Two nights later they went to Livadia, their carriage one of a multitude drawn up outside the steps of the Imperial Palace. Kirby had thought Karinshka Palace imposing. Livadia was breathtaking. Built of white limestone, it overlooked the Black Sea and was a majestic example of man’s genius for complementing nature. It was the constant joy of Empress Alexandra Fedorovna and she and Nicholas, Emperor of All the Russias, were never happier than when they were there. Tonight, to celebrate the sixteenth birthday of their eldest daughter, Grand Duchess Olga, their Imperial Majesties were giving a full-dress ball.
Caught up in the queue, it took time for Princess Aleka’s carriage to reach the steps. Kirby spent the waiting period gazing entranced at the palace. It was ablaze with lights, yet with its brilliance softly diffused in the evening light. There were columned balconies, cloistered walks and gardens of colour and magic. The air was heady with the scent of roses.
‘Magnificent,’ he said.
‘It’s only another palace,’ said Aleka, magnificent herself in a tiara. She sat close to him in the carriage, the warmth of her body an allurement. ‘And it will be full of bores stuffed into uniforms and old harridans stuffed into corsets. Ivan, think of the poor and the starving. Then this will seem what it really is, an unforgivable extravagance.’
‘I thought of the poor and the starving when you gave your first dinner party,’ he said.
‘You unspeakable cad,’ she said.
‘Dear Aleka,’ he said placatingly.
At last they went in, gowned women and uniformed men preceding them, others following on as each carriage disgorged its occupants. Kirby felt himself caught in an immensity of glittering splendour. He smiled as by his side he heard Aleka humming the waltz from Tchaikovsky’s Sleeping Beauty. Her cloak was taken, her pale golden gown bared her shoulders but for once her bosom was not threatening to escape. She knew the Empress well. Alexandra Fedorovna did not approve obtrusive exposure. Kirby, in black tails, was content to be effaced by her brilliance, her jewelled tiara an emblem of her rank, setting her glossy auburn hair on fire.
Karita had been overwhelmed with pleasure that he was to attend so splendid a ball, and she had seen to it that he had looked his best. But as for the implications of full dress, he could do no better than wear his tails. There were few men who were not richly ceremonial in their attire. White jackets hung with medals, honours and awards predominated. Well, he could not help that. He had nothing to hang. He hoped he would not look naked.
They were announced. Princess Aleka was well known. Palely, glitteringly she advanced, coolly enjoying being looked at. Already the state room was alive with people, the light of huge chandeliers reflected by the jewels of the women. With Kirby at her elbow Princess Aleka was received by their Imperial Majesties.
Nicholas was in uniform, decorations colourful, Imperial star resplendent. Aleka curtseyed, he took her hand, he smiled and spoke to her.
Between the Tsar and Tsarina stood a girl, a girl with the bluest of eyes, and with chestnut-gold hair dressed high and lightly caressed by a sparkling tiara. Her gown was a flowing enchantment of coral pink. She was looking not at Aleka Petrovna but at the princess’s escort, a tall man with a gold-flecked beard and wide, deeply grey eyes, a man who, in Western-styled evening tails, was so different from all the other men there. She came to as Aleka smiled at her, curtseyed to her and congratulated her.
Kirby bowed to the Tsar. Nicholas was not a tall man, but he was handsome, his beard giving him a similarity to his cousin, King George V of England. He had a simple, easy dignity and as he smiled he seemed to radiate genuine welcome and pleasure.
‘It is good to see you, Mr Kirby,’ he said in English, ‘for we have only the warmest memories of your country. If you don’t enjoy the evening I don’t know what my daughter will say. Will you give her your kindest wishes?’
‘Willingly, your Imperial Highness, and thank you for the privilege of being able to do so.’
He moved on and there she was, the Grand Duchess Olga Nicolaievna, sixteen and unbelievably sweet. He could not for the moment check the shock of surprise. Their little secret was in her eyes. She was the eldest daughter of the Tsar, yet for all that was breathlessly shy. She gave him her hand, he saw the bright ring worn over the gloved finger and he put his lips to it.
‘Highness, I did not know it was you I saw,’ he said in Russian, ‘but now that I do, forgive me and let me wish you the happiest of birthdays.’
