Introduction

The bestselling tale of Romanov intrigue from the author of The Kitchen Boy

Book groups and historical fiction buffs have made Robert Alexander's two previous novels word-of-mouth favorites and national bestsellers. Set against a backdrop of Imperial Russia's twilight, The Romanov Bride has the same enduring appeal. The Grand Duchess Elisavyeta's story begins like a fairy tale-a German princess renowned for her beauty and kind heart marries the Grand Duke Sergei of Russia and enters the Romanov's lavish court. Her husband, however, rules his wife as he does Moscow-with a cold, hard fist. And, after a peaceful demonstration becomes a bloodbath, the fires of the revolution link Elisavyeta's destiny to that of Pavel-a young Bolshevik-forever.

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Excerpt

E l l a

C h a p t e r 1

Though of course I was the granddaughter of the doyenne of

sovereigns, Queen Victoria, I did not grow up in luxury by any

means, for our little Grand Duchy of Hesse und bei Rhein in

Germany was not a wealthy one, having suffered so in wars, recent

ones at that. Indeed, it was during such difficult times that

my mother, Grand Duchess Alice, wrote often to England, begging

Grandmama to send lint and old linens from Windsor

and Balmoral, things Mama and her ladies could turn into

bandages.

Actually, my mother's eternal want was by no means to remain

cloistered within the cold confines of any royal court, but

to go out amongst the people to see poverty and pain, so that her

good intentions would never dry up. As if a heretic I heard her

mutter more than once that it might be best if royalty itself were

washed away. It was no wonder, then, that following the lead of

her good friend and mentor, Florence Nightingale, my mother

took it upon herself to be out and about in Darmstadt, here,

there, everywhere, visiting those in need.

One particular morn after our breakfast of porridge and sau-

sage, she took me along, leaving my elder sister, Victoria, and

my baby sisters, Alicky and May, at home. This was in 8 8,

and I had no idea where we were going in our dot of a town, for

Mama had seen to the organization of the Alice Society for Aid

to Sick and Wounded, which included the founding of many

hospitals and homes for the poor. She was very progressive in

these things, fighting for the good of the common people and

even for clean water and proper bathing practices, something

that riled many old-timers who cared naught for a weekly bath.

Or a monthly one, for that matter.

However, whatever my mother's good intentions were that

day, I myself wasn't full of enthusiasm. All of fourteen years

of age, I would have much preferred to stay home and draw, or,

if work I must, sew a frock or pinafore for a poor child.

“Don't dawdle, Ella,” she called over her shoulder. “We

haven't much time.”

“But where are we going?” I asked as we quickly walked

down a narrow cobbled lane of the Old Quarter.

“There's a woman in need, that's all I've been told-and that,

young lady, is all you need to know.”

Within a few steps we'd left the tangle of streets and come

to a part of town I'd never seen before. The road was quite

straight but quite unkempt, the small pitched-roof houses half

falling down, the filth and waste running freely in the gutters.

Children in rags, their faces smeared with dirt, ran this way and

that like wild dogs. And when we rounded the next corner a

man in torn clothing stared upon us. Had he, I wondered, recognized

my mother with her dark hair, slim nose, and blue eyes

as none other than the Grand Duchess Alice, or did he have evil

thoughts? Of course my father, as ruler of our little Duchy,

would have had a fit if he'd known my mother and I had gone

not to visit the Alice Hospital or such, but instead descended

into the lowest part of town, and were doing so not simply unannounced

but without an attendant, let alone a guard of any

kind. But that was my mother, a German princess by marriage

but forever an English Protestant in her heart and ways. Oh,

she was a stubborn woman, that one. Years later, whenever it

was just my sisters and I at the tea table, the story always went

round and round again how furious Mama had made Grandmama

when she decided that she herself and not a wet nurse

would feed us children.

Putting down her needlework for a moment, one of my sisters

would invariably shout with a laugh, “And what did our

dear Grandmama, Queen Victoria, call our dear mother, Grand

Duchess Alice?”

“A cow!” we would all cry in unison.

“And what name did our dear Grandmama, the Queen, give

for a name to her favorite Highland cow at Balmoral?”

“Alice!” we would all shout, roaring with laughter.

So that morning, already quite aware of my mother's determined

nature, I brushed back a lock of my fair hair and took

Mama by the hand and did not leave her side until we came to

a tumbledown cottage. We stopped at a door, crooked and

cracked with age, and my mother knocked upon it. When no

answer came, she knocked again. Suddenly a child screamed in

reply, and without hesitation my very regal mother, small in

stature yet eternally energetic, put her shoulder to the door and

plowed it open.

Before that moment I could never have imagined such grime,

such stench, such chaos. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust

to the darkness of the small room with its low ceiling, for no

candles were burning and the fire had long since gone cold.

