The Amber Keeper

by Freda Lightfoot

  The train journey had been long and tiring, so it was almost midday when she’d arrived in Stepney. And as she faced an equally long return journey home, Abbie knew she couldn’t afford to linger too long.

  The classrooms Abbie glimpsed as she was led along a passage were quite brightly painted, the walls covered in posters and pictures done by the children, not at all as bleak and bare as they must have been when her mother had been here. Kate had spoken of having no toys to play with, instead an endless list of chores to keep the children occupied and out of mischief. When not in lessons, she’d had to mop the bathroom floor, scrub pans and peel vegetables, or even pick stones from the fields around. There were never any visitors for her on a Sunday afternoon, nor any presents under the big tree that stood in the hall at Christmas, save for an orange and a few nuts stuffed into an old stocking. The only item she could rightly call her own had been a small bible, given to each child by Dimwitty, the cold, unfeeling woman who Kate said should never have been put in charge of young children. But the woman now facing Abbie across the desk was much younger, and actually smiling. She really looked most kind.

  ‘How can I help you, Miss Myers?

  Abbie cleared her throat, suddenly nervous of what she might discover, now that she was actually here. She quickly explained that her mother had spent her early years at the orphanage but had recently died, and that she wanted to see the place for herself and learn more about her origins. ‘I wondered if you could help,’ she added.

  It was plain from the woman’s expression of gentle compassion that she’d heard this request countless times before. ‘Things have improved a great deal since your mother’s time, I’m glad to say. In today’s modern world we no longer consider single parenthood with quite the disapproval of our forebears, and orphanages are quickly going out of fashion. We do our best to give the children we accommodate all the love they need, and a happy childhood. When was your mother resident here, exactly?’

  Abbie gave details of her mother’s age, which was the only information she had. ‘But who was her birth mother? That’s what I’d love to know, or any clue to help me track her down.’

  ‘We can certainly look through our records, although I cannot guarantee we’ll find anything of value. Very often we have no information at all about a child taken into our care.’

  ‘You mean if she was left abandoned?’

  The woman smiled sympathetically. ‘Let us hope that is not how it was in your mother’s case. One moment please, while I fetch the register.’

  Abbie sat with her hands tightly clasped in her lap, with no sound other than the slow beat of her heart as she patiently waited. Kate had once stated that she couldn’t have loved Millie more if she had been her real mother, yet had often spoken of her regret about the distance between them at times. Abbie now realised that may have initially been caused by Kate’s desire to rush headlong into marriage at seventeen, quite against Gran’s wishes. Abbie was hard-pressed to know whose side to take on that one.

  Yet years after this quarrel over a marriage that never did take place, a slight awkwardness between mother and daughter had been evident from time to time. Abbie herself had witnessed their unease on numerous occasions, often when they were talking about the jewellery business. She’d rather assumed that Millie had found it hard to step down and allow her daughter to take over, which she could well understand having now visited the shop. But sometimes their disagreements would be over nothing that she could quite put her finger on, or the conversation would cease the moment she entered the room.

  That being the case, why had Kate made no effort to find out who her birth mother was? Or had she found the answer and kept it to herself because of the pain it might cause Millie?

  It seemed to take forever before the woman returned; the book, Abbie noticed, was already open at the appropriate page.

  ‘She arrived in January 1920, and was judged to be around two or two and a half years old at the time.’

  Abbie was surprised. ‘1920? Two years old?’

  ‘Unfortunately we can’t prove her age accurately as there are no documents recorded, no birth certificate or identification of any sort.’

  ‘I assumed she must have been brought here as a baby.’

  ‘That is not always the case. Sometimes a young mother struggles to cope alone for some time before being forced to admit defeat and give up her child, usually out of poverty.’

  ‘Did her mother bring her to the orphanage, then? And do you know who she was?’

  ‘It is recorded that Kate was brought by a young woman.’

  ‘Who?’ Abbie felt the first stirrings of hope.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to reveal her identity, not without asking her first.’

  ‘But will you do that, and then let me know who she is?’

  ‘I will tell her of your enquiry, assuming she’s still alive and I can find her. But it will be up to her to contact you.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I see.’ Hope instantly died, for it was unlikely the mother would agree to reveal her identity after all these years of silence. ‘So what about Kate’s own name? Who chose that?’

  ‘She apparently wore a label pinned to her coat. But no surname.’

  Did this mean she was illegitimate? Of course she was, but Abbie had known that already. Which meant she was no nearer to finding out who Kate’s birth parents were. A great sadness filled her, and deep sympathy for her mother. Struggling with her emotions she tried to think of more questions to ask. No birth certificate, no identification, nothing but a name. ‘Did she have nothing at all with her when she arrived?’

  ‘I don’t believe so.’ The woman put on her spectacles to examine the register more closely. ‘Ah, yes, there is something mentioned here. She was apparently carrying a small bundle.’

  Abbie’s heart leapt. ‘Really? What was in it? Was it returned to her when Kate left?’ Her mind was already turning over possibilities of searching the attics.

