The Amber Keeper (22 page)

Yet another Christmas had passed and the war in Europe continued without any sign of peace on the horizon. Come the New Year, and weary of the extra demands upon my time and discretion from duties as lady’s maid which had already lasted far longer than our agreement, I politely requested a rise.

The Countess burst out laughing, clearly amused by what she perceived as a show of impertinence. Money, as I knew only too well, meant nothing to her, but at the same time she hated handing it over to anyone else. The poor, in her opinion, could stay poor, it being no one’s fault but their own that they were in that situation, and certainly no concern of hers. ‘What on earth makes you imagine that you deserve a rise?’

‘Because I am doing two jobs,’ I reminded her. ‘I am still governess to your children and also acting as your personal maid, even though we agreed the latter role was only temporary. But no attempt to find a replacement has been made, and your ladyship is fully aware that I really don’t feel comfortable in the position.’

No laughter this time, only a deep and furious frown. ‘
I
will say when you are relieved of this duty, and I’m not in the least interested in your comfort.’

But I was determined to make my point. I sent money regularly to my parents, who I knew were carefully investing it for the time when I returned home for good. Sometimes my longing for the Lakes and my worry over my family at this difficult time were almost unbearable, despite my increasing fondness for
Russia
. I
certainly
had no intention of being taken advantage of. ‘May I politely remind your ladyship that if I am to carry out both sets of duties, I should be paid accordingly.’

‘I think you have an inflated idea of your own importance, Dowthwaite.’

‘Then perhaps you don’t really need my help, or my discretion and loyalty after all?’ I rather recklessly remarked.

Countess Olga understood exactly the challenge behind these words, as her entire status and honour depended upon my silence. She was also remarkably skilled at ignoring reality and not answering difficult questions.

‘Where are my pearls?’ she suddenly asked, starting to
rummage
among the clutter on her dressing table.

Irritated by the way she’d so casually brushed aside my request for a rise, my tone was unusually brusque. ‘In the safe, where they should be.’ I went to fetch them. To my surprise and dismay, however, I could see no sign of them. All too aware that my mistress was somewhat careless with her jewellery, often leaving it lying about, I didn’t panic too much. ‘They must be here somewhere,’ I said, annoyed. ‘Or did you perhaps lend them to someone?’

‘Of course not!’

‘Do you recall putting them back in the safe after you wore them at the Christmas ball? Or did you take them off and leave them lying about?’ I was searching the room as I asked these obvious questions, but having scoured every drawer, cabinet and
jewellery
box, and checked the safe several times more, I was obliged to admit defeat. There was no sign of the pearls anywhere.

‘This is
your
fault, Dowthwaite, entirely due to your incompetence. It is
your
job to keep my jewels safe, so
you
must have lost them,’ she accused me in icy tones. ‘Or else you took a fancy to them yourself.’

I gasped. ‘You surely aren’t suggesting that
I
took them? I would
never
do such a thing. I haven’t touched your pearls,’ I said, hotly defending myself.

‘Yet were you not attempting to blackmail me just now? So why would I not believe you capable of anything?’

There was a long telling silence in which I recognised the danger my recklessness had led me into, and how cleverly she had turned the tables on me. Keeping my expression carefully bland, I said, ‘I haven’t the first idea what you mean, milady, but I will continue to search for your pearls. They must be somewhere.’

Convinced of my guilt, she punished me by refusing to speak to me for the rest of that day, and the one after that, leaving little notes of instruction on her dressing table instead. And at dinner each evening, by the time it was my turn to be served, there would be no food left.

‘What am I to do?’ I sobbed to Stefan. ‘Apart from any other consideration, I’m starving. I have to keep sneaking off to the kitchen to beg food off the chef, and Anton is wary of offending the Countess so not particularly generous. How can I convince her of my innocence? I’m quite sure she’s about to sack me, if I don’t die of starvation first.’

He pulled me close, pressing his lips against my forehead, making me feel so safe in his arms that I wanted to stay there forever. ‘You could speak to the Count and ask for his support. Either that or find the darned things.’

‘That’s a good suggestion. He has never been anything but kind towards me.’

