Lenin, the most inflexible revolutionary of them all, who considered that if a man had logic he did not need emotions, was active in exile. He believed in systems. It was systems that Russia required. It did not require compassion, charity or humanitarianism. It did not even require politics. He was a headache to many of his fellow exiles. He talked for hours on end. He was unanswerable, uncontradictable. A man of logic was like that.
The Duma seemed agreeably reasonable to the Tsar one day, disagreeably unreasonable the next.
Peter Stolypin, the far-seeing prime minister who might have saved everything for everyone given time, was dead. Assassinated. The assassin, as usual, had been a man of passion and little sense. He thought, as all assassins do, that violence was superior to argument.
Gregor Rasputin was in bad odour again. The belching old fool, for this was what his addictive gourmandizing and his loud mouth made him at times, had only himself to blame. He had seduced an Imperial servant. But his Imperial champion, Alexandra, would hear no word against him. He was a holy man. The suggestion by her mother-in-law, the Dowager Empress Marie, that everything would be rosy again if the holy man was kicked all the way back to his Siberian village, was received coldly and rejected firmly.
‘Olga, my lamb, you always seem to be looking for someone or something.’
Grand Duchess Olga Nicolaievna turned from the rail of the Standart, the Imperial yacht. She had been observing the movements of people she could see on other vessels anchored at Reval on the Baltic coast. It was June, eight months and more since her birthday ball at Livadia. Always distinctive in the sincerity of her feelings, she was more physically distinctive now. She was a little taller, a little shapelier, and she had acquired a poise that gave a soft dignity to her charm. She smiled unaffectedly at Anna Vyrubova.
‘Oh, I was just looking at people,’ she said, ‘there’s always something to see about people.’
In a blue and white yachting dress, with a round white hat banded in blue, she looked fresh and lovely, her skin creamy from the sun.
‘Almost we’re deserted,’ said Anna, ‘everyone has gone aboard the Hohenzollern to drink champagne with Emperor William.’
The German Emperor had spent three days in Reval, inflicting his boisterous personality on Nicholas and becoming egoistically expansive in the welcome Reval had given him. Olga considered him well-meaning but overpowering. He wanted to manage everyone and everything.
There was a British yacht stately at anchor some distance away.
‘See, that one is from England,’ said Anna, pointing.
‘Yes, I noticed,’ said Olga.
‘Perhaps our Mr Kirby is aboard,’ said Anna. ‘Do you remember him? He was the Englishman who bought me this parasol and was so nice with Alexis.’
‘Mr Kirby? Oh, yes.’ Olga did not affect a great deal of interest. ‘He played a lot of tennis with Papa. They’re all very gay aboard the Hohenzollern, Anna, you can hear them.’
Kaiser William’s white and gold yacht was anchored close to the Standart. A hum of revelry buzzed from it. The sun, rising to its midday peak, brought lustre to the vessel’s immaculate brightness. But Olga was proud of the Standart, which outshone the Hohenzollern in almost every way. It was the most graceful, the most beautiful vessel afloat.
‘I should really be on my way to join your mama under the awning,’ said Anna.
‘Well, of course, Anna. You mustn’t let me keep you.’
Anna went. Tatiana stole softly up on her sister. Graceful and willowy at fifteen, Tatiana was a physical echo of her elegant mother but her temperamental opposite. She had a gay and inexhaustible vitality, a lively mind and a teasing approach to all her sisters, especially to Olga. But it did not prevent the two of them being as close as they could be. They could not have enough of each other’s company.
‘Boo, goose,’ said Tatiana. Olga, elbows on rail, chin in hands, her round white hat on the back of her head, only said, ‘Go away, child.’
‘Oh, listen to grandmamma,’ said Tatiana. ‘What are you doing? You’re dreaming again.’
‘I’m looking,’ said Olga.
‘What at?’
‘There, where Russia is dancing,’ said Olga.
‘I knew it,’ said Tatiana, ‘you are dreaming.’
‘But see,’ said Olga, ‘everything is reflected in the sea and everything is dancing. That shows I am looking, that I’m not dreaming.’
But she was.
‘Yes, but it’s only reflections of yachts and things,’ said Tatiana. She surveyed the sunlit, sparkling waters and then saw what Olga had seen. The waters were a dancing reflection of heaven and earth. ‘Olga, you’re so strange sometimes.’ She put an arm around her. Adoring Olga, she could not bear to be shut out.
‘You silly, it isn’t strange to see things in waters,’ said Olga, ‘you can see them in fires too. I think I’ll go down to the piano and practise my Bach. I’m dreadful at Bach.’
‘You’re dreadful at Tchaikovsky and all the others too,’ said Tatiana.
‘That,’ said Olga, ‘isn’t as bad as being dreadful all over, as you are, Tatiana Nicolaievna.’
Tatiana laughed. It was always a happiness when Olga was being droll. Suddenly, animatedly, she rushed into an item of news. ‘Olga, listen. I heard Mama say that Crown Prince Carol of Rumania has asked if he might have a photograph of you. He’s seen your picture in a paper and is most terribly impressed. I hope it wasn’t the one where your hat was over your face. But what do you think, do you think he’ll ask to come and meet you?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Olga quietly.
The sun was a golden glow, the harbour gay with flags and bunting. Somewhere a ship’s orchestra was playing. But Olga Nicolaievna was pale beneath her summer tan, cold inside her fluttering dress.
The weeks were long, the months interminable. England did not help a bit. Kirby wasted his six months of leave doing nothing worth remembering. His Aunt Charlotte, formidably acute for all her reactionary Victorianism, offered the opinion that his restlessness was a natural consequence of rushing all over the globe and that more rushing would only make it worse. His best course was to settle down in a worthwhile job. A cousin of hers could probably find him a very worthwhile one in the Admiralty. Alternatively, he could get married. It would not be before time.
He was saved from the Admiralty and from wedlock by being sent to Germany when his leave was up. They thought he could be useful there. Everything that was anything was happening in Germany at the moment. He went to Berlin. There he discovered he was one of so many that there was an air of duplication about his every movement. He traded with contacts who, he suspected, had already traded with shadowy colleagues of his. He could not help feeling that the quantity of agents in Berlin was more obvious than their quality. Inevitably the Germans would come to feel the Wilhelmstrasse was being invaded.
He avoided buying the Russian newspapers that were available on the bookstands. He could not, however, avoid seeing reports in German papers of the Kaiser’s visit to the Russian Baltic. In one he was suddenly confronted with a picture of the Russian Imperial family going aboard the Hohenzollern. Out of the black and white came the face of Grand Duchess Olga, seen over the shoulder of a sister and crowned by a white round hat.
She was smiling.
He put the paper down, left it on a bench in the Tiergarten.
His suspicions that his own people were overplaying their hand crystallized into fact. He received a message.
‘We think they’re on to you. Come home.’
