The Secret Wife Read online

  All of a sudden he yearned for her with a passion that was tantamount to madness. He couldn’t bear their separation one moment longer; it was tearing him apart. What was it about her that moved him so? His feelings could not be reduced to logic; quite simply, he adored the very essence of her.

  Dmitri felt so sick with longing that it could only be assuaged by writing back to Tatiana straight away and spilling his feelings on paper. Recklessness took hold and he wrote with the question that was foremost on his mind:

  Mon Ange,

  Your letter has filled me with hope and drives me to write that I wish with all my heart and soul I might one day be the Russian man you choose to marry. I don’t have royal blood or a fortune anything like the size of your family’s, but I promise I would alternately worship and tease you in exactly the right proportions for the rest of our lives. The possibility that I might have a chance of gaining your parents’ approval fires me with renewed determination to survive this grotesque war. My love for you gives me an invisible cloak that bullets and shells cannot penetrate.

  Please do not tell anyone of this proposal lest your father think it disrespectful that I have not asked his permission first … but a private understanding between us would make me the happiest man in the world.

  When the letter was finished Dmitri lay back on the wooden pallet that served as his bunk and daydreamed about marrying Tatiana. Maybe the wedding could take place in the Romanovs’ private chapel, the Grand Church at the Winter Palace, with its ostentatious gold stucco and its dome with lunettes picturing the Apostles. He imagined his parents and sisters sitting alongside the Tsar and Tsarina. His father was a stern, critical man who believed Dmitri was not rising through the army ranks as rapidly as he should, but surely he would be proud of a son who married a Romanov? His sisters would love to become acquainted with the grand duchesses, and undoubtedly the relationship would enhance Valerina’s marriage prospects. Dare he send the letter?

  Dmitri thought about it overnight and when his feelings were the same the following morning, he rushed to give it to the postal clerk before he could change his mind. As was his habit, he addressed the envelope to Tatiana’s maid, Trina, so that the officer who censored their mail would not discover the true object of his affections. He could not risk gossip leaking out.

  All that day he did not tell anyone, not even his friend Malevich who had at last returned to the front fully recovered from his wounds. That evening as they sat around the fire slurping bowls of watery venison stew, his fellow officers teased him for being silent and withdrawn and Malevich led the ribbing.

  ‘I think Cornet Malama has a sweetheart,’ he joked. ‘Have you noticed how eagerly he awaits postal deliveries, and how he rushes to his bunk to read any letters in privacy? Pray tell us, Malama, who is the lucky lady?’

  Dmitri shook his head, grinning. ‘As if I would tell a bunch of delinquents like you lot!’

  ‘See how he blushes,’ another mocked. ‘He definitely has a secret.’

  ‘It’s the heat of the fire,’ Dmitri maintained.

  He wished he could talk about Tatiana – he wanted to tell the world of their love – but any wrong move at this stage could spoil his chances, especially if it spilled into the newspapers. His heart was so full he scarcely felt the biting cold of the Prussian plain where they were dug in. Huddled in his bedding roll that night, he imagined Tatiana’s arms around him, her face against his, as he sank into dream-filled sleep.

  Chapter Eight

  The war continued to go badly for the Russians. The Germans introduced the new long-barrelled howitzers, which they hauled around on wheeled carriages, and now they could wreak destruction wherever they chose. Massive shells hurtled down without warning. The ground shook, stones rained from the sky and more bodies had to be buried after each ear-shattering explosion. It took hours of hacking at the frozen earth with a pickaxe to dig a grave, and many bodies were piled in together, without the dignity of solitude in their final resting place. Dmitri spent his days trying to direct their own shelling towards the howitzers but felt they were making no progress.

  When he came off duty each evening, he rushed to the postal clerk. A few letters arrived that Tatiana had sent before receiving his; they were charming, but he was going mad waiting for her response to his proposal. When it came, he knew instinctively this was the one. The envelope was of the same type as the others, it was sealed in the same way, but his heart pounded and he felt sick with nerves as he tore it open.

