Finding Secrets

by Westwood, Lauren

  ‘Did I do the right thing? Not telling my grandmother, I mean?’

  ‘I think so.’ Chris steadies me with a hand on my back. ‘I can’t see what good it would have done. Not after so long. None of them were saints – they were just human beings living in unimaginable times.’

  ‘Maybe by adopting Catherine, Frank was trying to atone for what he did.’ I sigh. ‘I hope that by donating the jewels, I’ve done the same…’

  A tear trickles down my cheek as I tear up the paper and throw it into the dark waters of the River Neva. The tiny pieces eddy and swirl, and gradually sink away. A secret lost to all but memory.

  ‘I would have liked to have seen him brought to justice,’ I say.

  ‘You mean Hal?’

  I sigh. ‘Yes. Him too. But in some ways, I think Hal did get his comeuppance – living most of his life in exile from his family and his English homeland. Just like my great-grandmother, Marina, was exiled from hers.’

  Chris puts his arm around my shoulder and pulls me close. ‘Hey, it’s going to be all right. It’s a powerful feeling, being here.’

  ‘It is.’ I lay my cheek against his chest, listening to the sound of his heart, steady and regular like clockwork. And I know that whatever happens – whatever emotions I still have to go through in order to come to terms with the past – he’ll be at my side every step of the way.

  ‘I guess history is written by the survivors,’ I say.

  ‘Sometimes.’ Chris nods. ‘But I think equally, the truth has a strange way of coming to light. I mean, just imagine – never in my wildest dreams, did I, a lowly clockmaker, guess that I’d be here in St Petersburg standing next to a Romanov princess!’

  ‘Hey,’ I nudge him with my elbow. ‘You’re forbidden to use that word, remember?’

  ‘Yes, your highness.’ He gives a mock bow.

  ‘That’s it then – you’re toast!’ I raise my fists so that he has to grab them and pull me close. His kiss is overwhelming, and I can feel my body mould to his and begin to glow, luminous, as the love sparks and flows between us.

  He takes me by the hand, and together we begin to run – away from the river and towards our suite in the Astoria Hotel. And the city blurs before me and the last year flashes before my eyes. And I realise that although I’m the same Alex Hart that I always was – I’m now so many more things than I’d ever dreamed was possible. Because in finding the secrets of the past, I’ve created my future, too. Our future. And in the end, isn’t that what matters most?

  25th December 1942 (Fragment)

  ‘Please Daddy,’ Catherine says. ‘Tell me where we’re going.’

  I laugh at her spirit. ‘We’re going out for cake and hot chocolate.’ I ruffle her soft hair. ‘Just after we stop by Uncle Jeremy’s okay?’

  ‘Oh good!’ She pushes the doll’s pram across the small room and opens the door.

  I pick up the advertisement for the auction of the factory and skim it over again. I’ve already told Jeremy what I need him to do – we need cash – and he has friends in high places.

  On my way out, I go to the kitchen and reach into the flour tin, drawing out a small velvet bag. Through the cloth, I feel the hard stones of the diamond bracelet that Flea stole that night. Silently, I mouth a prayer. God give me the strength not to do this thing I’m about to do.

  ‘Come on Daddy,’ my daughter shouts.

  As I join Catherine outside on the grey, filthy London pavement, I know that this time, my prayers have fallen on deaf ears…

  ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Let’s go.’ I shove the velvet bag into my pocket.

  After all, he’s dead and gone, and no one will ever know…

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  Author’s note and acknowledgments

  Thank you for reading ‘Finding Secrets’. If you are a fan of old houses and historical mysteries like I am, please let me know what you thought of the book by leaving a review or a rating – your feedback really helps!

  This book is a work of fiction, however it does have a basis in historical fact. The period of intense German bombing known as the London Blitz began on 7th September 1940. For the next fifty-seven days and nights, German bombs fell on London and other cities, with attacks continuing until May 1941, when the Luftwaffe was redeployed to attack Russia. I often wonder how people managed to live through such terrible times, and go on about their daily lives with such fortitude and courage. I’m not sure I would have been able to do so. And while there were countless acts of bravery and self-sacrifice, unfortunately, the Blitz did create many opportunities for criminals.

  Looting was carried out in the aftermath of air raids by civilians, gangs of children, and occasionally even by public service workers. Incidents ranged from stealing WWI medals and coins from gas meters to a notorious incident following the bombing of a popular London nightspot, the Café de Paris, in March 1941, when looters cut off the fingers of the dead in order to steal their rings and jewellery.

  One early incidence of looting took place in October 1940, when six London firemen were accused and convicted of looting from a bombed-out shop. Winston Churchill himself ordered that the conviction be ‘hushed up’ in order not to damage public morale.

  There are many excellent books and articles written on this period of history, and it is thanks to writers like Gavin Mortimer, Joshua Levine, Juliet Gardiner, and others, that many eye-witness accounts and anecdotes have been recorded and preserved. I have consulted books by these and other authors, and any mistakes and embellishments in my descriptions of events from this period are purely my own.

