The Paleys (1921-1927) - An Alternate Romanov Story

A Southern Wedding

Yalta, May 1923

Irina

It was Irina's third visit to Crimea, and she believed nothing about the place could surprise her anymore. The rolling hills and sprawling estates had become familiar, as had the warm saltiness of the sea air that hit her the moment the train neared the coast. But she was well aware that this trip was nothing like the others. She arrived with an entourage so large it felt almost absurd—her parents, her siblings (except Alexander, of course, who was still sharing the exile with the former Tsar), and more servants, stylists, and maids than she could count. Her entire trousseau was packed into the compartments behind them, including gowns and the priceless sapphire kokoshnik tiara that had once graced the head of her grandmother, Empress Marie Alexandrovna, at her coronation, and that she would be wearing at the wedding.

She tried not to think too much about that, though. It wasn't real yet—the wedding, the ceremonies, the weight of it all. Right now, the only thing that mattered was reaching Yalta and reuniting with Feodor. It had been more than a month since their last meeting, and she'd missed him terribly through the whirlwind of events—her stop in Paris, the Bulgarian wedding, and now this.

The train hissed and groaned as it slowed into the station. Irina gazed out the window, expecting the familiar sight of a small reception—a few footmen and perhaps Grand Duke Alexander waiting with Feodor. But what she saw made her heart lurch. The platform was packed. Hundreds of people were gathered—some with flowers, others waving small flags. The chaos of the crowd hit her like a tidal wave, and her stomach twisted. She had expected something far more intimate.

As the train jerked to a stop, Irina's hands tightened around her lap. She felt her mother's voice in the background—calm, composed as always—but her pulse began to quicken, rising in her throat. She wasn't used to this kind of attention, at least not like this, not so concentrated on her.

The doors opened, and the sound of cheers flooded in. She swallowed hard, adjusting her hat and stepping out, her chin lifted as she had been trained. But as the noise and attention overwhelmed her senses, a wave of panic started to rise and her breath quickened. She scanned the crowd desperately, searching for a familiar face—until, finally, she spotted him. Feodor, standing tall amid the chaos, his face calm, steady as a rock.

She felt immediately relieved, and without a second thought, she broke through the formalities, making a beeline for him. As soon as she reached him, she pulled him into a tight embrace, holding on to him while her fingers trembled. The crowd might have been watching, but at that moment, she didn't care. The candid gesture only seemed to increase the volume of the cheers.

"Feodor," she whispered, her voice strained but full of warmth. "I wasn't expecting all of this."

Feodor leaned in closer and his calm voice helped her breathe amid the noise around her. "There's never been a royal wedding in Crimea," he explained softly, holding her hand. "That's why they're excited—our wedding is something special."

Irina glanced up at him, trying to steady her breath, though the thought didn't ease her nerves. She gave him a small, tight-lipped smile and nodded. The crowd swelled as they moved toward the waiting car, and the moment they settled inside, she exhaled, feeling a brief moment of quiet.

But as the car rolled through the streets of Yalta, she realized the crowds didn't stop at the station. The streets were lined with people, cheering and waving as they passed by. Irina pressed her lips together, feeling her anxiety mounting again. Even as they left the busier parts of the town and began winding through the country roads, the crowds were still there—villagers standing along the dusty roadside, some holding flowers, others waving scarves and flags.