“It was no better on the Eastern Front. I feared every day that we would receive word of death. My father’s. My brother’s.” One had hit. One had not. Not during the war, anyway.
Clarke gusted out a breath. “Cheery thoughts for this holiest of days. We’d better change the subject so we don’t arrive all dour-faced and gloomy.”
Zivon breathed a laugh of agreement and cast his mind about, searching for something, anything, that was brighter as they neared the tube station. “What do you know of croquet?”
Clarke explained the game to him on the train ride, and their moods improved considerably by the time they knocked upon the Blackwell door. Though even if their moods hadn’t, Zivon suspected that merely arriving here would have brought the grin back to Clarke’s face.
How nice it must be to be able to give oneself over so fully and completely to fresh hope.
Eaton opened the door with a welcoming smile, ushering them in and informing them that the family and guests were gathered in the drawing room. They were soon shown to the bright chamber, filled today with laughter and chatter.
And with shaking heads. “Turn and run, lads,” a middle-aged man said upon their entrance. He was smiling, though, and bouncing a toddler upon his knee. Given the man’s coloring, Zivon would have guessed him to be a close relation of Mrs. Blackwell. “Before you get pulled into the melee too.”
Mrs. Blackwell swatted playfully at the man’s arm. “Don’t warn them off, Geoffrey. They may well take my side—which would be a novelty.” Her grin covering the flash in her eyes, Mrs. Blackwell motioned to a poster resting upon an easel in the corner of the room. “Tell me, gentlemen. What do you think of the latest masterpiece my husband has commissioned from one of my esteemed colleagues?”
Of its own volition, Zivon’s gaze drifted over the room until he spotted what he’d apparently been looking for—Lily, reading a book to a little girl who appeared about four years old. She glanced up with a smile that Zivon couldn’t help but return.
Clarke cleared his throat. “Given that I had a hand in the commissioning, madam, I think it would be wise for me to abstain from offering my opinion. Though I take it you do not approve?”
“Should I?” Mrs. Blackwell chuckled, softening her words. “I grant you can hardly be unbiased. But what of you, Mr. Marin? What do you think of the poster?”
“Oh, Effie.” Captain Blackwell moved to the easel and took the poster down. “Don’t feel obligated to answer her, Marin. She’s forever looking for an ally in her stand against propaganda.”
The captain’s wife waggled her brows. “And one of these days I shall find one.”
Well, this was certainly an interesting introduction to the collection of strangers. Zivon took a moment to let their movements solidify in his mind. So far as he could tell, there was no real tension in the room. The guests wore the small, amused smiles that said they’d all heard this argument many times before. Even Captain Blackwell’s posture bespoke ease. Confidence, even. Why else would he have brought out the poster to show his guests, knowing his wife’s opinion?
Only Mrs. Blackwell herself displayed an undertone of . . . not distemper, not anger. But disappointment. A shadow beneath the brightness of her jesting.
How many times had he seen that same expression on his matushka’s face when she tried for the thousandth time to convince Batya and Evgeni to give up their love of fighting? To pick up a book? To take an interest in the church?
He couldn’t help but want to soothe her a bit, as he’d always endeavored to do for his own mother. So he stepped closer to the poster Blackwell held and studied it. The bottom of the image showed people at work on the home front—a blacksmith at his anvil, a woman loading ammunition. Behind them, a nurse on the battlefield. In the back, up higher, were two uniformed men, one beside a cannon and the other holding a rifle. A Union Jack flapped in the breeze above it all.
Tacked to the bottom on a rectangle of paper was the proposed caption: GLORY AWAITS, AT HOME OR IN THE FIELD.
Zivon pursed his lips. “Is it the artwork you find fault with, Mrs. Blackwell, or perhaps the caption?”
He stepped to the left, knowing the question would spur her to rise from her seat and come to join him, which she did, a few seconds later. “Well, aside from the fact that the art isn’t my preferred style, I take no issue with it. It’s an accurate enough representation of the war effort. But glory? Come, now, Thomas, everyone at this point knows that war isn’t glorious.” She sent a pointed look to her husband.
