I admire the contours of his chest just visible underneath. ‘Good move.’
‘And after I’d done that, I had to ask that same someone for his blessing to “court” his daughter, who happens to be royalty.’
‘Sounds daunting.’ My skin tingles all over. ‘And how did you get on?’
‘Not so well on the blessing bit,’ he admits. ‘Turns out he’s an atheist.’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘And the daughter?’
‘Don’t even get me started – there was lots of talk about heads rolling “come the revolution” and things like that. Mostly mine if I ever did anything to hurt a hair on her royal head.’
I laugh so hard that my shoulder starts to throb.
‘But all in all,’ his pale eyes twinkle, ‘it went rather well. Now there’s just one thing left to do.’
‘Oh?’ I shiver. ‘And what’s that?’
He reaches into the front pocket of his jeans and pulls out a velvet bag. ‘I know it can’t compare to the amazing jewels that you found,’ he says, sitting down on the bed. ‘But this belonged to my mum. It has sentimental value.’ He takes out a gold band set with pavé diamonds and a trefoil of seed pearls and sapphires in the middle. ‘It’s a medieval style, I think.’ He scratches his head. ‘Come to think of it, I’m not sure where she got it – she loved trolling around little antique stores.’
‘Sounds like another mystery,’ I say, bursting inwardly with joy.
‘Yes it does,’ he takes my hand and stretches my fingers out. ‘So all that’s left then, Alex Hart, is for me to ask you – if, at some point in the near future, you might consider riding away with me on a white horse into the sunset?’ He smiles, and I feel like I’m shimmering all over.
‘Of course, Chris. As long as you’re there to give me a leg up into the saddle.’
He slips the ring on my finger, and caresses the top of my hand. As he’s bent over me, I give in to the feeling of rightness – and desire. I pull him down and our mouths lock together – not so gently this time – and we stay like that – entwined together on my single bed as the day turns to night and the fluorescent stars on the ceiling above us begin to shine and glow.
- XVII -
25th December 1942
Catherine plays on the floor twining her jewelled locket around the neck of the doll I bought her for Christmas. I close the newspaper and crumple it up in a ball.
I have sent a man to his death.
I toss the ball of paper into the fire, but the words leap from the flames and brand themselves behind my eyelids. The name in the obit column: Harold Timothy Dawkins, private. Killed in action. Many men would have wanted that kind of death, I suppose. But not Flea. He would have wanted his life. I took that from him.
‘Look, Daddy, she’s dressed for town.’ She holds up her doll. In addition to a tiny handbag and red velvet hat that matches her coat, the doll has a miniature gas mask cut out of paper. It’s a gruesome reminder that although the daily bombardments have stopped since Jerry invaded Russia, in the streets outside of this cramped, dingy flat, the war rages on.
Maybe it’s the boys who hang out by the corner shop whistling at every girl that walks by. Maybe it’s the thin broth she’s forced to eat because I don’t have time to stand in line for rations. Maybe it’s this decrepit, soul-destroying neighbourhood, a flat with a privy out the back and hot water every other Sunday. Maybe it’s life on the wrong side of the tracks, that will eventually drain the colour from her hair, the laughter from her face, and the hope from her eyes. And when that happens, what will I have to show for my selfishness? My high falutin’ morals?
‘She looks lovely,’ I say. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Robin,’ she says. ‘Because of her red coat.’
‘What a lovely name. Have you ever seen a real robin?’
‘No,’ she shakes her curls. ‘Have you?’
‘No – I don’t think so.’ Maybe there’s a catch in my voice, that makes her cock her head sideways to consider me.
‘Are you crying, Daddy?’ she says.
I blink hard and smile. ‘No, darling. It’s just a bit dusty in here, that’s all.’
‘Oh.’ She looks unconvinced.
‘In fact, now that Robin’s dressed, why don’t you get your coat on too. Let’s go out and get some fresh air.’
She jumps up excitedly. ‘Where are we going?’
‘You’ll see.’ I stand up and put on my coat.
Flea’s gone. He’s really gone – his name was there in black and white.
