A Portrait of Loyalty

by Roseanna M. White

  She wouldn’t even have considered it, if not for those words. Then she couldn’t help but do so. Couldn’t help but remember anew that, all that time, her supposed friend had been someone other than who Lily had thought. She’d knowingly used her. Deceived her.

  Not a mistake Lily cared to repeat—especially with a man who intrigued her in a way simple friends had never done.

  Mama patted her hand and then motioned toward the path they’d followed into the park. “There’s Jamie. I suppose that means we ought to pack up, if I mean to make my aid meeting on time. Are you certain you don’t want to join me today?”

  Her eyes darted to the path where Eaton’s grandson was strolling, ready to help them carry their supplies home again, then back to her mother. “I promised Daddy I’d have lunch with him.”

  Mama’s smile was warm. Indulgent. Unsuspecting. “That sounds far lovelier for you. And while your father has certainly not told me of any suspicions he has of Mr. Marin, if they exist, I’ll say quite readily that I like him. And not just because he saw my point with the propaganda poster either.” She paused. Grinned. “At least, not entirely.”

  Chuckling, Lily stood, hands moving toward the easel and their art supplies. Doing by rote the familiar while the forbidden danced on her tongue. She didn’t want to ask the question that had settled there, ready to spring. But she had to. “Do you ever regret not helping Daddy when he asked? With the propaganda?”

  Mama’s hands didn’t pause, just gathered her brushes. “I do not. Perhaps my stance is unpopular in our crowd, but . . . art is a powerful thing. It can inspire us, move us, create feeling in us. I cannot justify its use in deception.”

  Lily unclipped her paper. “But what if it could help end the war?”

  “Even so. One must always ask if the ends justify the means. After working all these years in the hospital, you’ve seen firsthand the damage wrought by mustard gas. I’m sure the inventor of that was told that he could help end the war faster. Do you think that makes it right for him to have done so?”

  Lily tossed her pencil case into the basket with Mama’s paints and brushes, knowing her frustrations were mirroring her mother’s growing agitation. “You cannot possibly be likening propaganda to poison gas!”

  “No.” A ghost of a smile settled on Mama’s lips. “It’s worse, I think. Poison gas destroys only a man’s body. But propaganda, Lily . . . it tells them a story, invites them to believe in something it cannot back up. It lures our men into supposedly glorious battle and then crushes their spirits—their very faith in God and country—when it instead delivers an inglorious hell on earth.”

  Lily wanted to deny it. Wanted to provide the arguments Daddy always did—that men had always told of the glories of battle to inspire one another to take it up. That they’d always found one cause to champion and another to put down to rouse the hearts of their neighbors toward action. The ideas were nothing new. Just the methods.

  But at the same time, like her mother pointed out, Lily had seen those men in hospital. The ones scarred not by gas on the outside but by horror on the inside. This war, she’d heard her father and his friends say quietly behind closed doors, was not like any that came before. The weapons were so much more deadly. The offensives so long and pointless. The death tolls so high. The boys who signed up with glee, determined to do their bit for king and country, came home broken, disillusioned, and . . . empty. Unable to believe any longer in patriotism.

  Unable, all too often, to even believe in God.

  Mama may have a point when it came to propaganda that made promises so blatantly false. But that wasn’t what Lily’s work was used for. Would her mother see the difference? “But what if . . . what if you could do something that would help the men in the field?”

  Leaning over to pour out her rinse water, Mama shook her head. “I’ve tried to think of a way to do that, my love. To help them see God still at work in the trenches.” She straightened, her face lined with failure. “My imagination isn’t so good. I know He is there. But I don’t know how to show Him.”

  Lily slid her drawing into her portfolio. “I can imagine a situation where your art could be used to directly help, though. What if Admiral Hall came to you and said he wanted to convince the German High Command that we were trying to achieve a particular aim here at home and needed false propaganda posters to supposedly leak to them? Wouldn’t that be different?”

