with a silver waistcoat and a crisp linen shirt, set off by a robin’s egg blue silk cravat. She found it hard to take her eyes off him. “You’re wearing blue, too, I see,” she said, unable to stop smiling.

“What better proof that we belong together?" He bowed, mischief dancing in his eyes.

Finding his smile irresistible, she had to admit, “I've missed you, more than I can say.”

Interrupting their tête à tête, Tsar Peter appeared at her elbow and captured her hand. “Ah, fair lady! This dance is ours.” Without further ado, he pulled her into a rollicking volta that sent her flying about the ballroom under a power not her own. Her feet barely touched the polished floor, as she flew past Grant, who was again deeply immersed in discussion with van der Stamm.

“Mrs. Watermann, I need your help,” Peter said impatiently. “It’s a matter of national security.”

Startled, she looked up into his steely black eyes. “Your Majesty?”

“You and your friend traveled to Moscow with a Cossack named Nicholai Stepanovich, did you not?”

“Why, yes. My friend had a falling out with Count Bronislau, and Lieutenant Stepanovich was kind enough to—”

“Stepanovich comes from a noble line.” He seemed grieved by the fact.

“I find that hard to believe, Your Majesty,” Rosalyn countered. “He described to us an extremely humble childhood.”

“Hmmph!” snorted Peter. “His father Dimitri was the rebel son of a prince who was exiled by my father—and a member of the Zaporozhian Cossacks. His father finally came to heel and served my father as a mercenary, but not before he and his men raided the garrison at Azoz.”

“But you’re describing his father,” she protested.

“True. But I need to know: Did Stepanovich carry any papers with him?”

Puzzled by his questions, Rosalyn shook her head. “All I know is that my friend needed help, and he was kind enough to escort us.”

“You never saw him meet with anyone?”

“No. We stayed one night with a peasant family, and we stopped at an inn another time during our journey.”

“The man may have been a courier, riding ahead to warn my adversaries.” Peter’s face grew flushed with anger.

Rosalyn grew alarmed. Why was he unwilling to accept her word? “Your Majesty, the trip was entirely uneventful,” she said, hoping to reassure him. “I am sure my friend Miss Wallins will confirm—”

“I believe he is part of the Streltsy conspiracy to oppose me. Forgive me, but perhaps a message was exchanged that neither of you saw,” he said curtly. “One cannot be too careful.”

His fierce smile told her the interrogation was over—at least for the moment. Still, she was in a total quandary as to what was going on. When the dance ended, he returned her abruptly to where she and Mercy had been seated earlier in the evening.

Just then Mercy came gliding up on the arm of an elderly, but extremely fit Dutch naval officer. “What a delightful evening!” she exulted, quite out of breath.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself, Miss Wallins,” said Peter, extending his arm. “May I have the next dance?”

Mercy went into a low curtsy, displaying her best smile and plenty of cleavage. “Your Majesty,” she sighed. “I am deeply honored.”

Wanting to dismiss the ominous feeling caused by Peter’s unnerving questions, Rosalyn danced the next two polkas with the dashing Dutchman and conceded that age in no way diminished his ability to charm a lady. In fact, she had a pretty good idea where Mercy might set her cap next, if and when she fell out of love with ‘Nicky’!

As the evening progressed, a whole bevy of Russian nobles partnered Rosalyn through the intricate steps of the latest court dances, most of which she had picked up during their brief stops in Liepzig and Vienna. She in turn shared a few steps from the spritely round dances she had picked up in England. Altogether having a grand time, she finally returned to her seat, only to find General Gordon waiting for her. At his side was a darkly handsome Russian nobleman in his thirties.

“May I present Count Vladimir Morinsky?” the General said with a bow.

Wearing a mauve suit of satin that rivaled any haute couture she’d seen during her stopovers in Western Europe, the count raised her hand to his lips.

“Count Morinsky,” she acknowledged with a deep curtsy.

The introductions made, the Count invited her to dance the minuet, and General Gordon wandered off to chat with members of the English delegation.

“I understand you are from the English colonies,” Morinsky said as they pivoted, dipped and arched to gaze into each other’s eyes.

“Yes, but I plan to make my home in London when I return from this business trip.”

He gave her a strange look. “But you are a woman. Surely you leave all business matters to your husband?”

Rosalyn smiled at his dismay that a woman might be involved in business. ‘Actually, I am a widow.” Following the music, she stepped away, hoping to discourage further interrogation.

When next their steps met, Morinsky resumed his questioning. “I hear you traveled with Nicholai Stepanovich all the way from Poland, Madame. I assume you know the man well?”

Rosalyn stiffened at his insinuation. “I was acting as chaperone for my friend,” she said unsmilingly.

The nobleman’s eyes reminded her of a ferret: keen, crafty and dangerous. “Your friend, Mercy Wallins?” At her curt nod, he smiled. “Rumor has it they are lovers.”

Uncanny, she thought, how many times this evening Mercy’s and the Cossack’s names had crept into the conversation! It had to be more than mere coincidence. Rosalyn felt her back stiffen with annoyance. “I don’t know where you get your information, Count Morinsky,” she said, barely civil, “but I resent you prying into other people’s lives. What business is it of yours anyway?”

“Only curious,” he said blandly. “My very good friend, Alexei Bronislau, wrote me how entertaining he found Mistress Wallins during their short acquaintance.”

Ignoring the music, Rosalyn stopped dancing in the middle of the ballroom and gave him a freezing look of disdain. “My Lord, your friend is a vile debaucher,” she said. “I bid you goodnight!”

She spun on her heel and walked swiftly from the dance floor. Making a beeline for the refreshment table, she assumed the Count would leave her alone, but she was wrong.

He grabbed her arm in a hard grip and swung her around to face him. “Madame, your friend is making a grave mistake. Her friendship with Stepanovich could prove costly,” he warned, speaking through bared teeth. “The man is likely a traitor to the Tsar!”

Rosalyn raised her chin haughtily. “I am not interested in petty speculations about my friend, or about Nicholai Stepanovich,” she snapped. “Now please leave me alone!”

“Mrs. Watermann! I’ve been looking all over for you,” interrupted a familiar and extremely welcome voice behind her.