Gradually, I became aware that I wasn’t feeling very well. My heart seemed to race and I began to feel restless and uneasy. Reasoning that it was perhaps too much strong coffee, or delayed shock from the previous night’s traumatic events, I decided to go for a gentle walk and explore the garden and grounds.
At first I made good progress along the winding brick path, but, as I ventured deeper into the garden, I began to feel giddy and weak. To my left was a tall rose hedge and, behind this, offering a view of the lawns, was the small rose arbour I had found once before and, tottering slightly, I more or less collapsed on to the bench seat just inside.
I have always considered myself quite a healthy person, robust, and apart from the odd cold had never really been ill since moving to Paris. Soon to be twenty-three, I was at peak fitness, yet the uneasy fact remained that I had not felt well for some days – in fact, since coming to the House. Perhaps it was the food or, more likely, Serge’s home-made vodka – although I was beginning to think there might be something in the tea that disagreed with me.
It was a beautiful day: the sun shone directly on to my bench, the garden air was fresh and bracing, and the birds flitted about just for the hell of it. Spring was definitely sprung, but I still felt odd – a sort of uneasiness, a feeling of detachment accompanied by drowsiness. I thought again that the shock of Natalie’s frenzied attack was coming out in me. I determined to ignore my strange feelings and enjoy this beautiful day.
Eventually, however, the drowsiness must have overcome me, because I seemed to have drifted off.
Waking with a start, I sensed that I was no longer alone; facing me on the opposite bench sat a slim young lady in a crumpled white summer dress. Although I recognised her immediately as the girl I had seen before in the garden with her family in the distance, I could not prevent an involuntary start.
She seemed amused at this and fought to prevent her broad smile turning into a giggle.
I struggled to my feet, only half awake. ‘Mademoiselle…I’m sorry…’
‘Please to sit down. It is I who should show regret…’
Her French was slow and rather quaint. I sat down and we looked at each other in silence. She impressed me with her naturalness: no make-up, long hair tied back in a loose bun and a simple white summer dress, long and emphasising her slim frame. She could not have been more than eighteen or nineteen. Her oval face held striking blue-grey eyes set off by high, Slavic cheekbones. She smiled nervously, showing small white teeth with a charming slight gap in the front. For all this rather rustic appearance and plain clothing, there was something rather regal about her – a presence and a sort of unassuming confidence.
The silence became uncomfortable, and finally she leaned closer to me and I was aware suddenly of a fragrance that I recognised immediately because my grandmother used to wear it and my mother sent me a sample when I first came to France and asked me to find some for her; it was Jasmin de Corse by Coty, a most popular perfume of the early 1900s but, sadly, unavailable after 1930.
‘Monsieur…are you unwell?’
‘Not really, it’s just tiredness, I think.’
I tried to sound casual but I was really quite embarrassed, feeling oddly detached from my surroundings, as though I were observing the scene from somewhere else.
Suddenly she leaned closer and placed a cool dry hand on my forehead, seizing my wrist with her other hand, as if taking my pulse. It was all rather false, since she had no watch and missed my artery by at least an inch.
‘Are you a nurse?’ I asked, embarrassed and for want of anything else to say.
‘No, not really – though I have nursed soldiers in 1916 during the Great War…’ she added enthusiastically.
At the mention of the Great War, I began to have serious misgivings about my new companion’s state of mind. Was everyone in this House eccentric? Were they all living in the same time-warp?
She had now finished her pretence of diagnosing my ‘illness’ and was studying me closely.
‘You are not Russian, are you.’ It was a statement and not a question.
‘English,’ I stated flatly.
‘Oh, that’s wonderful! I speak English too, and German, but not as well as Russian and French.’
‘May I ask your name, in any of these languages?’
She smiled at me. ‘You really don’t know?’ There was incredulity in her voice.
I shook my head and started an excuse: ‘I’m new to this House –’
‘This House?’ She frowned for a moment, as though not understanding, and then announced grandly, ‘Tatiana Nicolaevna Romanova, second daughter to the Tsar of all the Russias.’
Now I was certain that I was dealing with a fantasist.
‘But you can call me Tanya, if we become friends, or even Tatianouchka; that’s what the family call me. And you?’
‘Nicholas,’ I said warily.
‘Do you prefer Nick or Nicky? It must be an honour for you to be named after my father…the Tsar, I mean.’
Charming and attractive as this girl was, I felt embarrassed at her evident confused mental state, and wondered whether she might be related to Natalya and share her inherited ‘malaise’. Before I could formulate an answer, however, she stood up.
‘Someone is coming. I must go. It was so nice to have met you, Nicholas. We must meet again.’
I rose and she gave me her hand. Feeling that I was now something of an old hand at this, I kissed it, clicked my heels and bowed in an old-fashioned way, expecting her to giggle. To my surprise, she remained serious, and took herself off quickly with what seemed like an air of practised ‘imperial’ aloofness, playing out her delusion to the end. Within four or five steps from the arbour, she had disappeared, leaving only the scent of Jasmin de Corse to mark her passing.
