A Portrait of Loyalty

by Roseanna M. White

  The very thought made her want to scream. “No. I can’t.”

  “They need you. The hospital needs your hands—and the OB needs your skills.”

  “It doesn’t matter anymore.” Nothing did. She couldn’t care right now about the war or the injured soldiers or the rolls of film piling up. All the responsibilities that had kept her busy, kept her away from home. Time she should have been spending with her family. Time she could never get back.

  “It does.” Mama’s voice was fervent. Her hand stroked up and down Lily’s arm. “It matters. It matters enough that you lied to me for years about it. I certainly hope you wouldn’t have made those choices if your work wasn’t crucial to king and country.”

  Lily could only squeeze her eyes shut. It had seemed important. Then. Before.

  “Darling.” Mama kissed her temple, smoothed back her hair. “Blinker has come by every other day to ask after you. To ask us to encourage you to return. He’s explained to me a bit of what you do—how vital it is. The people whose lives you help preserve every day. The campaigns that couldn’t move forward without your work. This is bigger than us. Bigger than our grief. Bigger than my ideals about art. Look at me.”

  It took more effort than it should have to lift her head, turn her face.

  Mama’s gaze remained steady. “I’m sorry, Lily. So, so sorry that I judged you. That I let my anger at the deception cast a shadow on this house for so long. When I think of the atmosphere that I created during Ivy’s last days—” She broke off, pressed her lips together, blinked frantically. Only after a swallow and a few sniffs did she continue. “The important thing is that you do what the Lord asks of you. Not of me. I pray you can forgive me.”

  “Forgive you?” Lily reached for her mother’s hand and clung to it. “I need you to forgive me. I value your opinion so highly, Mama. Our camaraderie. I have missed that so, so much. I’m so very sorry I kept it from you all this time, that I—that I made it more important than our family. That I—”

  “Shh.” Mama wrapped her firmly in her arms, tucking Lily’s head under her chin. “No more time wasted on regrets and anger. If wrongs have been done, they are forgiven. They do not matter. Not now, when I am so keenly aware of how much this family means to me, and how fragile it all is.” She reached up and smoothed back a piece of Lily’s hair. “We mustn’t let such things come between us anymore. Not anger, not secrets, not fear. They will not rob us of the life God has given us.”

  “What about the life He’s taken away?” Lily let her eyes fall again.

  “Sweet girl.” Mama gave her a squeeze. “Something I am realizing anew is that this life isn’t ours to begin with. We don’t own it as we do a shoe. It is always His—His gift to us. Our purpose ought to be in giving it back to Him moment by moment. In knowing that losing this life isn’t defeat. It’s victory.” She pressed a kiss to Lily’s temple. “If we really believe what we say we do, then we ought to know this life on earth isn’t the goal. We can’t cling to it. Your sister . . .”

  Lily pressed a hand to her mouth to try to hold back a sob.

  Mama drew in a long breath, no doubt her own attempt at the same. “We will miss her every day. But she has the reality now—this life is just a painting, a replica of what He has in store. I’m trying to focus on that. I know so well how far my art is from the beauty of God’s creation. It’s just a shadow, a sorry attempt to capture on canvas what He does every day in this world. So imagine what it must be like for her now, in a place of which this is but the imitation.”

  Lily shook her head. Not in denial of the truth her mother gave voice to, but because she simply couldn’t think in that way right now. Perhaps Ivy had victory, but it felt like defeat to Lily. The loss was hers, even if her sister had gained. “I just don’t know how to live this life without her.”

  “But you do.” At the note of passion in Mama’s tone, Lily lifted her gaze again and found the strangest smile on her mother’s lips. “You’re the one who has taught me this.”

  “What?”

  Mama motioned to the wall behind her. No, to the framed photograph over Lily’s bed. One of her earliest attempts at photography, the first she’d been really proud of. But it was only flower petals floating in a rain puddle. How did that teach her mother anything?

