Chapter Twenty-Three
Lobby of the Palace Hotel, San Francisco, United States
San Francisco, California, USA
They arrived in San Francisco in the middle of the night.
Despite the grinding fatigue that dragged at the edges of her mind, disappointment twisted deep inside Anastasia. After all of the interminable delays in leaving Russia, the wait for passage in Japan, and the endless-seeming two weeks crossing the emptiness of the Pacific Ocean, she’d been quite excited about her first glimpse of America. But as soon as they disembarked, Anastasia and Maria found themselves ushered quickly into a closed motorcar which roared through the darkened streets of the city to a hotel. Someone had mentioned the name, but Anastasia had forgotten.
She did try to look out the windows at the buildings, especially whenever the car stopped, but she couldn’t see much, and so she flopped back onto her seat with her arms crossed firmly over her chest and the familiar mulish stubbornness rising inside her.
“You needn’t look like that, Nastenka,” Maria said softly from her seat next to Anastasia. “We’re all uncomfortable and exhausted. None of us really want to be here in this dreadful backwater excuse for a city, but you will only make it worse with your childish temper.”
“It’s not that.” Anastasia turned her frown on her sister. “I was just trying to see. We’ve never been to San Francisco before.”
“There is nothing to see,” Maria said, leaning her head back against the headrest and closing her eyes. “Everyone knows that American towns are dirty and ramshackle. The sooner we get to New York and can sail for London, the better. I am half afraid that the war might have us stuck in America forever.” She shuddered, and Anastasia fought the urge to roll her eyes in sarcasm at her sister’s increasing snobbery.
Tatiana was right, you have changed, Anastasia thought as she looked at her sister’s profile. You’ve always been beautiful, but something ugly has grown in you, dear sister. We were taught to know our worth, but not to look down on others! Certainly not those less fortunate! More and more I understand why she is sending you away . . . but I do hope that we don’t live to regret the woman you will become in Britain.
With these thoughts, Anastasia’s mulishness settled into a pensive sort of discontent. She pursed her lips, but decided to let the matter drop and turned her gaze back outside the window when the motorcar rattled to a stop. Unseen, her hand slipped into an interior pocket of her cloak.
“We have arrived.”
It was the guard, Dostovalov, who spoke, his words clipped and short before he exited the front seat of the motorcar and came to open the door for them. Since Olga’s death and that of his friend, Chekov, he’d been their family’s constant shadow. Whereas he once kept them prisoner, he now served as one of their assigned guards . . . and he appeared to take his duties incredibly personally.
Did he love poor Olga? Anastasia wondered. She’d overheard a whisper or two that led her to speculate. Not that it matters. Olga is dead, Maria is changing, Tatiana is Empress and I am here in America. What a strange life we lead, do we not, Feldfebel Dostovalov?
Anastasia gave him a smile as she accepted his hand out of the motorcar. Dostovalov remained stony-faced as ever, but his touch was gentle and his hands sure as he kept her from tripping over the uneven cobblestone street.
“Welcome to the Palace Hotel!”
The man who greeted them spoke English with an odd, flat accent. He sounded as if he smiled broadly, but Anastasia couldn’t really tell. He wore some kind of gauzy mask over his nose and mouth while he gestured expansively with both hands, as if he were a showman revealing some marvel or wonder. Anastasia smiled at him, but Maria contented herself with inclining her head slightly in acknowledgement.
“Right through here, ladies,” the man said, opening up the door and ushering their party through to an airy lobby constructed of soaring arches and inlaid marble floors.
“Why is he masked?” Anastasia whispered to Baroness Buxhoeveden as they followed him inside.
“There is illness in the city,” the baroness murmured back. “At the port, they informed me that hoteliers and their staff are required to remain masked to slow the spread. It is recommended for everyone, but ladies may substitute veils instead.”
What an odd requirement, Anastasia thought as the American man continued to chatter on. Their party filed in as he gave them details about the construction of the hotel, its history, and some of its more notable guests.
A Hawaiian King, hmm? Anastasia followed Maria’s straight back through the lobby and toward what the man said was one of four “rising rooms.” The lobby was beautiful enough, to be sure, but no one who had grown up in the Tsar’s Imperial court was going to be impressed by opulence.
Not that this man knew who they were. It had been decided that for their protection, they would travel discreetly. Baroness Buxhoeveden acted as the leader of their party and chaperone to the two younger women on an educational tour of the United States of America.
