The Witches of St. Petersburg

Militza’s voice died in her throat as a hush came over the crowd and all eyes turned towards the entrance. Stana and Nikolai Nikolayevich stood in the doorway, the bright afternoon sunshine pouring in behind them. Thank goodness, her sister had a little more colour in her pale cheeks, but still Militza felt her chest tighten with nerves. Everyone stared. She looked back across the church towards the groom.

George Maximilianovich, sixth Duke of Leuchtenberg, stood dressed in his immaculate scarlet military uniform, complete with rows of gleaming medals and a bright turquoise sash, his back set firmly towards the door. Why doesn’t he turn around? she thought. All men turn around to watch their future wife enter the church. Militza looked back at her sister, who was holding so tightly on to Nikolai Nikolayevich’s hand that her knuckles had turned white. Not that he appeared to notice, he was so intent on helping her down the aisle.

Just as Stana raised her head high to walk towards the priest, there was a commotion behind her. Everyone turned to witness the late arrival of the Grand Duchess Vladimir, Maria Pavlovna, and her portly husband, the heavily moustachioed Grand Duke, younger brother of the Tsar. Amid much huffing, puffing and fan waving, they followed the bride into the church and took up their place just inside the entrance. Militza stared. Loaded down with jewels, a necklace, a collier de chien, a devant de corsage, a tiara, brooches and a sash, all made of sapphires and diamonds, the Grand Duchess sparkled with self-importance as her every facet caught the sun. Seemingly oblivious to the sensitivity of the moment, Maria Pavlovna smiled and nodded to the assembled company, overshadowing the arrival of the bride. She was not a woman known for her tact, that much Militza knew. She filled her enormous palace with gamblers and ne’er-do-wells and was the epicentre of St Petersburg society. No one could eat, dance or entertain in the city without her say-so. However, even for the Grand Duchess Vladimir, such an entrance was more than a little vulgar.

‘That woman just has to be the centre of attention all the time,’ Peter whispered into his wife’s ear. ‘Dreadful.’

More interestingly, thought Militza, watching Maria Pavlovna smile and nod and mouth little words, flapping her fan, Monsieur Delacroix’s gossip appeared to be well sourced. Maria Pavlovna’s normally angular face had filled out slightly and her dress was not as tightly fitted as high fashion dictated. She was definitely with child.

The priest, Father Anthony, valiantly ignored the attempted interruption and continued to bless the rings. George and Stana exchanged their vows, him with significantly more volume than her. Yet Stana looked serene holding her candle and barely faltered as she leant forward to kiss the icon. Even the tight-lipped Maria Alexandrovna managed to muster a small smile on her otherwise sour little face.

When the ceremony was over, George’s son, little Alexander Romonovsky, led the procession out of the church, holding the icon firmly in his young hands. He was clearly taking his responsibilities very seriously, for he bit his bottom lip all the way out of the church to Villa Sergievka and the reception itself.

And what a reception it was. One that few, if any, would ever forget.

2 Later that evening – Villa Sergievka, Peterhof

Militza was sitting opposite her when it happened. Why didn’t she notice? she asked herself all those years later. She of all people. She might have been able to do something. To have prevented what happened? Or at the very least, made it better?

The party was in full swing, the feast – turtle soup, pirozkhi, veal, turkey, duck in aspic, and ice cream – all served on heavy silver platters, had been cleared away, and a gypsy band was playing. Regulars at the hugely fashionable Cubat restaurant in St Petersburg, they’d just ‘kidnapped’ Stana, and the singers were going from table to table, their caps out, collecting money to pay her ‘ransom,’ otherwise known as their fee for the night. The guitarists were working themselves up into a frenzy and most of the guests were laughing, throwing roubles into the boys’ caps, clapping along in time to the music