Katya and Jussi returned to face the music of St Petersburg late in the spring of 1913, and were received by her father, to no-one’s great surprise, with the relief and celebration so often reserved for prodigals.
Anna heard of the runaways’ return in the summer, in a letter from her mother that arrived confirming the arrangements for Anna’s long-planned trip to St Petersburg.
Three days before the arrival of the letter, Guy suffered a severe stroke.
She sat at her husband’s bedside, the letter in her hand, her eyes upon his face, usually so lean and so vital, now thin, pallid and distorted with the paralysis that drew down one side of his mouth and made his left eyelid droop. Beyond the window a soft summer shower drenched the garden, misting its glowing colours, drifting through the heavy verdant canopies of the trees. ‘A letter from Mama,’ she said, softly.
He attempted a smile. She steeled herself to smile back, not to betray her own pain at the sight of his. He could not speak, not yet, though the doctor was hopeful. His good hand squeezed hers.
‘Katya’s come home, complete with husband and – to Mama’s intense disappointment I suspect – no child. There goes the winter gossip out of the window! Katya was, it seems, simply being Katya after all and livening up a dull world with a bit of outrageous behaviour. Now there’s to be a “proper” wedding – all the trimmings, all the expense – and as usual she’s achieved the best of all possible worlds! Dmitri, Natalia and the children are well. Margarita is recovered, though sadly there seems to be no sign of another child.’ She saw the flicker in his open eye and hurried on, ‘She says nothing of Lenka.’ She sighed a little. ‘I wonder why she doesn’t answer my letters? I had so hoped –’ Her voice died. His hand squeezed hers again. Gently she reached to smooth the silver hair from his high forehead. ‘Are you comfortable? Do you need anything?’
His head moved very slightly upon the pillow.
‘I’m not tiring you?’
Again the small, negative movement.
‘Mama speaks of my visit. I shan’t go, of course. I shan’t leave you. No!’ He had made a small, protesting movement with his hand. ‘No! Absolutely not. I shan’t go, and you won’t make me. It’s out of the question. We’ll go to St Petersburg when we can go together.’ A small smile glimmered upon her tired face. ‘I can’t trust you – how can I leave you?’ Her voice was gently scolding. ‘When you’re better, then we’ll both go.’ She forced brightness into her voice, firmly suppressed misgiving. ‘Now, would you like me to read the paper to you?’
She fetched the paper, settled down again in the chair. War in the Balkans again – Bulgarians and Serbs, Greeks and Turks, all at each others’ throats. The dangerous antagonism of Muslim and Christian, the even more dangerous tangles of alliances and ententes, the desperate weakness of a dying empire. She read with only half her mind concentrated upon the content. She had not realized how much she had been looking forward to seeing her family again. To seeing the new generation, the children she had never met, who knew little or nothing of their Aunt Anna who lived in the strange country of England across the sea. To Dmitri’s and Natalia’s children she sent presents on Name Days and birthdays; to Lenka’s also, though she suspected they never saw them. Certainly she had never received a single word of thanks or acknowledgement. Poor Lenka evidently nursed her grudge still. If she could have seen her – met the children – the children, again. She remembered the flicker of pain in Guy’s eye as she had mentioned Margarita’s childlessness. She did not know how he knew, but he knew. They had never discussed the matter of children. Yet somehow he had sensed that in this past year or so her own longing for a child had been the single grief in a happy – a very happy – life. And now – too late. A price she had always known she would have to pay for her precious marriage to this most precious of men.
But – if he died? What then would she have of him but memories?
‘The woman who threw herself under the King’s horse has died. What a strange thing to have done. Does she really believe that such actions will influence Parliament to give the vote to women? They choose to fight with strange weapons, these women. Though the new law that allows them to be rearrested after they have recovered from their hunger-striking is harsh I think. Whatever else they are, however misguided, one cannot doubt their courage. I don’t think I’d have it in me to do such brave and painful things.’