  The woman looked apologetic. ‘It says here that it was offered to her adoptive mother, Mrs Nabokov, but she declined to take it.’

  Abbie stared at the matron in complete disbelief. ‘Declined to take it? Why would Gran do such a thing? This was an important part of my mother’s life, the only item she possessed.’

  ‘Perhaps she wished the child to put the past behind her and start afresh.’

  That would be so typical of Millie, as Abbie knew only too well. The past was very much a closed book to her grandmother. She took a steadying breath. ‘I don’t suppose by any chance you still have it, this parcel?’

  The woman was already on her feet and calling for her assistant. Turning back to Abbie, she gave an encouraging smile. ‘Miss Aspen is rigorous at keeping the children’s belongings safe, for just such occasions as these. I’m sure she won’t have let us down this time, either.’

  Nor had she. Ten minutes later Abbie was walking away from Pursey Street Orphanage clutching the precious parcel to her breast. At last she might have found the evidence she’d been seeking to shed some light on her mother’s true identity.

  She did not risk opening the bundle until she was safely home in the privacy of her room. Sitting on her bed, she gently unwrapped it. Inside she found a baby’s shawl, and inside that what seemed to be a neatly folded item of clothing.

  Abbie shook out the shawl, seeing nothing remarkable about it, since it was the same as a thousand others, hand-knitted in a soft cream wool. Next, she unfolded what appeared to be a christening gown in embroidered cream satin. The very quality of the fabric told her it was expensive. This unknown birth mother had clearly not come from a poor family. There was no sign of poverty here. But family disapproval might have been the issue. What on earth had happened to this desolate young mother who had been forced to relinquish her child? Frowning slightly, she spread out the gown to view it better.

  ‘My
goodness, it is quite beautiful,’ she murmured to herself.

  Abbie smoothed her hands over the silky fabric, marvelling at the skill of the embroidery threaded with tiny seed pearls on the quilted bodice. Then her fingers paused as she felt something hard and solid, a small lump of something stitched inside. What could it be? She had to know. Fetching a pair of sharp scissors from her sewing basket, she carefully unpicked the stitches ‒ and then stared in disbelief at what fell into the palm of her hand.

  Is this what I think it is, Gran?’ Abbie held out the jewel, startled to see the colour drain from her grandmother’s face. She had chosen a moment when they were alone, this time walking by the lake on a bright April day, a troop of ducks waddling behind in the hope of a crust or two. ‘There’s no chain attached, but I believe it must be a pendant.’

  There followed a long stunned silence. ‘I ‒ It’s Baltic amber. Extremely valuable.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  ‘This isn’t stocked in the shop, so where did you get it?’

  ‘Gran, don’t be hurt or offended, but I went to Pursey Street Orphanage yesterday.’

  For a moment Abbie thought Millie might be about to faint and, quickly taking her arm she helped her to sit on a nearby bench. Even then she seemed to be having trouble catching her breath and Abbie was filled with guilt for having revealed this news so crudely. She was thankful her father was out fishing; otherwise he would have been furious with her for upsetting poor Millie at this time.

  ‘Should I fetch you a glass of water?’

  ‘No, it’s all right. I’ll be fine in a moment. Are you saying that you went all the way to London? What on earth possessed you to do such a thing?’

  ‘I wanted to find out more about Mum ‒ who she was ‒ and if something in her past caused her to do this terrible thing to herself. You can surely understand that?’

  ‘And what did you discover?’

  ‘Very little. She was two or two and a half, apparently, when she was taken to the orphanage, and not a baby at all. Did you know that?’

  Millie said nothing, still looking utterly bemused by this sudden revelation that her granddaughter had been investigating her adopted daughter’s birth.

  ‘Anyway, nothing more is known about her. There was no identification of any kind save for the fact that she had a name label pinned to her coat. But the matron did give me a bundle of baby clothes, which Kate was carrying the day she was admitted. I found this pendant stitched inside the bodice. You say it is valuable?’

  Millie cleared her throat. ‘Amber is a resin from trees that grew millions of years ago, many of which are now extinct. As the sticky substance ran down to earth it often caught up fragments of plants and insects which were trapped in the amber resin. It was then washed away by storms and later deposited in small chunks like pebbles on the shoreline of the sea. Baltic amber is at least fifty million years old, and very precious.’

  Abbie was stunned by this information; fifty million years was a length of time quite beyond her comprehension. Then she saw a single tear roll down her grandmother’s cheek. Millie was staring at the pendant almost in disbelief, white to the lips as she smoothed a finger over the stone, which was as yellow as butterscotch and shaped like a teardrop itself. The jewel did indeed have the skeletal remains of a dragonfly embalmed within that Abbie hadn’t recognised as such until it had been explained to her. She put an arm about her grandmother’s shoulders, about to offer a few words of apology over upsetting her, when she was abruptly interrupted.

  ‘What’s going on here?’

  Abbie started in dismay at the sound of her father’s voice as he strode towards them, fishing tackle in hand and a now-familiar anger clouding his face. Guilt once again suffused her. ‘Dad, I’m so sorry. I really didn’t mean to make Gran cry, only I just needed to understand.’

