Anna pushed open the door.
“Oh, don’t be so puerile. What do you want with university anyway? Bunch of boring idiots playing God in the hallowed halls of Oxford.”
“I wanted it!”
“That – is – enough.” Anna’s voice cut them to utter silence. Ben swung away from her, dashing his hand across his eyes. Nicholas lifted a wary, tousled head. As she stood in the doorway watching them, it came to Anna, suddenly and for the first time, that these sons of hers – both a head taller than she – were no longer children. They were almost men.
“Hello, Mumps.”
She said nothing. Stared at him. Ben sniffed. “What,” Anna said at last, “have you done now?”
The silence stretched, a tenuous thread strained to breaking point.
“Well?”
Nicholas blinked at the sharp word. Ben did not move. Anna looked from the wide, brilliant eyes to the hunched back, and back again. “I’m waiting.”
“We—” Nicholas lifted a graceful shoulder, kept his gaze, watchful, upon his mother’s face “—we’ve got ourselves into a bit of a pickle, I’m afraid.”
Ben swung around at that, outraged, no longer caring that his mother should see his tear-marked face.
Anna held up a swift hand, her eyes not leaving the defiant blue gaze of her elder son. “Wait, Benjamin. Explain yourself, Nicholas, please. What have you done now that is so disgraceful that you should be packed off home with no warning, no communication?”
“There’s a letter in the post,” Ben said, his voice tight.
“Nicholas?”’
For the first time his eyes slid from hers. “We’ve been expelled.”
“I rather gathered that.” Anna’s voice was dry. “I’m asking why. I think you’ll agree I have a right to know.”
Nicholas was very still.
“Because,” Ben said into the silence, “Nicholas—” he paused “—debauched was the word that was most often used – not one but two members of the lower school. And was stupid enough to get caught at it. ‘In flagrante’ don’t they say?” There was real and bitter revulsion in the words.
The look Nicholas threw his brother contained murder. Anna had gone very white. “Nicholas? Is that true?”
He shrugged, took refuge in defiance. “Not quite the way I’d have put it myself, but – substantially – yes.”
“Little boys?” Anna asked, faintly.
“They weren’t so little.”
“You bastard!” Ben’s control, suddenly and shockingly, broke. Years of a resentment so subtle that he had hardly himself been aware of it lifted his voice and embittered his tongue. The words tumbled over themselves, almost incoherent. “You worthless, spoiled, self-centred bastard! Don’t you care what you do? What you say? Don’t you care how much you hurt anyone? Even her?” He jerked his head at Anna. “Can’t you see anything but your own needs? Hear anything but your own damned voice? You spoil everything you touch! Everything! You always have—”
Nicholas, very pale, lifted a fair, handsome head but said nothing.
“You lie and you cheat and you smile your pretty smile. Anything to get what you want. And damn anyone who gets in your way. You don’t care what happens to anyone else, do you? You don’t care how anyone else feels? Look at Mama’s face. Look at it! Forget what you’ve done to me – what about her? How can you? Everything else I can understand – even what you did to Papa—” Ben stopped, his teeth clamping on to his trembling lip, appalled at the sudden blaze of fury that had flamed in his brother’s face.
In the silence that followed the violence of Ben’s voice those last, clear words hung like the echoes of a great bell. The quiet lasted for what seemed a very long time. Anna looked at Nicholas. “Is this—” she asked at last, carefully “—something else I don’t know about?”
Nicholas turned his head away, ran his hand through his hair.
Anna turned from him. “Benjamin?” She asked, her voice still carefully steady.
Ben’s face was scarlet. The tears had started again. Like a baffled child he looked from his brother’s stiffened, turned back to his mother’s face. “I swore I’d never tell,” he said, his voice choked.
“It’s a little late, I think, to remember that.” The words were quiet. “Your father? What could Nicholas possibly have done to your father?”
