Natasha's Dream (25 page)

‘Of course,’ said Sir Douglas. ‘You recorded some remarkable observations of hers on the circumstances surrounding the conception of the claimant’s child, born only five months after the execution took place. Extraordinary. You also devoted a good many words to your relationship with this Russian girl. Incredible, your action in respect of that car, and your use of it to go in chase of what you suspected might be a corpse.’ Sir Douglas gave a series of little nods in appreciation of Mr Gibson’s decision to adventure himself. ‘Not quite what was expected of you, but I note you considered how useful she was as an interpreter and informant.’

‘Invaluable,’ said Mr Gibson, and waited for Sir Douglas to comment further on Natasha.

‘Yes, quite the decent thing to do, not to let her be carted back to Russia. How is she getting along now?’

‘Satisfactorily, I hope.’

‘When you brought the report to me a couple of weeks ago, I think you said you had found her a position as a tutor and governess to your sister’s children.’

‘A friend of mine pointed the way to that job,’ said Mr Gibson. ‘I’ve no doubt she’ll make a complete success of it.’

‘Good,’ said Sir Douglas. ‘There’s a suggestion, I note, that she knows something of importance about the events at Ekaterinburg.’

‘Which she’s very reluctant to disclose.’

‘I shouldn’t worry her about it,’ said Sir Douglas. ‘I doubt if it’s anything of vital importance, and it might be a kindness, after all she’s been through, to let it rest.’

‘My own feeling is that it’s very important,’ said Mr Gibson, ‘that it provides the reason why she says the claimant is Anastasia.’

‘Spare her harassment,’ said Sir Douglas. ‘Ah – your final conclusion is debatable, isn’t it?’

‘Not in my own mind. I’ve no doubt at all that
the claimant is the Grand Duchess Anastasia, youngest daughter of the Tsar.’

‘My own conclusion is that the whole thing is a conglomerate of ifs and buts,’ said Sir Douglas.

Mr Gibson raised his eyebrow again. ‘May I ask, Sir Douglas, if I’ve been wasting my time?’

‘Mr Gibson,’ said Sir Douglas evenly, ‘I think you know I discourage that kind of question.’

‘I suggest,’ said Mr Gibson thoughtfully, ‘that while I’ve been in Denmark and Switzerland, a decision has been made that renders my report superfluous. I suggest, respectfully, of course, that a communication has been received from the Dowager Empress in Copenhagen.’

Sir Douglas looked reproachful. ‘I can’t discuss suggestions or assumptions,’ he said, ‘and beg you not to make them. Your time has not been wasted. You have produced an excellent report.’

‘Which is now to go into cold storage?’ said Mr Gibson.

‘All its conclusions have been noted, I assure you. There are no copies?’

‘None. You requested that none should be made.’

‘Thank you. Ah, the Russian girl. Do you
know how long she intends to remain in this country?’

‘Permanently,’ said Mr Gibson.

‘She’s applied to the Home Office for the necessary permit?’

Mr Gibson regarded his principal very thoughtfully indeed. ‘I rather feel the sporting thing would be to concede she’s earned an automatic right to stay. She put herself at risk in giving me all the help she did.’

‘Sporting thing?’ said Sir Douglas in faint astonishment.

‘I think so,’ said Mr Gibson. ‘If she’s told we aren’t going to play the game with her, if she’s told she’s going to be booted out, she may decide to sell her story to a newspaper. And I’ve a feeling it’s a sensational story. The newspapers are greedy for anything they can get on the mystery of Anastasia.’

‘Good God, am I hearing you correctly?’ asked Sir Douglas.

‘Natasha Alexeiev, despite being cruelly treated by life, is still true to every Christian concept. But she is also still a Russian, and if she thinks we mean to return her to Moscow, she’ll consider us infamous. She won’t take that lying down.’

‘Upon my soul, what has come over you?’ asked Sir Douglas.

‘A certain amount of disillusionment, I think,’ said Mr Gibson. ‘I hope, Sir Douglas, there’ll be no question of not allowing her to stay.’

‘And I hope,’ said Sir Douglas, ‘that there’ll be no more question of stories being sold to newspapers.’

‘Let us both live in hope, then,’ said Mr Gibson.

Sir Douglas frowned. ‘Quite,’ he said, and placed the portfolio back in his drawer.

The large house near Reigate, with its view of the gentle hills of Surrey, stood squarely resistant to the chill of January. The day was clear and sunny, but bitingly cold. However, to Natasha, who had known the frozen wintry grey of the Urals in November, such a day as this was tingling and exhilarating. The frost that still lay on the lawn at the rear of the house was like a white carpet patterned with a million sparkling diamonds.

