Lost Roses is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters with the exception of some well-known historical figures, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical persons appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Martha Hall Kelly
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
BALLANTINE and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Hardback ISBN 9781524796372
Ebook ISBN 9781524796389
randomhousebooks.com
Book design by Barbara M. Bachman, adapted for ebook
Cover design: Laura Klynstra
Cover photograph: Keystone-France/Hulton Archive/Getty Images
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue: Luba
Part One
Chapter 1: Eliza
Chapter 2: Sofya
Chapter 3: Varinka
Chapter 4: Eliza
Part Two
Chapter 5: Sofya
Chapter 6: Varinka
Chapter 7: Eliza
Chapter 8: Sofya
Chapter 9: Varinka
Chapter 10: Eliza
Chapter 11: Sofya
Chapter 12: Varinka
Chapter 13: Sofya
Chapter 14: Eliza
Chapter 15: Varinka
Chapter 16: Sofya
Chapter 17: Varinka
Chapter 18: Eliza
Chapter 19: Sofya
Chapter 20: Varinka
Chapter 21: Eliza
Chapter 22: Sofya
Part Three
Chapter 23: Sofya
Chapter 24: Eliza
Chapter 25: Varinka
Chapter 26: Sofya
Chapter 27: Eliza
Chapter 28: Varinka
Chapter 29: Sofya
Chapter 30: Eliza
Chapter 31: Varinka
Chapter 32: Sofya
Chapter 33: Eliza
Chapter 34: Varinka
Chapter 35: Sofya
Part Four
Chapter 36: Sofya
Chapter 37: Varinka
Chapter 38: Eliza
Chapter 39: Sofya
Chapter 40: Varinka
Chapter 41: Eliza
Chapter 42: Sofya
Chapter 43: Eliza
Chapter 44: Varinka
Chapter 45: Sofya
Chapter 46: Varinka
Chapter 47: Sofya
Chapter 48: Sofya
Chapter 49: Eliza
Chapter 50: Varinka
Chapter 51: Sofya
Chapter 52: Varinka
Chapter 53: Sofya
Chapter 54: Sofya
Chapter 55: Eliza
Epilogue: Luba
Author’s Note
Dedication
Acknowledgments
By Martha Hall Kelly
About the Author
Excerpt from Lilac Girls
PROLOGUE
Luba
1912
I only put the centipede in Eliza’s slipper since I thought she was stealing my sister Sofya from me. I was eight years old and had just lost my mother. I couldn’t lose Sofya, too.
Eliza Ferriday, an American friend of the family, had taken us in for a week at her Paris apartment, two Russian cousins to the tsar forced from our St. Petersburg home before Christmas. Our father had remarried and gone to Sardinia on honeymoon with his new wife, Agnessa, who loathed me since, when she visited us in November, I first practiced my centipede skills on her. She especially hated my favorite interest, astronomy, and convinced Father to take away my maps of the constellations, saying they distracted me from French lessons. Though she tried to lure me out with the gift of a doll-sized Limoges tea set I spent most of November barricaded in my bedroom.
Once Sofya was on break from Brillantmont School in the Swiss Alps we’d met in Geneva to take the train to Paris. Pale and thin, still shattered by Mother’s sudden death the previous spring, Sofya said little on our train ride and immersed herself in the stack of books with which she’d filled her suitcase. As we pulled into the Gare de Lyon, she sat and pondered our fellow travelers on the platform. Thinking about Mother, who’d often met her there on school breaks?
Alone in Paris, awaiting the arrival of her husband and daughter from New York, Eliza dedicated every waking hour to our happiness, not leaving us alone for one second. The first day she brought us to a soup kitchen in Le Marais, and I watched as Eliza and Sofya’s bond grew by the moment. How easily she got my sister to laugh. They worked as one, side by side, ladling soup from a giant silver pot, while I retrieved the used bowls from the tables.
The next day I watched, envy coiling in my chest, as the two walked the Christmas market, arm in arm, discussing the merits of goose versus duck for dinner and which chocolates to buy at À la Mère de Famille candy store. As the week wore on, at night by the fire, we played cards and they let me win so they could move on to conversation about novels and men and other boring topics, and then stay up half the night talking more. How I yearned to go home to St. Petersburg and have Sofya to myself.
The night before we left for home, shortly after I’d gone to bed, the two came to my bedroom and woke me, embers still glowing in the fireplace.
“Wake up, my darling,” Sofya whispered in my ear. She brushed the hair back from my forehead as Mother so often had done. “Slip your coat over your pajamas and come with us.”