He returned to England. They told him to remain on call. He met a girl, Felicity Dawes, whose dark eyes and rich silks reminded him of Princess Aleka. He had written a letter of grateful thanks to the princess. She had not replied. He became fairly involved with Felicity, who took him to Berkshire to meet her parents. They were charming. Felicity was charming too, but occasionally intense. He made love to her. She was very intense and passionately delighted to be compromised. She took it to mean they were engaged. Kirby, temporarily released from the accumulated pressures of a celibacy a man of his age found unnatural, did not, however, feel ecstatic enough to be as honourable as that. Felicity, fulminating against his elusiveness, wrote him a letter and had it delivered by hand.
It was an ultimatum and he might have reconsidered in her favour had it not coincided with the arrival of a letter from the Empress Alexandra.
He could not believe it.
The Imperial family intended to go to Livadia earlier this year, they had to be in Poland in the autumn. Would he care to join them if he was free? The Empress wrote in her usual staccato style.
‘It is a long way for you – but if you can come please do – all will be delighted to see you again – the children especially – we shall be there only for three weeks – this has been such a busy year—’
It was not a long letter but its sincerity shone.
He wondered how she had got hold of his Walton address. She had, perhaps, enquired of Princess Aleka.
He went, leaving behind a bewildered and outraged Felicity.
They gave him leave, they seemed interested that he was going to Russia again. He arrived three days after the Imperial family had installed themselves. He was received by a member of the Tsar’s suite. Nicholas was on an outdoor excursion with the children, and Alexandra, troubled by sciatica, was resting. Taken up to the rooms he had occupied last year, the first person he saw in his suite was Karita.
‘No,’ he said disbelievingly.
‘But yes, monsieur.’ Her eyes were shining, she swooped into a glad curtsey. ‘You are back and at Livadia. Oh, everything is so nice. It was the Empress herself who arranged for me to come from Karinshka. She said you could not do without me.’
She was golden, her braided hair a gleaming casque.
‘How very nice, Karita,’ he said, ‘how very nice indeed.’
The spacious suite was in impeccable order, the sun diffused its light warmly over comfort and graciousness. The tall windows of the drawing room stood open on to the gleaming white balcony. Karita in excited happiness began to unpack his luggage.
‘Karita,’ he called from the open windows. She went to him. He was just the same, and already the sun was putting the familiar flecks of gold into his trim brown beard. His eyes showed pleasure, kindness, affection. He put his arm around her shoulders and looked at the view with her, at the blues, the reds, the greens, and at the melting transience of horizons. ‘It’s been the best part of a year, Karita. I’ve missed you, I’ve missed Russia.’
‘It is awfully agreeable that you’re back again,’ she said.
‘It’s more agreeable to see you, little one.’ He kissed her. Karita accepted it naturally but it was still disturbing. It made her face flame. She returned to the unpacking. He followed her into the bedroom. ‘Princess Aleka, how is she?’ he asked.
‘She hasn’t been to Karinshka yet, monsieur. She’s been everywhere else and has let others use her palace. It’s full of them now. They’re all very gay and enjoying themselves very much, but it isn’t the same without her Highness. She is very gay herself but you don’t hear her as much as you hear her friends. Oh, it is so nice to be here.’
‘I see.’ He watched her. She was unpacking carefully as if treasuring each moment of the task. She was in her Karinshka blue and white. He thought that in a year or two she would be quite lovely. She had character, grace and smooth, fine-boned features. ‘They’ve been running you off your feet, have they?’
‘Oh, it’s only been busy for me. It’s old Amarov who is having headaches. He keeps asking what is Russia coming to when the nobility behave so loudly and so irresponsibly in someone else’s house. But then he’s always saying that about everybody. He is a lovely old man.’
He heard noises, the sound of scampering feet and youthful voices, and then into the suite ran the children. Alexis, Anastasia, Marie and Tatiana, sun-flushed and heated from their excursion with the Tsar, but still with the unlimited energy of the young and joyful. There were delighted shrieks.
‘Ivan Ivanovich!’
They surrounded him, touched him, hugged his arms, laughed up at him.
He had never had such a welcome. Its effect momentarily robbed him of speech. Karita, glancing at him, had the oddest feeling that Ivan Ivanovich was painfully overwhelmed. Then lightly he said to the excited children, ‘Let me see, who are you? Were you here before? Are you new children?’
‘Ivan Ivanovich! It is us! See, this is me, Alexis!’
‘And me, I’m Marie, you know I’m Marie.’
‘My word,’ said Tatiana to Anastasia, ‘he’s shockingly forgetful when you consider how beautiful we all are. At least, I am.’
‘Oh, yes, goodness gracious me,’ said eleven-year-old Anastasia, trying to sound like her mother in surprise.
‘Why, of course,’ said Kirby, ‘now I know you. Good Lord, here you all are. What a coincidence.’ He shook hands with Anastasia. ‘How are you, General Sikorski?’
Anastasia doubled up.
‘She’s not him,’ cried Alexis, hopping about in delight, ‘she’s Stasha.’
‘No, go on,’ said Kirby, ‘well, I never.’ He smiled at Tatiana. ‘Ah, Irena Vladinova, I can’t mistake you, at least. You never change.’
Marie and Anastasia shrieked. Irena Vladinova worked in the kitchens. She was very jolly. She was also very fat.
‘Oh, Ivan Ivanovich, you wretch,’ cried Tatiana. Then she sighed, ‘Oh, you’re still so scandalously endangering to a fair maid.’
‘I’m what?’
‘Oh, they’re just some words I picked up,’ said Tatiana, already strikingly attractive. She was fifteen.
‘Well, try not to pick up too many more,’ he said.
They romped around him. They took Karita by the hand and made her join in. A lady-in-waiting looked in to see what all the noise was about. Karita blushed. She suggested their young Highnesses should go down to the gardens and he would join them there soon. They begged him not to be long and danced out. Karita said that people who said unkind things about them deserved to bite out their own tongues.
‘It’s a habit of centuries for the best to be stoned by the worst, Karita.’
‘Oh, everyone is so happy now that you’re back,’ she said, and then for some reason hurried out, leaving the unpacking only half done. It did not bother him, he began to attend to it himself. He looked up at a new sound. It was the merest whispering rustle. He saw her, the one who hadn’t come with the others, the one so much on his mind. She was at the open door, but holding back as if her entrance would be an intrusion. She had one hand on the door frame, from the other hung a white straw hat. Her dress was a soft, waisted whiteness. Her chestnut-blonde hair seemed a deep, burnished gold. Olga Nicolaievna was almost seventeen, she was not afraid of life but she could still be shy.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘well.’ She thought that very English. A Russian friend would have offered a prolific flourish of words at seeing her again after so long an absence.
‘The children ran back,’ she said, ‘Papa and I walked.’
‘And here you are,’ he said. ‘Highness, I’m having a day of the nicest surprises.’
‘Are you?’ Her voice was a little unsure of itself. ‘I didn’t know if you— that is, Mama received your telegram but no one knew if you’d really come.’
‘But I sent another telegram from Moscow as soon as I got there.’
‘Did you? Oh yes.’ She seemed to be searching for words. She found some. ‘Papa would have stayed out all day if Tatiana and I hadn’t reminded him we should miss your arrival. I expect you’re awfully fatigued, you’ve had such a tiring journey.’
