The Unseen (Echoes from the Past Book 5), page 14
Monty took a noisy slurp of tea and continued. “His wife Alexandra was no better, by all accounts. She wasn’t a sympathetic woman, and was often heard saying that Russians needed to feel the sting of the whip in order to remember their place. She formed an unsavory relationship with a self-proclaimed mystic named Grigori Rasputin, who, she believed, had the power to heal her son, Alexei. The Tsarevich was afflicted by hemophilia, which was passed on to him by his mother, the granddaughter of Queen Victoria, who herself carried the defective gene. Rasputin was able to worm his way into the family and began to exert undue influence on Empress Alexandra, which didn’t go unnoticed. Alexandra urged her husband to listen to the advice of the man many believed to be a clever charlatan. She became increasingly unpopular, especially once rumors of an affair with Rasputin began to circulate among the highest levels of society. With her reputation in tatters, Alexandra’s credibility came into question at a time when Russia was already teetering on the brink of an armed rebellion.”
“Rasputin was murdered, wasn’t he?” Quinn asked.
“He was, indeed. Rasputin was assassinated in December of 1916 by a band of noblemen who feared his influence on the royal family, but the damage had already been done. The Empress Alexandra was viewed with suspicion and contempt, and her refusal to curtail her spending at a time when the country was grossly in debt didn’t help her image. Historical accounts report that she spent thousands of rubles on fresh flowers for the palace every week when the common people were starving. Compassion was not something the Romanovs were ever known for, so no compassion was shown to them at a time when it might have made all the difference.”
“Do you think they knew what was about to befall them?” Quinn asked, shuddering at the thought of five children being gunned down in cold blood, especially the sickly Alexei, whose short life had been plagued by near-death bouts of hemophilia that left him hovering on the brink of death.
“Oh, I think Nicky had an inkling. It is said that in March of 1901, he went to Gatchina, accompanied by Baron Fredrichs and several other courtiers. The journey was undertaken in order to fulfill the wish of Tsar Paul I, who decreed that a chest he left behind for future generations be opened on the one-hundredth anniversary of his death. The chest contained a prophecy by a monk called Abel, the Russian Nostradamus, as he was nicknamed, that foretold the fate of the Tsar and the house of Romanov. No copies of the original prophecy or books written by Abel have survived, but the prophecy was pieced together from journal entries and personal letters, and went something like this:
“‘A royal crown he shall exchange for a crown of thorns, and his people shall betray him, just as God’s Son was. There shall be a great war, a world war… People shall fly through the air, like birds, and swim under water like fishes; they shall begin to destroy each other with evil-smelling Sulphur. The betrayal of the Tsar shall increase and grow in scale. On the eve of victory in the war the Royal throne will collapse. Blood and tears will soak the wet earth. Crazed common folk will seize power, and truly, an Egyptian sentence will dawn.’ It’s said that after that fateful trip, the Tsar became obsessed with the year 1918, believing it to be a crucial year for himself and the future of Russia.”
“What became of the aristocracy after the Revolution?”
“Some remained, but didn’t fare very well. Many fled, mostly to France, where they lived in obscurity and often poverty. The forty-seven surviving members of the Romanov family lived in exile for the rest of their lives.”
“Are there any living descendants?”
“Of course, but they are smart enough to keep a low profile. There was nothing to be gained by proclaiming their heritage during the communist years except a bullet between the eyes.”
“And after?”
“In 1998, the royal family was buried with all the pomp and circumstance due them at the Cathedral of Saints Peter and Paul in St. Petersburg. I believe several of their descendants attended the funeral, but that was the last anyone has seen of them. The Romanovs were canonized by the Russian Orthodox Church and declared martyrs in 2000, so that’s something, I suppose.”
“Did many aristocrats flee to England?” Quinn asked, wondering about what might have led Valentina to Britain rather than France.
