The Secret Wife

by Gill Paul

  It was another bitter disappointment for Dmitri. Somewhere in the vastness of the great Russian hinterland was his wife, the woman he loved above all others on earth, but he no longer had any idea where to look for her or even if she was alive. She could be waiting for him, despairing of him finding her, and he felt useless and impotent that he had no idea where to look.

  Dmitri sent a telegram to his mother saying that he would visit within the month, then he spent another week wandering around the Livadia estate, hoping against hope that Tatiana might arrive. The staff accepted him when he explained he had been a member of the royal escort, and produced meals and refreshments as if he were an honoured guest. He tried to imagine Tatiana strolling by the fountains in the Arabian courtyard; playing croquet on the manicured lawn with a view out to sea; swimming in the clear blue waters; dining on the open-air terrace; bathing in the white marble bathrooms. It made him feel a connection with her. This was a place she had loved and he could see why, but it also made him contrast the rarefied lifestyle she had led with the realities of life for the country’s peasants, something he had seen at first hand over the previous year. In Livadia, luxury was taken for granted: the paintings in lavish gilt frames, the heavy hallmarked silver cutlery, the ornate carved furniture – everything smelled expensive. The average peasant eked out the barest existence on a diet of root vegetables and rough bread, with few possessions beyond the clothes they wore on their backs. It was an inequality that should be righted, but he loathed the methods of the Bolsheviks.

  Towards the end of the week, just as he was planning to leave, he received a telegram from a neighbour of his mother’s: REGRET YOUR MOTHER DIED IN APRIL STOP SHE HEARD YOU WERE KILLED AT TSARITSYN STOP YOUR SISTERS HAVE SAILED FOR CONSTANTINOPLE STOP. There followed an address in Turkey.

  A howl burst from Dmitri’s lungs: ‘No!’ He ran through the park to the edge of the sea, howling all the way. The sound seemed to echo around the bay and two gulls took off from a ledge in the cliff. Dmitri fell to his knees, his forehead to the ground, and tore at his hair.

  If only he had contacted his mother as soon as he left Tsaritsyn. He should have gone to visit straight after his father died. He had let her down, just as he had let Tatiana down. It was as if God had turned on him and everything he touched turned to dust. He was a failure as a husband and a failure as a son. He did not deserve to live any more.

  The waves lapped against the shore with a steady rhythm, giving him an idea. He would swim out to sea and keep swimming further and further until his strength left him and he slipped beneath the waves. That way at last he would bring his torment to an end.

  He stripped off his shirt, boots and trousers and stepped into the water. His body would never be found in the vastness of the Black Sea. His sisters would continue to think he had died at Tsaritsyn, and that’s what Tatiana would hear if she tried to search for him.

  That thought stopped him. What if his body washed up on the shore? He could not bear to have Tatiana think of him as a coward.

  He sat down on the shingle, sobbing hard. No. His punishment was that he must live with the shame of his actions. He would be tortured by guilt for the rest of his life, but at least he could try to make it up to his sisters – and possibly, one day, to Tatiana.

  Dmitri stayed in Crimea to fight in the White Army’s last futile battles against the Bolsheviks, under the command of General Wrangel. In early 1920 he got on board one of the last ships taking refugees south to Constantinople, and made his way to his sisters’ house. They were astounded to see him, and there were long days in which they told each other all that had happened in the years since last they saw each other. He wept as he told them of Tatiana; he cried more when Valerina told him of their father’s death in Bolshevik custody. They suspected but could not prove he had been executed.

  ‘Mother never fully recovered,’ Valerina explained. ‘Her heart grew weaker and she could not exert herself without risking collapse. When we got the news that you were killed in battle, it was almost as if she gave up on life.’

  ‘I blame myself …’ Dmitri began.

  ‘Don’t ever say that,’ Valerina interrupted, taking his hand and squeezing it tightly. ‘From what you have told me, everything you did has been for love. I don’t believe God will frown on that.’

  He shook his head. ‘How can I live with the wrong I have done?’