He had been affected by the exuberant joy of the others. He was just as affected by Olga’s quiet diffidence.
‘To arrive at Livadia makes any journey worthwhile.’
‘You’ve been in England,’ she said, and then saw the open and unopened luggage. ‘Isn’t there anyone to help you? Shall I?’
She came in then. Unlike the others she did not look heated from the excursion, she was cool and fresh, as if she had washed her face and brushed her hair. And changed her dress.
‘Highness—’
‘It isn’t necessary to call me that,’ she said, clicking open the locks of a case, ‘it’s only in public that I’m supposed to be grand.’
‘Olga Nicolaievna, you’re very grand in the very best way, but Karita will be back to attend to this.’
‘Mr Kirby, I’m not incapable, you know.’ She was still a little unsure of herself, her shyness obvious. And she knew it was obvious and that made it worse. To overcome her self-consciousness she took out a white shirt and held it up against her front, saying lightly, ‘See, this is what you wear when you’re playing tennis with Papa, isn’t it?’
‘And when I fall about,’ he smiled.
She shot him a quick glance. He was just the same, so relaxed. He was always able to say something that eased her out of her restraint. She suddenly found confidence in herself.
‘Mr Kirby, oh, I’m so happy you could come. We all are. It will be such fun again.’
Her smile was impulsive, full of the winning charm of her father’s. She was lovelier, more endearing than ever.
He hid an intensely emotional reaction by saying, ‘Karita won’t think so when she sees the state of these things.’ He indicated the contents of the newly opened case. The clothes were tumbled and creased.
‘Oh, that’s nothing,’ said Olga, ‘it’s only important that you’ve come all this way to see us again. Papa will be delighted.’
Karita returned. She was dismayed to see the Grand Duchess actually unpacking clothes. The Grand Duchess even appeared to be happy about it, but it was the improperest activity for her young Imperial Highness. It was even more improper for Mr Kirby to stand by and let her.
‘Your Highness—’
‘Karita, I’m not in the way, am I?’ said Olga. ‘I’m not at all busy and can help, really. Are you seeing to refreshment? Mr Kirby has creaking bones, you know, and I expect all of them are aching shockingly after his journey. And look, just see how he’s packed some of his things. You should look after him always and go to England with him, and then you’ll be able to see he doesn’t stay away from us so long. Think, he’s been away nearly a whole year and didn’t write to us once. Isn’t that terrible?’
‘I did write to her Imperial Majesty,’ said Kirby.
‘Oh yes, to Mama,’ said Olga as if that was of no account at all.
‘But he has made up for it now,’ said Karita, taking things as Olga unpacked them. She put aside items that needed pressing and hung others in the capacious wardrobe or placed them on shelves.
‘Yes, but you should still go with him next time,’ said Olga, ‘no one could look after him better than you, Karita.’
‘Would you like to do that?’ asked Kirby.
Karita stood in open-mouthed astonishment.
‘Oh,’ she gasped.
‘There, you see, Olga Nicolaievna,’ he said, ‘you’ve stunned her with thoughts of the awful responsibility of it.’
‘Oh no,’ said Karita, ‘I’d like it immensely. But you’re teasing me, and I can’t speak English.’
‘I’ll teach you on the way,’ he said.
‘Oh, now I’m frightened to death,’ said Karita and sat heavily down. Olga laughed.
‘Karita, you must,’ she said delightedly, ‘it will be simply famous.’
Karita could not think of anything more famous, that would please her more. She looked up at Kirby. He did not seem a bit teasing, only very interested.
‘You’ll have to ask the Princess Karinshka,’ she said, ‘and then my parents and also Karita Katerinova—’
‘Who is Karita Katerinova?’
‘My grandmother,’ said Karita, ‘and then there’s old Amarov, he would be like an old bear with fleas if you didn’t ask his approval too, but it’s Her Highness the Princess Karinshka who is most important.’
‘Naturally, we’ll ask them all,’ said Kirby.
Olga stole a look at him. There was nothing to say how important the princess was in his eyes. He just seemed very pleased about the prospect of Karita becoming his own servant. It would be the happiest arrangement. Karita would not let him forget Russia. Karita would write to her and tell her all that he was doing.
Olga felt uncommonly pleased with herself.
The Empress Alexandra also seemed pleased. Stiff and in pain as she often was with sciatica, she was never irritable with it. And at Livadia she could almost forget it, for here she was always at her most contented, close to her family, close to peace and beauty. Although state affairs frequently took up much of the Tsar’s time, there were still many hours of leisure, of happiness and of remoteness from the narrow and critical environment of St Petersburg.
In the atmosphere of the capital things never got better. It was invariably the fault of incompetent politicians. Without the burden of politicians the people could happily have left everything entirely to the Tsar and his own picked ministers. The Tsar thought first of the people. Politicians thought first of self-advancement and self-glorification. The Tsar did not have to consider his own advancement and was not interested in glory.
Tenderness was the keynote of all Alexandra’s feelings towards her beloved husband. How blessed they were in their family, and if God had chosen to visit Alexis with weakness He had also sent them His elect to ease the boy’s sufferings.
Alexandra gave Kirby a welcome not only kind, it was almost affectionate. She knew how his company delighted the children and that was sufficient in itself to earn her regard. And Nicholas, who seemed to dislike no one except disagreeable members of the Duma and people who threw bombs that maimed the innocent, was extremely partial towards the Englishman. He could not wait to get him on the tennis court again.
The children quickly resumed possession of Kirby whenever they could. They had no lack of playmates, including grown-ups, but it was Kirby they loved. He drilled with Alexis, who still had an enthusiasm for this particular activity, and they took turns to be officer and soldier. He introduced English games to all of them, and during the heat of afternoons, when most of the sensible adults retired to cooler quarters, the green lawns of Livadia sighed under romping, scampering feet and the bright air echoed to shrieks and laughter.
Olga seemed not quite to know how to conduct herself when games were afoot. She was balanced on the brink. She was a young lady who could not join unruly, exuberant children without looking like one herself. Yet the gaiety and the infectiousness of the games called to her. And Mr Kirby himself always played and no one could say he was not grown-up. So sometimes she watched and sometimes she joined in, and when she joined in she was exquisitely caught up in the merriment, flushed, laughing, flying, slim ankles glimpsed amid swirling petticoats.
When she was watching, Alexis, always adoringly teased by the girls, would call on her for help.
‘Olga, take them away!’
‘They’re nothing to do with me,’ Olga would say, ‘they’re really too dreadful to belong to anyone.’
One day she responded to his appeal by saying, ‘Alexis, I’m still catching my breath from the other game, ask Mr Kirby to help you.’
‘He can’t help,’ said Anastasia, ‘Marie and I are sitting on him.’
Olga, who had been leaning back, fanning herself, sat up. Mr Kirby lay flat on his back. He seemed quite comfortable and was softly whistling a tune she had heard from him before, but Anastasia and Marie were indeed sitting on him.
‘Oh, you ruffians,’ cried Olga, ‘if Mama were to see you – get up!’
