The Night Is Far Gone

By Tim Jorgenson

It is 1912 when a gentleman arrives at the gateway to the imperial hunting lodge known as Spala in Polish Russia. But Charles Sydney Gibbes is not just any gentleman—he is the Romanov family’s English tutor. Nicholas II, the most powerful and wealthy monarch of modern times, rules a nation spread across eleven time zones. Gibbes, who serves as English tutor to the Romanov children, has already gained the family’s affection. But as Gibbes dutifully teaches, a strange holy man begins orchestrating a chain of events that eventually lead to the loss of a war and the family’s wealth, their murders eight years later, and the abolishment of the monarchy. As Gibbes discovers the price of his loyalty, he also realizes that even when the book of history closes, the book of life never ends. The Night is Far Gone shares the historical tale of an imperial Russian family, its patriarch, and their loyal English tutor as they all attempt to find their way in a chaotic world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Aug 14, 2017
• ISBN: 9781483472058

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The Night Is Far Gone

TIM JORGENSON

Copyright © 2017 Tim Jorgenson.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

The title page scripture quotation is taken from the New Revised Standard Version Bible, copyright © 1989 the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-7203-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-7204-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-7205-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017910799

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 07/31/2017

A Notice

The enhanced image of Alexandra Feodorovna Romanova appearing on the cover of this book is reproduced with the express permission of Elaine Duncan Achenbach, who developed the image, who reserves the rights for its reproduction, and who may be contacted through [e-mail].

Acknowledgments

The author is pleased to have had the assistance of a reading team at Mainline Publications, Inc., led by Patty Moyer. Patty may be contacted through [e-mail].

The author wishes to thank Ms Duncan Achenbach, Ms Moyer and her team, and the team at Lulu Press, Inc., without whom this book would have been merely far gone but never awakened.

With Special Thanks to Jean

&

Warm Regards to Family and Friends

Spala

Chapter 1

Gibbes was grateful to see the station, to be in the right place. The train had arrived seventeen minutes late. His pocket watch showed 9:42. His watch couldn’t show that this September morning was out of sync with the calendar. Winter seemed to have arrived. Plumes of steam came from the engine ahead and from the people on the platform. It was as if Gibbes had arrived somewhere in Siberia. But he was in the right place. He had arrived at the gateway to the imperial hunting lodge known as Spala, in Polish Russia.

Looking up and down the platform, Gibbes saw no one in the livery of the hunting lodge. Instead, Poles—men, women, and children—raised their welcomes and adieus against the accompaniment of the panting locomotive. This could have been any small Polish town along the railway lines southwest of Warsaw.

Perhaps there had been some confusion about when he would arrive. After all, the Poles still observed the Western, Gregorian calendar. At the imperial household the Orthodox, Julian calendar held sway (and was thirteen days in arrears because of that). Or, so it had been. Where was the coachman?

After stepping down from the train, Gibbes walked to a station window to peer into the waiting room. He saw a man in burgundy livery standing under the station clock. So, someone had come to fetch him, after all.

Gibbes couldn’t blame the coachman for wanting to keep warm. He entered the waiting room and identified himself to the man. He didn’t know him, didn’t recognize him. Gibbes showed the coachman his identity papers. The coachman told Gibbes his name was Tonishkin.

Tonishkin took hold of the luggage and headed out to the street side of the station. There was to be no idle conversation. Gibbes looked up at the clock and at the back of the man walking away with his luggage. The coachman is private, comfort loving, and industrious, thought Gibbes. What makes him tick?

Gibbes flinched with guilt from wondering what made the man tick. His fellow classmen at Cambridge were apt to wonder such things. But he knew that neither the coachman nor anyone else was a machine, despite whatever they might say in Paris or Vienna or Cambridge. Gibbes had shelved much of his boyhood religious faith at Cambridge, but he was not prepared to deprive people of their mystery. Mystery, he felt, was a necessary component of human dignity. Humans couldn’t be machines.