“I was listening outside the door,” poor Ben said, his voice a whisper. “I heard.” He was watching Nicholas’s stubbornly turned back. “Then – when I told Nicho – he made me swear—”
“Benjamin. What did you hear? When?” The words were clipped, suddenly.
“I heard – Nicholas tell Papa that—” Ben’s voice stumbled on the words “—that he wasn’t his father. That you’d told him that Nicolai Shuvenski was his father. That you’d said that was why you loved him better than any of us. Because you still loved his father better than you had ever loved Papa.”
In her shock only the first few words had truly registered in Anna’s brain. “That I’d told him?” she asked. “That – I’d – told him?”
“Yes.”
In two steps Anna was by her elder son’s side. With strength that was beyond herself she reached for his arm and spun him to face her. “What’s this?”
His eyes were shut.
“Nicholas! What – is – this?”
The bright eyes flew open.
“How did you know?” The first, the irresistible question. “How in God’s name did you know?”
He swallowed. “The sketches. The date. The likeness.”
She bit her lip. “God in heaven.”
Silence hung like a curtain between them.
Anna tipped her head back to look at her son. “You added two and two together. Made four. And then—” She struggled for a moment. “And then you told Joss – that I had told you?”
“Yes.”
“But – for God’s sake – why?”
Nicholas spoke very precisely, his bright, beautiful eyes not leaving her face. “Because I wanted him to leave. I wanted him to go away for ever. I don’t want him here. He doesn’t like me. He hates me. I know it. And that night – the night after Grandfather’s funeral – you had spent the night together. Of course you did!” Flushing she had moved her head in a small, instinctively negative movement. “The whole household knew it! He was going to stay, wasn’t he? He was going to walk back in here as if nothing had happened. After the way he’s treated you – treated Grandfather—”
“Nicholas! Stop!”
The boy ignored her. Tears stood now in his eyes. “And then, the next morning, he took the diamond from me. My diamond. So I told him—” He stopped.
“You might as well go on. What did you tell him?” Anna’s voice was shaking a little. She cleared her throat.
Nicholas shook his head.
“Tell me. I think I have a right to know.”
“I’ll tell you.” It was Ben, his eyes on his brother’s face. “He told Papa that you’d said that you loved Shuvenski still. That you could never love anyone else. That Nicholas was all you had of him, and that because of that he and you were a conspiracy. Against the world. Against Papa—”
“Oh no.”
“He told Papa that you’d promised the diamond to him. Told him that it was his by right, that Papa had no right to it.”
“That stone again.” Anna said, tonelessly bitter.
Nicholas’s bright head did not move.
“He said—” Ben ploughed on.
Anna made a swift movement with her hand. “All right, Ben. I don’t think I need hear any more.” She took a long breath. “Would you leave us, please?”
“But—”
“I need to speak to Nicholas alone. And Ben—” The boy looked at her. “These examinations that are so important to you. Isn’t there something we can do about them? Tutors, perhaps. Could you get through if we could find someone to coach you privately?”
The tear-stained face lit. “I might.
I could try.”
Anna nodded. “We’ll talk about it later.”
As Ben left the room, closing the door behind him, she turned to look at Nicholas.
“You haven’t denied it,” he said at last, into the stillness. His clear-boned face was ashen.
Anna sighed. “That Nicolai Shuvenski fathered you? No, I can’t deny it. But—” she divined with sure instinct what would cut most deeply, and used it “—you didn’t have to tell Joss. He already knew. He always knew.”
That shook the boy, as she had known it would. He glanced at her, and away. He said nothing.
“He knew, yet still he treated you as a son. Still protected you, clothed you, fed you, educated you. Gave you his name.”
Silence.
“Whilst I,” she continued quietly, “have ruined you. Ironic, isn’t it? Ben’s right – you go through life taking what you want, giving nothing. And it’s my fault.”
