by Ken Follett
"When will you put the new proposal to Orlov?" Asquith asked.
"I'll motor to Norfolk first thing in the morning."
"Splendid."
The butler brought Walden's hat and gloves, and he took his leave.
Pritchard was standing at the garden gate, chatting to the policeman on duty. "Back to the house," Walden told him.
He had been rather rash, he reflected as they drove. He had promised to secure Aleks's consent to the Constantinople plan, but he was not sure how. It was worrying. He began to rehearse the words he would use tomorrow.
He was home before he had made any progress. "We'll need the car again in a few minutes, Pritchard."
"Very good, my lord."
Walden entered the house and went upstairs to wash his hands. On the landing he met Charlotte. "Is Mama getting ready?" he said.
"Yes, she'll be a few minutes. How goes your politicking?"
"Slowly."
"Why have you suddenly got involved in all that sort of thing again?"
He smiled. "In a nutshell: to stop Germany conquering Europe. But don't you worry your pretty little head--"
"I shan't worry. But where on earth have you hidden Cousin Aleks?"
He hesitated. There was no harm in her knowing; yet, once she knew, she would be capable of accidentally letting the secret out. Better for her to be left in the dark. He said: "If anyone asks you, say you don't know." He smiled and went on up to his room.
There were times when the charm of English life wore thin for Lydia.
Usually she liked crushes. Several hundred people would gather at someone's home to do nothing whatsoever. There was no dancing, no formal meal, no cards. You shook hands with the hostess, took a glass of champagne, and wandered around some great house chatting to your friends and admiring people's clothes. Today she was struck by the pointlessness of the whole thing. Her discontent took the form of nostalgia for Russia. There, she felt, the beauties would surely be more ravishing, the intellectuals less polite, the conversations deeper, the evening air not so balmy and soporific. In truth she was too worried--about Stephen, about Feliks and about Charlotte--to enjoy socializing.
She ascended the broad staircase with Stephen on one side of her and Charlotte on the other. Her diamond necklace was admired by Mrs. Glenville. They moved on. Stephen peeled off to talk to one of his cronies in the Lords: Lydia heard the words "Amendment Bill" and listened no more. They moved through the crowd, smiling and saying hello. Lydia kept thinking: What am I doing here?
Charlotte said: "By the way, Mama, where has Aleks gone?"
"I don't know, dear," Lydia said absently. "Ask your father. Good evening, Freddie."
Freddie was interested in Charlotte, not Lydia. "I've been thinking about what you said at lunch," he said. "I've decided that the difference is, we're English."
Lydia left them to it. In my day, she thought, political discussions were decidedly not the way to win a man; but perhaps things have changed. It begins to look as if Freddie will be interested in whatever Charlotte wants to talk about. I wonder if he will propose to her. Oh, Lord, what a relief that would be.
In the first of the reception rooms, where a string quartet played inaudibly, she met her sister-in-law, Clarissa. They talked about their daughters, and Lydia was secretly comforted to learn that Clarissa was terribly worried about Belinda.
"I don't mind her buying those ultrafashionable clothes and showing her ankles, and I shouldn't mind her smoking cigarettes if only she were a little more discreet about it," Clarissa said. "But she goes to the most dreadful places to listen to nigger bands playing jazz music, and last week she went to a boxing match!"
"What about her chaperone?"
Clarissa sighed. "I've said she can go out without a chaperone if she's with girls we know. Now I realize that was a mistake. I suppose Charlotte is always chaperoned."
"In theory, yes," Lydia said. "But she's frightfully disobedient. Once she sneaked out and went to a suffragette meeting." Lydia was not prepared to tell Clarissa the whole disgraceful truth: "a suffragette meeting" did not sound quite as bad as "a demonstration." She added: "Charlotte is interested in the most unladylike things, such as politics. I don't know where she gets her ideas."
"Oh, I feel the same," Clarissa said. "Belinda was always brought up with the very best of music, and good society, and wholesome books and a strict governess . . . so naturally one wonders where on earth she got her taste for vulgarity. The worst of it is, I can't make her realize that I am worried for her happiness, not my own."