What were humans like? Gibbes had found himself asking that question more often since he’d begun his employment in the imperial household. The double-headed eagle, emblem of imperial Russia, was emblazoned on the side of the coach door that Tonishkin opened for Gibbes. Gibbes stepped up and into the world of the Romanovs he’d left but two weeks before.

The coachman closed the door and mounted the driver’s seat. With a crack of the whip the two chestnut horses were leading the coach out of town into the Spala woods. Gibbes was grateful for the warmth emanating from the heated bricks in the copper drawer beneath his seat. He could think in comfort, or so he thought.

What was it that made the Tsarina Alexandra tick? He’d have to find another word to describe the mystery of Alexandra. She was such a bundle of contradictions. If he were to enlarge his value to her and the tsar, he must develop a sketch of her hopes and fears and motives. If there were anywhere to start, he must start with Alexei, her son. Alas, he, too, was a bundle of contradictions. Or, rather, he was unpredictable.

Enough, enough. This preoccupation with the character of Alexandra and Alexei is an undue preoccupation with the future, thought Gibbes. He must focus on the present. The present itself was out of focus. September wears a December mask, he thought. Or is it the other way around? Little patches of snow adorned the forest floor. The year 1912 had been cold, with icebergs far south in the Atlantic. The year, it seemed, would go out as it had come in, cold and severe. The snow patches were undeniably real.

So was his service to the Romanov household. Gibbes had come to know the household well, all mystery aside. He’d come to know their dwelling places. There were so many. In Poland alone there were three imperial hunting lodges. The Romanovs might be a fixture at the head of the Russian state, but on this earth they were truly nomads. We all are, thought Gibbes. Life is short. And even to ourselves we are somewhat of a mystery.

Gibbes didn’t much like Spala, nor did Alexandra. It was too dark. Even in the middle of the day all the electric lights were left on in the lodge. Despite that, he was happy to be enfolded in Spala. He was coming home to the family he had come to love.

Gibbes wanted to gulp in the fresh forest air. He shoved down the right coach-door window and looked ahead. Tonishkin was keeping the chestnut team steaming at a steady pace. They were galloping down the arrow-straight road leading to the heart of Spala. Gibbes looked at the sliver of sky overhead. He saw not a cloud in the sky, nor a bird. He heard nothing but the jostling and clopping of the horses and flicks and odd whistling from Tonishkin.

Dead ahead lay the first of three checkpoints manned by the imperial guard. Tonishkin slowed the chestnuts, but the guard waved the carriage right on through. Gibbes recognized the guard, even waved at him. He knew not his name.

A kilometer or two beyond the first checkpoint Gibbes thought he could hear horns. Yes, indeed, several horns. What was their tune? He was amused that he acted like a schoolboy. The fact remained that his curiosity was unbridled but discreet. Gibbes wanted to learn. He wanted to know. He also wanted to be trusted. He was pleased that Alexandra gave every sign of trusting him. He liked to think his nose for adventure and his loyalty made him a better teacher. Perhaps that’s why Alexandra had seen fit to pluck him from the several English tutors in St Petersburg to tutor first her daughters and then the tsarevich himself. Enough self-congratulation! What was the tune? He probably wouldn’t know until the carriage was on the home grounds of Spala.

Tonishkin slowed for the second checkpoint. The sergeant in charge recognized the carriage and Gibbes. He waved Tonishkin on through and saluted the tutor.

The sounds of a brass band were becoming ever clearer. Gibbes wondered if he might better discern the tune if he stuck his head out the left-side window. He did so. He could see an open carriage—of all things—coming from the hunting lodge. Behind the liveried driver were a lady in mauve, a boy in a sailor’s cap, and a plumpish woman in camel—Tsarina Alexandra with her son and her friend, Anna Vyrubova.

Neither driver slackened the pace of their horses. As the carriages met in a rush, Gibbes doffed his hat at the empress. Hers was an imperishable, classic beauty, now broken by a fleeting smile. Anna beamed like a biscuit jar made in the shape of a happy bear. Alexei waved. Gibbes returned the wave. The two waved until Alexandra made the tsarevich sit down. Exhilaration now amplified his pride and love.

