The Lost Sapphire
Page 18
Violet felt a wave of fury welling up. ‘Dad – you can’t be so cruel.’
Mr Hamilton turned on his heel and stalked towards the door.
‘Not another word,’ Mr Hamilton ordered. ‘Tomorrow night we will have the Ramsays for dinner. Imogen, you will instruct Mrs Darling that I would like a particularly fine meal. Theodore is fond of salmon, I believe.’
Mr Hamilton stormed out of the room, leaving Imogen sobbing on the sofa and Violet standing on the rug, her fists clutched tightly. She suddenly wondered how her father knew that Tommy’s father was a docker. She remembered the conversation between Tommy and Theodore on the deck of the Mariette. Could Theodore have told her father about Tommy’s background just to make trouble?
Violet turned to Imogen and sat down beside her, taking her hand. ‘Dad will come around,’ she whispered. ‘He just needs time to get used to the idea.’
Imogen shook her head. ‘He’s made up his mind. There’s nothing I can do about it.’
Violet gazed into Imogen’s eyes. ‘Do you love Tommy?’
Imogen scrubbed her eyes with the handkerchief. ‘Of course I love him. I’ve loved him almost since the first time I met him.’
‘Then you have to fight for him, Immy,’ Violet insisted. ‘Does it matter that he comes from a Catholic family? Does it matter what his father does? Tommy is a good person – you know that.’
Imogen took a deep breath while she thought. She shook her head. ‘I can’t disobey Daddy. It would break his heart, and I can’t do that to him again.’
‘So you’d break Tommy’s heart and your own instead?’ demanded Violet, her voice harsh with frustration.
Imogen stood up and dabbed at her eyes, checking her reflection in the mirror. ‘We’ll see what happens when Tommy has finished studying and I turn twenty-one.’ Imogen put her handkerchief away in her pocket. ‘The important thing is not to upset Daddy. He’s been through so much already.’
‘And haven’t we?’ Violet said bitterly.
18
Argument
Richmond, modern day
It was late when Marli’s father, looking pale and tired, finally arrived to pick her up from Luca’s home. He was very apologetic, murmuring an excuse about an argument with a contractor who was behind schedule.
When they arrived home, the apartment seemed cold and quiet after the noisy warmth of the Costas’ dinner. Dani had packed up some leftovers for Dad, which he warmed up in the microwave.
Marli felt a wave of anger: her father had promised not to work late. Her mother had almost always made sure she was there when Marli came home from school, even if it meant having to work late at night, after Marli had gone to bed.
‘Did you have a lovely day, myshka?’ Dad asked, sitting at the kitchen bench with his bowl of pasta.
‘It was all right,’ Marli replied grumpily, playing with her bangle.
‘A funny coincidence that your friend Luca’s family lives right next door to Riversleigh,’ he continued. ‘They seem like kind people.’
‘They are kind people,’ Marli growled.
‘Did I tell you that I spoke to the lawyers today about the handover of the Riversleigh estate?’ Dad asked. ‘They’re drawing up the paperwork now; we should get the keys in a few days.’
Marli pricked up her ears. Riversleigh and its mysteries would soon no longer be a fascinating secret for her to share with Luca. It would belong to Didi.
‘I spoke to council to see what the planning regulations are,’ Dad continued. ‘Fortunately it’s not heritage listed. With that size block of land we’d be able to build thirty low-rise apartments, with a mixture of one-, two- and three-bedroom floor plans.’
‘You can’t,’ said Marli, her voice rising. ‘Didi would be devastated if you knocked down the house.’
Dad rubbed his forehead. ‘The land’s worth a fortune, myshka, and the house is a disaster. Didi could never live there, not now.’
Marli felt a rush of pent-up anger with her father for always working late. For leaving her and her mother. For wanting to destroy Riversleigh.
‘You don’t care what Didi wants,’ Marli shouted. ‘You don’t care what I want. You never listen. You’re never there for me.’
Dad sat there staring at her, looking shocked and wounded. Marli ran into her room and slammed the door.