A thin lie, if this is all we’re ever to see of America. Anastasia’s thoughts turned back to her frustration. A beautiful hotel not one quarter as splendid as some of the palaces at home, and a train ride. I do hope there is a delay in getting our train tickets. At least of one day!
As it happened, Anastasia got her day. Baroness Buxhoeveden required that long to make suitable arrangements for them to travel by rail from San Franscisco to New York City, where they were to meet with Grandmama and the other representatives of His British Majesty’s government.
Consequently, late morning found Anastasia wandering through the hotel’s much-vaunted Garden Court, Dostovalov close at her side. She wound her arm through his and stifled a smirk at his stiff posture, but he refused to protest as he had upstairs in their suite.
“I am not traveling as Grand Duchess Anastasia Romanova here, my friend! It will look odd and attract attention if you are hovering behind my shoulder like some kind of bodyguard. It is better if we walk side by side as old, familiar friends. No one will notice us then,” she had told him.
“It would be better if you would not insist on leaving the suite,” he’d said, his voice a deep, annoyed rumble.
“I will not if you can honestly tell me that you do not think I will be safe with your escort.” Anastasia had put her hands on her hips and arched her eyebrow in challenge. “If that is truly how you feel, I will remain here with Maria.”
Dostovalov had let out a sigh and simply shaken his head in defeat, and so soon the two of them commenced to explore the public areas of the beautiful, grand American hotel.
Anastasia looked around with interest, taking in the veined golden marble of the ionic columns that defined the Garden Court. Daylight filtered in through the glass ceiling, reflecting off the cut crystal chandeliers in jeweled fire. A soft murmur of voices filled the space, providing a pleasant backdrop of sound punctuated by the occasional laugh or clatter of a morning teacup against a saucer.
“What do you think?” Anastasia asked her long-suffering escort as they took a full turn around the outside of the courtyard.
“It’s very pretty,” Dostovalov said, sounding as if he hated to admit it. “But places like these are what give the Reds their ammunition.”
“What do you mean?” Anastasia asked, tilting her head to look up at him as she turned this thought over in her mind.
Dostovalov snorted softly and shrugged. “I’ve never been in a place this fine,” he said. “If I had shown up here without you and your sister, I doubt they would have let me in the front door. Places like these are only for the elite, Your H— miss. And those as aren’t welcome resent it. The Reds feed on that resentment and use it as fuel for their recruitment.”
Anastasia narrowed her eyes and nodded slowly in contemplation as they continued to walk. But before they’d gone more than halfway down the length of the court, she shook her head again.
“I think I partially disagree with you, Anton Ivanovich.”
“As Your . . . As you like, miss.”
“No, listen. I think you’re right to an extent. My family owned hundreds of rooms every bit as elegant and ornate as this one, and no one ever saw them but . . . well, you know who.”
“I assure you, miss. I have no idea who was invited into your family’s rooms.”
Anastasia fought the urge to stomp her slippered foot. “But you know what I mean,” she insisted. “No one was allowed in those rooms except those who were invited. But I look around at all of these people . . . All of these Americans, with no titles, no bloodlines to speak of. And they all just walked in here. The only requirement is money.”
Dostovalov snorted. “Spoken like someone who has never felt the lack of money,” he said.
Anastasia felt her spine stiffen, and a chill flood through her. She stopped and turned to stare up into his face, her eyes cold and hard. “We didn’t have any money in Tobolsk, when we were prisoners there,” she said softly. “As I think you well remember.”
Dostovalov swallowed and ducked his head.
“I do,” he said softly. “You are right. I apologize.”
Anastasia stared at him for a moment before squeezing his arm that she still held.
“I forgive you,” she said softly, pulling them into motion again. “And I understand what you are saying. Money is not easy to get when you don’t have it, I do know that. But my point is that it is something one can get if one doesn’t already have it. It might be difficult, or dangerous—”
“Or illegal.”
“Or that,” she nodded. “Yes, that too. But unlike the right family name or bloodline, money is a commodity that is nominally available to everyone. And here in America, if you have enough of it, you get to enjoy places like this. No matter who you are.”
“Unless you’re Chinese or Japanese or Negro,” Dostovalov pointed out as they passed by the lobby and saw several people of each persuasion in servants’ dress helping to stack the luggage of new arrivals.