  Valerina had the answer: ‘You will get out of bed every morning and keep going, hour by hour, day by day, and gradually it will get easier. Vera’s husband will give you work in his carpet business and you can live with us. You should write to all of Tatiana’s relatives, wherever they may be found, and if she escapes from the Bolsheviks she will know where to find you. But in the meantime you must grit your teeth and carry on living because to do otherwise would be hideously cruel to your sisters, who love you and have only just found you again.’

  He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it tenderly. ‘I’ll try,’ he whispered, the words catching in his throat.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Lake Akanabee, New York State, end of September 2016

  A few days after her terrifying nocturnal experience, Kitty was planting some flowers in a patch alongside the cabin when she heard a car crawling down the track. As it got close she recognised Jeff from the vacation park along with an older man.

  ‘Morning, Kitty,’ Jeff called. ‘How ya doing?’

  ‘I’m hot!’ she called back, embarrassed by the dark patches of sweat on her t-shirt.

  As the men got out of the car, she saw that Jeff was carrying a Fedex parcel the size of a pillow. ‘This is my granddad,’ he said of the older man, who tipped his straw hat in greeting. ‘I’m giving him a ride home and thought I’d stop by with this …’ He handed the parcel over.

  Kitty clutched it, surprised. ‘Goodness, what is it?’ The address on the label said it came from Marion, her cleaner in London. The bag was open at the top and she glanced in to see her long, chunky olive-green cardigan, a useful cold-weather cover-up. ‘Thanks for bringing it over.’

  ‘My granddad wanted to see what you’ve done with the cabin. Hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘No, of course not. Feel free to have a wander.’

  The old man was looking round the yard. ‘What are you planting?’ he asked.

  ‘Purple cone flowers, hydrangeas and some black-eyed Susan,’ she told him. She’d asked advice at the Indian Lake Garden Centre about what plants were likely to survive the winter. He nodded in approval.

  ‘Last time I was out here must have been when we found your great-granddaddy’s body,’ the old man commented.

  Kitty was startled. ‘He died here?’

  ‘Yeah. I came out to look for him after the storekeeper told me she hadn’t seen him for a couple of weeks. Found him lying frozen solid on the ground and his dog guarding the body. Half-starved that dog was. A lovely creature. I took him in myself.’ He smiled. ‘Kids loved him.’

  ‘So you knew Dmitri? What was he like?’

  ‘Well, we never got much beyond saying howdy and commenting on the weather. After he died we tried our damnedest to find some relatives but without success, so the wife and I went to his funeral to pay our respects.’

  ‘He had a daughter, Marta, who was my grandmother, and a son, Nicholas, as well. I wonder why you couldn’t find them?’ Had they been estranged? The more Kitty found out about Dmitri, the more she realised how little she knew.

  ‘I guess they lost touch along the way. Course, that was in the days before the Internet. You can pretty much find anyone now …’

  After Jeff and his granddad left, Kitty went into the cabin to open the package. As well as the long cardigan, there was her fleecy dressing gown, the one she wore to cuddle up in front of the tele on winter nights, a bundle of post that had come through for her, a new novel by one of her favourite authors, and a family bar of Galaxy chocolate. Had Marion packed all this for her?

  She opened the chocolate an
d munched a square as she flicked through the mail: a postcard from a friend in Costa Rica, a bank statement for her personal account, a couple of invoices, some complimentary play tickets – and a letter with a note from Marion on the outside: ‘Hi Kitty, I couldn’t lie when Tom asked if I knew where your cabin was. I refused to give him the address but promised to send this package and let you know he’s missing you terribly. We had a long chat the other day and I feel sorry for him. He’s a decent man.’

  Kitty was irritated. People always thought Tom was decent. That meant if there was any interruption to the normal harmony, it was automatically assumed to be her fault.

  ‘Anyway, I’m sorry to stick my nose in where it’s not wanted but I couldn’t see the harm in you having this lot and the enclosed letter from Tom. Hope you are OK out there. Marion.’

