Strange Are the Ways

by Strange Are the Ways (retail) (epub)

  ‘What is it?’ Anna asked.

  Katya took a long breath. ‘Anna – I’m sorry – there’s no easy way to say it. Your mother is dead.’

  Anna did not move. Dreamlike impressions drifted across her mind. A skein, a tangled web of images. A delicate, bright-eyed doll: ‘Anna? Anna, my shawl? Where’s my shawl? You know I mustn’t –’

  ‘And Volodya,’ Katya said, expressionless.

  Anna’s head jerked up. ‘Volodya?’

  There was a brief silence. Katya lifted her hands. Dropped them. Even sombre and close to tears, even with the faint lines of strain about eyes and mouth that had been the first thing Anna had noticed when they had met, she was still magnetically attractive. Still imbued with that verve and inner warmth that would attract attention wherever she went. ‘He was taken,’ she said.

  ‘Taken?’

  Katya turned to look at her. ‘You don’t know what it’s like, Anna. You can’t.’

  ‘But – taken? What does it mean?’

  Katya shrugged. ‘Gone. Disappeared.’

  ‘But why? What had he done?’

  Katya shook her head.

  ‘Natalia?’ Anna asked.

  ‘She’s gone too. I’ve tried, through friends, but I haven’t been able to trace her.’

  There was a long moment of quiet.

  ‘Gone,’ Anna said. And lifted her head.

  Around her the house stood quiet, warm and sheltering. From the music room came a sudden and unexpected ripple of sound.

  ‘Boris has found the piano,’ Katya said, and laughed a little. ‘The piano – and freedom.’ She cast a sudden, sardonic, infinitely compassionate look upon Anna. ‘Be careful. A free Boris bears watching.’

  And, ‘Oh, Katya,’ Anna said through laughter and sudden tears, ‘I am so very glad to see you!’

  Epilogue: Summer 1928

  ‘When is Aunt Katya actually due to arrive with this new protege of hers?’ ’Tasha was sitting upon the garden table, long bare legs swinging. She was dressed for tennis, her fair hair caught back in a fashionable bandau that well suited the strong, Slavic bone structure of her face. As she spoke she spun a racquet in her hand, back and forth, flipping it with a quick, fidgety movement. ’Tasha was and always would be a blaze of exhausting energy, Anna thought, watching her. Just being near her was enough to tire the faint of heart.

  ‘Some time this afternoon or evening, I suppose. You know Katya. The boat should have docked yesterday, but it won’t occur to her to let us know exactly when she’ll be here.’

  ‘I like Aunt Katya. She’s fun.’ ’Tasha reached for a cake, wolfed it with unladylike speed and relish. Her mass of fair hair and blue eyes were Margarita’s, but any resemblance between the two stopped sharply there. ’Tasha was tall, strong and athletically built, straightforward in character, impatient and blunt-spoken. No, there was little true similarity between ’Tasha and her Aunt Margarita.

  ‘Have you seen Nik?’ Restlessly the girl slipped from the table and prowled the terrace, swinging her racquet. ‘He promised me a game, and now the beast has disappeared.’

  Anna, her face shaded by a large, tattered straw hat, flicked the pages of her magazine. The sun was very warm, the sounds of the garden muted in the heavy, quiet air. ‘He was in the music room with Sebastien last time I saw him.’

  ‘Huh.’ The sound came close to a snort. ‘Good old Sebastien. Of course. I might have known. Clicked his fingers, did he? Honestly, what the bloody wonderful Sebastien – sorry –’ the word was automatic rather than apologetic as Anna lifted a sharp, questioning glance ‘– what the undoubtedly wonderful Sebastien has that the rest of us lack is entirely beyond me.’ She took a quick swipe, with mortal intent, at an inoffensive passing fly.

  The courteous though far from unfriendly distance their handsome young guest had preserved between himself and the boisterous ’Tasha might have something to do with it, Anna thought, not without sympathy. ‘He’s a very nice young man.’ Her voice was neutral, her eyes upon her magazine. ‘And he’s the most promising young pianist any of us have come across for a very long time.’

