Читать книгу The Red Staircase - Gwendoline Butler - Страница 6

I had never been in such a room before. It was so shut-in and artificial that I felt the outside air could never penetrate at all. Over the window were heavy, plush curtains of deep red, and over these were layers of muslin, draped and pleated in elaborate folds. On the floor was an ancient Turkey carpet whose very redness seemed to suck up what air was left in the room after the endlessly burning lamps and the great stove had taken their share.

I stood on the threshold, shaken by my reception, and not understanding it.

The old woman in the bed and I stared at each other. Then she gave a cackle of laughter. ‘Come in, girl, and don’t stand there staring.’

Slowly I advanced into the room, vaguely conscious of great gilt mirrors on the wall uncannily reflecting everything in the room, making every image smaller and clearer than in life: gilt furniture, the old lady in the bed, the lamps, and the girl at the door who was myself, a girl in blue-and-white spotted silk, her face with bright puzzled eyes.

‘Come on, come on.’ The voice was imperious. ‘Come right up close and let me have a look.’

Obediently, as if mesmerised, I came right up to the bed and let her look at me. Her hand came forward – dry and cold it was on mine, glittering with diamonds. Age had shrunk and discoloured it until it looked like a little brown animal’s paw.

Her face was old, older than anyone’s I had ever seen. At Jordansjoy we thought of Tibby as old, but she was not old like this. This woman looked as if she and the last century had grown old together. I saw a thin, lined, wrinkled face, cheeks bright rouged, and neck and forehead powdered white. Diamond earrings sparkled at the ears, and a great pearl necklace dangled from her throat. Out of this painted, ancient face stared a pair of dark, keen eyes. But every so often heavy lids fell over the eyes, turning the eye-sockets into dark pits which made her look dead already. It was a disconcerting trick, due, I suppose, to a weakness of the muscle beyond her control. Yet I came to suspect that she used her weakness to intimidate.

‘Good,’ she said again; her voice was almost a whisper, a ghost of what it must have been. ‘I am pleased with you. You have the right look. Genuine. I knew I should be able to tell. At my age a skin peels from the spirit and one senses things at once. But you kept me waiting. I even began to think you had not come.’

‘I didn’t mean to,’ I said, flummoxed.

‘And how long have you been here?’ There was a hint of imperious displeasure in her voice.

‘I’ve been in Russia a little more than three weeks.’

‘Ah, so long? Well, I cannot rely on being told the truth. I have to allow for that.’ Her eyelids fell, revealing the bruised, violet-coloured eye-pits.

I didn’t know what on earth she was talking about. ‘I am Rose Gowrie,’ I said. She opened her eyes, now their blackness seemed opaque, then light and life gleamed in them.

‘So indeed you are: Rose Gowrie come from Scotland,’ she said with satisfaction. ‘And I am Irene Drutsko.’

The name, as even I knew, was one of the oldest in Russian history. The Drutskos looked down on the Romanovs as parvenus.

‘Yes, I am a Drutsko, by birth as well as marriage. We have a lot of the old Rurik blood in us. They say by the time we are five-and-twenty we are all either saints or mad; I leave you to discover which I am.’ Again the eyelids drooped, but were raised quickly – although with an effort, I thought. ‘No, you need not kiss my hand,’ she went on. ‘Your own birth is noble. Besides, your grandfather was my lover when he was an attaché here. It was a short but most enjoyable relationship.’

‘That must have been my great-grandfather,’ I said. ‘He was here. I’ve seen his portrait in Russian dress – very romantic’

‘So? One confuses the generations at my age. Yes, he was very beautiful. He loved me to distraction. When he was called back to London he said he would se suicider.’

‘He was eighty-two when he died,’ I said. He had also had eight children and two wives, both married and all begotten after his sojourn in St Petersburg. I wondered what he had said to her. He had gone down in our family sagas as a tremendous old liar. A great beauty, though, as she had said. We all got our looks from him.

She ignored my remark as, later, she was to ignore what did not fit in with the picture of her world as she saw it. Instead she said: ‘How strange that the blood of that worldly man should run in your veins. Truly the ways of God are beyond us.’ She took my hand caressingly. ‘Ah, my little miracle, my little treasure from God.’

‘Am I?’ I said doubtfully, withdrawing my hand as gently as I could; dry and cold as her hand was, it seemed to take warmth from mine. All the same, my professional interest was aroused. She was a sick woman. I could feel it in the thin, dry, papery quality of her skin. No healthy hand has such skin. It was hard to get my hand away, for her age she had a firm grip. ‘I’m here to be companion to Ariadne and to talk English to her.’ For some reason I did not mention my more important reason for coming to Russia: the medical work I was going to do at Shereshevo. I think I knew instinctively that such a scheme would find no favour with the Princess Irene.

‘Ah?’ Her eyes lit up with mockery. ‘Is that what you think?’

‘Of course. Madame Denisov – is she your niece – engaged me,’ I said stoutly. It seemed to me that I was obscurely defending myself, although I couldn’t tell why. A little trickle of alarm moved inside me. Of course it had been Madame Denisov who offered me my position. What did the old lady mean?

There was a moment of silence, and during it I became more aware of my surroundings. I was standing by the bed; behind me was the door through which I had come in. Now I noticed that in the wall behind the bed was yet another door. I wondered where it led.

‘You think so?’ Her question seemed to give her satisfaction. She shook her head. ‘No, Ariadne is not so important. You have come to me. Do you think Dolly is the only one with ailments? Not that she has any, whatever she may think, she is as strong as a little horse. She smokes too much, of course, but they all do.’

‘I didn’t know Madame Denisov was ill,’ I said, surprised.

‘Nor is she; I have just been saying so. Don’t you listen, girl? Sick in her mind she may be at times; she certainly ought to be with the way she plays at cards and all the worries this family has.’ She paused, and added ironically: ‘So you are her wonder-worker, who will train her silly peasant women in the ways of good health? So she says.’ She gave a sceptical titter.

‘You do know, then?’

‘Of course I know. I know everything there is to know up here in my tower.’ Still the mocking note in her voice. She would be a devil if she was angry, I thought, but in spite of her great age there was an immense attractiveness welling out of her. She seemed like the Sphinx itself to me, only half human, richly encrusted with memories of worlds long gone, and full of mystery. ‘But I shan’t let you be wasted on a pack of illiterate peasants.’ Her eyes glittered. ‘No, you are too valuable a property to leave in my Dolly’s feckless hands. I can see there will have to be a little war between us.’

‘I don’t think I want to be the subject of a war.’

‘You can’t help it, my dear, you are chosen. Life chose you.’ She gave me an amused look. ‘Shall I tell you what I know? No, after all, I won’t. It will be more amusing for me to see you move to strings pulled by you know not whom. At my age, what is left but to be a voyeur?’

I did not properly understand her, but this only added to her amusement. ‘Although I will admit, my dear, that I have hopes of returning to more active life with your help.’ She gave a little cackle of laughter. ‘You will help me, my dear, but I do not promise to help you. That is the law of my world. Struggle, little moth, in your web.’

