Harvest of War (25 page)

All my love,

Victoria

Leo refolded the letter. Perhaps there was one gleam of hope on the horizon. If she had to leave Alexandra with the Malkovic family maybe she could sell up all her property in England and start a new life in New Zealand.

It was dark by the time the train drew into the terminus. Leo hailed a taxi and asked to be taken to the Hotel Moscow, the only name she could remember. The sight of the hotel's green and white art nouveau frontage brought back a flood of memories. This was where Ralph had brought her when he had dragged her back in disgrace from Adrianople; where she had at first been incarcerated, forbidden to go out without her grim chaperone, and then liberated to be the toast of Belgrade society. This was where she had dressed to go to the ball where Sasha had first seen her as a woman, and the place to which she had returned heartbroken, a few weeks later, when he had told her that they could never marry. Six years and a war had passed since then and she hardly recognized the girl she had been in those days, but checking in to the hotel gave her an uncanny sensation that time had somehow folded back on itself.

Her first impulse the next morning was to set out for the Malkovics' town house and demand to see the countess, but a look in the mirror made her change her mind. She had brought very few clothes with her on her return to Salonika and most of those had been left behind when she rejoined the field hospital. For months she had worn nothing but her nurse's dress and apron or the serviceable tweed breeches and tunic, with or without the accompanying skirt, which had constituted her FANY uniform. Now, looking at herself, she saw how shabby and dirty they were. Moreover, she had lost weight during her illness and they now hung on her as if they had been made for a much larger woman. It was months since she had been to a hairdresser and, though she had refrained this time from chopping her auburn locks short, her hair now resembled an untidy bird's nest. Her face was weather-beaten and her hands were rough and her nails broken. If she was going to present herself as a suitable person to care for any child she realized she would have to smarten herself up.

She found the dressmaker who had made clothes for her all those years ago, still in business and delighted to see her. Customers were few and far between now and the woman promised to have something ready by the next morning. Leo went to the post office and telegraphed to her bank to make arrangements for her to draw money, and then to a beauty parlour where she had her hair done and had a facial and a manicure. She bought new underwear and shoes. That done, she had time on her hands to wander round the city. It was a very different place from the lively metropolis that she remembered. Four years of enemy occupation had left the streets shabby and many of the shops shuttered, but there was a sense of optimism and excitement among the people. Only a few days before King Peter had made a ceremonial return to the city and there were still national flags in many windows and traces of the bunting that had welcomed him.

Leo's steps inevitably took her to the area where the great houses of the nobility stood. In some there were signs of occupation but many were empty, their windows shuttered and their paint peeling, their owners either killed in the war or fled to their country estates or abroad. Her heartbeat quickened as she approached the Malkovic house, but it too was closed and neglected. It was clear that if she wanted to find the family who had taken charge of her child she would have to make her way to their country estate.

The next morning, dressed in a jade-green wool suit and feeling slightly exposed round the ankles in the new shorter skirt, she hired a car and set off for the Malkovic estate. She had only been there once, on that never-to-be-forgotten occasion of Sasha's ‘Slava day' six years ago; but even if she had known the route better it would have been hard to recognize. The roads had been torn up by lorries and gun carriages and the surrounding fields were criss-crossed by trenches. Orchards which she remembered dropping blossom as they passed were now reduced to blackened stumps by shellfire. Nevertheless, after stopping two or three times to ask directions, she found herself at last driving up to the house. On her previous visit it had been decked with flags in celebration and the gardens had been full of spring flowers. Now surrounded by bare branches and drifts of autumn leaves it looked melancholy and neglected, but she was relieved to see there were definite signs of occupation. Smoke rose from the chimneys and lamplight in one window brightened the autumnal afternoon.

Leo stopped the car outside the front door and sat for a moment, breathing deeply and rehearsing in her mind what she planned to say. In her handbag she had the letter which Sasha had written just before he was killed and which she had carried with her ever since like a talisman. She knew it by heart but she took it out now and read it over to bolster her courage.
I have rewritten my will in the last few hours and had it duly witnessed. In it, I repudiate my marriage to Eudoxie on the grounds of non-consummation and declare you to be my affianced bride. If I should die here, my estate is to go to our son, or daughter
. She folded the letter and put it back in her bag. Then she got out of the car and rang the doorbell.