Clutching an old wooden chair next to the sole table was a little

girl, wearing a torn shirt and nothing below. Obviously something

was quite wrong with her, for waste of a very nasty sort

was dripping between her legs. The screaming began anew just

then, not from this child but another, an infant, lying in some

kind of cradle. My mother hurried over to the child, a boy of

but a few months, who was likewise covered with his own

waste.

Gasping, I breathed in, fully catching the stench. Feeling my

breakfast start to rise, I grabbed my own stomach. I was just beginning

to wonder whose children these were and what kind of

mother could have left them so despondent, when I heard a

moan and sensed a person stir against the far wall. It was then

that something bloated and red began to reach out from a pile

of rags. An arm covered with boils, I realized. Then came a

shoulder, all scarlet and glistening with sweat. Finally a face,

blotchy red and also spotted with boils. It was a woman, her hair

stringy and greasy, her teeth all but gone, her face hideous and

swollen. She looked like the ugliest witch from the fairy stories

of my youth.

I stepped back and was about to run screaming.

Suddenly my mother took me gently by the hand and in

English softly but firmly said, “Ella, my dear, you must learn

to treat the sick and needy without hesitation or fear, for that

is the true Christian way.”

I gazed into my mother's small dark eyes and saw a ferocious

caring and determination to help others. And so, taking courage

from her and following her good Christian example, the two of

us set to work. I was more than hesitant as I first occupied myself

with kindling fire and boiling water. Soon my task was to

clean the waste from the children and bathe them, which was

by no means pleasant. Next my mother fed the little ones,

which quieted them greatly, and then she made tea, and I

watched with admiration as she fed this to the ill woman.

Though this seemed to coax the woman out of her delirium, my

mother was still concerned, and she sent a neighbor to fetch a

doctor.

“But . . . but I haven't a florin to my name!” gasped the

woman, her face so blotchy.

“You needn't worry about money, that will be taken care

of,” my mother said sternly. “Your only business is to get

better.”

“And . . . and who are you? Why have you come to me?”

“We've come because our help was needed.”

“But who-”

“Sh . . . just rest,” soothed my mother without identifying

herself.

By the time we left hours later, the doctor had come and

gone and it seemed relatively normal in that little cottage, for

we had scrubbed children and floors and all. Indeed, the little

ones were fed and asleep, and the woman, whose husband had

recently died in a mining accident, was resting comfortably.

As we stepped out onto the little street, my mother leaned

over and kissed me on the top of my head, saying, “You did

very nicely, sweetheart.”

I took her hand in both of mine and kissed it, and then we

proceeded back, chattering mostly in English, some in German,

as was our custom. We returned completely unrecognized as

mother and daughter of the ruling family until we were within

steps of the Neues Palais, our dear home that Mama had decorated

in such a very cheerful English manner, chintzes and all.

And that became not only the most treasured memory I have

of my mother but one of the last. In a few short months our

united family, which had always been bound with love, was

torn apart by epidemic. Diphtheria came suddenly and mysteriously,

first taking my baby sister, May, just four years old,

whose loss alone nearly killed Mama. Indeed, it weakened her

so that she, too, fell ill, and though the doctors kept the inhalers

filled with chlorate of potash to ease her suffering, she was

soon taken by the same disease. My own pain was quite unimaginable,

for I was not allowed to look after my poor suffering

mother in her final hours nor even to kiss her farewell-for

my own safety, I was kept quite apart from my beloveds in their

illness. Needless to say, grief overtook my father, and for years

thereafter our palace was all but dark.

But then everything changed completely when I came to

Russia as the bride of my father's first cousin, a Romanov-

Grand Duke Sergei Aleksandrovich, son of Aleksander II and

brother of Aleksander III-and it was at that time that I began

to live a life of pomp and wealth beyond the reach of any other

earthly kingdom.

And a mere nine years after my own royal marriage there I was

in the Kremlin's Cathedral of the Assumption, no doubt in my

mind that the Russian Imperial Court was the most magnificent

in all of Europe. My dear Grandmama had forever derided Russians

for their extravagance, but Nicky's coronation, which was

taking place right before my eyes on that beautiful day in May,

8 6, was the most glorious spectacle I had ever witnessed. As

I stood amid a sea of kings and queens, princes and princesses

and countless diplomats, the sunshine streaked like golden

spears into the smoky, incense-thick church, and the dresses

and uniforms, the jewels and the sabers all sparkled and danced

with light. Candles burned everywhere, golden icons of saints

stared down upon us, and I dabbed a tear from my left eye. Before

us an incredible event had just unfolded: young Nicky,

twenty-six years old and the new husband of my younger sister,

had by the grace of God been anointed His Imperial Highness

Nikolai II, Emperor and Autocrat of All the Russias.

Nicky then ordered that the Imperial Crown be handed him,

which he took directly from the hands of the very important

Metropolitan Palladius of Sankt Peterburg. By tradition Russian

tsars crowned themselves, signifying there was no man of

any rank or priest of any import between Tsar and God. And

with his own hands Nicky did exactly that, crowning himself

with the great Crown, that blazing masterpiece covered in some

,000 smaller diamonds, dozens of larger ones, brilliant pearls,

and, of course, that magnificent uncut ruby-the world's largest

of carats-atop all. From that very moment, Nicky's

only responsibility was to answer to God and God alone.