  Her mother looked amused. “Perhaps you ought to try to find a way to show God to the lads in the trenches, Lily. Your imagination is apparently better than mine. I cannot fathom Blinker ever coming to me with such a plan.”

  “But if he did?”

  Mama laughed, but it wasn’t her usual bright, full-hearted one. Just a dry echo blowing in the wind. “I don’t know. Then I suppose I’d have to wrestle with whether using the gift God has given me in order to lie is excusable if it’s lying to one’s enemies instead of one’s friends. From all I know of my Lord, He does not make such distinctions. And yet . . .” she said, snapping the case of paints closed, “it isn’t a question your father wrestles with at all, and he is a man of solid faith.” She shrugged, not looking exactly happy with the disparity.

  Perhaps Lily’s answering sigh gave away more of her own torment than she intended.

  Mama reached over to cup her cheek. “I know it bothers you, this disagreement your father and I have over this. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be so vocal about my opinions.”

  Lily shook her head. What else could she do? And conjured up a smile. “I think Ivy finds it amusing.”

  “You don’t, though. I suppose because you’re an artist too, so the questions hit closer to home.”

  Closer than she knew. She looked at the watercolor her mother had created. Two hours of her time, nothing she ever meant to sell, and yet it stole Lily’s breath. The way she used color was simply astounding. Lily herself hadn’t even noticed that tinge of blue in the sidewalk. The hint of yellow in the sky. Not until Mama put it to paper. “I’m not an artist like you.”

  “Nor am I one like you.” Her mother dabbed at the paper, testing its dryness, and nodded. “Photography can do what a painting can’t, in some ways. Because people think it above denial, they are willing to accept the story it tells with far more faith.” She handed Lily the painting, a spark of teasing in her eyes. “I don’t envy you having to wrestle with the questions of how God would have you use that power.”

  “Thanks for that cheery thought.” She slid Mama’s work into the portfolio and then turned to dismantle her easel as her mother did the same with hers.

  Mama laughed, brighter this time. “Have a bit of faith in yourself, Lilian. You use your gift to edify your friends, not tear anything down. That is surely a godly purpose. Did you not see the look on Mr. Marin’s face when he saw himself smiling in front of the Moscow skyline?”

  She had. And it had made the hour of work so very worthwhile. The photograph itself may not have been genuine, but it told a true story nonetheless. A story of his love for the home that he might never see again.

  But it was a different question entirely when, after handing over the supplies to Jamie and bidding her mother farewell, she turned toward Whitehall.

  She went in the back, as always, but she wished she hadn’t when she heard Zivon’s and Clarke’s voices coming down the stairs. Had she gone in the front, she could simply say she was meeting Daddy for lunch—but no visitors ever came in this way. She had little choice but to dash down the stairs and pray they didn’t spot her.

  She gave them ample time to clear out before finding her father. They shared a quick lunch, though twenty minutes later she was back in her workroom. A basket of film was awaiting processing, a note from the admiral asking if he could have the pictures developed by tomorrow morning.

  As she got to work, her mood lightened a bit. This was the largest part of her work, and it was strictly routine. Developing photographs. Filing the original film, along with a copy of each. Pinning
to the back wall any pictures of familiar faces, next to the other pictures they already had of them. It was something she’d begun doing of her own volition at the start of the war and which Hall had called invaluable on more than one occasion. There was nothing debatable about most of what she did. It was just work.

  Maybe she shouldn’t, but she let the darkroom soothe all the questions away. All that mattered at the moment were the negatives, the solutions, the baths, the drying racks, the wall and pins.

  The simple elements of her world.

  9

  THURSDAY, 18 APRIL 1918

  The warm breeze blowing through Hyde Park should have made Zivon thrill with this arrival of spring, far earlier than he was used to. Instead, it made him keenly aware of the ticking of time. Of the fact that he’d heard nothing from Evgeni. That the ambassadors had had no better luck in finding him. That every day that marched onward took him further and further from the evidence he needed to collect.