  ‘Oh, I grant you that. No-one could hold his piano playing against him, not even a Philistine like me.’ ’Tasha grinned suddenly. ‘It’s the Crown Prince of Ruritania charm that I can’t stand.’

  ‘Don’t be graceless, ’Tasha.’ Anna kept her voice detached and cool, furious with herself at the faint burning she could feel colouring her cheeks. She had hoped, vainly, that she might outgrow this mortifying tendency to glow like a firefly at the slightest and silliest thing. She turned her head, tipping the wide brim of the hat, hoping that the unobservant ’Tasha would not notice the blush that was unbecoming, she well knew, in more ways than one. ‘That’s exactly what most girls would like about him, I should think.’

  'Tasha snapped a dead head from a rose bush and served it neatly into the middle of the lawn. ‘Maybe so,’ she said, lightly, shrugging. ‘Personally I don’t go for the Rudolph Valentino looks and the cloak across the puddle manners. Right, I’m off to find Nikki. A promise is a promise and I’m dying for a game. Oh – Step asked me to tell you he’d be up in the woods. If you want him or if Aunt Katya does arrive, just blow the whistle.’

  Anna laughed. ‘I will.’

  She watched her niece stride off into the house, then strolled down the steps and along the path to the fountain. The Crown Prince of Ruritania. She had to laugh. Trust ’Tasha. There was no faulting the aptness of the tart description.

  Sebastien had come to Sythings a couple of months before. He had come, as they all did, from Katya, son of a French mother long dead and a talented father who had fallen foul of the CHEKA. He was a tall, dark-haired and good-looking lad about twenty years of age; a boy, only a few years older than ’Tasha herself – and yet, oddly, it was difficult to think of him so. His background, his grave and courteous manners, above all his talent, gave an impression of a maturity beyond his years.

  When he first arrived he had been exhausted, thin as a rail and convalescing from illness and from the terrors through which he had lived and about which he politely but very firmly refused to speak. Two months of Sussex peace and sunshine – to say nothing of Sussex country food – had brought a bright colour to him, put strength and vigour into his frame and made his smile more ready. Musically he was a prodigy; he was too a child who had been brought up amongst adults, in an intimate situation made more intense by persecution and in an atmosphere perhaps too rarefied for his own good. This unusual background was presumably what had produced the rather intriguing mixture of extreme and vulnerable youth and strange, perceptive maturity that despite her good sense Anna found so intriguing. Despite the trials through which he had lived his good temper seemed unassailable, his temperament peaceable, veiling the depths that could be glimpsed through his music; for it was the music of angels. It was his music, of course, that had so attracted her to the young man.

  Always she told herself this, insisting against the clear memory of the first, instant lurch of her heart when she had seen him, the later delight in his company. It was absurd to think for a moment that anything beyond his talent, the draw of his complicated personality, had attracted her. But yet these past weeks had been so very special. It had been so long since she had woken in the morning with excitement and anticipation in her heart, so long since she had looked for one face, one smile when she entered a room or walked in the garden. Ridiculous. Such thoughts were utterly ridiculous. She knew it. The boy was at least fifteen or sixteen years her junior. There could be nothing between them. Or so she had thought until last night.

  She stood now, pensive beside the fountain. For those first four or five weeks they had been in the house alone, apart from the servants. It had seemed a perfectly proper arrangement. He was after all barely older than the children she thought of as her own. And to all outward appearances, to the very letter indeed, all proprieties had been observed. She had not known then – and did not know now – if
he had sensed, despite all her efforts, how he had stirred her. She had quite fervently hoped not. She still did.

  The years since Russia, she considered, had been kind to her. First there had been Guy. Now she had her music, she had Sythings and she had her children. Life could have worked out very differently, and she knew it. In her heart still she grieved for her homeland and for her compatriots. Who would not? She had had too, of course, in these past ten years lovers of various standing, various enthusiasm and for various reasons, though not many, and never close enough to hurt. But never in all these years had anyone touched her as Sebastien had. Distantly, though always she had denied it to herself, he had reminded her of Andrei.