‘You’re a wicked old woman,’ I said; but there was so much humour in her, black as it was, that she captivated me still.

Behind her the door opened an inch or two, then halted.

She saw it too, reflected in the mirror; she stopped in mid-sentence. Behind the wrinkles and the rouge and the powder her expression changed, amusement and satisfaction draining away and blankness taking their place.

I looked at the door: it was still open, I hadn’t imagined the first movement. Someone must be standing behind it, waiting to come in.

‘Please go now,’ the Princess said, leaning back on her pillows and closing her eyes. Pretending to close them, I thought, because I could see a glimmer through those painted lashes. ‘After all, I am greatly fatigued. Goodbye, my dear, your arrival is my great joy. Come again soon. I will arrange it.’

‘But Madame Denisov – ’ I began. ‘I mean, I don’t know what she expects …’

She interrupted me. ‘I find it best to make my own dispositions. Goodbye for the moment. I shall soon be greatly in your debt.’

Did the door move a fraction as I went away? In the mirror I thought I saw it did.

I was halfway down the red staircase when it struck me that from where she lay in her bed the old lady could watch both the doors. More, anyone opening either door could see who was in the room, reflected in the mirror, before entering. What a room for conspirators.

I didn’t mention anything of this to Dolly Denisov or Ariadne. I wasn’t proud of either my original inquisitiveness or the secrecy it led to. It was Russia, I see that now; and in particular, the way Russia manifested itself in the Denisov household. Without my knowing it, the atmosphere of the house was affecting me.

But the next day Dolly Denisov raised the subject herself, in her own way, and obliquely. We met over the teacups while Dolly smoked and Ariadne nibbled macaroons.

‘You have settled down so well, Miss Gowrie.’ Dolly smoothed her glossy hair, which today was pinned back with a tortoiseshell and diamond comb, shaped like a fan. ‘I am so happy.’

‘I love it all,’ I said with honesty.

‘And soon letters from home will start arriving, and that sad little look I see at the back of the eyes will have gone.’

‘Yes,’ I said. But none from Patrick. No letters, ever again, from Patrick. I don’t think Dolly Denisov can ever have been truly in love or she would not have said what she did. But perhaps she didn’t believe it. Hard to tell with Dolly.

‘You miss your family, of course you do. We Russians understand about families. That is why we live in such huge houses, so we can all be together.’ She reached out for a cigarette, and the dark silk of her flowing tea-gown slid away from her arm to show half a dozen barbaric-looking gold bracelets. ‘Even in this house we have an old aunt living. She is too old and frail for you to meet, she sees no one,’ said Dolly easily.

I said nothing. Old, Princess Irene certainly was, I thought; frail too, no doubt; but it wasn’t true she saw no one. She had seen me. I was opening my mouth to confess all, when Dolly swept on. ‘One day, perhaps, I will take you up to see her. She is history personified. Do you know, as a girl she danced with Prince Metternich? She was a great flirt. Well, more than that, I’m afraid; one couldn’t say she stopped short at flirting, precisely. So many scandals.’ Dolly laughed indulgently. ‘Never really beautiful, but she knew how to attract. Oh, she was worldly, Tante Irene, and now look what she has come to: a recluse, quite cut off, seeing no one. The sadness!’

I kept quiet. I wondered if it was true about her being quite cut off. I had got the distinct impression the Princess received exactly whom she liked in the tower.

Next day, after walking with Ariadne, there was a budget of letters from home waiting for me. I longed to carry them straight up to my room, but Ariadne said no, there was a special visitor in the drawing-room and I must come in and meet him.

‘Oh, who?’

She screwed her face up in a wry grimace. ‘I suppose you would call him a suitor.’

‘A suitor? For you?’ I was surprised. She seemed so young.

‘Oh, don’t worry, Miss Rose, these things take years and years in Russia.’ She smiled. ‘I’m not supposed to know. But of course I do. Goodness, my nurse told me of the arrangement when I was five. But I pretend I don’t know. My mother understands I know, but she pretends that I don’t, too.’ Then she sighed. ‘I shall have to make up my mind soon or it will be too late.’

‘You can choose, then?’

‘Oh, I expect so,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Mamma would never force me to anything, but why should it be no? He’s rich, gentle, and quite pretty, I think.’

‘We say handsome with a man,’ I said.

‘Handsome, then,’ accepted Ariadne blithely.

In the drawing-room were two men. One was Peter Alex-androvitch and the other – yes, seeing him suddenly through Ariadne’s eyes, he was handsome.

‘My Uncle Peter,’ introduced Ariadne, ‘whom you know. And this …’ no doubt from her voice and manner of amused archness that this was her suitor, and that she was enjoying my astonishment … ‘Edward Lacey.’

I held out my hand. ‘I am very glad to see you, Major Lacey.’ And it was true. I was surprised at how happy I was to see him. How secretive they had been, neither telling me until now of their particular interest in each other. Yet it was a private matter, of course, and not the sort of thing to be discussed with a new acquaintance.

Ariadne and I had interrupted a conversation about a famous Russian writer who had just, inexplicably committed suicide. ‘He killed himself,’ said Peter Alexandrov. ‘Shot himself through the mouth. Oh, there is a sickness in our society, all right, and where can it all end?’

‘It is part of your sickness to have no answer,’ said Edward Lacey.

‘Possibly. Or too many answers.’

‘Oh, politics, politics, they can never touch us.’ Ariadne interrupted their conversation with gaiety. ‘Let us ignore unpleasantness and have a good time.’

‘Wretched little butterfly,’ said Edward, but he seemed to enjoy her prattle. Presently the two of them went over to the piano where he turned the pages and Ariadne played and sang. I suppose it was a courtship in the Russian style.

The music began, and Peter and I were left looking at each other. Then Peter gave a short laugh. ‘Ariadne knows nothing, and yet she knows everything. She is like an animal that senses instinctively how to lead a happy life. But give her time, she will grow up. The women in our family mature late. But Ariadne will still be happy, it is her gift.’

Perhaps that was what Edward Lacey liked, and perhaps it was the gift I lacked. ‘Lucky Ariadne,’ I said.

He smiled. ‘Ah, but you have your own gifts.’

Our eyes met, and I seemed to read understanding in his. ‘I think I know what you mean; my gift of healing. But it’s such a little thing, perhaps nothing at all, mere imagination.’ I found myself telling him about the boy in the village, about a dog I had once helped, even about a bird’s wing that I had healed. ‘And yet, small as it is, my gift may have ruined my life.’ I was thinking of Patrick.

‘Your life is only just beginning,’ said Peter. ‘You do not know what you may become.’

‘In Russia?’ I queried, half smiling.

But Peter said nothing more, and soon the others came back from the piano and suggested that we go out to see the new horse that Edward Lacey had just bought and which was ‘a regular winner’. Then, after looking the beast over, I was able to go back to my room, where I sat down by the window and opened my letters from home.