  The other historical event that I refer to in this book is the murder of Tsar Nicholas II, his wife Alexandra, and their children Alexei, Anastasia, Olga, Maria, and Tatiana. The execution was carried out by Red Army soldiers in the basement of a house in Ekaterinburg on the night of 17th July 1918. The alleged reason for the death order was the strong following that Nicholas (who had already abdicated the throne) still had among Lenin’s White Russian opponents. There is anecdotal evidence that not all of the family members died swiftly due to the bullets ricocheting off jewels sewn into their clothing.

  Through the years there were rumours that one or more of the royal children had escaped execution, and several ‘pretenders’ claiming to be the Grand Duchess Anastasia surfaced over the years. While this notion may be poetic, unfortunately it is not based in fact. Five bodies were exhumed from the main grave site in 1991, but it wasn’t until 2007 that the last two bodies – of Prince Alexei and one of his sisters were discovered nearby. DNA testing has shown that all of the family members (and a number of their retainers) are accounted for.

  That said, many members of the extended Romanov family did survive. A large number escaped Russia to Europe and beyond, and indeed, Prince Phillip and the current line of heirs to the British throne have Romanov blood. Among the escapees in 1918 were the wife, son, and stepdaughter of Grand Duke Michael Alexandrovich Romanov, the younger brother of Tsar Nicholas II. While Michael Alexandrovich did not manage to escape (he was executed by the Bolsheviks on 13th June 1918) his family was smuggled out to safety.

  During the nineteenth and early twentieth century, haemophilia, known as ‘the royal disease’ affected several lines of European royalty. The carriers were several of the children of Queen Victoria who married into European royal houses in Germany, Russia, and Spain. Among them were Queen Victoria’s granddaughter Alexandra Feodorovna (‘Alix of Hesse’) who was married to T
sar Nicholas II of Russia, and mother to Alexei who suffered from the disease. Another carrier was Princess Beatrice of the United Kingdom, the ninth child of Queen Victoria, who passed the disease to several of her children via her marriage into the Spanish royal line. Prior to her marriage, she did have a love affair with Michael Alexandrovich, but the couple was not allowed to marry due to the fact that they were first cousins. My character Marina who is purported to be a child of these two royals, is completely fictional. The disease is now considered to be extinct among European royalty.

  Finally, while the jewelled bird is (alas!) also fictional, the treasures created by the House of Fabergé are truly spectacular works of art. This seminal firm of Russian jewellers was founded in St Petersburg in 1842 by Gustav Fabergé. While the firm is best known for making jewel-encrusted Easter eggs for the Russian imperial family, they also created a full range of other decorative items and jewellery, and at their height in the early twentieth century, employed over 500 craftsmen. Although the firm was nationalised by the Bolsheviks in 1918, Carl Fabergé went on to found other branches of the company in Paris and elsewhere. The brand has since changed hands a number of times, but the Fabergé jewellery and egg-making tradition has recently been revived.

  Today, treasures made by the original house of Fabergé can be worth millions, and some large collections have reportedly been sold for hundreds of millions. For the rest of us mere mortals, we are fortunate that despite the vicissitudes of war and history, many beautiful Fabergé pieces and Romanov treasures still survive, and many can be viewed today in museums such as the Hermitage in St Petersburg and the Victoria and Albert Museum in London.

  I’d like to thank the many people who helped me bring this book to life. Specifically, Caroline Ridding and her team at Aria (Head of Zeus) and my agent Anna Power who believed I could write it. I’d also like to thank my writing group: Lucy Beresford, Ronan Winters, Chris King, Dave Speakman, and Francisco Gochez who critiqued some of my early ideas for the book (they also opined that my looter wasn’t bad enough unless he cut off some body parts) and provided invaluable moral support. I’d also like to thank my parents, Suzanne and Bruce, and also Monica Yeo, for their love and encouragement. And last but not least, thank you to my family: Ian, Eve, Rose and Grace, who make my life meaningful and my writing worthwhile. This book is dedicated to you.

  Lauren Westwood x

  About Lauren Westwood

  LAUREN WESTWOOD writes romantic women’s fiction, and has also published an award-winning children’s book. Her debut novel Finding Home was published by Aria in 2016. Originally from California, she now lives in a pernickety old house in Surrey, with her partner and their three daughters.

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  Read on for a preview of Finding Home:

  A month ago, Amy Wood had her perfect home, her perfect boyfriend and her perfect job. Now she is broken-hearted, living in her parents’ tiny bungalow, and working in local estate agents in Bath.

  At least her new job keeps her busy. Rosemont Hall is a crumbling mansion riddled with woodworm, dry rot – and secrets. As Amy searches for the perfect owner to restore the house to its former glory, she begins to uncover pieces of the past that some people would rather remain hidden.