  The envelope wasn’t sealed. Kitty glanced inside and recognised Tom’s handwriting. Nerves twisted in her stomach at the thought of reading it and she decided she would wait till later, when she’d had a glass of wine for Dutch courage.

  She went back out to the garden to continue her planting, wondering exactly where Dmitri was found dead. It felt kind of creepy that he had died there.

  Later that evening, with a bottle of Chardonnay by her side, Kitty sat on the jetty with Tom’s letter in one hand. The sunset was magnificent, all salmon-pink and mauve, and for a while she just watched. As the light faded, it felt as though she was looking through a sepia filter that was darkening minute by minute. She fetched her gas lamp, poured a second glass, then began to read.

  Hey Kitty,

  The weather has turned to autumn here, with rainy days and chilly evenings, and I worried you might get cold out there in the Adirondacks. It’s hard to tell from your wardrobe but it looks as though you’ve only taken summer clothes. If you want me to ship out anything else just ask.

  If you’ve been reading my emails (and I hope you have), you’ll know that I’ve been seeing a counsellor for six weeks now.

  Kitty’s eyes widened with surprise. Tom had never struck her as the therapy type. Wonders would never cease. She took a big gulp of wine before reading on.

  I never thought I’d do something like this but it’s a fascinating process that is helping me to understand why I did such a stupid, destructive thing as to have sex with Karren Bayliss. It only happened four times and it was over long before you found the messages but that’s obviously four times too many. There are no excuses, of course, but I was feeling pretty low when I didn’t get that promotion at work and I got the feeling, rightly or wrongly, that you were disappointed in me.

  Kitty frowned. She couldn’t remember which promotion he meant.

  I know you’re not interested in my job and think I have basically sold out to the establishment, but moving departments would have meant a more creative role. I’d like to be involved in something to do with music, even if I’m never going to be Bruce Springsteen. Anyway, I’ve registered with an agency to try and find another job and have a few interviews coming up.

  So, my dented ego was one reason for the stupid infidelity. It’s embarrassing how neatly I fit the midlife crisis criteria: approaching forty, a few pounds overweight, frustrated at work, and feeling lonely because you and I stopped communicating at some point and I miss being close to you. I won’t bore you with the therapeutic term for this kind of phenomenon. I’m just disgusted with myself for being a cliché, and most of all for hurting you, the person who means most to me in the world.

  Kitty shivered, although it was a balmy evening, and refilled her glass. Tom was obviously taking the whole counselling thing very seriously, studying it as if for one of his accountancy exams.

  My counsellor thinks I subconsciously left my phone where you would find it that day. She would like to have a session with us together but I explained that you are on the other side of the Atlantic and not replying to emails. Frankly I would rather you slapped me, yelled at me and smashed up my laptop than disappeared for weeks on end without any communication. It’s excruciating to be on the receiving end of the deep-freeze treatment and not know when I might see you again.

  It seems a long time since we talked, properly talked, about anything. I’ve been trying to work out how long and I think it started after your parents died. We’d only been married a year and I expected you to be sobbing yourself to sleep every night, breaking down during the day, drinking too much and eating too little. Instead, what did you do? You bought that big run-down house in Tottenham and spent every waking hour doing it up: rebuilding, redecorating, fitting a new kitchen, tiling the bathrooms, more or less singlehanded. Your energy was scary but you never once mentioned your mum and dad, and if I spoke about them you left the room. Since then it has felt to me as if I’m not allowed to bring up sensitive subjects, and after a while I stopped trying – and now we find ourselves estranged.

  Kitty remembered that period. The house she was doing up had dry rot everywhere, wiring that was centuries out of date and dodgy plumbing, but she had welcomed the distraction. She freely admitted that she dealt with her parents’ death by keeping busy. She thought back to the policewoman coming to the door with the news of the pileup on a Spanish motorway. She’d felt numb during the flight out to Malaga. Tom had to identify the bodies because she simply couldn’t do it. It was as if she was anaesthetised for the first few weeks and could hardly feel anything, but when she did start to feel, the pain was intolerable. It could have destroyed her. And so she had bought that house in Tottenham, with so many problems that really it would have been easier to demolish it and rebuild from scratch.