  It had been the first time she had picked up her grandfather’s violin to play to Sebastien’s accompaniment that the real rapport had begun to grow between them. It had been the most magical evening, begun in laughter, ending in a very real and shared passion of understanding and excitement. The musical partnership had been close to perfection, and both had known it.

  From then on she had, to her credit, been very careful.

  The children had come home; the house had filled with noise, with activity, with constant comings and goings, inconsequential quarrels, and tennis parties. Katya had announced by letter her arrival with yet another refugee, this one, she promised, the greatest prize of them all.

  With pleasure and with joy Anna had watched Sebastien’s love of Sythings and of the family grow.

  After that first evening they played often together, either contentedly alone or for others, and each time it was the same; from the first note a mutual passion, a wordless communication shared by no-one else. As for that other warmth he aroused in her, it was a secret, a small secret she shared with no-one, least of all with Sebastien. She was certain he had no inkling of her tender feelings for him.

  Until last night, when he had kissed her.

  They had been here, by the fountain. They had dined well, the evening was fine and warm, and at ’Tasha’s insistence they had opened another bottle of champagne in place of coffee. Stepan had walked into the garden with them, remote yet friendly, drifting off, as he always at some point did, his presence melting into his absence between one moment and the next.

  ‘I like Step,’ Sebastien had said, quietly.

  And, ‘Yes. So do I,’ Anna had said, and turned, unwary. ‘Of all of them he’s –’ and had stopped, too close to him.

  His young face had been shadowed, the light from the house shifting like starlight in his eyes. With no warning he had bent to her and kissed her, on the lips, a long, soft, tentative kiss. And startled and delighted she had stood quite still, her face lifted to his. And then he had left her, walking swiftly, gauchely graceful, across the lawn.

  She had stayed there – here – by the fountain for a long time. She had heard the young voices, the laughter, the sound of the gramophone. She had tried to untangle her thoughts and her emotions, and had failed. Now, with a sudden movement, she pulled off her hat, lifted her face to the sun. One inappropriate love in life was surely enough? Two could only be thought ridiculous.

  ‘They’re here! Aunt Katya’s here!’ ’Tasha’s voice floated across the garden. She heard the sound of a car’s engine.

  Nikki appeared on the terrace. ‘Aunt Anna? They’re here, they’ve arrived – I’ve yelled for Step, he’s coming.’ He dived back into the house.

  She ran across the lawn and around the house. On the sanded drive by the front door the battered local taxi stood. Katya was the centre of a tangle of laughing young people.

  ‘Aunt Katya! Gosh, how lovely you look!’ ’Tasha elbowed her way to her smaller aunt’s side, gave her a bear hug that left Katya gasping and knocked her hat askew.

  ‘Oh, God, ’Tasha, you’re like a flipping octopus! Let Aunt Kat get some breath!’

  Anna had stopped, struck to immobility, watching. The second occupant of the taxi had clambered from the car and stood surveying the noisy proceedings with a reserved and wary eye. She was tall, thin and untidy, and she carried a cheap violin case scuffed at the corners and in general very much the worse for wear.

  The sun gleamed upon wiry, marigold hair.

  Katya had extricated herself from the enthusiasm of the young and, turning, had seen Anna.

  ‘Anna, darling – well, here we are as you see.’ Katya positively gleamed with pleasure, turned to hold a hand to her companion, drawing her forward. Pale eye met pale eye, the one hostile, the other in dawning understanding.

  ‘It’s Tonia,’ Katya said. ‘You didn’t guess, did you? I so much wanted it to be a surprise – Anna, it’s Tonia. Lenka’s girl –’

  Guess? She had not remotely considered the idea that Katya’s latest escapee might be Lenka’s daughter. The shock was all but overwhelming.

  ‘Tonia.’ Anna moved forward, hands outstretched. ‘Tonia. Oh my dear, it’s so very good to see you here.’

  The thin, pale face was closed, defensive. Purposefully the girl held out her hand, forestalling any attempt that Anna might make to embrace her. ‘Thank you.’

  There was a small and slightly difficult silence. Then, ‘Aren’t you a cousin or something?’ ’Tasha enquired. They had all, at some unnoticed point, lapsed easily into Russian. A common habit when outsiders were not around.