“Darling, Britain was having its own problems at the time, and the Russian Revolution was a very jarring wake-up call for the royal family. George VI, who was Nicholas II’s cousin and could be mistaken for his twin, first offered asylum to the Romanovs after the Revolution, but then the invitation was discreetly rescinded. Any association with the Russian royal family would not have been looked upon favorably by the British people. The unprecedented slaughter of World War I reminded British subjects that the royal house of England was, in fact, of German descent, and responsible for Britain’s involvement in the war. The strong anti-German feeling could very easily be redirected against the British monarchy if preventative measures weren’t taken. It was at that time that the royal family changed their name from the House of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha to the House of Windsor. It was a calculated public relations move meant to disassociate the royal family from their German roots.”
“Thanks, Monty. That’s very helpful. I’m familiar with most of the events you mentioned, of course, but not in detail. Russia has never been a particular interest of mine. I’ve always been a lover of British history at heart, and now I’m developing more of an interest in American history as well.”
“No! Say it isn’t so,” Monty sputtered.
“Turns out my biological dad is American. From Louisiana.”
“Dear God, preserve us from the Americans!” Monty joked.
“Come, Monty, you and I will always have a special relationship,” Quinn said with a huge grin.
“There’ll always be a place in my heart for you. And Gabe. Because he’s hot,” Monty replied as he walked Quinn to the door.
“Monty, quit lusting after my husband. He has enough to deal with at the moment.”
“Just window shopping, darling.” Monty gave Quinn a peck on the cheek and waved cheerfully to Alex, who was looking at him with undisguised interest.
Quinn was still chuckling as she pushed Alex’s pram down the corridor toward Gabe’s office. It was nearly noon, and she had every intention of talking him into a pub lunch.
“Well, if it isn’t Dr. Allenby, in the flesh,” a familiar voice drawled as Luke stepped into her path. He’d emerged from one of the offices, no doubt lured from his lair by the sound of her voice.
“Hello, Luke,” Quinn said. She’d have preferred to keep walking, but Luke effectively blocked her way, and she didn’t fancy ramming Alex’s pram into his legs.
“Hello, yourself. How’ve you been? Motherhood suits you. I’ve never seen you look so…wholesome,” he said, a sarcastic smile tugging at his mouth. “You’re positively Rubenesque.”
“Thank you. I’ll take that as a compliment,” Quinn said, although, of course, it wasn’t meant as one. He was implying that she was overweight and matronly, nothing like the girl who’d caught his eye nearly ten years ago.
“And how’s the little moppet? I hear he looks just like Gabe. Well, at least that’s one thing Gabe doesn’t have to worry about.”
“Meaning?”
Luke shrugged off the question, allowing her to draw her own conclusions. She’d never been unfaithful to Luke when they were together, so his insinuation was completely unfounded. Even if Alex hadn’t resembled Gabe, there had never been any doubt that he was his son.
“How’s your American daddy?” Luke asked, his mouth twisting with dislike. Seth had threatened to kick Luke into the middle of next week when he came upon Luke harassing her in New Orleans, and it clearly still rankled.
“He’s very well. Thank you. He was just here in London. We had a nice visit.”
“I bet.”
“Look, Luke, I’d like to say it’s been a pleasure to see you, but it really hasn’t been, so I’ll just get going, shall I? Please step out of my way.”
“Don’t get too comfortable, Quinny. Gabe is not the saint you believe him to be.”
“Thanks for the warning,” Quinn replied in response to his childish parting shot.
Quinn maneuvered the pram around Luke and walked off toward Gabe’s office, head held high. She wasn’t going to allow Luke to rattle her, which was exactly what he was trying to do. He’d implied that she was fat and undesirable, and then tried to make her doubt Gabe’s loyalty to her. What a wanker! Quinn thought angrily as she rounded a corner. What a bloody wanker!
“You look murderous. I hope it’s not toward me,” Gabe said as she sailed past his PA and into his office, where she parked the pram alongside Gabe’s desk and slumped into a chair.
“I just saw Luke in the corridor.”
“I take it the reunion didn’t go well.”