Alexis was shouting with laughter, Tatiana in hysterics.
‘It’s all right,’ said Kirby, ‘it’s just a new game.’
‘It’s Ivan’s own fault,’ said Tatiana, ‘he’s always lying down in the middle of some game or other.’
This was usually when he was requested to take sides. He avoided showing partiality by lying down and closing his eyes. More often than not they’d dance around him, singing a song of Georgian peasants at harvest time. And then, ‘Arise, Ivan Ivanovich, the corn is all cut and the grapes all gathered. Arise!’
Kirby would open his eyes and say, ‘Good. With the work all done who needs me?’ And he’d close his eyes again, they’d drop to their knees around him and shout him awake. It was a made-up game they adored, and in the flowering vitality of the girls and merriment of the boy, Kirby renewed his enchanted relationship with the children of the Tsar. He came to love them all, Anastasia the gifted, Marie the romantic, Tatiana the sparkling and Alexis the brave.
And Olga?
He loved Olga in a way that alarmed him.
Dearest of them all, grave in her moments of reserve, endearingly shy when caught off guard, wide-mouthed and blue-eyed, with her tumbling hair always lustrous and alive, Grand Duchess Olga Nicolaievna took renewed possession of his heart.
The days were hot and glorious. Olga loved it when, except for her mother, they all went off together on countryside excursions. The Tsar was an outdoor addict. On these occasions there was no need for her to consider whether to frolic or sit, there was only the pleasure of walking with her family, with Kirby and any others who cared to join them. They explored woods, looked for berries, wandered over flower-carpeted slopes and meadows, and grew brown and happy and hungry.
Olga, perhaps, was desperate to grow up at this stage, to be a young woman. The excursions helped, made conversation easy, for there were always so many things to talk about, the abundant variety of nature being all around them. She could talk to Kirby about the colour of wild blooms, the call of a bird and each different view. Sometimes if there was a ridge or slope to climb and he was near he took her hand. It was never anything but a natural gesture to which she responded naturally, his clasp friendly and sure. She could not help herself, each time it happened her fingers closed around his and clung.
‘Mr Kirby – see?’
It was the tiniest and most delicate of wild blue flowers, peeping from a bed of moss.
‘And all alone,’ he said as they stooped to inspect it together.
‘Why do you say that?’ she asked, seeing his face in profile, its expression absorbed. ‘You aren’t alone, are you? You have friends and a home in England?’
‘No, I’m not alone, Olga. I’ll never be alone.’
‘What does that mean?’ She straightened up, regarding him a little seriously. He was bare-headed, wearing an open-necked white shirt and blue flannel trousers. The sun was in his eyes.
‘That I’m very fortunate,’ he said, ‘some people can be lonely in the most crowded places.’
‘Yes, if they have no one who belongs to them,’ said Olga.
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘Come on, the others are leaving us behind. Shall we walk or run?’
If there were the intriguing complexities of growing up to consider, there was also the joy of still being young. The others were well ahead, the woods were bright with sunshine, the leaves glossy on the trees, dry on the ground. There was silence. It was broken by a whoop in the distance.
‘Run,’ said Grand Duchess Olga, and they ran, the leaves dancing around their feet. She laughed, an unseen twig caught her hat and pulled it from her head. ‘Oh!’ she said. They stopped, he picked up her hat and she stood quite still as gravely he put it on the back of her head where it perched like a white halo. Her eyes held his, hers full of life’s simple wonders.
‘There, now you’re grand again, Highness,’ he said.
‘Mr Kirby, please don’t call me that.’
She was a summer fragrance in green and white, her snowy blouse buttoned high to the neck, her skirt the colour of Livadia’s velvet lawns, her look one of wistful entreaty.
‘Sometimes it can’t be helped,’ he smiled.
They went on, walking this time. They saw the others in the distance. Tatiana had stopped to wait for them. She was waving.
Olga said, ‘You know, of course, that Tatiana is passionately in love with you.’
‘No, is she?’ He considered it whimsically. ‘What d’you think, shall I wait for her to declare herself or what shall I do?’
‘Well,’ said Olga demurely, ‘I think you should know she’s also madly in love with the first officer of our yacht and terribly enamoured of a captain in our own regiment in St Petersburg. So, really, it would be better to do nothing.’
‘I’ll just wait,’ he said, ‘it may all blow over.’
They came up with Tatiana, who took his hand. They began to talk of books. Olga was an avid reader. The conversation flowed. Tatiana had never known her sister so unrestrained outside the family. She talked and talked. Well, thought Tatiana, imagine that.
When they finally got back to the palace that day, Olga said to him, ‘Mr Kirby, I’ve never enjoyed myself so much, except perhaps—’ The pink came.
‘Except perhaps when Anastasia and Marie sat on me?’
‘Except at my birthday ball,’ she said.
‘Well, that was exceptional, wasn’t it? That was an unforgettable experience for everybody.’
Her eyes danced.
‘Oh, dear Mr Kirby,’ she said and flew.
Never, he thought, had there been innocence entirely without artifice or primness. Never until Olga Nicolaievna.
He took tea in the gardens with the Tsar and the children. Olga did not appear, she had her tea with her mother and Anna Vyrubova in Alexandra’s boudoir. Alexandra observed how well Olga looked, how healthy from her walk.
‘Child, lamb,’ she smiled, ‘you’ve brought the sun indoors with you.’
‘It was lovely,’ said Olga, helping herself to bread and butter, ‘and Papa went on and on as usual. He’d walk off the face of the earth if you didn’t hold him back.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘Where? Oh, everywhere. Oh, thank you, Anna, I’m in such need of that.’ She took the glass of tea from Anna. The boudoir was an entirely feminine room, restful and quiet. Olga relaxed, sipping her hot tea. Alexandra discerned the soft, glowing happiness. She remembered again her own dreamy years at Darmstadt.
‘What are you thinking about, darling?’ she asked.
‘Mama, wouldn’t it be wonderful if today could go on for ever?’ said Olga. ‘Then we would always be with you and Papa. Nothing could be more perfect.’
How young she was, thought Alexandra with heartache, how very young.
‘We should need some sleep,’ said Anna practically.
‘No, we shouldn’t,’ said Olga, ‘it would always be day, we’d never be tired, there’d be no tomorrow, only today, going on and on. What do you say to that, Mama?’
‘I say my sweet darling is very happy.’ Alexandra paused, then said, ‘And how did our friend Mr Kirby enjoy himself?’
Olga bent her head lower to her glass of tea.
‘Oh, very well, I think. Alexis says Papa must make him a general.’
‘What would you like Papa to make him, my love?’ asked Alexandra gently.
‘I? Mama, what is it to do with me? I hadn’t thought about it at all.’ But the blush was there, burning, the falling hair a bright curtain that could not quite hide the rising crimson. Olga could never be evasive without betraying herself.
Alexandra sighed. She frequently relived her own youthful dreams and the day when Nicholas appeared, a handsome embodiment of all she had ever desired. She had been so fortunate. Olga might not be. She could not spoil her daughter’s dreams. They would fill her life for a year or two, would fade and be replaced by more practical considerations. It was only important that while her children were young they should be happy. They were none of them difficult, they were the best of children, devoted and good. They were intelligent, they knew who they were but they would never place material things before love and kindness.
