The Amber Keeper (27 page)

Countess Olga gave birth to a daughter at the end of August without any difficulty whatsoever, the local midwife claiming it had been the easiest delivery she’d ever attended. It was only when the child was bathed and dressed that the difficulties began. The
Countess
absolutely refused to hold her.

‘Now come along, dear,’ the midwife said in her most encouraging voice. ‘This baby needs a cuddle, not to mention putting to the breast.’

‘Then you’d better find it one for it’s not having mine.’

The poor woman looked so shocked I quickly ushered her out of the room before a worse argument ensued. ‘I’m afraid the
Countess
is not the maternal kind of mother. Besides, the gentry rarely breastfeed themselves. Could you perhaps recommend a wet nurse?’

‘I’ve known plenty of her sort in my time, but yes, I’ll send a wet nurse over this afternoon. We can’t have the little one suffer because of that selfish madam. Is it any wonder the country is in the state it’s in?’ And on that chilling remark the woman hurried away, leaving me with a screaming baby.

Fortunately the wet nurse arrived within the hour, a warm-
hearted woman who was undoubtedly a natural mother. She
gathered
the baby into her arms and had her suckling in seconds. The infant’s fretful cries ceased instantly.

At this point Abbie could not resist interrupting. ‘Are you saying that this baby was my
mother
, the daughter of the Countess?’ she asked, in a voice filled with wonder.

‘That is correct, my darling. Instantly abandoned and the truth of her birth kept secret.’

‘For years.’

‘Indeed.’

‘Oh, my goodness! But why was that? Why couldn’t you tell Mum the truth?’

‘Out of fear of losing her. You can’t take risks with a woman like the Countess.’

Abbie’s heart filled with sympathy, imagining how she would feel at the prospect of losing her own child. Then very quietly she asked the question that had been bothering her from the start. ‘Did Mum ever discover who her real mother was?’

‘She did, yes. It was an extremely difficult time for us both.’

‘I can imagine.’ A silence fell in which Abbie longed to ask more questions but as she saw the tears begin to slide down her grandmother’s cheeks she put her arms about the old lady and held her close. ‘Perhaps that’s enough for now. I think you need to rest.’

Millie pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, then patted her granddaughter’s hand. ‘No, I’m fine. Wouldn’t you like to know how she came to be left in my care? I didn’t steal her, you know.’

‘I never for a moment thought you had, but yes, I would like to know how that came about.’

The next morning when I took the Countess her breakfast on a tray, she rewarded me with a smile, which I innocently interpreted as genuine gratitude.

‘Thank you Millie, most kind,’ she said. ‘I’ve been thinking about my little problem and have come up with a solution.’

‘What would that be, milady?’ I asked politely as I helped her into a chair so that I could remake the bed, wondering how she could describe the birth of a baby that was not her husband’s as a ‘little problem’.

‘It’s perfectly simple. All we have to do is to say that the child is yours.’

I was so shocked that I almost dropped the coffee pot I was holding. ‘What are you saying? You can’t do that!’

‘I can do anything I like, and it’s the most obvious answer to my dilemma. That way Vaska will never learn the truth. Besides, it’s a perfectly logical solution. You’re young enough to have a baby, known to be fond of Stefan, and he would make a good father at some point in the future, no doubt.’

My instincts told me that Stefan would not welcome taking on another man’s child. No man would. ‘I’m sorry, milady, but I
cannot
agree to that. I am young, yes, young enough never to have experienced . . . a relationship with any man, so how could the baby be mine?’

She laughed. ‘Who would know or care whether or not you’re a virgin?’

‘
I
would. Besides, I’m not prepared to be responsible for someone else’s child, or to besmirch my character with such a lie. You really aren’t thinking clearly, milady. I suggest you eat your breakfast and take some rest, and then you can start planning how you will explain this new arrival to your husband.’

I dutifully buttered her toast and cut the top off her egg, then with a curt bow was about to depart when she caught hold of my wrist with a grip like iron.