  “That was my favorite rose, the one I’d hoped to enter into the contest at the ladies’ aid meeting that week. Do you remember?”

  Lily lifted a shoulder in a shrug.

  “When that storm came through and destroyed it, I was angry and frustrated. It had been perfect—perfect. And then it was nothing. But you, my sweet Lily”—Mama laughed softly—“you brought out your camera and you got down on your knees, and you showed me that what I deemed ruin was something beautiful. You found light in the darkness. Good in the bad. Like you always do.”

  Lily’s nose ached with the tears she didn’t want to shed again. She shook her head. “With a camera, perhaps. But—”

  “The camera can’t capture what you don’t first see.” Mama cupped Lily’s cheek in one hand. “You always see the beauty. Always. And you’ve taught me to find it too. That was what I woke up thinking about the day after the funeral—that the light is there, if I look for it as you always do. God is there. His promises have not changed just because my circumstances have. He is still the giver of all. The lover of our souls. No matter how bad our situation, He is still good. All we have to do is look for Him.”

  Like Zivon had said—they must be still and know that He was God. Which meant He was good. He was love. He was mercy. He was life.

  He was light. Even amid the darkest times.

  Lily couldn’t see it, not fully. But if she focused, little glimmers peeked through. Glimpses of His mercies. Mama, well again—and offering forgiveness. Zivon, at her side every moment he possibly could be, and Daddy allowing it. The admiral, understanding of her need to closet herself away. Ara and all her other friends, stopping by each and every day to make sure she was all right.

  And Ivy herself. All the laughter and smiles and memories she’d given her. It didn’t seem fair that God had taken her, but Lily needed to thank Him for giving her Ivy to begin with. Not everyone had years of such joy to recall.

  “Your father will need our help, darling.” Now sorrow saturated Mama’s tone, colored even darker with worry. “Do you remember that trip to Brighton before the war, when Ivy’s hat blew off and he charged into the water to rescue it?”

  A memory now tangled beautifully with the night she met Zivon, when she’d told him about it. Another layer to the matryoshka doll. Lily nodded. “Of course. He said no navy man would let a few waves steal from his little girl.”

  “That is how he’s always felt about you girls—that he ought to be able to move nature itself to protect you and see to your happiness.” Mama shook her head. “He thinks he’s failed. And it’s stolen the last bit of light from his eyes. Pray for him, Lily. Pray this doesn’t devour him.”

  Lily’s heart clenched, not just at the thought of her father’s pain but at the realization that she hadn’t even noticed it. She’d been too stuck on her own.

  No more. She nodded, more fiercely than necessary. The world may still look dark, but if photography had taught her anything, it was that there was always more light to be found. Sometimes you just needed to change your lens. And sometimes you needed a flash. Neither ever changed what was really there . . . but they showed it in a new way.

  She’d always thought of that as art. But it wasn’t. That was life. And art was just the imitator.

  24

  FRIDAY, 19 JULY 1918

  Evgeni crossed his ankles and tried not to laugh as Nadya made another fruitless attempt to shoo a few ambitious pigeons away from the crumbs that remained of her lunch. They’d decided to eat outside today, to escape the heat in their room. Even if it did mean keeping their conversation to French the whole time. He’d given her another quick English lesson too, before the pigeons fully distracted her
.

  “Mine.” She shoved the last bite of bread into her mouth and kicked at the birds. Not that they were within kicking range, of course, and they didn’t look intimidated. They kept on cooing and fluttering.

  Evgeni gave in to the chuckle. “Perhaps they will go away now that the food is gone.”

  “I doubt it,” she said around her mouthful, scowling at the birds. “Filthy flying rats.” She poked him in the side. “And I don’t know what you’re so happy about.”

  He certainly couldn’t tell her that he found her frustration amusing. She’d gone three more times into Zivon’s flat but had found nothing, nothing of use to them. And after each of her dejected returns, he’d been exasperated too. Then Nadya left yesterday with most of their remaining money and had returned with a pistol. When he’d asked her where she’d gotten it, she’d merely smiled and assured him she’d been discreet.