My sister Grizel’s was the longest and the least well spelt, and Alec’s was the shortest, produced in his best copperplate hand, and containing one brief sentence about seeing a fox. Grizel produced a string of home news, such as the state of her Sunday hat, the sad disappearance of our best laying hen (a fox was suspected) and the fact that she was invited to a house-party at Glamis and had ‘absolutely nothing to wear and no way to get there except by walking’.

I raised my head and smiled. I knew that Grizel would get to her house-party – some hopeful suitor would constrain his mother or his sister or his aunt to drive her over – and she would look delightful in her old clothes.

Tibby’s letter was more down-to-earth; she too mentioned the hen, which was obviously a sore point with the whole family, but blamed the local tinkers and not the fox. She concentrated on health. She told me how the minister was, how his wife was, how the postie’s rheumatism had made him ‘terrible slow’ with his letters lately, and finally she told me how she, Grizel and my brother were. I was delighted to hear that they all seemed in rude health. But as I turned the last page of her letter I saw a frantic postscript which seemed to have been jointly written by her and Grizel.

‘My dear Rose,’ wrote Tibby, ‘we have just heard that a terrible trouble has fallen upon the Grahams. Patrick has disgraced himself in India and must leave his regiment in dishonour. We don’t know the details as yet; I dare say we never shall, but I feel for his poor mother.’

In Grizel’s hand, I read: ‘Rose darling, Patrick is accused of mutiny, who would have believed it of him? And he has fled. No one knows his whereabouts, not even his mother. Well, thank goodness you are not married to him, my love, that’s what I say.’

But I thought: poor Patrick, poor Patrick. And I also thought how little I knew him after all.

That night, instead of dreaming about Patrick I dreamt about myself. Troubled, restless dreams in which my own identity seemed lost, and I wandered like a ghost through an unknown countryside.

I woke in the pale dawn and lay looking as the sunlight began to colour the room. I held my hands up in front of me; ordinary, quite pretty hands, with long fingers and the narrow nails inherited by all the Gowries. Why should my hands be working hands, hands to heal, when the hands of all my forebears – except for the soldiers’ – had been idle ones? And yet I knew my hands must work. I wanted to feel them scrubbed clean and sterile, ready to do what I asked of them. And then at the end of the day I wanted to feel they had achieved what I had asked of them. It wasn’t exactly that I thought of myself as a healer, although I hoped I would be; it was simply that there was a job I seemed born for, head, hands and heart, and I longed to be at it.

Had Patrick sensed this? Was this, as much as any troubles of his own, what lay behind our break-up? Perhaps I should blame myself as much as him. And lying there in that Russian dawn, I did blame myself. Somehow I had frightened Patrick away. The notion that he had been paid to leave me struck me now as ridiculous. Still, he had gone, and now some terrible disaster had struck him in India. I felt as though I didn’t understand about this disaster. As if the story, as presented to me, was false. I did not believe in the mutiny tale.

I thought about that for a little while. ‘But I’ve only heard about it at third hand,’ I thought. ‘What actually happened in India, and the story as told to me, may bear very little relation to each other … What a lot I don’t understand;’

The next day – quite unexpectedly – I got my first taste of the other Russia. So far I had been on the whole cocooned in a world of luxury and security; now I was to see the dark side.

That morning early, before breakfast, I buttoned myself into a cool, white linen shirt – for St Petersburg was beginning to be hot – and went downstairs where Ariadne was waiting for me to go with her to church. Like many Russian girls of her class and generation, Ariadne had strongly developed religious feelings, although of a somewhat dreamy and simplistic sort. Religiosity rather than religion, my old Tibby would have called it. It was a matter of duty that I should go with her, but in fact, I was entranced by the richness and beauty of the Orthodox service and music. We went quite often. Church was not, as in Presbyterian Scotland, a Sunday affair; one could go on any day of the week, at almost any time; sometimes we planned to go, but sometimes, too, we went quite casually, just because Ariadne felt like it.

I had instituted the habit of walking; Ariadne fell in with the idea, to humour me. This morning we were turning into the street which led to the church when we saw a line of police drawn up across the road, and we were stopped. Beyond them we could see a small group of people being questioned by two policemen, and in the distance, right down at the end of the road, was a glimpse of the Nevsky Prospect where a large crowd seemed to be milling about.

‘What’s going on?’

The police officers were eyeing us, and one man stepped forward. ‘You may not go that way, Excellencies,’ he said politely.

‘What is it?’ asked Ariadne.

He bowed. ‘A bomb in the Imperial Library, Excellency.’

‘Oh, the Anarchists again, I suppose. Was anyone hurt?’

‘I believe so.’ He was clearly reluctant to add more.

Ariadne turned back to me. ‘The police must think the criminals are still in the neighbourhood; you can see they have the area cordoned off and are searching.’

I had my eyes on the little group already under investigation; I saw a girl, quite young and neatly dressed in dark clothes, a young man in the characteristic suit and narrow cap of the student, and two older men, both working-class.

‘Perhaps they have them, or think they have,’ I said. Even as I looked, the four were led away by the police.

‘The girl was very young,’ said Ariadne. ‘Younger than me. It frightens me a bit.’

There was much to frighten one in Russia, and I was only just beginning to realise it. All the newspaper reports of violence I had read at home, the cautious speculation on the possibility of widespread unrest, suddenly took a concrete form. I was witnessing the break-up of a society. This was the edge of a volcano.

‘Let’s go home.’ And I took Ariadne’s arm, and we turned our backs on the scene.

‘It’s exciting, though, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘She was so brave, that girl, and must have dared so much.’ She was like a child who had just been given an experience that both shocked and delighted her, so that she wanted to go on re-living it in her imagination. For myself, it made me wonder how I should bear myself in this strange new country full of alarming portents.

In the hall Ariadne excused herself. ‘I’ll have some tea and bread in my room. I won’t come in to breakfast. I think I would like to be alone for a little while. You know, if we had been a bit further on on our walk we might have been near that bomb. The Imperial Library is not so far away from the church. We might have been hurt.’

‘And the girl?’ I said. ‘If she’s guilty, what will happen to her?’

‘The Fortress of St Peter and St Paul first,’ said Ariadne. ‘That’s where they take political prisoners. And then – ’ she shrugged – ‘Siberia, I suppose. It is terrible, isn’t it? However you look at it. Terrible what she did, and terrible what will happen to her. Russia is a terrible country. And today I have to go shopping for clothes with my mamma!’ And she ran away upstairs.

Thoughtfully, I went into the breakfast parlour. So now Ariadne knew that politics could reach out and touch her.

I found Mademoiselle Laure there, for once, coolly drinking tea. Her appearances on occasion were as puzzling as her disappearances. No rule seemed to account for them. But this morning, I learnt, Ariadne was to go to her mother’s French dressmaker, and Mademoiselle Laure was to go along too, presumably to see fair play. I was to be left to my own devices.

Mademoiselle Laure inclined her head to me over the teacup, as if it gave her some satisfaction to pass on this information. She was wearing a tight black dress with a small miniature, set with seed pearls and plaited hair, at her throat; I was in white even to my shoes. We made a strange pair, I all white and Mademoiselle Laure all black. There was something total in that blackness. Almost as if she was in mourning.