The captain sighed. “What about honor in place of glory? Would you find that less offensive?”
“That’s my sister,” the ginger-haired man said from the couch. “Insisting the efforts of the Crown be edited to suit her.”
Mrs. Blackwell laughed. “Oh, quiet, Geoff.”
Zivon studied the image for another long moment. But more, he studied the people around him. The teasing, the ripples of other conversation going on, the way Lily closed the book she’d been reading to the little girl. “Perhaps . . . perhaps this image should not be offering a statement at all. But maybe, instead, asking a question? A Where do you serve? sort. Reminding the viewers that it is their duty to find a way—some way, somewhere—to help.”
Blackwell looked impressed. “Not bad, Marin. What do you think, Clarke? Something along the lines of Where Are You? or Are You in This?”
Clarke, however, had managed to slide to Miss Ivy’s side, and the two of them were laughing over something apparently unrelated to propaganda posters. The captain’s lips twitched into a smile.
The lady sighed. “I suppose that’s better. But even so, I . . . well, I maintain it isn’t good of us to manipulate our own people. Oughtn’t we to be able to trust our neighbors to do what’s right?”
A question that punched him in the gut as forcefully as Evgeni could do. He’d used to think the same. Until his neighbors had broken that trust.
“Inspiring them, darling. Inspiring them to be the best versions of themselves.”
“Shaming them, you mean.”
“Appealing to the inborn sense of duty that every good Englishman has anyway.” Blackwell gave Zivon’s shoulder a friendly thump. “I daresay the same is true in Russia, right, old boy? Though it may take painting a certain picture, the people are always ready to stand up and fight for king and country.”
The room didn’t go silent. But Zivon’s thoughts did, for a moment. His king, his czar, was currently under house arrest, on soldier’s rations. For every soldier left fighting for him, another had turned against him. And Russia itself . . .
He cleared his throat. “I am afraid that just now the Russian people cannot agree about what they ought to fight for. But I have always found it fascinating that, historically, there has been an understanding that Russia herself would do the fighting for us. We need only to lure the enemy into the interior and wait for winter.”
As he’d planned, the last observation served to soften the first, and the captain made an observation about Napoleon that soon redirected the conversation entirely. Good. That allowed him to take a step back, to smile through the belated introductions Mrs. Blackwell made to the other guests, and to revert to his favorite pastime—reading the room, finding the patterns to the people.
Heaven help him, though, he found himself mostly concerned with tracking Lily, who’d stood during her father’s joke about Napoleon, edged closer during the introductions, and now stood a step away, holding a paper-wrapped rectangle in her hands.
He turned to her, not needing to make any special effort to keep his smile bright this time. “Happy Easter to you, Miss Blackwell.”
Her returning smile was simple and complicated, confident and unsure. He wasn’t sure how she managed to contain such contradictions within those winter-sky eyes of hers, but they were there as she held out the parcel. “Happy Easter,” she said quietly. “I wanted to give you a small something. To welcome you to England.”
Was this common h
ere? He didn’t know, but he took the proffered package with a slight bow. A warm smile. “How kind of you. Should I . . . ?”
“Oh, yes. Go right ahead.” She clasped each hand on the opposite elbow, the glimpse of shyness telling him that whatever lay beneath the paper was something whose value was personal rather than monetary.
He peeled away the wrapping, noting first the wooden frame, the cardboard backing. When he flipped it over, his breath caught in his throat. It was him, somehow. Laughing, looking bright . . . and at home. Moscow stretched behind him, its familiar skyline pristine and impossible. Only after a moment of staring did he realize the image of him was from yesterday afternoon. But how . . . ? He looked up, met her eyes, sure his marvel shone in his. “This is astounding. How did you do it? It looks flawless.”
The smile she gave him was bright. “I physically combined prints—one of you, carefully trimmed and positioned on a print of the city, then rephotographed. I had to touch up some edges manually at the retouching desk, of course, but most of the work was done with a scalpel.”