She puts the doll in its pram and gets herself ready. I check the pocket of my coat to make sure the advertisement is there – the particulars for the property auction to be held the following week. Among the lots is a partially derelict textile factory in North London, and a sixteenth century country house in Buckinghamshire in need of refurbishment…
[Paper torn off]
- Chapter 53 -
May 2001 – Mallow Court
1 year later…
It’s the perfect day for a wedding. The wisteria twining around the arbour is in full bloom; the sprigs of white roses hand-tied with lavender silk ribbons have a hint of dew on their petals. The weather is warm with the slightest of breezes to ruffle the organza chair bows just so. High wisps of clouds decorate the sky like celestial confetti. There’s a steady hum of bees in the borders and an iridescent butterfly floats from flower to flower. Daisies and buttercups dot the field where the white and silver striped marquee has been erected amid grazing sheep.
Perfect.
Most importantly – from the perspective of the wedding planner hired by the Heath-Churchleys, at least – the posh Portaloos, the five-tier cake, the sushi chef from Nobo, and a whole lorryload of Pol Roger arrived early this morning, right on schedule. And I made sure that our chosen vicar – Karen – was kept far away from the village pub where the groom and his party were staying.
Or at least, was supposed to be staying…
I roll over and nestle into the warmth of Chris’s back. I kiss the place between his shoulder blades and he begins to stir. Some brides might be superstitious spending the night with the groom before the wedding, but not me. Life is short, and I want to enjoy every moment.
‘We’d better get up,’ I whisper into his soft hair.
He nuzzles my neck sending bolts of lightning through my body. ‘I feel a little bad, but it’s the right thing, isn’t it?’
As he caresses me, I think back to last night, when Chris had turned up at the door of my flat about ten p.m. looking positively green.
‘What’s wrong?’ I’d said, my heart in fight or flight mode. Immediately, I knew the truth – he didn’t want to go through with it. My future flashed before my eyes – the future we’d been planning – together. I’d spent the last several months curating an exhibition on the life and work of Robert Copthorne – my last contribution at Mallow Court before Edith takes over as manager. After the wedding, it was arranged that I’d move to London with Chris. We’d start out in his little flat near the British Library, and look together for a bigger flat or a house – once we’d saved up enough for a deposit. I feel sad leaving Mallow Court, of course – especially now that it’s truly become my family home. But it’s only a train-ride away, and Chris and I are looking forward to striking out on our own, without the help of our families. In that regard, I’ve even managed to line up a few job interviews – it seems that my credentials as a manager at a historic house count for something among independent art foundations, museums, and historic home associations. It had even crossed my mind that I might finish my long-abandoned thesis and see where that might lead. But the most important thing – the thing that I’d thought we’d both wanted – was just to be together.
But as he stood there before me, I felt like a child holding a snow globe; watching it slide from my hands and smashing to the floor in a million glittering pieces. I forced myself to meet his eyes – whatever he had to say, he’d have to say it t
o my face, no holds barred. I just couldn’t believe it though. We were so in love… I thought…
‘Umm,’ he shifted from foot to foot, ‘there’s something – something I didn’t tell you.’
‘What?’ I’d said, ushering him in. I braced myself for the worst: he’d accidentally killed someone, he was ‘bi-curious’, he used to be a woman – but as long as he still loved me, I knew that nothing mattered. ‘Is it your family?’ I blurted out, knowing full well that some feathers were still ruffled. After all, I’m hardly ‘Daddy’ Heath-Churchley’s ideal daughter-in-law-elect. After Chris brought the dodgy auction records to his attention, ‘Daddy’ called in a firm of independent auditors who undertook a thorough investigation into the connection between Churchley & Sons, D Kinshaw / Hal Dawkins and possible looted artworks. There were several nail-biting weeks on the home front as boxes of records going back sixty years were checked and rechecked with a fine-toothed comb.
Unsurprisingly, nothing conclusive turned up. The official position of the auction house was that the listings signed by Jeremy Stanley were ‘a failure of risk management at the time that allowed a few isolated rogue acts’ – the subtext being that the perpetrator was ‘not quite right in the head’. There were a few negative articles in the press, but these were overshadowed by positive press engendered by several hefty donations given to charities for war veterans, the elderly, and Jewish interests. In the end, the house of cards remained standing. Which made it a little bit easier for me to look my future father-in-law-to-be in the eye (he even gave me a brusque apology, once Chris advised him of my true origins), but only just.