‘Forgive you?’ Her voice was soft and warm. ‘Oh no, it wasn’t like that.’
The Tsarina, who had received Aleka, glanced at her daughter and saw the flush on her face. There were other guests waiting and there was little time to give any of them more than a few brief words. Kirby moved to bow to Alexandra and to take the hand she extended.
Alexandra was a slender, beautiful woman, but she did not have it in her to dazzle her court, to establish herself as a lively and evocative Empress. She was fervently religious, and had a mystique that made people think her remote and unapproachable.
Kirby, however, received no such impression now. He was conscious only of the kindest of smiles, even of warm responsiveness to his words of thanks.
‘Why, Mr Kirby,’ she said, speaking in English as Nicholas had, ‘we are delighted to meet you. If Russia has my love, England has more than a small part of my heart.’
It was in England that she and Nicholas had spent their most idyllic days just before they were married.
‘Mama,’ broke in Olga, ‘he is English? I did not really catch his name.’
‘He is an English Ivan,’ said Princess Aleka, ‘and is the most terrible of men, dearest Olga. Have nothing whatever to do with him.’
Blue eyes sought his, earnestly curious to discover whether signs of formidable failings were visible. He shook his head, smiling. In return she gave him her own shy smile to let him know she was sure he was not as terrible as that. He would have moved away with Aleka then but the Empress detained him. He had yet to discover that if Olga was endearingly shy, Alexandra was painfully so. It was something that made all state occasions, even this one, an ordeal. But she put her question.
‘Mr Kirby, where is your home in England?’
‘By the river, your Highness. A place called Walton-on-Thames.’
Alexandra shed her restraint, or rather, it slipped away to leave her in glowing pleasure.
‘But that is where the Emperor and I— Mr Kirby, I must find time to talk to you, perhaps.’
‘I should like that very much,’ he said simply.
She nodded, her eyes warm, and he withdrew to take the arm of the highly intrigued Aleka.
It did not help Alexandra to know that most eyes were on her and not on her daughter. It was always the same. Shyness not being a characteristic of the Russians, there were few who understood how Alexandra suffered. Her inability to relax was construed as a Germanic restraint towards them. But nothing could have been farther from the truth. Alexandra had a great love for her adopted country and little love at all for Prussian Germany – she considered herself more English than German. Her mother had been Princess Alice, daughter of Queen Victoria, her language was English and England itself was her land of romance. She loved her husband passionately and adored her five children. Fundamentally she was honest and sincere, but it was a pity she was not the cleverest of Empresses instead of the most devout. Religion was her strength and her weakness.
With her spiritual fortitude and a courage that was the hallmark of the Hesse family, she fought her public nervousness and every cruel turn of fortune’s wheel. She did not consider herself the granddaughter of Queen Victoria for nothing. She faced up to the realization that her only son, Alexis, was a haemophiliac, and on his behalf she put her trust in God and in that strange ‘holy man’, Rasputin.
‘Well?’ whispered Aleka, her paleness tinted by an excitement she would have disowned if questioned.
‘They could not have been kinder,’ said Kirby.
‘That’s not exactly an inspired comment. Can’t you do better than that?’
‘I’m reserving judgement. What do you feel about them, Aleka? They belong more to you than to me.’
‘I feel I can’t be sentimental,’ she murmured, ‘that’s too expensive a luxury in Russia today.’
The state dining hall was a kaleidoscope of moving colour when the reception at last finished. Huge glass doors were opened and any guests who wished were free to wander in the gardens or view the majesty of Livadia from balconies. They could watch the sun setting in crimson glory over the Black Sea, or later the rise of the autumn moon in silver radiance. There was a cotillion supper to enable guests to be served any time during the dancing.
The dancing would go on until the small hours. Princess Aleka, now that she was here, had obviously decided not to let her principles interfere with her capacity for enjoying herself. This included exercises in the art of tormenting stuffed bores. They came her way soon enough, surrounding her, flattering her and eyeing her cleavage. They requested the privilege of her ball card. Aleka flirted with them, mocked them, denied them. Presented to her, wives or female companions returned her malicious smiles with chilling sweetness. Aleka refused to be chilled.