“Perhaps that is because this is not China or Japan or Africa,” Anastasia said. “Though I suspect if the Emperor of Japan or the King of one of the African nations arrived here, he’d be a welcome guest. The man last night said they’d once hosted a King of Hawai‘i here.”
“But once again, they are royalty.”
Anastasia huffed out her breath and fought the urge to stomp once again. “Yes,” she said with exaggerated patience. “But they are also rich. I am suggesting that their wealth matters more, here, than their bloodline or their rank, and I think that’s an interesting concept, don’t you?”
“If you say so, miss.”
Anastasia gave in to the urge and stamped her foot. “Ooh! You are the most irritating man,” she ground out softly between gritted teeth. “I do not understand what Olga saw in you.”
As soon as she said the words, Anastasia wished them back again. While she didn’t know what, exactly, had been between her late eldest sister and this man, he had mourned her loss to the extent of nearly taking his own life.
“Anton Ivanovich . . . I-I am sorry—”
His arm shook underneath her fingers. Anastasia glanced up to see his lips pressed together, his eyes filled with tears, yes, but as she watched, he let out first one, then several chuckles.
“Anton Ivanovich?”
“To be honest, miss, I have no idea!” He said this on a wave of further laughter. Laughter so infectious that Anastasia found herself first grinning, and then giggling along with him as he chose mirth over tears.
After a few minutes of this, Anastasia swiped one gloved finger under her eye to catch the tears that had gathered there and drew in a deep breath.
“You know,” she said softly, pulling them over to a conversational grouping of chairs and out of the path of the perambulators. “Perhaps I do know what she saw. Clearly, it was your sense of humor!”
“And my good looks!” Dostovalov added, which sent them off into another laughing fit. Not because he wasn’t handsome—he was, in a rugged, farm-boy sort of way—but because the whole idea was so absurd. A Grand Duchess and a common soldier? Impossible. And yet, it had happened.
Anastasia collapsed into one of the chairs, holding one hand tight to her middle and clasping the other over her mouth to keep from guffawing like a donkey. Dostovalov took the other chair and leaned forward, his own tears of mirth—and perhaps sadness—streaming down the planes of his face.
When they once again fell silent, Anastasia glanced around to see if anyone had noted their lack of decorum. Apparently not; all of the hotel and restaurant patrons seemed completely absorbed in their own conversations and business. Indeed, one of the tables nearby erupted into loud laughter of their own, and Anastasia felt her smile deepen.
“I don’t know what she saw in me,” Dostovalov said softly, bringing Anastasia’s attention back to him. “But she was the most beautiful angel. Every time she smiled at me, I felt . . . I don’t know. Like I could do anything.”
“She had that effect.” Anastasia nodded, still smiling. She reached out and laid her hand over his on the arm of his chair. “She could always make one feel special.”
“Yes,” he said, nodding, his eyes far away. “That’s exactly it.”
“She would be very proud of you, I think, Anton Ivanovich.”
Dostovalov’s eyes cut up to Anastasia’s face. “Do you think so?”
“I do,” she nodded. “She would not want you to grieve her in misery forever, or . . . well. She would want you to live, and to try and find happiness and purpose again.”
“That is what the Emp—your sister said also. Or words to that effect. That is why I am here, why I protect you.”
“And you do a fine job of it.” Anastasia squeezed his fingers. He remained still for a long moment, then gave her the briefest of squeezes in return.
Anastasia pulled her hand back. It wasn’t at all usual for her to have any kind of physical contact with a guard, unless in the course of his duties. And certainly to touch his hand in such an intimate, emotional moment was not the done thing . . . but this man had loved Olga, and lost her. And they were here, in this strange new country of America . . . well. Touching the man’s hand to give him comfort seemed the least she could do.
“Did you and she ever—” she half-whispered, before she had even really decided to articulate the question that haunted her mind.
“No,” he said softly. “Never.” It was the first time he’d denied it because it was the first time he’d been directly asked.
“I wish you had,” Anastasia said.
“Me too.” He dropped his gaze to the floor. “If I had known . . .”
“If any of us had known,” Anastasia said. “We would have found a way to make sure you could have had that together. She deserved—”
“She deserved more than me,” Dostovalov scoffed.
“She deserved to be loved.” Anastasia let her voice take on a slight edge. “And you loved her. That is what is important, Anton Ivanovich.”