She saw me looking at the miniature and laid her hand protectively across it. ‘It is the anniversary of his death, and on that day I always wear his likeness, and dress,’ she indicated with her hand, ‘as you see.’

‘His death?’

‘Georges. Georges Leskov, my betrothed. He died of a fever before we could be married.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. I had no idea.’

‘No matter. He loved me, and to the end. I have that consolation.’ And she gave me a meaning look.

I flushed. Bitch, I thought. And then: even she knows! ‘I wouldn’t have let him die,’ I said.

‘I too would have saved him, Miss Gowrie, if I could.’ She looked at me: there were tears in her eyes. ‘I nursed him day and night, did all the unpleasant duties a nurse must do, never flinched at inflicting pain. Could you do that, Miss Gowrie?’ She lowered her eyes. ‘But you would not have had to, one touch of your hand …’

‘What do you mean?’ I said sharply.

‘You know what I refer to, Miss Gowrie. Do you suppose Madame Denisov did not get a nice little character sketch of you before she engaged you?’

I flushed again. ‘I suppose she did. Indeed, I know it.’

‘Oh, you have no need to worry. She finds you magnificent. You are quite the “new woman” to her, all that she wants Ariadne to be. Or so she thinks at the moment. She’s a sceptic, not one of these sensation-hungry, superstitious Russians. Changeable, you know. Fickle. Better be prepared for that. You’re the chosen one now, but you won’t last. I’ve been used myself by someone in this house, to my cost.’

‘Oh, I can’t believe it,’ I said, stretching out my hand to her. To myself I thought she was madly in love with Peter, and that was her trouble.

She didn’t drag her hand away as she had done before, but her face softened a little. ‘Then you are truly unfortunate,’ she remarked.

As this chilling comment was uttered, we both heard the voice of Madame Denisov outside. Quickly Mademoiselle Laure said: ‘Take a word of advice from me, if you are not too proud.’

‘I’m not proud at all.’

She gave me a sweeping look. ‘Oh, you have pride. I can see it in the way you hold your head and in the stare of your eyes. Well, you’ve come to the right place to take a fall.’ She buttered a slice of bread and divided it into four equal segments, one of which she put into her mouth and ate carefully. ‘You have been with the Princess Drutsko.’ I made a quick movement of alarm. ‘Oh, don’t worry; I have said nothing to Madame Denisov.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I saw you come down the staircase. I have taken that walk myself, and know where it leads. Oh, yes, the Princess was my friend before she was yours. Don’t trust to her loyalty, will you? It does not exist. Come to my room when you can, and I will tell you a story.’

There was no mistaking the bitterness in her voice, nor could I fail to understand what lay behind it. ‘You have no need to fear me,’ I said slowly. ‘I am not your rival. Nor will I listen to any tales.’

She gave a short, incredulous laugh. At this moment, Dolly Denisov, accompanied by her brother Peter and followed by Ariadne, swept into the room. Behind, fussing and chattering in various tongues, came the little suite of attendants who seemed needed to get her off on any major expedition: French maid, Russian assistant and German secretary.

‘You will not be going,’ hissed Laure Le Brun in a whisper. ‘You’ll see.’

‘Oh, Rose, you are not to come with us,’ said Ariadne.

‘No, I know. Mademoiselle told me.’

‘We are too frivolous for you today.’

‘I should have enjoyed a peep inside a couture house.’

Dolly dimpled. ‘You shall have one, but on another day. Today, your cousin Emma wishes to meet you, and wants you to see your godfather, Erskine Gowrie. She sent a message round early. It’s one of his good days and she wants you to take advantage of it. She is there herself today.’

Everything had obviously been arranged in detail days before, and without a word to me. I was becoming increasingly annoyed, and puzzled, by the Denisovs’ habit of presenting me with ready-made decisions, careful faits accomplis. Was it a Denisov habit – or was it the way that Russians behaved in general? It made one feel awkward and helpless, particularly if one pretended to any kind of independence …

But I accepted it without protest; I wanted to see my Gowrie relatives. Soon after Dolly and her party had left, one of the Denisov carriages came for me, and after a smart ten-minute trot, drew up outside a large house in another fashionable district of St Petersburg. The footmen took me up to the Gowrie apartment and there was Emma Gowrie herself waiting for me.

Emma Gowrie was short, plump and elderly, with a frizz of grey hair and bright, bird-like eyes. I could just imagine the kindly relish with which she had prepared my little biography for Dolly Denisov. There was no doubt that she would love to have spent an hour with me now in interesting gossip about Jordansjoy, and my life with the Denisovs, but she plainly felt she had a duty to perform, and Erskine Gowrie must not be kept waiting.

Erskine’s apartment was full of dark wood and dark leather, very masculine in tone, with no trace of a feminine influence. His style of furnishing was a mixture of Russia and Europe: heavy oak and well-stuffed tartan cushions side by side – or even in competition with – shiny baroque furniture clearly of local workmanship. There was even something Asiatic about the total effect, and this notion was reinforced by the appearance of Erskine Gowrie himself. My godfather, a tiny shrunken figure propped up on silken cushions in a great chair, with his slippered feet on a stool, and wearing a rich brocade robe, looked like some Chinese Mandarin.

‘Here we are, Erskine, then,’ announced Emma cheerfully. ‘It’s Emma Gowrie.’

‘I can see that,’ said my godfather. ‘I know you. No need to shout.’

‘It’s one of his good days,’ whispered Emma to me. ‘He knows me.’

‘I always know you, Emma Gowrie,’ announced the old man. ‘Only sometimes I prefer not to.’

‘Well, that seems wise,’ said Emma, in no way put out. ‘Only fair, too. There are many days I’d prefer not to know you, Erskine Gowrie, ill-tempered chiel you can be, but I promised your wife.’

So there had been a wife, I thought. ‘Hardly remember her myself,’ said Erskine. ‘So don’t you bother.’

‘Oh, you old wretch, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Why, I’ve seen you weeping over her memory.’

‘Can’t say I remember,’ repeated the old man. ‘I expect you’re making it up. You always were a liar, Emma Gowrie. If you are Emma Gowrie; I’ve only got your word for it.’

Looking at him, I thought he displayed the essential unpredictability of impaired old age, his rudeness, his disparaging remark about what had probably been a loved wife, were part of his sickness. Underneath was a man who did indeed still remember, but who had to struggle against an irrational disturbance of his feelings which he could no more control than we ought to mind. Perhaps Emma understood this as well as I did, because she remained unmoved.

‘I’m Emma Gowrie, all right,’ she said.

‘Of course you are. Know your face, know it anywhere. As I would know you, my dear,’ he said, turning to me and speaking with great tenderness. ‘A perfect amalgam of your grandmother and your grandfather. So lovely to see their sweet faces again.’ He pressed my hand. ‘My perfect Rose.’