His gaze fell to the image again. He’d never had—nor wanted—a portrait of himself. But this was entirely different. This was a story she’d told for him. A reminder of a life once lived. “I do not have words enough in either English or Russian to thank you.” A flash of something light stole through him, as unexpected as yesterday’s laughter. “Perhaps French will do. Merci beaucoup, mon amie.”
He was rewarded with her laugh and with a waft of the same scent he’d first noted in the captain’s car. Lily of the valley. Not, apparently, the choice of her mother, but rather of her. So fitting for the sweet Lily.
“You’re very welcome, in any language. Literally, in fact. Welcome to England, Mr. Marin. I hope London will eventually bring you as much joy as Moscow did.”
His fingers tightened around the frame.
“You have no idea how perfect a gift that is, Miss Blackwell.” Clarke had come to investigate, his grin audible in his voice. “This will be the first thing he hangs on the walls of his flat.”
“You can’t be serious.” Mrs. Blackwell spun on him. “You have no other decorations?”
He lowered his head. “I am afraid I have not had time to furnish the space beyond that which was already there.” Nor had he had the funds, but that was hardly polite conversation.
“Well, that won’t do at all!” Mrs. Blackwell held out a hand toward her elder daughter, even while motioning to him with the other. “Come with us, Mr. Marin. You must choose a few more pieces.”
“Oh, I—”
“Don’t bother arguing, Marin.” Captain Blackwell clapped a friendly hand to Zivon’s shoulder. “There’s no putting her off when she’s determined to foist her work on someone—especially someone who championed her cause.” He said it with a wink toward his wife, who laughed with exuberance.
Lily took her mother’s hand, her smile every bit as bright. “I bet he’d like that study in blue you did a few years ago, Mama. The one of clouds and sea.”
“Perhaps so.” Mrs. Blackwell looked him over much like a tailor would, as if she could read his artistic preferences as easily as old Vasily did his shoulders’ width. Doubly amusing since, as far as he knew, he didn’t have much by way of artistic preferences. “And that beautiful photograph you took of the Eiffel Tower in Paris before the war.”
The elder lady tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and used it to steer him out of the room and toward the stairs. The Blackwell ladies continued to chat as they led him up the stairs, and up again, and up still more. The final flight was more utilitarian than luxurious, narrow enough that they had to go single file, but he got the impression it was a trek these two made quite often.
When finally they pushed through the door, Zivon drew in a breath. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting but certainly not what met his eyes. The entire attic was stacked with canvases, frames, glass, and mats. He saw cases of what he assumed were paints, others of chemicals that he suspected were for developing photographs. Shelves had been built with openings of various sizes that held framed paintings and photos. Other canvases were unframed, the paintings on them unfinished. Stacks of paper seemed to indicate similar amounts of unframed photographs.
If left to himself, he probably would have just stood and stared at the stacks, waiting for order to emerge from the chaos. But his hostesses clearly didn’t view it as chaos. They turned directly toward two different shelves—Mrs. Blackwell pulling out a photograph, her daughter going to a painting.
His lips curved into a smile. So quick they were to sing each other’s praises.
“Here, Mr. Marin. Sit.” Lily motioned him to a single wooden chair, a rung missing from its back. “We’ll show you some options, and you can tell us yes or no or maybe.”
“And don’t feel bad about saying no to anything,” her mother chimed in, her smile saying she’d read his mind. Or perhaps the shift of his feet. “Art is subjective, and some pieces just don’t suit a particular style. You’ll want to be a bit choosy for your foundation pieces.”
He pressed his lips against another smile. “Forgive me. I never imagined having foundational pieces. I confess that while I appreciate art, I have never given it much thought.”
Lily grinned. “Don’t worry. We’ll remedy that in minutes.”
