Chapter Twenty-Eight
Anastasia, on her own, New York City, New York
“Your Highness. Your Highness . . .”
Anastasia opened her eyes to the sound of her maid’s soft voice. She blinked and pushed herself up to a seated position, stifling a groan as her abused muscles protested. Next to the bed, the maid she shared with Maria dipped into a curtsey.
“Your Highness asked to be awakened when Her Imperial Majesty rose.”
“My grandmother is awake?” Anastasia asked, pitching her voice low so as not to wake the sleeping Maria on the other side of the bedroom.
“Yes, Your Highness. She is taking breakfast in the small parlor just outside.”
“Thank you. I will join her. Have you a day dress ready?”
“I have the light blue—”
“That will be perfect, Yelena. Thank you.”
Yelena dipped into another curtsey, and then helped her mistress stand on aching, sore legs. Anastasia stretched her arms up over her head, letting out a hiss of pain as she spared a moment’s longing for the hotel’s well-appointed bathing chamber and the deep claw-footed tub therein. A soak in hot water sounded like pure heaven . . . but not right now.
She had more important things to do. Like face her grandmother.
Yelena had her dressed and coiffed in a matter of minutes. Anastasia flinched when Yelena’s skillful fingers brushed over a bruise in her hairline.
“Are you all right, Your Highness?” Yelena asked, her voice threaded through with worry.
“I’m just finding new bruises. You heard about the explosion at the theater last night?”
“We are all grateful to God for Your Highness’ safety.”
“Yes, well. Grateful to God and to Anton Ivanovich Dostovalov, perhaps. He shielded me, but he could not exactly be gentle in the process. Does my grandmother know?”
“I believe she does, Your Highness.”
Anastasia took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “Well, then. I suppose I must speak with her. Thank you, Yelena, I think that is the best you will be able to do with my hair today. I appreciate your help.”
Yelena dropped down into another curtsey and Anastasia rose to her feet. She took one more look in the vanity mirror, noting the slight purpling above her temple, and pursed her lips. Then she smoothed her face, steeled her spine, and turned to go and face her grandmother.
“Good Morning, Your Majesty,” Anastasia said formally as she entered the “small parlor” that sat at the center of their suite of rooms. She kept her head high as she walked over to the table where her grandmother sat and dropped into a curtsey of precisely the correct depth and reverence for a Grand Duchess addressing a Dowager Empress.
“Oh, my dear,” Maria Feodorovna said. Fabric swished and rustled as she came to her feet, and Anastasia found herself caught up in her grandmother’s perfumed embrace.
She let her own arms come up around her grandmother’s shoulders and cling.
“My darling,” Dagmar said into her granddaughter’s hair. “Are you all right?”
“I am, Grandmama,” she said. “Thanks to the grace of God and the quick reactions of Anton Ivanovich Dostovalov.”
Her grandmother pressed the third finger of her right hand against the corner of her eye, blinked rapidly, and resettled herself in the chair she’d been using.
She gestured to the chair next to her, and Anastasia took the invitation to sit down. Nerves kept her spine ramrod straight, however, and she mostly perched on the edge . . . but it was better than standing.
“What I do not understand,” Dagmar went on as one of the attendant footmen stepped forward to pour steaming, fragrant coffee into the mug in front of Anastasia, “is why he did not immediately return you to this hotel once the explosion happened.”
“Because, Grandmama, I asked him not to.”
Dagmar arched an elegant eyebrow at her granddaughter. “Perhaps you had better start from the beginning . . . and leave nothing out.”
Anastasia smiled her thanks at the footman and took a sip of the coffee. Normally she preferred tea, but she needed something to brace her nerves, and the strong, bitter flavor would do. She lowered the mug, took a deep breath, and then looked up to meet her grandmother’s piercing gaze.
“As you know, Alice Roosevelt invited me to accompany her to the film premiere. She did warn me that it was public, and that there would likely be press there, so Feldfebel Dostovalov came along as my telokhranitel. On the way to the theater, our motorcar was held up by a traffic snarl on a side street, so we arrived a few minutes after we’d intended to do so. Lieutenant Roosevelt had just helped Alice and me out of the motorcar—”
Dagmar held up a hand. “Lieutenant Roosevelt?”
“Lieutenant Quentin Roosevelt. Alice’s youngest brother.”
“The President’s son?”
“Yes. He was an aviator in France during the war. He’s returned home. The press call him a war hero.”
“I imagine they do.” Dagmar lifted her own mug, her tone cynical. “He was with you and his sister?”
“He took a separate motorcar that arrived just before ours, but yes. He was there.”
“And you were photographed with him?”
“Well, with him and Alice . . . and Feldfebel Dostovalov, I suppose. We were all standing together as Alice and I exited the motorcar.”
Dagmar nodded. “And then—?”
Anastasia felt her pulse accelerate. She inhaled slowly through her nose to try to compensate.