I was deeply touched. ‘Oh, sir,’ I said – I may even have blushed a little, without benefit of rouge. ‘But Granny was such a great beauty, and I’m not that.’

He still hung onto my hand. ‘Ah, how do you know? Do you see what I see, then? Let’s have some tea,’ he announced, ringing a little silver bell. ‘Good strong Scotch tea, not this weak Russian stuff.’ His eyes closed.

‘He’ll drop off in a minute,’ said Emma, with irritation. ‘And he hasn’t gone into things nearly enough.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ve said quite enough,’ said Erskine Gowrie, opening his eyes. ‘Inside myself, at least.’

‘What’s the good of that to us?’ demanded Emma, her irritation in no way appeased. ‘Here have I brought Rose to you, and you do nothing but go to sleep.’

‘You always were a fool, Emma Gowrie. I have done enough, and Rose has done everything.’

‘Rose Gowrie has done nothing,’ I said.

He patted my hand. ‘Exactly what was required of you, my dear. Just to be.’

‘Oh Godfather.’ To myself I thought: ‘And that is the hardest thing in the world – just to be. Perhaps I should have handled Patrick better if I had had the knack of it.’ I was beginning to blame myself for Patrick, you see. Guilt has to be apportioned for such a tragedy as his, and I had to bear my share.

‘Where’s my tea?’ Erskine Gowrie demanded, dropping my hand and apparently forgetting me.

‘Tea, you live on tea,’ said Emma, pouring him a cup.

But after one long gulp he set the cup down and closed his eyes. It seemed time to leave, and I followed Emma silently to the door. But before I got there he called me back.

‘Rose.’

‘Yes, Godfather?’

‘Come here.’

He had a struggle for breath then, and I had to wait for him to speak. ‘Come back in a week’s time,’ he whispered. ‘And without that old witch if you can. She listens to everything and then talks about it to everyone else.’

‘I will come if I can.’

‘Promise. Because you see, there is something I wish to do, something I must …’ The words were hard for him.

‘Don’t talk any more,’ I said gently. ‘I’ll be back.’

‘Not longer than a week, mind.’ To himself he said: ‘A week will just do it.’

When I returned to Emma she said: ‘What did he want?’

‘He wants me to come back next week.’

‘Without me?’

‘You heard?’ I said.

‘Erskine’s whispers are not exactly inaudible,’ she said drily, but not with any air of displeasure.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

‘Oh don’t be, dear, don’t be. Things work out for the best.’ And she sounded quite pleased.

As she accompanied me down to the street, I said: ‘I wonder if he gets enough to eat.’

‘My dear, he’s a rich man.’ Now she was shocked.

‘No, but you say he lives mainly on tea, and I expect it’s true. I dare say he does live on soft, sweet, mushy things because they are easy to eat. Whereas I have an idea old people ought to get lots of good nourishing food. It could be that a lot of his weakness and loss of brain power is malnutrition. What do you think?’

‘Oh, I don’t think, my dear,’ she said briskly. ‘Not about that.’

‘What does he make in those factories of his?’

‘Armaments,’ she said slowly. ‘Shells, bombs and grenades for war. And the explosives to go with them.’

I was silent, then I said: ‘Yes, you could get rich that way, but I suppose it is a trade to pray for. Death comes as its end, after all. How sad.’ It seemed the antithesis of my life, which I hoped to turn to healing. ‘But Madame Denisov told me it was an engineering works. Does she know?’

Emma laughed. ‘Oh, of course she knows. Erskine Gowrie’s works are famous. But I suppose she didn’t like to say. Russians can be like that. Devious, one might say; but it’s really a form of politeness.’

We parted without much more conversation, although before I was once again tucked into the Denisov carriage Emma gave me a hearty kiss in farewell. Like the kiss you might give to a good child, was my quick comparison.

Because my first visit to my godfather had been so short, I was home long before Dolly and her party could be expected back, so there I was alone, with time to spare and a burden of interesting thoughts. I looked at my watch. An hour until luncheon. I might amuse or bore myself as I chose. Not that one was ever alone in that house, for a servant was always within call. Watching too, I supposed – knew, indeed. They anticipated one’s wants so finely that they must be keeping a very sharp eye on all that went on. One of the little modernisations put in by Madame Denisov’s father had been an arrangement of speaking-tubes, through which it was apparently possible to hiss a request to a servant waiting in a room below. They were never used, for as Dolly Denisov said, you had only to clap your hands here and a servant appeared. ‘I did use one once,’ she had said, with a peal of laughter, ‘and then the silly creature only shouted back.’ She added: ‘My father would have had him flogged for it, but one doesn’t do that sort of thing now, of course.’

There was one of these speaking-tubes just before me now, in the library, its beautifully designed mouthpiece of ivory and bronze protruding from the wall. Dolly Denisov had told me that all the work had been done by one of her father’s servants, an ex-serf who was a skilled craftsman. Much of the furniture in the house had also been built by the carpenters and ciselleurs on their estate. It gave one a new idea of what the serfs had been, not all peasants by any means. Our dominie in the village near Jordansjoy, dear old Dr Rathmpre, had been a fine Greek scholar in his day, with a degree in the Humanities from St Andrews University, and he had instructed us in classical history, so that I saw one might draw a parallel between the slaves of Greece and Rome – where not all the servile had been illiterate labourers, but some had been men of infinite skill – and the serfs of Imperial Russia. One does not like to think that the Parthenon was built by slaves, but it might have been so. It was certainly true that many of the beautiful pieces of furniture and bronzes that I had already seen in some of the great houses in St Petersburg had been made by unfree hands.

I picked up the speaking-tube and blew down it. I heard my whistle go travelling through its length. Then distantly, distantly, a tiny little echo spoke back.

The echo, so remote yet so clear, startled me. I gave a gasp and the exhalation of my breath travelled down the tube and then back to me again. Some trick of the law of physics had produced an echo for me. Experimentally, I tried again. ‘Rose here,’ I called. This time I didn’t get an answer. There was only dead silence. Just as well, really, as it was rather spooky. After waiting a minute more I replaced the plug that stopped the mouth of the tube; I saw that it was decorated with a lion cut in low relief in bronze, and bore the initials of the Alexandrov family.

The shuffle of felt-covered feet, a noise I had come to associate with the arrival of a servant – for in the Denisov household all the servants were obliged to wear a soft, almost silent footwear – made me turn round. My own black Ivan was in the room. His eyes were on the speaking-tube.

‘There is no one at the end, my lady,’ he said politely. ‘The tubes are not used. No one attends to them.’

‘I was only playing a game,’ I said, ashamed at being caught at my trick.

He was silent, pursing his lips.

‘My own voice seemed to call back in echo,’ I explained. (Although why should I explain to Ivan? Yet his very silence seemed to call for an answer.) ‘It amused me.’

Ivan’s answer was to cross himself and say: ‘Those are accursed things, those tubes, and should not be used.’