Nicholas was visibly trembling now, blinking rapidly. Anna looked at him, tiredly, her anger and all the words she had intended to say draining from her. “Go to your room,” she said. “I’ll speak to you later.”
He turned, stopped at the door. “Mama?”
She looked at him, her face closed against him.
“What was he like? My real father.”
She did not speak for a long moment. Then, “Perhaps one day I’ll be able to tell you,” she said. “But not now. Just one thing I will say.” Her voice was even. He watched her, waiting. “He would have been ashamed of you. As I am.”
* * *
For a week she tried to write. For hours at a time she sat at her small, elegant desk with the crumpled paper of failure mounting in the waste-basket. She could not put into written words the things she felt she had to say. To be truthful she did not, indeed, herself know from one day to the next exactly what it was that she wanted to say at all. Then, a week after the confrontation with Nicholas, she woke one dark, wet and windy morning, and knew that there was only one thing to be done. She was out of the house within an hour, a small portmanteau on the seat beside her as the cab drove through the rain-lashed streets to Euston Station. Her ticket bought, she had an hour to wait. She bought a magazine, sat in the dull-lit waiting room flicking absently through it, trying not to think about what might await her at the end of this absurd and impulsive journey. In her bag was the card upon which Joss had scrawled his address on the morning that he had left: ‘22, Albert Road, Manchester.’ She did not even know if it were his home address or his office; she might, she thought, have been on her way to visit a total stranger. And a hostile one at that. As she sat in the stationary train, the excited bustle of approaching departure about her, her nerve almost failed her. She did not have to go. She owed him nothing. Had he come to her? Had he asked about – or even questioned – what Nicholas had told him?
A whistle shrieked. Someone ran past the window. Panic took her. She stood, reached for her bag from the rack above her head, staggered as the train jerked forward. The sudden movement forced her backwards, and she stepped on the toes of an elderly gentleman who had taken the seat opposite her. “Oh, I – I do beg your pardon.”
“Not at all, my dear. May I help you?”
“Oh no. No, thank you.” She sat down, feeling stupid. London, dreary in the murky rain, slid past the window. She would get off the train at the first stop, and go back. Yes, of course. That’s what she would do.
She did not. Through unremitting rain the train raced north-westward, through the shrouded Chilterns, across the fiat, rain-washed county of Northamptonshire, on to the sprawling industrial towns of the Midlands. She watched the drenched countryside stream past the window beneath a sky so leaden that it might have been resting upon the shining slate roofs of the houses. She ate lunch in the dining car, politely refusing the offer of the company of the elderly gentleman. She did not care how rude she appeared. She had to think. Yet, it seemed, the more she thought the more confused she became. All too soon she found herself standing amidst the bustle of Manchester Exchange Station, her portmanteau at her feet.
“Porter, Ma’am?”
“Yes. Please.”
“Where to? Taxi rank?”
“Yes.”
She followed the porter. This was it; her last chance to give up this idiotic wild goose chase upon which she had launched herself. She stepped into the taxi. “Number twenty-two, Albert Road, please.”
It was his office. Number 22 was a large, old-fashioned building, its brick smoke-blackened but its interior, which housed several suites of offices, splendid with marble and mahogany and shining brass. She was shown up a handsome, sweeping staircase to a landing along which were several doors.
“There you are, Madam. That’s Mr Anatov’s.”
“Thank you.” She was infuriatingly nervous. She hesitated for a moment and then knocked, a little too firmly.
“Come.” A woman’s voice, young and pleasant.
Anna entered a large office, book-lined, wood-panelled and well lit. To one side was a door with a glass panel through which she could see several young men in shirtsleeves working at drawing boards. At the far end of the room was another door, solid polished mahogany, standing a little ajar. Through it she could see another comfortable room not unlike the one in which she stood but with the addition of deep leather furniture and an enormous desk.
“May I help you?” A young woman, brisk and extremely pretty came from behind a small table upon which stood a typewriting machine, a large black telephone and several neat piles of paper.
