by Ken Follett
Her head cleared. "A little tired, after the journey," she said. "Take my arm."
The maid took her arm and together they walked upstairs to Lydia's room. Another maid was already unpacking Lydia's cases. There was hot water ready for her in the dressing room. Lydia sat down. "Leave me now, you two," she said. "Unpack later."
The maids went out. Lydia unbuttoned her coat but did not have the energy to take it off. She thought about Charlotte's mood. It had been almost vivacious, even though there was obviously a lot on her mind. Lydia understood that; she recognized it; she had sometimes felt that way. It was the mood you were in when you had spent time with Feliks. You felt that life was endlessly fascinating and surprising, that there were important things to be done, that the world was full of color and passion and change. Charlotte had seen Feliks, and she believed him to be safe.
Lydia thought: What am I going to do?
Wearily, she took off her clothes. She spent time washing and dressing again, taking the opportunity to calm herself. She wondered how Charlotte felt about Feliks's being her father. She obviously liked him very much. People do, Lydia thought; people love him. Where had Charlotte got the strength to hear such news without collapsing?
Lydia decided she had better take care of the housekeeping. She looked in the mirror and composed her face; then she went out. On the way downstairs she met a maid with a tray laden with sliced ham, scrambled eggs, fresh bread, milk, coffee and grapes. "Who is that for?" she asked.
"For Lady Charlotte, m'lady," said the maid.
Lydia passed on. Had Charlotte not even lost her appetite? She went into the morning room and sent for Cook. Mrs. Rowse was a thin, nervous woman who never ate the kind of rich food she prepared for her employers. She said: "I understand Mr. Thomson will be arriving for lunch, m'lady, and Mr. Churchill also for dinner." Lydia discussed the menus with her, then sent her away. Why on earth was Charlotte having such a massive breakfast in her room? she wondered. And so late! In the country Charlotte was normally up early and had finished breakfast before Lydia surfaced.
She sent for Pritchard and made the table plan with him. Pritchard told her that Aleks was having all his meals in his room until further notice. It made little difference to the table plan: they still had too many men, and in the present situation Lydia could hardly invite people to make up the right numbers. She did the best she could, then sent Pritchard away.
Where had Charlotte seen Feliks? And why was she confident that he would not be caught? Had she found him a hiding place? Was he in some impenetrable disguise?
She moved around the room, looking at the pictures, the little bronzes, the glass ornaments, the writing desk. She had a headache. She began to rearrange the flowers in a big vase by the window, and knocked over the vase. She rang for someone to clear up the mess, then left the room.
Her nerves were very bad. She contemplated taking some laudanum. These days it did not help her as much as it used to.
What will Charlotte do now? Will she keep the secret? Why don't children talk to one?
She went along to the library with the vague idea of getting a book to take her mind off everything. When she walked in she gave a guilty start on seeing that Stephen was there, at his desk. He looked up at her as she entered, smiled in a welcoming way, and went on writing.
Lydia wandered along the bookshelves. She wondered whether to read the Bible. There had been a great deal of Bible-reading in her childhood, and family prayers and much churchgoing. She had had stern nurses who were keen on the horrors of Hell and the penalties of uncleanliness, and a Lutheran German governess who talked a great deal about sin. But since Lydia had committed fornication and brought retribution upon herself and her daughter, she had never been able to take any consolation from religion. I should have gone into that convent, she thought, and put myself right with God; my father's instinct was correct.
She took a book at random and sat down with it open on her lap. Stephen said: "That's an unusual choice for you." He could not read the title from where he was sitting, but he knew where all the authors were placed on the shelves. He read so many books. Lydia did not know how he found the time. She looked at the spine of the book she was holding. It was Thomas Hardy's Wessex Poems. She did not like Hardy: did not like those determined, passionate women nor the strong men whom they made helpless.
