The Amber Keeper

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘May I take these away with me?’

  ‘Of course.’ As I handed them to him, his fingers accidentally brushed against mine and something jolted inside me. What on earth was happening? ‘The schoolroom could do with a coat of paint,’ I rushed on to say, desperately attempting to catch my breath, which seemed to be coming in shallow little gasps. ‘I don’t suppose you . . .’

  ‘What colour would you like?’ he asked, busily making notes.

  I suggested green panelling with a cream trim, and he also agreed to lay new linoleum. ‘It would be so much easier to keep clean, and better for the children when they are playing.’

  Once all the details had been agreed upon, I directed him to speak to the butler, who had the final word on such arrangements. I still wasn’t convinced Stefan would fulfil his promise or be as good as he claimed, but as I set about the usual morning lessons I felt a strange curl of excitement within.

  To my amazement, when I walked into the schoolroom at eight o’clock the following morning, he was already at work building a large cupboard where the toys could be kept on full display. I was hugely impressed and said as much. ‘Goodness, when did you start to make that? It looks half done already.’

  ‘I worked all night on it as you seemed to be in a hurry.’

  ‘I can see it becoming a veritable showpiece. Far more capacious and stylish than anything I have seen in England, but still a very English style, as I asked. It’s wonderful.’

  ‘Stefan is a fine craftsman,’ Nyanushki remarked, coming up behind us, holding a child in each hand. ‘And most reliable and efficient. I remember your mother well, son. Haven’t seen her for a while. How is she these days?’

  He turned to smile sadly at the old nanny. ‘She passed away, never having quite recovered from the death of my father. Her life wasn’t the same without him.’

  ‘Ah, I’m sorry to hear that, although not surprised in the circumstances. I remember they made the perfect couple. He was a most kind-hearted man, a stalwart at fighting for what was right, and your mother was his greatest supporter. You didn’t follow in his footsteps, then?’

  ‘Working in a factory was not for me.’

  ‘So how did you acquire your skills as a carpenter?’ I asked, suddenly curious to know more about this young man’s background.

  ‘Hard work and good training. Carpenter, handyman, gardener and general dogsbody at your service,’ he said, giving a mocking salute.

  Nyanushki smiled. ‘Your mother once told me that as well as being very practical, you were also a brilliant artist.’

  ‘I’m afraid my mother was somewhat prejudiced where my talents are concerned. Besides, I know my place. Earning an honest crust in this country is never easy so it wouldn’t do to get above myself, now, would it?’

  He didn’t seem to be the kind of man who would ‘know his place,’ but there was something in his tone that warned me not to pursue the subject. ‘Perhaps you could bring some of your pictures to show the children,’ I suggested, smiling when, predictably, Serge pulled a face and Irina eagerly nodded.

  ‘Ooh, yes please, I like painting,’ the little girl said.

  ‘They aren’t for public viewing,’ he said. Turning away, he continued to plane and smooth the wooden shelves and cupboard doors.

  ‘You surely don’t look at showing them to the children in quite that light,’ I protested. ‘A demonstration of your painting skills would be wonderful for their education.’

  It was as if I hadn’t spoken. Completely ignoring me, he carried on working, making no response. I thought this rather rude, but could see little more than the back of his head as he crouched low. Neither his face nor his hair were visible as he wore a slouch cap pulled well down. I longed for him to glance up and agree to my suggestion, not simply for the sake of Serge and Irina but because the desire in me to see that smile in his eyes again was strong.

  Making a little tutting sound, Nyanushki began to usher them away. ‘Come along, we must leave Stefan to his work. We’d better keep the children out of his hair for the next day or so.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course. Quite right, Nyanushki.’ I quickly pulled my straying thoughts back to the reality of my job. ‘Put on your warm coats, children. We can practise our English conversation while we enjoy a walk, and learn the name of trees and flowers. Then you can play with your toys for a little while in your bedrooms. When Stefan has finished the schoolroom, you can both help Nyanushki and me to clean it up and arrange everything just how you like it,’ I said, in a brisk no-nonsense voice.

