The Witches of St. Petersburg

The second foetus was, of course, rather a shock for everyone in the room. They had all concluded the worst was over, so when Maria began panting again and arched her back before delivering a dreadful scream, they were completely taken off guard. They had no towel ready and no one was prepared. The clot slapped noisily on to the parquet floor, spattering the village women’s skirts and some of the silk chintz furniture. Fortunately, Maria herself was completely feverish, so she was spared the true realisation of what was happening to her. She was moaning and rolling on the divan and though her dress had been loosened, she was still fully clothed, for they had not had the time, or indeed the presence of mind, to remove it. She was propped up on some cushions, delirious with pain, covered in blood, but still wearing her magnificent tiara.

After the second child was delivered, the blood did not stop. They used sheets, rags, towels – anything they could find – to stem the flow, but the situation was becoming critical. When Dr Sergei Andreyevich finally arrived, the Grand Duchess Vladimir was unconscious, her temperature high and her condition very grave indeed. The loss of blood, the doctor concluded, was most definitely life-threatening. They just had to wait and see.

*

By the time Militza left the yellow drawing room, the reception was over and most of the guests had disappeared into the night. However, some were still seated in small groups in the grand dining hall, waiting for news. As she walked in, Stana leapt out of her chair and George stopped pacing the room. She could see a few other members of the court turn towards her.

‘You’re covered in blood!’ said Stana as she rushed towards her exhausted sister. Somehow her glorious coiffure, tiara and silver dress looked completely incongruous after what Militza had just witnessed. ‘Is she all right? Will she live? Has she lost the baby?’ Her questions came thick and fast. The rest of the room was quiet, a dozen pairs of eyes trained on Militza’s face.

‘I don’t know,’ she said shaking her head slowly, wiping her bloodied hands down the front of her pale silk dress. ‘There were two babies. Twins.’

There was a small but audible gasp. Out of the corner of her eye a man collapsed into one of the dining chairs, head in his hands. It was Maria Pavlovna’s husband.

‘Twins?’ Stana repeated.

Grand Duke Vladimir Alexandrovich made a small whimpering noise, like a dog that’s been kicked by its master. He appeared to bite the back of his hand. No one moved. No one wanted to appear vulgar, crashing in on his private moment of grief. Eventually, Peter picked up a delicate crystal decanter of Armenian Cognac and a small glass and walked slowly towards Vladimir Alexandrovich. He squeezed the man’s heavily brocaded shoulder, poured a drink, put down the decanter and pushed the glass slowly towards him. Vladimir took the glass and, without saying a word, knocked the amber liquid back in one. He put the glass back down on the table. Peter refilled it and Vladimir drained it once more. Then, in one swift movement, Vladimir stood up from the table, sniffed deeply, smoothed down his thick, lengthy moustache, cleared his throat, and clicked his heels together.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said quietly, before he nodded and left the room.

The remainder of the party took this as their cue to leave. With the husband gone, the idea of loitering in the hope of hearing any more news suddenly appeared a little unseemly. The two sisters, one dressed in silver, the other covered in blood, stood next to the door as the guests began to walk out into the warm, pale night and their carriages beyond. Some muttered ‘thank you’ under their breath, as they left. But for others the recriminations had already begun. ‘It’s all their fault,’ mumbled someone from behind their fan. ‘They shouldn’t have come here,’ declared another. ‘It’s not a good omen for the wedding,’ added another, as she drifted past. ‘Did you notice they both smelt of goat?’

The doors closed behind them, leaving only Stana, Peter, George and Militza in the room.

‘Do something!’ implored Stana. Her face was white. Her eyes were burning as bright as the candles. ‘Her babies may be dead, but we cannot let her die. Not her! Not the grandest of all Grand Duchesses. If she dies at my wedding – our wedding – what will they say?’

‘I’m not sure,’ whispered Militza.

‘I know you can do something.’

‘What can you do?’ sneered George, taking a goblet of wine off the table and draining it. ‘You’re just a couple of peasants from the mountains!’

‘I am princess in my own right!’ retorted Stana, turning to face her husband.