by Deryn Lake
Basil leant across the bar towards her, wagging a playful finger. “I believe you do not know your Russian history. Catherine the Great was on the throne of Russia at the same time as your George III. You are to play her harpsichord which has been brought out of the Armoury Museum and restored. Georgian music is perfect for such an occasion.”
But Sidonie wasn’t listening, a strange feeling coming over her at the mention of the King’s name. On the night of her summer dinner party, when Rod had sworn he’d seen a ghost, she had wondered afterwards if it had been Sarah Lennox, if the sound of the gypsy fiddler’s song had attracted the girl who had lived at Holland House two hundred years earlier. Yet Sidonie herself had seen nothing, too absorbed in her playing, and it had been left to Finnan to say that for a moment, and just for a moment, he had glimpsed what he described as a Blue Lady standing in the garden doorway, listening to the harpsichord, an expression of bewilderment upon her face. But now all that was past. She was in an old country, a country in many ways still a mystery to the Western world, while Finnan was soon off to new lands to investigate amongst other things a disease also described as new.
Without thinking, Sidonie sighed and Basil gazed at her sharply. “Are you sad? You leave a husband behind perhaps?”
She shook her head. “No, just a friend. I’m not married any more, though I was once.”
“Everyone was once,” Basil answered philosophically.
“Yes,” answered Sidonie, and looked towards the door, situated at right angles to the bar, half-curious about the group of people who were just walking in.
She would not have believed it possible but the fact was that as she spoke about her ex-husband he had actually come through the door. Nigel Beltram was not only in Moscow but apparently staying in the same hotel.
“Good God!” said Sidonie, thunderstruck and gaping.
“What is it?” Basil asked anxiously.
It suddenly seemed too difficult and, moreover, too tedious to explain the situation, particularly the unbelievable coincidence.
“I’ve just seen someone I know from England. It’s a small world as they say.”
“Those are the fact-finding MPs,” Basil informed her morosely. “Do you wish to join them?”
“No, thank you. Let’s just go on talking. He’s bound to see us in a minute. There’s going to be no escape.”
“You do not like this man?”
“No, I don’t. But I’ll have to be polite. He’ll probably come over here. You don’t mind?”
Basil’s tooth glinted. “We shall go into dinner shortly and not sit with him. The Russian bear will tell the English bulldog that business is to be discussed between a great musician and her Muscovite agent. He will go away then.”
Sidonie yelped with laughter. Nigel, who seemed to have recently acquired yet another chin, certainly looked like a bulldog, his pompous old school tie not improving matters, while Basil had such a beautiful, simplistic turn of phrase that it made her smile, though not unkindly, just to listen to him.
“Thank you, Mr Bear,” she said.
“My pleasure, Madame. Now, where would you like to eat? This hotel has three restaurants, the one up here, the Zolotoy Zal, which means Golden Hall and serves traditional food —”
“There please,” said Sidonie. “It sounds fun.”
“Then let us go. If you walk to the right of me and quickly, the bulldog may not see you. He is at the bar with his back turned.”
They made their escape, though Sidonie realised it was only a matter of time before Nigel ran into her, and went down several floors to one of the most delightful restaurants she had ever been in. Tables by the window looked down over bustling Gorky Street, and a dance floor and a group of musicians in traditional dress, playing balalaikas, were placed at the other end. The atmosphere was so much of another culture, of a romantic and extraordinary civilisation, that Sidonie could hardly take it in.
“I thought Russia would be grey and suffering. Not like this.”
“It does suffer, it is often grey,” Basil answered, “but it is too old, too mysterious a society ever to vanish. Think of our ancient monasteries, our onion-domed cathedrals, our icons and snow-covered palaces. Nothing will ever shift them, be it war or revolution.”
Sidonie wept and didn’t know why. “How wonderfully said! I shall do my best to play well for Russian audiences.”
“Tomorrow you shall see the harpsichord. But now you must regain your strength, for loving and leaving can make one sad.”
“And who,” said Sidonie, smiling through her tears, “knows that better than a Russian, if Chekhov is anything to go by?”
