Chapter Forty-Three (Patreon)

They began to arrive in early December. The Romanov family tree was long, and though it had been down to a single scion in living memory (Alexander’s grandfather, the Emperor Paul) it had since exploded with branches. With his father seemingly taking the opportunity to  show off his heir’s heir and test out some of his children’s suitors, the guest list was as large as could be managed. Larger, perhaps. In addition to the numerous German and Italian royals from third and fourth-rate powers there were members of the Dutch, Swedish, Prussian, Bavarian, Piedmont-Sardinian, and even Brazilian royal families. Perhaps most surprising was the presence of the two Spanish delegations. One was led by Infante Carlos Luis Maria de Bourbon, the heir of the recently-defeated (but still popular, especially in the Basque country) conservative Carlist cause. The other was led by Don Ildefonso Diez de Rivera y Muro, Count of Almodovar, the recently-appointed Foreign Minister of the more liberal Isabellist Spain. How long Almodovar would remain Foreign Minister Alexander wasn’t sure but he doubted it would be long. Since the death of the previous king and the start of the Carlist War in 1833, Spain had gone through seventeen Foreign Ministers. Needless to say Alexander had no desire to see his siblings wed into such a mess, let alone to drag Russia into it. Far better to let the decaying Spanish Empire collapse on its own, allowing Russia to swoop in and claim the Philippines at their leisure.

Adding to Alexander’s dismissal of the Spaniards was the two delegations steadfast efforts to avoid each other. It became a source of amusement for many of the younger guests to try and engineer the two sides meeting. Alexander’s youngest brothers, Nicholas and Michael, proved most adept at this. Together with their first cousin once-removed and agemate, Prince Freidrich of Prussia, they convinced the servants of the Winter Palace to close off several corridors on December 24th, Christmas Eve. 

Unable to access the corridors, the vast majority of the guests (Alexander and his family included) were forced to reach their destinations by crossing through Saint George’s Hall. There, beneath the gold and crystal chandeliers and the painted ceilings, the numerous foreign royals and Russian nobles were treated to the sight of Infante Carlos and Don Ildefonso shouting at each other in heated Spanish.

“Es Infante de nada,” Don Ildefonso sneered.

“Mejor ser Infante de nada que servidor por hija de puta,” Infante Carlos shouted back. 

“Esta cierto que su Reina es hija de Reino?”

Alexander stared as the normally temperate Don Ildefonso launched himself towards Infante Carlos. Russian nobles cheered as the aging artillery officer struck the young Infante repeatedly in the face, breaking his nose and (Alexander winced) tearing off his luxurious mustache. When the Infante went limp Alexander decided it was time to intervene. It would not be well-received for a prince–even an exiled one–to be murdered while a Russian guest.

*

Alexander wasn’t sure if he should be thanking God the service was over, or cursing him for the feast.

And what a feast it was. There were peafowl imported live from British India, slaughtered and roasted before being displayed with their feathers artfully patterned. There were dishes with saffron, coffee, and chocolate, and a dozen dozen spices besides, none of which grew on Russian soil. The meats were succulently cooked and served on plates, platters, and bowls that came from the new Mukden and Korean porcelain factories. These were not the half-porcelain of Saxony, nor the cheap bone porcelain of England. These were the true objects d’art, each one painted and glazed in unique patterns. The utensils were made of platinum rather than silver, the rarer and more difficult metal at last finding a use, even if it was only so his father could boast.

Alas, his father’s boasts would not be the only ones Alexander heard that night, nor would the others be nearly as subtle. As Tsarevich there was nowhere Alexander could sit but beside his father, a position that left him unfortunately close to King Willem II of the Netherlands. Alexander had never met a more irritating man than his uncle by marriage, and that included Nesselrode. Willem II alternated his boasting–of the Netherlands’ wealth, of its far-reach colonial empire, of its proud history–with a litany of complaints against his court, his people, and especially the journalists and politicians. Alexander nodded along numbly, hoping that Willem would tire himself out. Such a hope was in vain.

His wife, at least, seemed to be having a better time. Alexandrine got along with nearly everyone, and it seemed the aunt Alexander had never met was no exception. From the snippets of conversation Alexander overheard while Willem caught his breath between boasts and complaints, they mostly discussed their children.

*

“How do you manage the charities?” Alexandrine asked, pushing her plate to the side as she leaned forward. The duck, while scrumptious, had left her full two bites ago. “While there are things I would wish to do, I have yet to manage to create a satisfactory plan.”

“Have you talked to anyone about this?” Anna asked. “Not an advisor, but someone who does charitable work. A nurse, a nun, someone of that nature? They would know where to start.”

“Oh,” Alexandrine said, blushing. “I had not thought of that.” Truly, she felt the fool now.

“Nor did I, when I began to attempt this sort of work,” Anna said. For all the Queen’s formality her smile was gentle and eased Alexandrine’s self-afflicting notions. “When I began I thought I could simply order works to be done, hand over the money, and that would be it. No, true charity is much more involved than that. May I ask what it is you intend to do?”

“I wish to help migrants,” Alexandrine said. “There is a great deal of movement within Siberia right now. Russians and Poles coming east, Koreans and Mandarins coming west, everyone moving into cities. While their basic physical needs are taken care of, their comfort is not. Many of the Asiatics find the northern climes frigidly cold. Many of the Russians do not know how to react to suddenly being among the minority. And none of the rural folk quite know how to live in the city. It has already caused some problems, with carriages, trams, and pedestrians all fighting for control of the streets.”

“A most bold ambition,” Anna said, not unkindly. “I would recommend that you meet with the women of the communities you wish to help, especially their elders. A mother always knows what her children need. The role of the female monarch is to be mother of the nation, and so you must talk to the mothers of your children, so that you may learn what everyone needs.”

Alexandrine nodded. “Better to do one thing well than two things poorly,” she said.

Anna smiled and lifted her glass of champagne. “Exactly, my dear.”