Dostovalov swallowed hard and nodded. Then finally looked up and met Anastasia’s eyes. She saw grief and loss there, yes, but also gratitude. He nodded again, and smiling, so did she.
“Well,” she said then, standing up and brushing off the front of her skirts in a brisk motion. “Shall we continue? I suppose Maria is wondering where we’ve gotten off to!”
“As you like, miss.” He stood, glancing around in his professional manner, and offered his arm.
Anastasia smiled up at him and took it.
The following morning, they boarded a transcontinental railcar for New York City, by way of, among other places, Omaha, Chicago, and Pittsburgh. Anastasia suppressed a smirk at the way the signage proudly proclaimed that they would be crossing almost three thousand miles in just eighty-three hours. The distance from San Franscisco to New York City was a mere fraction of the length of the Trans-Siberian crossing they’d already made, to say nothing of sailing the entire width of the Pacific Ocean!
“It’s endearing, really, don’t you think?” she murmured softly to Maria as they carefully climbed aboard the luxuriously appointed First Class Pullman. “These Americans are so very proud of the size of their little nation.”
“I do not care what they are proud of,” Maria said. “I do not give a fig for America. I wish we were comfortably in London already.”
Anastasia inhaled through her nose and fought the frustration that rose within her at her sister’s words. Instead of snapping at her, she reached out and took Maria’s hand in hers.
“Is your headache still bothering you?” she asked softly. “I can see if Baroness Buxhoeveden has a powder.”
“A little,” Maria said, squeezing Anastasia’s fingers. “I am being grumpy, am I not? I apologize. I am just so tired of traveling!”
“It has been a long trip,” Anastasia agreed. And, indeed, it had been. They had departed Tobolsk for Yekaterinburg in mid-August—making the arrangements, not least getting the Czechs to secure the full length of the railroad, had taken months—and here it was thirty-nine days later. They would be four days on the train to New York, and then an unknown time there while the British government made arrangements for the final leg of their journey to London. By the time they were done, they would have circumnavigated over three fourths of the globe since being carted off from Tsarskoye Selo!
But unlike Maria, Anastasia found that she actually enjoyed the travel. San Franscico had been fascinating, even though she’d only really seen the Palace Hotel. This rail trip promised interesting scenery, and perhaps even new people to talk to, depending on how sequestered they ended up being from the other passengers. And since they enjoyed the most comfortable travel means that money could buy, Anastasia found herself slightly unsympathetic to Maria’s complaints.
True to form, Buxhoeveden had secured a series of luxurious, private cabins for their use. Maria headed directly for her sleeping cabin to lie down, but Anastasia wasn’t tired, and so she took a seat next to a large window in the lounge car. Ever vigilant, their chaperone, Baroness Buxhoeveden, had looked inquiringly at Anastasia. She was fierce of visage even when not trying.
“Anton Ivanovich has asked me to teach him English,” Anastasia said quietly, even though he’d done no such thing. Behind the captain’s shoulder, Dostavalov lifted an eyebrow in inquiry, but said nothing.
“We thought it best to sit in here, where the light is better,” the girl explained. “And it was more proper than having a young man—even a guard—in the private sleeping car.”
Buxhoeveden pursed her lips but nodded and continued to follow through the lounge car toward the sleeping cars. Dostavalov, playing his part, slid into the seat across from Anastasia.
Anastasia felt a sudden lifting of her spirits. To teach Dostavalov English? To have a job, finally, and to feel useful, again? Be still my heart.
“I don’t recall wanting to learn English.”
“You should,” she said, rather tartly. “Since that is the language that is spoken both here and in Britain. Surely you would like to hear if someone behind you is saying that they are about to shoot me, no?”
“I suppose that depends on how well you’ve been behaving lately,” he said, with a tiny smile.
Anastasia snorted and shook her head. Then she raised a hand to attract the attention of the Negro porter who strode up the aisles, asking if there was anything the customers wanted.
“Might we have today’s newspaper, please?”
“Yes, miss,” the porter said. “I’ve the Chronicle right here. Will that do?”
“Perfectly, thank you, Mr. . . .”
“You can call me George, miss.” The porter smiled, his teeth very white against his dark complexion. “We’re all called ‘George.’ It’s part of the job.”
