The Lost Daughter

by Gill Paul

  Stepan had often discussed their Romanov heritage with his children and grandchildren. If any of them decided they wanted to reveal their ancestry, he would not try to stop them, but he warned it would be an uphill struggle to make anyone believe them, despite all the fuss about DNA. So far all had decided not to bother.

  That Australian woman Val had written a thesis in the 1980s suggesting that Maria had escaped from Ekaterinburg. Stepan had come across it through a footnote in an American author’s book, and his grandson Misha had downloaded a copy from the Internet. He had read it with interest, not least because it contained more information about the strange life of Anatoly Bolotov, including extracts from ledgers he had kept, detailing his efforts to find Maria over the years. He had traveled all over Russia, and had monitored the letters received by Peter’s family; Stepan realized he had clearly been a man obsessed.

  Val’s thesis had attracted only minimal interest from Romanov scholars, although she was a professor of history at Sydney University. The truth did not sound plausible, Stepan mused. Experts wanted a neat ending with all the royal family in one place. To his knowledge, no books or theses had been published that so much as hinted at the fate of Tatiana. No one would ever know what happened to her after she left the Ipatiev House on July 15, 1918.

  One summer he had gone to Sverdlovsk with Ludmilla to try looking for the Vasnetsov family, but they had also disappeared into thin air. He had applied for information on Yuri Koshelev, the NKVD officer who had taken Mikhail and Katya on the Ice Road, but his file simply said that he died in 1942. Some people could never be found.

  He began thinking about Val and wondering how she would receive the news of this latest Romanov find. He knew he had been rude in not replying when she wrote to him in a spirit of friendship. So many years had passed that she might be dead by now, although he reckoned she had been a good twenty years younger than him. That meant she was only in her late sixties; he himself had reached the grand old age of eighty-eight and was still amazed to think he had made it into the twenty-first century. He’d always assumed he’d be dead by then.

  Over dinner that evening, he asked his grandson, “If I wanted to track down a woman who used to work at Sydney University, would that be easy to do?”

  “What’s her name?” Misha asked, picking up his smartphone.

  “Val Scott. She was a professor of history.”

  Within seconds, Misha had found her. “Scott was her maiden name. Her married name is Koskov. Do you want to email her?”

  Ludmilla gave Stepan an amused look. “After all this time?”

  Stepan gave a shrug. “I don’t know. Not email. No.” If she lived in the Leningrad area, he would have asked her for a cup of coffee, but there was too much to say to put it in an email.

  “We could ask if she wants to do a Skype call,” Misha suggested. Stepan looked puzzled, so he continued, “It’s a video telephone call where you can see each other on the computer screen.”

  Stepan muttered, “What will they think of next?” Why was he even considering contacting her after all this time? Perhaps he felt he owed her an apology for his brusqueness and for not replying to her letters. He could tell her he had read her thesis, and they could laugh at all the experts who’d gotten it wrong over the Romanov graves.

  “Sydney is eight hours ahead,” Misha said, having found that information on his phone. “If you call in the morning our time, it will be evening for her.”

  “She probably won’t want to speak to me,” Stepan said. Anyway, what would he say to her? He couldn’t tell her that their father had been a rapist. There was no need for her to know.

  “I’ll email and ask her if she would like to Skype,” Misha said, typing away with impressive speed.

  “Remind her that we met in the Peterhof palace in 1976 when she brought in a sun, moon, and stars box,” Stepan said.

  “Done!” Misha replied.

  Stepan pursed his lips. What would be would be.

  He didn’t have long to wait. When he arrived at breakfast the next morning, Misha grinned. “Your lady friend in Sydney says yes, she would love to talk to you. She’s sent her Skype address. Want to do it this morning?”

  “I don’t know . . .” Stepan had never been a man who suffered from anxiety, but he felt a knot in his stomach when he thought about this conversation. He had decided in bed the night before how he would begin.

  “I’m around today so I can set it up for you,” Misha persisted. “Shall I say eleven our time?”

  An hour to go. Was he really going to do this? “All right,” Stepan agreed, and sat down to his cup of coffee.

  An hour later, he perched upright in the chair in front of the screen while Misha typed in the address and they waited for a connection. There was a buzzing sound as one computer tried to talk to another on the opposite side of the world, and Stepan marveled at that. He jumped when Val’s face appeared full-size on the screen. It was slightly blurred but obviously the same woman he had met. She was smiling, her eyes merry.

  “Hi there!” she said, her voice as clear as if she was in the next room. “What a surprise to hear from you!”

  Stepan took a deep breath before he spoke. “Hello, little sister,” he said. “I think I owe you an explanation.”

  Acknowledgments

  I’m hugely grateful to my legendary agent, Vivien Green at Sheil Land, and my foreign rights agent, Gaia Banks; thanks to them, my books have now been sold in a staggering twenty countries. The crack team at my US publisher—Lucia Macro, Asanté Simons, Jennifer Hart, Amelia Wood, Danielle Bartlett, and Jean Marie Kelly—are a force of nature, positively bursting with energy and enthusiasm, and I feel very fortunate to be published by them.

