already jockeying for position before them, lining up to pay respects.
In the corner sat bearded men in evening dress, a string quartet segueing with ease from our Russian hymn to Persian melodies. They would accompany the Persian ballet we would all dance later.
“Can you imagine growing up here?” I asked. “It’s the tsar’s childhood home.”
We walked toward the golden thrones, which were placed just far enough apart that the two women didn’t have to speak to each other. After years of competition between daughter-in-law and mother-in-law for the heart of the tsar, their rivalry was well-known but only whispered about. Their public personas were very different. The tsar’s mother, beloved by the people, was more open and gracious, fond of dancing, while the tsarina Alexandra remained terribly aloof and barely tolerated public events, preferring quiet pursuits and family time.
“I shall introduce you to the tsarina, but we must wait our turn,” I said, steering Eliza to the end of the line.
“I can’t imagine what we’ll talk about.”
I pulled Eliza close to whisper in her ear and the heron feathers of her turban brushed my cheek. How many poor birds died to outfit this one party?
“She’ll ask you questions, mostly about whether you have children. She has a buzzer under her foot that she presses when it’s time to move on and her ladies-in-waiting will lead you away.”
The line moved slowly and as the room filled with guests we grew warm and the fur costumes smelled of wet animal. As we inched closer in line toward the tsarina I caught a glimpse of her, wearing her usual bored expression, a blaze of diamonds at her chest. Did she realize her face betrayed every thought?
I recognized many of her ladies-in-waiting, for I’d once been one of them, well before Max was born. They hovered near the tsarina, dressed in their white muslin dresses, the empress’s diamond monogram chiffre, a glittering letter “A” for Alexandra on a blue ribbon, pinned at each woman’s left shoulder. Madame Wiroboff stood at the tsarina’s side, a round, self-effacing woman with sleepy eyes, the empress’s best friend.
Eliza leaned toward me. “The tsarina is beautiful. Though not at all happy.”
“She hates big parties. Much rather be reading.”
“Where is the tsar?”
“Down in Kracnoe-Celo. He has a full plate right now.”
How tense things had become for the royal family with all the strikes and unrest on top of a looming war. Rumors abounded that Tsar Nicholas, afraid for his life, had food tasters check his dinners and would not allow even his longtime valet to shave him for fear of assassination. Though a dedicated ruler, the tsar was not at all suited to the monarch’s life of high-pressure decisions. He was happiest in the country at his beloved Alexander Palace, with the tsarina and their five children, playing tennis or dominoes.
I felt a hand at my back and turned to find Grand Duchess Olga, the royal couple’s eldest daughter, flanked by two colossi in palace dress.
“Whose idea was it to dress in fur in July?” Olga asked in English, with a smile. Dressed in a white chiffon gown of the Grecian style and necklace of seed pearls, she was a natural beauty without even a trace of powder.
I curtseyed. “Cousin.”
Olga kissed me three times, alternating cheeks.
“Grand Duchess Olga Nikolaevna Romanova, may I present Mrs. Eliza Woolsey Mitchell Ferriday of New York?” I asked, using the full complement of Eliza’s names, in the Russian tradition.
Eliza curtseyed low and Olga nodded back. “So nice to meet you all the way from America.”
With her wide smile and candid, blue-eyed gaze, it was impossible not to be enchanted by Olga. For a woman of her regal position she remained remarkably down to earth.
“Did you come by rail?” Olga asked. “Such a long trip.”
“Yes, steamer and train. It flew by—Sofya and I talked the whole way.”
“I am terribly jealous of you having a bosom friend. What did you talk about, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Oh, our favorite paintings. Sofya’s dream garden and what she would plant. Which philosophers truly understand the female mind—which is none, we decided.”
“We graded the world’s best cities,” I said. “And, of course, we chose Paris as our favorite, for the best museums and the profiteroles.”
“May I say you and Sofya look remarkably alike?” Eliza asked.
I glanced at Olga, with her tipped-up nose and waved hair pulled up in a chignon. “That is what they say. Maybe a much older sister.”
Though I was several years older than Olga who was