  Serge scowled. ‘That’s a servant’s job.’

  ‘Possibly, Master Serge, but it is your schoolroom, so your responsibility too,’ I insisted, remembering my conversation with Babushka. ‘We shall start lessons first thing on Monday morning.’

  I caught Stefan’s smile as I shooed them away, and wondered what it was about me that amused him so.

  For once the children did not protest about a walk, even though there were feathery snowflakes starting to fall. Perhaps they were secretly looking forward to having a new schoolroom, in which case I might be doing something right after all.

  Before the end of the week the cupboard and book shelves were complete, the cherry wood polished to perfection and two school desks with tip-up seats provided for the children to work. The panelled walls had been painted in green and silver, much finer than cream, with new green linoleum in place, as requested. The schoolroom looked wonderful, even better than the plans I had given him.

  ‘You’re right’ I said to Nyanushki. ‘Stefan is both reliable and efficient.’

  ‘No one would dare to be anything less in this household,’ she commented drily.

  But despite my reservations about his attitude, I felt a little sad that the work was done, and privately hoped I might see him again soon at the British and American chapel.

  The first English lessons began, as promised, on Monday morning with my introducing the children to a game of Snap, using named pictures to help them learn words. We played at identifying some of their favourite toys and possessions, to which I’d attached labels to help the children remember the English names. I then helped them build the words with small wooden tiles upon which I’d painted the English alphabet. Irina joined in with great enthusiasm, smiling and laughing with delight whenever she successfully built a word to match the one on the label. As expected, Serge remained obstinate and grumpy.

  ‘Why should I care what the word is in English? I’m Russian.’

  ‘Because your mama and papa wish you to learn the language,’ I gently explained in my careful French. ‘You’re a clever boy, Master Serge, so you won’t find it too difficult.’ I’d quickly discovered that he responded well to flattery.

  I was helping Irina set out the letters for ‘doll’ when the Countess walked in. I instantly leapt to my feet, as required. ‘Don’t mind me,’ she said, settling herself into a chair. ‘I shall sit here and watch.’

  As she had not given permission for me to be seated, I remained standing, feeling suddenly nervous. I handed Serge the b for ‘ball,’ watching as he searched for the A among the tiles on the table. Eventually he found it and lined it up with the first.

  ‘Well done. Now look for an L,’ I told him.

  ‘Is that all you’re doing, playing games?’ the Countess asked, her tone deeply scathing. ‘Shouldn’t you be teaching them nouns and verbs?’

  Turning to her with a smile, I tried to explain. ‘Grammar, at this stage, would not be appropriate. Vocabulary first, and conversation, are far more valuable in picking up a language. We can come to grammar later. That is how my mother taught me.’

  ‘You will surely give them some translations to do?’

  ‘Not yet, your ladyship. That would be far too boring and difficult for children this young, even if they were skilled at writing, which Irina isn’t yet. I believe lea
rning should be fun if it is to be effective.’

  ‘A schoolroom is for education, not fun and games,’ she snapped.

  ‘I think it can be both.’ She glowered at me but I did not back down, and merely continued helping the children. ‘Ah, you’re nearly there, Irina. Now you need another L, as does Serge. We always have two at the end of “ball,” and at the end of “doll.” That’s it, well done!’

  Irina beamed. ‘Look Mama, I’ve done it,’ she cried, clapping her little hands to celebrate her achievement.

  ‘I’ve done my word too,’ Serge said, and looked to his mother for her approval, which he quickly received.

  ‘Well done, son,’ she said with pride in her voice, then addressing me continued, ‘You will bring them down to dinner this evening as usual. However, I shall expect more scholarly lessons in future.’ After which caustic remark she left, with not a word of praise for her little daughter.

  My heart ached with pity at seeing the devastation on Irina’s chubby little face. She seemed to shrivel into herself whenever her mother rejected her. Serge did his usual smirk of self-satisfaction. Something would have to be done about the harsh way the Countess treated her daughter, although exactly what, I hadn’t the first idea.