  ‘Well of course she is.’ Katya turned, waved a hand to where the taxi driver was unloading her cases. ‘Nikki, Step, give me a hand with these, would you? And where’s my lovely Sebastien?’

  ‘He’s coming,’ Nikki said. ‘Ah, there he is.’ He raised his voice. ‘Hey, Seb! Here’s Aunt Katya –come on, you slowcoach!’

  Sebastien, from the top of the steps, smiled his bright and tranquil smile, ran swiftly to them to fling his arms about Katya and hug her. She extricated herself after a moment, put him from her, surveyed him with approving eyes. ‘Goodness me, how well you look!’ She linked arms with him, turned to follow the boys and ’Tasha up the steps. Everyone was talking at once.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Tonia said to Anna. ‘I know I shouldn’t have come. I won’t stay long, I promise. Just until I can find somewhere.’

  She spoke haltingly. It took a moment for the words to sink in. Anna stared at her.

  ‘I had to get out – I had to go somewhere – Aunt Katya was my only contact.’ The small, closed face looked wretchedly tired.

  ‘Tonia, please, don’t!’ Anna felt the old, familiar stirring of distress. ‘Of course you must stay. As long as you like. Please believe me – I’m so glad you came –’

  The noisy entourage had reached the top of the steps where Mrs Barton the housekeeper now stood to add her greetings to her favourite guest.

  ‘Thank you,’ Tonia said, the words polite and empty as the thanks of a child told by adults that she should be grateful. ‘You’re very kind.’

  She turned and walked up the steps, straight-backed and shabby, every tense line of her body, the lift of her chin, rejecting warmth.

  Anna watched her with heavy heart, remembering the child who had faced her in that dreadful room, defying her, refusing her help and her friendship; poisoned by her mother’s hatred of a sister she believed had betrayed her. She shook her head. Surely – surely! – something must have changed? The girl couldn’t still nurse a grievance carried since childhood?

  ‘Anna?’ Sebastien had reappeared on the steps above her. His young face had lost its smile. He looked grave, a little tense. She stopped, lifting her head to him, smiling, about to hold out her hand as she normally would. Something in his face stopped her. ‘Sebastien?’

  She knew before he spoke what he would say. Had known, she supposed, since that moment last night when he had left her by the fountain. She waited, smiling as he wanted her to smile, mild, understanding, a touch of amusement, vaguely aunt-like.

  He could not meet her eyes; he looked truly wretched. ‘I’m so very sorry. So very ashamed. Last night – the champagne I think –’ He hung his head, his smooth young cheeks flushed. ‘I
have no excuse. I can’t think what came over me. I don’t know how to apologize. To have done such a thing –’ he bit his lip ‘– it was truly unforgivable, I know.’

  From inside the house came a shout of laughter.

  ‘Last night?’ she asked, her voice determinedly light. ‘Why, my dear, whatever happened last night that you should be so ashamed of ?’ She smiled an affectionate smile, slipped her arm through his, as she might with Stepan or Nikki, guiding him back up the steps.

  He hung back. ‘Please. Don’t be kind. I feel so dreadful about it. I wouldn’t blame you – couldn’t blame you – if – if you wished me to leave?’ He turned on her a look of real misery. ‘To have repaid your hospitality so. What must you think of me?’

  Anna’s smile remained firmly in place. ‘Silly boy. I think of you exactly as I did before. As you say, a little too much champagne – there’s no blame in that once in a while. And as for the other –’ She stopped, looking up at him, willing her voice to the bright warmth of pure friendship, ‘Why, I was quite flattered! An old lady like me? Why shouldn’t I be? Come now –’ she laughed a little, teasing, ignoring the odd, leaden feeling in her heart ‘– don’t spoil it! It was quite the prettiest compliment anyone’s paid me in ages. Now,’ she added briskly, before he could answer, ‘come along, let’s get back to the others. I don’t know if you realize quite what a red-letter day this is for us all. Tonia is my sister’s child, you know – we lost touch with her in Petrograd ten or eleven years ago. It’s so exciting to see her here.’