The Girl Who Fought Napoleon: A Novel of the Russian Empire Read Free

him.
    Alexander tried to please his grandmother, of course, but he also desperately wanted to curry favor with his father. But that favor was hard to find: Paul had heard the rumors that his mother meant to skip a generation and crown her grandson Alexander as tsar. And, indeed, those rumors were true. Catherine had no intention of ever letting her son inherit the Russian throne but instead groomed Alexander for that eventual future. Should any misfortune befall Alexander, his younger brother Constantine was prepared to take his place.
    This was a burden that weighed heavily in the heart of a lonely twelve-year-old boy. Being under the same roof with his father and grandmother was a stormy proposition.
    Entering the long portrait-lined marble hall, Alexander saw his parents and his grandmother waiting at the end of the corridor. Behind them, closer to the Christmas tree, were Alexander and Constantine’s younger sisters—Alexandra and Elena—who stood quietly at attention but cast anxious looks, longing to open their Christmas presents. Alexandra, the elder, was six. She was dressed in white lace with navy blue ribbons, her hair held back a satin band. The little girl made a pouty face at her older brother, for all this ceremony was delaying her pleasure.
    Ekaterina was held by a lady-in-waiting. Still a baby, she was nevertheless mesmerized by her eldest brother. She gave a shriek of joy, holding her chubby hand toward him.
    Alexander’s father was dressed in a green military uniform with a red sash crossing his chest; his mother, in an emerald-green velvet gown embroidered in seed pearls and silver. Her blonde hair was pinned up gracefully, emphasizing her beauty, even though she had given birth to six children.
    He kissed his grandmother’s cheeks and bowed.
    “Merry Christmas!” said his mother, Maria Feodorovna, extending her white-gloved hand. Alexander bowed to kiss it.
    “You look splendid, Alexander!” she said. She looked as if she longed to embrace him—every atom of her flesh trembled to take her eldest son in her arms and cover his face with kisses.
    “Merry Christmas!” said Paul. Son and father clasped hands with a crisp, agitated motion. Then they moved a half a pace apart as if on cue, a practiced dance.
    “You have not been to Gatchina in months,” said Paul. “We shall expect you to pay us a visit soon, if the empress grants permission. I should like to show you the new maneuvers with the horse soldiers.”
    “And me, Papa?” said Constantine, emerging from behind his brother. “I want to shout orders and drill the soldiers.”
    “Oh!” said the grand duchess, seeing the fair-haired boy. She placed her hand to her heart. “ Oh , Constantine! My dear son—”
    Her husband turned to her, raising an eyebrow. He shot a look at his own mother, whose face stiffened at the show of affection.
    Maria Feodorovna regained her composure.
    “A very merry Christmas . . . Duke Constantine,” the grand duchess said, gazing sadly at the marble floor.
    But the young boy was looking past her to the tree and the floor spread with presents in intricately painted wraps and satin bows. The fir tree’s boughs sagged with Christmas bounty, red ribbons holding gifts, sweets, and wooden soldiers, painted in brilliant colors.
    “Constantine,” said Catherine. “Your mother, the Duchess Maria Feodorovna, has addressed you.”
    Constantine’s head snapped back, looking at his grandmother. Then the little boy turned to his mother, making a curt bow.
    “Duchess Maria Feodorovna, madame. I wish the same to you. A very merry Christmas.”
    Maria Feodorovna flinched as if the little boy had slapped her. Tender words between mother and son would never be uttered in vast halls of Empress Catherine’s Winter Palace.
    The grand duchess watched silently as her son tore open his Christmas presents.

Chapter 3
    On the Cavalry March
    June 1785
     
    Astakhov became my tutor from the day my mother hurled me from the