They had often sat like this, she and Stephen, especially when they first came to Walden Hall. She recalled nostalgically how she would sit and read while he worked. He had been less tranquil in those days, she remembered: he used to say that nobody could make money out of agriculture anymore, and that if this family were to continue to be rich and powerful it would have to get ready for the twentieth century. He had sold off some farms at that time, many thousands of acres at very low prices: then he had put the money into railroads and banks and London property. The plan must have worked, for he soon stopped looking worried.
It was after the birth of Charlotte that everything seemed to settle down. The servants adored the baby and loved Lydia for producing her. Lydia got used to English ways and was well liked by London society. There had been eighteen years of tranquillity.
Lydia sighed. Those years were coming to an end. For a while she had buried the secrets so successfully that they tormented nobody but her, and even she had been able to forget them at times; but now they were coming out. She had thought that London was at a safe distance from St. Petersburg, but perhaps California would have been a better choice; or it might be that nowhere was far enough. The time of peace was over. It was all falling apart. What would happen now?
She looked down at the open page, and read:
She would have given a world to breathe "yes" truly,
So much his life seemed hanging on her mind,
And hence she lied, her heart persuaded throughly
'Twas worth her soul to be a moment kind.
Is that me? she wondered. Did I give my soul when I married Stephen in order to save Feliks from incarceration in the Fortress of St. Peter and St. Paul? Ever since then I've been playing a part, pretending I'm not a wanton, sinful, brazen whore. But I am! And I'm not the only one. Other women feel the same. Why else would the Viscountess and Charlie Stott want adjoining bedrooms? And why would Lady Girard tell me about them with a wink, if she did not understand how they felt? If I had been just a little wanton, perhaps Stephen would have come to my bed more often, and we might have had a son. She sighed again.
"Penny for 'em," Stephen said.
"What?"
"A penny for your thoughts."
Lydia smiled. "Will I never stop learning English expressions? I've never heard that one."
"Nobody ever stops learning. It means tell me what you're thinking."
"I was thinking about Walden Hall going to George's son when you die."
"Unless we have a son."
She looked at his face: the bright blue eyes, the neat gray beard. He was wearing a blue tie with white spots.
He said: "Is it too late?"
"I don't know," she said, thinking: That depends on what Charlotte does next.
"Do let's keep trying," he said.
This was an unusually frank conversation: Stephen had sensed that she was in a mood to be candid. She got up from her chair and went over to stand beside him. He had a bald spot on the back of his head, she noticed. How long had that been there? "Yes," she said, "let's keep trying." She bent down and kissed his forehead; then, on impulse, she kissed his lips. He closed his eyes.
After a moment she broke away. He looked a little embarrassed: they rarely did this sort of thing during the day, for there were always so many servants about. She thought: Why do we live the way we do, if it doesn't make us happy? She said: "I do love you."
He smiled. "I know you do."
Suddenly she could stand it no longer. She said: "I must go and change for lunch before Basil Thomson arrives."
He nodded.
She felt his eyes following her as
she left the room. She went upstairs, wondering whether there might still be a chance that she and Stephen could be happy.
She went into her bedroom. She was still carrying the book of poems. She put it down. Charlotte held the key to all this. Lydia had to talk to her. One could say difficult things, after all, if one had the courage; and what now was left to lose? Without having a clear idea of what she would say, she headed for Charlotte's room on the next floor.
Her footsteps made no noise on the carpet. She reached the top of the staircase and looked along the corridor. She saw Charlotte disappearing into the old nursery. She was about to call out, then stopped herself. What had Charlotte been carrying? It had looked very much like a plate of sandwiches and a glass of milk.
Puzzled, Lydia went along to Charlotte's bedroom. There on the table was the tray Lydia had seen the maid carrying. All the ham and all the bread had gone. Why would Charlotte order a tray of food, then make sandwiches of it and eat it in the nursery? There was nothing in the nursery, as far as Lydia knew, except furniture covered with dust sheets. Was Charlotte so anxious that she needed to retreat into the cosy world of childhood?