‘No, nothing like that.’ Chris’s shaky smile gave me little comfort. He sat down beside me on the settee. ‘It’s just… well, it’s kind of embarrassing.’
I braced myself for a new worst: he’d caught a loathsome disease, he’d slept with the vicar, he was really my brother…
‘It’s okay,’ I coaxed, my spirits sinking like lead. ‘Whatever it is, I’ll try to understand.’
He enfolded my hand in his. ‘I really, really love you, Alex, and I really really want to marry you.’
‘Okay…’
‘But in truth, the thought of getting up in that church in front of all those people and being the centre of attention is making me feel positively ill. I’ve got terrible stage fright.’ He hangs his head sheepishly. ‘Always have, I guess.’
Stifling a laugh, I stopped his words by leaning forward and kissing him hard on the mouth. ‘Look mister, you really scared me there for a second.’ My insides bubbled with relief.
He ran his fingers through my hair. ‘I don’t want to ruin your special day. I know you’ve been so busy making preparations.’
I shook my head. ‘You know none of it was my idea. Your dad and stepmum have had their hand in everything. I thought it was what you wanted. I mean…’ I gestured at his Kraftwerk T-shirt, ‘not wanted exactly. More like, were tolerating on their behalf.’
‘You mean you really don’t mind.’ There’s a flame of hope in his eyes.
‘No – it’s wonderful.’ His return kiss took my breath away. I reassured him with my lips, my hands, and finally, my words. ‘I feel the same way,’ I said. ‘This big wedding isn’t “us”. I want our families to be happy, but at the end of the day, shouldn’t we get the final say?’
He lifted me onto his lap, using all of his considerable powers of persuasion to reassure me that he agreed completely.
*
A very distracting while later, a knock on the door startled me. I hurriedly made myself decent, looking around in vain for a place to hide the groom. ‘Who’s that?’ I said worriedly.
‘Umm, I took the liberty of asking your friend Karen to come over.’
‘What? Why?’
Warily, I got up from the sofa and opened the door. Karen was standing outside at the top of the narrow staircase, wearing her dog collar, a smart black suit jacket, and a less intelligent black micro mini-skirt.
‘Hey ho, Alex,’ she said. ‘Happened to run into the groom down the pub – but don’t worry,’ she gives me a wink, ‘nothing untoward happened!’
‘Come on in,’ I said. ‘Glass of wine?’
‘Oh no,’ she waved her hands. ‘Lots to do before the wee hours – he told you, right?’ She eyed me – and my swiftly reassembled clothing – critically, and knowingly. ‘Or… not?’
Chris took my hand. ‘I was just about to.’
‘Never mind.’ Karen takes over. ‘The thing is, Alex, as your friend and vicar, it’s my duty to ask if this wedding business is what you want.’
‘You know it isn’t. I wanted a small ceremony – just family.’
Chris gave Karen a thumbs up. She walked over and plopped a few sheets of stapled papers onto my lap.
‘What’s this?’ I asked warily.
‘Your new itinerary,’ she’d said. ‘You’ll have time early tomorrow morning for a quick wedding ceremony – just your parents, your grandmother, Miles, and Chris’s mum. Then, it’s off to the airport with you.’
‘Really?’ I looked at Chris.
‘Um, I moved our flights forward. Hope that’s okay?’
He looked so sheepish, and quirky, and drop dead sexy. I launched myself forward into his arms. ‘Yes, it’s fine. It’s brilliant.’
‘Whoa, tiger.’ Karen tugs me away from him. ‘Are you all packed?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
Chris holds me at arm’s length, his eyes shining. ‘Thank you, Alex, love.’
‘You’re welcome.’ I stand on tiptoes and kiss his neck just below his chin. ‘But you’re sure you don’t want your dad at the ceremony as well? Won’t he be angry?’
‘I think we’d better leave well enough alone.’
‘I agree,’ Karen says. ‘I’ll break the news to him that another one of his children won’t be attending their own reception at Mallow Court.’
‘Thanks.’ I hug her swiftly.
‘No problem. God forgives a multitude of sins. But for everybody else, I find that free-flowing champagne helps a lot.’