‘Oh, there’s no harm in them, Ivan, they are useful devices in their way. Perhaps not necessary in a house like this, but in other establishments I should call them very helpful. You have certainly no need to be afraid.’ I spoke cheerfully, a little incredulous that so intelligent a man – and Ivan was that – could be fearful of a harmless contraption like a speaking-tube. But I supposed, underneath, he was a superstitious peasant at heart.

An opaque, blank look settled on his features, an expression I had seen on the faces of the other servants when Dolly or Ariadne spoke sharply to them. It could hardly be called insolence since they were, perforce, always so polite, but I noted a quality of stubborn resistance in it.

‘Yes, I see you don’t believe me, Ivan,’ I said. ‘But I assure you many houses in Scotland and England have them. People shout down to the kitchen for what they want.’

‘No one ever shouts down them in this house,’ he said gloomily. ‘But sometimes the servants down below whistle up them.’

‘Why do they do that?’

‘To raise the devil, I believe,’ said Ivan, even more gloomily.

‘And does he appear?’

‘Don’t ask me,’ said Ivan, crossing himself again.

‘Oh well, I won’t. But what is it you wanted?’

He bowed. ‘I am to conduct you up the Red Staircase to the Princess Irene.’

When I had least expected it, the summons had come. How convenient, I remember thinking innocently, that I should be free and Ariadne out with her mother.

The staircase to what I had begun to call the Red Tower seemed stuffier, the air more scented and dead than ever, and the Princess’s room, when I got there, was full of cigarette smoke. It was over-hot, too, as before, and artificially lit, although it was full daylight outside. I was taking in the details more fully on this second visit. I saw now that not only was the room full of furniture, but that every piece was covered with objects; several low tables bore burdens of silver-framed photographs, flowering plants (there were always so many flowers in Russia), enamelled boxes and porcelain figures. Even at a glance I could see that many of the objects were valuable, for instance an intricately-worked egg of silver and tortoiseshell on a stand of lapis lazuli; but others, like a papier mâché bowl of hideous red and a paper fan with a nasty bead handle, were rubbish. As I looked round I realised that the clutter and muddle reminded me of something. Then I saw what it was: our old nursery at Jordansjoy. This was a playroom for an old child.

Princess Irene was sitting up in her bed, wearing a brocade and fur jacket and a little matching turban, and smoking a small black cigarette. At my appearance she held out a regal hand. ‘Ah, so there you are. Gratified you came so promptly, most gratified.’ She didn’t sound it, more as if she had taken my appearance for granted.

‘Oh, I wanted to,’ I said honestly. ‘And fortunately Ariadne is out with her mother, so I was free.’

‘Naturally, I know where my niece is.’ She had a bed-table in front of her on which she was laying out a pack of cards in some elaborate-looking game. ‘She has gone to her dressmaker and taken her daughter with her. Peter has gone too, and much may he enjoy it. Dolly choosing a dress is a penance I would not wish on any man.’ She turned over a card. ‘Ah, the Queen, a good sign.’ She puffed at her cigarette. ‘Not that I believe the cards can really tell the future, at my age it is a little difficult to take that; but – ’ and here she gave an elegant shrug – ‘a little wink from the Fates is very acceptable.’

She gave a cough, a deep rolling cough that shook her whole body and left her gasping. Another wink from the Fates, I thought, and not such an agreeable one. The cigarette rolled from her fingers; I picked it up and put it on a silver saucer, which was half full of the cigarettes she had smoked already.

‘And have you told my niece that you have visited me here?’ Her dark eyes gave me a sharp look.

‘I think you know the answer to that question,’ I said slowly. ‘You who know everything that goes on in this house. No, I have not.’

‘Good. Good. Of course, she will discover and perhaps be quite cross. She has a temper, you know.’ Another sharp look here.

‘I can imagine.’

‘Not that it matters. I rather like to annoy Dolly.’ She gave a deep chuckle. ‘And it improves her complexion. She’s rather sallow, isn’t she? Don’t you find her sallow?’

Bemused and fascinated, I did not answer. It was true that by comparison with the vivid red mantling of Princess Irene’s cheeks, Dolly was lacking in colour.

‘You don’t answer. Very wise. I like a girl who knows when to keep a still tongue in her head. It’s a sign of good breeding.’

She was a wicked old thing and needed to be taken down a peg or two, I thought. ‘I wouldn’t speak about my employer, in any case,’ I said. ‘It’s good sense as much as good breeding.’

‘Dolly’s not your employer. I am. Aha, that startled you, didn’t it?’ And she leaned back on her pillows in triumph, only to burst out into one of those deep coughs again, so that I had to lean forward and retrieve another cigarette.

So the money that supported this luxurious household was hers? I was surprised, but I could accept it as the truth. ‘Perhaps you pay my salary,’ I began hesitantly. ‘But it is to be with Ariadne that I am here.’ And Shereshevo, I thought.

‘Pay you, do I?’ She gave me an amused look. ‘No, Dolly is rich enough to pay for anything she chooses to indulge herself with. No, but it was on my instructions she sent for you. And not for Ariadne. Nor any dirty peasants, either.’

‘On your instructions?’ I echoed. Yes, I could see her issuing her orders to Dolly Denisov. What I couldn’t see was Dolly accepting them.

‘And Dolly was pleased to oblige me. She likes to forget I am here, but once reminded, she knows better than to be too difficult.’ The diamonds on her fingers flashed as she moved the cards again. ‘I knew all about you. Your old cousin, Miss Gowrie, visits Dolly regularly. She’s full of gossip, which filters through to me. So I told Dolly to get you.’ The diamonds flashed again. ‘She took her time, she likes to tease me a bit, but you came at last. To me. She was pleased to do as I asked in the end. And she had her own motives, also, one does not doubt. And perhaps another voice than mine was added.’ Again came that malicious look. She means Peter, I thought. Peter wanted me.

‘But I came here to be with Ariadne, and to train the peasant women at Madame Denisov’s country estate, to help them look after their own health and that of their children. Madame Denisov invited me. Her letters were quite specific.’ I could be sharp too, when required.

‘So Dolly thinks. Or perhaps just pretends to think.’ The Princess flashed me a smile as bright as her diamonds. ‘But the fact is that you came here for me, whatever Dolly thinks, and I mean to have first claim on you.’

‘I don’t understand.’ But I did. Reluctantly, I did begin to understand a little. I had not forgotten how that dry, cold hand had warmed itself in mine. She wanted help from me. Why me? I was not sure. There must be plenty of nurses in Russia. But perhaps she wanted that little extra I might have. Everyone seemed to be tugging at me in this house.

‘I persuaded Dolly. I told her what a splendid companion you would be for Ariadne. She agreed, she was very willing. Dolly does not need my money, but she would like my emeralds when I die.’ She paused, then said grimly: ‘She will have a long wait. I don’t intend to die.’ Her ancient hand, loaded with jewels whose antique cut made them look older than she was herself, took my own. ‘I do not want to die, and with your help I will not.’

Now that her face was so close, I could see the seams and cracks into which her fine, old skin had crumbled; the rouge and powder accentuated rather than dimmed the damage the years had done. She was wearing a thick, heavy, musky scent that was like the smell of another century.