“Well, then, thank you, George,” Anastasia said with an answering smile. The porter handed Dostovalov a folded newspaper, and Dostovalov paid the man—plus a tip when Anastasia nodded significantly at him.
“My pleasure, miss. You just let me or any of the other Georges know if you need something else, now,” the porter said, closing his hand around the tip.
“I’ll do that, thank you, George.”
Dostovalov watched the porter walk on, checking in with the other passengers in that same friendly, folksy, yet deferential manner. After a moment, the big Russian snorted softly.
“What?” Anastasia asked.
“I saw that man at the station, while the baroness was buying tickets. He was having a smoke with some other fellows. He didn’t talk or act that way with them.”
“No? That’s interesting. How did he act?”
“Like a normal working man. To me, it sounded like he and his mates were grumbling a little, maybe about the passengers, but nothing to make me think he’s a threat. Just . . . I think he must have dealt with some difficult people in the past.”
Anastasia shrugged. “It’s likely,” she said. “People can sometimes be rude, especiall.y to servants and the like.”
“It’s like he’s playing an act.”
“And so he probably is.” Anastasia reached over to pull the newspaper from where Dostovalov still held it. “It sounds as if the character of ‘George’ is, as he said, part of the job. He probably gets paid more if he acts a certain way.”
“So, it’s back to money again?” Dostovalov asked, turning his attention back to Anastasia and letting her pull the newspaper out of his grasp.
“So it seems,” she said. “Most things are about money, I suspect.”
“I suspect you’re right, miss,” he said.
“I usually am. Just as I’m right about you needing to learn English. So now listen to me. I’m going to read you this article, first in English, and then in Russian . . .”
Though she was no stranger to rail travel, Anastasia found herself entranced by the varied scenery and landscape they traversed. Though it was wintertime, the tracks remained clear.
“These mountains are breathtaking,” she said to Dostovalov one morning as they wound through a pass through the Rockies. The sun rode high in a crystalline blue sky, and the light glittered off the snow drifts and frost-covered trees that lined the track. That bright light disappeared for a moment when they passed through one of several short tunnels, but when it returned, it illuminated a picturesque mountain valley off to their right, complete with a jewel-blue lake in the center.
“Oh!” Anastasia gasped, her fingertips flying to her smiling lips. “Look, Anton Ivanovich!”
Dostovalov looked up from yet another newspaper. He had seized upon Anastasia’s scheme of learning English with vigor. Every morning, he would ask one of the Georges for a new paper, and he and Anastasia would pore over it as he practiced reading and speaking the local tongue.
“Pretty,” he said, and turned back to his study of the American gossip and entertainment page.
Anastasia rolled her eyes at Dostovalov’s laconic appreciation and leaned forward to see what held his attention. He really had come a remarkably long way with his English, though his pronunciation remained terrible.
“What’s that you’re reading?” she asked.
“I am trying to figure that out,” he admitted. He swiveled the paper towards her on the table that they’d somehow claimed as “theirs” for the trip and leaned back, rubbing his eyes.
“Oh, it’s about an actress. Marion Davies. The author is quite enamored of her. The entire thing reads like an advertisement for her films . . .” Anastasia trailed off, her eyes flicking over the lines of newsprint.
“I did not realize. I saw the picture of the woman, and I thought she must be someone important,” Dostovalov said. His cheeks pinkened slightly, and Anastasia smirked as she looked up at his face. She doubted it was Miss Davies’s “importance” that had drawn his attention.
“I think, in a way, she is,” Anastasia said, returning her attention to the article. “Oh, not important the way my sister is, or not the way Maria would define it, but look at how much space they devote to her! They write about her films, her shows . . . even her gowns! They speak of her as people at home used to speak about my grandmother, like she’s some sort of . . . character in their dreams.”
“She could be a character in my dream.”
Anastasia snorted, then looked up at Dostovalov with laughter in her eyes.
“Don’t let Maria or Baroness Buxhoeveden hear you say such things in my hearing, Anton Ivanovich. You’ll get in trouble.”
“I don’t see them around, do you?” he asked, using English.
She smiled at him and shook her head, replying in the same language. “That will do you no good, my friend. Maria spoke English in the cradle, just as I did. But you are progressing very well. Let us continue . . .”
They crossed most of the Great Plains at night, but Anastasia woke early enough to spy the seemingly endless rows of ploughed fields stretching to the horizon on either side of the track.