"Oh, I'm so glad to hear you say that!" Lydia said. "It's just how I feel. Charlotte seems to think there's something false or silly about our protecting her." She sighed. "We must marry them off quickly, before they come to any harm."
"Absolutely! Is anyone interested in Charlotte?"
"Freddie Chalfont."
"Ah, yes, I'd heard that."
"He even seems to be prepared to talk politics to her. But I'm afraid she's not awfully interested in him. What about Belinda?"
"The opposite problem. She likes them all."
"Oh, dear!" Lydia laughed, and moved on, feeling better. In some ways Clarissa, as a stepmother, had a more difficult task than Lydia. I suppose I have much to be thankful for, she thought.
The Duchess of Middlesex was in the next room. Most people stayed on their feet at a crush, but the Duchess, characteristically, sat down and let people come to her. Lydia approached her just as Lady Gay-Stephens was moving away.
"I gather Charlotte is quite recovered from her headache," the Duchess said.
"Yes, indeed; it's kind of you to inquire."
"Oh, I wasn't inquiring," the Duchess said. "My nephew saw her in the National Gallery at four o'clock."
The National Gallery! What in Heaven's name was she doing there? She had sneaked out again! But Lydia was not going to let the Duchess know that Charlotte had been misbehaving. "She has always been fond of art," she improvised.
"She was with a man," the Duchess said. "Freddie Chalfont must have a rival."
The little minx! Lydia concealed her fury. "Indeed," she said, forcing a smile.
"Who is he?"
"Just one of their set," Lydia said desperately.
"Oh, no," said the Duchess with a malicious smile. "He was about forty, and wearing a tweed cap."
"A tweed cap!" Lydia was being humiliated and she knew it, but she hardly cared. Who could the man be? What was Charlotte thinking of? Her reputation--
"They were holding hands," the Duchess added, and she smiled broadly, showing rotten teeth.
Lydia could no longer pretend that everything was all right. "Oh, my God," she said. "What has the child got into now?"
The Duchess said: "In my day the chaperone system was found effective in preventing this sort of thing."
Lydia was suddenly very angry at the pleasure the Duchess was taking in this catastrophe. "That was a hundred years ago," she snapped. She walked away. A tweed cap! Holding hands! Forty years old! It was too appalling to be contemplated. The cap meant he was working-class, the age meant he was a lecher, and the hand-holding implied that matters had already gone far, perhaps too far. What can I do, she thought helplessly, if the child goes out of the house without my knowledge? Oh, Charlotte, Charlotte, you don't know what you're doing to yourself!
"What was the boxing match like?" Charlotte asked Belinda.
"In a horrid sort of way it was terribly exciting," Belinda said. "These two enormous men wearing nothing but their shorts, standing there trying to beat each other to death."
Charlotte did not see how that could be exciting. "It sounds dreadful."
"I got so worked up"--Belinda lowered her voice--"that I almost let Peter Go Too Far."
"What do you mean?"
"You know. Afterward, in the cab on the way home. I let him . . . kiss me, and so on."
"What's and so on?"
Belinda whispered: "He kissed my bosom."
"Oh!
" Charlotte frowned. "Was it nice?"
"Heavenly!"
"Well, well." Charlotte tried to picture Freddie kissing her bosom, and somehow she knew it would not be heavenly.
Mama walked past and said: "We're leaving, Charlotte."
Belinda said: "She looks cross."
Charlotte shrugged. "Nothing unusual in that."
"We're going to a coon show afterward--why don't you come with us?"
"What's a coon show?"
"Jazz. It's wonderful music."
"Mama wouldn't let me."
"Your mama is so old-fashioned."
"You're telling me! I'd better go."
"Bye."
Charlotte went down the stairs and got her wrap from the cloakroom. She felt as if two people were inhabiting her skin, like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. One of them smiled and made polite conversation and talked to Belinda about girlish matters; the other thought about kidnapping and treachery, and asked sly questions in an innocent tone of voice.
Without waiting for her parents she went outside and said to the footman: "The Earl of Walden's car."
