The Man From St. Petersburg Page 21

  "Why should she be unhappy?"

  "You tell me, she's your mother."

  Charlotte considered. Was Mama unhappy? She certainly was not content in the way Papa seemed to be. She worried too much, and she would fly off the handle without much provocation. "She's not relaxed," she said. "But I can't think of any reason why she should be unhappy. I wonder if it has to do with leaving your native country."

  "That's possible," Feliks said, but he did not sound convinced. "Have you any brothers and sisters?"

  "No. My best friend is my cousin Belinda; she's the same age as me."

  "What other friends have you got?"

  "No other friends, just acquaintances."

  "Other cousins?"

  "Twin boys, six years old. Of course I've loads of cousins in Russia, but I've never seen any of them, except Aleks, who's much older than me."

  "And what are you going to do with your life?"

  "What a question!"

  "Don't you know?"

  "I haven't made up my mind."

  "What are the alternatives?"

  "That's a big question, really. I mean, I'm expected to marry a young man of my own class and raise children. I suppose I shall have to marry."

  "Why?"

  "Well, Walden Hall won't come to me when Papa dies, you know."

  "Why not?"

  "It goes with the title--and I can't be the Earl of Walden. So the house will be left to Peter, the elder of the twins."

  "I see."

  "And I couldn't make my own living."

  "Of course you could."

  "I've been trained for nothing."

  "Train yourself."

  "What would I do?"

  Feliks shrugged. "Raise horses. Be a shopkeeper. Join the civil service. Become a professor of mathematics. Write a play."

  "You talk as if I might do anything I put my mind to."

  "I believe you could. But I have one quite serious idea. Your Russian is perfect--you could translate novels into English."

  "Do you really think I could?"

  "I've no doubt whatsoever."

  Charlotte bit her lip. "Why is it that you have such faith in me and my parents don't?"

  He thought for a minute, then smiled. "If I had brought you up, you would complain that you were forced to do serious work all the time and never allowed to go dancing."

  "You've no children?"

  He looked away. "I never married."

  Charlotte was fascinated. "Did you want to?"

  "Yes."

  She knew she ought not to go on, but she could not resist it: she wanted to know what this strange man had been like when he was in love. "What happened?"

  "The girl married someone else."

  "What was her name?"

  "Lydia."

  "That's my mother's name."

  "Is it?"

  "Lydia Shatova, she was. You must have heard of Count Shatov, if you ever spent any time in St. Petersburg."

  "Yes, I did. Do you carry a watch?"

  "What? No."

  "Nor do I." He looked around and saw a clock on the wall.

  Charlotte followed his glance. "Heavens, it's five o'clock! I intended to get home before mother came down for tea." She stood up.

  "Will you be in trouble?" he said, getting up.

  "I expect so." She turned to leave the cafe.

  He said: "Oh, Charlotte . . ."

  "What is it?"

  "I don't suppose you could pay for the tea? I'm a very poor man."

  "Oh! I wonder whether I've any money. Yes! Look, elevenpence. Is that enough?"

  "Of course." He took sixpence from the palm of her hand and went to the counter to pay. It's funny, Charlotte thought, the things you have to remember when you're not in society. What would Marya think of me, buying a cup of tea for a strange man? She would have apoplexy.

  He gave her the change and held the door for her. "I'll walk part of the way with you."

  "Thank you."

  Feliks took her arm as they walked along the street. The sun was still strong. A policeman walked toward them, and Feliks made her stop and look in a shop window while he passed. She said: "Why don't you want him to see us?"

  "They may be looking for people who were seen on the march."

  Charlotte frowned. That seemed a bit unlikely, but he would know better than she.

  They walked on. Charlotte said: "I love June."

  "The weather in England is wonderful."

  "Do you think so? You've never been to the South of France, then."

  "You have, obviously."

  "We go every winter. We've a villa in Monte Carlo." She was struck by a thought. "I hope you don't think I'm boasting."

  "Certainly not." He smiled. "You must have realized by now that I think great wealth is something to be ashamed of, not proud of."

  "I suppose I should have realized, but I hadn't. Do you despise me, then?"