For just a moment, resentment boiled in her gut, souring the mouthful of coffee she’d just swallowed. She’d seen similar fields in Russia, but too many of them lay barren, with no men to tend them, no crops to plant, nothing but war and death on every horizon.
“Good morning, miss. Just coffee for now? Or would you like to try one of our fresh-baked pastries?”
Anastasia blinked and looked up into the smiling face of the porter. She answered with her own weak smile.
“Just coffee will be fine, thank you, Geo . . . your name isn’t really George, is it?”
“No, miss, it isn’t, but you can call us George if you want to. It’s part of the job.”
“I’d like to know your real name, if that’s all right with you.”
The man’s smile widened, and for the first time, actually included his eyes.
“My name is Henry Southam, miss. I am pleased to meet you.”
“I am Ana Nicolaevna,” she said. “The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Southam. Thank you for taking such good care of us.”
Henry Southam drew himself up proudly and gave her a nod as he refilled her coffee cup. “That’s what we do, miss.” He smiled down at her once more, and then turned to serve another table.
“What was that all about?” Dostovalov, who had been sitting across from her and studying his newspaper, asked quietly in Russian.
“I am not sure,” Anastasia admitted. “Only, I suddenly felt that it was important to know the man’s true name. He did respond favorably to my asking, did you see that?”
“Of course he did,” Dostovalov said. “You’re young, pretty, and rich. What man wouldn’t respond favorably to personal attention from someone like you?”
“That is a fair point, I suppose,” she said. “Though I’m not nearly so pretty as my sisters.”
“Definitely not,” Dostovalov agreed, which made Anastasia scowl at him. He let it hang there for a moment before relenting with a small smile. “But you are the most fun.”
Anastasia reached out and smacked him lightly on the bicep, and then sat back with her coffee, still contemplating the farmlands out the window as they slid by.
This country is swimming in wealth, she realized. But they’re like I was before Papa’s abdication. They have no idea how quickly all that bounty can disappear.
Eventually, as the rumble and clatter of the train rolled on, they started to pass through larger cities with shorter intervals of rural farmland in between. Here, in the bustling towns of Chicago, Pittsburgh, Philadelphia and the like, the contrast between old and new world stood out even more starkly to Anastasia’s eyes.
Everywhere she looked, scaffolding and girders stretched upward as these young cities grew. New roads cut pale lines in the surrounding landscape, and commerce blazed around every corner. Even the most humble dwellings seemed to be advertising vegetables or handcrafted goods for sale.
“Ugh, finally!” Maria said on the last day, when the train’s conductor made the announcement that they would be arriving in New York that evening. “I thought this awful train ride would never end.”
“It wasn’t nearly as long as the one back home,” Anastasia pointed out. It had taken her all four days of the trip to persuade Maria to join her in the lounge car, and she didn’t want to send her sister scurrying back to her private cabin. “Before we took ship for Japan.”
Maria looked over at her sister, her eyes dark with annoyance. “I know,” she said. “This one just seems longer. I am so tired of traveling.”
Anastasia pressed her lips together before she could point out that her sister had hardly made any effort to enjoy the journey. Her entire objective in coaxing Maria out of the cabin had been to try and liven her up, not to start an argument in a public space.
“Are you excited to see Grandmama again?” Anastasia asked instead. “Baroness Buxhoeveden says she intends to meet us in New York.”
“It will be wonderful to see her.” Maria did smile. “I am looking forward to that, yes. Perhaps once she is with us, we can let go of this farce of poverty and actually travel as people of our rank are meant to travel.”
“Maria!” Anastasia lowered her voice to a hiss and leaned forward over the surface of the table between their seats, lest anyone else hear her sister’s snobbery. “You’re being unreasonable! We’ve traveled in the most luxurious accommodations this country has to offer!”
“Hmm. Yes. This country.” Maria arched her eyebrows and returned Anastasia’s censure glare for glare. “This backwater, uncivilized, upstart of a country. I fear you are in danger of forgetting who we are, Nastenka. Our father—”
“Is dead.”
Maria closed her mouth with a snap and pressed her lips together. Her eyes filled with tears. Anastasia reached out to take her hand, but Maria pulled away and turned to stare out the window.
“Maria—”
“I think I will return to our cabin,” she said, holding her body stiffly. “I find that headache still plagues me. I will rest until we arrive in New York. Do be quiet if you come in there, please.”