Olga must have her dreams.
But she would never forget she was the Tsar’s daughter. And Mr Kirby could be relied on. At least, she felt he could.
‘Ivan Ivanovich,’ said Tatiana one morning, ‘my mother says she would be exquisitely enchanted to receive you at your most loving convenience.’
‘What did she say?’ he asked.
‘Actually,’ said Tatiana, ‘she asked if you would like to go and see her.’
‘Quite the same thing, O Grand Duchess,’ he said. ‘Avanti, I go to exquisitely enchant the Empress.’
Tatiana watched him as he went long-leggedly on his way. The little sigh that escaped her was genuine. He really was the nicest man and so droll.
‘Do you know,’ she said a few minutes later to Olga, ‘I think I’m going to become awfully incurable.’
‘Darling,’ said Olga soothingly, ‘you aren’t to worry. You are bound to develop some sort of brain later on and then you’ll be just as normal as the rest of us. Well, almost.’
‘I’m speaking,’ said Tatiana haughtily, ‘of becoming incurable in my passion for Ivan.’
‘How fascinating,’ said Olga in awe and wonder. ‘Do you think it’s going to be as incurable as your passion for Captain Mestaroy and your devotion to First Officer Paul Sahkov?’
‘Heavens,’ said Tatiana, ‘how cutting you are.’ She bubbled. ‘But, Olga, isn’t it delicious to have Ivan here? He’s so droll. I’m sure those stiff Englishwomen swoon about for him. Tell Mama we simply must keep him.’
‘Keep him? Do you think he’s a monkey, then?’
‘Well,’ said Tatiana impishly, ‘no one could say he wouldn’t make an adorable pet.’
‘That’s not amusing,’ she said quietly, ‘that is only very silly.’
Tatiana flew to her sister.
‘Olga, oh, I’m sorry.’ She stared in disbelief and distress. There were tears in Olga’s eyes. ‘Olga?’
‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ said Olga quickly, ‘it’s just something in my eye. See if you can see it.’
But Tatiana could see nothing.
Alexandra thanked Kirby for coming to see her so quickly. She was gracious without being condescending. She spoke first of her family’s pleasure in his company, of his continuing kindness towards the children. She asked about his own feelings, whether he still found Livadia enjoyable. He answered in the only possible way. Then she returned to the children, discussing with him the ways and characteristics of each. She spoke at length of Olga.
‘Your Highness,’ he said then, ‘all your children are a delight. It would be gratuitous of me to speak of what they mean to you and his Imperial Highness, and what you mean to them. They are your children and always will be. I know what the Grand Duchess Olga means to you, I know what she is and who she is. There’s nothing I’d do to give you concern in any way. I am greatly privileged by the kindness you’ve shown me, and as much as an Englishman can be I’m your servant, Highness. I am also your friend. Always.’
Alexandra, sensitive and responsive, regarded him with swimming eyes.
‘Thank you, Ivan Ivanovich,’ she said, and said no more.
The days began to pass more rapidly. It was still summer, the leaves still a bright green, the sun a brilliance. Alexis was not concerned with time, only with life, and Anastasia, Marie and Tatiana absorbed each day with careless rapture. Only Olga was wistfully counting the hours. And each hour saw her turn her back more consciously on adolescence to face maturity. If she did not have Tatiana’s quick vitality, she was beautiful because of her colouring, her blue eyes and her inherent grace.
The gardens of Livadia were invaded that summer by every spirit that belonged to the realms of laughter and joy, and the presiding king was the jester of mirth and revelry.
Kirby burned to a deep brown, the sun drenching his hair and his beard with gold. Sometimes Olga could not take her eyes off him. Visitors in the shape of the occasional ministers, formal in frock coats, looked like museum effigies beside him. The Tsar rolled up the shirtsleeve on his serving arm at tennis. Kirby rolled up both of his. His arms were tanned, dark, sinewy. Olga thought of roving adventurers, piratical and free. She also thought of pale, elegant Crown Princes and the coldness came.
Stay as long as you like, Alexandra had said. But Kirby knew he could not stay until the family went, with himself as a last-minute embarrassment to his royal hosts. He told Karita he could not stay the full three weeks. She understood.
‘Their Imperial Highnesses will be so busy when they leave,’ she said, ‘it wouldn’t do for us to be in the way, monsieur.’ She hesitated. ‘You will not forget, I am to be in your service, yes?’
‘Do you really wish that, Karita?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said.
She had no fears. Ivan Ivanovich would be her protector as well as her employer. Her parents had not only given her their blessing, they had said that to be in the service of an English lord and to go to England with him was to give her and all her family a standing never before achieved. They agreed with her that he was, of course, a lord. She would come back to Russia in time, but meanwhile would see the world and that was a good thing for anyone. She was to remain faithful to Russian Orthodoxy, count her beads and take her ikons. Oravio no longer mattered. He was to marry another girl, a more complaisant one than Karita.
Of course, it was all still dependent on whether Princess Aleka Petrovna would agree to release her. Kirby was to arrange to call on her in St Petersburg. It was all very exciting and sometimes Karita could hardly sleep at night.
Kirby advised Alexandra that he must go. She did not attempt to dissuade him, she only said, ‘You don’t mean immediately, I imagine?’
‘I thought the day after tomorrow, Your Highness.’
She nodded. It was difficult to fault him, except in that his presence did divert Olga’s thoughts from the inescapable course her life must take. ‘Well, we ourselves will be leaving soon. Will you tell the children, Ivan? If I tell them they’ll beg me until I’m distracted.’
He told them, all of them, in the gardens. They did not hide their dismay. Alexis thought his going was something to do with having been drilled too much.
‘No, Alexis,’ he said, ‘you’ve drilled me not too much, not too little, but just enough. Now I know my left from my right and my nose from my knees.’
Alexis thought that splendid but very funny.
‘Ivan,’ said Anastasia, ‘it’s not a laughing matter. What will we do? Who will play I Spy with us?’
‘Only General Sikorski,’ said Tatiana, ‘and he’ll get it all mixed up with Catch.’
‘Catch?’ said Marie.
‘Yes,’ said Tatiana. ‘Catch my eyeglass, dear child, it’s falling out again.’
They shrieked, forgetting their dismay. Only Olga remained apart from the laughter.
The following morning she searched the gardens for him. She found only Anna Vyrubova.
‘Anna,’ she said, ‘where is Mr Kirby? Have you seen him?’
‘I think he’s on his way, sweet,’ said Anna.
‘But he can’t be,’ said Olga aghast, ‘he hasn’t said goodbye and he wasn’t to leave until tomorrow.’
‘He’s only going to Yalta,’ said Anna passively, ‘he’s arranging a carriage now.’
‘I must see Mama.’ Olga was urgent. ‘Perhaps she’ll let me go with him, I’ve things to get. Anna, please send someone to tell him to wait while I find Mama.’