- Epilogue -
St Petersburg, Russia
May 2001
The midnight sun dances orange on the rippling current of the river. The view – from the Peter and Paul Fortress on the opposite bank; to the elegant bridge, slowly lifting up to let the night boats float underneath – literally takes my breath away.
Holding me close with his arm around my back, Chris – my husband as of a lovely private ceremony at 7 a.m. this morning – senses my intake of breath. ‘Are you okay?’ he says.
‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘I just can’t believe we’re here – it’s just… so amazing.’
The bridge lifts further and for a second the sun is behind it. As the tresses continue to move, the sun reappears – as if someone up in the sky has just given us a great big wink. Maybe it’s my fated ancestors, or maybe it’s all just a trick of the light. In either case, Chris and I have agreed that we’ll spend at least six months here, so that I can learn more about my history first-hand (and also pick up a bit of my ‘mother tongue’).
I turn and look towards the Winter Palace, now the Hermitage museum, its long, elegant facade and hundreds of windows dominating the waterfront. On the second floor, ten windows in, is a small gallery where the recovered Romanov jewels are on display – beautiful, precious objects, several by Fabergé. When the discovery first came to light, ‘Daddy’ Heath-Churchley got involved. He recommended a lawyer friend to help me sort out the ownership. But after a heart-to-heart discussion with Mr Pepperharrow, my grandmother, and Chris, we decided that they rightfully belonged to the Russian people. I had the lawyer draw up a bequest to the Hermitage, setting out certain conditions, including that they allow the jewels to be displayed at certain English venues, including Mallow Court. But one piece was kept out of the bequest – the jewelled bird. For now, at least, that’s going to stay in the family.
I reach up to my neck and draw o
ut the locket on the heavy chain that Chris repaired after I was shot last summer. The little gold key is reattached to the chain. Marina’s clock, however, was beyond even his skills to salvage. Chris brushes a windblown strand of hair from my cheek as I undo the clasp and the bird springs up on its perch, its jewelled feathers glimmering in its native light. Together we watch as it begins its slow, mesmerising rotation to the tinkling melody. As usual, Chris’s eyes light up like a kid in a candy store.
‘Do you believe in genetic memory?’ I ask.
‘What do you mean?’ His hip presses against mine.
‘When my grandma was in hospital, I dozed off in the waiting area,’ I say. ‘I dreamed of a little girl standing here, in this spot. Bombs were falling… and then snow.’ I shudder. ‘Maybe that girl was me – or my great-grandmother, Marina, or some member of my family before me – I don’t know. But I’ve got this weird sense of déjà vu. That I’ve been here before.’
He covers my hand with his and closes the locket. The skin on my neck tingles with electricity as he tucks it back inside my shirt, caressing me with his finger.
‘I don’t know if I believe in that or not,’ he says. ‘I never found a lot in common with most members of my family, except my great-grandfather, Jeremy. I wish he’d kept a journal too – he must have known about Marina, or at least guessed. But I do know that you’ve been through an awful lot. That diary… what was it that Hal Dawkins said in his statement? That it was so vivid, he almost convinced himself that the memories were his.’
I nod, unable to hide a shudder. In this case, not all of the ‘bad’ ended up ‘unluckily’. Following his arrest, Hal Dawkins managed to get himself a very good lawyer – his great-grandson Tim. I’ve come to terms with the fact that Tim isn’t really a bad apple – he got swept up in the murky depths of his own family history, same as I did. And while his wily great-father isn’t exactly one of his usual ‘widows and orphans’, Tim did his job well enough to get him released on bail. It may have come as a surprise to the court but not to me – that Hal didn’t turn up for his trial – he ‘disappeared’ once more into thin air. But not completely – unfortunately. A week before our wedding, a brown enveloped arrived postmarked Grand Cayman. It contained an unsigned compliments slip with a one-line message: ‘A wedding gift – this is the original’ and a ripped piece of paper – the final diary entry that got torn the day I was shot. I read it through many times – the final part of Frank Bolton’s story. Eventually I plucked up the courage to show it to Chris, so that there would be no secrets between us. He suggested that I bring it here. I take it out of my pocket now, staring down at the words on the paper.
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