  Some brilliant advisors helped with this novel. Dave Yorath explained to me in detail how old cameras worked, in particular the Kodak Autographic, and he showed me what 1918 film developed in the 1970s might look like. Paula Grainger suggested the herbal remedies that Peter might have used, checking Russian sources to make sure they were available in the season and the part of the country that my plot required. Gerrie Fletcher, a longtime Sydney resident, checked the details of Val’s life there, as well as the Australian characters’ dialogue. Ben Balliger, an attorney and graduate in Russian history from the School of Slavonic and Eastern European Studies at University College London, checked the Russian sections. I’m incredibly grateful for their help but must emphasize that if any errors have crept in, they are mine alone.

  My first readers were the incredible Karen Sullivan and Lor Bingham. Both have a huge amount going on in their lives so I was touched to the core that they took the time and trouble to give me their invaluable thoughts and suggestions. I’m also grateful to Scott Whitmont of Lindfield Books in Sydney for reading an advance copy and sending back a lovely review and a correction! And Jane Selley did a marvelous job of copy-editing; it’s the second time we’ve worked together and she truly is the greatest, most forensic copy editor ever.

  With each novel, I am blown away by the generous support of the book blogging community. I’d like to thank in particular the bloggers who chose Another Woman’s Husband for their “favorite books of 2017” lists: Anne Williams, Karen Cocking, Anne Cater, Kaisha Holloway, Victoria Goldman, Nicola Smith, Lor Bingham, and Caryl, aka Mrs. Bloggs. And thanks to all bloggers who host blog tours: I know it can be very demanding and really appreciate the effort you put in.

  Love and thanks to my fabulous sister, Fiona Williams, who now has a dedicated bookcase for my novels; to my aunt Anne Nicholson for regular encouragement over the years; to the never-miss-a-party crew of Tina, Martyn, Peggy, Lee, Katie, Nev, et al; to author friends Sue Reid Sexton, Louise Beech, Marnie Riches, Liz Trenow, Kirsty Crawford, Tracy Rees, Tammy Perry, Lesley Downer, Hazel Gaynor, David Boyle, and Kerry Fisher for writerly support; and to Karel for being my own personal Peter Vasnetsov.

  P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*

  About the Author

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  Meet Gill Paul

  About the Book

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  A Deleted Scene from The Lost Daughter

  Historical Afterword

  Sources

  The Love Lives of the Romanov Daughters

  Reading Group Questions

  About the Author

  Meet Gill Paul

  GILL PAUL is an author of historical fiction, specializing in relatively recent history. She has written two novels about the last Russian royal family: The Secret Wife, published in 2016, which tells the story of cavalry officer Dmitri Malama and Grand Duchess Tatiana, the second daughter of Russia’s last Tsar; and The Lost Daughter, published in August 2019, the story of Grand Duchess Maria, Tsar Nicolas II’s third daughter.

  Gill’s other novels include Another Woman’s Husband, about links you may not have been aware of between Wallis Simpson, later Duchess of Windsor, and Diana, Princess of Wales; Women and Children First, about a young steward who works on the Titanic; The Affair, set in Rome in 1961–62 as Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton fall in love while making Cleopatra; and No Place for a Lady, about two Victorian sisters who travel to the Crimean Peninsula during the war there in 1854–56 and face challenges beyond anything they could have imagined.

  Gill also writes historical nonfiction. Her titles include A History of Medicine in 50 Objects and the Love Stories series, which contains tales of real-life couples. Published around the world, the series includes Royal Love Stories, World War I Love Stories, and Titanic Love Stories.

  Gill was born in Glasgow and grew up there, apart from an eventful year at school in the United States when she was ten. She studied medicine at Glasgow University, then English literature and history. (She was a student for a long time.)

  She now lives in London, where as well as writing full-time, she swims year-round in an outdoor pond, complete with a heron, a variety of ducks, and a family of kingfishers.

  Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

  About the Book

  A Deleted Scene from The Lost Daughter

  Ekaterinburg, June 19, 1918

  ONE MORNING, just after the family’s scripture reading, Ivan Kharitonov, the cook, put his head around the door of the sitting room and said in a low voice, “Excuse me, Miss Maria. Might I have a word?”

  She frowned. What could he want? Putting down her sketchbook, she rose and followed him out to the passageway that led to the kitchen.

  He looked over his shoulder before fishing an envelope from the pocket of his white chef’s apron. “This came an hour ago. It was in the wooden box in which the nuns deliver our food, hidden beneath the butter.”

  Maria took the rather dog-eared envelope and saw her name written in English on the outside, along with the words Strictly private and personal. How very odd!

  “Thank you, Ivan.” She smiled. “I appreciate your discretion.”

  She considered taking it back into the sitting room, but then she would have to pass it around for all to read. Since she had no idea who could have written it or what it might say, she decided to open it on her own in the girls’ bedroom.

  There were two pages covered in neat handwriting she did not recognize so she searched for the signature at the end: Dickie. It was her cousin, Prince Louis of Battenberg. They had been close playmates as children, when their families spent summer holidays together in Germany or in Russia. His mother, Princess Victoria, was the sister of her own mother, making them first cousins. The last time she had seen him was in 1913 when he joined them on the Shtandart for a Baltic cruise. Why was he writing to her? She sat on her bed to read.