  He turned onto the familiar path that wove along the Serpentine. He’d gone four times already to the embassy, as Filiminov, to check in. While there, he’d paid close attention to the layout of the offices, where each secretary and assistant went, what they were carrying. He’d tried each time to make friends, gain trust.

  But never had he felt secure enough to either sneak toward their telegraph machine or ask a favor of anyone else.

  Coward. That’s what Evgeni would have called him. And maybe he was right. Maybe he should take the risk. Ignore all the signals that told him it would be a mistake. Maybe—

  Be still, and know that I am God.

  Zivon sighed and slipped his hands into his pockets. Maybe that thought wasn’t from God at all. Maybe it was his own cowardly subconscious trying to get him to do nothing instead of something.

  But he hadn’t been doing nothing. He’d been sending out a few benign messages to his former colleagues, hoping that someone somewhere was still at work. If so, they would intercept the telegrams. They’d decode them. They’d reply. And then he could ask them if they could obtain a new copy of that lost message.

  But he’d had no response. Of course. He’d known it was a long shot. Still, it was possible that one or two had sworn allegiance to the Bolsheviks just to survive. That they were secretly working for the White Army. It was possible.

  Just not reality.

  A mist too fine to be called rain had been drifting over the city for the last hour; the chaps in the office assured one another that it meant a quiet evening on the aerial front. He would take solace in that, but still he wished for a slice of sunshine to color his upcoming promenade with Lily. Or, failing that, a lovely snow would be good.

  His lips curved at what his companions would think of snow in April. It would surely be better than this, though. He never quite knew what to do with these silly mists. They were too light to require an umbrella, yet a fedora and overcoat didn’t keep his face from receiving the wet breeze.

  Up ahead, he spotted what his eyes had been seeking—that streak of red-gold that meant Lily. She wore a hat too, one whose brim wasn’t wide enough to help protect her either, but it didn’t quite eclipse her hair.

  He’d taken to watching for that hair, even when he shouldn’t be. It’s why he had spotted her no fewer than four times at or near the OB. Curious, that. What was she doing? Meeting her father? Running errands? He didn’t know. And since she’d clearly been trying not to be seen by them last week, he hadn’t brought it up.

  But he’d been paying attention.

  Clarke had gotten out ahead of him tonight and was already standing with the girls, his posture that enviable one of ease and expectation, all fluid motion as he gestured about something or another. He couldn’t seem to talk without using his hands.

  Lily spotted Zivon before Clarke and Miss Ivy did, her smile taking the place of the sunshine that had hidden behind the mist. That was the usual way—the other two were always so busy gazing at each other that they never seemed to notice him or Lily, which they both found amusing. She greeted him now with a lifted hand, shifting away from her companions in expectation of his arrival.

  A smile settled on his mouth. She always lured it out. There was something about the way she looked at him—the way she looked at everything—that warmed that place inside that usually felt as frozen as a Siberian winter.

  “Lovely day, isn’t it?” she said once he’d drawn near, her eyes sparkling.

  He laughed and wiped at his face. “Were I a duck, I would heartily agree.”

  Grinning, she tucked her hand into the crook of his arm as had become her habit, and they began to walk. Her sister and Clarke would no doubt fall in behind them when they realized they’d been abandoned. “I do actually like this weather. The way the light plays on it is astounding. Just look.” With her free hand, she motioned toward the lake.

  Though there was no direct sun, evening light still permeated the clouds. There were patches dark as pewter, others glowing silver, some nearly white. And the mist, annoying as it was on his face, did add a gilding to it all, catching that soft light and spreading it around.

  His breath eased out. “I have never noticed that before.” But that was Lily.

  He paused on the path before she could press on his arm. Three weeks had been sufficient to train him in her patterns. “Here?”

  She laughed even as she drew her camera out of its home in her pocket. “I think here will do quite nicely. To start.”

  Always to start. Walking with her was an exploration of angles and light, things he’d never before paused to appreciate. He stayed close to her side as she took her shots, bending down when she did to see the world from the same angle, at least momentarily. But even so, he knew she’d surprise him when she showed him the prints. She always did.