‘You’ve experienced firsthand the difficulties of being unemployed. In all the weeks you were at that hostel you found no one willing to take you on, isn’t that so?’

Looking into her eyes I saw at last the reason for that. She had spread the word amongst her friends that I was a revolutionary, making absolutely certain that I’d never be taken on no matter how many doors I knocked on, or how many letters of application I wrote.

There came that all too familiar glimmer of triumph in her eyes when she knew she had won. ‘So, Dowthwaite, the choice is yours. Either you take charge of this infant, who is badly in need of a mother, or you face starvation yet again. I doubt you even have the funds left to buy yourself a ticket home. And this time I’ll make sure that the Count leaves you to rot.’

I gazed upon her in dawning horror, realising I was trapped. Since I was virtually penniless following my last dismissal, and it would take some time to get money or a ticket from my parents, I had no option but to agree if I was to keep my job and survive. Was I in this situation because I’d supported a group of starving women, or because ‒ more likely ‒ she lusted after the man I hoped to marry? As I walked away, not giving her the satisfaction of entering into an argument, which she so enjoyed, I made a private vow to secretly look for another position the very moment we returned to Petrograd. I would get out of this mess, which was none of my making, one way or another.

TWENTY-FIVE

S
adly, the moment we arrived back in the city in October, it was all too evident that any chance of finding alternative employment had vanished, as the situation there had grown a great deal worse. Petrograd was cold and frosty, a damp mist hanging over the river that made us all cough and pull our fur wraps close. I’d forgotten how bitterly cold it could be at this time of year, softened as I was by Yalta’s milder climate.

We soon ran into difficulties as the streets were in a state of utter mayhem, thronged with people. Here and there fighting had broken out among civilians as well as soldiers. Within minutes, the carriage that had come to collect us from the station drew to a shuddering halt, blocked by carts laden with chairs, mattresses, rugs and other possessions as the occupiers fled, presumably escaping the city for the country. Supply carts had been overturned, their loads of wood, hay, or potatoes strewn all over the street. People were grabbing what they could and running away as fast as they could, arms laden. Even shops had been looted, their windows smashed and emptied, while we sat watching the scene in numbed disbelief.

It was all too evident that the country was in even worse chaos. Petrograd was in the midst of yet another riot.

Drawing the baby close and putting my arm about Irina, who was becoming increasingly alarmed by the noise of the crowds, I felt an instinctive need to protect them both. But I could barely contain my impatience, so desperate was I to see Stefan again. My longing for him felt almost like a sickness, one that would be healed only when he gathered me in his arms once more. But I didn’t even know if he would be at the flat, or still in the country with the Count.

‘What is going on?’ the Countess demanded of our driver.

‘We can only guess, milady, as no newspapers are being printed. Some say there’s another strike, and there’s much talk of Cossacks and slaughter.’

A group of Polish soldiers walked by, jeering and laughing as they crossed the marketplace. The Countess called to them. ‘Tell me what’s happening here.’

One of the men, perhaps the captain or lieutenant, turned to her as if surprised by the question. There was no salute or clicking of heels, no mark of respect, merely a slight raising of his eyebrows in disdain. ‘Haven’t you heard? Lenin is staging a coup d’état. His intention is to overthrow the Provisional Government and replace it with his own party, the Bolsheviks.’

As they staggered off, very much the worse for drink, the driver added, ‘Trotsky made an attempt to proclaim the Soviet Congress as the supreme power. Unfortunately many people have no wish to be ruled by the soviets. The result, milady, is civil war.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, I’m not prepared to sit here all day in this muddle just because of some stupid battle over power,’ snapped the Countess, in that tone of voice she used when life or politics had inconvenienced her.

The baby stirred in my lap, whimpering slightly, and Vera the wet nurse and I exchanged a glance of concern.

‘It is nearly her feed time,’ she quietly pointed out. ‘Shall I
take her?’