  In her battle to save Rosemont Hall, Amy will encounter scary housekeepers, evil property developers and handsome American heirs - and will discover whether the secrets of the past can bring her closer to the future of her dreams…

  Can’t wait? Buy it here now!

  - Part One -

  The cup of tea on arrival at a country house is a thing which, as a rule, I particularly enjoy. I like the crackling logs, the shaded lights, the scent of buttered toast, the general atmosphere of leisured cosiness.

  ~ PG Wodehouse – The Code of the Woosters

  ‘Is Thornfield Hall a ruin? Am I severed from you by insuperable obstacles? Am I leaving you without a tear—without a kiss—without a word?’

  ~ Charlotte Brontë – Jane Eyre

  Prologue

  October, London, NW—

  On paper, the flat looks perfect.

  I rummage in my bag and uncrumple the printout of the particulars. The blurb describes it as a ‘bolthole’, ‘with lots of potential’ in an ‘up-and-coming area’, ‘close to transport’. However, in the short time that I’ve been flat-hunting, I’ve learned that ‘estateagentspeak’ is a whole different language from the Queen’s English. I’m pretty sure that ‘bolthole’ means tiny, and ‘lots of potential’ means bad plumbing, a grotty kitchen, and no central heating. The ‘up-and-coming area’ means no Starbucks for miles, and the blister on my heel is testament to the fact that ‘close to transport’ means that in the wilds of Zone 3, the Tube is a twenty-minute walk, but you can park a car in the street without a resident’s permit.

  I double-check the map and put the papers back in my bag. After walking for miles down the busy road from the Tube, I’m finally getting closer to the arrow that marks Thornton Gardens. I like the name because it reminds me of Thornfield – the house where Jane Eyre met Mr Rochester. The sign for the road is half-hidden behind a flame-coloured Boston ivy on the corner house. Turning down the road, I instantly leave behind the squeal of bus brakes and the smell of fried chips, and enter what feels like another world.

  Thornton Gardens is lined with parked cars and London plane trees, and as I crunch through the yellow leaves on the pavement, I spot not one, but two blue plaques on the houses of the slightly down-at-heel Victorian terrace. I’ve never heard of either the composer or the Crimean war journalist that apparently lived there, but I sense a sudden crackling of electricity in the air – an undercurrent of history that seems like a good omen for my new job teaching English literature at the college.

  Near the end of the terrace there’s a ‘for sale’ sign shaped like a giant lollipop propped against the steps. I make my way towards the house. From afar, I can see that the paint on the windowsills is chipped and the brickwork needs repointing. But something flickers inside my chest as I crane my neck and look upwards at each floor of the tall, red-brick house. The flat for sale is at the very top. From the frieze of cherubs over the door to the pigeons swirling in the sky high above the Dutch gable, I have a strange feeling that I’ve been here before. That I’m meant to be here now.

  While I’m waiting for the estate agent to arrive, I mentally rehearse how I’m going to convince my boyfriend, Simon, to come and have a look. Even with some ticks against it, the flat is still over our budget. Whilst I’m content to find a place that ‘just feels right’, Simon will want to crunch the numbers. I’ll tell him that between cycling to work and climbing all those stairs, I won’t need to pay for a gym membership to keep fit. And we can do loads of the work ourselves – it will be so much fun to strip wallpaper, sand floorboards and choose paint colours together, not to mention scouring little antique shops for period furniture. Maybe I can take a weekend course in upholstery or sewing and make the curtains and cushions myself…

  The fragile autumn sun goes behind a cloud and the sudden chill jars me back to reality. I look around for the estate agent – he’s a few minutes late. To be honest, I’m a little nervous to meet him. When we spoke on the phone, he hadn’t sounded overly impressed with my budget or the fact that I’ve spent the last seven years doing my PhD. In the end, I found myself exaggerating ever so slightly about my salary and Simon’s promotion prospects at the bank where he works. Surely finding the perfect home is about more than facts and figures; noughts of a bank balance. It’s about finding that place you’ve been looking for all your life without even knowing it; a safe little nest; an island in a turbulent sea. My mum always says that ‘every pot has a lid’. I can only hope that she’s right.

  A dark green
Mini with a racing stripe down the bonnet turns into the road and nips into a tiny spot on a double yellow. A man with spiky gelled hair wearing a pinstriped suit jumps out. His eyes flick past me, and I wish I’d worn a smart suit and heels rather than a vintage skirt from Camden Market and ballet flats left over from my student days.

  ‘Hello?’ I say.

  Realising that I must be the client, he breezes over to me. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he says, all charm. I recognise his drawled vowels and nasal intonation from the phone. ‘I’m Marcus Hyde-Smythe. And you must be…’

  ‘Amy Wood.’ As we shake hands, I’m instantly annoyed with myself for forgetting the Doctor Amy Wood part.

  ‘Are we waiting for anyone else, or are you on your own today?’ He gives me a little wink.