  Malama sweetheart,

  I received your letter of the 28th of January this very morning and have rushed to my room to write as soon as I could. The answer to your proposal is yes, yes, yes; with all my soul I wish to be your wife. You should see how I blush to say these words. I know Mama and Papa will agree, since you are so courageous and noble and true. Mama has already told me she admires you, and I know Papa will too. I can’t wait for the day when I can call you my husband. If only the war could be over next week and you could rush home to claim your bride! I fear the waiting will be unbearable.

  Dmitri read and re-read the paragraph, unable to believe his eyes. Was he misunderstanding it? The underlined ‘yes, yes, yes’ seemed unequivocal. Was it really true that he might become Tatiana’s husband? He read on, giddy with excitement:

  I understand that until then we must keep our engagement secret but I hope you will not mind that I have confided in Uncle Grigory. Do you know him? The Siberian spiritual leader they call Rasputin, who is a great friend of our family. He saw me sitting pensive by a window and guessed that I was pining for a loved one so I found myself telling him about you. He asked to see a letter from you, because he says that men can judge other men’s intentions far better than women. After some hesitation I produced your proposal letter from the folds of my gown, where I had tucked it to keep it close. He read it, and when he finished he handed it back, saying ‘He truly loves you, and he is obviously a good man.’

  I was overjoyed, as you can imagine, and told him how much I want to marry you. I explained that my mother and sisters do not yet know we are in love, although they have met and admired you, and I made him promise to keep our secret. Uncle Grigory closed his eyes and held my hand for several seconds, one finger on my wrist as if he was feeling for the truth. He has mystical powers and his predictions always come true. ‘Yes, you will marry him,’ he said. ‘Yet there are dark days ahead.’ I suppose he means because of the war.

  I hope you do not mind me telling him, Malama. Since your letter arrived I have been bursting with the news that we are to wed. I find it hard not to tell anyone else, but I agree that is how it must be since you must apply to my father for permission and I can’t see how he might give it till the war is over. Until then it will be our precious secret, something I can hug to my breast to ease the agony of missing you.

  I must go to the hospital now but will write later. When I am writing I feel close to you and wish there were more hours in the day so I could write more.

  Mon amour est pour vous, à jamais.

  Tatiana

  Dmitri stared at the letter, with a tumult of emotions. There was the exhilaration of Tatiana accepting his proposal but also irritation and alarm that she should have told Rasputin about it. Dmitri had not been introduced to the bearded wild man, but had heard only ill of him. The thought of him touching Tatiana’s wrist and reading the intensely private letter made Dmitri wild with jealousy. What if Rasputin told the Tsarina, to whom he was said to be very close? It could utterly spoil his chances of one day being accepted into the family. What had Tatiana been thinking?

  ‘What do you make of Grigory Rasputin?’ he asked the men that evening as they ate their meagre bowls of stew, accompanied by hunks of rough, gritty bread.

  ‘Who is he?’ a young officer asked.

  Malevich replied: ‘He’s a self-seeking charlatan who presents himself as a man of God while spending his time carousing in brothels and bars. He has inveigled his way into the Rom
anovs’ inner circle and their relationship with such a reprobate does them no favours. I hear the Tsar would banish him to Siberia but the Tsarina has fallen under his spell and will not hear of it.’ He shook his head in disbelief.

  ‘What do you think he seeks from them?’ Dmitri asked sarcastically. ‘Surely not riches, power and influence?’

  Malevich snorted. ‘Of course. It’s a very lucrative connection for him.’

  Another joined in. ‘It’s a shame the assassination attempt in May was unsuccessful. I hear he is trying to convert the Tsarina and her daughters to the Khlysty sect, who believe that you must sin as much as possible and then ask for forgiveness later. They claim repentance is only genuine for the greatest sinners: a very cynical philosophy and one that suits Rasputin right down to the ground.’