What was the tune being played by His Majesty’s Imperial Band? What was being played now was no doubt different than what he’d first heard down the road. A world of tunes might be played and he could be blind to it all, or deaf. Which was it? Didn’t the ability to see and hear the truth go together? If Spala had been built in the open lands of Poland, the music would have carried well. He could have identified the tunes. But then he would not have been approaching Spala, enveloped in darkness.

Gibbes was determined to identify a tune before reaching the third checkpoint. There the carriage would definitely be stopped and searched, if only perfunctorily. He thought it would be unfair to identify a tune once the horses and carriage were stopped. Try as he did, Gibbes couldn’t make out anything. The carriage clatter and the muting forest were too much for the imperial band to overcome.

Gibbes sat back in the carriage and shut the window. When the carriage drew up to the third checkpoint, an officer of the guard opened the window sash and stuck his head in the carriage. It was Captain Kutuzov, well known to Gibbes. He bore the name of the most famous Russian general of the Napoleonic era. He was entirely unrelated to the general. And unlike the famous Kutuzov, this one bustled with efficiency. He asked Gibbes to step out.

When he did, Gibbes made out what the band was playing. It was the hymn Nearer my God to Thee, recently made famous by the band of the SS Titanic. The tsarina had taken instinctively to the hymn. Gibbes found the melody all the more haunting because of that terrible accident at sea. While he could appreciate the tsarina’s oft-spoken observation that this life was a transient thing, he wasn’t sure he could share her faith in a God who made and redeems this life. He wasn’t at all sure.

The good Captain Kutuzov, on the other hand, was assured that all was well—at least with this carriage and this English tutor. Kutuzov bid Gibbes re-enter the coach, just as the band struck up another hymn. Gibbes stepped up and nodded to the captain, then stepped inside. Kutuzov shut the door. The carriage jolted ahead. Through the open window Gibbes could hear God the Omnipotent, a Russian hymn often used to end these forenoon concerts.

As the hymn was being played out, the carriage arrived on the main grounds of the hunting lodge. Arrayed in front of the lodge were five motor vehicles, three open and two enclosed. The chauffeurs stood leaning against one of these cars—a Buick. They chatted among themselves. Gibbes guessed that a sightseeing and hunting expedition would soon leave, no doubt with the emperor leading the party. Gibbes reckoned that Nicholas walked the life of tsar like a clockwork ornament of state.

Tonishkin brought the carriage around to a side entrance of the lodge. The odor of chicken Kiev came wafting from the kitchen. Gibbes hadn’t had more than tea and hard bread with butter for breakfast. Truth be told, after some eleven years in Russia, Gibbes still preferred a hearty English breakfast. He was hungry.

Gibbes opened the carriage door and stepped outside, nodding his thanks to Tonishkin. A household servant, Nikolkov, took charge of Gibbes’s luggage. He was a deaf-mute, hired at the insistence of the tsarina. With a jerk of his head he bid Gibbes to follow him into the lodge. Inside Nikolkov set down one of the bags and pointed to the general dining room. He waited for Gibbes to acknowledge his instruction. When Gibbes acknowledged that he understood Nikolkov, a broad smile registered on the man’s face. Nikolkov patted a bag, then turned away with Gibbes’s possessions.

Gibbes wouldn’t step right into the general dining room. He was too fastidious for that. Only after washing up and trimming his appearance would he enter the dining room. It was an affair of many small tables, somewhat like a Parisian sidewalk café. One needed only walk up to a serving window to obtain a plate of food. Hot teas, coffee, and bottled Perrier and Vichy waters were available at a buffet against one wall. Waiters served white and red wines at the tables. Vodka was not available. The tsarina wished to discourage drunkenness.

Gibbes looked around the room to see whether there was anyone he could join for lunch. There was. Father Anton, the household chaplain, sat in a far corner. His favorite amber-studded cross gleamed just below his beard. Just above gleamed his smile. He was beckoning Gibbes to join him. The tutor always found Father Anton affable. He was hardly deniable. What did the good father have up his long sleeves today? Gibbes wondered as he picked up his chicken Kiev plate with vegetables and hot chai. He headed to Father Anton’s table.