Kirby, quiet in dress and manner, was introduced by Aleka. The women, deep-bosomed, glittering with diamonds or sapphires or rubies, were not uninterested. The men, impeccably correct, were courteous but brief. They were single-minded in their pursuit of Aleka. She shrugged and made her ball card available. With her fan she tapped restrainingly at the hand of every man wishful to sign for more than one dance.
‘I can’t show favouritism, dear man,’ she said to a monocled officer, ‘or I myself will feel responsible when the others take you out and shoot you.’
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘the sublimity of such a death in such a cause.’
‘The man’s a perfect fool,’ said Aleka, watching him return to his fuming wife. Her foot began to tap as the state orchestra began the opening bars of the first dance, ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Ivan, don’t act as if this is the first time you’ve been in a menagerie. You look like the man who is seeing his first elephant. Are you going to be dull all night? You let all those dressed-up apes breathe all over me and sign my card. Are you not going to dance with me yourself?’
He had been watching Grand Duchess Olga opening her ball in the arms of a young officer from the Tsar’s suite. Graceful in her pink, regal in her tiara, there was still the shyness of a girl knowing a thousand eyes were on her.
‘Princess, may I?’ he said and took her card.
‘I’ve left three dances for you,’ she said, pointing with her fan.
‘That’s favouritism, isn’t it?’
‘They won’t shoot you. They can’t have a diplomatic incident in front of the Tsar himself. Ivan, will you please wake up? You’ve signed for the first dance. I’m here. Don’t you want the extravagant bliss of holding me?’
‘I rather fancy that kind of sublimity. Princess, my arm.’
They danced. Her dark eyes glowed, drawing his. Her smile was caressing, if a little sly. He enjoyed it all. All her facets were intriguing. Yet his sense of pleasure was not only because of Aleka. For the Tsar’s daughter had caught his glance. She smiled. He felt the strangest and most sudden of emotions. It was as if his heart had turned over.
‘Ivan?’
‘Princess?’
‘There you go again. Ivan, if you are looking at some other woman—’
‘I’m immersed in extravagant bliss, dear one.’
‘Liar.’ But she laughed softly, circling, one hand on her lifted gown, the other on his shoulder. ‘Do you know, you’re considerably good-looking tonight. And you’re not in uniform, thank God. You need not stand about while I’m dancing with other men. You may present yourself to any of the women I’ve introduced you to. They’ll be delighted to dance with you. Ivan, is there one you already have your eyes on? You are indecently far away.’
‘I’m not far away, I’m dancing with you,’ he murmured. ‘You’re the most beautiful woman here. I shall almost certainly be shot.’
‘Darling,’ she breathed, ‘a compliment at last. Not an echo of Andrei. It would be delicious if you could pant a little over me. People are wondering who you are and if I’m in love with you. Who could think we were just good friends? That’s not a bit exciting.’
‘Dearest Aleka,’ he said, ‘you are the loveliest of women, the most imaginative of friends. Andrei will be sorry he missed this.’
‘Andrei,’ she said, ‘is deplorably inert, even at the gayest of balls. Even our Grand Duchess’s sixteenth birthday could not tempt him. He is a man for the intimacy of a boudoir, not a ballroom. He’s with some disgusting woman now.’
‘And I am here,’ said Kirby. ‘Thank you, Aleka Petrovna.’
‘Oh?’ she said, curious because he sounded so earnest. It was not like Ivan Ivanovich. He was not to be taken seriously most of the time.
Afterwards Aleka danced with other men. He signed the cards of two or three other women. They were intrigued by his Englishness and his distinctive air of ease. They were willing to flirt outrageously with him. He responded but did not seek them out once he had danced with them. It was while he was watching Aleka in whirling movement with a Cossack officer that he was approached by an exquisitely uniformed personage whom he took to be a member of the Imperial suite.
‘Her Imperial Highness presents her compliments, monsieur, and asks that if it is convenient she would like to see you.’
He accompanied the man. The Tsar and Tsarina were seated in red and gold chairs at the far end, viewing the dancers with interest and pleasure. He bowed to the Tsarina. Alexandra smiled.