She ran. She found her mother. She smoothed her hair and dress, she explained that she had things to buy in Yalta.
‘What things, darling?’
‘Oh, a book for you, Mama. Please, may I go with Mr Kirby? It would save two carriages and having to find someone else to go with me.’
Alexandra could not resist the appeal. Olga could dream a little longer. Mr Kirby would be gone tomorrow. She sent only a footman to accompany the coachman. Yalta was a friendly place. The family often shopped informally there.
The carriage was waiting when Olga came down the steps. She wore her best walking-out dress of summery white, with a blue-and-white beribboned bonnet, and carried a parasol. Kirby thought she looked young and sweetly lovely. He gave her his hand, assisting her into the open landau.
‘It’s not inconvenient for you, Mr Kirby?’ She was as composed as she could be.
‘Inconvenient? I’m delighted,’ he said.
‘Oh.’ She lowered her eyes demurely. ‘You see,’ she said, as he seated himself beside her, ‘I’ve things to buy and Mama said my French lesson was of no great importance.’
‘French lessons never are, except to the French. But are you to have no lady-in-waiting?’
‘You are to escort me,’ she said. ‘Oh, will that be a nuisance? You’re going because you have things to do there. I shall be in the way.’
‘In the way?’ he said as the carriage moved off with the wheels grinding a little. That, he thought, was typical of her modesty, and her presence typical of the informality of the family when they were at Livadia. ‘Olga Nicolaievna, when you’re in the way the day will be a sad one. You’ll be a great help, in fact. I’m going to buy presents, and you’ll be able to tell me what everyone would like. Well, I am in luck, aren’t I?’
‘You’re going to buy presents for the children?’ She had put her parasol up. She looked like summer itself in her soft, warm enchantment.
‘For everyone,’ he said. ‘What fun,’ said Olga. She often accompanied her mother to Yalta. It was quite exhilarating to accompany Mr Kirby. They bowled along at a spanking clip-clop, the air dry with heat and as heady as a vineyard. The wild-grape foliage was dusty, the fruit glimmering among the leaves. ‘Buying presents is fun, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘It was going to be a worrying responsibility buying the right ones until you came along,’ he said. ‘You’ll be invaluable. Look, the hawk.’
She followed his pointing finger, eyes tracing the falling descent of the bird. It dropped from the sky, a plummeting black against the blue, and disappeared behind a slope.
‘How swiftly a hawk dives,’ she said, ‘almost as if it’s given up life.’
‘Instead,’ he said, ‘it’s actually gone to plunder the life of another. You are a very fine Grand Duchess today, Olga. Is it your hat, your dress, your parasol or you?’
He spoke lightly, with a smile. She looked at him, her eyes dancing.
‘I think you’re being nice to me because I’m going to be invaluable when you shop,’ she said.
He laughed. It evoked a happy response from Olga. They laughed together. Oh, how wonderful it was not to feel shy or constrained, to feel so much at ease with him. She liked it as he sat back in relaxed enjoyment of the ride, his straw boater tipped to shade his eyes from the sun, his blue linen jacket and white trousers cool-looking. The wheels threw up chips as they entered a village whose brightly coloured cottages and houses were built on serrated slopes. A man on a horse loped towards them, the horse black, the man as dark as mahogany. He touched his hat and inclined his head to the Grand Duchess. The Tsar and his family were familiar figures in the area, the carriage with its Imperial crest easily recognizable. Olga gave the man a smile, inclining her own head shyly under her parasol. Kirby loved the way she made the gesture. He felt that here in the Crimea the Tsar, if not Tsarism, was as secure as possible. He was sure that under no circumstances would Olga be allowed to ride through St Petersburg as freely as she was riding to Yalta. Here the Imperial family went around without fuss. It was not like that in certain other places in Russia.
Before he had met the Imperial family he had been curious about them as autocrats, not as people. Now he was sure there were no people less equipped to be autocrats than they were. They had inherited autocracy, they were imprisoned by their heritage and governed by the edicts of their ancestors.
On this summer day it did not seem important.
‘Mr Kirby …’ She turned to speak to him. He gave her a smile and she knew there was no need to make conversation, no need to think that on such a day he would regard silence as dull. It was enough for him that summer bequeathed its magic and the carriage wheels sang over the dusty road. She was not unused to the attentions of men, mainly the suitable young officers always in the background. They could engage in endless light flirtatiousness. It would be words, words. How nice that Mr Kirby could get along without any words at all at times. Olga felt so free, so relaxed.
They alighted outside a square house in Yalta. Kirby said that he first had to see a consulate official. Did Olga mind if they did their shopping afterwards?
‘It’s whatever you wish,’ she said, ‘I only have to buy a book for Mama.’
‘Good,’ he said. He took her in with him and the clerk, with no idea who she was, only that she was deliciously charming, found her a chair. She was quite happy to sit and wait, making no fuss at being left while he went through into Anstruther’s office. Anstruther had not missed a glimpse of the girl. She pleased him very much.
‘No one could say your Russian references aren’t of the highest,’ he said.
‘Do you mind if we don’t discuss that?’ said Kirby. ‘I’m not on a social visit. I had a letter from you. What is it you want?’
‘Do sit down. I won’t keep you long in view of the young lady waiting. But don’t mistake me, let me explain my outlook. They say things about the Tsar in England and elsewhere and it’s taught me to be careful about offering opinions on people I don’t know personally. In my position as a very minor civil servant I’ve never been close to the Imperial family, but I know a little about them. I envy you. I wish I had your capacity for making friends, and I don’t necessarily mean influential friends.’
‘Don’t be apologetic, it’s making me feel uncomfortable,’ said Kirby, ‘but thanks all the same. Now, what have you brought me here for?’
‘I hope you’re not going to be touchy,’ said Anstruther reprovingly. ‘They aren’t going to ask too much of you. You know Kiev well. There’s a man there the Russians want and we’d like to do them a favour. We’d like to tell them where they can pick him up. You have friends and contacts in Kiev. The man’s name is Spirokof. We know he’s in Kiev. We don’t know exactly where. They want you to go there, talk to people and find out.’
‘That’s not my branch of the profession,’ said Kirby, ‘I’m an observer, not an informer.’
Anstruther tried his most fatherly smile.
‘Spirokof,’ he said, ‘is a maker and thrower of bombs. He intends to make one for the Tsar. He’s going to Poland in October. So is the Tsar. The Russians will be watching for Spirokof there but it would do us the world of good if we helped them to pick him up in Kiev.’
‘Good, you’ll go, then? Good. Then they’d like you to remain in Russia for a while, in St Petersburg. You could do your best work from now on. You get on with Russians, and with the international situation as it is we need people like you. You’ll probably be instructed in St Petersburg to make love to the whole nation. I wish,’ Anstruther concluded drily, ‘I had your ability and your job.’
‘You can have my job. You have your own qualifications.’ Kirby made for the door. ‘You’ll excuse my hurry. With the international situation as it is I’d be out of my mind if I kept the Tsar’s eldest daughter waiting any longer.’
‘Good luck in Kiev,’ said Anstruther.
