The Witches of St. Petersburg

But Grand Duchess Vladimir was not. In fact, Maria Pavlovna was barely moving. She’d not spoken for a while, which was quite unlike her. Militza noticed she was turning pale despite the yellow candlelight and her mouth looked dry. Suddenly Maria Pavlovna turned, looked across the table and let out a low, loud, bellowing moan. It sounded primal, as if it came from the very depths of her soul. She stood up with a lurch, gripping the table with both her hands and the heavy diamond ropes on her devant de corsage swung forward and smashed two glasses. The red wine poured everywhere, a crimson stain seeping into the white linen cloth and trickling on to the parquet floor. She leant forward against the table, using it for support, as she tried to breathe. She stared at Militza, panting through the silver candelabra, her eyes glassy, blind with pain. One of the servants, standing behind the Grand Duchess, covered his mouth in alarm. Peter, who was sitting next to her, stood up and pulled back her chair. The silk cushion on which she’d been sitting was sodden and black with blood. Those close to her recoiled. The gypsy band, however, carried on playing and the guests further up the table continued clapping, as the full magnitude of the situation took a while to sink in.

It was the Grand Duchess Elizabeth Fyodorovna, the Tsar’s sister-in-law, not Militza, who was the first to react. Renowned for both her kindness and her beauty, she rushed over, pushing various guests and servants to one side, and grabbed hold of Maria Pavlovna by the shoulders.

‘We need a doctor,’ she declared, looking down at the floor. Her pretty face winced. ‘Right now!’

Finally, Militza forced her way through the crowd of guests, most of whom where rooted to the spot with shock. The amount of blood on the floor was distressing and, with every bellow and moan, more poured out from below her skirts. Elizabeth Fyodorovna snatched napkins and started to wet them in the silver water jug on the table to cool Maria’s brow. Maria’s face was now completely drained of colour and covered in a film of sweat. Militza took hold of her hand. It felt cold. Maria looked up at her but didn’t appear to know who she was.

‘You need to lie down.’

Elizabeth and Militza each took an arm. Holding Maria firmly by the elbow, they helped her through the party. The guests looked away as they passed. Only when they neared the band did the music finally stop.

The women reached the door in silence. Maria collapsed and, as Militza struggled to pull her upright, she turned back to see the horror-struck faces of the guests. Maria’s drenched skirts had dragged across the parquet floor, leaving a thick, wide trail of blood in their wake.

Just then Stana came racing back into her own party, her ‘ransom’ having been paid, shouting, ‘I am back! I’m free!’

But where was the applause? Where were the rapturous cheers? The whole room should be on its feet! The ‘ransom’ had been paid; the band could play all night long.

But Stana ran into a room in shock, a room steeped in tragedy and covered in blood. It brought her up sharp, like being slapped in the face. Militza saw the terrified look in her sister’s eyes. Her wedding day would be forever marred by Maria Pavlovna’s terrible loss. Stana and Militza’s arrival in St Petersburg society would be marked in blood. The foetal blood of an unborn baby.

‘For God’s sake,’ shouted Peter, stepping forward. ‘Someone call for a doctor!’ He looked around the inert crowd and rushed out himself.

Elizabeth and Militza managed to escort Maria into the yellow drawing room. Within minutes there were servants with towels and jugs of warm water but there was little that could be done.

The dead baby came about forty minutes after her exit from the party. Fortunately, a sturdy woman from the village with strong forearms was there to help. One of the servants had raised her from her bed and brought her to the palace, while they waited for the doctor Peter had sent for to arrive. She’d helped deliver something like thirty babies in the village and her experience proved invaluable. She dosed Maria with a strong liquor of brandy and herbs to dull the pain, which made the passing of the baby much easier. It was less than four months old – almost formed but red raw. The village woman immediately wrapped it up in a towel and took it away.