The good side of his mouth twitched a little. The one, bright blue, intelligent eye glinted. How could he bear it, this silent prison of flesh in which he was trapped? What would he do if the none-too-confidently predicted improvement did not materialize? She could not bear to think of it. Briskly she rustled the newspaper. ‘The editorial is about the Irish troubles – you’d like me to read it to you?’
Later, the rain stopped, she wandered the soaked garden, rubber boots squelching in the mud, the hem of her skirt sodden and disregarded as it flapped about her ankles, in her hand the inevitable pair of secateurs. The air was fresh and beautiful. She worked her way through the rosebed, letting the simple task of deadheading distract and calm her mind and emotions. Once she turned towards the house, lifted her hand in greeting, in case he might be watching. Rain shimmered upon the rosebuds like diamonds upon the smooth skin of a beautiful girl. She thought of Katya and her strange escapade, and smiled a little. She would write to her cousin. Perhaps she could persuade the newlyweds to visit her here? What fun that would be, and some recompense for the disappointment of not being able to go herself to St Petersburg after all. Next year. She would go next year. Guy would grow strong again – he would, of course he would – and they would go together. If they travelled slowly and with care he could manage it, she was sure. Anna was young still, and in the young hope truly springs eternal.
Guy did indeed improve, though he walked with a shuffling gait and a stick, the clear voice was hesitant, a little blurred, his words slow, and the left side of his face sagged, marring the fine, patrician looks. In the year that followed he fought his own battle with a quiet courage and determination that surprised Anna not a jot. By the following spring he was indeed as recovered as he ever would be, and dignity and that gentle delight in life were his again. But there could be no question of his undertaking the journey to Russia, and they both knew it.
Resolutely she refused to leave him; as resolutely he insisted that she should. But then reports began to reach the outside world of violent unrest in St Petersburg, of marches and demonstrations, of strikes and barricades, of confrontations between unarmed workers and the Tsar’s all-too-well-armed army. There was talk of incitement, of agents provocateurs. There was talk of revolution. Since Guy’s illness, Anna had continued the pleasant habit of reading The Times to her husband each day; but increasingly as that hot summer progressed, as the bees bumbled in business-like fashion about the splashed colour of Anna’s herbaceous border, as friends came and went and long, lazy afternoons were spent in discussion and in making music, the news became steadily worse. Not just Russia, but the world in turmoil.
It was in June that a Serbian student discharged the bullet that was to send the world to war. In the tense and confused weeks that followed there could be no question of travelling to Russia. In July the Austro-Hungarian Empire declared war on Serbia; Russia immediately mobilized her troops along the German border and Germany declared war on Russia and her ally France. It could only be a matter of time before the conflagration spread to the rest of Europe; optimistic souls thought still that Britain could remain aloof.
But at the beginning of August – a month given in memory to holidays, to sunlit mornings and hot, dreaming afternoons, to laughter and the roll of waves upon a beach – Germany marched into all-but-undefended Belgium and the flames of war took hold. As guarantor of Belgium’s neutrality, Britain could not stand by and see her crushed. The youth of a nation rushed to join the fun, fearful it would all be over before they got there. Singing, they marched to war.
In that strange quiet time after they had gone, when the country watched and waited, Anna received two letters. One was from Katya; a strange letter, guarded and somehow, Anna felt, oddly unforthcoming when compared with her cousin’s usual warm and impulsive outpourings. Katya and Jussi it seemed had returned to Finland. There had been some trouble with the authorities, who had not appreciated the fact that Jussi was not burning to become an officer in the Russian ranks. It would blow over. Meanwhile Katya offered no address, but promised to write when she could.
The second arrived a day later and was from her brother Dmitri. Like Katya’s it had taken more than a month to reach her. The contents stunned her.
Her father and her Uncle Andrei, on their way to the shop on the Nevsky, had been caught up in a violent demonstration. The soldiers had come. The killing had been cold-blooded and indiscriminate. Victor and Andrei had been caught first in the crossfire and then in the charge that had cleared the street. Victor had died at once, shot through the head. Andrei had died a short while later, with a Cossack bullet in his lung.