Daisychain Summer. Elizabeth Elgin
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Lady.’ She crossed herself and nodded to the – what was it? Clementina frowned. Some sort of religious picture?
‘A holy icon,’ supplied the countess. ‘Once, it hung over my bed. Always, in summer, we left Petersburg for the country – so much cooler. And when we heard of the trouble in the city, we stayed there, even though winter was near – Anna and I, that was …
‘My husband and our sons returned to Petersburg at once – the mobs were looting, we were told. They got out what valuables they could from the town house and left them with me in the country – until the revolutionaries were defeated and it was safe for us to go back. But they were not defeated. We dare not return to Petersburg.’ She passed a cup with hands that shook.
‘And then?’ Clementina breathed.
‘Igor stayed behind to take care of Anna and me. My husband and elder son returned to St Petersburg to do what they could. Basil and Igor were in the army during the war, at the Military Academy. They were too young to be sent to the Eastern Front – Basil might have lived, had he been there.’
‘And your younger son? Why did you not insist he left Russia with you?’
‘Because he is a man – or almost a man – and his Czar needed him. Besides, there were – things – still to be found; hidden things. Anna and I brought what items of value we could with us – and Our Blessed Lady. It was She got us to safety. I pray to Her each night for Igor’s life – that he may soon find us here. This house – he knows of it …’ She stopped, abruptly, breathing deeply, lifting her shoulders, ashamed she had let down her guard before a complete stranger. ‘Do you think it will rain today?’
‘That is very English of you,’ Clementina smiled. ‘And might I say how well you speak our language? I thought –’
‘That I would speak only Russian? I have French, also. Our children had an English governess and spoke only English in the schoolroom. But I am so angry with those Bolsheviks that I took a vow that only English should be spoken – except on saints’ days – until there is a Romanov on the throne once more.’
‘Dear lady – forgive me – but the Czar is dead; his heir, too.’
‘I fear so. But there are Romanovs still alive; the Grand Duke Michael – the Czar’s brother – what has happened to him we do not know. We only know that our Czar, God rest him, was murdered.’ She bowed her head and crossed herself piously. ‘But I speak too much which I ask will not be repeated by you. For the sake of my son, I ask it.’
Once, in the Imperial days, she doubted she would have received any woman without first checking her pedigree most thoroughly. Indeed, in St Petersburg, their circle of acceptable friends had been select and small. Now, even though she was as nothing in a strange country, she should not let her standards drop. It was just, she sighed inside her, that she was lonely and homesick for Russia and afraid, still, that those who had in even the smallest way served the Czar would be hunted down no matter where they might be.
‘Not a word shall pass my lips,’ Clementina breathed, eyes wide, heart bumping.
‘So, Mrs Clementina Sutton of Pendenys – now you shall tell me about your children …’
The countess had, Clementina was to think later, deftly changed the subject and not one more word about her refugee neighbours had she gleaned. Yet the countess had indicated that though in mourning she would return the call, Clementina thought with satisfaction, and meantime she had deduced that the lady was a widow; that her elder son had been killed and that her younger son was somewhere in Russia, still – St Petersburg, perhaps? – looking for things, though what he sought was still a mystery. Nor had she met Anna.
Anna, had her parents’ title been English, would have been Lady Anna, she frowned. In England, of course, a countess would be the wife of an earl and she was as sure as she could be that Russian aristocracy sported no earls. Maybe though, the husband had been a count? She shook her head. It was all very confusing – and there was something else that might well put a different complexion on things. Anna Petrovsky could already be promised!
She removed her costume and placed it carefully on a hanger. It had been a mistake, she admitted; a very expensive mistake and entirely the wrong colour in which to impress someone who must surely detest anything red.
When the countess returned her call she would be more careful and dress more suitably. And when that happened, surely Anna – Lady Anna – would accompany her mother? She did so want to meet her; decide whether she was wasting her time in patronizing the family next door. It might well be, she was forced to admit, that she would have to cast her net wider in her quest for a wife for Elliot, though she hoped not. After all, it was not essential her son’s wife should have money; what she must have, though, was breeding. Breeding such as Helen had. No amount of money would buy it – a fact of life she had learned the painful way – and no amount of poverty could disguise it. But only let the girl next door be in the market for a wealthy husband, she pleaded silently, and the search was over – and Elliot’s womanizing too, did he but know it!
‘Well now, Miss Julia, and what have you come to tell us?’
Cook placed two cushions on the kitchen chair, then perched Drew on top of them. Ever since this morning, when Miss Julia had begged afternoon tea in the kitchen in exchange for some very, very good news, Cook had been on tenterhooks.
‘Like I promised – good news; cherry scone news.’ Julia drew her chair up to the table. ‘And no, Mrs Shaw, Drew may not have all those cakes’. Deftly she removed an iced bun from his plate, returning it to the tin, ‘even though I know you made them especially for him.’
Eyes bright, she waited until cups had been filled and passed round and Mrs Shaw had nodded that tea might begin before she said. ‘It’s about Alice.’
‘She’s well again? Her ladyship is coming home?’ Tilda gasped.
‘Yes – and no. She is very well, but she is no longer her ladyship and she won’t be coming to Rowangarth just yet. She has her very own home, now. That is where I have been – acting godmother to her little baby. Alice has married again …’
‘Oh, my word!’ Cook dropped her knife with a clatter, gazing stunned around the table. At Mary, who’d suspected, hadn’t she, where Miss Julia had been; at Tilda’s bright pink cheeks and at Jinny Dobb, whom Julia had said should be asked. There was no pleased surprise on Jin’s face, Cook thought. Jin, the sly old thing, merely looked – sly. Her face was without emotion – if you could ignore the I-know-something-you-don’t-know look in her pale blue eyes, that was. ‘Married?’
‘A year last July, Mrs Shaw.’
‘So when she left …?’ At last, Mary found her voice.
‘When she left us she wasn’t going to Aunt Sutton. I’m sorry if you were deceived, but Alice felt that people she knew and cared for might not take too kindly to her leaving her little boy behind.’
‘But she did leave him behind, for all that!’ Tilda Tewk had a way of putting things that was rarely the embodiment of tact.
‘Yes, but not for the reason you might think. Alice had a choice – and she made it!’
Julia took a deep breath. This was not as easy as she had thought. Miss Clitherow had taken the news calmly; below stairs, it would seem, they had not the same control of their curiosity – nor their emotions.
‘You mean, she had the choice between this little lad, here, and – and …’
‘And should we be talking like this in front of him?’ Mary whispered, sliding her eyes to the small boy.
‘It’s all right. He doesn’t understand. The cherry on his bun is of far more interest to him, at the moment,’ Julia smiled. ‘And Alice wasn’t an uncaring mother. She put Drew’s interests first; best he should grow up with his inheritance, she felt, and mother and I agreed with her.’