Next, in a surprisingly strong and steady voice Nicky commanded

that the other insignia-the Imperial Scepter which

held the famed Orlov Diamond of 00 carats and the Imperial

Orb of gold-be given over.

The pale, grayed Metropolitan Palladius, dressed in blazing

gold robes sewn with thousands of pearls and wearing atop his

head a gold mitre decorated with diamonds and rubies, held

forth the insignia as he proclaimed in a booming voice, “Take

this Orb and this Scepter, which are the visible manifestations

of the Autocratic power the Almighty gives You to rule over

Your People and to lead them to Prosperity.”

Nicky took the Scepter in his right hand, the Orb in his left,

and seated himself upon his diamond-covered throne. A few

moments later, he rose and passed the regalia to his aids. With

tears in my eyes, I watched as Nicky commanded Alicky, my

sister nine years younger, to come forth, which she did, kneeling

upon a crimson cushion with a border of golden lace. With

heart-stopping majesty Nicky then removed his Crown and

touched it to the forehead of his beloved consort. Once the

Crown was back upon his own head, he turned again to my sister

and laid the regalia upon her-the Purple, the diamondcovered

Chain of the Order of St. Andrew, and finally the

Empress's Crown of some ,000 diamonds. Immediately the

choir burst into song, wishing the Tsar and Tsaritsa long life

and long reign, 0 guns were fired into the sky, and it seemed

as if heaven had opened and was pouring its divinity down to

earth, such were the waves of glory and beauty and wonder.

Once Nicky had again seated himself on his diamondcovered

throne and Alicky upon hers-Ivan the Terrible's,

actually-we members of the Royal Family were allowed to approach

the dais not simply to pay our respects but to pledge our

fealty to our country and her Sovereign. Minnie-the Widow

Empress Maria Fyodorovna-went first, a diamond crown upon

her own head, her train stretching forever behind her, and tears

by the bucket streaming from her eyes. Of course, this made

me cry all the more, for we all knew that her tears were not only

of joy and pride but surely of pain, for Minnie had lost her husband,

Aleksander III, just over a year earlier.

Everywhere there were court gowns of gold and silver, jewels

of red and blue and green, countless diamonds of the first

water, and we proceeded by rank, everything being so strictly

laid out. My own court gown, the train of regulation length-

which is to say the length of nearly three men-was of creamy

velvet embroidered with gold thread. And as I approached

Nicky, I swept a curtsey as graceful as any ballerina. I could feel

that dear boy's beautiful blue eyes upon me, his warmth, his

love. Then I went to Alicky. So that she might be close by me,

I had long prayed and done so much for her to find a husband

in Russia, and I had succeeded beyond expectation, for here in

my new land she had found the truest of love with her Nicky

dear. Now as nearly everyone's eyes fell upon me to see would

I kiss the hand of my younger sister, I took her soft fingers in

mine and with real joy pressed my lips to them, and it was stunning

and sweet, the love flowing between us. In a rush of emotion,

I pledged myself entirely to her service and to that of our

new Motherland. At that moment I was quite certain that no

country was greater or brighter or more blessed than our beloved

Russia.

That night, when the vast crowds gathered round the mighty

Kremlin walls, their Empress Aleksandra Fyodorovna-my little

Alicky-was led to a prominent bastion along the Kremlin

walls and instructed to push down upon a particular button.

Much to the joy and utter delight of Court and peasant alike,

the miracle of electric illumination burst forth in the dark night

as the thick walls and formidable towers of the Kremlin glowed

for the first time ever with the dazzling magic of thousands

upon thousands of electric bulbs. It was all glory, all power, and

the future of our Holy Mother Russia seemed boundless and

plentiful, stable and assured.

Indeed, none of us could have begun to think, let alone imagine,

that this God-Anointed Tsar would ever, ever be pulled

away. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

1. How did your sympathies toward Pavel and Elisavyeta change through the course of the novel? What similarities can you find between each character's fate at the end of the novel?

2. Pavel steals money so that he and his wife can travel to Moscow, and he continues to do so whenever he deems it necessary. How does this theft affect our understanding of his actions later in the novel? What do these actions suggest about the social and moral climate at the time?

3. Pavel and the other members of the revolution believe that desperate times call for desperate measures. Do you agree with this philosophy? When, if ever, is violence an appropriate political response?

4. Although Pavel describes his violent intentions and desire for revenge, when presented with an opportunity to assassinate Sergei, he doesn't take action. What does this tell us about his character?

5. What do you see as the major flaws of a political system governed by a monarchy such as the Romanovs? What are the flaws of the system Pavel is trying to bring about? Is it possible to have a perfect political

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