A couple of minutes later the Lanchester pulled up at the curb. It was a warm evening, and Pritchard had the hood down. He got out of the car and held the door for Charlotte.
She said: "Pritchard, where is Prince Orlov?"
"It's supposed to be a secret, my lady."
"You can tell me."
"I'd rather you asked your papa, m'lady."
It was no good. She could not bully these servants who had known her as a baby. She gave up, and said: "You'd better go into the hall and tell them I'm waiting in the car."
"Very good, m'lady."
Charlotte sat back on the leather seat. She had asked the three people who might have known where Aleks was, and none of them would tell her. They did not trust her to keep the secret, and the maddening thing was that they were of course quite right. She still had not decided whether to help Feliks, however. Now, if she could not get the information he wanted, perhaps she would not have to make the agonizing decision. What a relief that would be.
She had arranged to meet Feliks the day after tomorrow, same place, same time. What would he say when she turned up empty-handed? Would he despise her for failing? No, he was not like that. He would be terribly disappointed. Perhaps he would be able to think of another way to find out where Aleks was. She could not wait to see him again. He was so interesting, and she learned so much from him, that the rest of her life seemed unbearably dull without him. Even the anxiety of this great dilemma into which he had thrown her was better than the boredom of choosing dresses for yet another day of empty social routine.
Papa and Mama got into the car and Pritchard drove off. Papa said: "What's the matter, Lydia? You look rather upset."
Mama looked at Charlotte. "What were you doing in the National Gallery this afternoon?"
Charlotte's heart missed a beat. She had been found out. Someone had spied on her. Now there would be trouble. Her hands started to shake and she held them together in her lap. "I was looking at pictures."
"You were with a man."
Papa said: "Oh, no. Charlotte, what is all this?"
"He's just somebody I met," Charlotte said. "You wouldn't approve of him."
"Of course we wouldn't approve!" Mama said. "He was wearing a tweed cap!"
Papa said: "A tweed cap! Who the devil is he?"
"He's a terribly interesting man, and he understands things--"
"And he holds your hand!" Mama interrupted.
Papa said sadly: "Charlotte, how vulgar! In the National Gallery!"
"There's no romance," Charlotte said. "You've nothing to fear."
"Nothing to fear?" Mama said with a brittle laugh. "That evil old Duchess knows all about it, and she'll tell everyone."
Papa said: "How could you do this to your mama?"
Charlotte could not speak. She was close to tears. She thought: I did nothing wrong, just held a conversation with someone who talks sense! How can they be so--so brutish? I hate them!
Papa said: "You'd better tell me who he is. I expect he can be paid off."
Charlotte shouted: "I should think he's one of the few people in the world who can't!"
"I suppose he's some Radical," Mama said. "No doubt it is he who has been filling your head with foolishness about suffragism. He probably wears sandals and eats potatoes with the skins on." She lost her temper. "He probably believes in Free Love! If you have--"
"No. I haven't," Charlotte said. "I told you, there's no romance." A tear rolled down her nose. "I'm not the romantic type."
"I don't believe you for a minute," Papa said disgustedly. "Nor will anyone else. Whether you realize it or not, this episode is a social catastrophe for all of us."
"We'd better put her in a convent!" Mama said hysterically, and she began to cry.
"I'm sure that won't be necessary," Papa said.
Mama shook her head. "I didn't mean it. I'm sorry to be so shrill, but I just get so worried . . ."
"However, she can't stay in London, after this."
"Certainly not."
The car pulled into the courtyard of their house. Mama dried her eyes so that the servants would not see her upset. Charlotte thought: And so they will stop me from seeing Feliks, and send me away, and lock me up. I wish now I had promised to help him, instead of hesitating and saying I would think about it. At least then he would know I'm on his side. Well, they won't win. I shan't live the life they have mapped out for me. I shan't marry Freddie and become Lady Chalfont and raise fat, complacent children. They can't keep me locked away forever. As soon as I'm twenty-one I'll go and work for Mrs. Pankhurst, and read books about anarchism, and start a rest home for unmarried mothers, and if I ever have children I will never, never tell them lies.