  She fiddled now with the light and focus mechanisms. Then her fingers found the cord that led to the push-pin, trailed down it in that way they always did. A moment later, the shutter snapped closed, opened again. She shifted just a bit, fiddled for a single second with something, and then pushed it again. Another shift. Another push.

  She could be at it for several minutes if she stayed true to pattern.

  Zivon glanced over his shoulder, verifying that Clarke and Miss Ivy were meandering past them on the path, their pace so slow that anyone could see it wasn’t the exercise they were after, just the company. They smiled at him but didn’t interrupt their conversation otherwise.

  He smiled back, let his hands fall into that comfortable position behind his back, and closed his eyes against the mist. Listened.

  Birdsong. Children playing. Nurses scolding.

  Russian syllables, muttering about war and support and desperation.

  Zivon’s eyes flew open. He knew those voices. Both of them, which made dread slink down his spine. One was Nabokov—not surprisingly, Zivon supposed, given how close Hyde Park was to the embassy.

  But the other—to whom did that belong? He’d heard it before, he knew he had. But not from the embassy.

  They were coming from beyond that line of bushes, no doubt from the bench positioned there. Zivon cast a glance at Lily—she was focused now upon the ducks enjoying a puddle—and then slid one step closer to the voices.

  “Perhaps we could appeal the decision.” Nabokov, he was sure of it. He spoke quietly, though not exactly in a whisper. “Ask for more.”

  “And risk having what was granted taken away? Be reasonable, Konstantin. The king was quite generous in allotting us enough to keep ourselves running. It was too much to hope that he would agree to support the other embassies as well. That will have to fall to their host nations or to generous patrons. You know as well as I that some of the other ambassadors can fund themselves.”

  “Assuming they can access their funds, yes.” A sigh blustered out.

  Zivon closed his eyes again to better focus on the unknown voice’s cadence, rhythm, accent. Upper class, that much he could identify without thought. Educated. Which did little to
narrow down the list of his acquaintances from recent years.

  “I pray this aid we secured will be sufficient to support our people who are here in England, anyway. Surely the Bolsheviks will be brought under control soon. Have we heard any more from Maklakov? About whether the United States will intervene?”

  “No. Though I know he continues to speak the logic of it to them. If Germany takes advantage of the chaos and moves into our territory, it will spell disaster for all the Allies.”

  “I want to trust they’ll see this wisdom, Fyodor, but . . .”

  Fyodor. Zivon’s eyes flew open again. Not—but yes. It had to be. Fyodor Suvorov. Of course it was Fyodor Suvorov. He and Nabokov were cousins or some such, a fact that had completely escaped Zivon’s memory until now. Oh, Lord, why?

  He stepped back to Lily’s side, his fingers curled into his palm.

  She stood. Glanced at him at first, then frowned. “Are you all right?”

  He could have kissed her for not saying his name. He didn’t look over his shoulder, but still, he heard the hitch in the conversation behind the bushes. They wouldn’t be alarmed at hearing an English miss, but they could well react if they heard his voice, with its Russian accent.

  In that moment, he envisioned no fewer than five different scenarios. He let them play out and deemed all but one of them unacceptable.

  So he touched a soft hand to Lily’s elbow and leaned close enough to whisper in her ear. “I am not. Can we walk a bit away from here? I will explain.”

  For five long seconds, she simply held his gaze, thoughts ricocheting through her winter blue eyes. But then she smiled, tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, and said, at a normal volume, “I’d like to get a few photographs of the ducks from another angle now if that’s all right, dearest. Over by that tree, perhaps?”

  Far enough away to be out of earshot, and the tree would provide him cover if Suvorov and Nabokov emerged onto the path. That should have been all that concerned him.

  So why did his heart stutter over that dearest? She’d said it only to preserve the anonymity he was clearly striving for. He knew that. Even so. No one had ever called him by such an endearment, other than his own mother. Alyona certainly hadn’t.