Lydia decided to find out. She felt uneasy about interrupting Charlotte's private ritual, whatever it was; but then she thought: It's my house, she's my daughter, and perhaps I ought to know. And it might create a moment of intimacy, and help me say what I need to say. So she left Charlotte's bedroom and went along the corridor and into the nursery.
Charlotte was not there.
Lydia looked around. There was the old rocking horse, his ears making twin peaks in the dust sheet. Through an open door she could see the schoolroom, with maps and childish drawings on the wall. Another door led to the bedroom: that, too, was empty but for shrouds. Will all this ever be used again? Lydia wondered. Will we have nurses, and diapers, and tiny, tiny clothes; and a nanny, and toy soldiers, and exercise books filled with clumsy handwriting and ink blots?
But where was Charlotte?
The closet door was open. Suddenly Lydia remembered: of course! Charlotte's hideaway! The little room she thought no one else knew of, where she used to go when she had been naughty. She had furnished it herself, with bits and pieces from around the house, and everyone had pretended not to know how certain things had disappeared. One of the few indulgent decisions Lydia had made was to allow Charlotte her hideaway, and to forbid Marya to "discover" it; for Lydia herself hid away sometimes, in the flower room, and she knew how important it was to have a place of your own.
So Charlotte still used that little room! Lydia moved closer, more reluctant now to disturb Charlotte's privacy, but tempted all the same. No, she thought; I'll leave her be.
Then she heard voices.
Was Charlotte talking to herself?
Lydia listened carefully.
Talking to herself in Russian?
Then there was another voice, a man's voice, replying in Russian, in low tones: a voice like a caress, a voice which sent a sexual shudder through Lydia's body.
Feliks was in there.
Lydia thought she would faint. Feliks! Within touching distance! Hidden, in Walden Hall, while the police searched the county for him! Hidden by Charlotte.
I mustn't scream!
She put her fist to her mouth and bit herself. She was shaking.
I must get away. I can't think straight. I don't know what to do.
Her head ached horribly. I need a dose of laudanum, she thought. That prospect gave her strength. She controlled her trembling. After a moment she tiptoed out of the nursery.
She almost ran along the corridor and down the stairs to her room. The laudanum was in the dresser. She opened the bottle. She could not hold the spoon steady, so she took a gulp directly from the bottle. After a few moments she began to feel calmer. She put the bottle and the spoon away and closed the drawer. A feeling of mild contentment began to come over her as her nerves settled down. Her head ached less. Nothing would really matter now for a while. She went to her wardrobe and opened the door. She stood staring at the rows of dresses, totally unable to make up her mind what to wear for lunch.
Feliks paced the tiny room like a caged tiger, three steps each way, bending his head to avoid the ceiling, listening to Charlotte.
"Aleks's door is always locked," she said. "There are two armed guards inside and one outside. The inside ones won't unlock the door unless their colleague outside tells them to."
"One outside, and two inside." Feliks scratched his head and cursed in Russian. Difficulties, there are always difficulties, he thought. Here I am, right in the house, with an accomplice in the household, and still it isn't easy. Why shouldn't I have the luck of those boys in Sarajevo? Why did it have to turn out that I'm a part of this family? He looked at Charlotte and thought: Not that I regret it.
She caught his look, and said: "What?"
"Nothing. Whatever happens, I'm glad I found you."
"Me too. But what are you going to do about Aleks?"
"Could you draw a plan of the house?"
Charlotte made a face. "I can try."
"You must know it--you've lived here all your life."
"Well, I know this part, of course--but there are bits of the house I've never been in. The butler's bedroom, the housekeeper's rooms, the cellars, the place over the kitchens where they store flour and things . . ."
"Do your best. One plan for each floor."
She found a piece of paper and a pencil among her childish treasures and knelt at the little table.