Anna set down her bag. “I’m – looking for Mr Anatov. Mr Josef Anatov.”
“I’m afraid he isn’t here. May I be of assistance? I’m his secretary, Miss Adams.” The girl’s eyes held curiosity, politely veiled.
Anna took a sharp, steadying breath. “No, thank you. It’s a personal matter. I’m—” she paused, absurdly embarrassed “—I’m Anna Anatov. Josef’s wife.”
The girl stared, recovered herself. “I’m so sorry, Mrs Anatov. Mr Anatov didn’t mention—” Her eyes had flickered to Anna’s bag and back.
“No. I don’t suppose he did. This is something of a flying visit. He isn’t expecting me. Will he be long?”
“I don’t think so.” The girl seemed at a loss.
“I’ll wait.” Anna was feeling better. A reprieve. A chance to compose herself.
“Of course. Won’t you take a seat?” Miss Adams waved to a small armchair next to the table at which she had been working.
Anna lifted her head, nodded to the half-open door. “That’s my husband’s office?”
“Well yes – but—”
“Then I’ll wait in there if you don’t mind.” Anna took a step forward. Nothing in this world would force her to stay here where her first confrontation with Joss would take place beneath Miss Adams’s wide, forget-me-not eyes.
“I’m sorry.” The girl stepped quickly in front of her. “Mr Anatov never allows anyone in his room alone. It’s a strict rule.”
Anna side-stepped her neatly. “But not one, Miss Adams, I think that he would apply to his own wife?”
“With respect—” the girl said, determinedly “—I only have your word for that—”
“I didn’t bring my marriage lines, certainly,” Anna’s voice was tart, “but then I hardly expected that I would have to prove my identity.”
It was a victory of poise and confidence. Miss Adams stepped back. “No. Of course not, Mrs Anatov.”
Anna swept past her and into Joss’s office, pushing the door almost closed behind her. She found herself in a large, comfortable room with two sets of long, small-paned windows, velvet-curtained, that looked out on to a vista of grimy, rain-wet roofs and spires. A fire burned in the grate. Upon the enormous, tidy desk stood a fine model of an army tank, perfect in every detail. Anna touched it, thoughtfully, with a long finger, then wandered to a bookcase and stared unseeing at the regimented leather-clad spines. From beyond the door came the sound of the typ
ewriter, clattering fiercely. Anna almost smiled – perhaps just a little too fiercely? She had the distinct impression that the attractive Miss Adams was not used to having her territory invaded. She could not settle: ignoring the comfortable-looking armchairs she walked to the window. God – was it never going to stop raining?
She heard the outer door open and close decisively. Quick foot-steps clicked upon the wooden floor of the other office. “Ah, Miss Adams, did the Minister ring? It seems I missed him yesterday.”
Anna turned to face the door at the sound of Joss’s voice.
The typewriter had stopped. “Mr Anatov,” Miss Adams said, quickly, “you have a visitor. Your—”
Too late. Joss stood in the open door, and just for a second his face was such a picture of utter astonishment that Anna, nerves strung like wires, found it hard not to laugh.
“—wife,” the girl finished, lamely.
“Yes, Miss Adams. Thank you.” Joss shut the door behind him with a sharp movement. They looked at each other in the shadowed light for what seemed to Anna to be a very long time indeed. She could not think of a word to say.
“Well, well.” Joss walked to his desk. He had recovered himself; his voice was light. “How did you get past my young watchdog?”
She did not reply. All her misgivings had returned in full force. Fool. Fool! What was she doing here? “I had to talk to you,” she said.
He nodded, his face guarded. “Will you sit down?”
“Thank you, no. I’d rather stand.” Her voice was jerky.
He gestured – that characteristic half-shrug that was so much a part of his mannerisms. “Of course. Whatever you like.” He waited, politely.
“It – isn’t good news,” she said at last.
The Rose Stone Page 48