  "No, but the wealth isn't yours."

  "You're the most interesting person I've ever met," Charlotte said. "May I see you again?"

  "Yes," he said. "Have you got a handkerchief?"

  She took one from her coat pocket and gave it to him. He blew his nose. "You are catching a cold," she said. "Your eyes are streaming."

  "You must be right." He wiped his eyes. "Shall we meet at that cafe?"

  "It's not a frightfully attractive place, is it?" she said. "Let's think of somewhere else. I know! We'll go to the National Gallery. Then, if I see somebody I know, we can pretend we aren't together."

  "All right."

  "Do you like paintings?"

  "I'd like you to educate me."

  "Then it's settled. How about the day after tomorrow, at two o'clock?"

  "Fine."

  It occurred to her that she might not be able to get away. "If something goes wrong, and I have to cancel, can I send you a note?"

  "Well . . . er . . . I move about a lot . . ." He was struck by a thought. "But you can always leave a message with Mrs. Bridget Callahan at number nineteen, Cork Street, in Camden Town."

  She repeated the address. "I'll write that down as soon as I get home. My house is just a few hundred yards away." She hesitated. "You must leave me here. I hope you won't be offended, but it really would be best if no one saw me with you."

  "Offended?" he said with his funny, twisted smile. "No, not at all."

  She held out her hand. "Good-bye."

  "Good-bye." He shook her hand firmly.

  She turned around and walked away. There will be trouble when I get home, she thought. They will have found out that I'm not in my room, and there will be an inquisition. I'll say I went for a walk in the park. They won't like it.

  Somehow she did not care what they thought. She had found a true friend. She was very happy.

  When she reached the gate she turned and looked back. He stood where she had left him, watching her. She gave a discreet wave. He waved back. For some reason he looked vulnerable and sad, standing there alone. That was silly, she realized, as she remembered how he had rescued her from the riot: he was very tough indeed.

  She went into the courtyard and up the steps to the front door.

  Walden arrived at Walden Hall suffering from nervous indigestion. He had rushed away from London before lunch as soon as the police artist had finished drawing the face of the assassin, and he had eaten a picnic and drunk a bottle of Chablis on the way down, without stopping the car. As well as that, he was nervous.

  Today he was due for another session with Aleks. He guessed that Aleks had a counterproposal and expected the Czar's approval of it by cable today. He hoped the Russian Embassy had had the sense to forward cables to Aleks at Walden Hall. He hoped the counterproposal was something reasonable, something he could present to Churchill as a triumph.

  He was fiercely impatient to get down to business with Aleks, but he knew that in reality a few minutes made no difference, and it was always a mistake to appear eager during a negotiation; so he paused
in the hall and composed himself before walking into the Octagon.

  Aleks sat at the window, brooding, with a great tray of tea and cakes untouched beside him. He looked up eagerly and said: "What happened?"

  "The man came, but I'm afraid we failed to catch him," Walden said.

  Aleks looked away. "He came to kill me . . ."

  Walden felt a surge of pity for him. He was young, he had a huge responsibility, he was in a foreign country and a killer was stalking him. But there was no point in letting him brood. Walden put on a breezy tone of voice. "We have the man's description now--in fact the police artist has made a drawing of him. Thomson will catch him in a day or so. And you're safe here--he can't possibly find out where you are."

  "We thought I was safe at the hotel--but he found out I was there."

  "That can't happen again." This was a bad start to a negotiating session, Walden reflected. He had to find a way to turn Aleks's mind to more cheerful subjects. "Have you had tea?"

  "I'm not hungry."

  "Let's go for a walk--it will give you an appetite for dinner."

  "All right." Aleks stood up.

  Walden got a gun--for rabbits, he told Aleks--and they walked down to the Home Farm. One of the two bodyguards provided by Basil Thomson followed ten yards behind them.

  Walden showed Aleks his champion sow, the Princess of Walden. "She's won first prize in the East Anglian Agricultural Show for the last two years." Aleks admired the sturdy brick cottages of the tenants, the tall white-painted barns, and the magnificent shire horses.