She had to wait so long that she almost rang again but then the door was opened by a young girl in a maid's cap and apron who regarded her with wide eyes, as if any visitor was a cause for alarm. Leo held out a visiting card.

‘My name is Leonora Malham Brown. I should like to speak to the countess.'

The girl took the little square of pasteboard and scuttled off towards the back of the house, but as she did so a door opened further along the hall and a small child toddled into view pulling a toy horse on wheels and crowing with mischievous laughter. Leo froze in disbelief. This was the chubby-cheeked, auburn-haired infant of her feverish visions. The likeness was so uncanny that she feared she might be hallucinating and wondered for an instant if the sickness had returned.

‘Alexandra?' She took two unsteady steps towards the child, then halted again as a man's voice spoke from the room beyond the door.

‘No, Lexi, not out there. Come back.'

Leo's head swam. She had walked into a world of fantasy. First the child, now this. The voice was Sasha's.

A figure appeared in the doorway, silhouetted against the lamplight beyond.

‘Lexi, come . . .' The words broke off abruptly. For an instant neither of them spoke. Then he said, ‘Leonora? Is it possible?'

Her hands were at her mouth, suppressing a sound that was half-scream, half-cry of joy. ‘Sasha? They told me you were dead.'

He came towards her and she was able to see his face for the first time. It was thinner and there were deep creases around his mouth, and his dark hair was liberally streaked with grey. She saw with a jolt that his left sleeve was empty and pinned to his jacket.

‘Leo? I can't believe it. They said you had died when the child was born.'

‘No! No! I was unconscious. They took her away because I couldn't feed her. I've been looking for her ever since. But you . . . where have you been?'

He reached out then and laid his hand on her arm and at the warmth of his touch something gave way within her and she began to weep. He swept her to him with his good arm and held her close and she burrowed her face into his shoulder and breathed in the unforgettable smell of him and knew that he was, truly, alive.

‘Oh, my darling, my darling!' he whispered. ‘I have been so alone! So bereft! I thought I had lost you.'

‘So have I,' she gulped. ‘Oh, Sasha, I can't tell you how lonely I've been.'

She felt a hand tugging her skirt and a small body tried to insert itself between her legs and his. Looking down she saw Alexandra gazing up, her thumb in her mouth, eyes wide and puzzled.

Sasha said softly, ‘Darling, you know who this is, don't you?'

Leo knelt beside the child. ‘Of course I know. I've seen her in my dreams for nearly two years.' She touched the delicate skin of her baby's face and a quiver of delight ran through all her nerves. ‘Alexandra, darling, I've wanted to see you for such a long time. I'm so happy to have found you.'

Sasha knelt with her. ‘Lexi, this is your mama. We thought we had lost her, didn't we? But here she is, after all. And now we shall all be very, very happy together.'

Leo heard footsteps and the swish of a skirt and looked up, expecting to confront Eudoxie, but it was the Dowager Countess, Sasha's mother, who held out her arms in joyful welcome.

‘Leonora, my dear child! What a wonderful surprise. God is good indeed!'

Leo got up and embraced her. ‘Dear Lady Malkovic! It's wonderful to see you, too. How are you?'

‘Oh, I am as well as anyone of my age can expect to be. But you . . . you are so thin! You have been ill?'

‘Yes, I have. But I'm better now. And . . . the Countess Eudoxie? How is she?'

Sasha's mother squeezed her hand. ‘Eudoxie died a year ago, in Athens. You remember her chest was weak. When she caught the flu it was all over very quickly.'

‘Oh, I'm . . .' Leo was about to make the conventional reply but closed her mouth on it. She was not sorry and they would all know it was a lie. Instead she turned to Sasha. ‘But you . . . Where? How . . .?'

He put his arm round her. ‘It's too long a tale to be told in a sentence. Come in and sit down by the fire.'

The countess said, ‘I'll take Alexandra to the nursery and play with her. You two have so much to say to each other.' She took the child's hand. ‘Come, Lexi. Let's see if cook has made any more of those nice biscuits, shall we?'

