ABOUT THE BOOK
Release Date: March 15, 2022
Ellen Alpsten's stunning new novel, The Tsarina's Daughter, is the dramatic story of Elizabeth, daughter of Catherine I and Peter the Great, who ruled Russia during an extraordinary life marked by love, danger, passion and scandal.
Born into the House of Romanov to the all-powerful Peter the Great and his wife, Catherine, a former serf, beautiful Tsarevna Elizabeth is the envy of the Russian empire. She is insulated by luxury and spoiled by her father, who dreams for her to marry King Louis XV of France and rule in Versailles. But when a woodland creature gives her a Delphic prophecy, her life is turned upside down. Her volatile father suddenly dies, her only brother has been executed and her mother takes the throne of Russia.
As friends turn to foes in the dangerous atmosphere of the Court, the princess must fear for her freedom and her life. Fate deals her blow after blow, and even loving her becomes a crime that warrants cruel torture and capital punishment: Elizabeth matures from suffering victim to strong and savvy survivor. But only her true love and their burning passion finally help her become who she is. When the Imperial Crown is left to an infant Tsarevich, Elizabeth finds herself in mortal danger and must confront a terrible dilemma--seize the reins of power and harm an innocent child, or find herself following in the footsteps of her murdered brother.
Hidden behind a gorgeous, wildly decadent façade, the Russian Imperial Court is a viper’s den of intrigue and ambition. Only a woman possessed of boundless courage and cunning can prove herself worthy to sit on the throne of Peter the Great.
It was winter, and Ded Moroz—Father Frost—had touched my soul. Augustus stroked the hair gently from my forehead as I cried on his shoulder, both of us numb with grief and terrified by Tolstoy’s and Feofan’s incarceration. “I will keep you safe. We will be formally engaged as soon as the mourning period ends. Come,” said my fiancé, leading me to the bed. We lay together between the starched linen and the heavy furs. Feeling his strength next to me was the best consolation I could imagine. He whispered endearments to me as well as promises of eternal love.
The moment for me to leave for Holstein and marry Augustus there drew closer. To arrange to receive my dowry, my inheritance from Mother, and all the smaller sums and gifts that had been promised to me on marriage, I asked for an audience with Menshikov. The young Tsar was once more in Oranienbaum, supposedly because the Baltic air was good for his lungs.
Menshikov made me wait for long weeks. The hour finally came early on a late spring morning, just days away from my formal engagement to Augustus. Mother’s death had delayed the ceremony, but it would still coincide with the public announcement of Petrushka’s engagement to Maria Menshikova. A fresh wind chased away the last of the winter chill, helping along the first buds on the fruit trees planted on the quays; on the Neva the last ice broke, the glare of it flashing among the steely waves. I still wore white, mourning my mother, when Menshikov invited me into my father’s former study.
“Come in, Lizenka,” he said, withholding my proper title, his familiarity a calculated slight. Yet I should not play into his hands by reacting angrily. Worse than his insults was the sight of him sitting at my father’s desk, legs stretched out and feet comfortably crossed. His fingers twirled the great Tsar’s quill—what for? He could not even read or write! The man he was today had obliterated any memory of the loyal, low-born friend he had pretended to be, who had been raised literally from the Russian dust.
“What a delight to see you.” Menshikov shifted one buttock half-heartedly but stayed seated in my presence on a chair my father had made. The great Tsar had lathed the night hours away to chase his demons or hatch new ideas.
“I see you are busy,” I said, trying not to let discomfiture color my tone. “But where is the rest of the State Council? I thought this was a formal meeting.”
“Too many cooks spoil the broth.” He crossed his arms behind his head and leaned back in the chair, balancing it on two legs like a schoolboy. “How can I help?”
“I come for my mother’s bequest to me. My dowry, as well as recompense for relinquishing my right to the throne to Petrushka’s possible heirs. It can all be sent to a Hamburg bank. Mother’s plate, silver, and jewels I shall take with me in person. I trust no one here,” I added, smiling sweetly, looking him straight in the eye. “Bequest? What bequest?”
Menshikov shuffled some papers on the desk, as if to find the answer there. He frowned and shook his head. “I am at a loss, Lizenka. Nothing is owed to you, and the Tsar has generously given all your late mother’s belongings to his beloved fiancée, my daughter Maria.” He gave a short, wolfish grin. “I was promised one million roubles in recompense for relinquishing to Petrushka and his heirs my right to the throne—” I started, unable to contain my anger.
“The wisdom of your decision will be remembered. Tsar Peter is delighted.”
“I imagine. My mother’s will . . .”
“. . . of which I am the careful executor, remember.”
“Careful indeed,” I interrupted him, my voice brittle, remembering my mother’s lying in-state: had Menshikov himself plucked the rings off her fingers, carelessly breaking a bone or two in the process? Had he untangled the tiara from her tresses, or had he simply torn it off, and clumps of hair with it? I hated him so much then that my voice failed me. I had to clench my fists so as not to claw him.
“What shall I live on?” I asked, fighting back tears. “Augustus is a minor prince of the House of Holstein.”
“You made your bed, you must lie in it. Surely young Augustus has a stipend or possibly wages as a sailor in the Holstein Navy?”