  "I don't make any money out of it, of course," Walden said. "All the profit is spent on new stock, or drainage, or buildings, or fencing . . . but it sets a standard for the tenanted farms; and the Home Farm will be worth a lot more when I die than it was when I inherited it."

  "We can't farm like this in Russia," Aleks said. Good, thought Walden; he's thinking of something else. Aleks went on: "Our peasants won't use new methods, won't touch machinery, won't take care of new buildings or good tools. They are still serfs, psychologically if not legally. When there is a bad harvest and they are starving, do you know what they do? They burn the empty barns."

  The men were mowing hay in the South Acre. Twelve laborers made a ragged line across the field, stooped over their scythes, and there was a steady swish, swish as the tall stalks fell like dominoes.

  Samuel Jones, the oldest of the laborers, finished his row first. He came over, scythe in hand, and touched his cap to Walden. Walden shook his callused hand. It was like grasping a rock.

  "Did your lordship find time to go to that there exhibition in Lunnun?" Samuel said.

  "Yes, I did," Walden replied.

  "Did you see that mowing machine you was talking about?"

  Walden put on a dubious face. "It's a beautiful piece of engineering, Sam--but I don't know . . ."

  Sam nodded. "Machinery never does the job as well as a laborer."

  "On the other hand, we could cut the hay in three days instead of a fortnight--and by getting it in that much faster we run less risk of rain. Then we could rent the machine to the tenanted farms."

  "You'd need fewer laborers, too," Sam said.

  Walden pretended to be disappointed. "No," he said, "I couldn't let anyone go. It would just mean we need not take on gypsies to help around harvesttime."

  "It wouldn't make that much difference, then."

  "Not really. And I'm a bit concerned about how the men would take to it--you know young Peter Dawkins will find any excuse to make trouble."

  Sam made a noncommittal sound.

  "Anyway," Walden continued, "Mr. Samson is going to take a look at the machine next week." Samson was the bailiff. "I say!" Walden said as if he had been struck by an idea. "I don't suppose you'd want to go with him, Sam?"

  Sam pretended not to care much for the idea. "To Lunnun?" he said. "I went there in 1888. Didn't like it."

  "You could go up on the train with Mr. Samson--perhaps take young Dawkins with you--see the machine, have your dinner in London, and come back in the afternoon."

  "I dunno what my missus would say."

  "I'd be glad to have your opinion of the machine, though."

  "Well, I should be interested."

  "That's settled, then. I'll tell Samson to make the arrangements." Walden smiled conspiratorially. "You can give Mrs. Jones to understand I practically forced you to go."

  Sam grinned. "I'll do that, m'lord."

  The mowing was almost done. The men stopped work. Any rabbits would be hidden within the last few yards of hay. Walden called Dawkins over and gave him the gun. "You're a good shot, Peter. See if you can get one for yourself and one for the Hall."

  They all stood on the edge of the field, out of the line of fire, then cut the last of the hay from the side, to drive the rabbits into the open field. Four came out, and Dawkins got two with his first round and one with his second. The gunfire made Aleks wince.

  Walden took the gun and one of the rabbits; then he and Aleks walked back toward the Hall. Aleks shook his head in admiration. "You have a wonderful way with the men," he said. "I never seem to be able to strike the right balance between discipline and generosity."

  "It takes practice," Walden said. He held up the rabbit. "We don't really need this at the Hall--but I took it to remind them that the rabbits are mine, and that any they have are a gift from me, not theirs by right." If I had a son, Walden thought, this is how I would explain things to him.

  "One proceeds by discussion and consent," Aleks said.

  "It's the best method--even if you have to give something away."

  Aleks smiled. "Which brings us back to the Balkans."

  Thank Heaven--at last, Walden thought.

  "Shall I sum up?" Aleks went on. "We are willing to fight on your side against Germany, and you are willing to recognize our right to pass through the Bosporus and the Dardanelles. However, we want not just the right but the power. Our suggestion that you should recognize the whole of the Balkan Peninsula from Rumania to Crete as a Russian sphere of influence did not meet with your approval: no doubt you felt it was giving us too much. My task, then, was to formulate a lesser demand: one which would secure our sea passage without committing Britain to an unreservedly pro-Russian Balkan policy."