  ‘Understand what?’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Millie put in, dabbing at her tears and attempting to regain some composure. ‘The fault is entirely mine. I daresay Abigail has every right to ask questions of me, and of the orphanage if she so wishes.’

  ‘The orphanage?’ Tom dropped his rod and line to the ground with a clatter. ‘What about the orphanage?’

  ‘I visited it yesterday, Dad, to ask about Mum.’

  There was a slight pause and then, ignoring his daughter completely, he asked of Millie, ‘What sort of questions?’

  ‘Perfectly normal ones about who her mother was, and when she was left at the orphanage. The kind of questions Kate herself asked, and now Abigail, as we knew she would one day. It’s just that I’m not sure I’m able to give her the answers she needs. I’ve told her all I can.’

  ‘But it’s not enough, Gran.’ Abbie looked at her grandmother with a mix of anguish and sympathy in her gaze. ‘What is this big secret you won’t talk about? I know there must be one. I can sense it. I’m curious to know why you went all the way to London seeking a child when you could easily have gone down the road to Kendal, or to Preston, where there must have been any number of children just longing to be adopted. It doesn’t make sense. Does the reason you chose London lie in what happened back in Russia? I believe they could be connected. If I’m right, then please tell me what happened back then, during the revolution.’

  Millie looked helplessly at her. ‘We suffered agonies. It was a difficult time and I’d really rather not talk about it.’

  ‘Leave your grandmother alone. Can’t you see you’re upsetting her?’

  There were tears in Abbie’s eyes now, and oh, she was so tired of crying. She wanted her life to be bright and normal again. She thought of the young girls she’d seen dancing and singing along the road in Stepney, having a blast. How she longed to have some fun in her own life again after all the trauma and disappointment she’d suffered. She fully intended to achieve that dream, no matter how difficult it might be.

  ‘Can’t you see that I’m desperately upset by Mum’s death?’ she cried. ‘You’re all piling the blame for her suicide on to me! Doesn’t anyone care about my feelings? I loved her too, you know, even if you don’t love me any more, Dad.’

  Her father looked devastated by this remark. ‘Abbie, don’t say such a dreadful thing. Of course I love you.’

  ‘Well, you show little sign of it.’

  Her grandmother put her arms about her. ‘I’m so sorry, my darling. I know this must be very upsetting for you. It’s just that some things are . . .’

  ‘. . . best forgotten. How many times I’ve heard you say that.’ Abbie ran her hands through her hair, tugging her wayward curls to one side in a gesture of exasperation. ‘I’m sorry, but avoiding the truth doesn’t help one bit. If you were simply appeasing your conscience by taking in a poor child when you’d seen so many die in the revolution, then why not say so? That’s perfectly reasonable, although it still doesn’t explain why you went all the way to Stepney to find one.’

  ‘It wasn’t quite like that. You’ve got it all wrong.’ Tears were raining down Millie’s cheeks by this time and Tom was patting her shoulder, trying to offer comfort.

  ‘Hush now! Abbie has no idea what she is asking of you. She doesn’t understand. How can she?’

  ‘Then explain it to me so that I will understand. What is the problem?’

  It was then that the answer came to her, and Abbie felt her whole body jerk with shock. ‘Of course, why didn’t I see it before? The answer lies in this pendant.’ She picked up the jewel, turning it over in her hands, feeling its cool smoothness. ‘You could start, Gran, by explaining how there came to be Baltic amber stitched into Kate’s baby clothes when she was supposedly born here in England.’

  ‘Baltic amber?’ her father murmured.

  ‘Sewn into the bodice of Mum’s baby gown, which was tucked inside the bundle she was apparently carrying when she arrived at Pursey Street orphanage aged two or two and a half.’


  ‘Ah!’ he said, and exchanged a long, silent glance with her grandmother. ‘Perhaps it is time that you did indeed tell the whole story, Millie.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘No more buts, dear lady. As Abbie says, she does have a right to know, and hard as it may be for you to recall the difficulties of that time, you are the only one who can tell it.’

  THIRTEEN

  Everything changed when Stefan came to work for the Countess. The first sign of spring began to show itself in a melting of the ice on the River Neva, although there was still plenty of snow around. The Count decided a visit to the family’s country estate was called for. A few servants had gone on ahead to prepare the house for the family, leaving the rest of the staff behind in St Petersburg. We travelled by train and made the remainder of the journey from the station by sledge. This was a new experience for me so I was unprepared for the speed at which the sledge swished through the powdery snow, pulled by a high-trotting grey mare.

  I felt secretly thrilled and oddly nervous to be seated up front beside Stefan, although ‘bounced’ might be a more appropriate word. Nyanushki sat behind with the children. Babushka was with the Count and Countess. We were all well wrapped up in shubas, leggings and fur hats beneath huge bearskin rugs. I was deeply conscious of Stefan’s closeness, finding it hard to concentrate on the road ahead as I’d much rather gaze upon the handsome set of his angular features.