‘Perhaps we might talk now, Mr Kirby?’ she said. She indicated a chair close to her own and he sat down. ‘Are you enjoying yourself?’ Again she spoke in English. Her Russian was only moderate and all her family conversed mainly in English. She and Nicholas also used this language in their letters to each other. It was, to Alexandra, the language of her mother, of poets, of love.
‘I’m enjoying myself immensely, Highness, and can’t thank you enough for my being here,’ he said warmly. ‘I’ve heard of the Livadia Palace but I had no idea it was as beautiful as this.’
It was not politeness, it was sincerity. Alexandra smiled again.
‘I’m so glad you think that. It is beautiful, isn’t it? We are blessed by Livadia. Nicholas?’ She leaned towards Nicholas, who was lighting his inveterate cigarette. He was a compulsive smoker. ‘Here is Mr Kirby from England, whose home is at Walton-on-Thames.’
The Tsar’s handsome face lit up. His smile was a warmth, a cordiality.
‘My dear fellow,’ he said, ‘that is splendid. There’s no place we speak of more often or with more affection.’
‘Has it changed at all, is it just the same?’ asked Alexandra. Her red-gold hair was as thickly luxuriant as Aleka’s. She was thirty-nine and as graceful as Olga at sixteen. ‘It’s seventeen years since we were there, but I should like to think it’s still as we remember it.’
‘I’m sure it is,’ said Kirby. ‘It never changes much, although I haven’t seen it for three years myself. I’ve been in Russia.’
‘For three years?’ Her interest deepened. ‘How much have you seen of our country, how much have you learned about it?’
‘Your Highness, I’ve seen some of its infinite variations but I don’t think I’ve learned anything. Except the extent of my own limitations. In Russia I only look and wonder.’ He felt self-distaste. The Empress was absorbed, Nicholas smiling and nodding. ‘Perhaps,’ he went on, ‘I’ve learned one thing. There are no people more friendly or more hospitable. I’ve travelled for three years and never wanted for anything. The poorest man will share his bread with you.’
‘Yes, the poor are with us,’ observed the Tsar, ‘but give us time.’
‘Imperial Highness,’ said Kirby, ‘I put that badly. I did not mean—’
‘I know you didn’t, my dear chap,’ said Nicholas, smiling, ‘but they are still there and it would only count against us if they couldn’t be mentioned. I’m not sensitive on the subject, only concerned that we can’t make it less of a problem overnight.’
‘It’s with us in England too,’ said Kirby.
‘Who are your family?’ asked Alexandra. She did not put the question because of any social implications, only out of interest. She was charmed by the Englishman, delighted that she felt no restraint with him. That alone was a sweet pleasure to Alexandra, to be at ease with a comparative stranger.
‘My father served in the British army,’ said Kirby. ‘He was killed during the Boer War and my mother died soon afterwards. But I have an aunt who is very dear to me.’
‘I am so sorry about your parents,’ she said, ‘but very glad about your aunt. Tell me about your place in Walton.’
‘I own a small Georgian cottage there, its garden runs down to the river. It’s misty in winter and beautiful in summer. It has an apple tree, of course, and the grass is very green, but the landing steps are always slippery and I have been known to bathe when actually dressed for tennis.’
For a moment the Imperial couple were caught out. Then Alexandra let a little laugh of delight escape her and Nicholas followed.
‘Oh, my dear fellow,’ he said, ‘that is the funniest thing.’
The noise and rhythm of the dancers were something apart at that moment. They were sharing laughter. And people who were always more interested in the Imperial family than anything else looked on in curiosity, wondering what the Englishman had said so to amuse the Tsar and Tsarina.
‘Nicky,’ said Alexandra, ‘I think Mr Kirby is endeavouring to entertain us.’
‘Truthfully, Highness, it did happen once,’ said Kirby.
‘Well, whether it did or didn’t,’ said Nicholas, ‘I’m a great believer in tennis as a pastime, and if I had to fall off some landing steps I should probably be dressed for tennis too. We must have a game sometime, my dear chap.’
‘Well, whatever happens there, Walton is the loveliest place,’ murmured Alexandra reminiscently. ‘Mr Kirby, this is our eldest daughter’s sixteenth birthday. She is engaged to dance most of the evening with our young officers, but if you’d be excessively kind how nice it would be if, for one dance at least, England and Russia went hand in hand. I am sure she would like that very much.’