Father Anton was just finishing a glass of wine. As Gibbes took his plate and cup from the tray, the priest patted his own mouth and beard. The tutor had often observed this, supposing the man of faith acted instinctively to catch any stray wine that might otherwise fall to the floor.

How was your stay in Berlin? asked Father Anton in Russian.

Good, said Gibbes, replying in kind. The tutor only used English with members of the imperial family or with Pierre Gilliard, the French tutor from Switzerland.

And the congress? asked Father Anton.

It was quite productive, said Gibbes, taking a seat. There were teachers of English from all over the continent. I purchased some texts and teaching aids that will be quite helpful.

Very well. I hope you don’t mind my inviting you over to join me, especially when I tell you I must soon be on my way. The emperor’s touring party is leaving at 12:30.

So, you’re joining today’s tour. Enjoy it. Have you seen the grand duchesses today?

Yes, they were at the morning service, but I shall be quiet for a moment, said Father Anton.

Gibbes knew Father Anton expected him to bow his head in prayer. When in Rome, do as the Romans do, was an adage that stuck with Gibbes, even if he didn’t always like the sticking. He bowed his head and thought, I am thankful for this food.

Gibbes lifted his head and said, How were the grand duchesses?

Good, said Father Anton. The royal children are good students, yes?

They are all quite bright, and the grand duchesses are very well behaved, at least they were when I left.

The two chuckled.

But the tsarevich? Isn’t he well behaved? asked Father Anton.

The question left Gibbes somewhat uneasy. If almost anyone else had asked the question, he would be alarmed. A question such as Father Anton’s might be an intentional provocation. In the four years he’d worked in the imperial household, Gibbes had found the Orthodox cleric genuinely concerned about others and relentlessly curious about everything. Nonetheless, Gibbes hesitated to say anything.

Father Anton rephrased his question. Is the tsarevich rambunctious?

He can be overactive, but that’s not a deterrent. In fact it seems to go with his very active mind. Actually, you and he share many qualities of mind.

Father Anton laughed. Thank you, my good Englishman.

Not at all, he’s developing into a good student.

Was anyone in Berlin also as curious about our heir to the throne?

I didn’t mention my affiliation with the imperial family when I registered for the congress. That, of course, would have been improper. I registered under my St Petersburg translation business. Anyway a few knew that I tutored the Romanovs.

Word gets around, said Father Anton. There is so much chatter about the tsarevich in Russia—and you know what I mean.

Maybe because of the mystery, said Gibbes.

I’ve often thought so myself and have so advised the emperor and empress. But so far they will have it no other way.

Yes. Gibbes looked at his chicken Kiev and couldn’t discern what to say next. If he said the imperial couple should tell Russia and all the world that their son had hemophilia, he would appear to be criticizing them. On the other hand, if he said the couple should maintain the status quo, he would be dishonest. Honesty, he knew, wasn’t the only virtue. Tact and loyalty also had their place. To say anything would be to presume he was in a place to teach the throne. It was enough and much to teach the royal children. Gibbes kept his peace.

Father Anton came to his rescue, not pursuing his otherwise unstoppable curiosity. Tsarevich Alexei is a blessing to the family and to Russia.

Gibbes responded, He’s unquestionably filled with vitality. He is at times very thoughtful, especially for an eight-year-old.

That isn’t what I mean, said Father Anton, although what you say is true. In our human weakness is shown the strength of God. In the weakness of our beloved tsarevich, God wishes to guide us to His strength—for the sake of Russia and for the sake of all.

Your devotion to the church and to the imperial family comes from the heart, said Gibbes.

From the head, too. Together they are part of my devotion to Christ and His kingdom.

While I’m devoted to the family, said Gibbes, I don’t know what to make of Jesus of Nazareth anymore.

This I’ve known.

How? I’m an Englishman. I don’t talk about my religious faith.

No. But God has not forgotten you. Thanks be to Him, you will be found, you will be led, no matter what happens.