I trusted the Count, as he possessed the common sense and stability his wife lacked. I rather assumed he’d married Olga out of duty as there was little sign of love between them, a union no doubt arranged by his family since he had the title and connections, and she was a rich heiress, as
Babushka
had indicated. He must have been very young at the time, as I guessed he could only be in his thirties now. I admired him enormously, as he cared for his staff and tenants and was a good father to his children. What a dreadful waste to be a good-looking man trapped in an unhappy marriage.

As expected, he was deeply sympathetic of my plight, but with a sad shake of his head he said there was little he could do to help. ‘My wife has her own way of doing things, and I rarely intervene. I’ll admit she is somewhat careless with her belongings and I’m quite certain of your innocence. I’ll put in a word for you, Millie, should it become necessary.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ I was always touched by the fact that he addressed me by my first name, and grateful for his belief in me. It seemed all I could hope for.

And then quite out of the blue the very next day Irina came running, the string of pearls dangling in her small hands. ‘Look what I found,
Baryshnya
. They fell out of Serge’s fishing bag when I was putting it away for him.’

The boy denied all knowledge of them with a surprisingly fierce vigour. ‘I never touched
Mamochka’s
pearls,’ he insisted. ‘I can’t think how they got there. I swear I wasn’t playing one of my jokes. Nor do I believe you stole them,
Baryshnya
.’

I smiled at him with gratitude, wanting to believe him. ‘Thank you, Master Serge. Your faith in my innocence is wonderful to hear. It quite warms my heart. I expect the pearls simply fell into your bag by accident. We’ll say no more about it.’

So was it an accident, I wondered, or yet another practical joke? Against all previous evidence of the boy’s behaviour there was something genuine about Serge’s passionate denial. More likely the Countess had pocketed the dratted pearls to punish me for standing up to her, and then dropped them into her son’s bag. For once, though, it looked as if involving her son in her nasty little scheme of revenge had backfired.

TWENTY

I
n the early days of the year we returned to Petrograd. The cold snap that had descended over Christmas worsened, with huge solid banks of snow and ice blocking the roads and icicles hanging from the roof. Keeping the children happy was not easy as they soon grew grumpy and quarrelsome from being confined largely indoors, apart from the odd afternoon skating on the frozen River Neva, or playing on ice slides in the park.

While the Countess took to her bed for a rest and I set about unpacking, the Count went at once to the Winter Palace to continue with his duties. He returned later with the startling news that Rasputin had been murdered on 29th December.

‘The fellow was partaking of Madeira wine and cake with Prince Yusupov and one or two of his comrades when he was
allegedly
poisoned
.’

‘Good heavens,’ the Countess said. ‘Are you saying the prince was responsible?’

‘I am saying nothing of the sort, and neither must any of you,’ he quietly warned. ‘It is true that Prince Yusupov and Grand Duke Dmitry have been placed under house arrest while the matter is investigated. We must await the outcome of that, but whoever the perpetrator is, they were certainly determined to finish him off one way or another. When the poison did not have immediate effect, assuming cyanide was actually present in his food, he was shot and then thrown into the freezing River Neva, where he drowned.
Whoever
did it was determined to finish him off, but I believe the fellow put up quite a fight.’

The Count had gathered the entire staff together, the children already in bed, and every one of us was shocked by this horror story. We stood in silence for some moments, contemplating the ramifications of the loss of the Tsarina’s favourite
staretz
, with his magnetic eyes and his amazing ability to have prevented the Tsarevitch from bleeding to death on more than one occasion.

‘He was a charlatan and completely mad, so it’s surely no bad thing,’ the Countess remarked somewhat dismissively, as if a man’s life was of no importance even if he had been a monk and an advisor to royalty. ‘Foolish Alix was becoming far too obsessed with him.’

Looking grim, the Count did not disagree. ‘I’ve noticed a shift in the public mood, though, an odd mix of expectancy and celebration in the air, as if Rasputin’s death frees people in some way.’

Stefan said, ‘I suppose the murder could give the would-be revolutionaries an incentive to take the power they have long craved. Why would they trust a man who believes in the divine right to rule? Or a woman who has been obsessed with a mad monk?’