This isn’t my room – this is Dad’s office, filled with his work, his drawings. She thought of her own cozy cottage at home and Luca’s crowded, wonderfully chaotic, family-filled home. This apartment wasn’t a home – it was a sleek, stylish, soulless hotel suite. And Dad wanted to pull down Riversleigh and build more just like it.
Marli fought back her tears. There was a knock at the door and Dad came in. He sat on the edge of the sofa bed and Marli turned to face the wall.
‘I’m sorry I was late, Marli,’ said Dad, putting his hand on Marli’s arm. ‘I wanted so much for us to spend some time together.’ He paused, waiting for her to respond. Marli stayed stubbornly silent. ‘I didn’t want to worry you with it, but we’ve had some problems at work. The project has gone way over budget and my boss is putting pressure on everyone to cut costs. I’ve been going through the figures with the accountant, trying to work a way out of this mess. Sometimes I wonder if it’s all worth it.’
Marli felt her resolve melting, but then she steeled herself. Figures, budget blowouts and accountants seemed so foreign to her.
‘Well,’ Dad said, ‘goodnight. I want you to know that I’m so happy you’ve come to stay, and I promise we’ll still have a great Christmas and do our amazing road trip in January.’
He kissed the back of her head, turned off the light and closed the door behind him.
Marli lay awake for hours. Gradually the anger and the problems of the present ebbed. Her mind filled with the stories that Didi had told her and that Nonno had shared around the dinner table. Her imagination began to flicker with images of Riversleigh and the Hamilton family and all their servants – Violet and Imogen, their father Albert, Saunders, Mrs Darling, Sally, Guiseppe, Monsieur Dufour, Alf and Nikolai Khakovsky …
19
Nikolai’s Story
Riversleigh, 1 December 1922
On Friday morning, Violet finished a painting of Vasilisa the Beautiful and the witch Baba Yaga, inspired by the illustrations from Nikolai’s book of Russian fairytales. Vasilisa is a little bit like me, Violet thought. Her mother is dead, just like mine, and her father stays away because of his grief. At least I don’t have a wicked stepmother and stepsisters to deal with. At least I have Imogen.
Violet looked closely at the other illustrations. Through the story, Vasilisa was transformed from an innocent, subservient young girl, protected from harm by her dead mother’s blessing, into a strong, independent young woman, who triumphed over both Baba Yaga and her stepmother to become a talented weaver and win the heart of the tsar. Violet smiled to herself. Fairytales seem to be the same the world over.
She set the painting to dry and sat at the morning room table to write. She worked on her newspaper article about the problems faced by the poor families in the Richmond slums – high rents, low income, dilapidated housing, unsanitary living conditions, disease and inadequate education.
She planned it out, wrote a rough draft, then edited and polished it until she was sure it was as good as she could make it. Finally, she wrote it out three times in her best handwriting. She could imagine the article being printed together with her own photographs of everyday people living in the slums.
Actually seeing what real life was like for people living in poverty must educate the rest of society and change people’s minds about what was fair and just. Probably nothing would change the mindset of people like the Ramsays and the Marchants, but it might make a difference, even if just a little one. Surely if people knew what was happening, they too would be outraged and demand change. Perhaps she might even be paid for her article, and she could give the money to Sally for her family and help the oth
er Richmond children she had met.
Finally, Violet wrote three covering letters to the editors of the three major Melbourne newspapers, asking them to publish her article and offering to send her own photographs to support the story.
The postman brought notes from Violet’s ill school friends – Hen, Bea and Cecily – who were feeling much better but still in quarantine in the boarding house and moaning about how bored they were. Violet wrote them a return note, trying to make it as funny and newsy as possible. Sitting at her desk, she realised that school and her friends seemed such a long time ago. So much seemed to have happened since then.
It was a beautiful summer’s day with a deep blue sky. Violet decided to walk Romeo up to the shops to post the articles and letters and collect the photographs that had been printed. Romeo zigzagged along on the lead, sniffing the ground and barking at birds. It was a twenty-minute walk up to Burwood Road. Violet felt nervous and excited as she bought stamps and posted her article to the newspapers. Then she headed into the camera shop, Romeo at her heels.
‘Good morning,’ Violet said to the shop assistant. ‘I’ve come to collect my photographs.’