Feliks ate another sandwich and drank the rest of the milk. She had taken a long time to bring him the food because the maids had been working in her corridor. As he ate he watched her draw, frowning and biting the end of her pencil. At one point she said: "One doesn't realize how difficult this is until one tries it." She found an eraser among her old crayons and used it frequently. Feliks noticed that she was able to draw perfectly straight lines without using a rule. He found the sight of her like this very touching. So she must have sat, he thought, for years in the schoolroom, drawing houses, then Mama and "Papa," and later the map of Europe, the leaves of the English trees, the park in winter . . . Walden must have seen her like this many times.
"Why have you changed your clothes?" Feliks asked.
"Oh, everybody has to change all the time here. Every hour of the day has its appropriate clothes, you see. You must show your shoulders at dinnertime but not at lunch. You must wear a corset for dinner but not for tea. You can't wear an indoor gown outside. You can wear woolen stockings in the library but not in the morning room. You can't imagine the rules I have to remember."
He nodded. He was no longer capable of being surprised by the degeneracy of the ruling class.
She handed him her sketches, and he became businesslike again. He studied them. "Where are the guns kept?" he said.
She touched his arm. "Don't be so abrupt," she said. "I'm on your side--remember?"
Suddenly she was grown-up again. Feliks smiled ruefully. "I had forgotten," he said.
"The guns are kept in the gun room." She pointed it out on the plan. "You really did have an affair with Mama."
"Yes."
"I find it so hard to believe that she would do such a thing."
"She was very wild, then. She still is, but she pretends otherwise."
"You really think she's still like that?"
"I know it."
"Everything, everything turns out to be different from how I thought it was."
"That's called growing up."
She was pensive. "What should I call you, I wonder."
"What do you mean?"
"I should feel very strange, calling you Father."
"Feliks will do for now. You need time to get used to the idea of me as your father."
"Shall I have time?"
Her young face was so grave that he held her hand. "Why not?"
"What will you do when you have Aleks?"
He looked away so that she should not see
the guilt in his eyes. "That depends just how and when I kidnap him, but most likely I'll keep him tied up right here. You'll have to bring us food, and you'll have to send a telegram to my friends in Geneva, in code, telling them what has happened. Then, when the news has achieved what we want it to achieve, we'll let Orlov go."
"And then?"
"They will look for me in London, so I'll go north. There seem to be some big towns--Birmingham, Manchester, Hull--where I could lose myself. After a few weeks I'll make my way back to Switzerland, then eventually to St. Petersburg--that's the place to be, that's where the revolution will start."
"So I'll never see you again."
You won't want to, he thought. He said: "Why not? I may come back to London. You may go to St. Petersburg. We might meet in Paris. Who can tell? If there is such a thing as Fate, it seems determined to bring us together." I wish I could believe this. I wish I could.
"That's true," she said with a brittle smile, and he saw that she did not believe it either. She got to her feet. "Now I must get you some water to wash in."
"Don't bother. I've been a good deal dirtier than this. I don't mind."
"But I do. You smell awful. I'll be back in a minute."
With that she went out.
It was the dreariest luncheon Walden could remember in years. Lydia was in some kind of daze. teristically nervy, dropping her cutlery and knocking over a glass. Thomson was taciturn. Sir Arthur Langley attempted to be convivial but nobody responded. Walden himself was withdrawn, obsessed by the puzzle of how Feliks had found out that Aleks was at Walden Hall. He was tortured by the ugly suspicion that it had something to do with Lydia. After all, Lydia had told Feliks that Aleks was at the Savoy Hotel; and she had admitted that Feliks was "vaguely familiar" from St. Petersburg days. Could it be that Feliks had some kind of hold on her? She had been behaving oddly, as if distracted, all summer. And now, as he thought about Lydia in a detached way for the first time in nineteen years, he admitted to himself that she was sexually lukewarm. Of course, well-bred women were supposed to be like that; but he knew perfectly well that this was a polite fiction, and that women generally suffered the same longings as men. Was it that Lydia longed for someone else, someone from her past? That would explain all sorts of things which until now had not seemed to need explanation. It was perfectly horrible, he found, to look at his lifetime companion and see a stranger.