‘Let’s wait till she properly wakes. I’m sure she’ll let us know when she’s hungry,’ I said, and we both chuckled, for already the little one was making her presence felt.

In the few short weeks I’d been caring for the baby, I’d fallen completely under her spell. I loved her pouting lips, perfectly formed finger nails, and the sweet baby scent of her soft skin. Her baby blue eyes had now changed to a soft brown and regarded me with studious intent. I could have sat and gazed upon her all day. Yet a part of me held back, fearful that I might grow too fond, that when her mother finally started paying attention, I would lose her.

Not that there was any sign of that happening so far. Little Katya was already three months old and still the Countess barely acknowledged her existence. I was the only the one who cared for her, with the help of Vera. I got up at night when she cried, changed her nappies, cuddled, kissed, soothed and played with her as if she were indeed my own child. I’d even chosen her name and organised her christening. Someone had to do it, and
several
attempts to prompt the Countess into making a decision had failed miserably.

‘Do as you please. She’s your child,’ had been her only comment, repeated in various versions every time I mentioned the
subject
. Only Vera knew the truth of the baby’s birth, and had been sworn to secrecy. However, I had every intention of telling Stefan. Not for a moment did I wish him to think that I had betrayed him. But I gave no indication to the Countess of this decision. That would be my secret.

‘Ah, the traffic is starting to move,’ cried the driver, and we all let out a sigh of relief as the journey was completed with no
further
delays.

The flat felt eerily empty when finally we arrived; the Count, Serge and most of the servants were still in the country.
Babushka
had returned, with
Nyanushki
in attendance, as the old lady missed city life, along with her personal doctor who helped her to deal with her arthritis. To my great relief it turned out that the two old ladies had been accompanied home on the train by Stefan, who’d acted as their protector.

I couldn’t wait to see him, longing to feel his arms about me, to be welcomed home with his heart-stirring kisses, praying that his love for me would be as strong as ever. I intended to broach the subject of the baby with tact and care, explaining fully what had happened, how the Countess had given birth but immediately abandoned the child. And how she had given me no choice but to act as its mother if I was not to be sent back to the hostel or, worse, out onto the streets to starve. She cared nothing for
my
reputation, only her own. I had it all worked out in my head what I meant to say, but the moment I saw his ashen face I realised I was already too late. She had got there before me, giving her own version of events.

‘Stefan . . .’ I began, but he quickly silenced me.

‘Not here.’ Then, taking my arm, he grabbed my coat and marched me out of the building. I was almost running to keep up with him as I struggled to put it on and fasten the buttons.

‘Where are you taking me?’

‘Somewhere we can talk without any fear of being interrupted.’

He took me to Alexandrvovsky Garden, no more than a ten-minute walk from the flat, close to Palace Square, a distance we completed in silence. Finding a bench beside the fountain we both sat, some inches apart. There were no people around on this cold blustery day, the only sounds those of bare branches creaking in the wind, the rustle of leaves on the ground and somewhere a dog
barking
.

‘I believe you have something to tell me,’ he said, keeping his eyes on the water. The fountain was clogged with dead leaves, muddy and neglected, no water spraying out as it should. There was rubbish lying all around, evidence of the revolution we were going through with no one troubling to clean up.

Swallowing carefully, I began my carefully rehearsed explanation. ‘I shouldn’t really be telling you this, as I gave a promise not to speak of it to anyone, but I decided you have a right to know the truth. The baby’s name is Katya, an unexpected addition to the Countess’s life. Fearful of losing any possible divorce settlement she absolutely refuses to acknowledge the child and insists that I pass her off as my own. I was forced to agree if I was not to be abandoned in Yalta, dismissed without a single kopek to keep me from
starvation
. But I want you to know, Stefan, that she is not my daughter!’

‘Whose is she, then?’

‘I’ve just told you: she is the Countess’s.’

‘She warned me that you’d claim innocence and deny the child was yours.’

I let out a gasp. ‘It’s not
me
who denies her, it’s the
Countess
! Weren’t you listening to a word I said?
I
didn’t give birth to her, so if that’s what she told you it was a lie, at which I have to say she is an expert.’