  What was wrong with distracting yourself from grief? She’d got through it: that was the main thing.

  Suddenly Kitty’s elbow caught the bottle of wine and it toppled and fell into the lake. She swigged the dregs from her glass then got up to fetch another bottle from the cabin before reading the rest of the letter.

  Don’t think I am trying to put any of the blame for the infidelity onto you. I am a messed-up piece of shit and I hate myself for what I’ve done. Please know that I will do anything it takes to make it up to you and turn our marriage back into the beautiful, loving, fun partnership it used to be. Tell me what you want and I’ll do it. I simply can’t be happy without you, Kitty.

  I hope you are having a lovely summer out there. Contact me when you are ready to talk and I’ll either fly out to you or we can meet in a place of your choice and see where we stand. Just don’t ever doubt how much I love you and how much I regret what I have done.

  Your Tom xxx

  It was pitch dark now and there were bats gliding overhead, while frogs croaked a night-time symphony. Kitty drank another glass of wine and suddenly she began to cry. What am I crying for? she wondered, and had no answer, but the compulsion had taken hold. She grasped the letter and hugged it tightly to her chest as she wept like a child, with complete abandon. There was a painful spot deep inside and she hoped the crying jag might shift it but when she clambered up to the cabin and pulled herself into bed fully clothed, it was still there.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Istanbul, 1922

  Dmitri dragged himself through the next two years, morose and self-hating, often seeking release from the thoughts and images that tortured him in the bottom of an arak bottle. His time with Tatiana seemed a distant dream, a fairy tale from a past life in which he could distantly recall he had once been happy. He found it hard to be around his sister Vera, with her two adorable children and attentive husband, because it reminded him of what might have been. Instead he spent his evenings with Valerina, a clever, creative woman, who had never found a husband but who occupied her time painting charming pictures of the Turkish landscape.

  One morning in March 1922 Valerina came rushing to his office to show him a story, just a few paragraphs long, on the inside of the front page of her newspaper.

  ‘A woman in a Berlin asylum is claiming to be Grand Duchess Anastasia,’ she cried.

  Dmitri
grabbed the paper. There was no photograph, and no details about where she had been since 1918, but he was elated. ‘If it is Anastasia, then she might know where the others are – where Tatiana is. And surely if Tatiana is alive and reads the same story, she will travel to Berlin to be reunited with her sister?’

  It said in the newspaper that the woman in question had lost her memory but Dmitri was sure he could prompt her to regain it. He had spoken to Anastasia several times in St Petersburg and she would certainly know him. For the first time in years, there was positive news and he allowed himself to become excited – although it was tinged with anxiety because there was always a chance that Anastasia could be the bearer of bad tidings.

  He resigned from the carpet business, apologising to Vera’s husband, packed a small brown leather suitcase and bought a ticket on the Orient Express to Munich, then another ticket to travel onwards to Berlin. On board he willed the train to go faster. He couldn’t wait to see Anastasia, couldn’t wait to hear what she might have to say.

  It felt odd arriving in a country whose soldiers he had been attempting to kill just six years earlier. He spoke only a few words of German and had difficulty making himself understood when he asked directions to the Dalldorf Asylum, mentioned in the news story.

  It was a wide, three-storey sandstone building with ivy climbing up the front, set in neat, extensive gardens. He walked up to the front door, knocked and addressed the matronly woman who answered in English: ‘Might I see Grand Duchess Anastasia? I am an old friend of the family, from Russia.’

  The woman replied in German and he could only catch the word ‘Anastasia’ but from her gestures she appeared to be asking him to leave. He tried speaking to her in French but got the same reaction.

  ‘I must see Anastasia,’ he repeated, looking up the stone staircase beyond, wondering where she might be. He could easily rush past this woman, but wouldn’t know where to go next.