“We have a surprise for you,” Eliza said.
Half asleep, I followed the two out into the cold night air. We walked through a still Paris toward the Tour Eiffel and once there, stopped under a massive, dark globe that loomed above us.
“What is this place?” I asked.
Eliza and Sofya hurried me up three flights of metal stairs and through a pair of heavy, velvet curtains to a dark room. In the inky blackness I could make out a few inclined chairs close to us, like those on the deck of a ship but upholstered. Eliza and Sofya chose their seats and I lay between them. To our left and right others did the same.
“You woke me for this?” I whispered to Sofya.
“Just wait,” she said.
She held my hand as the domed ceiling above us came alive with constellated stars, reproducing the heavens as I’d seen them one hundred times from earth. The light of the stars revealed a whole auditorium full of people inclined as we were, gazing up at the massive ceiling.
“It’s called the Celestial Globe,” Eliza said. “A planetarium.”
I lay there stunned as the constellations appeared against the indigo sky. Libra’s scal
es. Bright Scorpio. Even usually dim Draco the dragon snaking past Ursa Minor.
Sofya leaned close and whispered, “That is where Mother lives.”
I barely breathed as we watched the moon drift by, fading from full to milky crescent, and a sense of joy I’d not felt since before my mother died filled me.
Eliza took my other hand, warm in hers. “We hoped you’d like it.”
As we lay there, the celestial world playing above us, it struck me that I had never lost my sister. Just acquired a spectacular new one.
CHAPTER
1
Eliza
1914
It was a spring party like any other held in Southampton, with the usual games. Croquet. Badminton. Mild social cruelty. It took place at Mother’s house on Gin Lane, a sprawling white clapboard place surrounded by a swoop of tawny lawn, which eased down to meet the ocean. The Queen Anne cottage, known to most as Mitchell Cottage after Father’s people, stood with her sisters lined up along the treeless South Fork of Long Island, New York, like passengers on a ship deck facing out to sea.
If I paid more attention that day, maybe I could have predicted which of the boys who laughed over croquet wickets would soon die in the forests of Argonne or which women would exchange their ivory silk dresses for black crape. I wouldn’t have pointed to myself.
It was late May and too unseasonably cool near the ocean for a fete of any kind, but Mother insisted on sending our Russian friends, the Streshnayvas, off in style. I stood in the cool, wide living room at the back of the house. Like a steamship wheelhouse it provided the perfect view of the backyard through the picture window, the glass hazed with salt from the sea. It gave the scene a blurry look as guests drifted down the lawn to the dunes.
I felt two arms wrap around my waist and turned to find my eleven-year-old daughter, Caroline, already almost to my shoulder in height, her hair the color of summer hay and pulled back in a white ribbon. Her friend Betty Stockwell stood at her side, a complete opposite of Caroline, five inches shorter and already blossoming into a dark-haired beauty. Though dressed in matching white dresses, they were as different as chalk and cheese.
Caroline held her arms fast around my waist. “We’re going to walk the beach. And Father says he’s sorry he dressed without your help this morning, but don’t deprive him of his Dubonnet.”
I smoothed one hand down her back. “Tell your father color-blind men who insist on sneaking yellow socks into their wardrobes cannot be forgiven.”
Caroline smiled up at me. “You’re my favorite mother.”
She ran off across the lawn and down to the beach, past men who held on to their straw hats, their white flannel trousers flapping in the breeze. Ladies in canvas shoes and suits of cream linen over dainty lingerie shirtwaists turned their faces to the sun, back from places like Palm Beach, happy to feel northern breezes again. Mother’s suffragette friends, most outfitted in black taffeta and silk, lent dark contrast to the otherwise pale lawn, like strutting crows in golden flax.
Mother came and linked arms with me. “A bit chilly for a beach walk.” My seventy-year-old mother, Caroline Carson Woolsey Mitchell, referred to as “Carry” by her sisters, stood as tall as I did, six feet, a staunch New Englander sprung from ancient Yankee stock that had weathered as many heartaches as hurricanes.
“They’ll be fine, Mother.”
I squinted to see my Henry, Caroline, and Betty already walking down the beach, the skirt of Caroline’s white dress wind-puffed, as if ready to fly her skyward.
“They have their shoes off?” Mother asked. “I do hope they come in soon.”
The wind stirred whitecaps on the ocean as the three walked, heads bowed.
Mother wrapped her arms warm about me. “What do they even talk about, Caroline and Henry?”
“Everything. Lost in their own world.”
The breeze grabbed Henry’s straw boater, leaving his auburn hair shining in the sun, and Caroline darted to pluck it from the surf.