I withdrew my hand and stepped backwards from the bed. ‘No one can stop death. Not when it’s ready to come. Certainly not I.’

A spark of humour showed in those black eyes. ‘But one can procrastinate. Do you know how old I am? In one month I shall be ninety years old; I have procrastinated thus far, so why should I not postpone death for another ten years and for ten after that?’

‘But why me?’ I was amused, but also amazed at the conviction in her voice. ‘Why should you think I was worth bringing all the way from Scotland on the chance I could do that?’ If you truly did, I thought – because I still believed Dolly Denisov to be very much her own mistress and much more likely to follow her own will than the old Princess’s, emeralds or no.

She looked mysterious. ‘Ah, but you see it was foretold. In the cards. I set great store by the cards and they never let me down. I was told again and again that a girl like you would come from far away, and that through her I would be given great comfort, and that I would not die until she left. So that’s easy: you will not leave.’

I looked at her, half exasperated, half laughing. ‘My sister also foretold my future, although not from the cards. She foretold great happiness, wealth and a tragedy for me, but I don’t happen to believe it.’

Then Princess Irene clapped her hands. ‘Confirmation! The forces which one can only respect – ’ and here she crossed herself – ‘are interested in you. They communicate with each other.’

‘On the other hand, the forces didn’t happen to mention you,’ I pointed out cruelly.

‘But that doesn’t matter, naturally they would only speak of that to me. A great fortune for you, did you say, and yet a tragedy? Hmm. I wonder what that means? One can’t always take these things at their face value.’ She was laughing at me, mocking me, the old devil. ‘There are fortunes and fortunes. Anyway, you won’t go away and leave me to die, will you now? You couldn’t do it. I can see you’re a girl of affections. Sympathy, even.’

‘I won’t go before I have to; I certainly wouldn’t like your death on my head.’

‘Ah now you’re laughing at me!’ She clapped her hands. ‘The little moth flutters in the web. Good. That is what I like to see. Laugh on.’

‘Only a very little laugh.’

‘Well, promise me to stay. Promise?’ She was openly wheedling me now.

‘I promise.’ I held out my hand, and she held out hers, and we exchanged handshakes.

‘A bargain,’ she said with satisfaction. ‘Supposing I should live to be a hundred – without pain, of course. Here, give me that hand-mirror and let me look at my face.’ Silently I handed over the small silver object whose back was studded with sapphires. She looked at herself. ‘Yes, I think I shall do it. You’ve done me good already. I can see it in my face.’ And she pinched her cheeks to make the blood run. ‘Look at the colour there.’

‘There was colour in your cheeks before,’ I said.

‘Painted on. You are laughing at me again.’ She lay back on her pillows, determined to teach me a lesson. ‘Oh, that pain. It’s the pain when it comes that will kill me. You can stop the pain.’ Her voice was rising. ‘When it comes, it comes here, over my heart. It’s coming now. Take it away from me.’

Through the door behind her bed appeared the small, squat figure of an elderly woman wearing a long, dark blue dress and white apron. Her hair was braided all over her head in tiny little plaits, and on top of them she wore a white cap like a little scarf.

With a hostile look at me and a ‘Go away, Baryna,’ she hurried over to the bed. ‘Mistress, mistress, speak to your Anna. You will make yourself ill.’

‘I am ill, you fool. Go away, I tell you. Rose, Rose Gowrie, come here.’

I did not move. Not one step would I take.

‘Do what her Excellency says, Baryna,’ ordered Anna sullenly.

‘She’s not ill,’ I said. ‘She’s just pretending.’

The old lady stopped her moans and lay back on the pillows, staring at me.

‘You can’t deceive me,’ I said. ‘I know whether you are in pain or not. And the pain, when it comes, is not in your heart, but deeper down in your guts.’

Anna gave a shocked little cluck at my bluntness. The Princess coughed, her shoulders heaving, but with laughter. I had passed some sort of test. All the same, she was a sick woman and my trained eye detected and interpreted the great pulse banging away in her throat.

‘Calm down,’ I said. ‘And no more tricks, or you will be ill.’ She was running a risk, staging little scenes like this.

‘Anna, bring me a drink.’

‘Water only,’ I said severely.

The Princess pulled a face. ‘Did you think I would ask for vodka? Only peasant women drink vodka.’ She accepted a tall glass from Anna and sipped it serenely. But since the glass was coloured deep blue, I was unable to see if the liquid it contained was water. I doubted it.

‘About that great fortune you are to have.’

‘A solid, heavy fortune, I think my sister called it,’ I said, remembering.

‘Well, you must not expect it from me.’

Indignantly, I said: ‘I never thought of such a thing for a moment. That would be detestable. Stupid, too.’

‘No, as you say. And yet people do think such things. Such a thought comes into the mind without much effort. It is true I am a rich woman, but my fortune must devolve upon my great-niece and nephew. There remain the jewels which my lover gave me, but those too are promised to Dolly. So you see, you can have no hopes from me.’

‘I don’t think nature intended me to be rich,’ I said soberly.

‘No, it might not be a material inheritance that was meant. There are spiritual ones,’ said the Princess, with an intent look. ‘You have the face of a girl who might have a serious spiritual journey to make.’ She was talking, half to herself, hardly at all to me. I heard her murmur: ‘Child, in your prayers be all my sins remembered.’

Of course,’ I whispered, anxious to reassure. ‘But are they so many?’

‘Yes.’ The word ended on a gasp. I saw the vein in her throat grow and become purple like a grape. ‘More than you know. I have been a wicked woman.’

Urgently I said: ‘Where is your medicine? You have some drops to take?’ She couldn’t answer. I turned to the old maid. ‘Anna, you know, I’m sure. Fetch me her medicine.’

At once Anna produced from a capacious pocket a tiny glass phial. I looked at it, assessed its contents as amyl-nitrate, and snapped it between my fingers and held it under the Princess’s nose so that she could inhale the fumes. All the time I could hear Anna’s jealous voice grumbling away.

As the vapours rose and entered her lungs, so the Princess relaxed; it was very quick, in a minute she was breathing easily.

‘Well, that’s better. So that’s the pain, is it?’

‘One of them,’ she managed, and even smiled wryly. ‘I have several devils that torment me.’

Angina, I thought, and the pain coming because her heart muscle is short of oxygen. But I also thought that she had another and more serious ailment, an obstruction of the gut somewhere which caused even more prolonged pain. And yet I doubted if she would die of either just yet. She was tough.

‘You have violet eyes,’ she murmured, staring up into them as I bent over her. ‘Women with violet eyes always have a sad destiny.’ She was an inveterate romantic.

‘Cheer up. In our family violet eyes turn to a dark grey as we grow older, so you see I shall end up happy.’

She even managed to laugh.

‘That’s better. Goodbye now. And don’t let that old maid of yours bully you.’

‘She bully me?’

‘I think she does.’

Anna managed to bang into me as I stood there, giving my hip a thump with the great bunch of keys she carried suspended from her waist. ‘Oh, the wickedness,’ she muttered. ‘She should be beaten. I’d beat her. Take no notice of her, Princess. Old Anna is the one who knows.’