The coal fire in the room on the first floor blazed high. Close to the fire, Julia and Elizabeth Cawthorne, twin sisters, were seated at their compact desks, heads bent over the English composition set them by their Russian tutor, who spoke their language with a sweeter and more precise grace than they did. They were eight years old, fair-haired and very
alike. Their mother, Jean Cawthorne, a war widow, was a gifted portrait painter, bohemian in outlook and temperament. She had been only too delighted to place her children in the care of Natasha. She entered her studio – a converted conservatory – immediately after breakfast each day, and was rarely seen outside it until evening dinner. A live-in cook attended to all meals.

The twins were inclined to be harum-scarum. They might have given Natasha a hard time of it had she not applied firmness from the start. Determined to justify Mr Gibson’s trust and belief in her, to make herself an asset and not a liability, she fought subtle battles with the twins for several days, at the end of which she emerged victorious. They were now devoted to her.

Standing by the window, she watched them. They were really quite adorable. Their faces reflected the heat of the fire, their mouths were pursed, their fingers inky, their pens scratching erratically.

‘How d’you spell giraffe?’ whispered Julia.

‘Goodness, with a “j” of course,’ whispered Elizabeth.

‘Yes, I know, but what comes after?’

‘What d’you want to put giraffe in for if you can’t spell it, soppy?’

‘I like giraffes, that’s what for.’

Natasha smiled. ‘Julia,’ she said.

‘Yes, Miss Alex?’ That was as much as the twins could manage with Natasha’s name.

Natasha recited the required spelling. She had asked the twins to describe a day at a zoo. They were crazy about zoos. Julia screwed her face up as she wrote down the spelling. How sweet they were, thought Natasha. How enchanting to have such children. How sad that Mrs Cawthorne preferred to indulge her gift for painting to the greater gift of being their mother.

She was not painting at the moment, however. She was entertaining a guest, a close friend. Mildred Thornton. That was the young lady in whom Mr Gibson was interested. He had said he had hopes. It was not surprising. Miss Thornton, in her mid-twenties, was as fair as the golden-haired women of Prussia, as vivacious as a Russian ballerina, and quite beautiful. Mrs Cawthorne said that every man in Reigate was in love with her, poor girl.

Natasha, shyly, asked why that made her a poor girl.

Mrs Cawthorne replied that with so many men to choose from, the odds were against her picking the right one.

Mr Gibson was also in love with her?

Mrs Cawthorne laughed. Her brother, she said, disliked being one of many.

Ah, Natasha said, he is in love with her but wishes he was not, because of all the others?

My dear, what a very whimsical comment, said Mrs Cawthorne.

Natasha smiled. No one could have guessed she was suffering the fires of white-hot jealousy. She was not ashamed of that emotion. When one was in love, jealousy was love’s closest companion.

Mrs Cawthorne said that if her brother did have serious intentions, he should give up pondering and deliberating. He should make Mildred’s choice for her by sweeping her off her feet. Mildred would enjoy that.

Natasha, watching the twins now, thought about Mr Gibson and the exhilaration of the days in Berlin. She had seen so little of him since their arrival in England in December. He had spoken to her at the turn of the year, telling her he was going to Denmark and Switzerland to try to see Anastasia’s aunt, the Grand Duchess
Olga, and Pierre Gilliard. He was back now. Yesterday, she had almost cried with pain, for he had called to see his sister on his way up to London. He had stayed in the house only five minutes. He had spoken to his sister. He had made no attempt to speak to her.

Mildred Thornton was in the house. She had been there quite half an hour, and Mrs Cawthorne must be fretting to get back to her studio. Miss Thornton was waiting, perhaps, for Mr Gibson.

It was wonderful to be in England, a country so calm and self-assured, and she would happily stay there for the rest of her life. But it would not be enough. She wanted a home, a family. She wanted to be loved. It was a desperate and fiery need.

‘How d’you spell ephelants?’ whispered Julia.

‘Why don’t you have lions instead?’ said Elizabeth.

‘I like ephelants better,’ said Julia.

‘Elephants, Julia,’ said Natasha, and spelt it out for her.

Miss Thornton was going. Natasha heard her voice down in the hall. She went outside to the landing.

Miss Thornton’s voice floated up. ‘You promise now, Jean? The twins for my bridesmaids?’

‘You really want a couple of madcaps?’ That was Mrs Cawthorne’s voice.