I would have to be shoved, because for all my unwillingness to discuss these sorts of things, I’m comfortable where I’m at. Very comfortable.

God comforts those who are afflicted and afflicts the comfortable. That is the way it is with God. Father Anton arose and then made the sign of the cross as he said, You, too, will be rooted by God in His kingdom.

How? asked Gibbes, And why? Isn’t today’s blessing sufficient unto itself?

Never, said Father Anton, Only today’s evil. But enjoy the chicken Kiev. It’s good, isn’t it? I must be on my way to the hunt.

It is good, Father.

Gibbes finished his meal alone. As soon as he did, he left the dining room and headed for his room, which was at the rear of the lodge. To get there he would take a turn down a corridor past the royal living quarters.

Walking down the corridor he heard the lilting music of a Glinka waltz, coming from a gramophone recording. About to turn down a corridor leading to the staff quarters, he literally bumped into two pillows in the hands of Anna Demidova, a maid to the empress.

Ah, Mr Gibbes, no harm done? There was a smile on Anna’s face.

None at all, said Gibbes.

Good. Welcome home. Come see the ladies. They are practicing ballroom dancing.

Ballroom dancing? Will her majesty permit this?

Demidova winked an eye. They are growing girls. Eventually, they will be introduced to the nobility. So they are not waiting anymore. Go, see for yourself.

I don’t know, Anna.

Come, I will lead the way. Follow me.

He did. Anna led Gibbes to the larger royal sitting room, where the gramophone player stood. The Turkish carpet had been rolled aside. Olga, Tatiana, Marie, and Anastasia danced on the wooden floor. The two older girls, Olga and Tatiana, were in everyday dresses. Marie and Anastasia wore men’s trousers and white blouses, permitting them to take on the men’s role in the dancing. The younger girls filled their roles with gusto.

Anastasia was the first to notice Gibbes enter the sitting room. She disengaged herself from Tatiana and ran over to Gibbes.

Look, we’re getting ready for the Winter Charity Ball! Anastasia spoke in Russian.

Gibbes replied in English, So I see.

The other girls crowded around Gibbes. Someone had stopped the gramophone player. They would all now speak in English.

Marie asked, What did you see in Berlin?

Olga spoke, Mr Gibbes didn’t travel to Berlin as a tourist, Marie. He was there as a teacher of English.

Anastasia said, That is a strange place if you teach English.

Olga replied, That’s where the English teachers’ congress was held.

Exactly, said Gibbes. Your mother and father want me to keep up on the latest instructional materials for foreign speakers of English. That’s why I was in Berlin.

Did you see anyone you knew? asked Tatiana.

There were some people I had met before, including one German from Darmstadt who asked many, many questions about you ladies.

Do not tell anyone we wear clothes like these, said Marie.

Why? asked Anastasia.

I’m sure Mr Gibbes is very discreet in what he tells others, said Olga.

What does ‘discreet’ mean? asked Anastasia.

Someone want to give her a definition? asked Gibbes.

Tatiana spoke first. It means being careful.

Olga added, Careful about other people’s trust.

So I won’t be talking about your wearing men’s trousers, especially to your parents, Gibbes laughed.

Would you like to see us dance? asked Tatiana.

For just a minute. I didn’t know you were going to the charity ball.

It’s time Mother let us go, said Olga.

Tatiana said, You’re hoping Mama will let you go.

I would like to go, but I know it might be more tolerable to Mother if all of us went, said Olga.

Alexandra abhorred St Petersburg society and the abhorrence was reciprocated. The nobles hated her for being strait-laced, aloof, yet meddlesome. She despised the aristocrats for their decadence, demands, and festering incompetence. Somehow, somewhere, nonetheless the girls will almost surely be formally introduced to society, thought Gibbes. He would indulge them in their dreams. Little harm can come of it, he thought.

Play the music, ladies, said Gibbes, Let’s see you dance.