I sat down heavily, musing that, confined as it might be, life in this House was never dull. In just under one week, I’d been frightened half to death by the diva who was Madame Lili, stabbed by my pupil Princess Natalya, and subjected to the company of highly eccentric people who believed that they were living in an age fifty years earlier!
These thoughts were still in my mind when I heard Anya calling my name. She rounded the rose arbour and stood, blocking the sunlight, in front of me.
‘There you are, Nicholas! I’ve looked everywhere for you.’ She looked round, frowning. ‘I heard your voice; who were you talking to?’
‘Er…Tatiana.’
‘Who’s Tatiana?’
‘You know – the Tsar’s daughter.’
My attempt at levity misfired. Anya didn’t laugh; in fact, she barely suppressed her annoyance. ‘I’m not in the mood for jokes, Nicholas. Who was it?’
‘Tatiana…at least, that’s what she said! Calm down, Anya. We were only talking nonsense…’
‘There is no “Tatiana” here. Who was she? Don’t make me angry, Nico, I’m having a bad day.’
‘Look, Anya, I’m having a bad day too. I really don’t know who she was. She crept up here while I was dozing, told me I looked ill, and went through some pantomime about being a nurse in the “Great War”. Then she crowned that, if you’ll excuse the pun, by telling me that she was the second daughter of the Tsar – no, the “Tsar of all the Russias”. I don’t know any more about her – just another crackpot. You seem to have an endless supply of them around here.’
I regretted the remark as soon as I said it. Anya just glared at me. ‘Where did she go?’
I pointed to the left but Anya was already moving quickly towards the House. Moments later, she reappeared with Serge and the two of them quickly began to search the grounds, with something approaching panic.
I went back to the kitchen and sat down to watch Amélie as she prepared lunch. After a while, Serge and Anya returned, Anya looking angry and flustered. She came over and plonked herself down near me. Serge did the same on the other side and I could hear her taking deep breaths as she sought to contain her anger.
At last she calmed
down and even managed to smile at me, as you would humour a child you wanted to tell you a secret.
‘Now, Nicholas. This is very important. Are you sure you don’t know who she is?’ she wheedled.
‘No. Really. I just thought they must be neighbours or perhaps “inmates”…I mean, guests, here.’
The sarcasm went over her head. ‘They?’
‘Yes. The first time she was with her family; at least, I think that’s who they were.’
‘So you’ve seen her before?’
‘Yes, but only in the distance…last week…but this is the first time we’ve spoken…’
‘What did she speak to you? Was it Russian?’
‘French.’
I didn’t want to tell them I couldn’t speak Russian. Anya and Serge exchanged glances. I felt I had to say something.
‘Look, Anya, is there a problem here…er…with her? I mean, she was very charming but obviously quite mad – I mean, deluded.’
Anya forced an unconvincing smile. ‘No, no. It’s just that…the Grand Duchess doesn’t like trespassers. You must promise us, Nico, that you will tell me straight away if you see her again.’
I nodded vigorously. They both got up and went out, leaving me alone with Amélie, who, I’d noticed, had been listening to our conversation. She eyed me anxiously and then, wiping her hands on her apron, went over to a small wooden box on a shelf near the pantry, took something out and then came back.
‘Monsieur Nicholas, this is not of great value and it may not figure in your philosophy, but you would make me very happy if you were to wear it – all the time you are in this House.’
She held out a small ebony cross, the Russian Orthodox type, with two slanting cross-pieces; it was threaded on a leather bootlace.
‘Er, thank you, Amélie. That’s very kind.’
I felt embarrassed, but it was clear that she was waiting for me to put it on. She helped me fasten the leather thong. Then she sighed loudly, as if with relief. ‘Monsieur Nicholas, please to take care of yourself.’
She stared directly at me for a moment and then went back to preparing lunch.
Anya seemed her old self over dinner in the kitchen that night, and the earlier tense atmosphere was soon replaced by the cheerful anticipation of good food followed by one of Sergei’s ‘soirées’.
About mid-evening, Agnès was called away by the bell from Madame Lili’s room, and returned a few moments later to tell me that Madame Lili awaited me in the library.
In spite of her profession of friendship, I was still very wary of Madame Lili and her motives, and I approached the library with no little trepidation.
Beautiful as ever, Madame Lili was in a somewhat subdued mood. There was no effusive greeting and no exuberant exhortation to come to a séance, not even a dark warning about not believing; none of that. She forced a smile at me and then asked the same questions that I had already answered for Anya. I cast about desperately in my mind for something to say in answer, but all I could think of to tell Madame Lili was that I had identified the perfume she had worn. By now, I was beginning to wonder why my young and deluded new friend Tatiana (if that was really her name) had the ability to cause widespread dismay, even panic, in this staid and conservative community. No explanation was forthcoming, however, and again I was made to promise to report any future sightings as soon as possible. Then I was dismissed after the obligatory glass of tea.
Natalie’s break-in the previous night had unnerved me more than I liked to admit, and I checked that all my doors were locked before blowing out the lamp. Tired as I was, sleep still came reluctantly to me, and was full of weird intrusions. ‘Tatiana’ flitted in and out of my dreams, sometimes as a nurse fussing around me and sometimes as a cold Imperial Majesty, disdainfully dismissing me. When I woke the next day, I felt tired and exhausted, and made a vow to keep off the Russian tea, especially at night.