It was neither a command nor a condescension, only a request that he might make his own contribution to the success of Olga’s ball. The compliment astonished him. But it had been Olga herself who, fifteen minutes ago, had spoken to her mother.
‘Mama, it is all tremendously exciting and my feet have left the floor a dozen times.’ Then casually, as she fanned herself, ‘Do you think I might dance with the Englishman, Mr Kirby? It’s only that I’d like to talk to him about Walton in England, where you and Papa were so happy, and to tell him it was Anna he bumped into the other day in Yalta.’
‘Oh yes, now I remember, he was the man,’ said Alexandra. ‘I thought I’d seen him before. What a curious coincidence. Darling, this is your own ball, your own birthday, and you may ask for anything you want. I will arrange it, I’m sure Mr Kirby won’t refuse.’
‘Mama,’ said Olga, who was not without wit inside her own circle, ‘he cannot refuse. I am a Grand Duchess.’
‘Oh, my sweet,’ said Alexandra in a rush of warm pride and affection, ‘you are more, much more. Isn’t she, Nicky?’
‘She’s beautiful,’ said Nicholas, regarding his enchanting first-born smilingly, and Olga swept him a curtsey.
Kirby was still sitting beside Alexandra when Olga returned from a gay cotillion. She came in a rustle of silks and satins on the arm of her partner, an officer in full-dress blues, who bowed as he returned her to her parents. The flush on her face was of unusual excitement. Quiet and reserved, Olga took life in, loved it, but kept her joys, her delights and her curiosity shyly to herself. She sank into the chair between her parents, glanced at Kirby, who had risen, and glanced away.
‘Your Highness?’ He stood before her. She knew why. Her mother had spoken to him. Suddenly it was no longer an impulsive birthday wish that she might dance with him, but an obvious declaration of her interest in a man who had smiled at her. Embarrassment engulfed her. Alexandra saw the suffusing tide of pink. In her complete understanding of Olga’s sensitivity, she prayed that Kirby would be neither too clever nor too obvious. ‘Your Highness,’ he said, ‘have you any idea of what I’d like to tell my grandchildren?’
The chestnut-gold head was bent, its tiara a caressing intricacy of light. It lifted.
‘Your grandchildren?’ said Olga in amazement.
‘They are rather imaginative, aren’t they, as I haven’t even acquired a wife yet,’ he said, smiling. ‘But it could happen and when the time comes is it possible I’ll be able to tell them I once danced with the Grand Duchess Olga Nicolaievna of Imperial Russia? They won’t believe me, of course, but what will that matter?’
‘Mama, listen to him!’ Her shyness was still there, but she hid it in her laughing appeal to her mother. ‘Oh, Mr Kirby, it would be terrible if they didn’t believe you about such a little thing, so you must give them proof.’ She took her gilt-edged ball card from the tiny jewelled evening bag that dangled from her gloved wrist. She gave him the card. He saw that only the final dance was available. He signed it. She took the card back and signed it herself. ‘There, when the ball is over I’ll give it to you, although I think you are teasing me a little.’
She was smiling, her soft wide mouth parted, her blue eyes deep pools of life.
‘Thank you, your Highness,’ he said quietly, ‘and I am not teasing.’
She watched him go. She said, ‘Mama, I was not too forward?’
‘No, of course not, my love,’ said Alexandra, ‘nor was he too suave. He is rather nice, I think. Perhaps Aleka Petrovna has found herself a man who will make her a very suitable husband and cure her of her restlessness.’
Olga said nothing to that. She thought Aleka Petrovna so beautiful that it would not matter to a man what else she was.
Not until the ball was coming to its end did Kirby think about any further commitment to Aleka. He had danced twice with her. He remembered he was engaged for a third. He asked to see her card. It showed his signature against the last number. He began to explain how in a moment of forgetfulness he had complicated his life. Aleka was incredulous.
‘What are you trying to say, that you have signed some other woman’s card for the same dance?’
‘It’s the Grand Duchess Olga—’
‘It’s who?’