Alexandra allowed herself to be led away and Leo almost ran after her but Sasha recognized the impulse and held her back. ‘There will be plenty of time later. Come and sit down.'

The countess looked over her shoulder. ‘I'll tell them to send in some refreshments. I'm sure Leonora must be hungry.'

Sasha led her into a room lined with bookshelves and they sat side by side on a couch in front of a wood fire.

‘Now, tell me, please!' Leo begged. ‘When I saw you just now I thought I was dreaming.'

‘I understand,' he replied. ‘I hadn't prayed, exactly, because I thought it was pointless, but when I saw you standing there it felt like a miracle.'

‘But who told you I was dead?' she asked.

‘It's all part of the long story I have to tell you. Please, try not to blame me for letting you suffer for so long. Not only did I not know you were alive, I didn't know who I was myself for months.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘What were you told about my supposed death?'

‘I heard that you had been mortally wounded in a battle near Lavci and that the fighting was so fierce they couldn't even bring your body back.'

He nodded. ‘That makes sense, but I remember nothing. My first recollection is of coming round in a Bulgarian hospital and not knowing who I was or how I got there. Does that seem possible to you?'

‘Perfectly possible. I've nursed enough badly wounded men to know that it can happen. But memory usually comes back in a day or two.'

‘It didn't for me. But what made it worse was that I had been stripped of everything that might have identified me.'

‘Stripped? How? When?'

‘On the field of battle, I presume. There are always those who will grab the opportunity of scavenging for anything valuable once the fighting is over. It might have been local people, but more likely it was Bulgarian soldiers. I've never seen an army so desperately short of even basic necessities, like boots and warm clothing, as well as weapons. Anyway, it seems that a Bulgarian medical team was scouring the battlefield looking for the wounded and they came across me. I was unconscious and stripped almost naked. Even my signet ring had gone.' He glanced down at the empty sleeve. ‘Whether my hand was blown off in the fighting, or someone cut it off while I was unconscious to get the ring I shall never know.'

Leo shuddered. ‘That's a terrible thought!'

‘Well, these things happen. If it hadn't been the depths of winter, so that the arteries froze, I should probably have bled to death. The point is, without any insignia or means of identification they had no means of knowing whether I was one of their own or an enemy. So that was how I came to be in a hospital for Bulgarian soldiers. Of course, as soon as I opened my mouth they realized I was a Serb, but to do them justice they kept me until I was strong enough to be transferred to a prisoner-of-war camp.'

‘And you still couldn't remember who you were?'

‘No, not with any certainty. Sometimes I got flashes of memory, like pictures from a book, but I couldn't tell if they were things that had really happened or something I'd read or been told about. And, of course, as the Bulgarians didn't know who I was or what rank I held I was sent to a camp for ordinary soldiers, not officers, so there was no one who recognized me and could tell me who I was. At least,' he paused and smiled ironically, ‘there were men there who had served under me but I suppose they had only seen me at a distance and by then I looked so different – thin and ragged and unkempt – that it's not surprising they didn't know me. The first time I looked in a mirror after I got out I hardly recognized myself. All you could see was two eyes peering out of a mass of hair and beard.'

‘So you did remember, in the end?'

‘Slowly. The flashes of memory got stronger and clearer, and also I kept feeling that I had a right to command. I wanted to give the other men orders. Then one morning I woke up with this name in my head – Alexander Malkovic – Colonel Malkovic. And I thought, perhaps that's who I am. But when I went to the commandant and asked to be transferred to an officers' camp he only laughed. He said I wasn't the first one to try that on and unless I could prove my identity I would have to stay where I was. He pointed out, quite reasonably, that none of the men in the camp had recognized me. So I decided he must be right. I thought perhaps I'd served under Malkovic, or heard of him somewhere.' He half-closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘I can't describe how terrible those months were. I kept getting these images in my mind – pictures of a childhood I thought couldn't be mine; pictures of you; memories of battles – and none of it made sense. I honestly began to believe I'd gone mad. And then I got ill again. I don't know if it was this flu that is going round or some other infection. Food was very short and we were all weak. And the fever just left me even more confused.'