Page 36 of The Gathering Storm (Morland Dynasty #36)
‘A church wedding? I couldn’t very well, could I? It would always have been a civil wedding for me.’ She looked at him. ‘Are you disappointed?’
‘ Me? Lord, no. I don’t think men mind about that sort of thing.’ Even as he said it, he thought Robert did mind, very much. ‘I just want you to be happy,’ he concluded.
‘I am,’ she said, and slipped her hand into his. ‘I will try to make you a very good wife.’
Guilt, shame, remorse, pity – a host of emotions like thin needles pierced his heart. He squeezed the hand she had bestowed so trustingly on him. She was ready to give everything, and asked nothing in return. ‘You couldn’t possibly make anything but a very good wife,’ he said.
She smiled. It was, he thought, not a bridal, but a motherly smile. Just at that moment, she looked like Hannah.
James wandered, walking until he was footsore and weary.
But though he would tumble into sleep as down a well, it never lasted long, and he would wake after a couple of hours to tortured thoughts.
Staring at the ceiling, he would go over and over their time in Russia, trying to remember every sidelong look, every cryptic remark, every word that had been said on either side.
Had he let something slip? Had her name ever crossed his lips?
Had he mentioned to Charlie something that Charlie could inadvertently have passed on?
He was certain he had never repeated to anyone what she had told him about her life in Russia or her escape from it.
And yet, in the stark evil spotlight of her death, how could he be?
Was it that they had followed him here, in Paris?
Had he betrayed her simply by going to her house?
But why had they picked on her – a person with no political ambitions or connections?
Yet she knew Natalie, and they had said that Natalie was watched.
Natalie, who had been close to the Romanovs, Natalie with the strange man at her shoulder whom she called the Prince.
Was it not more likely it was Tata’s friendship with Natalie that had put her in danger?
He longed to be absolved. But then there was the timing.
He had gone to Russia, and only then had they struck.
He had been arrested and interrogated. He had been so terrified while under arrest, he could not be sure now what he had said or not said. It must be his fault.
And yet, the very idea that they would maintain, across the world, a spy network, and professional assassins to strike at the émigrés – wasn’t that absurd?
Wasn’t that overwrought, unbelievable, crazy?
Yes, he would have said yes, had he not been in Russia himself, and felt for himself that numb, dry-mouthed, unrelenting fear.
The émigrés themselves believed it utterly. And Tata had been killed.
He tried going into the office to work, but it was no use.
He could not concentrate. He was exhausted to the point where his hands shook as he tried to open mail.
His head whirled when he tried to read letters, and he saw only Tata, teaching him Russian, giving him tea, laughing, dancing across her warm cave of a room, with white, expressive arms. Tata, drowsy with sated passion in his arms. Tata, her throat cut, left as a bundle of rags in an alley as a lesson to them all.
When Charlie finally came back to Paris, he had his words ready. ‘I have to leave. I can’t work for you any longer.’
Charlie’s mobile face was set in lines of tragedy.
‘I’ve just heard about it. That poor, sweet girl.
’ He clasped James’s arm, emotion in his biting fingers.
James turned his face away. ‘I went to see Natalie,’ Charlie went on.
‘They’re all in a state of panic, and no wonder.
But it wasn’t your fault, James.’ James only sighed denial.
‘I spoke to someone at Police Headquarters. They say it was some vagrant, who killed her to rob her.’
‘She wasn’t robbed.’
‘They were disturbed in the act. James, James, you can’t blame yourself!
The émigrés all live in terror of the Soviets, it colours their every thought, so of course they think that’s what this was.
But even if the Reds could strike at this distance, why the heck would they pick on that poor little girl? It doesn’t make sense.’
‘They were watching, saw me visit her, and then we went to Russia,’ James said dully. ‘I led them right to her. I’m sorry, but I can’t stay here.’
Charlie lifted his hands. ‘Don’t decide in a hurry. Have a vacation – you can use the chateau. It’s fully staffed. Rest, fresh air, good food. Get some distance from things. I don’t want to lose you – Fern doesn’t either. Take a break, then come back and we’ll talk some more.’
‘Thank you. You’re very kind. But I have to go home.’
Charlie looked eager. ‘Home! Yes, that’s right, go back to England for a couple of weeks, see your folks, get things into perspective. And when you’re feeling better, come back.’
James shook his head. ‘I don’t think I’ll be coming back.’
Charlie clapped a hand on his shoulder. ‘Never say never. Your job’s open for you, whenever you’re ready. I’m a loyal old cuss, and you’re one of mine now, so you just get your mind in order, then come on back to Charlie.’
The wedding of Robert Adelbert Winchmore Fitzjames Howard, Earl of Holkam, to Joan Evadne Forthill Cupar Whittington at St Margaret’s, Westminster, was everything a top society wedding should be.
As the magazines recounted afterwards in breathless detail, the bride arrived in a landau drawn by two white horses.
Six bridesmaids carried her twelve-foot train.
Her silk tulle veil was held in place with a tiara of four hundred and ninety-eight diamonds, borrowed from her aunt, the Countess of Duncrammond.
The over-tunic to her ivory satin gown was made from antique lace first worn by her great-grandmother.
Her bouquet was of white roses, lilies and jasmine.
The wedding breakfast was held at Duncrammond House in Grosvenor Square, the home of the bride’s uncle.
There were three hundred and twenty guests, and the banquet was designed by Marcel Percevault, the master chef from Claridge’s.
Seven hundred bottles of champagne were emptied.
Eight police officers were on duty in Grosvenor Square to direct the traffic and another four to keep the entrance to the house clear, and Sir Philip Game himself, the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, looked in to see that all was well.
The wedding presents were laid out on trestles round three sides of the ballroom, and guarded day and night by two Scotland Yard detectives.
The young earl and his new countess finally drove away in a hired Hispano-Suiza for their honeymoon journey to Venice, Florence and Rome; and the thirty-seven reporters from various newspaper and magazines retired to write up their pieces.
The Tatler magazine had four pages of photographs; Vogue had six.
The bridegroom’s mother, Lady Belmont, on the short drive home afterwards to Berkeley Square, sighed and said to her husband, ‘It’s absurd to say it, I know, but I think I liked Richard’s wedding better. It was more …’ She paused for the right word.
‘Intimate?’ Avis offered.
She moved a little closer and he responded by putting his arm round her. ‘I think that must be it.’ She stifled a yawn. ‘I’m very sleepy.’
He kissed the top of her head. ‘Imagine how tired you’ll be when it’s Charlotte’s turn, and you actually have to do all the work.’
Polly was waiting on the platform when the train pulled in. As James stepped down from the compartment she flew at him. ‘I got your telegram. Oh, Jamie, Jamie, I’m so pleased to see you!’
She exchanged a heartfelt hug with him, then stepped back to look up into his face. ‘What is it? Has something terrible happened?’
‘I’ll tell you about it on the way home. My God,’ he said, ‘England is beautiful in June. All the way down on the train, I kept thinking that. I must try and paint it. That green evening light …’
‘Are you staying, then?’
‘If you’ll have me.’
‘I want you to stay,’ she said, with emphasis. ‘I’ve missed you so much.’
‘Well, I’m here now, old thing. We’ll be two old folk, crossed in love, leaning on each other, like blasted trees.’
‘How did you know I was crossed in love?’
‘You have the look,’ James said. ‘I recognise it now.’ He slipped his arm round her waist and they walked out together into the gentle June twilight.