Escape of the Grand Duchess by Susan Appleyard

Escape of the Grand Duchess
By Susan Appleyard

Publication Date: 27th July 2025

Publisher: Ingenium Books Publishing Inc.

Page Length: 412

Genre: Biographical Historical Fiction 

Escape of the Grand Duchess by Susan Appleyard is a gripping historical novel that shatters the notion that royalty is synonymous with privilege and ease. At its heart is Grand Duchess Olga Alexandrovna, the youngest sister of Tsar Nicholas II—a Romanov who defied a doomed destiny and survived.

Unlike her ill-fated brother and his family, Olga’s story is one of resilience, sacrifice, and daring escape. Trapped in a loveless marriage to a reckless gambler—who harbours secrets of his own—she finds hope in the arms of a dashing army lieutenant. But before she can claim her own happiness, she must first endure the brutal realities of World War I, where she serves as a nurse on the frontlines.

As the Russian Empire teeters on the brink of collapse, the infamous Siberian mystic Rasputin tightens his grip on the imperial court, setting the stage for revolution. With the Bolsheviks seizing power and the Romanovs marked for death, Olga faces an impossible choice: risk everything to stay or flee into the unknown with her true love and their children.

Rich in historical detail and driven by an unforgettable heroine, Escape of the Grand Duchess is a sweeping riches-to-rags tale of survival, love, and the strength it takes to forge a new life in the face of unimaginable upheaval.

Excerpt

In the middle of a stormy night, Niko and I were awakened by a tumult outside our bedroom. Before we could determine what was happening, the door crashed open, and in walked five dark figures. One of them found the switch, and light flooded the room. Startled, Niko started to sit up when we heard the cocking of a firearm. 

“Stay where you are. Put your hands over the blankets where I can see them.” 

The speaker was a tall man with a thin face and a long, pointed nose upon which sat a pair of thick-lensed spectacles that made his eyes look huge. We did as we were told. I put my hand over Niko’s and gave it a little squeeze—a warning not to do anything stupid—as he sank down beside me. Undisturbed by the noise, our baby slept on in an heirloom crib beside the bed. The ormolu clock on my nightstand showed it was almost four o’clock. 

“I am a special commissar representing the Sevastopol Soviet. You will do as you are told, and no one will get hurt.” 

The commissar went to sit on a chair where he held the barrel of his pistol alongside his head and just stared at us, while his comrades, all sailors, ransacked our rooms. We heard doors opening and drawers being emptied and glass smashing. It went on for a long time while the frightening gaze of the man in the chair never left us. When the others moved on, he remained behind, gun in hand. 

Finally, Niko said, “What are you doing here?” 

“There has been some discussion between the Soviets of Sevastopol and Yalta as to which will take charge of the Romanovs. Sevastopol won,” he said in a pleasant voice, as if at a dinner table conversation with friends. “We have been sent to find the radio-transmitters located here and any weapons hidden on the property.” He smiled—a smile that did nothing to lighten his grotesque stare. “In future, you are to regard yourselves as prisoners of the Soviet and are forbidden to leave the estate. Guards will be posted at all the entrances.” 

My breath left me as if I had taken a blow to my stomach. Prisoners! How could that be? What had we done? Would we be sent to Siberia, too? The cold finger of panic crept up my spine.

“You’re wasting your time,” Niko said. 

The intruder shrugged. “I am a patient man.” 

He was still there, silently watching us, like a malevolent toad having spied a juicy fly, when Tikhon began to wail. It was unlikely he would go back to sleep because it was time for his morning feed. His cries would only get louder and more insistent. 

“I need to feed my baby,” I said, my voice trembling. 

“Do it,” he said with a leer. “Don’t worry. I won’t look.” 

When I had the baby in my arms, Niko put one arm around my back and lifted the sheet, so I was hidden from the view of that awful stare. As Tikhon began to suckle, I became aware of noise on the floor above, where my mother lived. Soft at first, the thuds and crashes got louder, and I realized they were ransacking Mama’s rooms as they had mine, only doing a more thorough job.

The commissar had been with us for three hours when Xenia’s sons, Feodor and Nikita, crept to the door of my bedroom but didn’t come in. “Aunt Olga,” Feodor said, “those men are ransacking Grandmama’s rooms, and she’s arguing with them.” 

I flipped the covers back and sprang out of bed. 

“Stay where you are,” the man with the gun ordered. 

Ignoring him, I sprinted across the room, barefoot and in my nightgown, dodging the debris in the drawing room, and ran up the stairs. I was afraid my mother would get herself arrested, if nothing worse. She refused to accept that in the eyes of this new regime she was not a great lady. Indeed, we were all without rank, and on the scale of class distinction, we were somewhat below peasants—we were Romanovs. Her rooms had been destroyed. Cabinets and tables were overturned, drawers pulled out and their contents scattered, paintings torn from the walls, curtains pulled down. They had even pulled up the carpet. As I picked my way across the floor, avoiding splinters of wood, broken glass, smashed ornaments, and picture frames, I could hear her railing at the two sailors who had reduced her bedroom to a similar chaos and seemed as if they were ready to pounce on her at any moment. She looked so tiny sitting upright in the big bed, her nightcap askew, grey hair tumbling out, but her voice had lost none of its hauteur. 

“You are scum! Dogs not fit to lick the boot of a street sweeper.” 

“Mama, stop!” It was as if I hadn’t spoken. 

“Why aren’t you fighting in the war? Oh, I know. Gone over to the revolutionaries so the only fighting you do is against innocent people.” 

“Mama, please.” 

“Cowards and scum. You are the dregs of society.” 

Did she even know I was there? I went to the bedside, standing between her and them as one said, “Perhaps we should take this old hag with us.” 

“What’s going on here?” An authoritative voice. Sandro was standing in the doorway with Andrei, his eldest son behind him. He gazed around at the wreckage, and his eyes came to rest on the two men. “Are you gentlemen finished here? If so, you might want to help your comrades look for the radio transmitter they seem unable to find, and the weapons we have purportedly stored here. I understand a dozen or so old hunting rifles have already been found. I doubt you’ll find anything of the sort in Her Imperial Majesty’s bedroom.” He gazed around again. “Or what’s left of it.” 

Perhaps they recognized him as a former naval commander; perhaps they had even served with him in peaceful times. Or perhaps it was just the quiet authority in his voice that men of their sort were conditioned to obey, but for whatever reason, they slunk away without a word, taking with them family photographs, letters, and Mama’s treasured family Bible. We were left to face a new reality: prisoners of the revolution. 

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Susan Appleyard

Susan was born in England, which is where she learned to love English history, and now lives in Canada in the summer. In winter she and her husband flee the cold for their second home in Mexico. Susan divides her time between writing and her hobby, oil painting, although writing will always be her first love. She was fortunate in having had two books published traditionally. Since joining the ebook crowd, she has published nine books, some of which have won various awards.

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