“Beginning with this photograph from Paris that Lily took.” Mrs. Blackwell presented a large framed print of a view from the base of the Eiffel Tower, looking up to its tip. The perspective was intriguing, the lighting extraordinary. But what made his brows knit was the fact that it had color to it. “How did you manage to capture the hue?”
On that trip to Paris with his family, he thought he’d been prepared for the sight of the tower—but what had surprised him hadn’t been the magnitude or the vertigo he experienced by looking up at it. It had been that he’d been expecting it to be iron grey and instead it was a warm bronze shade.
Lily motioned to the photograph. “I actually painted with watercolor on the photograph.”
“Remarkable. And beautiful.”
“Perhaps when you look at it, it will be a reminder of that holiday. And a prayer.” Her voice as soft as a Parisian spring, Lily gripped whatever framed painting she had chosen without turning it around.
He ran a hand down the frame of the photograph and nodded. “I would be honored to display this in my flat.”
A grin bloomed over her lips. “I don’t know how much honor is involved. Now, this one, on the other hand.” She made a show of flipping the large frame around to reveal a stunning oil painting in shades of blue. Sky, flowers, water, even the grass had a blue tint, as did the silhouette of two children in the distance. “Fit for a museum, I say.”
Mrs. Blackwell laughed. “But apparently not for the marquis who had commissioned it. And then failed to come and pick it up some five years ago.”
“His loss. And your gain, Mr. Marin, if you choose to accept it.”
He had no idea why some other lucky friend or family member hadn’t claimed it already, but he had to admit that the blues were appealing. It was enormous, big enough to fill the space between the two windows in his sitting room. “I certainly could not refuse the loan of such a work of art.”
Mrs. Blackwell scooted something along the floor, not so much as looking over her shoulder as she said, “What you take with you tonight will be our gift to you.” Now she sent him a glance. Confident and yet weighted. “Unless you mean you expect to move again and not take with you what we have gathered here? Certainly I don’t want our work left to the next tenant of your flat.”
From the end of the garret, a shaft of sunlight burst through the clouds, catching the dust motes in the air and spinning them to gold. Capturing them there in a frozen, drifting moment. He could hear the familiar words echoing in his ears. Be still and know . . .
He could sense the future, shivering and shaking ahead of him. Elusive as fog. Yet as determined as the wood beneath his feet.
He drew in a deep breath. “I will not stay in this flat forever. But I do not expect to move from London. This will be my home for the rest of my days.”
Both of the ladies went still. Matching blue eyes turned on him. “You are certain of that? Despite how you love Russia?” Lily asked in a voice as quiet as the sunlight.
He traced a finger down the edge of the picture frame. “It is because I love Russia that I will stay here. This is where God has led me. This is where I can do the most good.” He forced his gaze back up to his hostesses. Though it was Lily his eyes seemed to find of their own will. “I have cast my lot with England. With England will I stay.”
8
WEDNESDAY, 3 APRIL 1918
PARIS, FRANCE
There were a thousand reasons for a telegram to go unanswered these days. Nadya shouldered her bag, schooled her face, and wished she could school her stomach so easily. A thousand reasons or more that she’d gotten no response to the short messages she’d sent to Evgeni. The lines could be down. Non-military telegrams could be given low priority. Paul could have simply not given them to him.
All possible. But none calmed her stomach any. Especially not given the news she brought with her. She needed Evgeni to have found his brother. She needed him to have the information from the Prussian informant.
She needed him to be well.
She strode away from the train platform as if she had some idea where she was going, though she’d never stepped foot out of Russia until this trip. She spoke French, anyway. She could read the signs, with a bit of effort. She’d find a map. Find her way to Paul’s flat and demand to know where Evgeni was.
He’d be here. Somewhere. He would.
“It is about time you showed up.”
The Russian words made her pause. But the tone was wrong. Too raspy from cigarettes, too deep, too smoothed around the edges by years of speaking French. Still, she put on a smile and turned her head to greet the man she remembered as a lanky teen who worked the farm next to her parents’. “Paul. It is good to see you.”
A Portrait of Loyalty Page 9