Page 20 of The Gathering Storm (Morland Dynasty #36)

Wally nodded, almost indifferently. ‘It’s quite something to be hated like the old guard hates me. Sometimes I wish I could … But I’m so tangled up in things. I feel as if I’m strangling to death.’ She stopped, staring moodily at her hands.

‘You could leave him,’ Emma suggested gently.

She looked up. When she didn’t smile, she looked older than her years. ‘He’d never let me,’ she said. She stood up. ‘I must go,’ she said briskly. ‘You’re coming to the Fort this weekend.’

‘Oh, I’m not sure that we—’ Emma began.

‘It wasn’t a question,’ Wally said. ‘At least there we can be ourselves. Such a relief to get away from protocol. Ernest is coming, and Mary, and some other friends. We’ll be going over to the Castle, so that I can show Mary around.

And we’ll have a movie show up there. David’s getting hold of a newsreel of the Grand National – you love horses.

And we’ll have King Kong . I could watch that one again and again. ’

April in Paris was a particularly romantic time.

The chestnuts were in flower, and the tulips in the place Dauphine were a sight to behold.

James was busy, but thoughts of Meredith were never far away.

He imagined them having a cup of coffee and a croque in the Café Richelieu in the rue de Rivoli, then going for a stroll along the river.

They would admire the tulips, perhaps pop into the Sainte-Chapelle – because she would have forgotten over in America how beautiful it was – then they’d browse at the book stalls on the quai Voltaire.

They’d have a cocktail at the H?tel d’Orsay, then dinner at a delightful restaurant he’d discovered just off the Boul’ Mich’ that he’d been longing to show her.

And to finish the evening, dancing at the Florida.

Or, perhaps not the Florida, because it was always full of Americans, and he didn’t want her to be reminded of home.

No, he’d make it Le Boeuf. It’s was little passé , perhaps, but the jazz was always good.

But she was not here. And she hadn’t written to him – not so much as a postcard – to explain why she wasn’t coming back, or when – if ever – he might see her again.

And soon he would be off to Russia with the Bedauxs, another world away from where she was.

Just a line: she could have sent him just a line!

It must mean – he forced the realisation like a stiletto into his unwilling heart – that she didn’t care for him.

He must get used to this being-without-Meredith because it was to be the norm for the rest of his life.

His lessons with Tata Bebidov helped, because learning Russian was an effort that used up mental energy, and because Tata herself was such fun, good company, and growing, he thought, rather fond of him.

He was fond of her, too. Since she had confided in him about her escape from Russia, their friendship had deepened.

There was an ease between them that he had not known with anyone else, except perhaps his sister Polly.

He felt he could talk to her about anything.

And there was an equality between them: with Meredith he had always been courtier to her queen, supplicant to her goddess.

One Saturday evening when he was not wanted by Charlie, he invited Tata to go to the cinema with him.

They went to see the just-premièred Le Deuxième , with Marcel André as the brave secret agent and Vera Bergdorf as the glamorous enemy spy who was supposed to thwart his plans but fell in love with him instead.

In the flickering dark, in the drama of the screen moment, Tata touched his arm, and he took her hand and held it for the rest of the film.

It was very pleasant to have the touch of a woman again.

When they came out, Tata seemed excited, and said, ‘Did you know that Vera Bergdorf is Russian?’

‘No, I didn’t. I only know she’s a Hollywood star. If I’d thought about it, I might have supposed she was German or Scandinavian.’

‘She was born in Russia and her name was Vera Bogolyubov, but she changed it when she got to America because no-one could spell it.’

James laughed. ‘Bergdorf sounds much more like a film star, in any case. Do you know her?’

‘I’ve met her,’ Tata said, with modest pride. ‘She’s a friend of Natalie Cooke – who used to be Natalie Karaulov. You know, you saw her picture at my house, working in the hospital.’

‘Oh, yes, one of the nurses in the photograph.’

‘You should meet Natalie. She knows everyone. And she loves English people. She has very exciting parties—’

‘You mentioned those, too. About the cocaine.’

‘But there is no necessity to take it oneself. She’s having one this week. Would you like to go?’

He hesitated. ‘Wouldn’t it be rather awkward, as I don’t know her?’

‘Foolish, I know her. I’ll take you. And think,’ she added beguilingly, ‘what good practice it would be for your Russian. Everyone speaks French, but when they get to talking about the old country they generally lapse into Russian.’