“It was like exchanging pleasantries with Voldemort.”
Gabe laughed, reached out to pick up Alex, and made a funny face at him. The baby smiled happily. “I think you deserve a treat. The Grafton Arms, or would you prefer the Marquis Cornwallis?”
“He implied I’m fat,” Quinn muttered, ignoring the question.
“And you believed him?”
“No. Should I have?” she demanded, angry with herself for allowing Luke to get to her.
“I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer. Come on. There’s a glass of mineral water with your name on it and a pint with mine.”
“Drinking on the job?”
“If you had to keep a bunch of self-important, mind-blowingly competitive, sex-starved historians from tearing each other to bits before lunchtime, you’d be drinking on the job too. And don’t even get me started on the students.”
“Your need is clearly greater than mine. Lead the way.”
Chapter 24
December 1917
London, England
Valentina woke early. The sheets were unpleasantly damp from the moisture that seemed to seep into every crevice and crack of the house. She shivered with cold and tried to burrow deeper beneath the inadequate woolen blanket. Her breath came out in puffy clouds in the chilly air of the dingy room, which was just beginning to emerge from the shadows as the first gray light of dawn crept stealthily through the window. Tanya was still asleep, her slight form pressed against Valentina’s side. Kolya and Elena slept in the other bed, huddled beneath Elena’s fur coat. Valentina would have loved a cup of hot tea, but going out to get water would wake the rest of the family, and she didn’t want to disturb them. Instead, she slid out of bed and pulled on her coat and boots, desperate to get warm.
She kept a tight rein on her emotions during the day for the sake of the others, but at moments like this, when no one was awake to witness her pain, her resolve weakened and she often gave in to despair. The past two months had been surreal. Valentina moved from one task to the next like an automaton, steeling her mind against the pain that threatened to eviscerate her if she gave in to it. She had to remain strong for her mother, brother, and sister.
Elena Kalinina had virtually shut down since arriving in London, leaving all the decision-making to her daughter. She spent her days in a haze of confusion, alternating between sudden hysterics and periods of impenetrable silence, when she remained immobile for hours, staring out the window, her hands folded in her lap. Valentina was the one who purchased provisions, prepared the meals, and tried to comfort her brother and sister, who were bewildered and frightened.
Kolya still woke in the night, screaming for their father and shaking with terror, and Tanya carried on stoically, helping Valentina without a word of protest. They found satisfaction in mastering everyday tasks, since at the moment that was all they could aspire to. Making soup that didn’t taste like slops was a triumph and washing their own garments brought a sense of quiet satisfaction. Neither Valentina nor Tanya had ever had to fend for themselves before. They’d never made a meal, mended a stocking, or laundered a garment. In those first days in London, they’d been paralyzed with uncertainty, unsure how to go about the simplest tasks. Now, after more than a month, they were finally learning how to get from day to day without going hungry or wearing soiled undergarments.
Valentina angrily brushed the tears from her cheeks. She was ashamed of her weakness, but at times, the tears flowed unchecked, no matter how hard she tried not to give in to her misery. Tanya and Kolya became upset when she cried, but Elena hardly noticed, so lost was she in her own impenetrable grief. She’d never been on her own, having gone from the home of her supportive parents to the loving embrace of her husband. The foundation of her life, which had always been solid and secure, had suddenly given way, a chasm opening beneath her feet and swallowing her whole in a matter of minutes. Valentina wasn’t sure if her mother would ever recover from the shock and fear of the past few months.
She tried not to think of the day everything had changed, but sometimes she dreamed of those awful moments, and lost in her nightmare she screamed and screamed when she saw armed men breaking into their home, their faces distorted by hatred and bloodlust. That day, the day that was now known as the October Revolution, had begun quietly enough, but by afternoon, the Kalinins could no longer ignore the shouting in the street or the ominous sounds of gunfire and the roar of engines. The Bolsheviks were on the move, marching through the streets, armed and dangerous, on their way to the Winter Palace. Their numbers had swelled since the February Revolution, more and more workers and soldiers flocking to what was now the leading political party. The people were fed up with a war they didn’t support, crippling poverty that brought them to their knees, and the lies and feeble excuses of a provisional government that tried to appease the upper classes while still ignoring the needs of the common people.