‘Good morning, Miss Hamilton.’ He rummaged under the wooden counter and pulled out a small package with her name on it. ‘Here you are. I must say, they turned out rather well for a beginner.’
‘Have they? I thought I might have mucked it up.’ She opened the package nervously and fanned the prints out on the counter.
‘A couple are a little blurred, so just be careful with your focusing,’ the assistant advised, pointing to a shot of a newsboy. The assistant rifled through the prints then selected a photograph of the children playing cricket outside Sally’s house. ‘But this one’s awfully good.’
Violet felt a rush of exhilaration as she scanned the photo graphs. Then she saw one photograph that she hadn’t taken. It was a photograph taken four years ago on her brother Lawrence’s eighteenth birthday, just a few days before the boys had run away to war.
It was the whole Hamilton family having afternoon tea in the summerhouse. Dad was beaming with love and pride. Mamma looked elegant and happy in a long white dress with ruffled sleeves. The two girls wore their best dresses and ribbons in their hair, while the two boys stood tall and proud in their stiff suits, gazing at the camera. It was a snapshot of the perfect family. Violet closed her eyes, fighting back the tears.
She slid the prints back inside the brown paper packaging and pulled out her purse. ‘Lovely,’ she said, too brightly. ‘Could I buy two more packets of film, please?’
Her errands done, Violet began walking home again, but she remembered how quiet and lonely the house had been when she’d left. Nikolai had driven Mr Hamilton to a business meeting, and Imogen had been invited to have morning tea with Mrs Ramsay. Violet felt too melancholy after seeing the old photograph to go back alone.
Violet decided she needed a brisk walk in the sunshine to dispel her mood, so she headed to St James Park. The park was an oasis of rolling lawns, meandering gravel paths and majestic English oak and elm trees in grand avenues. Once through the gate, Violet unclipped Romeo’s lead so he could run free.
Romeo bounded around Violet in wide circles, his tail wagging madly. Suddenly he caught a whiff of an enticing scent and dashed off, nose to the ground. Violet followed, glad he was having a good run.
Romeo followed the scent trail for a few moments then raced straight towards a young man sprawled on a rug in the sunshine, a wicker picnic basket beside him.
‘Romeo,’ Violet called. ‘Romeo. Come!’
The dog ignored her, intent on his quarry. Violet hurried after him, calling again. Violet’s fears were realised when Romeo barrelled straight into the young man and began licking him all over his face. Violet flushed with embarrassment and ran. ‘Romeo, come here at once.’
The young man pushed Romeo away and sat up, his book discarded beside him. Violet recognised him with a start. It was Nikolai.
He jumped to his feet at once and smiled at Violet. His dark hair was somewhat dishevelled after the rumble with Romeo, and it made him look more relaxed than his usual slicked-back formality. Violet liked it.
‘Good morning, Miss Violet,’ Nikolai said. ‘I can see that Romeo is taking you for a good run.’
‘I’m so sorry, Nikolai. I wondered why Romeo was so intent on following that scent – he knew it was you.’
Nikolai bent down to rub Romeo on the belly. ‘It doesn’t matter. It’s rather nice to be adored for a change.’ Romeo whined with happiness.
‘When we were children we used to play hide-and-seek with Romeo all the time,’ Violet said. ‘No matter where we hid, he’d always track us down. He has the most extraordinary nose.’
‘He’s a good dog,’ Nikolai said. ‘I miss our dogs. We had to leave them behind when we left Russia.’
‘What sort of dogs did you have?’ Violet asked. She suddenly remembered the picnic basket and hesitated. ‘I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to disturb you. You’re probably meeting someone.’
Nikolai smiled. ‘Not at all. I’m waiting for your father, so I thought it was better to read out in the sunshine than sit in the car. Mrs Darling kindly packed me a picnic lunch.’
Romeo had run off again and returned dragging a stick, which he dropped at Nikolai’s feet, looking at him adoringly.
‘Fickle dog,’ Violet complained. ‘I thought you loved me best.’
‘Romeo often comes to visit me in the garage when I’m waiting for your father.’ Nikolai picked up the stick and threw it, and the dog gave chase. ‘It’s nice to have the company. There’re only so many times I can polish the headlights.’