‘Oh, now you’ve persuaded me. I really don’t enjoy parties, but if it counts as a lesson, I’ll go along with it.’

She giggled, sliding a hand affectionately under his elbow. ‘Oh, you are very foolish! I will try to make sure you don’t enjoy yourself. But Vera Bergdorf is in Paris at the moment, because of the film, so she may be there. She and Natalie have known each other all their lives.’

Natalie’s rooms were crowded, stifling with the heat of many bodies, blue with cigarette smoke, exotic with wonderfully colourful clothes and jewels.

Tata was engulfed with cries of delight, open arms and many kisses, and James was welcomed similarly for her sake.

Everyone was smiling, laughing, chattering, affectionate.

‘It is not possible,’ Tata told him, ‘to be sad at a Russian party.’ James was given a tumbler of vodka, and every time he lowered the level slightly, someone topped it up.

The talk, in rapid and heavily accented French, was hard for him to follow.

Sometimes people changed to English to be polite to him, but as soon as they became enthused they slipped back into French.

Tata introduced him to Natalie in rapid Russian that he could not follow, but she shook his hand warmly and looked into his face with keen interest. Tata then switched into French, and Natalie seemed amused to be told that he was trying to learn Russian.

‘I will help you,’ she said. ‘I will speak Russian to you.’ As he had to lean close to hear her over the din of voices, he didn’t think he’d learn anything useful in the current environment. ‘Perhaps not here,’ he suggested.

She smiled. ‘Whenever you want to practise, you are welcome to come and see me.’

Her English was excellent, and she told him that her husband – now estranged – was an Ulster cloth merchant, and that she had spoken English for more of her life than French.

She lived in Paris during the winter, but spent her summers in the north of Ireland, where a wealthy friend regularly hosted lavish house parties for émigré Russians.

‘We have such fun – riding, fishing, croquet, parties every night. Talking about the old days. The samovar is never cold, darling. You should come and stay – that’s the way to learn Russian. Come and stay for a whole summer.’

He thought she was rather drunk, and in any case was being wholesale with someone else’s hospitality, so he made a vague answer, but she clasped her hand around his wrist and said, ‘No, no, you must promise to come. You’ll meet everyone there – everyone !’

There seemed some extra significance in the last word, but before he could answer, a tall, slender man with a pencil moustache, who had been standing behind her for some time, leaned in and said something in her ear in a low voice in Russian.

Then he straightened and looked directly, consideringly, at James.

He had sculpted features, melancholy eyes and very pale, almost translucent skin, not as if he were ill but as if he belonged to a different species.

Natalie did not introduce him to James, but immediately turned away and went with him into another room.

‘Who was that?’ James asked Tata.

She moved her eyes away, as if checking whether anyone was listening. ‘His name is Nicholas Chebodarev.’

‘Oh, like the sister at the hospital?’ he said intelligently.

‘Yes, except that Sister Chebodarev had only one son, and his name was not Nicholas.’

‘A cousin, then, perhaps.’

Tata moved closer and lowered her voice.

‘Natalie never calls him Nicholas. She refers to him just as “the prince”. She likes to keep him to herself and not share him with anyone. And he’s rather proud, and doesn’t speak to people he doesn’t know well.

’ She looked pensive. ‘In Russia, of course, there were many princes, but—’

‘Yes?’

She looked up at him seriously. ‘I saw him one time with a woman he called his sister. They certainly seemed like brother and sister together. She was introduced to me just as “Lydia”. But I noticed that she had a thing , a sort of lump, on the third finger of her right hand, here.’ She demonstrated on herself.

‘She seemed self-conscious about it. When she saw me looking, she covered it with her left hand.’ She paused.

‘Very well,’ James said. ‘Not the most exciting thing I’ve heard tonight, but—’

She gave him a troubled look. ‘I told you, Shems, that when I was a child, at Tsarskoye Selo, all the Tsar’s children used to come to the hospital.

I saw them all, I spoke to them. Grand Duchess Marie had a lump on the third finger of her right hand, where she’d caught it in a car door once.

She was self-conscious about it. If she saw you looking, she would cover it with her other hand. ’

James stared at her. ‘You think this “Lydia” was Grand Duchess Marie? But – then, if this Monsieur Chebodarev is her brother, doesn’t that mean—?’