‘I worry about that too, Stefan.’ The Count was looking seriously concerned. ‘I’m afraid the Tsarina’s shy, retiring nature has done her no favours. It’s rather sad but not surprising that people accuse her of being aloof. Some family members have even
suggested
she be sent to a convent.’

‘But is that quite fair?’ I butted in, speaking out of turn, as always.

‘Millie claims to know nothing of politics but always has an opinion on it,’ Stefan put in with a wry smile.

‘I know only what I’ve picked up by listening to
Babushka
relating her memories of her life as a lady-in-waiting at the palace, which I’ve found fascinating. But yes, I do think the Tsarina is unnecessarily vilified.’

The Count gave me a nod of encouragement. ‘In what respect, Millie?’

Blushing with embarrassment at finding myself the object of attention, I struggled to organise my thoughts. ‘People accuse her of all kinds of things, such as being a German traitor when she’s clearly doing everything she can for her adopted country, like turning royal palaces into field hospitals and working for her Red Cross Certificate.’ Which was more than could be said for the Countess.

‘Indeed that is true. The Tsarina is seen in the hospitals most days in her white uniform, witnessing all the horrors of war firsthand without complaint.’

‘And isn’t she also responsible for running the country while the Tsar is away commanding military forces?’

The Count pulled a face. ‘Yes, but she doesn’t do it very well, unfortunately. The problem is that dear Alix, a devoted wife and mother, is far too protective of her husband. She is so determined that no member of the government should challenge his authority that she chooses ministers who are weak “yes men”, whose only wish is to win favour with the Tsar, which unfortunately divides the nation even more.’

‘Oh, then Stefan is right. I really don’t understand politics.’

With a smile, the Count patted my shoulder. ‘You at least try, dear Millie.’

I might have asked more questions but as the Countess fixed me with one of her fierce glares, I held my silence, nervous of finding myself going hungry yet again.

Over the coming days and weeks the Countess frequently complained she wasn’t feeling well. She lingered in bed of a morning, and constantly called for snacks to nibble throughout the day, due to an upset tummy. She even abandoned her passion for cold baths, which she considered good for her skin, putting them on hold in favour of two hot baths a day. I most certainly ensured that the
children
took one each night due to the bitterly cold weather, and gave them each a warming cup of hot chocolate before tucking them into bed. I was taking Irina her drink one evening when I found the little girl crouched beside the door of her mother’s boudoir.

‘What are you doing there?’ I gently scolded her, carefully keeping my voice low in case the Countess should hear.

The child pressed a finger to her lips to shush me. Her insecurity was such that the only reassurance she found was in secretly listening in to whatever her parents were discussing. What a little imp she was, not quite the angel her father described. ‘Is
Mamochka
going away?’ she whispered.

‘Goodness, what nonsense is this?’ But as I reached for her hand I realised that her parents were engaged in a most furious row, and making no attempt to keep their voices down.

‘So what if I am having an affair with Dimitri Korniloff? What business is it of yours? You haven’t been exactly innocent yourself in that regard.’

‘If I broke our marriage vows it was because you rejected me from the start, destroying any trust between us from the very first day of our marriage.’

‘You didn’t care about me, only about pleasing your father and making him proud.’

‘A task at which I clearly failed, thanks to your lies.’

The Countess’s laugh rang out, as if he’d said something highly amusing. ‘You should have stood up to your parents and married that foolish Mavra Obelensky. Such a tragedy that she died.’

‘Stop that, Olga. Don’t even mention her name.’

‘I want a divorce, Vaska, and I’ll do whatever it takes to get one.’

The Count mumbled something we couldn’t quite catch. Quickly taking Irina’s hand, I attempted to lead the child away as this really wasn’t a conversation a little girl should hear. She firmly resisted. ‘No,
Baryshnya
, I need to listen.’

‘Come with me,
please
,’ I begged, not wishing to see her hurt, and then her father’s voice rang out, paralysing us both.

‘Make no mistake, if you are foolish enough to run off with the fellow, your reputation and status will be in ruins, and I will cut you off without a single kopek to your name.’

‘You wouldn’t
dare
!’