  ‘That would certainly account for his many transgressions,’ Malevich agreed. ‘Nude swimming; wandering round the palace in his nightshirt; even entering the bedroom of the grand duchesses while they lie sleeping. It is not a healthy association. I heard he makes love to every lady he meets – including his own daughter.’

  ‘Oh, that’s vile …’

  Dmitri was disturbed. How could the Tsarina not see through such a man, with his crazy eyes, dishevelled clothing and disrespectful manner? Back at his tent, in a burst of ill humour, he scribbled off a hasty note to Tatiana:

  My very own angel, I wish you had not been so trustful of Rasputin. No doubt he is all smiles and weasel words inside the palace walls but believe me when I tell you that in the outside world he is known as a scoundrel. I am afraid that if he spreads our secret it could ruin any chance of us one day being wed. Of course, I understand your desire to tell someone of our love – I feel the same way myself – but could you not have whispered it to Ortipo instead? She would have made a better choice of confidante than the wild Siberian, and I expect her response would have been more intelligent. I cannot stop to write more now but will try to find a moment soon.

  Your very own, Malama.

  He sealed the note and hurried to the postal clerk’s tent to send it, still feeling discomfited. How could Tatiana not see through such a ruffian? Was she so lacking in judgement?

  He pondered the question as he lay in bed that night, unable to sleep, and it came to him that her very limited exposure to the outside world must mean she did not have well-tuned instincts about human nature. She was a good creature who saw only good in everyone she met. It would be his role gently to teach her more of the world.

  As soon as he realised this, he regretted the pompous tone of his note and hoped it would not upset her or even change her opinion of him. He lay awake long into the night worrying and as soon as the camp awoke the following morning he rushed to the postal tent to retrieve his letter, only to find it had already been dispatched.

  Chapter Nine

  All day Dmitri agonised over his note. Would Tatiana be hurt that he sounded critical? Might she even fall out of love with him? His turmoil continued till nightfall, when he was distracted by devastating news: the Russian XX Corps had been surrounded in Augustow Forest by four German corps without any Russian commander getting wind of it. For five days they had held out under intense gunfire, in a snowstorm, until all hope was lost. It sounded as though most of the 70,000 men had been killed outright and the remainder taken prisoner. Yet again it had been possible because of lack of information about German troop movements.

  There were urgent meetings of Russia’s commanders and a counter-attack against the right flank of the German front was called for the next day. Too little, too late, Dmitri thought gloomily as he prepared his horse, oiled his pistol and sharpened his sabre in a biting wind beneath dark grey, snow-heavy clouds. He couldn’t bear the thought that he might die the following day and the last correspondence Tatiana would receive from him would be that curt rebuke, so he sat down to compose another letter, hoping it might overtake the first.

  Mon Ange,

  Forgive your jealous lover for his temper of last evening. I could not bear to hear of your intimacy with another man, one who is renowned for his promiscuity, no less. It was agony for me to think of him close to you, reading my most personal letter. Like an impetuous fool I responded in haste but now repent and beg you not to love me any less for my outburst.

  Affairs go badly in our part of the front. It seems we will not be able to defeat the German army with any speed, although I hope we will now restrain them at the border so they cannot sink their boots into Russian mud. If only this war would soon be over so that I can rush home to your arms. I yearn to hear your pretty voice and look into the depths of your eyes. Forgive me, angel.

  Your Malama

  He kissed the envelope tenderly before taking it to the postal clerk, although he knew it would pass through many hands before hers. Oh, if only he could deliver it in person!

  Over the next few weeks, Dmitri’s regiment was forced to retreat rapidly as the German and Austro-Hungarian armies combined to push through Poland. It would have been suicide for the Russians to stand and fight because they did not have the artillery and ammunition to rival their opponents. At times the Germans were so close Dmitri could hear them calling to each other, could smell the smoke of their campfires, could see their sentries shivering in the deep snow. He hoped the conditions would be harder for them, as Russians are used to snow. Sometimes he crept out under cover of the forest to set eyes on the enemy but he never asked his men to fire at the German lines for fear of those big guns. Until they had such weapons themselves it would be foolhardy to give away their location.