‘Of course,’ Violet said awkwardly. ‘I should probably go and leave you to your book.’
Nikolai looked momentarily disappointed. ‘Your father won’t be finished with his meeting for a couple of hours, and it seemed too nice a day to go back and dawdle at the house. Monsieur Dufour hates me in the kitchen, and Mrs Darling doesn’t want me under her feet either.’
It suddenly occurred to Violet that Nikolai, a foreigner living away from home and family, might get lonely. Romeo ran back and dropped the stick at Violet’s feet. Violet threw it as far as she could.
‘Do you mind if I join you for a little while?’ she asked. ‘Romeo needs a good run, and I haven’t walked him for ages.’
‘Please do,’ Nikolai replied. ‘Romeo reminds me of our old Russian hunting hounds, who also hunted by scent, although our dogs had much thicker coats to keep them warm in those freezing winters. I had a Siberian Laika called Max, who followed me everywhere.’
Romeo bounded around in a circle, shaking the stick back and forth in his mouth, as though it were alive. Violet and Nikolai ambled along under the trees.
‘What’s a Siberian Laika?’ asked Violet.
Nikolai wrestled with the stick in Romeo’s mouth, pretending to steal it.
‘They look very much like wolves.’ Nikolai’s eyes lit up at the memory. ‘Big dogs with shaggy grey coats, a curled-up tail and almond-shaped eyes. They’re loyal till death.’ Then a wave of sadness crossed Nikolai’s face. ‘He was a brave friend.’
‘It must have been awful leaving Max behind,’ said Violet.
‘We had to leave, but you’re right – leaving the people and animals behind was harder than anything else.’
Violet took a deep breath. ‘Nikolai, your family weren’t servants in Russia, were they?’
Nikolai looked at her in surprise. He threw the stick for Romeo again, playing for time. ‘What do you mean?’
Violet shrugged. ‘I could tell when I visited your family. You all speak French and English perfectly. You’re well-educated with the manners of a gentleman. You try but you don’t behave like a servant.’
Nikolai flushed and looked at the ground. ‘I’m sorry, miss. I’ll endeavour to do better.’
‘No – it wasn’t a criticism,’ Violet assured him. ‘I just wondered, that’s all.’
‘Count?’ Violet cried. ‘You’re a count.’
Nikolai shook his head ruefully. ‘A former count, actually. My father was Count Petrov Alesandrovich Khakovsky and my mother is Countess Khakovska,’ Nikolai confessed. ‘Before the revolution we lived in a pink-and-white palace in St Petersburg on the Fontanka River and had several estates in southern Russia.’
‘I knew there was a mystery about you,’ Violet crowed. ‘You lived in a palace.’
They reached the edge of the park and turned around, walking back towards the rug.
‘I know it sounds grand, but my father believed in a very strict military upbringing for all of us,’ Nikolai continued. ‘Camp beds in the nursery, up at 6 am, daily walks in all weather and ice-cold baths for the children. We had an English nanny, a French governess and a German tutor, so we spoke English with the nanny, French with our parents, Russian with the servants and German on Monday and Tuesday – at least before the war. Then we never spoke German again.’
Violet turned to Nikolai in surprise. ‘Didn’t you go to school?’
Nikolai looked nostalgic. ‘No school at all – we had a very happy childhood. Of course, we studied with our tutors, but we also did fencing, horseriding, shooting and dancing lessons, as well as ice-skating and playing with the other children of the court.’
Mention of the ‘children of the court’ reminded Violet of something. ‘Who was Alexei, who you said was the son of your father’s employer? The one who was given a motor car for his ninth birthday?’
‘Alexei was the son of Tsar Nicholas II, the last emperor of Russia, and Tsarina Alexandra,’ Nikolai admitted. ‘He was my second cousin.’
Nikolai hesitated then took a deep breath. ‘Alexei, his parents, his four sisters and their servants were murdered by the Bolsheviks in July 1918. Alexei was not yet fourteen years old. His sisters – Anastacia, Maria, Tatiana and Olga – were between seventeen and twenty-three. They were lovely girls and great friends of my sisters.’