‘Who is the father? Tell me the truth.’ He glared at me, the kind of look that sent a shiver down my spine, being far colder than the winds that came down from Siberia.

‘You should ask that question of Countess Olga, but I’d say either Dimitri Korniloff or Viktor the chauffeur. Unless you know of any other men in her life?’ My gaze was equally challenging,
wishing
him to understand how it felt to be doubted.

‘Why would I?’

‘You don’t include yourself as a possible candidate then?’

‘Of course not.’ He sounded shocked by the suggestion.

‘So, you expect me to believe in
your
innocence, swearing you are not engaged in an affair with her, even though she has implied many times that you and she are intimate. I’ve trusted
you
Stefan, so why can’t you trust
me
?’

He shook his head. ‘It’s hard to believe in your innocence when I’ve seen the evidence of your betrayal with my own eyes.’ Getting up from the bench, he began to pace to and fro, kicking stones from the path in his anger. Then, standing before me, he said, ‘I’m sorry Millie, but I’m deeply disappointed in you. I thought you and I had something special. Obviously I was wrong. The Countess suspects that you’ve had a fling with the Count, and I can certainly vouch for your closeness to him in the weeks before you left.’

I gasped out loud at this accusation. ‘What are you suggesting ‒ that I had an affair with Count Vaska? How dare you?’

‘You cannot deny that it was his influence which forced her ladyship to take you back into her employ.’

‘What if it was? He is
Count Belinsky
, the person in charge. He’s been like a father to me.’ I was utterly horrified by the direction this conversation had taken. That dreadful woman had planted seeds of doubt and bitterness in Stefan’s head that I could do nothing to dislodge.

‘Why would he defend you so vehemently if he didn’t have good reason?’

‘Because he’s a kind man, loves his children and needs me to care for them. I swear to you, Stefan
, this is not my child!
’ We were standing facing each other now, almost shouting in our distress.

‘The Countess insists she is, that this was the reason she took you to Yalta: so that she could protect your reputation, and the Count’s too, presumably.’

‘It was her
own
reputation she was protecting, not
mine
!’

‘So you say, but I asked the wet nurse ‒ Vera, is she called? She told me it was definitely you who gave birth, not the Countess.’

I let out a sigh of exasperation. ‘Vera is only repeating what she’s been ordered to say. Besides, she wasn’t present at the birth, so can hardly claim to be a witness. Please don’t tell me you’d rather take her word, and that of the Countess, than mine?’

‘To be honest, I don’t know who to believe, but it . . . she . . . this baby . . . has absolutely nothing to do with me.’ And turning on his heels, he strode rapidly away, his furious figure quickly swallowed up behind a copse of trees.

I felt as if I’d been struck. How could Stefan think so little of me? It was devastating that the Countess had got to him first with her lies and scheming. Goodness knows what tale she’d told him. But why would Stefan choose to believe her rather than me, the woman he claimed to love? Did this mean that he didn’t love me at all, that he’d been lying to me all along? Perhaps he and the
Countess
had indeed enjoyed an affair?

I walked slowly back to the flat alone, deeply depressed. Then picking up little Katya from her cot, I buried my face in her shawl and wept silent tears of anguish.

The shooting started as we sat eating a somewhat frugal supper, since there were few supplies in the flat. We were all terrified, fearful of what might happen next. The two maids who had accompanied us were shaking with fright and almost in tears, far too scared to risk stepping out into the yard to replenish the log baskets. The fire in the drawing room soon died and we all began to shiver with cold. There would be no undressing for any of us that night, and precious little sleep. In the end we gathered together a few mattresses and blankets and spent the night in the cellar. It seemed the safest place to be, even if the Countess did complain endlessly of discomfort and cold. Unable to sleep, she sat wreathed in blankets dictating a long list of instructions for the morrow, to which I only half
listened
, guessing they would be quite impossible to fulfil.