Anastasia closed her eyes as her sister stood up and brushed past her to the central aisle. When she opened them, she saw Dostovalov nod, and one of their other guards stood up from his seat nearby and followed Maria as she exited the dining car.
By the time they reached the hotel in New York City, it was quite late. They had disembarked at a crowded train station, and all had been confusion and chaos for several moments while Baroness Buxhoeveden and one of the guards collected their baggage and secured transportation to the hotel. Anastasia remembered falling into the back seat of a long, shiny black motorcar, but then she must have dozed off. For the next thing she knew, they had arrived and a hotel valet stood next to the open door with his hand extended to help her out.
Like the Palace in San Francisco, the Plaza Hotel exemplified what Anastasia had begun to think of as “American elegance.” From what she could see, the decor borrowed heavily from French stylings. Gilt glinted off the light fixtures and sparkled from crystal chandeliers. Cut flowers filled silver vases on tables here and there throughout the foyer. Thick carpets muffled the sounds of their footfalls as they made their way to their reserved suites.
When Dostovalov opened the door to the suite the sisters would share, Anastasia followed Maria in. She had to stifle a groan of relief at the sight of the merrily crackling fire in the grate and the turned down beds in the room beyond. Anastasia had enjoyed the train trip, but she didn’t mind admitting that she was looking forward to a night’s sleep in a proper bed. The Pullman cots had been comfortable enough for what they were, but the crisp bed linens and fluffy pillows of the Plaza’s bed called to her fatigued body like a siren luring a sailor to a watery grave.
“Good night, Your Imperial Highnesses,” Dostovalov called softly as he backed out, closing the door behind him. Anastasia heard the click of the lock as she turned to remind him that he was not supposed to use their titles.
“At last,” Maria said, heaving a sigh and turning to Anastasia with a smile. “We can be ourselves again. I feel as if we’re finally close to returning to civilization.”
Anastasia returned her sister’s smile, even though Maria’s snobbery continued to bother her. But rather than start another argument, she walked over and wrapped her elder sister back up in an embrace.
“I hope you will be very comfortable in London,” she said softly.
Maria squeezed her back. “I feel certain I shall,” she said, and Anastasia could hear the smile and excitement deepen in her tone. “Mama loved it there when she was a girl.”
Anastasia nodded, and then stepped back as a yawn overtook her. “Goodness! I suppose we should get some sleep. I hope we will hear from Grandmama about her plans tomorrow.”
“I think we will! Perhaps she is already in the city!” Maria said, turning toward the washroom with a bounce in her step that Anastasia hadn’t seen since . . .
Well. Since she didn’t know when. Since Papa’s abdication, perhaps? Surely it can’t have been that long! And yet, try as she might, Anastasia couldn’t truly name a time since then that she had seen Maria with such a look of happiness and excitement.
Has she been so unhappy? And what does that say about me that I am only now noticing? Oh, my dear sister, have you needed me and I just haven’t paid attention?
“Come, Anastasia, you’re right,” Maria sang out, still with that joy in her voice. “We must get some sleep! Come wash your face and let’s lie down. Tomorrow, I hope we will hear from Grandmama and then . . . wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could leave within the week? Just think of it! We could be in London within a fortnight!”
But I don’t want to go to London.
Anastasia blinked and actually paused in her progress toward the washroom as this thought slammed into her.
I don’t. I don’t want to go to London and find a noble husband or any of that. I want . . . I want to stay here longer! This country is so strange and yet, there is something wild and wonderful about the people. They reject royalty, yet they create their own “royalty” out of actresses and society stars. They almost worship money . . . and they are swimming in it. Maria yearns for London, but this is now the greatest city in the world.
“Anastasia? Are you quite well, dear?”
Anastasia blinked and gave herself a little shake, then looked at her elder sister with a smile.
“Oh! Yes, I am sorry. I am just so tired, I suppose I was miles away. Thinking of Tatiana.”
This time, it was Maria who came forward to wrap her sister up in a hug. “I miss her too, and I worry! If only she had come with us, but I suppose I see why she did not. She is very strong, our sister. And she has the whole of our army to protect her.”
“Yes,” Anastasia said. She returned Maria’s hug and then turned resolutely for the washroom. “And that will be enough. I have faith that it will.”
Especially if we have people like these Americans on our side.