‘No, we’ve heard nothing of them. There are rumours that they’ve been killed but Maria Feodorovna refuses to believe it. She said no one could be so heartless … You look faint, sir. Would you like to sit down awhile?’
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.