“A great man,” answered Basil nodding his head. “Let us drink to him.”
And they raised their glasses and swallowed the vodka contents at a single draught in true Muscovite style.
*
It was round London in a trice; the royal bride was not so much plain as plain ugly; furthermore she drank coffee not tea, took no wine, had been horribly seasick on the crossing from Cuxhaven to Harwich and had appeared on deck very ill-dressed and wearing neither rouge nor powder! Horace Walpole, waspish and wonderful, had commented that the Princess had fine hair and a “pleasing” countenance, and then had burst out laughing, while the Duchess of Hamilton, travelling with the future Queen, passed on the gossip that Charlotte had grown frightened and turned pale at her first glimpse of St James’s Palace.
Standing ready to receive her as the coach finally drew to a halt were all the courtiers and beauties of England, including Lady Sarah Lennox. And some of the King’s attendants, watching his face narrowly as he first set eyes on his future bride, thought they discovered a struggle to conceal the disagreeable surprise he felt on seeing a female so plain and awkward.
“The great difference between the Queen and Lady Sarah forms a very striking contrast,” whispered Lord Glenbervie to his wife, and the two of them had smiled in pure malice.
Fox, for himself, could hardly credit Charlotte of Mecklenburg’s looks — or rather lack of them. She was very pale indeed yet, oddly, her features were almost simian. Her nose was broad and tipped at the end, her mouth was large, while her eyes looked like boot buttons in her colourless face. As to her figure, it was thin and insignificant with mean and minute breasts. The only thing of beauty about the poor girl was her hair, which was very soft and of a fine dark shade. By contrast, Fox’s sister-in-law, dressed in her bridesmaid’s clothes, glistened like a silver moon.
The question as to whether or not Sarah would stand as bride’s attendant had brought the family almost to a state of civil war. The girl herself had wanted to accept the invitation, believing that there would be “great talk” if she did not do so and determined to defy the beau monde to the end. For, as daughter of the late Duke of Richmond, her role would be that of chief bridesmaid and there would indeed be gossip if she refused. Caroline, on the other hand, was all for turning the offer down with dignity and Lady Susan Fox-Strangeways agreed with that. The Earl of Kildare, Sarah’s brother-in-law, said she would lay herself open to rumour if she did not go, and his wife Emily, who had given birth to a boy at the end of July, was more in favour than against. It was Fox who had the final word, as was to be expected.
“Well, Sal, you are the first vargin —”, he had rolled the word round his tongue, “— in England, and you shall take your place in spite of them all as chief bridesmaid, and the King shall behold your pretty face and repent.”
Leaning forward on his desk and speaking in a whisper, Sarah had answered, “Secretly, Sir, I thought to thumb my nose at him, if you will forgive the phrase.”
“Thumb and be damned. Ignore your sister. You must do it, girl.”
And so it had been agreed between them that August evening. But now it was September and the royal wedding day and Sarah, her agony turned to anger, her love to loathing, was dressed in a gleaming robe of white lute string with silver trimmings, the entire gown bedecked with a thousand pearls. Sh
e stood deliberately close to the Queen who paled into an insignificant shadow by contrast. Revenge had been taken, Sarah’s blazing contempt was seen on all sides for the triumph it was.
*
For reasons best known to herself the Princess of Wales was not present to receive her new daughter-in-law, who had gone through a form of proxy marriage in Germany and so could already be considered the Queen. Instead it was the young King who told his seventeen-year-old bride what she must wear for her wedding and, with a great deal of obvious trembling, Charlotte retired with her ladies to get dressed.
The ceremony was due to take place at eight o’clock and at a few minutes to the hour, His Majesty and his attendants left for the Chapel Royal while the bride emerged from her quarters as the royal wedding procession, led by a fanfare of trumpets and drums, formed up.
“God’s life,” exclaimed Walpole to his nearest companion, “I’ve seen better in Billingsgate!”