  Later that same morning the Count also visited the schoolroom, but this time when I leapt to my feet he waved me back to my chair with a big smile. Then to my great surprise and delight he settled himself on the floor beside Irina and joined in her game of matching names to pictures.

  ‘This looks like fun. Can I play?’ he asked. ‘Oh, and how clever you are, Irina, to know that this word says “elephant.” That’s quite a big word for such a little girl.’

  Looking into her father’s face with open adoration, Irina’s round cheeks flushed pink with pleasure. Even Serge preened himself with pride when his father admired a short poem he had copied out in English, asking him to read it aloud, which the boy did with perfect diction.

  ‘You seem to be making good progress with my children,’ the Count said, smiling up at me with pride in his voice.

  ‘That is because they are clever children,’ I said, pretending not to notice his son’s look of surprise and pleasure at the compliment.

  ‘How very kind of you to say so.’

  I recalled what Babushka had revealed about her daughter’s reasons for marrying the Count: lured by his title and wealth. All too aware of the rumours that she was currently engaged in a sordid affair with the gardener, and not forgetting the misdemeanours I’d once been unfortunate enough to witness at first hand, I was filled with sadness that she should commit such cruel betrayals of this kind and thoughtful man.

  As the weeks went by I became increasingly fond of Babushka, as I now thought of her, and loved spending time with her. She would always ask after the children, who visited their grandmother regularly, and was an increasing support to me, quite taking me under her wing. I would read from the classics, and she would fill me in on Russian history, although some of it was less than pleasant. One evening she told me about the afternoon of March 13, 1881 when Tsar Alexander II had been assassinated outside the Winter Palace by revolutionaries.

  ‘He was attending a military review when a bomb was thrown at his carriage. It caused limited damage to the vehicle but killed a number of innocent bystanders. Ignoring his own safety and all sensible advice, he climbed out, anxious to assist the injured. Tragically, one of the revolutionaries then threw another bomb, shattering his legs. The poor man died of his injuries a short time later.’

  ‘Oh, how dreadful, and what a very courageous man,’ I said, shocked.

  ‘His son, Alexander III, became Emperor next with Maria Feodorovna as his Empress, reigning until his death in 1894. Their son Nicholas, our present Tsar, was intent on marrying Princess Alix of Hesse, whom he loved deeply. Unfortunately, neither parent was in favour, in particular his mother.

  ‘Why, what did she have against her?’ I asked, much preferring these glimpses into family history, love and romance.

  ‘She insisted the girl was not up to the task, far too shy and withdrawn, and there may have been some truth in that. She was also a granddaughter of Queen Victoria, largely brought up by Her Majesty, and I suspect that Maria Feodorovna was fearful of losing influence over her son if the girl had such a powerful relative behind her. However, as her darling Sasha was at death’s door at the time, she gave in. Nicky married his beloved Alix and the pair are still utterly besotted with each other. Whether the Tsarina has yet gained the approval of her mother-in-law is another matter entirely,’ Babushka finished with a chuckle. ‘Have you gained my daughter’s approval yet?’

  I smiled. ‘That is a question you must ask her.’

  ‘I just might one day, when she’s in a good mood,’ she said. Grinning like old friends, we returned to our current novel, Wuthering Heights.

  Over the coming days and weeks Countess Olga continued to call unannounced during lessons, clearly checking up on me. I was always required to stand whenever she entered the room, and rarely given permission to sit while she was present. Nor was I allowed to address her ladyship unless she spoke to me first, a rule I found extremely hard to keep. But I took the view that as my employer she had the right to inspect me, so tried not to let her presence trouble me too much. Besides which, the children were always on their best behaviour whenever their mother was around. When one day Serge read a short passage from Little Lord Fauntleroy, the Countess was so pleased she actually congratulated me.

  ‘Well done, Dowthwaite. You seem to be making progress at last. I look forward to hearing Irina read something from the book next time.’