“And then,” she said. “The front of the theater exploded. Somehow, Dostovalov managed to shield me under his body, but the force was powerful enough to blow what had to be tons of brick and stone into the air. Alice was thrown into the motorcar and injured. Quentin—Lieutenant Roosevelt—rescued her and sent her to the hospital in the motorcar with his driver.”
“He did not go with her?”
“No, Grandmama. He stayed, as did Dostovalov and I, to help find any survivors and to try and find the bodies of those who did not survive.”
“This is the part I do not understand, Anastasia. Why would you do such a reckless thing?” Dagmar leaned forward, her cheeks flushed with something that may have been anger.
“I had several reasons, Grandmama,” Anastasia said. She’d rehearsed this argument in her bed as she waited to fall asleep, and her voice felt high and tinny as the memory of the scent of scorched dust and roasting meat teased at her, making her stomach twist.
Dagmar lifted a hand in an invitation for her to continue.
“First,” Anastasia said, “I heard someone calling for help. Under a large pile of rubble and debris. So, I started to dig them out and Dostovalov and Lieutenant Roosevelt helped. It was a woman, and she was badly injured. We put her in the ambulance, but I do not know if she will live. But I couldn’t just leave her there to die in agony, buried alive.”
Dagmar swallowed, but her eyes remained hard. “And then?”
“Then,” Anastasia went on, “there was the issue of appearances. You see, the press was already on scene. Most of the victims were their own coworkers, there to photograph the people arriving for the premiere. They’d seen me . . . and they would see me and take note if I showed any sort of cowardice.”
“It is not cowardice to protect oneself.”
“No, but I had my telokhranitel and an American war hero with me. And we were able to help, Grandmama. Not just that first woman, but in general. It was chaos, but Lieutenant Roosevelt and I . . . perhaps we are used to command, I don’t know. But I know that when we began telling people how to organize themselves, they listened. We were able to search the rest of the wreckage for survivors. When the fire started, we were able to form a bucket brigade to keep it from spreading until the Fire Department could arrive with their equipment . . . and the press saw all of it.”
“You do not think it will damage your reputation to be seen working like a common laborer?”
“Grandmama, this is not our world. This is America. They pride themselves on working! They love to work and, frankly, despise those who don’t work. The richer they are, the harder they work. I do not think it will damage my reputation at all. On the contrary, it will make it!”
Anastasia couldn’t have planned for better timing if she’d tried. At that exact moment, a member of the staff came in with the morning’s folded newspapers on a tray. Dagmar raised her eyebrows in challenge as she turned her upper body to pick up the morning edition.
“Let us see, shall we?” she said. She flipped open the paper to the section she wanted and smoothed it down on the surface of the table. Anastasia held herself entirely still, refusing to fidget even as nerves and nauseating memories tangled deep in her gut. Dagmar’s eyes scanned the tiny print of the news sheet, her face composed and showing nothing.
When she was finished, she folded the newspaper again and turned back to regard her granddaughter.
“This says you promised an interview?”
Anastasia swallowed and nodded. “Yes, Grandmama.”
“You did not think to consult me first?”
“I did not have time, it was the only way I could get the reporter to put his camera down and actually help us. Besides, it seems obvious that since we cannot control the press directly, we must . . . what did Quentin call it? ‘Spin’ the story to our advantage.”
“And you think you have the skill to do that?” Dagmar asked, her eyebrows rising up toward her hairline again.
“I think that if you help me prepare, I will,” Anastasia said. “I know that this troubles you, Grandmama, but I genuinely see an opportunity here. The United States is a young nation, yes, but they are wealthy, and they have resources that could be incredibly helpful to our cause. Tatiana said it herself, if we are to survive, Imperial Russia must grow and change with this new century. We will need new allies as well as our traditional friends . . . for where were those friends when my father needed them?”
“The United States would not have intervened to save my poor Nicky,” Dagmar said, her dark eyes narrowing in pain at the reminder.
“Perhaps not, but if I can win the hearts of their people, they may intervene to save his daughter. Tatiana needs men and materiel, Grandmama. More than I truly understand, if I am honest . . . and after the way the war has wrecked most of Europe . . . well . . . the United States may very well be our best chance.
“But they are different, these Americans,” Anastasia went on. “I have been studying them since we landed in San Franscisco, and they do not think in old ways. They claim to eschew aristocracy, and yet they elevate their own pseudo-royalty in their newspapers and follow them with obsessive interest.”
“Actresses and businessmen!” Dagmar said with a dismissive snort.
“Yes,” Anastasia said, “And politicians. And remember, Grandmama, these politicians are elected by the will of the people. If we can make the people love us . . . love our cause . . . we may perhaps maneuver their government to the point where they do not dare to refuse our pleas.”
Dagmar sat silently for a long moment, her dark, unreadable eyes boring into her granddaughter’s.
“And you think you can do this?” she asked again, but this time her tone was less dismissive, more solemnly inquiring.
