Carolly Erickson The Tsarina's Daughter (epub) i

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.The Tsarina’s DaughterAlso by Carolly EricksonHISTORICAL ENTERTAINMENTSThe Hidden Diary of Marie AntoinetteThe Last Wife of Henry VIIIThe Secret Life of JosephineNONFICTIONThe Records of Medieval EuropeCivilization and Society in the WestThe Medieval VisionBloody MaryGreat HarryThe First ElizabethMistress AnneOur Tempestuous DayBonnie Prince CharlieTo the ScaffoldHer Little MajestyArc of the ArrowGreat CatherineJosephineAlexandraRoyal PanoplyLilibetThe Girl from Botany BayThe Tsarina’sDaughterCAROLLY ERICKSONSt.Martin’s Griffin New YorkThis is a work of fiction.All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.THE TSARINA’S DAUGHTER.Copyright © 2008 by Carolly Erickson.All rights reserved.Printed in the United States of America.For information, address St.Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y.10010.www.stmartins.comThe Library of Congress has catalogued the hardcover edition as follows:Erickson, Carolly, 1943–The tsarina’s daughter / Carolly Erickson.—1st ed.p.cm.ISBN-13: 978-0-312-36738-1ISBN-10: 0-312-36738-41.Tatiana Nikolaevna, Grand Duchess, daughter of Nicholas II, Emperor of Russia, 1897–1918—Fiction.2.Russia—History—Nicholas II, 1894–1917—Fiction.3.Nicholas II, Emperor of Russia, 1868–1918—Family—Fiction.4.False personation—Fiction.5.Russians—Canada—Fiction.6.Grandmothers—Fiction.I.Title.PS3605.R53T77 2008813'.6—dc222008022520ISBN-13: 978-0-312-54723-3 (pbk.)ISBN-10: 0-312-54723-4 (pbk.)First St.Martin’s Griffin Edition: August 200910 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1The Tsarina’s DaughterPROLOGUENovember 15, 1989My name is Daria Gradov and I live in Yellow Rain, Saskatchewan.I am a widow.My dear Michael has died but my family is close by.They look after me, especially my son Nicholas and his boys.They believe their name to be Gradov, like their father’s.But their true name, their true heritage, is Romanov.They don’t yet know it, but they are heirs to the throne of the tsars.Now that the world is celebrating the fall of the Berlin Wall, and I am celebrating my ninety-third year of life, the time has come for me to tell the story of my true family, as a gift to my son and grandsons.As an act of penance, perhaps, for turning my back on my birthright and disguising the truth of my origins for so many years.For I only became Daria Gradov in 1918, when Michael and I boarded the train that took us to Murmansk.I had false papers.No one suspected that I was really Tatiana Romanov, second oldest daughter of Tsar Nicholas and Tsarina Alexandra.That girl was dead, shot with her mother and father, her sisters and brother in the basement of a shabby house in Siberia.Only Michael and I and a few trusted others knew that the girl who died in the basement was not Tatiana.I am Tatiana.And now I must tell my story, and my family’s story, so that old wrongs can be righted and the world can know the truth.OneMy story begins at the extreme edge of memory, on a snowy January afternoon when I was six years old, and it seemed as if all the bells in all the churches of St.Petersburg were ringing at once.I remember my father lifted me up so I could see over the top of the balcony railing, and I felt the freezing wind on my face and saw, through the greenish-yellow fog, a crowd of people such as I had never seen before.The mass of people, all singing and shouting and waving flags and banners, seemed to stretch as far as I could see, all across the Palace Square and beyond, out toward the corners of the avenues and even along the bridge across the river.“Batiushka! Batiushka!” they were shouting.“Little Father!” Though the noise of their shouting seemed to dissolve into the resonant clanging of the bells and the singing of “God Save the Tsar.”It was my name day, or near it, the Feast of the Holy Martyr Tatiana of Rome who lived in the time of the Caesars, and at first I thought they were all shouting and singing to celebrate my name day feast, so I waved and smiled and thought, how kind they all are, to show such joy at my feast day.But of course it was not my name day that they were celebrating, it was something much more important, as I found out later.My father put me down but I could still see through the open stonework of the balustrade and I could still hear the tremendous commotion.People began singing “Holy Russia” and chanting “Hail to the Russian army and fleet” and clapping as they chanted, though their poor hands must have been raw from the cold.Mother led us back through the glass doors into the White Hall and we thawed ourselves in front of the fire.She smiled at us and gave us hot milk and plates of warm buns with honey and icing.We were all happy that day because she had just told us a wonderful secret: that we would soon have a baby brother.There were four of us girls in the family, in that winter of 1904.I was six, as I have already said, Olga had just turned eight, fat little Marie was four and the baby, Anastasia, was two and a half.Everybody said we needed a brother and mama assured us that we would soon have one, no matter what stories our Grandma Minnie told.(Grandma Minnie was unkind to mama, and always said she could only have girls.)“Is it because our little brother is coming that all the people are shouting and all the bells are ringing?” I asked.“No, Tania.It is because they love Russia and they love us, especially your dear papa.”“I heard Chemodurov say it was because of the war,” Olga said, in her most grown-up, know-it-all voice.Chemodurov was my father’s valet and the source of all Olga’s information at that time.“Hush! We leave such things to your father.” Mama spoke crisply, and gave Olga a look that made her frown and sulk, though she did obey and said nothing more.“How was your dancing lesson, Tania?” mama asked, changing the subject.“Did you manage to avoid stepping on Olga’s feet?”“Professor Leitfelter says I am a good dancer,” I said proudly.“I keep good time with my feet.”Olga and I went to dancing class twice a week at the Vorontzov Institute for Young Noblewomen.With forty other girls, all of us dressed in identical long white pinafores and pink linen underskirts, we stepped and twirled, promenaded and bowed to the music of a grand piano, while our dancing master walked up and down, correcting our form and clapping his hands irritably when we failed to keep in step.I loved dancing class [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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