  He hadn’t felt reassured. He’d felt panicked. He knew firsthand what an armed, desperate Nadya could accomplish, and it inevitably ended in death for the enemy. Which was fine when the enemy was a band of Germans. Less than fine when it was his own brother.

  But he’d awoken today with the certainty that he could make it right. It would just require doing the thing he most feared. Facing Zivon.

  Funny—instead of the dread the idea had instilled in him for the last months, making the decision brought peace. He smiled. “It’s a lovely summer day, I’m spending it with the woman I love, and I think our next step will net us all we need it to do.” He shrugged. “Why not be happy?”

  She grunted and reached for the water they’d brought out with them. “I lack the faith you seem to have. Nothing has gone our way since we stepped foot on this stinking island. And if this doesn’t work—if the press doesn’t print the story or the Admiralty doesn’t believe it or the photographs Paul gave us don’t convince them—”

  “Then I ask Zivon directly for what we need.” He looked straight ahead as he said it, not wanting to see Nadya’s face. He wouldn’t put it past her to be angry instead of relieved at his decision. To say, “You could have come to this conclusion a month ago and saved us a lot of wasted time and effort.” She’d be right to say it.

  But she didn’t. Instead, her small, deceptively delicate-looking fingers moved over his arm. “Do you really think he will? Come, Evgeni. This is why I haven’t pushed on that point. He will not help you. Not if it means helping us. And I think you are right that he will see through any lie you try to tell. He will not make this decision freely.” She pushed to her feet and stomped toward the birds.

  They fluttered a mere few feet away. London’s pigeons were obviously no more intimidated by people than Petrograd’s were. She spun back to face him. “You must be prepared to force him. Or if that is something you cannot do, I will.”

  Somehow, the way she said it sounded like an offer, not an accusation. She’d grown in the last few months. The Nadya he’d first left behind in Russia when he fled with Zivon would have spat it out like a challenge. A threat.

  He held out a hand to her. And waited the long moment until she came forward and put her fingers in his. “I will try it my way first. I think . . . I think I can convince him.”

  Because as he’d flipped through Zivon’s now-mutilated photo album this morning, when he’d looked at the blank space where the photo of the two of them together had been, it had struck him.

  That had been the image in the place of honor. Not Zivon and Alyona’s engagement photo. Not their parents. Not the one of him being honored by the czar.

  Them. Together.

  That meant something, didn’t it? It meant that brotherhood was more important to Zivon than politics.

  He didn’t point this out to Nadya. She would probably ask the question Evgeni didn’t yet know how to answer: Was it more important to him too?

  She sat back down beside him. “There is one more thing you should know if you plan to face him. He already knew about the mutiny. About the informant who contacted us.”

  So many questions stormed his mind he didn’t know which to give voice to first. How could Zivon have known about that? How would she have known that he did? Why hadn’t she trusted him with the information?

  “What?”

  She sighed. “He intercepted the telegram, it seems. I saw it in his house. The day I . . .”

  His eyes squeezed shut. The day she killed Alyona. An answer to another question he’d just as soon never have asked. “What did he do with this information, do you think?”

  “I don’t know. He must have had the papers with him; they were gone from his house afterward. My fear? He gave them to the Admiralty.”

  “So if he also gave them the names . . .”

  “We don’t need to assume that. He wouldn’t have any reason to think you were involved with the same thing. There is still hope, if we can convince the British to disbelieve him entirely.”

  Though it took some effort, he smiled. “Look at you. Being optimistic.”

  She breathed a laugh, but it faded to heavy solemnity. “Even I can hope sometimes. But if that hope proves vain . . . You must know, Evgeni. I will do whatever it takes. Whatever must be done to get these names, to stop this mutiny. I will do whatever must be done to earn the right to return to Russia with our heads held high. We will be honored by the party. We will advance. We will have a chance at a good life.”

  Her hand was squeezing his in a way she’d never done before. A way that made his heart race. “Together?”