‘Don’t underestimate me, Olga. I’ll also make sure you lose all contact with the children, even your precious son.’

Gathering Irina into my arms I carried her quickly to bed,
paying
no attention to her furious wriggling. Once I’d settled her and she was sipping her hot chocolate, albeit with a sulky expression on her face, I sat beside her on the bed. ‘You really shouldn’t listen to the silly things grown-ups say. They can get very cross with each other at times, but it’s only like you having a quarrel with Serge. It’s not as bad as it sounds.’

She looked at me, a wisdom in her young eyes that was really quite alarming. ‘Divorce must be a very bad thing if
Mamochka
wouldn’t ever see us again. Why would she want one?’

Why indeed! I smiled reassuringly as I tucked in the blanket. ‘Your dear mama probably wasn’t thinking properly. Don’t we all say silly things when we’re cross over something? Now, which story shall we have tonight? What about
Polly, A New Fashioned Girl
? That should be fun.’

I kept reading until Irina’s eyelids drooped and sleep claimed her, then left the night light burning as I quietly closed the door. Only then did I allow myself to wonder whether the Countess really would leave the Count, and what would happen to us all if she did.

Relations between the couple became ever more strained, almost as icy as the weather. The word
divorce
was never mentioned again, so I could only assume that the Countess had backed down, fearful perhaps of losing her position in Russian society. I kept out of her way as much as possible, spending longer than normal at the British and American chapel with my friends.

‘It will be the International Women’s Day Festival in Petrograd on February twenty-third,’ Ruth announced while a group of us were enjoying our usual cake and gossip. ‘We often celebrate the day with a meal, or loved ones buy us flowers or send a card. In 1913 women demonstrated on the right to vote. This year there is to be a rally protesting over the high price of bread. Many textile
workers
, housewives and women struggling to feed their families will be
taking
part. Who is willing to join them?’

‘We’re British. Wouldn’t they object? We don’t have children and we’re fortunate enough not to have to buy our own bread,’ protested Ivy, who much preferred a quiet life.

‘But that’s no reason not to support our fellow sisters in their hour of need, is it? I’m willing to walk with them to protest, carry a banner or something,’ Ruth pointed out.

‘Me too,’ I said, remembering the anguish on the peasant
woman’s
face when the Countess had refused to give her a few kopeks to feed her children and then given her own a small fortune each day to buy sweets.

‘I don’t mind joining,’ another girl agreed.

‘Sounds like a good cause to me.’

Several more hands shot up and we were soon engrossed in writing posters with powerful messages that read, ‘
Our children are starving
’ and ‘
We need to buy bread
.’

When the day came I was astonished by the numbers that turned out. There were some men present but literally hundreds of female textile workers took to the streets, waving their posters or proclaiming their message, shouting as loudly as they could. ‘Bread’, ‘End the war!’ and even, ‘Down with the Autocracy!’

The women assembled at the corner of Bolshoi Prospekt and Gavanskaya Street, looking desperate, hollow-cheeked and weary, many like walking skeletons since feeding their children was a
priority
. I was deeply moved, filled with admiration for their courage and determination as they began to hammer on doors demanding bakers bring prices down or give them bread there and then to feed their starving children.

‘We need decent wages in order to eat,’ they cried.

‘It’s a disgrace that we can’t afford to buy bread.’

‘Our children are starving!’

‘Are your children really starving?’ I asked the woman beside me. ‘I do wish I had money to help you.’

‘You help just by being here, and yes, my children consider themselves fortunate if they get cabbage soup or a bit of bean stew once a day. The price of milk, butter and eggs makes buying those quite beyond my reach. Sometimes I can afford to buy a few potatoes to add to the beans.’

‘And the government keeps on printing more money which pushes up prices still further, while our wages stagnate,’ added her friend. ‘I’ve been driven to picking dandelion leaves and nettles to boil into soup for my children.’

The women, wrapped in their long drab coats and scarves against the cold, walked in a mass through the streets carrying their banners between them. Although most of the snow had been cleared, it still felt icy underfoot as we followed on at the back, a small group of supporters, while onlookers cheered as the procession passed by.