If I Had You

by Heather Hiestand

  “So much for his help,” Vera said as she took off her gloves and coat and tossed them onto a bench. Quietly, Alicia picked them up and hung the coat on a peg next to an old wool sweater. She tucked the gloves into the coat pockets.

  “A dying woman is more important than you,” Ivan snapped.

  Alecia looked at both of them in turn. “I’ll start some breakfast. No coffee in this house, but strong tea, eggs, and plenty of toast.”

  “We’ll help,” Ivan said.

  “Why don’t you take turns in the bath while I prepare the food? I know the kitchen,” she suggested.

  Ivan nodded and pointed upstairs. Vera followed him as he went up. “No more than ten minutes in the bath,” he told her, pointing at a closed door. “That’s Alecia’s room. You can find something clean to wear. I’m sure she won’t mind.”

  Vera glared at him and went into the bathroom.

  The vicar was gone for three hours. At a little after seven A.M. he returned, his age showing in the deep grooves down the sides of his mouth. Alecia immediately fixed him tea and toast, then fried eggs and potatoes.

  Ivan kept Vera in the parlor. She had curled up on the sofa by the fire and gone to sleep like a cat. He suspected she was trying to avoid all of them. Perhaps she was avoiding herself as well.

  The vicar came into the parlor after he ate, trailed by Alecia with a large green teapot on a tray. He sat down in a rocking chair and said, “What’s all this, then?”

  “Vera may or may not be a fugitive from justice. My friend is attempting to persuade the police to lose interest in her in favor of locating a dangerous Bolshevik instead.”

  “Will your friend call here and let us know?”

  “We didn’t tell him exactly where we were going.”

  “Probably wise,” the vicar said equably, turning his head to Vera. “Tell me, Miss Salter.”

  “Saltykova,” Alecia corrected as she poured tea for everyone. “Vera uses their Russian name.”

  “Miss Saltykova.” He took a steaming cup from Alecia. “What are your plans?”

  Ivan poked his sister in the arm. “Stop faking sleep,” he said in Russian. “I know you are.”

  She blinked sleepily at him. He bared his teeth at her. “What about Sergei?”

  “We are no longer going to marry,” she said softly.

  “Why? Because he is going to prison?”

  “I wanted Georgy dead. He killed Mama and Papa, Ivan, just as if he used the gun himself.” A little of her old fire showed.

  “He was afraid for his own life,” Ivan said. “Our parents were his ticket to safety, as much as there is in Russia these days. He has no morals, but he acted to save himself.”

  “What about Catherine?” Vera cried, wringing her hands.

  “She played the same dangerous game you did, and paid for it with her life.”

  Vera shook her head. “I am not a revolutionary. I wanted revenge for our parents. I wanted blood for blood.”

  “When has blood for blood solved anything? Not to mention mixing yourself up with revolutionaries and Bolsheviks in this peaceful country.” Ivan stared down at the cup cradled in his hands.

  “It went too far,” Vera admitted. “That Pavel. I think he lied to us all along about who he was. He was a plant. A Bolshevik plant. We meant to give Ovolensky to Konstantin and almost gave him a dozen British politicians and their wives.”

  The vicar put a finger to his chin. “This man was responsible for the deaths of your parents?”

  “There is no doubt about that,” Ivan said, that old feeling of sickness and dread ghosting through his stomach as he thought of those days. “Indeed, I was afraid he might do something to us, if he discovered us in London. But when he did see me, last night, while his dislike was clear, he didn’t seem to have any agenda.”

  “It might be different in Russia,” the vicar mused. “Did he want anything your family had?”

  “At the time, seven years ago, yes. But the new government had informers everywhere. It was terrible. People informing on their neighbors.” Ivan glanced over at Alecia, who shook her head in sympathy. In peaceful Bagshot, she’d had such a different kind of life.

  “Was your cousin any worse than anyone else?”

  “Of course. He lied. People died,” Ivan said.

  The vicar nodded. “Yet here you are, you and your sister, in a free society, earning your bread with dignity. Meanwhile, this man may have material wealth, but he is imprisoned by the same society, the same politics, that made him betray his own family in order to stay alive.”