For the Queen had practically vanished in a gown of white and silver and an endless mantle of violet-coloured velvet, lined with ermine, which was fastened to her shoulders by a large bunch of pearls. All this could have looked well had the mantle remained in place, but the weight of the thing dragged itself and almost the rest of her clothes halfway down the unhappy girl’s waist. It was almost impossible to move in such a garment and had it not been for the assistance of the Duke of York and Prince William, supporting the bride on either side, Charlotte would have been hardly able to drag herself forward. Coming to the rescue with the sweetest of smiles, Lady Sarah Lennox bade the other nine bridesmaids pick up the train and so they proceeded, Sarah directly behind the bride as principal attendant, Susan Fox-Strangeways walking last.
Fox was vividly reminded of another occasion in the same Chapel Royal when the King had stared at Sarah throughout the service and the beau monde buzzed with gossip. Now the very same feeling was in the air as the wedding party approached the altar, the chief bridesmaid a mere pace or two behind the place where the bridegroom stood. The King, however, conducted himself well until the Archbishop of Canterbury said the words, “And as Thou didst send Thy blessing upon Abraham and Sarah to their great comfort.”
“He can’t conceal his confusion,” whispered Walpole delightedly. “His face is flushed as a fruit.”
Fox, too, noticed with malice how ill at ease His Majesty seemed and so apparently did everybody else, for there was an audible murmur in the congregation. And when the King and his bride took their seats on the state chairs situated at one side of the altar, the Princess of Wales facing them on the other, it was noted by all present that His Majesty could hardly keep his eyes from the lovely bridesmaid who, according to Walpole, had all the glow of beauty peculiar to her family about her that day.
By now it was half past ten at night and there was a general longing to get to the reception and have something to eat and drink. But it seemed as if the dullness of the bride was already beginning to affect the former gaiety of the bachelor King’s court. For when the multitude trooped back from the Chapel Royal to the Drawing Room they found that supper was not ready and that there must, of necessity, be yet another boring delay.
“I could play the harpsichord while you wait,” suggested the new Queen in French.
Walpole rolled his eyes. “God in His mercy grant me patience. One could almost be moved to pity.”
“Shush,” said Fox.
Horace lowered his voice. “But look at her, dear fellow, draped in finery yet half undressed.” Out loud he shouted, “Bravo, Madam. Do play please,” and clapped his hands. “God be praised, but I hope she don’t sing,” he went on again. “Oh ’Zounds, she’s going to!”
And there the entire wedding party sat while the small, whey-faced figure, freed at last by her ladies from the all-consuming train, took her place at the harpsichord and began to play, accompanying herself as in a thin reedy voice she attempted to sing a melody written by the Neapolitan, Pietro Paradies.
Horace Walpole closed his eyes, pretending to concentrate. From where he sat Fox could hear him muttering, “No looks, no style, no hope. Lud, Sir, you’ve made the wrong choice, so you have,” and prayed that nobody else had caught the wit’s words.
Watching her, watching the man who once had loved her, Sarah felt as if her heart would burst. She wanted to laugh, she wanted to cry. They were both so utterly pathetic, the poor plain Queen in particular. And, though she hated her above all others, Sarah longed to tell Charlotte to stop, to say she was making a fool of herself, that she had no talent and the beau monde would already be sharpening its claws. Beautiful and poised, the sixteen-year-old girl gazed at her rival with something so close to compassion that she wondered at her own generosity of spirit, and could not explain it even to herself.
*
The travelling alarm had gone off at eight o’clock Russian time and Sidonie had rolled over in bed, desperately trying to switch it off. By any standard, even Muscovite, she had a monumental hangover, and the very thought of having to get up and be bright daunted her. Yet outside lay Moscow in the daylight, Red Square, St Basil’s and the Kremlin. Feeling like a horrid old drunk in a Western, Sidonie plunged her head under the cold shower. However, the horse trough treatment worked and an hour later, having breakfasted on coffee and some extremely strange things to eat, she was down in reception as arranged the previous night with Basil Kuzma.
This morning, however, the impresario was not alone, a young Russian man who audibly whistled as Sidonie approached, standing beside him. Ignoring the unorthodox greeting she sailed up to them and said, “Hello, I hope I’m not late. I think I had rather too much vodka last night.”