  The little girl flushed bright crimson, being far from that stage, but then she was but six years old. ‘We’ll find something more appropriate for Miss Irina,’ I said with a smile and, giving the child a fresh sheet of paper, set her to writing a little story of her own, which she so loved to do. With both children settled at their tasks I dutifully escorted the Countess to the door, managing for once to keep my opinions to myself.

  It was as I opened it to show her out that she took me completely by surprise with her next remark. ‘Ah, Dowthwaite, do you remember that young carpenter, Stefan? He did such a fine job and as I’ve been obliged to sack my current gardener-cum-handyman, for reasons we won’t go into, I’ve decided to offer him a permanent position in the household. Would you please inform him of that fact.’

  ‘Oh!’ Completely lost for words, and too secretly thrilled to think of a sensible reply, I merely nodded as she turned on her heel and strode away. But a strange excitement lit within me at the prospect of seeing him more regularly.

  TWELVE

  Abbie had been listening, entranced, to young Millie’s tale, pleased that her grandmother seemed to be enjoying her reminiscences of Russia far more than Abbie had expected. But as the old lady fell silent, perhaps drifting off to sleep, she kissed her goodnight and took her leave. Fascinating as it was, Abbie felt no nearer to discovering the facts about her mother’s past. She was rapidly coming to the conclusion that she needed to find other sources of information, rather than simply replying upon Millie.

  The following afternoon Abbie devoted entirely to searching through Kate’s things, hoping to find letters, a diary, even a photograph or two, anything to throw light on her early years. She found the experience immensely difficult. Just the smell of her mother’s perfume that still permeated her clothes brought a fresh flood of tears. Then she discovered every letter and postcard Abbie had ever written to her, more in fact than she remembered sending. But there they all were, carefully tied up in a ribbon and stored in an old handkerchief box, including the announcement of Aimée’s birth. So Mum had cared after all. Then why had she kept her at such a distance? Why couldn’t she allow herself to forgive? Abbie was overwhelmed with regret. It didn’t make sense. Oh, what a terrible waste! If only she could turn back the clock.

/>   Her father walked into the bedroom at just that moment. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ The very tone of his voice revealed the depth of his anger at this intrusion.

  Abbie went and put her arms about him. ‘Dad, I know it’s hard but someone has to clear away Mum’s stuff. I thought I’d spare you the pain.’

  Looking into her face and seeing her tears, his own expression desolate, he put his arms about her and gave Abbie a gentle hug. It was a good feeling, the closest they’d been in years. Then, turning on his heels, he walked out again, clearly quite unable to speak.

  Abbie continued with her self-imposed task, with less enthusiasm but still hoping to discover something of interest. Was Kate’s resentment and odd behaviour all bound up with her difficult past? Had her real mother given birth at the orphanage? Or had she abandoned her child on the doorstep? And who had chosen her name? Was that Millie, or perhaps the matron? There must be some information somewhere about her time at Pursey Street Orphanage. Abbie found nothing.

  Fay came to help later, and it took the rest of the afternoon for the pair of them to clear everything, setting aside personal mementoes for each member of the family to choose from. Abbie tucked the letters into her pocket.

  ‘I’ll take these boxes to the charity shop first thing tomorrow, if you like,’ her sister-in-law offered.

  ‘Thanks, and could you mind Aimée for me tomorrow and drop me off at the station on your way? There’s something I need to do before getting down to work at the jewellery shop, preferably without the fuss of explaining it all to Dad and Robert.’

  ‘Of course. No problem.’

  Pursey Street Orphanage was every bit as grim as Kate had described, a Victorian gothic-style building of grey stone surrounded by a high wall, shut off from the world behind a pair of huge iron gates kept permanently locked. A group of giggling girls with bouffant hair and mini-skirts came swinging by, happily mimicking Lesley Gore as they sang It’s My Party at the tops of their voices. Had they any idea, Abbie wondered, what it must have felt like to be incarcerated in such a place? No chance of any parties there. How Kate must have longed to slip through those gates and escape. Even as a small child her mother would have felt imprisoned and unloved, until that glorious day when Millie had arrived and taken her at once into her arms.