  Vera jutted her chin. “He is still living off his thirty pieces of silver.”

  “That does not make him happy,” the vicar said. “If he is willing to let you go, you should let him go as well. Let your parents and your sister rest. They would not want you to suffer. Jesus counseled us to turn the other cheek, and this is what you must do.”

  “But he is a murderer,” Vera protested.

  “And so you almost became one yourself,” the vicar said gently.

  Tears sprung into Vera’s eyes. “Sergei didn’t leave Russia until 1920. He said Georgy had moved into my father’s house. He’d sold our books, burned our family photographs. He obliterated the Saltykovs.”

  “Evil is real,” the vicar said, setting his cup aside. “I don’t deny it. But you cannot allow it to touch you. You have to make your peace with the past.”

  Ivan had always thought Vera was the power in her relationship with Sergei. In Russia, women were considered stronger than men, a thought that seemed foreign to the British. Was it possible that he’d misunderstood, that Sergei had been the one driving this situation? He asked a question he’d never considered until now. “What did Georgy do to the Bakunins?”

  Vera turned to him, her face wan and tearstained. “He informed on Sergei’s brother-in-law. His sister was in an advanced state of pregnancy.”

  Ivan closed his eyes. He’d heard none of this. “What happened?”

  “The brother-in-law was jailed. Sergei’s sister went into early labor and her baby died. Sergei said she went mad. I don’t know what happened after that.”

  Alecia spoke up. “Why not?”

  “That’s when Sergei’s parents insisted he leave.”

  “He was old enough to be in the war,” Ivan said. “I never understood why he wasn’t a soldier.”

  Vera sniffed and shifted in her seat. Her eyes were red rimmed. “You know he wears glasses. He can’t see well enough to be a soldier.”

  The vicar took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “When he was twenty-six, his parents told him to flee, in order to prevent him being informed on too?”

  “He was a White, along with his brother-in-law.”

  “So there was a reason behind your cousin informing,” the vicar said.

  “Yes, of course,” Vera whispered. “I just wanted Georgy dead, but Sergei wanted the government overthrown too. Any little bit of damage he could do to the Bolsheviks. If only he hadn’t let Pavel bring Konstantin into our little group.”

  “I’m sorry, Vera,” Ivan said. He’d misunderstood Sergei completely. “When Sergei turned up in London, I never thought he would do us harm. But you must think for yourself. Revenge made you foolish.”

  “It was exciting to edit their pamphlets,” Vera admitted. “And cook for them while they discussed Mother Russia.”

  “Mother Russia has been nothing but a disappointment,” Ivan said. He found Vera’s words rather simplistic and disingenuous, but she’d given him more information than he could easily take in. “First, it took our brother, then our sister, then our parents and our home. I am happy to be here.”

  “I know you are,” Vera said. “But I do not belong. I can’t make a living. I can’t find a decent husband. I’m almost thirty. Everything that happened has ruined my life.” She put her face into her hands and began to sob.

  “Are you really done with Russia?” Alecia asked.

  “I am British now,
” Ivan said. “Whatever Vera decides. I am going to marry you and make my life here.”

  The vicar glanced between Ivan and Vera. “Do you know anyone in Paris? I understand there is a large Russian community there.”

  “Every cab driver in Paris is from Moscow,” Ivan said. “So they say. We know a couple hundred people there.”

  The vicar took a packet of papers from his pocket. “Mrs. Johns’s husband lent me her papers. Miss Saltykova can leave today under her name. Go to your friends in Paris, and stay until you know the police have cleared you.”

  “That’s very generous of the Johns family, especially in their time of suffering,” Ivan said, taking the papers.

  “Are you certain?” Alecia asked her grandfather. “Won’t this put you at risk?”

  “We have to assume your friend won his argument with the police and that Miss Saltykova will be able to return soon. Make sure your brother knows how to contact you.”

  Vera put down her hands and nodded, her face still wet with tears.

  “There’s money for a train ticket and for passage to France. Ivan can drive you to the train station when he returns to London.”

  “I need to return too, to see if I still have a position,” Alecia said.