‘Loveliest of friends, it’s her birthday and I could not—’
‘I am to sit out the waltz?’ Incredulity turned to outrage. ‘Alone of all these people I’m to have no partner? I don’t care if she’s the Grand Duchess of Imperial Heaven or whose birthday it is! Go and tell her you were previously engaged! Oh, you infamous cad, do you think I’m a peasant? After I’ve brought you to a ball a thousand others would have paid a million roubles to attend, you will jilt me of the waltz? Never, do you hear, never!’
‘I’m an utter swine, I know,’ he said, ‘but, my lovely sweet-hearted Princess, be forgiving.’
‘Forgiving!’ She was as flashing as her jewels. ‘Oh, the humiliation. I am discarded! I shall be a waltz wallflower, a laughing stock! She has a hundred officers she can command, why did you even ask her? Is it because you think the Tsar will decorate you? Oh, you have ruined everything for me. Even Andrei wouldn’t insult me in this way. Dance with her, then, and I hope you’re so clumsy that she falls over your feet. You won’t get decorated for that!’
‘Aleka, it was the Empress’s request. I could not refuse.’
People were looking, aware of the altercation. If he was a little disturbed by this, Aleka was not.
‘Ah, now I have found you out,’ she said, ‘you are the worst kind of Englishman, a social snob. Go to her, then. Simper into her face. I shall find a partner. But I shall never forgive you. Ivan Ivanovich, we are no longer friends, we are no longer even speaking to each other!’
She became as proud as a martyr. She enjoyed it tremendously.
The final waltz came. Kirby made his way to the Imperial family around a cluster of generals and their wives, paid his respects to Alexandra and Nicholas and said to Olga, ‘Your Highness?’ She laid her gloved hand on the arm he extended and the Tsar, the Tsarina and their suite watched the unknown Englishman escort the Grand Duchess Olga Nicolaievna into the last dance of her ball.
The music was such as to haunt him for many years to come, when he could never hear it without pain in his heart or pictures in his mind. He never forgot the brilliance of that ball, its enchantment, its colour, its gaiety.
Olga danced into his heart. How light she was, how adorably shy, her eyes lowered, her diamond tiara dazzling, her hair a shining crown. She was the Emperor’s daughter, she was sixteen. He had never felt so old. He was a lifetime apart from her. He was treacherously apart from her. His trade was espionage.
‘Mr Kirby?’ A whisper floated to his ears above the music.
‘Highness?’
‘You damaged Anna’s parasol. It won’t open properly.’
‘Oh dear me,’ he said.
She lifted her head. He felt delight to see that her eyes were warm with laughter.
‘You’ll have to bring her a new one, won’t you?’
‘I’ll have to bring her a very special new one. Who is Anna?’
‘Why our friend, Anna Vyrubova.’
He had vaguely heard of Anna Vyrubova, personal friend and confidante of the Empress. Anna too was involved with the mystique of religion.
They danced on, the state room with its mirrors reflecting a revolving, shimmering whirl of movement. Olga’s eyes were lowered again, she circled with him, then she looked up. She seemed very happy.
‘Mr Kirby?’
‘Forgive me, Highness, I was thinking of my grandchildren.’
‘Oh, such stories you think up.’ She was deliriously amused. ‘This is my most wonderful birthday.’
‘And this,’ he said, ‘is my most unforgettable ball.’
They circled close to the open glass doors. The night air, exotic with scent from the rose gardens, was an invitation. Olga stopped dancing and took his hand.
‘It will go on and on until no one has any energy left,’ she said. ‘Have you been into the gardens?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Would you like to?’ She was diffident in her modesty. ‘It won’t be cold but it won’t be hot, either. It isn’t because I’m not enjoying myself, indeed I am very much, but to go into the gardens at night is to feel you can return to dance on and on.’
‘I’d love it,’ he said and went with her into the warm Crimean night. She took him out on to one of the balconies first. It overlooked the cliffs and the sea. He was silent, absorbed in the wonder and tranquillity of the world at night. The moon was a huge disc of pure white, its light investing the palace, the gardens and the silent sea with opalescence. The scent of flowers, of emergent buds and night-closed blooms, was like ambrosia. The rose gardens were justifiably the Empress’s pride and joy.
Olga was as silent as he was as they let the beauty of the night embrace them.