‘Be quiet, you are an illiterate old woman and know nothing about anything,’ commanded her mistress. ‘I think this girl is very wise. From your face I see I can expect a greater pain. Is that what I must look for, then? More pain?’

‘Yes,’ I said steadily.

A faint smile curved the lips of that enigmatic old face. ‘Very well. We shall see. Anna, lift me up on the pillows and light me another cigarette.’

‘The last thing you should be doing,’ I said.

‘Ah, but with you to save me – ’ she said, giving me a flash of the smile which, I suppose, must have enchanted my great-grandfather – ‘I shall be quite safe. I shall hang on to you, Rose Gowrie. I don’t intend to die yet. Tell my nephew and niece that, if you like. Settle their minds for them.’ And she began to laugh again.

I shook my head at her, and departed.

Outside on the staircase the air seemed hot and dead. I found myself swaying; I sank down and closed my eyes. I was spent; she had taken more from me than she knew. Instinctively, I understood it would never do to let her guess how much; while she was ignorant I retained free will. I sat there, leaning against the wall, and waited for the darkness which surrounded me to recede. Two old invalids in one morning was exhausting. I wondered if Erskine Gowrie knew Princess Irene. Probably one of her lovers, I thought dizzily, to be counted among those sins of the flesh she now dubiously repented of.

When I opened my eyes I found Ivan standing there, looking at me with a worried face. I realised he must have been outside all the time, waiting for me. ‘Are you ill, Miss Rose?’

Only Ivan called me by name, the other servants used any gracious term that popped into their mouth at that moment; the fact that I was a Scots girl seemed to free their tongues, they called me Excellency, my lady, Baryna, and sometimes Baryshna, just as it suited them, but it was all done with such good humour that I could not mind.

I stood up. ‘No, no, I’m not ill. Were you waiting for me? Yes, I can see you were. But why?’ Ivan, even if within earshot, was usually invisible. ‘Was it because I was there? Because I’ve been up the Red Staircase?’

He shrugged. ‘It’s a place,’ he said, meaning: Of course, it’s a bad place, or perhaps just a queer place, or even just a place he was unsure of. One always had to read between the lines.

‘She’s only an old lady. What could happen?’

‘They keep company with the devil up there,’ he murmured, looking at the wall and not at me.

‘Oh, Ivan,’ I said, half laughing. I almost stumbled; I put out a hand and he helped me down the stairs. Together we got to the bottom.

‘But of course, a clever young lady like you doesn’t believe me,’ he grumbled.

It was true that a door had opened in the wall behind the Princess on the day I had first seen her, and I remembered, too, my thought that she had a mirror carefully placed so that she could watch the door. The door had moved, and as soon as it had moved she had got me out of the room. Or so I had thought.

A question occurred to me. ‘How many rooms are there in the tower where Princess Irene lives?’

‘I have never seen. My duties do not take me in them.’

‘But you know?’

‘I have been told; three rooms leading into each other, one very small in which the woman Anna sleeps.’ His tone indicated that she could die there, too, for all he cared. ‘And a staircase leading down to the street, with its own entrance on to Molka Street.’

A back door to the Denisov osobniak, in fact. So Irene Drutsko could entertain whom she wished, with everyone coming and going unnoticed by the rest of the household.

‘St Michael and all his angels could come trooping up the stairs,’ said Ivan, accurately reading my thoughts. ‘Or the Devil and all his.’

‘And just as likely to,’ I said sceptically. ‘You don’t really believe all that rubbish.’

He shrugged. No, he didn’t believe the Devil came visiting, it was just a handy phrase, covering a multitude of suspicions and fears. There it was again, I thought, the secret language of the oppressed. ‘The Devil must be gentleman compared to some I’ve met,’ was all he said.

Downstairs, it was at once apparent that Dolly Denisov an her retinue were in the process of returning. Home two hours at least before anyone expected them – I could tell by the flustered way the servants were running about.

Ariadne came hurrying in first and went straight up the stairs, passing me, where I stood at the door of the great drawing-room, without a look. Dolly Denisov followed, slowly drawing off her gloves and talking over her shoulder to he brother as she did so.

‘I blame you entirely, Peter. I have wasted my morning taking Ariadne to choose clothes and she has chosen nothing. All because of you. How could the child like the silks and lace when you were being so critical? I have never before known you like it, you almost had the poor woman who was showing the dresses in tears. She was doing her best you know, Peter. I shall never be able to show my face ther again.’

‘Oh, come now, Dolly,’ protested Peter. He had followe her through the door, and behind him came Mademoiselle Laure; he looked flushed and she was deadly pale. Ther was a reason for her pallor; it appeared that she had been stricken with a migraine and had had to be brought back This was the real reason for Dolly’s displeasure.

‘Can I help?’ I said. Laure looked very sick. To my suiprise she turned to me with something very like gratitude in her face. ‘It would be a great kindness,’ she said.

I assisted her upstairs and helped her undress. When I had got her lying on her bed she was easier. ‘What do you usually do to relieve the pain?’ I asked.

‘Nothing. There is nothing I can do but lie here and endure. Later, when the sickness goes, I sometimes take a long warm bath.’

I put my hand on her forehead. I could feel an angry pulse throbbing under my fingers. ‘Does it still hurt?’

‘Much less.’

‘Try to sleep.’

‘Yes, I believe I will be able to sleep now. You have been very kind, and I have been shrewish and ill-tempered to you. Unfair as well. But I will make it up to you. I will tell you why you have been brought here. I know. I should have told you before, but I was evil and stupid and wanted to see you in trouble.’

‘Oh, but I know it all.’

‘Do you? You really know? How do you know?’ There was surprise in her voice. ‘Then surely you see the danger.’ She struggled to sit up.

‘I saw Princess Irene, poor old thing.’

‘Princess Irene?’ She seemed genuinely surprised. ‘It’s not only her. No, no, they’ll use you, turn you inside out and then, if it suits them, abandon you. If all goes wrong, you will either be shipped back home – or at worst, who knows what could happen to you? Don’t you see – it is not what you are but what you will be, what you will possess, that matters to them?’

A wave of nausea swept over her and she retched. I pushed her gently back on the pillows, thinking her more than a little mad. ‘You can’t talk now, you must rest. Presumably you think me in no danger today? And I possess nothing, dear Laure, so calm yourself.’

‘No, not today,’ she muttered. ‘Not today. It is not today that matters. Although I quarrelled today with someone on your account.’

‘Very well then. Tomorrow, tomorrow we shall talk.’

I waited till her eyelids closed and then walked quietly to the door. When I turned round for a last look, her eyes were open again and she was looking towards me. Yet I don’t think that it was me she saw.

‘At last I believe I am free,’ she said softly. ‘I have tried so often to leave Russia. Once I even got as far as Poland – but I always came back. Now I am free. I’ll start a little school in my own town of Blois. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do.’

Her eyelids closed again and she was asleep.