“How lucky she is to have a father who dotes on her,” Mother said.
She was entirely right, as always. But would Caroline be up coughing again half the night from the sea air?
Henry waved from the beach, like a castaway stranded on a desert island.
I waved back. “Henry will burn with his fair skin.”
Mother waved to Henry. “The Irish are so delicate.”
“Half Irish, Mother.”
Mother patted my hand. “They’ll miss you.”
“I won’t be gone long.” Sofya and her family had been visiting from St. Petersburg for a month and I was due to travel back with them to St. Petersburg the next day.
“I do worry. Russia is so far. Saratoga is nice this time of year.”
“This may be my only chance to see Russia. The churches. The ballet—”
“The starving peasants.”
“Keep your voice down, Mother.”
“They eliminated serfdom but the tsar’s poor are still enslaved.”
“I’ll go mad if I stay cooped up here. Caroline will be fine with Henry.”
“At least there’s no war on. For now.”
For those who read the papers thoroughly, reporters predicted conflict with Germany, but the world had been on the brink of war so many times, many New Yorkers treated the subject with only passing interest.
“Don’t worry, Mother.”
She hurried off and I stepped out onto the terrace, the salt wind in my hair, into a polite stew of conversation punctuated by great thuds of surf and the occasional knock of a croquet mallet. I pushed through the crowd, squeezing past smooth silks and cashmeres, in search of my friend Sofya.
Mother’s and Father’s friends split into two distinct camps. Though Father had been dead and gone for a few years, Mother still included his friends in any gathering. He was once head of the Republican Party for New York and his friends reflected that: fellow lawyers and their wives, financiers, and the occasional self-made tycoon.
Mother’s friends were decidedly more lively: actors and painters, suffragettes of all shapes and sizes, and several members of the international set from far-off places that Father’s friends only gossiped about: Nairobi. Bangkok. Massachusetts.
To find the Russian contingent, I simply listened for raised voices, since they were a refreshingly raucous bunch, prone to heated discussion in a mix of French, English, and their native tongue at any time of day. I passed the Streshnayvas’ physician, Dr. Vladimir Leonidovich Abushkin, a squat, balding man wearing a lynx coat over his morning suit, chest to chest with Mother’s physician, Dr. Forbes.
“I don’t care what they do in St. Petersburg,” Dr. Forbes said, his face drawn and heavily joweled from years of late-night deathbed visits and baby deliveries. “If you want a healthy child born, Sofya should not be traveling. She needs bed rest and calcium.”
Dr. Abushkin threw back his head. “Ha. Calcium. We have two months before the birth. She’s sound as a roach.”
“But she is at high risk. Two miscarriages. Extended travel is risky.”
I found the Russians gathered on the far end of the back terrace, around my actor friends: silver-haired E. H. Sothern, kneeling on bended knee, and his wife Julia Marlowe. Julia addressed them all from my bedroom window above as she and E.H. performed the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet, one of their most famous.
“ ’Tis almost morning; I would have thee gone—” Julia called out, one arm stretched over the crowd, my bedspread around her shoulders.
The Russians watched the little play, wearing serious expressions, while the rest of the party milled about, immune to the greatest American Shakespearean actor and actress of their day, having seen them perform often. One might ask how Julia and E.H. at forty-eight and fifty-four years old played the famously pubescent couple, but one only had to experience them onstag
e to be convinced of their talent.
Julia finished the scene to enthusiastic applause and Russian hurrahs from the Streshnayvas. They were a jolly group out there on the terrace. Ivan, the patriarch, cousin to tsar Nicholas II, stood and surveyed the pounding surf, his shirtsleeves fluttering. A kind, trim man with a certain European flair, Ivan had met Henry years ago when my husband was a young fur buyer for Poor Brothers Dry Goods and Ivan represented the Russian trade board.
Ivan’s second wife, the countess, stood with a decidedly pregnant Sofya and her soldier husband, Afon, and described at length how she sent her personal linen from Russia to Paris to be laundered.
Most guests were well-mannered enough not to gaze openmouthed, but the aging Russian beauty was a sight to behold, dressed in last year’s French couture and festooned with sable stole, ropes of pearls, and diamonds the size of which had never been seen before the dinner hour in Southampton.
Sofya caught my eye, smiled, and raised an eyebrow. Pregnancy suited her; it left her with a respectable expectant figure, unlike my own before I delivered Caroline and looked as if I carried a Shetland pony.
The countess ignored the brewing fight between the doctors and pulled a housemaid aside. “Fetch me a soda water, would you, and do remember the ice?”
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