Then she said, ‘Will we go down, Mr Kirby?’
He had been received by the three of them, Nicholas, Alexandra and Olga. He had met them and talked with them, and he had found neither stiff formality nor grand aloofness in any of them, only friendly warmth and great charm. They did not command, they requested.
‘I think we will, don’t you?’ he said, and Olga took his hand again as they left the balcony and made their way down into the gardens. There the moonlight turned the night into silvery day. Other people were there, strolling in every direction, the jewels of women a sparkling iridescence. Olga’s gloved fingers were curled happily around his and she breathed in the scented atmosphere as if it was the sweetness of life itself. Kirby saw immense flower beds, expansive lawns and cloistered walks, all bathed in bright light. Livadia was a world of beauty and Kirby had no adequate words for it.
At last Olga said, ‘Did you ever know so lovely a night?’
‘I’ve never known so lovely a place, Highness,’ he said.
‘It was you at Nikolayev station, was it not?’ she said shyly.
‘Yes, and it was you on the train,’ he said. ‘I must have been half asleep not to realize who you were. Heavens, I didn’t even raise my hat to you.’
Grand Duchess Olga laughed. The opalescence silvered her tiara, made her white teeth shine.
‘Mr Kirby, oh, you are so funny,’ she said.
‘For not raising my hat to you? But at least I did to Anna Vyrubova. Now you’ll think I only raise it to ladies I almost knock down.’
‘If you did, that wouldn’t be funny, it would be eccentric,’ she said, ‘and usually that is the privilege of old gentlemen. You aren’t quite an old gentleman yet, are you?’
Her shyness was gone. She was in unaffected pleasure of the moment, happy that she could talk to him and laugh with him.
‘Your Highness,’ he said, ‘you are a most entertaining Grand Duchess. More, it is you yourself who have made this a very beautiful ball indeed.’
Olga flamed into colour. He thought for a moment he had said the wrong thing, been too personal, but then she whispered happily, ‘That was said for my birthday, was it not?’
‘And for my grandchildren.’
Her smile, impulsive, was that of a girl in delight.
‘Mr Kirby, you will bring Anna a new parasol, won’t you?’
‘I can’t deny I owe her one.’
She put her hand in his again as they returned to the ballroom where, as she had said, the waltz was going on and on.
‘You see, I told you,’ she said, ‘and I should so much like to join in again now.’
‘Will you permit a not quite old gentleman, Highness?’
‘Oh, I am sure you will hardly creak at all,’ said Olga demurely.
They danced again and she floated, floated in a whirl of pink. Those who knew her well remarked that they had never seen Grand Duchess Olga Nicolaievna look so unreservedly happy, although they could not quite understand why she had chosen to bring her ball to a close by dancing on and on with an unknown, untitled Englishman.
‘A charming fellow,’ said Nicholas, observing his daughter in her exhilarating finale with Kirby, ‘but I wonder why she wished for him?’
‘He is English,’ said Alexandra, tired now but tranquil, ‘and Olga is romantic about England. It’s because of us, Nicky.’
‘My dearest love,’ he said.
Alexandra and Nicholas were always in love. They had a capacity for it. They gave their children love. Their children returned it.
Kirby brought Olga back to them at last. Princess Aleka had found a partner, a colonel of the Tsar’s household troops. He was as mobile and as companionable as a stuffed ramrod. She wanted to go home. Impervious to unwritten rules, she had made this obvious to Kirby by appearing in her cloak and her boredom. He could not ignore her, he owed her that much. And it was early morning. As he escorted Olga off the floor the orchestra strings died, the waltz died and her ball was over. But not before the orchestra had played ‘God Save the Tsar’, when the stillness after so many hours of gaiety was dramatic, and the singing an embodiment of both joy and tears.
Alexandra, always as affected as any by the national anthem, collected herself and said, ‘Thank you, Mr Kirby, you have been immensely kind.’
‘Mama, he has been immensely tireless,’ said Olga breathlessly, ‘I am quite done up.’
When she speaks like that, he thought, I could find her on any page in a Jane Austen book. She is as delicious as that.