‘I love madcaps. Must dash, must.’

The front door opened and closed. Natasha went back to the twins, wondering why God had chosen her as his chief vessel of pain.

She heard the sound of a car crunching its way over the gravel drive five minutes later. She saw it come round to the back of the house. Mr Gibson alighted. He looked up. He saw her at the window. He gave her a smile and a wave, then disappeared. Even though he had only gone into the house, she felt that his disappearance was symbolic. She had spent three weeks in Berlin with him, three weeks full of alarms and dangers and falling in love. That was all she was going to have. Memories, nothing else.

The twins were chewing the ends of their pens.

‘Have you finished?’ she asked.

‘I almost have,’ said Elizabeth.

‘I’m nearly done,’ said Julia.

‘Is it caketime?’ asked Elizabeth.

Caketime was tea time for the twins at three in the afternoon. It was almost three now.

‘I’ll go down and bring it up, while you two finish your compositions,’ said Natasha. ‘You’ll be good now?’

‘Oh, yes, Miss Alex,’ they sang together.

Natasha went down to the kitchen, the general preserve of the cook, a homely lady who enjoyed Natasha’s company. She helped prepare the tray.

‘Mr Gibson’s just come in,’ said the cook. ‘He’s with Mrs Cawthorne.’

‘Yes,’ said Natasha.

‘They’re talking in the conservat’ry,’ said the cook, who never referred to it as the studio. ‘Fancy Miss Thornton saying yes at last.’

‘At last?’ said Natasha flatly.

‘Well, she must be twenty-five by now,’ said the cook. ‘What I say is you can have too much of men dancing attendance on you. I mean, all of a sudden you’re too old. Bless us, listen to them twins. They’re playing up, the pickles.’

Shrieks of laughter were ringing.

Natasha took the laden tray up. Entering, she saw the twins romping around their uncle, Mr Gibson. He was laughing, they were in hysterics. Her heart felt squeezed.

‘They are supposed to be at their lessons,’ she said.

He swung round. ‘There you are,’ he said, and took the tray from her. He set it down on the table, then smiled at her. She was in a dress of sober grey, with cuffs and collar of white. She had bought the dress, and a similar one, in Reigate, thinking them suitable for a tutor. They made her look like a learned young lady without in the least diminishing her physical attractiveness.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Gibson,’ she said.

‘Really,’ said Mr Gibson. ‘Very well, I’ll allow formality in the classroom. Here, you scamps, I’ll pour tea for you. While you drink it and eat your cake, kindly behaving like angels, Miss Alexeiev and I will be discussing how to fill your birthdays with bliss next month.’

‘Oh, I’ll be ever so good, Uncle Philip,’ said Julia.

‘I’ll be even gooder,’ said Elizabeth.

Mr Gibson poured their tea, and sat them up at the table.

‘Now, may I talk to you, Miss Alexeiev?’ he said.

‘If you wish,’ said Natasha, sure that he was going to tell her about his engagement to Miss Thornton.

He took her down to the sitting room. It was
a place of armchairs, sofas and cushions. She seated herself, her head bent.

‘I had no luck in Copenhagen or Lausanne,’ he said. ‘Neither the Grand Duchess Olga nor Pierre Gilliard would see me. So, Natasha Petrovna, I think it’s time you told me your story, don’t you?’

She lifted her head, her eyes very dark. ‘Yes, I will tell you,’ she said. It did not seem to matter any more, the keeping of her secret.

Natasha was fourteen, her brothers twelve and sixteen respectively. Her father was a headmaster, a scholarly and liberal-minded man, with a dry sense of humour, and her mother was English. She taught at her husband’s school. Their home was in Ekaterinburg, but Natasha’s father often spoke of moving to Kiev, which he had known and had admired when a student. Her mother laughed and shook her head each time he spoke of moving. They lived in a very nice house in Ekaterinburg, and he was a much-respected man there. He was a kind and loving father. Her mother was adorable, and such a good teacher of her own language.

Natasha had a pleasant little hobby. She kept an album of cuttings from newspapers and
magazines, cuttings which contained pictures of the Imperial family. Her elder brother told her to put the album away when the Tsar was deposed, to put it away and hide it, because the revolutionary elements in Ekaterinburg were among the fiercest in Russia. By the beginning of 1918, when the Bolsheviks were in power, her father began to speak even more often of moving to Kiev. Her mother said they could change homes, but could not change the government. The Bolsheviks were as strongly entrenched in Kiev as in Ekaterinburg.