“Not that I know of.” A sailor’s wages would not pay for a single ribbon on one of my dresses. From the impoverished existences of my cousins Ekaterina Ivanovna and Anna Ivanovna, I knew what kind of life I was facing. Augustus and I were to reside in a far-flung, freezing corner of an inhospitable castle in Gottorf, more suffered than welcome there, running our meager household and touchy retinue on a shoestring. Each log on the fire would be counted, and only rind should enrich the pea soup, never proper bacon. During big family dinners, once or twice a year, we would be served last with the scraps from the platters, the servants already hovering, impatient to get away. At Easter my painted egg would be cracked; for Yuletide an unwanted gift from the past year’s celebration would be offered. My children stood to inherit nothing. For as long as Karl reigned as Duke in Holstein, we would walk two, if not three, steps behind him and my sister. How had life turned the tables so swiftly on me? Well, I could do it, I decided: I could live with the fall in status because I loved Augustus.
Menshikov watched me, alert. “There is no room for further negotiation. All your mother’s belongings are already with Maria,” he said. “Including her furs. My daughter, the future Tsarina, does love a good sable coat. Petrushka will offer her your mother’s crown. My grandchildren will rule over All the Russias. Better give in, Lizenka. We are a family now. One large, loving family.”
Give in? Never! He was basted in self-regard. I fought back the tears for good. I was not a little girl but a Tsarevna of All the Russias, claiming her rightful inheritance. Any show of weakness would be fatal. “You owe everything you are to my father. My mother, the Tsarina, left her daughters a fortune.”
Menshikov slithered out from behind the desk toward me, teeth bared, all vice and venom. “Believe me, I am intent on repaying all debts. Without me, Petrushka would not become Tsar. There is always someone else, Lizenka—someone such as you.”
Me?
His eyes pinned me to the spot. “As you so helpfully recently pointed out, you have not yet renounced the throne. You would make a spirited Tsarina, wouldn’t you? Possibly the regiments would support you, for some . . . consideration?” It took all my self- control not to slap him for that insult. “Whoever is favored by the Russian regiments, is favored by fate. But there can only be one ruler, my dear girl.”
My dear girl. I saw every broken blood vessel in his cheeks and could smell his perfume of sandalwood and jasmine, too sweet for a man, as well as his sour breath—his steady chewing of cumin was in vain; his teeth had reached the point of no return. The threat was clear: if I did not leave for Holstein, he would stalk and slay me here. Better not to test his ingenuity in dreaming up a justification for it. Menshikov smiled as if reading my thoughts. He laid one hand casually on the nape of my neck. I froze at his touch, our gazes locking. For an incredible moment it seemed he might actually force a kiss on me. I stared at him, and he hovered, undecided, not moving any closer. Finally, he said: “So in memory of all the generosity your father showed me, I am letting you live. More so, I am letting you leave. How long would you survive a damp, freezing nunnery, lovely Lizenka? There is not a shred of sanctity about you. I know what Augustus and you did in Peterhof.”
I blushed deeply.
“But what might His Majesty think of that, who loves you as an aunt and wishes to respect you as a Tsarevna of his house?”
I freed myself from Menshikov’s grip, my eyes blazing. “I am engaged to marry Augustus,” I said, gathering my last shreds of dignity.
“Yes, he is only your husband-to-be,” Menshikov chuckled. “That which made your father virile, makes you a harlot. Such behavior in a woman warrants a heavy punishment.”
“What do you mean?”
“Death,” he mouthed, as ruthless as a gun dog. “The choice is yours. Cease your demands, and your carriage to Germany is ready to depart at any time you choose. Persist in them, and you will be shamed and punished severely. Now is there anything else? I have a country to rule. But I am not ungrateful.” Once more he sifted through the papers that were waiting to be sealed and signed. “I might or might not forget the words you spoke to me today.”
Anger and pride won over fear. If I had to leave the only country I should ever love, I refused to do so like a stray dog, my tail between my legs. With a single movement, I swiped the desk clear of all the papers. They billowed and flew up in the air before scattering all over the beautiful rugs and parquet, like doves spreading their wings. Now it was I who leaned in, placing my knuckles on the Tsar’s desk. Menshikov shrank back, taken by surprise. Time flowed slowly, like fresh sap bleeding from a tree. It was true, the choice was mine.
Menshikov startled when I spat: “Rule the country? You might as well pee against the wind, callous coward that you are. A man like you cannot even begin to rule Russia. You are dust!”
The last vestiges of civility between us had disappeared. Menshikov’s eyes became hard and unforgiving, that nasty smile lurking at the corners of his mouth. I should not be fooled by it ever again, but would hide my feelings. Otherwise the hunter in him would feast on them, devouring his prey’s most tender part with relish: the heart.
“And you? No wonder France rejected you! What a joke it was to the Bourbons: the illegitimately born daughter of a serf, a washermaid, wanting to reign in Versailles! And France knew only half the story. I plucked your mother from a heap of prisoners of war because she was as irresistible as a beautiful animal. She had me to thank for everything—and she did, believe me, many times over. You have forgotten where you come from, Lizenka.”
Menshikov was not wrong.
He did not know how grateful I was for the reminder.
In Tsarina my mind was opened up to a world I did not formerly know. Immersive, tragic, and at times painful to read, I was expecting The Tsarina’s Daughter to bolster that same fire as its predecessor, but sadly it fell flat for me.
The Tsarina’s Daughter tells the tale of Elizabeth in her formative years, leading up to her becoming Tsarina herself. Though I love learning more about Russian history, I felt like Elizabeth’s story dragged on, and I didn’t feel that same hunger to stay within the pages like I did with the first installment. Honestly, I could’ve seen this story wrapped up much more quickly, and feel like this would’ve made this read more enjoyable. This is supposed to be a three-part series and I can’t help but wonder if Elizabeth’s life, including her reign, would’ve fit better in one novel. It also doesn’t help that this time period is not one of my favorite era’s to study, which could have also contributed to my lack of luster.
I really wanted to love this novel, but it felt uninspired, with rote repetition, and a subject matter that really didn’t appeal to me.
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