‘If I’ve been able to return a little of your own kindness, Imperial Highness, I am more than happy,’ he said. ‘Grand Duchess,’ he said to Olga, ‘my most grateful thanks. It is something to remember, Livadia.’
He bowed to her, took the white-gloved hand she extended and put his lips to her ring.
‘I have so enjoyed it,’ she said.
He had found her, discovered her and now had no more claim on her. He turned to go, then turned back and said, ‘I will have a new parasol sent to Anna.’
‘Oh no,’ she said impulsively, ‘you are not to send it, you are to—’ She broke off and the scarlet rushed. His heart was wrenched for her sensitivity and he blessed the arrival of Aleka then, as the princess came to take her leave of the Imperial family.
‘I am glad you came, Aleka Petrovna,’ said Nicholas warmly, ‘and just as glad that you brought our new friend from England.’
‘Ah, but what you do not know, your Highness,’ said Aleka, her smile very fixed, ‘is that he is even more terrible than I thought. You would not believe how dreadful his behaviour can be.’
Nicholas laughed like a boy. No one could take Aleka Petrovna seriously. Alexandra smiled. Olga, however, looked at Aleka in wondering curiosity. There was a glitter in the dark eyes of the princess. Olga glanced up at Kirby. He smiled, he shook his head.
It was a long ride back to Karinshka and the sleepy groom was in no condition to drive fast. The night was almost over, giving way to the new day. Aleka was aloof, keeping her distance. He wondered when she would strike. But after twenty minutes she moved closer to him, she sighed and she rested her head against his shoulder.
‘I am a dreadful bitch, aren’t I?’ she murmured.
‘No, it was my fault,’ he said.
‘I should have been more gracious,’ she said, ‘because of course you couldn’t refuse the Empress. There, I’m over it now and so tired. How nice you feel. You have put everyone into a flutter, dancing the waltz with Olga Nicolaievna. She is a pretty young thing but very shy with people she doesn’t know.’ Her voice was a languid murmur now. ‘I hope they don’t marry her off to some fat German. Do you know, I think I’m going to sleep.’ And she closed her eyes.
The only sound then was that of the carriage wheels bowling over the dusty road. It was the hour when the night was dying, the new day not yet awake.
‘Aleka?’ he murmured after a while.
Aleka was asleep on his shoulder.
Dawn was flushing the horizon when they reached Karinshka. He carried her up the steps and into her palace. Old Amarov, in nightcap and ancient velvet dressing gown that had belonged to his late master, emerged from grey shadows holding a lighted candelabra. He led the way up the staircase and preceded Kirby into the princess’s suite. Kirby carried her through to the bedroom and laid her on the vastness of her bed. Old Amarov switched on a single light and grumbling through his moustache went back to his own bed.
Aleka lay in shimmering repose. He removed her tiara. She did not stir. He carefully took off her silver satin slippers.
‘Ivan?’ Her voice was a husky caress.
‘You’re home now.’
‘Stay with me,’ she murmured, ‘I am so lonely.’
There was a rustle. Karita stood at the bedroom door. She was rosy from sleep and clad in a voluminous white nightgown, red-ribboned.
‘Oh, I am sorry, monsieur,’ she whispered, ‘but old Amarov woke me and said you were back and so I came to see to her Highness. But—’ She did not finish, she disappeared. He went after her and caught her before she left the suite.
‘See to her, then,’ he said quietly.
‘Monsieur,’ she said, and he was sure she was laughing, ‘if you are able to manage—’
‘Manage what, saucebox?’
‘That is, if her Highness would prefer you—’
‘I’ll pinch your pretty nose for you, minx,’ he said and pulled one end of a red ribbon bow. The bow dissolved, the neck of the nightgown parted and Karita, stifling a shriek, clutched frantically.
‘Monsieur!’ she gasped.
The night, not the dawn, was in his eyes. Exhilarating, revelationary night. He bent his head, he kissed her.
‘Goodnight, Karita, see to her,’ he said and left the suite.
Karita tingled deliriously. It would not do to tell Oravio.
In his own bedroom Kirby opened the windows wide and stepped out on to the balcony. The eastern sky was streaked with pearly-pink radiance, the sea an emergence of soft, misty grey. He thought of the girl he had danced with, a girl who belonged to the dawn.