  The beat of silence felt like fear. But then she squeezed all the harder. “Together.”

  He lifted their joined hands, kissed the back of hers. His brother wouldn’t understand, but it would all work out. This was Evgeni’s chance to do something big, something that would be for the Bolsheviks what Zivon’s skills had been for the imperialists. A chance to make a name for himself. And a future with the woman he loved.

  All he had to do was make sure Zivon couldn’t ruin it. After that, his brother would rebound. He may be angry over what was about to happen, especially if he realized Evgeni’s involvement. But it wasn’t the end of his life or even his career. Just a nudge to a new one. A wall thrown up to redirect him, to keep him from making a mistake that would affect them all.

  Claire had it all wrong. It wasn’t bad that the castle kept the hero from making a mistake. It was necessary. Because people, individuals, couldn’t always be trusted to make the right decision.

  Sometimes the state had to make it for them.

  Nadya drew in a long breath. “Regardless of how this all goes, we must leave here soon. Get home. The White Army will be losing heart. We should rejoin the ranks to help rout them.”

  Evgeni nodded. The newspaper this morning had actually had news of Russia in it—or of a particular Russian, anyway. Czar Nicholas had finally been executed, along with his family.

  It was over. Final. The White Army would feel the blow, and any hopes of the provisional government taking control again would surely die. The old ways were gone forever, the Romanov line at an end. The future belonged to the people now. “It will work. Zivon will have no choice but to seek a quieter life.” He stood and shot her a smile as he scattered a handful of crumbs he’d been saving. “Ready to go back inside?” he asked as the pigeons flocked to the offering with loud coos.

  She rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t quite hide her grin. “You are such a softy.”

  “I have to be, to offset you, Madame Rock.”

  She chuckled and stood, wrapping her arm around his. “I suppose this is why we make a good pair. Balance is important.”

  They strolled the five minutes back to their building at a leisurely pace. Though as they neared it, a commotion at the door had Evgeni pulling up, slowing her with a hand on her arm. “Something is amiss.”

  A crowd had gathered outside the front door, including a woman weeping loudly. He recognized her vaguely as an upstairs neighbor. He’d held the door for her a few times, tipping his
hat and greeting her in French that she didn’t understand but in which she wouldn’t hear his Russian accent so keenly. She usually came and went with an adolescent boy in tow.

  The same boy now being carried out toward the ambulance parked at the curb.

  Nadya’s fingers tightened around Evgeni’s arm. Even as they watched, someone pulled a sheet up over the boy’s face. Not, however, before Evgeni glimpsed his blue lips.

  The curse that slipped out was Russian, but quiet enough that he doubted anyone else had heard him.

  It seemed that the flu going around the city and being discussed in all the papers had found its way to their corner of London.

  THURSDAY, 25 JULY 1918

  Over the last three weeks, Zivon had grown sadly accustomed to the new, somber Clarke. He still jogged with him in the mornings, and they still walked to and from the OB together most days. But any offers Zivon made for other outings were always met with quiet refusal. “Not today,” he’d always say. “You’ll want to spend the evening with Miss Blackwell.” Even when Zivon tried to tell him Lily was busy, he’d find another excuse. He was too tired or had brought work home from the office or was in the middle of a good book.

  He looked over at Clarke now from only the corner of his eye and prayed. Prayed that God would show him how to be a friend to this man. He’d known him only four months, but that had been time enough that this ache in Clarke’s heart pierced Zivon’s too.

  “I was thinking,” he said as the parade grounds came within sight, “that I may attend a lecture this evening at Kings College, given by one of the members of my church. Lily already has plans with a friend. Would you perhaps want to join me? It ought to be a good one. He will be discussing The Brothers Karamazov. Have you read it?”

  Clarke shook his head. “Thanks all the same. I don’t imagine it would be terribly interesting since I haven’t.”

  “You may be surprised. It was hearing a talk given on War and Peace that made me decide to read Tolstoy as a young man.”