  My dearest Maria, he began. News filters through to me of the appalling way your family are being treated. It’s simply ghastly. I wish I could come straight to Russia and whisk you all to safety but I am currently serving in the Royal Navy. I must not tell you where, or which ship I am on, but it is one of the most powerful dreadnoughts and we are achieving considerable success against the Hun.

  Maria mused how difficult this war must be for him. Both his parents were German-born—like her mother—yet he was fighting for Britain, the country in which he had been raised.

  As soon as we are victorious, which I believe will not be much longer, I will come to Russia to help overthrow this evil dictator Lenin, so your family can be restored to its rightful position. I cannot divulge them here, but trust me when I say that plans are afoot.

  Maria was overjoyed. For too long there had been no news from the outside world so it felt as though they had been forgotten by their European relatives. But it seemed they were not. Allied troops were coming. Dickie was coming.

  During the long months at sea, he continued, I have had time to think about my future once all this is over and I have come to a very important decision—perhaps the most important a man can make. You must know that I have always had a soft spot for you, my beautiful, darling cousin. I have never met a girl like you, no matter where in the world I have traveled. Maria’s face blanched and her heart began to pound as she guessed what was coming. It would make me the happiest man in the world if you would agree to be my wife.

  Maria put the letter down, her stomach churning. My goodness! It was all so unexpected. As children, she and Dickie had played tennis together, had swum in the sea, and had played hide and seek—but marry? She had simply never thought of him that way. He was handsome enough, with sleek dark hair above a high forehead, a long, thin nose, and penetrating eyes. He had already been tall, with distinguished bearing, when last she saw him, despite being just thirteen years of age. But marry?

  Suddenly she remembered an incident during that visit. They had been strolling on an island in the Gulf of Finland, and she had run ahead and ducked behind a tree, planning to leap out and surprise him. But when she jumped out he was closer than she’d thought, right beside the tree, and she bumped into him. He extended a hand to steady her and his palm brushed against her breast. It was insignificant, over in a moment, and yet that encounter stuck in her mind because she could remember the exact expression on his face. He appeared embarrassed, but there was something else in his eyes: a hungry look that puzzled her at the time. She realized now it must have been desire.

  Her cheeks felt hot as she read the remainder of the letter. Dickie suggested that they should set up home near Portsmouth, as he planned to continue his naval career after the war, but he promised they would visit her family as often as she wanted. He wrote that he hoped to have children and he knew Maria would make an excellent mother—the very best kind. He praised her complexion, her eyes, her hair, her gentleness, in terms that made her blush even more deeply.

  To protect those who have helped me, I will not tell you how I contrived to get this letter to you, he said, but I would be eternally grateful if you could respond tomorrow morning, putting your reply in the exact same place this was discovered. I’m sorry to rush you but it must be tomorrow or else your letter could fall into the wrong hands. If you are unable to make up your mind so fast, please at least tell me whether I might have hope.

  Maria was giddy with the swirl of emotions that engulfed her. Foremost was astonishment that Dickie felt that way about her. She had known he liked her, but not enough to propose marriage, not that kind of liking. She felt flattered, because there was no doubt he was a good catch. He was a prince, a great-grandson of Queen Victoria, with connections throughout European royalty. How extraordinary that he should propose to her rather than to one of her elder sisters! She felt worried that she might hurt his feelings if she did not consent, yet how could she? She had known him only as a playfellow. He was good company but she scarcely knew anything of his character as an adult.

  Maria’s mother had been just twelve years old when she met her father at the wedding of her elder sister Ella to a Russian nobleman, but she said they fell in love straightaway. Both knew their own minds from the very start. Maria had felt great passion for the officer Kolya Demenkov, whom she met in 1914.
She used to toss and turn in bed at night, her skin tingling as she pictured him kissing her and holding her in his arms. But she had never imagined kissing Dickie and wasn’t sure she could. She didn’t think of him that way; he was more like a brother. Did that matter? Could you learn to love someone over time?

  She knew she must tell her mother of this proposal but she hesitated. When Olga came into the bedroom to retrieve her shawl, Maria slid the letter between the pages of a book. She wanted to think it through so she could know her own mind—but there was little time to spare if she must respond by next morning.

  * * *

  “Oh, but that’s wonderful news!” her mother cried as she read the letter that evening.

  “Victoria will be delighted. We discussed the possibility of a match when she was here just before the war, and both agreed you and Dickie were very compatible.”

  “You did?” Maria was stunned. “Why did you not tell me?”

  Her mother shrugged. “It’s better for young people to find out for themselves. I would never force any of my children to marry someone they did not love.”

  “But how can I know if I would love him? We were children when we last met. Besides, he’s younger than I.”

  “Only a year. That’s nothing.” Alexandra peered at her over the top of the pages.

  “There’s another thing you might consider: if you were to become engaged to a member of the British royal family, they would have to redouble their efforts to get us out of here. It could only work in our favor.”