“No such thing,” put in the stranger, smiling broadly.
“Be quiet,” said Basil. “Sidonie, may I introduce to you Alexei Orlov? I wonder if he could accompany you to the Kremlin today as I have some urgent work to do and he is also trying to improve his English.”
“Are you the violinist?” Sidonie asked the newcomer, sure that she had heard the name.
“Yes. Soon I come on tour to Europe. Basil is my manager. How do you do, Miss Brooks. I have a tape of yours. A friend of mine brought it back for me from France.” Alexei said all this without pausing for breath and then added, “I am a great admirer of your work. An honour,” and with that he kissed Sidonie’s hand and bowed.
“Well, I hope you’ll return the compliment and let me hear you play. I read about you in the Independent. They say you’re quite something.”
“Quite something?” Alexei looked puzzled.
“It’s colloquial speech. It means very good indeed.”
“What’s colloquial?” said Alexei, and shrugged a pair of the most expressive shoulders that Sidonie had ever seen.
He was good-looking in that slightly Tartar way that some Russians have, for he had a faun-like cast of feature and almond-shaped eyes. In build, the violinist resembled that famous dancing defector, Baryshnikov, being small, tough and wiry. Though not a great deal taller than Sidonie herself, Alexei’s few extra inches none the less gave an impression of strength and agility.
“I’ll tell you later,” she answered him, then looked at Basil. “When shall I see you?”
“This evening. I want to take you to the TV centre. They would like to televise a little of the concert in the Kremlin.”
“Shall we meet in the bar at six?”
“Make it downstairs. There is less likelihood of running into the bulldog.”
“You bring a dog too?” said Alexei, thoroughly mystified.
“I’ll explain that as well,” said Sidonie, and with that they set off for Red Square.
She had never really understood exactly what the Kremlin was. Stalinist regimes and the ensuing propaganda had left Sidonie with the impression that it was some grim grey building from which officials of the KGB sent coded messages and spied on the rest of the world. But now the extraordinary beauty of the place was revealed as she stepped with her violinist escort into one
of the largest squares she had ever seen. One side of it was completely taken up by a massive towered wall behind which could be glimpsed a green-roofed palace and the golden onion domes of at least two cathedrals. Immediately opposite stood the amazing St Basil’s, to the right the only eyesore in Sidonie’s opinion, the red granite tomb of Lenin.
“Where’s the Kremlin?” she said, gazing round.
“There, behind the wall.”
“But that’s a palace.”
“The Kremlin is a city,” said Alexei, obviously stunned by her ignorance. “It is medieval, fortified, very beautiful. Come, Englishwoman, I show you.” And with that he took her by the hand and led her, without protest, through the entire square and down to the Moskva River where the wall continued along the riverbank to the place where once there had been the drawbridge.
“Now do you understand?” he asked impatiently.
“Yes. I’m sorry. I just had no idea.”
“You wait till we get inside. It will blow your mind.”
“I thought you didn’t know what colloquial meant,” said Sidonie accusingly.
“Sometimes I surprise me,” answered Alexei, and winked a topaz eye.
“When am I going to hear you play?”
“Later. Now look and learn.”
They walked up a steep ramp and passed within the walls of a citadel. Inside stood a collection of buildings so fine that Sidonie did not know where to look first, the exquisite Kremlin Palace which, so Alexei told her, had over seven hundred rooms and halls, being only a part of the hidden complex. Beyond the Palace lay Cathedral Square, round it clustered three cathedrals and two churches, all glistening white in the sun, the golden domes reflecting every ray and throwing patches of gilt onto the pale paving stones below.
Above these reared Ivan the Terrible’s Bell Tower, the tallest building in the citadel, its dome as golden as the rest, its shadow falling over the tree-filled garden beneath it. But despite all this splendour, the overpowering atmosphere created by early Russian art, the lingering smell of incense, the icons covered in jewels, it was the exhibition of Russia’s mighty past that caught Sidonie’s imagination.
