he had gone I said to Ariadne: ‘So you did not mean it when you said “How could such things touch us?”’
Ariadne hesitated. ‘I did. I meant it with part of my mind. When I see us here so happy and contented, with everything about us so nice, I feel this is one world and all the bad things are in another.’
‘But surely General Rahl does not come here to inspect you?’
‘Oh no; he comes here as a friend. But of course, one is bound to think of what he knows about one’s friends, and even about oneself. I believe that the Third Bureau has dossiers on ever so many people.’
‘But surely not on you, Ariadne?’
‘Oh no, I suppose I am of no significance to them, but my mother and Peter have hosts of friends and go everywhere, and some of those friends would be bound to have “doubtful” opinions. My mother has many close friends high in Court circles, of course, so her own position is irreproachable.’
A little later, I passed General Rahl on the staircase. We were not introduced, but he gave me a long, hard look as he went by, as if my face interested him, and he left me with the impression of being a tough customer.
The shopping list was the usual magnificent screed. An order for English biscuits and English marmalade at Eliseev’s – ‘Tiptree’s, please,’ said Ariadne politely to the black-coated assistant, and smiled at me – then on to Brocard’s to choose and purchase soap. I helped her choose tablets of a pale heliotrope that smelt like a late summer garden concentrated and made powdery. Ariadne bought and presented to me a box of three square tablets of pink soap smelling of roses. ‘For you; your name soap.’ Peter Alexandrov also bought some soap. Somehow I could not imagine Patrick buying scented soap, but this action seemed natural in Peter.
Then we went on to Watkin’s, the English bookshop. I suspected the trip there was entirely to please me because Ariadne took little interest in books herself, but she pretended she had to order some new English novels for her mother. ‘There is a new book by E. M. Hull, whom she likes very much,’ said Ariadne. Peter also pretended an errand.
There were some copies of the Hull novel already on display, so I examined one idly while Ariadne transacted another piece of business about writing-paper. It was not the sort of book that found its way to Jordansjoy, where Tibby exercised something of a censorship. Still, Grizel and I had our own ways of keeping in touch with the world, and there was a copy of one of Elinor Glyn’s works that was about the house for several weeks, masquerading as a novel of Sir Walter Scott’s (an author after Tibby’s own heart) without Tibby being any the wiser. E. M. Hull looked as if she wrote in the same vein as Elinor Glyn – I took it for granted E. M. Hull was a woman.
Raising my eyes from the book, I saw that although Ariadne appeared to be examining two different qualities of paper, she really had her eyes fixed on a distant corner of the shop. I followed her gaze. Peter too was watching; he was also watching me.
I saw a group of four people: an elderly woman, soberly but expensively dressed, a girl of about Ariadne’s age, a small boy and, oddly, a burly man in the uniform of a Russian naval rating. Two shop assistants were hovering around them, and a personage who looked like Mr Watkin himself – if he existed – was also on hand. The boy was choosing a toy. Watkin’s had a whole corner of the shop devoted to English toys of one sort or another, the names of which I recognized from my brother Alec’s conversation: Meccano, Bassett and Hornby – magic names to toy railway enthusiasts. Behind the group a shelf was stacked with jigsaw puzzles and English children’s annuals. The boy was choosing a railway engine. I saw him studying the one he held with close care, running one finger delicately over its outline. He was dressed in sailor’s uniform too; it was fashionable for boys then, and for girls also, for that matter. But I did not fall into any confusion about the relationship between the boy and the man, which was clearly that of master and servant; there was plainly a great social gulf between them.
Ariadne put her hand on my arm as if to make sure my attention was directed to them. ‘It’s the Tsarevitch and one of his sisters,’ she whispered.
I looked with interest. ‘Which Grand Duchess?’
‘I’m not sure. The next to eldest, I think, Tatiana. They all have the family face and look alike.’
‘The boy’s different,’ I said.
‘Yes.’ She hesitated. ‘There’s been a lot of – well – talk. They say there’s something wrong with him, that he’s lame or something.’
‘He looks delicate, but normal enough,’ I said. ‘He’s not a cripple.’
‘Still, he often does not walk, the sailor carries him’
‘He’s walking now.’ And indeed as we watched the boy ran along the display of toys, eagerly pointing something out to his sister.
‘Yes, I think that must be the Grand Duchess Tatiana,’ observed Ariadne appraisingly; the girl was, after all, her contemporary, she was forming a judgement of her. ‘Not pretty, really, in spite of what they say, but has a nice expression. Olga, the eldest, she’s called a beauty, but of course one has to say that of Grand Duchesses. The other two are just little girls.’
The brother and sister were studying a book together, the boy pointing something out in an eager way. To me there was something touching about his lively fragility, as if boyishness and enthusiasm would prevail in a weak body. He had a small dog with him, a liver-and-white King Charles spaniel, and as I watched I saw him lean down and give it an affectionate pat. When the dog leapt up eagerly, banging against his young master, the sister ordered the sailor to pick the animal up and carry it. ‘None of your animals are trained, Alexei,’ I heard.
The little group moved down the shop, with the other customers politely standing aside. There was no great fuss, no curtseys, although those gentlemen closest to the party took off their hats; but the shop was very quiet as if noise would somehow have been lése majesté. They came close enough for me to see that the girl was wearing a little bunch of lily-of-the-valley pinned to her jacket, and to smell their scent. She held her brother’s hand and stared straight ahead, almost too shy to acknowledge the weight of all the attention focused on her. Her brother, on the other hand, smiled cheerfully all around. To him, at that moment, the world was good. But he was very slender and fine-drawn compared with the robust solidity of my Alec.
‘My mother says he is all that stands between us and revolution,’ whispered Ariadne.
I was surprised; political judgements did not seem at all in Dolly’s line. ‘Why does she say that?’
Ariadne thought for a moment. ‘I suppose because one can think about him hopefully. He is still so young that everyone can see him as representing what they desire, and he may become it. Who can tell? I think that must be what my mother means.’
The little party were almost at the door now. ‘The show is over,’ said Peter Alexandrov suddenly from behind us. ‘We can go now.’ There was a note of savage irony in his voice.
‘You look very thoughtful, Miss Rose,’ Peter said breaking into my considerations, as we strolled away from the bookshop. ‘But you often do. There is a certain sort of serious, quiet look you sometimes have. I have noticed it. Is it because you are thinking of home things? Have you perhaps had bad news?’
‘No, not exactly bad news, but unexpected,’ I said, remembering the letter about Patrick’s troubles in India.
‘About your – ?’ He paused delicately, seeking for a suitable word.
‘About the man I was going to marry? Yes.’ So he too knew about Patrick. I suppose I should have guessed it.
‘What was he like, Miss Rose? To look at, and as a person?’
Could I still remember what Patrick looked like? Faces, even beloved ones, fade so fast. ‘He was tall, fair-haired, with blue eyes; not a bit good-looking really.’
‘But you thought