Olga had composed herself to a patient wait and Kirby’s reappearance came as a happy surprise. He did not seem to have been long at all. She rose with a smile.
‘Just an extension to my passport,’ said Kirby. The clerk jumped up to open the door. Olga’s smile entranced him. He bowed. It delighted her because she knew he did not know who she was. Therefore the bow was for herself. Out in the street she walked by Kirby’s side, a girl in a flowing white dress and parasol, with a grace that made people look.
She loved shops. She forgot all her self-consciousness in the pleasure of knowing the Yalta shops better than he did. They looked in windows, they entered cool, shady interiors.
‘First,’ he said, ‘something for your mother.’
‘Why, a book,’ she said, forgetting that that was what she had said she wanted to buy.
Kirby did not intend to be ostentatious, to go in search of the expensive. That would impress neither Olga nor her parents. It was the suitable, not the expensive, they would appreciate. He and Olga did not discuss prices at all, they simply looked at everything that was interesting. Finally, on Olga’s earnest recommendation, he bought Alexandra a book of English poetry.
‘Mama will love that,’ she said as it was being wrapped, ‘and I shall enjoy it too, so it’s really a present for both of us.’
‘Well, one present for two people is as good as two presents for the price of one,’ he said. ‘What a very invaluable start, Olga.’
‘Oh, pray don’t mention it,’ she said gravely but with a smile peeping.
He smiled too and began softly to whistle that tune. He looked very tall under the low ceiling of the bookshop. They went into other shops. He bought a new tennis racquet for the Tsar, again with Olga’s approval.
‘That will please Papa immensely,’ she said, ‘he just uses any old racquet that comes to hand, sometimes one with a broken string. He says he can’t afford a new one.’
For Marie they chose a glass ball which when shaken showed a snowstorm in London. It was colourful and fascinating, and Olga said it would be a gift from England. For Alexis they chose a boy’s peaked blue cap of canvas and linen, for Anastasia a bright headscarf to protect her hair from the dust. For Tatiana a pair of winter gloves made of sealskin.
Then he said to Olga, who was enjoying it all so much, ‘And what for you, Olga Nicolaievna?’ They were in a shop full of glass cabinets containing Crimean wood carvings and pottery, much of it religious. Olga was absorbed in the contents of one cabinet.
‘Oh, but there’s Mama’s book,’ she said, ‘it’s for both of us as we agreed.’
‘I didn’t agree.’
Suddenly she was pink. He turned away, not wanting to embarrass her more. He looked at a wall lined with shelves, each shelf full of beautifully bound books. Some were prayer books. His eyes passed them over. The Imperial family were deeply religious, their observance of evening prayers had not escaped him. It was not uncommon in the evenings to see one or more of the children with a prayer book. He did not think, therefore, that Olga was in need of more religion.
‘Olga, do you have a Shakespeare?’ he asked.
She turned from the cabinet. He was holding a book bound in soft black leather, a volume of Shakespeare’s plays in English. There was a Shakespeare at Tsarskoe Selo. It belonged to the family, not to her. Olga, well-read in the classics, had not yet become serious about Shakespeare. She removed her gloves, took the book from him, opened it and glanced through the preface pages. It was English, it had been printed and bound in England.
She lifted shining blue eyes to his. The pink was there, a warm blissful pink.
‘Oh, I’d like something from England,’ she said, ‘especially this. I would cherish it, truly I would.’
‘Then have it, won’t you?’
She nodded, not knowing what else to say in her delight. There were people who said the Imperial family had the wealth of Croesus. He wondered what they would say to see Olga in such glowing pleasure over this gift of a book. He paid for it. Olga did not want it wrapped, she would take it as it was, except that she drew Kirby aside and shyly whispered, ‘Please, will you write in it for me?’
He took a fountain pen from his inside pocket, laid the book on top of a cabinet and opened it up. On the blank flyleaf he wrote, ‘To Olga Nicolaievna, in gratitude for so much sunshine – J. Kirby, Livadia 1912.’ She read it. He had not put Ivan Ivanovich. He had put himself. He understood, he was not Ivan Ivanovich to her because he was not Russian. She did not ask for him to be Russian or to behave other than as an Englishman.
She wanted to thank him very much but the right words eluded her. Her dark lashes blinked away her sentiment as they emerged from the shade of the shop into the bright day. She stopped and he took the book from her to let her put up her parasol. Her parasol up, she happily took the book back from him. ‘Mr Kirby, I— oh, you are so kind.’ Then suddenly the right words came. She smiled up at him from beneath the parasol. ‘It isn’t at all surprising that Tatiana is so passionately devoted to you.’
‘Great Scott,’ he said, ‘hasn’t that all blown over yet?’
‘Oh, she’s quite incurable at the moment,’ said Olga. Her eyes sparkled and they walked together down the street to pick up their carriage, to return to Livadia, he with the other gifts swinging from fingers hooked inside strings. Then she said, ‘Oh, how forgetful I am, I came to buy Mama a book and you have bought it instead. Never mind, I’ll buy her an embroidery cover. Do you have some money I might borrow? I forgot that too. I’ll pay you back, I promise.’
‘Olga Nicolaievna,’ he said, ‘just how forgetful are you?’
‘Well, if I do forget to pay you back,’ said Olga, ‘I suppose you could say I was shockingly remiss.’
He loved her for that. He loved everything about her. He went with her to make her purchase. Olga was quick. She selected a pattern of primroses and forget-me-nots. He laughed at the forget-me-nots. So did Olga.
They talked easily on the drive back. Occasionally Olga pointed out a white gleaming house or palace and told him who owned it. He took in, as he had many times before, the warm lushness of grass, the wild, untouched slopes, the scent of the ever-present roses and the purity of the air that mingled with the dancing wind from the sea. And he took in too the enchantment of a girl unspoiled and precious.
Lunch awaited them at the Imperial Palace. They were late but no one minded. They were crowded by the children, their meal interrupted, and Kirby gave them their presents. They were overwhelmed.
They played their last games with their friend Ivan Ivanovich that afternoon, but in the spiritedly resilient way of the young they did not let their regret at his imminent departure mitigate their enthusiasms of the moment. The Empress and Anna were there, needlework on their laps. Alexandra’s eyes turned oftenest on Alexis. He had the energy of two normal boys. Few people knew of the Tsarevich’s inherited weakness. It was something Alexandra did not want people to know.
She had been delighted with the book of poetry, requesting Kirby to inscribe the flyleaf with his name and the date. The Tsar had beamed at the acquisition of a new racquet.
‘Absolutely capital, my dear fellow,’ he said, ‘and be sure that although I’m plagued with reports today, I’ll find time for a set or two later. You are the most generous chap.’
Olga stood near, sharing her father’s pleasure. She was closer to Nicholas than any of his other children.
The white palace was touched by a pink glow as that bright day turned into evening and the sun reddened. The long afternoon was over, the lawns, the gardens, the cloistered walks and the courtyards became silent. The laughter, the play, the high voices and deep voices, the fluttering dresses, the young and the adult, all had retreated, vanished. The white chairs were empty, the garden tables brushed clean, and only lengthening shadows came to invade the green grass that had known so many dancing feet.