  "Yes." Walden thought: He has a mind like a surgeon's knife. A few minutes ago I was giving him fatherly advice, and now, suddenly, he seems my equal--at the least. I suppose this is how it is when your son becomes a man.

  "I'm sorry it has taken so long," Aleks said. "I have to send coded cables via the Russian Embassy to St. Petersburg, and discussion at this distance just can't be as quick as I should like."

  "I understand," said Walden, thinking: Come on--out with it!

  "There is an area of about ten thousand square miles, from Constantinople to Adrianople--it amounts to half of Thrace--which is at present part of Turkey. Its coastline begins in the Black Sea, borders the Bosporus, the Sea of Marmara and the Dardanelles, and finishes in the Aegean Sea. In other words, it guards the whole of the passage between the Black Sea and the Mediterranean." He paused. "Give us that, and we're on your side."

  Walden concealed his excitement. Here was a real basis for bargaining. He said: "The problem remains, that it isn't ours to give away."

  "Consider the possibilities if war breaks out," Aleks said. "One: If Turkey is on our side we will have the right of passage anyway. However, this is unlikely. Two: If Turkey is neutral, we would expect Britain to insist on our right of passage as a sign that Turkey's neutrality was genuine; and failing that, to support our invasion of Thrace. Three: If Turkey is on the German side--which is the likeliest of the three possibilities--then Britain would concede that Thrace is ours as soon as we can conquer it."

  Walden said dubiously: "I wonder how the Thracians would feel about all this."

  "They would rather belong to Russia than to Turkey."

  "I expect they'd like to be independent."

  Aleks gave
a boyish smile. "Neither you nor I--nor, indeed, either of our governments--is in the least concerned about what the inhabitants of Thrace might prefer."

  "Quite," Walden said. He was forced to agree. It was Aleks's combination of boyish charm and thoroughly grown-up brains which kept putting Walden off balance. He always thought he had the discussion firmly under control, until Aleks came out with a punch line which showed that he had been controlling it all along.

  They walked up the hill that led to the back of Walden Hall. Walden noticed the bodyguard scanning the woods on either side. Dust puffed around his heavy brown brogues. The ground was dry: it had hardly rained for three months. Walden was excited about Aleks's counterproposal. What would Churchill say? Surely the Russians could be given part of Thrace--who cared about Thrace?

  They crossed the kitchen garden. An undergardener was watering lettuces. He touched his cap to them. Walden searched for the man's name, but Aleks beat him to it. "A fine evening, Stanley," said Aleks.

  "We could do with a shower, your highness."

  "But not too much, eh?"

  "Quite so, your highness."

  Aleks is learning, Walden thought.

  They went into the house. Walden rang for a footman. "I'll send a telegram to Churchill making an appointment for tomorrow morning. I'll motor to London first thing."

  "Good," Aleks said. "Time is running short."

  Charlotte got a big reaction from the footman who opened the door to her.

  "Oh! Thank goodness you're home, Lady Charlotte!" he said.

  Charlotte gave him her coat. "I don't know why you should thank goodness, William."

  "Lady Walden has been worried about you," he said. "She asked that you should be sent to her as soon as you arrived."

  "I'll just go and tidy myself up," Charlotte said.

  "Lady Walden did say 'immediately'--"

  "And I said I'll go and tidy up." Charlotte went up to her room.

  She washed her face and unpinned her hair. There was a dull, muscular ache in her tummy, from the punch she had received, and her hands were grazed, but not badly. Her knees were sure to be bruised, but no one ever saw them. She went behind the screen and took off her dress. It seemed undamaged. I don't look as I've been in a riot, she thought. She heard her bedroom door open.

  "Charlotte!" It was Mama's voice.

  Charlotte slipped into a robe, thinking: Oh, dear, she's going to be hysterical. She came from behind the screen.

  "We've been frantic with worry!" Mama said.

  Marya came into the room behind her, looking self-righteous and steely-eyed.

  Charlotte said: "Well, here I am, safe and sound, so you can stop worrying now."