  All this time, he heard nothing from Tatiana. Postal deliveries were scarce while the army was on the move, and the severe weather meant supplies did not reach them regularly. They shot deer and picked berries for food, and melted snow for drinking water because the rivers and lakes were covered in impenetrable ice. Dmitri knew his comrades had received no letters from their families and sweethearts, but still he feared the silence must mean Tatiana had changed her opinion of him. Perhaps she had found a new beau at the hospital, with whom she now passed her time. Would she be so fickle as to abandon him after a few months’ absence? He couldn’t believe it of her … but still, she might be cross about his rebuke over Rasputin. It was entirely his own fault.

  Winter blew itself out with one last icy storm and watery sunshine began to thaw the snow. Icicles broke off and hurtled from the treetops like daggers thrown by invisible hands. The ground became boggy with snowmelt and occasional rabbits, fresh from hibernation, began to grace the camp’s cookpots. Meanwhile, the Germans took Warsaw and Krakow, and pushed on towards Lithuania and Belarus; seemingly nothing could stop them. Privately, Dmitri grew contemptuous of the commanders who could think of nothing to stop this assault, and was not remotely reassured when he heard that Tsar Nicholas intended to take personal command of the army. There was much muttering round the campfire that Nicholas knew nothing of military strategy and might as well put his young son Alexei in charge for all the good he would do.

  At last, when over two agonising months had gone by without word from Tatiana, Dmitri received a bundle of letters one evening, all of them from her bar one from his mother. He hurried to his tent and began by sorting them into date order before he opened the first one, which was dated February 12th, just after she must have received his rebuke.

  My dearest Malama,

  I have read your note and your explanation sent the following day and of course I can understand why you resent me showing your letter to Rasputin. If our situations were reversed and you had shown one of my letters to a comrade I would have been hurt and surprised. However,I assure you that Rasputin has never been anything but respectful to my family and to me personally.

  I believe Mama and Papa first met him in 1905, and were immediately impressed by his inspiring interpretations of the scriptures. When Prime Minister Stolypin’s daughter was injured in that dreadful bombing, he cured her against all the odds simply by laying his hands on her
wounds. He now treats Mama for her headaches and sciatica, and helps my little brother Alexei when he suffers from painful joints. There is no doubt in my mind that he has healing powers.

  One day, when you are back in Tsarskoe Selo, I will introduce you and you will see for yourself that he is a force for nothing but good. I hate to disagree with you by letter when we have no immediate prospect of being together. If only we could look into each other’s eyes and know that all is well. Believe me when I tell you that my feelings for you have not changed one little bit because of this difference of opinion. I am glad we can speak our minds with each other and am sure this is a healthy sign for our married life.

  The letter finished with many endearments and Dmitri buried his face in his hands, overcome with emotion that she was still his Tatiana, his beloved. He kissed the paper and clasped his hands in prayer, thanking God for ending his weeks of mental torture.

  He opened the next letter, then the one after, and read through all in sequence. She wrote of her sadness after the death of a young patient at the hospital. She drew a picture of the special tag, encrusted with tiny jewels set in filigree vines, she had commissioned Fabergé to make for Ortipo’s collar then wrote that the little floozy did not deserve it, having got pregnant by another of the palace dogs, provoking quite a scandale. She wrote of the books recommended by her English tutor, Pierre Gilliard, and of all she was learning from Doctor Vera Gedroit, who flattered her by saying she had a talent for nursing. And as the letters progressed she became increasingly anxious about Dmitri’s welfare, saying she had received no word from him throughout the spring months when it seemed all news from the front was worse than the last.

  Mon chéri,

  I beg you to send two lines telling me you are safe. I’m full of such fear that I find it hard to concentrate on my work. My sisters talk to me and I realise after several minutes that I have not been listening because all my thoughts are with you in Poland. I will not rest easy until I hear you are safe.