  “Then you should go,” the vicar said. “Don’t go anyplace where the police can find you until Miss Saltykova is safely out of Dover, on her way to Calais.” He turned to Vera. “In return, miss, I expect you to spend a great deal of time in prayer and reflection about these matters.”

  Epilogue

  The pea-soup fog outside didn’t diminish the radiance of Alecia’s thoughts as she took her place beside Ivan in her grandfather’s church. Her sister, Sadie, straightened their mother’s gold cross necklace, which Alecia wore for good luck, and kissed her cheek before taking her place with the other guests. While Alecia wished Ivan’s sister could also be there to support them at their wedding, Vera had decided to remain in Paris. Nonetheless, Alecia and Ivan had decided they didn’t want to wait any longer to start their lives together. The month since Vera had departed had felt like a thousand years, with Ivan at Mr. Grinberg’s flat and Alecia with the Plashes. Once she was free of her duty to the Plashes, her grandfather had offered to buy them a license and marry them right away. They’d been thrilled to agree.

  Peter Eyre walked into the church and strode directly up to them, smiling genially. “Congratulations!”

  “We aren’t married yet, sir,” Ivan said. “The vicar was called away by his secretary.”

  “That gives us a moment. I had a question for you. Where does the new Salter family plan to reside?”

  “My friend Boris is going to stay elsewhere for a few days and gift us with his flat,” Ivan said, shaking his manager’s hand. “Thank you, sir, for coming to our wedding.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it,” Eyre said with a wink. “You are the Grand Russe’s first happy couple, you know. And since you are our new head of hotel security, Ivan, I would like to offer you a suite at the hotel. We’re about to open the tenth floor as an employee dormitory. All the department heads will have suites there.”

  Alecia couldn’t believe their luck. Her night watchman could give her the glamorous life after all. She clasped her hands together. “Not only did we find each other at the Grand Russe, now we’ll be able to enjoy our married lives there. It’s perfect.”

  Ivan nodded. “Thank you, sir, and I appreciate you offering my wife a position.”

  “It’s too bad about Mrs. Plash,” Eyre said, transferring his gaze to Alecia. “But at least you made her last few weeks a bit more comfortable.”

  “Poor thing.” Alecia sighed. “I worry about her daughter.”

  Eyre didn’t seem to hear her. “Ah, here’s the vicar now.”

  Ivan took Alecia’s hands in his, smiling warmly into her eyes. She forgot about everything but him. He looked so handsome in his new suit, his hair neatly trimmed, his tie perfectly knotted, the picture of an English gentleman. She finally had a dress for day that didn’t look like a sack, one she’d sewn with Emmeline Plash during long hours in her flat. Emmeline had quite a talent for dress design.

  “I love you,” she whispered to Ivan. She’d learned the words in Russian, but now that she knew how firmly committed he was to being British, she’d decided to terminate her language studies. They would move forward together, bound in marriage as Salters, not Saltykovs, solid British citizens.

  “And I love you, my dearest,” he said. He’d ceased calling her myshka recently. Sometimes she missed it, but his new endearment for her made her warm inside. She really was his dearest, and nothing could make her happier than planning their life together.

  Find out what happened to Sadie in I Wanna Be Loved by You, the next Grand Russe Hotel romance, coming in February 2017!

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  Chapter One

  Outside London, afternoon, January 9, 1925

  Sadie Loudon pressed her hands down the sides of her slightly too short uniform skirt when she saw Mrs. Curtis. She’d shortened it to make it saucier, but the above-calf length created problems when she had to bend over. January was no time to have a breeze snaking up her bare thighs. However, the increased tips in this seedy inn where she was a new chambermaid more than made up for the discomfort.

  “Clean up that mess in the lobby, ducks,” the housekeeper said, brushing frizzy locks of graying hair behind her ears. “We’ll run off our customers.”

  Sadie clucked her tongue when she saw the pile of paper in the middle of the small hotel lobby. “Who dumped a pile of rubbish there?”

  Mrs. Curtis sighed. “No idea. We’re too close to the Richmond train station for comfort.”

  Sadie set down her mop and bucket in the corner and went to pick up the papers. Her shoes crunched on a broken tile in the checkerboard pattern as she walked across the floor. She looked back to see Mrs. Curtis wincing at the noise.