Life itself seemed suspended. But where an old thick vine curled and crept over a high wall and the path was a tiled surface of soft colour, a girl in a white dress walked alone. Her face was wistful, her eyes full of dreams. A young officer emerged from the palace and came looking for her.
‘Olga Nicolaievna, it’s evening time and they’re wondering where you are.’
‘Yes, the day has gone, Vasily. It could not last, could it?’
‘It will be the same tomorrow.’
He had said goodbye to the Tsar and now the rest of the family were at the top of the steps to see him on his way, as they had last year. Karita was with him, composed and self-possessed, but just a little sad.
‘Come again, Ivan, come again!’ The children were as exuberant in their goodbyes as in their play. ‘Come to Tsarskoe Selo, you must!’
He thanked Alexandra in simple terms, putting his lips to the hand she extended. Olga, by her mother’s side and apart from the noisy children, was very quiet, her hands clasped in front of her. The children were around him again, delaying him with further goodbyes.
‘Don’t crowd him so,’ said Olga, ‘you’re all such ruffians.’
He glanced up from them and smiled at her. Then he teased Marie’s curls, winked at Alexis.
‘Farewell, then, children, sweet ruffians, grand Grand Duchesses, all,’ he said.
‘Oh, must you go, must you?’ cried Anastasia.
‘I must,’ he said, ‘I’m quite done up.’
It was a favourite expression of Olga’s. They burst into final hilarious laughter and waved and called to him as with Karita he went down to the carriage put at his disposal. He turned at the bottom, waved his responses and then assisted Karita into the carriage.
Olga, eyes wide and incredulous, trembled. Alexandra slid her hand inside her daughter’s arm, gently restraining her from an impulsive flight downwards.
‘Mama, oh, Mama,’ gasped Olga, ‘he did not say goodbye to me.’
‘Yes, he did, my love,’ murmured Alexandra, ‘in his own way.’
Olga did not wait to see the carriage drive off, she turned and ran along the terrace and into the gardens. Alexandra sighed. Olga’s dream was over, as many of her own dreams had been over when she herself was a romantic girl. But Olga would recover. She would forget. There would be so many other things.
She lifted her hand, her white lawn handkerchief fluttering in goodbye to the moving carriage.
Karita was quite mutinous. Ivan Ivanovich was to go to Kiev for a while. Without her. She was to be dropped off at Karinshka, he to take the carriage on to Yalta and proceed from there to Sevastopol and Kiev. He would return to Karinshka when he could and take her to St Petersburg then, where they would see Princess Aleka together and discuss her release from the princess’s service.
‘That is not what was agreed,’ said Karita. She felt horribly disappointed and let down. They would laugh at her at Karinshka, for she had spoken on the telephone to old Amarov and it had been understood she would not be coming back.
‘Then let’s make a new agreement,’ said Kirby. He looked quiet and sombre, and for once was not alive to all that they passed. ‘I’m sorry, Karita, but it’s only for a while, then I promise to come and fetch you from Karinshka, see your parents and take you to St Petersburg.’
‘It is not what was said,’ she insisted.
‘Oh dear,’ said Kirby.
‘Monsieur, it makes me look so foolish.’
He understood then. He took her hand. She stiffened, sat very upright.
‘I’m sorry, Karita, forgive me,’ he said, ‘but let us have this new agreement. If you feel foolish, I feel unhappy. So we’re both suffering together. But you and I can’t fall out, that would never do. Karita?’
Her profile was extraordinarily sweet, but her mouth was set. She looked straight in front of her. He saw her swallow.
Then she said, ‘You promise, monsieur? You’ll come for me later?’
‘Yes, Karita.’
She reconciled herself. He would not let her down again. Would he? She looked at him. He was all affection, his smile reassuring.
‘Very well, monsieur,’ she said. ‘Oh, I have something for you. Her Highness the Grand Duchess Olga Nicolaievna asked me to give it to you after we left.’
She gave him a little flat package. He opened it as the carriage swayed and jostled over the road. It was a snapshot in a small gilt frame, a snapshot of Olga and Tatiana in the gardens of Livadia. Tatiana looked gay and alive, even in sepia. Olga’s shy smile peeped amid her flowing hair. The sun caught it, the picture flashed and danced. She had written across the bottom of the photograph.
‘So that you shan’t forget us – Olga Nicolaievna.’
He had not realized just how much he loved her until that moment.
Olga was sobbing her heart out. Only Tatiana, closest and dearest to her, found her. She lay full length on leafy ground amid the trees, face down, her head pillowed on her arms, the sobs racking her.
‘Olga, oh dearest, sweetest sister, what is it, what is it?’
‘Tasha … oh, I’m in such pain.’
‘See, don’t move. I’ll run for Doctor Botkin.’
‘Oh no, do not. Don’t bring anyone, please.’
‘Then don’t cry so, you’ll break my heart. Do you want to break my heart?’ Tatiana was in anxiety and distress. ‘Olga, don’t. Tell me what it is, tell me.’
The slim, rounded body shuddered and still the sobs came.
‘Tasha, don’t tell anyone, please don’t.’
‘Dear dear Olga, never, never.’
‘I’ll be all right.’ She strove to check her despair. ‘I’m better – better already.’
‘There, we’ll go to Monsieur Gilliard together in a moment. He’ll be pleased Ivan Ivanovich has gone, not because he doesn’t like him but because we’ll attend better to our French lessons now.’
‘Tatiana?’
‘Oh, sweet sister, do you think I don’t know? I’m not as young as all that.’
She lay quiet then. She turned and sat up in a while. She was pale beneath her creamy tan, her face streaked with tears. She dabbed at them with a tiny handkerchief already soaked.
‘Tasha, he didn’t say goodbye to me, he didn’t say one word to me, not one.’
‘He did. Oh, you silly, he did.’ Tatiana was earnestly comforting. ‘He said goodbye to all of us, all of us together. He couldn’t say anything specially to you, he couldn’t. You know he couldn’t. He’s not like the very proper Englishmen we hear about, he is proper in the very nicest way. Listen, yesterday I said to him, “Ivan, who is the fairest of us all?” And he laughed and said, “Tatiana Nicolaievna is the fairest, of course, Anastasia the cheekiest and Marie the nicest.” So you see?’
‘See?’ Olga could only see that he had gone lightly and left her in pain.
‘He wouldn’t even say your name, and that’s it, don’t you understand? Oh, you goose, it’s in his eyes all the time, the way he looks at you and he’s always looking at you. When we’re both old and our husbands are rather bald and fat, we’ll tell our grandchildren all about a handsome English prince who adored you and danced at your birthday ball with you.’
‘Our grandchildren?’ Olga’s laugh was fragile, half-hearted. ‘Tasha, he talked of his grandchildren. But he’s not a prince.’
‘He’s our prince, dearest sister, yours to remember and mine to talk to you about. There, we’ll always have each other, always.’
She was consoled but the pain was still there.
He had gone and Livadia had lost its enchantment.