“If you help me, if you teach me, then yes, Grandmama. You are the best in the world at wooing a populace. You had our common folk eating out of your hand when you were Tsarina. Everyone says so. If you teach me, then yes. I not only think I can do this, I know I can.”
“You will have to remain here. You will not be able to come with us to London as we had planned.”
Anastasia nodded. “Alice has invited me to stay with her family for as long as I like. I believe she did so at the behest of her father, the former President.”
Dagmar pursed her lips. “From what I’ve learned of her, I do not like Alice as a companion for you,” she said. “She is too vain and self-centered. She thinks only of her own pleasure and not enough about the effect of her actions on her family.”
“I think that was true several years ago, Grandmama, but she is no longer a young, wild woman. And more importantly, the American press love her . . . in part because of her wild past.”
Dagmar tilted her head to the side, as if to acknowledge that Anastasia had a point.
“It is unorthodox, to be sure, but a former President of this country is probably of adequate status—barely—to host a daughter of Imperial Russia for a visit. Roosevelt is popular with the people, yes?”
“He is,” Anastasia said. “More so with the working classes than the rich, I believe, but he is popular enough that he intends to run for another term.”
“And when would this election be?”
“Next year. 1920. They have them every four years.”
“Hmm.” Dagmar lifted her coffee to her lips, her eyes staring at Anastasia over the rim as she sipped.
Anastasia waited. Her instincts told her that her grandmother would not be pushed or manipulated. So, she waited and let the dowager empress come to her own conclusions.
“You are determined to do this?” Dagmar asked.
“I am,” Anastasia said, hoping that her grandmother wouldn’t hear the nerves in her voice.
“Very well. If this is what your conscience says is the best way for you to help your sister, then I will help you. I do not relish being parted from you, my dear Nastenka, but it may be that you are correct about these Americans.”
Anastasia tamped down on the flare of triumph that surged within her chest. She leaned forward and reached out to take Dagmar’s smooth, long-fingered hand in her own.
“Thank you, Grandmama,” she said quietly. “Thank you for believing in me.”
For just a moment, Dagmar gripped her fingers with surprising strength that spoke of her own well-concealed emotions. Then she let go and straightened in her chair.
“So. Here is what you must consider, then,” she said, turning to butter a piece of her toast. “You have already begun to do this, I believe, but you must continue to study the American character. Find out what they love, what they applaud. It will not be all the same things that I emphasized during your grandfather’s reign, but many of the same principles will apply. Above all else, you must understand this: every person, whether man, woman, or child, common or noble, wants to matter. I could never make your dear mother understand this, may God bless her.”
Anastasia swallowed hard and nodded. She had loved her mother, of course, but she could understand her grandmother’s point. Mama had been shy at best when dealing with people outside their own circle. It had not made for an easy—or successful—tenure as Tsarina.
“We will begin with this interview of yours. Tomorrow?”
“Yes, Grandmama. I have asked Lieutenant Roosevelt to come, too. So that he can contribute his perspective. I could ask Feldfebel Dostovalov, but I do not think he would be comfortable being interviewed in English.”
“Hmm. Yes, and let us not draw attention to his role as your telokhranitel. That will be better for your safety.”
“As you say, Grandmama.”
“I will sit in on the interview. You must ensure that what you say is completely above reproach. If you are going to do this successfully, Anastasia, you must be pristine in the public eye.”
“Grandmama, I would never—”
“I know you think you would never do anything to damage your reputation as a daughter of Imperial Russia, but you must take extra care. If you are attempting to influence public opinion, you will need to draw attention. That means that there can be no cause for reproach . . . not even an imaginary one.”
“Yes, Grandmama.”
Dagmar lifted her cup again. “I will think further on this. I must write to Her Imperial Majesty, of course. We will need to take further precautions for your safety, especially if, as you hinted, the bomb was targeting you.”
“It could have as easily been targeting the Roosevelt children—”
“I don’t think so,” Dagmar said, shaking her head. “Perhaps if their father had been attending. Elections do bring out the worst in people; they’re a terrible idea, really. But nothing in recent American history suggests that his children would be considered political targets. If, however, the damned Reds have people here . . .”
“They do,” Anastasia said quietly. “They’d almost have to. And such rhetoric is legal here . . . all rhetoric is legal here.”
“Yes. Another flaw in the American system, to be sure. We will have to augment your security. I have a thought, but I must see if . . . well. I have a thought. I will think on it further.”
“Grandmama,” Anastasia said, her throat growing suddenly thick with emotion. “Thank you.”
“For what, dear child?”
“For . . . trusting me. For believing in me.”
“Oh, my dear.” Dagmar set down her mug and her food and turned toward her granddaughter, opening her arms in invitation. “I have always believed in you,” she said as Anastasia leaned forward to accept the embrace. “I always knew you would do great things, I just wish that your parents were here to see it.”
Anastasia sniffled in a most undignified way. “Me too, Grandmama,” she said. “Me too.”