The city churned and heaved, the streets thronged with armed men and pulsing with the camaraderie of the insurgents. Many still brandished axes and scythes, but the majority now had firearms, horses, and even trucks and automobiles. They were no longer an angry mob, but an army of workers and peasants, intent on bringing down the provisional government and seizing power for the people. Valentina heard several names shouted over the din. Lenin. Trotsky. Those names alone seemed to be enough to inspire a manic loyalty among the men, driving them on to victory.
The Kalinins were too afraid to go to sleep that night, so they huddled together in a back room that faced the garden, wide awake and terrified. The noise seemed to die down toward the small hours and they managed a few hours of fitful sleep, but once the sun was up, it all began anew. And as with any armed rebellion, there was bloodshed and looting. The thugs came in the late afternoon on the second day; there were six of them. They broke down the door and surged into the foyer, looking around with a mixture of wonder and resentment. The men were armed with rifles and knives and dressed in homespun trousers, cotton-stuffed vatniki coats and hand-me-down army greatcoats. They overturned furniture, slashed several portraits, and ransacked the kitchen, searching for food. The servants hid in their rooms, correctly assuming that no one would bother burglarizing the bare, cold rooms of the lower classes. It was valuables and provisions they were after.
Things might have turned out differently had Ivan Kalinin simply allowed the men to take what they wanted and leave. They hadn’t searched the back rooms, nor had they been interested in the members of the household, but fearful for his family and outraged by the insolence of the rebels, Ivan came charging out of the back room, intent on confronting the intruders.
“Stop this minute!” he bellowed. “What do you think you’re doing? Does your esteemed Lenin approve of such barbarism? Does he encourage his men to loot and destroy other people’s property?”
“Get out of our way, old man,” a blond youth with a rifle replied. “Go hide like the rat that you are. Your kind is finished. It all belongs to us now. It’s for the good of the people, and we are the people,” he added, winking at his companions.
“You’d best leave while you can, high and mighty sir,” an older man said to Ivan, poking him in the chest with meaty finger. “The new government will not tolerate freeloaders like you, who do nothing to earn their daily bread. They’ll send you down the mines, or to muck out after the horses. You’ll soon learn what it means to work for a living, you imperialist bastard.”
“Get out of my house, you worthless miscreants!” Ivan roared. “You’ll all be shot once this is over, or better yet, hanged like the criminals you are. You can’t disguise petty thievery with talk of your shining ideals. Let go of that!” Ivan cried when he saw one of the men emerging from the master bedroom upstairs with Elena’s lacquered jewelry box. He took the steps two at a time to get to the man. “Thief!” Ivan bellowed as he tried to wrestle the box from the man’s grasp.
“Vanya, please, let them take it,” Elena cried from the ground floor. “Please, come back here.”
“I’ll do no such thing. I will not allow this filthy vermin to intimidate me. I was in the military, and I can still put up a fight.”
“You want to fight?” a swarthy middle-aged man asked, baring his rotten teeth. He brandished a lethal-looking knife in his right hand. “Come. Come at me, you pathetic maggot. I’ll show you what it’s like to fight a real man and not a trained baboon, used to obeying orders. I give the orders now.”
Ivan charged the man, who held up Ivan’s father’s gold pocket watch in his left hand and let it swing like a pendulum. “Come and get it, your worship,” he sang, mocking Ivan.
Valentina clapped her hand over her mouth as she watched the scene unfold. She recognized the man. He’d delivered coal to them for the past two winters. He’d always been dressed in layers, bundled into a threadbare coat to battle the cold wind blowing off the Neva, his hands reddened and chapped beneath his moth-eaten mittens. He knew exactly who they were, and she could see the hatred in his narrowed eyes.