Someone put on a record of Strauss’s Vienna Woods. The girls quickly paired up during the zither introductory. The older girls (Olga and Tatiana) danced as if they’d been dancing all their lives. The younger (Marie and Anastasia) were a bit clumsy but altogether effective as men. Gibbes gave the grand duchesses a hearty applause when they had finished.

Well, I must go, ladies, said Gibbes. "Before the day is out we need to have an English class. Olga, have you finished reading A Tale of Two Cities?"

Almost, Mr Gibbes, and I’ve begun thinking about what I’ll read next.

Gibbes wasn’t surprised. Olga was an avid reader. Good, he said. "Tatiana, what about you? Have you finished Ivanhoe?"

Of course. I have begun reading a biography of Chopin in French.

Very well. I’m sure Monsieur Gilliard is pleased about that.

He is, Mr Gibbes.

Marie and Anastasia, have you read any English while I’ve been away?

They both shook their heads.

Olga spoke up, We’ve had English conversations among ourselves every day you were gone, Mr Gibbes.

Splendid. Well, I’ll leave you to your dance practices. I must settle in. We need to get together at three this afternoon in the library for some conversational drills. And Marie and Anastasia, don’t forget to bring your grammar books.

We will not, said the two younger girls. Someone put on a gramophone recording of ragtime music. Gibbes had never heard such music.

Whose music is that? asked Gibbes. He liked the haunting syncopation.

A Scott Joplin, an American, said Tatiana. It is lovely, yes?

It is, said Gibbes. How did you get it?

I have my sources, said Olga, arching her right eye over a smile.

As always, thought Gibbes.

Marie and Anastasia giggled.

Marie attempted to take up Olga’s arms. Olga shook her head. I want to talk to Mr Gibbes alone, she said.

The music continued and Olga took Gibbes’s right elbow and led him out into the nearby corridor. She was not afraid to take charge.

Mr Gibbes, can you put in a good word for our going to the charity ball? asked Olga.

Your highness, I don’t know how I could. The charity ball has nothing to do with my teaching duties or with your learning English.

Mother respects your views and Monsieur Gilliard’s on our education. Somehow and sometime I must begin meeting eligible young men.

No doubt you will. You are a resourceful individual, said Gibbes.

In getting things in and out through hidden channels, yes. But not in passing through those channels myself. If I am to meet young men it must be above board, otherwise there would be no point in it.

Yes, I see. We seem to be of a similar mind, your highness. But I wouldn’t presume to offer advice to your mother on this topic unless I were asked. And I can’t see why I would be asked. My credibility would evaporate were I to offer all kinds of unsolicited advice.

You will put in a good word for the charity ball if asked? Yes?

Yes, I suppose I would. Never forget whether they are the rulers of Russia or the most humble peasants, the duty of every father and mother is to form the good character of their children. The parents cannot shirk this responsibility. Others can only advise or help.

You make it sound so hard, said Olga.

It isn’t always, but often enough it must be, said Gibbes.

I think Mother makes it more difficult than need be. Would that God would show her the way to be less anxious about her daughters.

What do you think God thinks of this charity ball business? asked Gibbes.

I don’t know, said Olga. I’ve never thought of Him that way. God is gracious and He gives us freedom to choose, even when there’s no obvious right and wrong.

I see, said Gibbes. Would the charity ball be in the shadowlands between good and evil?

Yes, said Olga, so you should feel comfortable talking about it.

That was a well-delivered jab. It was easier talking in the murk than when things were transparently good or evil.

Gibbes said, I’ll come down very much in favor of your good upbringing. Whether your parents allow you to attend the charity ball will be for them to decide.

Olga smiled. Thank you, Mr Gibbes. I won’t detain you anymore.

Thank you, your highness, said Gibbes, thankful he hadn’t had to commit himself to arguing for letting the grand duchesses attend the St Petersburg Winter Charity Ball. Or had he?

He walked to his room wondering whether Olga had misinterpreted what he had said. Gibbes hated being drawn into palace politics. This was family politics, to be sure, which was just a small universe of the larger, palace politics. But it was politics enough. Gibbes didn’t like politics. All things considered, whether Olga and her sisters could attend a ball was hardly as political as whether the emperor and empress should allow that man—Grigori Rasputin—into the imperial court.

