The Amber Keeper (12 page)

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‘She insisted the girl was not up to the task, far too shy and withdrawn, and there may have been some truth in that.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

A
bbie 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.

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.