  As she picked up the first piece of cheap paper, the headline, in large, heavy type, stood out: UNITE THE WORKERS! She scanned the text: “Not a penny off the workers’ wages, not a penny tax on food!”

  None of it meant much to her. She had only started her first proper, paying job on Monday. No paycheck had been issued to her yet. As far as she was concerned, these labor unions trying to create unrest were merely creating labor for her.

  “I’ll be sorting out the reading room,” Mrs. Curtis called. “Have a tidy in room 301 when you’re done in here. They just went to tea.”

  Sadie made a face at the floor. Dreadful 301 and their nasty poodles. She hated that foul-smelling room. It took four times longer to clean than any of the others. She clenched her fist, ruffling the leaflets, then bent to gather up the rest.

  She heard a slam behind her, as if a guest had opened the upstairs door in a rush. Someone hurtled down the steps. She glanced up to see a bearded man in gray trousers, a baggy black coat, and a Russian budenovka hat barreling toward her. Dropping the leaflets, she attempted to stand.

  The running man crashed into her. She fell backwards, instinctively cradling her head. Her back hit the tile, legs going up in the air. Pain radiated through her skull and hands. She was too startled to do anything but pant.

  More noise on the stairs. More crunching on the tiles. The front door banged open. Steps slowed. Another man looked down at her, this one in a slim, hand-tailored, pinstriped suit. His bowed lips curled when he saw her silver tap pants, exposed by the skirt hovering somewhere around her waist. He was clean shaven and rather young, with gray-blue eyes that regarded her dispassionately, despite the smile.

  Sadie pulled her knees together and dropped her feet to the ground. “Help me up!” she begged, cautiously letting go of her head.

  The man narrowed his eyes, then glanced toward the door. Without looking back, he ran after the bearded man, his highly polished oxfords gleaming from her floor-level vantage point. He pushed through
the door, coatless, running into the cold after his quarry.

  Slowly, she put her hands to the tiles and pushed herself up. Her back ached and her head spun. “Well, I like that,” she muttered. “Such cheek.” She pushed her skirt down and stared uneasily at the leaflets.

  Bolsheviks were labor agitators, weren’t they? And that first man was clearly a Bolshevik, with a hat like that. As much as he had frightened her, it was the complete calm in the second man’s eyes that had bothered her the most. She had a sense that nothing could break through his defenses.

  Shivering, she rose shakily to her feet and staggered to the battered reception desk. Old Ben, the hall porter, appeared as if from nowhere.

  “Sadie, love, what’s gotten into you?” Old Ben stepped up to the other side of the desk.

  “Nothing,” she said. “I was knocked down.”

  “By a guest?” Old Ben stared uneasily at the small lobby.

  “They came from upstairs.” She described both men.

  “I don’t recall either of them,” he said. “I’ll have to investigate. Why don’t you get a headache powder from Mrs. Curtis and have a lie-down in your room?”

  Sadie wanted to say yes, but she wasn’t a well-trained vicar’s granddaughter for nothing. “I still have work to do. After I clean room 301, perhaps.”

  “No, love, have a lie-down first. Half an hour.”

  “I will then. I do ache dreadfully.” She smiled and hobbled toward the stairs. When she saw one of the leaflets, which had scattered around the floor with all of the movement in the room, she picked it up and took it with her. She had a vague sense that she needed to be better informed.

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  Heather Hiestand was born in Illinois but her family migrated west before she started school. Since then she has claimed Washington State as home, except for a few years in California. She wrote her first story at age seven and went on to major in creative writing at the University of Washington. Her first published fiction was a mystery short story, but since then it has been all about the many flavors of romance. Heather’s first published romance short story was set in the Victorian period and she continues to return, fascinated by the rapid changes of the nineteenth century. The author of many novels, novellas and short stories, she has achieved bestseller status on Amazon’s Romance Anthologies list and on Amazon UK’s Romance Short Stories list. With her husband and son, she makes her home in a small town and supposedly works out of her tiny office, though she mostly writes in her easy chair in the living room. She’s probably sitting there right now!