They went into the house. Papa said: "Come into the drawing room."
Pritchard followed them in. "Would you like some sandwiches, my lord?"
"Not just now. Leave us alone for a while, would you, Pritchard?"
Pritchard went out.
Papa made a brandy-and-soda and sipped it. "Think again, Charlotte," he said. "Will you tell us who this man is?"
She wanted to say: He's an anarchist who is trying to prevent your starting a war! But she merely shook her head.
"Then you must see," he said almost gently, "that we can't possibly trust you."
You could have, once, she thought bitterly, but not anymore.
Papa spoke to Mama. "She'll just have to go to the country for a month; it's the only way to keep her out of trouble. Then, after the Cowes Regatta, she can come to Scotland for the shooting." He sighed. "Perhaps she'll be more manageable by next season."
Mama said: "We'll send her to Walden Hall, then."
Charlotte thought: They're talking about me as if I weren't here.
Papa said: "I'm driving down to Norfolk in the morning, to see Aleks again. I'll take her with me."
Charlotte was stunned.
Aleks was at Walden Hall.
I never even thought of that!
Now I know!
"She'd better go up and pack," Mama said.
Charlotte stood up and went out, keeping her face down so that they should not see the light of triumph in her eyes.
TWELVE
At a quarter to three Feliks was in the lobby of the National Gallery. Charlotte would probably be late, like last time, but anyway he had nothing better to do.
He was nervy and restless, sick of waiting and sick of hiding. He had slept rough again the last two nights, once in Hyde Park and once under the arches at Charing Cross. During the day he had hidden in alleys and railway sidings and patches of waste ground, coming out only to get food. It reminded him of being on the run in Siberia, and the memory was unpleasant. Even now he kept moving, going from the lobby into the domed rooms, glancing at the pictures, and returning to the lobby to look for her. He watched the clock on the wall. At half past three she still had not come. She had g
ot involved in another dreadful luncheon party.
She would surely be able to find out where Orlov was. She was an ingenious girl, he was certain. Even if her father would not tell her straightforwardly, she would think of a way to discover the secret. Whether she would pass the information on was another matter. She was strong-willed, too.
He wished . . .
He wished a lot of things. He wished he had not deceived her. He wished he could find Orlov without her help. He wished human beings did not make themselves into princes and earls and kaisers and czars. He wished he had married Lydia and known Charlotte as a baby. He wished she would come: it was four o'clock.
Most of the paintings meant nothing to him: the sentimental religious scenes, the portraits of smug Dutch merchants in their lifeless homes. He liked Bronzino's Allegory, but only because it was so sensual. Art was an area of human experience which he had passed by. Perhaps one day Charlotte would lead him into the forest and show him the flowers. But it was unlikely. First, he would have to live through the next few days, and escape after killing Orlov. Even that much was not certain. Then he would have to retain Charlotte's affection despite having used her, lied to her and killed her cousin. That was close to impossible, but even if it happened he would have to find ways of seeing her while avoiding the police . . . No, there was not much chance he would know her after the assassination. He thought: Make the most of her now.
It was four-thirty.
She's not just late, he thought with a sinking heart: she is unable to come. I hope she's not in trouble with Walden. I hope she didn't take risks and get found out. I wish she would come running up the steps, out of breath and a little flushed, with her hat slightly awry and an anxious look on her pretty face, and say: "I'm terribly sorry to have made you wait about. I got involved in . . ."
The building seemed to be emptying out. Feliks wondered what to do next. He went outside and down the steps to the pavement. There was no sign of her. He went back up the steps and was stopped at the door by a commissionaire. "Too late, mate," the man said. "We're closing." Feliks turned away.
He could not wait about on the steps in the hope that she would come later, for he would be too conspicuous right here in Trafalgar Square. Anyway, she was now two hours late: she was not going to come.
She was not going to come.
Face it, he thought: she has decided to have nothing more to do with me, and quite sensibly. But would she not have come, if only to tell me that? She might have sent a note--