Gibbes couldn’t think of Rasputin without having strong passions of hate or affection. Gibbes knew he held on to both ends of the pole when he thought of him. He might swirl apart if his thoughts dwelt on the holy man. The tutor’s loathing for Rasputin was all the stronger because he so loved the imperial family. What a pity that Alexandra saw Rasputin as the one who has delivered—enough, enough! It was too much to think of Rasputin. Gibbes didn’t want heartburn.

Whenever he needed respite from troubling thoughts, Gibbes would turn to work or to walks. Right now Gibbes turned to work. He needed to sort through his dirty laundry. Once in his room he opened the luggage Nikolkov had set on the bed. He deposited the dirty clothes in a laundry bag that hung on the back of the door. He would personally deliver the bag to the laundry before the cutoff time.

While sorting through his effects Gibbes thought he could still hear the grand duchesses practicing their dance steps at a far remove in the lodge. It was a comfort to think of the girls, a comfort to think of their hopes for the future. Their futures seemed so brilliant when compared against their brother’s. Gibbes knew he mustn’t think of that. Even the silver lining of the tsarevich’s present and future contained the visage of Rasputin. No, he mustn’t think of that man.

After sorting through his clothes, Gibbes opened up the tin of shoe polish he’d almost finished off. On his last visit to England he had purchased the polish on a friend’s recommendation. He gave his shoes a buffing with the polish originating in a sunny reach of the British empire. Gibbes used up what little polish was left in the tin. When he finished buffing, he put the cover back on. He liked the snug feel of the lid on the tin. The kiwi bird on the lid amused him. He decided he would wash out and use the lidded tin, perhaps as a coin purse. Gibbes liked simple things. He placed the Kiwi Shoe Polish tin on his dresser.

He put on his hat. He took the laundry bag off the door hook. He would deposit the bag at the laundry, then go for a walk in the woods. On second thought he decided to take the empty shoe polish tin for his walk. He put it in his right pants pocket. The Kiwi tin might serve as a good luck charm. Perhaps he would find something.

Chapter 2

Gibbes’s room at Spala was the same one as on previous visits. Nearby were the rooms of Pyotr Petrov and Pierre Gilliard. Pyotr Petrov was the court official and tutor nominally responsible for overseeing the education of the imperial children. Gibbes would talk with Petrov and Gilliard as soon as he returned from his walk. The walk must be brief. There was much to be done this first day back in the household.

He hoped to avoid Petrov and Gilliard. He didn’t want to talk business just now. Gilliard caught him near the laundry.

Charles, welcome back, said Gilliard peering over his spectacles. Gilliard said Charles in the French manner. Gibbes didn’t like this or any use of his first name, but he’d never corrected Gilliard. The French tutor wore a goatee, at once an emblem of Gilliard’s admirable trimness and vexing stubbornness, so Gibbes thought.

Freeing his right hand from the laundry bag, Gibbes proffered it to his fellow tutor. The two shook hands collegially. Gibbes could hope the conversation would be brief.

Good to see you, Gilliard. How have you been? said Gibbes.

Good, thank you. And you?

Good. The trip to Berlin was worth the effort.

You’ll have to give us a report, said Gilliard.

I will, said Gibbes. How have things been here?

That was a loaded question, one Gilliard knew was directed at one quite specific thing—the health of the tsarevich. Because of the sensitivity of the question and any answers it might evoke, the two spoke in English. English, in comparison to French, was the more foreign language in the imperial household. A number of servants could speak French rather well and numbers more could pick out many key words. French had been a language of the Russian court and nobility for well over a century. English, on the other hand, was known by few outside the immediate imperial family. Privacy was abetted by the use of English.

Gilliard said that Tsarevich Alexei had recovered quickly from a fall at Bielovezh. Bielovezh was an imperial hunting lodge in eastern Poland. The family had visited there before traveling to Spala. Allowing for Alexei’s brief inability to study, Gilliard reported, he and Petrov had