CHAPTER 6
Osculation
‘And I find more bitter than death the woman whose heart is snares…’
ECCLESIASTES 7:26
In spite of all these weird goings-on, I was starting to feel that I was now part of the household; that somehow, grudgingly, the House was beginning to accept me and I would soon become one of the denizens of its dark corridors, splendid suites and warm, oil-lamp-lit rooms. Even the huge bathroom with its rusty pipes, massive iron bath and acres of cracked white tiles and porcelain basins and bowls was becoming acceptable, though it steamed up within minutes of running the clanking hot water system. The trick was to shave in the mirror before running the bath!
So I was feeling quite at home and, though the House still had its sinister places and harboured people who were, in the nicest interpretation, highly eccentric, it was the only fixed abode that I’d had for a long time, and the luxury of what really amounted to a small flat with ‘staff’ to look after me. Wearing smart clothes was also becoming second nature and, of course, there was plenty of time to study.
The only real downside was being unable to leave, even for a few hours, to go into central Paris, talk to my friends. But you can’t have everything, can you?
My nicest surprise the next day was learning from Anya that Natalie was well enough to come to classes in the afternoon. I’d missed her much more than I liked to admit, and I was not angry with her, in the light of Anya’s explanation for her attack on me. Actually, I thought it had given me a slight advantage. I mean, it was rather flattering that she felt we had a ‘special’ relationship, and also a little worrying that she seemed to be so obsessive about it. It seemed obvious to me that I should take great care over our future pupil/teacher relationship and certainly not give way to any feelings that I might have been starting to develop for her. Strictly business from now on, I decided, and wondered if she would express any regret for her actions. A royal apology would have been a first for me.
As two o’clock approached, I started to feel a little apprehensive. Images of Natalya being dragged away by Dr Voikin flooded back into my mind. Her pale face and bloodless lips, blue-grey eyes circled by dark lines – they would stay with me forever, etched into my mind by the shock I had received. Until that night, I hadn’t realised how ill she was, hadn’t understood how devastating her affliction could be.
A slight tapping on the schoolroom door brought me back to the present, and I hastened to let the Princess in, unsure what to expect.
I stood back in amazement at the image before me.
Natalya, dressed in a tight-fitting light grey two-piece suit, strode into the room amidst a gust of heavy perfume. Her eyes were bright and clear and she now had some colour in her face. Her short blonde hair hung like a golden curtain on one side of her face, almost concealing one eye, and, as she turned to face me, a dazzling white smile showed off her lovely teeth, clenched together slightly – a habit I had noticed also in Madame Lili. I supposed that gestures were easily picked up when people lived together for a long time and in such proximity.
If I had expected some sort of apology for the events of the night before last, I would have been disappointed. As it was, she took my breath away. Any connection between this elegant, strikingly beautiful young woman and the frightened, bedraggled child who had so recently attacked me would be impossible to conceive.
‘Good afternoon, Monsieur Nicholas.’ She smiled at me again with no hint of embarrassment.
‘Good afternoon, Natalya,’ I stuttered, still unsure how to address her.
She stepped closer and looked me straight in the eye. ‘I have been so much anticipating the pleasure of your company for this lesson.’
Her English was impressive. She had obviously been practising her pronunciation.
‘So have I…er…Natalie.’
It sounded stilted and formal. I didn’t want to give the impression that I was in any way resentful of the other night.
She moved over to a chair and sat down, crossing her legs in a ladylike way, and I noticed, for the first time that she was wearing mode
rn shoes.
She had chosen – deliberately, I thought – a seat in direct sunlight from the tall front windows and was as though in a spotlight, emphasising the beautiful symmetry of her classic features. She sat there, tall and slim, perched on the front edge of the chair, and looked up at me, still smiling, revealing the graceful curve of her neck.
She looked down at the floor for a long moment and when she looked up again her lips were parted and I could see the pink tip of her tongue poking slightly between her teeth. Then she tilted her head down, as if to study the book she was holding, but really to turn her eyes up at me, looking through half-closed eyelashes. It was a fascinating if somewhat naïve display, and it was not lost on me. She was flirting with me, in the most obvious way!
Perhaps I should have put a stop to it there and then, re-established the respect of the pupil/teacher relationship firmly and politely. But I did not. I was flattered and intrigued, and so I allowed her to continue, while pretending to ignore it. Hindsight is a wonderful thing.
‘What’s your book, Natalie?’
‘Oh, it is an English novel of the Victorians. I have been, how you say…listing the vocabulary that I did not understand, to ask you to explain it to me.’
Her English accent was really very good and I knew I couldn’t take credit for that, after such a short time. I wondered who my predecessor might have been.
There followed a brief discussion about the various pronunciations of words ending in ‘-ough’ and Natalie laughed at the complexity of it and my obvious inability to explain it or provide a grammatical rule for her to follow.
‘You just have to learn as you go along,’ I told her, lamely.
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