In early January, in wintry weather, she went back to college where the discussion centred around the abdication, which seemed to have stunned everyone. Opinion was divided. There were those who could not understand the king falling for a twice-divorced American fortune-hunter, who had threatened the very fabric of British life and tradition, and there were those of a romantic bent who applauded his decision to put love before duty. At least, Lydia thought with wry humour, no one was going to execute him as they had his kinsman, the tsar.

The coronation in May of George VI cheered everyone up. The new king did not have the charisma of his older brother but he had a strong sense of duty and a lovely family. Undeterred by the cold damp weather, crowds packed twenty-deep behind barriers in Trafalgar Square, to watch the glittering State Coach pass in procession. Many more listened to the broadcast on the wireless, an innovation which was a great success. A few who had television sets watched in their own homes, though the cameras were not allowed into the Abbey. Lydia, who had completed her final examinations, went up to London with some college friends to join the crowds. Her Russian roots were not forgotten, but she felt as British as anyone, cheering and waving a little Union Jack.

The following month she learnt that her hard work had paid off and she had been awarded what would have been considered a good degree if she had been a man, and she went home to Upstone with her certificate and no idea what she was going to do next.

Edward met her at Upstone station with the Bentley. He hugged her and then held her at arm’s length. She was wearing a straight mid-calf-length skirt in deep blue, a silk blouse with ruffles down the front and two-tone shoes. On her chestnut-brown hair was a small pillbox hat set at an angle. It had a brooch pinned to the front of it. ‘You look splendid,’ he said. ‘All grown-up. Not my little girl anymore.’

‘I’ll always be your little girl,’ she said, as they walked out of the station arm in arm, with a porter bringing up the rear with her luggage on a trolley.

‘Your mama has gone to one of her charity meetings but she will be back for tea,’ he said, directing the stowing of the cases, the tennis racket and the box of books in the boot and on the back seat. Then he held the door open for her to settle in the passenger seat before walking round to get behind the wheel. He enjoyed driving and dispensed with the services of a chauffeur except when on official business. He was doing less and less of that now and was planning to retire in a year or two.

‘What are you going to do with yourself now?’ he asked as they pulled out of the station yard. ‘Do you still want to be a translator? I could probably find you a niche somewhere.’

‘I’ve been thinking about it, but I can’t make up my mind.’

‘There’s plenty of time. A holiday first and your twenty-first birthday. Mama is planning a ball for you. A sort of come-out. That will be fun, don’t you think?’

No one knew when her birthday actually was and so they had always celebrated it on the sixth of June. ‘It’s a lovely time of year for a birthday,’ Margaret had said when she and Edward discussed it after she had been with them a few months and Margaret had come to accept her as part of the family. ‘Long warm days when we can use the garden or go for a picnic.’

‘It will be a lot of extra expense for you and Mama,’ Lydia said, not really sure she wanted it. The country was only just coming out of the depression which had seen thousands out of work. Many still were. Poverty was everywhere and the twin evils, as she saw it, of Communism and Fascism were rife. And yet, she, who had seen horrors most British people could not even imagine, was cocooned from it by money and privilege. It made her feel guilty.

‘But you are worth it, sweetheart. And I know Mama is really looking forward to it. She has already drawn up a guest list and put the preparations in hand.’

She chuckled. ‘I must not disappoint Mama, must I?’

They both knew that Margaret was thoroughly spoilt and liked to have her own way, but as both loved her, they went along with whatever she wanted. It was a long time since she had objected to Lydia’s presence in the house and she would probably have denied it if someone had reminded her.

The ball was the talking point of the village. Margaret was immersed in making the arrangements, hurrying about with lists. An orchestra was booked and the two largest reception rooms opened out for a ballroom and the carpets taken up. Since the war, they had had to manage with fewer servants, so temporary staff were called in to polish the floor, prepare the bedrooms for those guests who would be staying overnight, and to help with the catering. ‘Mama, you will wear yourself to a frazzle,’ Lydia said the day before the ball when everyone seemed to be at odds and the servants were falling over each others’ feet. ‘Do take a break. Let’s go for a ride and blow the cobwebs away.’

Riding was Margaret’s passion and the only thing likely to tear her away from the preparations. Lydia enjoyed it too and whenever she came home from Cambridge they would spend hours on horseback, roaming the Norfolk countryside she had come to love. It lacked the spectacular views of the Pennines, the Lakes and Scotland, but it had the Broads and the Fens, gently rolling countryside and wide, glorious skies. ‘I loved Cambridge, but it is good to be home,’ Lydia said, breathing deeply as they walked their horses towards the common.

‘You really think of Upstone Hall as home now?’ Margaret queried.

‘Of course. I have done for a long time. Why did you ask?’

‘I just wondered. When you first came to us you talked of nothing else but going home to Russia and I wondered if, now you are growing up, you might have started thinking about it again, especially as you have been studying it.’

‘Sometimes I think about it, but it doesn’t seem real anymore. It’s like a dream. One day I might like to go on a visit, but that’s a long way into the future.’

‘It would not be safe. Papa is worried about what’s happening in Germany too. He thinks Hitler is as bad as Stalin and there could be a war in Europe.’

‘Oh, they talked a lot about it at Cambridge, especially among the men, who seemed to think it would be a great adventure. Do they never learn? War tears families apart.’ She shuddered as a sudden glimpse of a droshky and bloodstained bodies clouded her vision. ‘Let’s not talk about it.’ They had reached the edge of the common and she spurred her horse into a gallop. ‘Come on, I’ll race you to the oak tree.’

Margaret followed and the ugly memory was dissipated and they trotted back home refreshed and ready to tackle whatever problems cropped up.


On the day of the ball, a florist arrived in the morning to arrange the flowers, and after the last-minute instructions and a look round to see nothing had been forgotten, Margaret went to lie down before getting ready. Lydia went to her room too, but instead of lying down she sat at her window looking out on the park that surrounded the house. Every inch of it was known and loved. Here she was, at twenty-one, loved, cosseted and privileged. Others had not been so lucky. So why did she sometimes feel unsettled, as if there was something missing, something she ought to be searching for? Not her parents; they were long gone. Not Andrei and Tonya, whose deaths still haunted her dreams.

Was she twenty-one? The only evidence they had for that was her own declaration that she was four when she met Sir Edward in Yalta. How had she known that? Had she just turned four or was she nearer five? It felt strange not knowing when her birthday was. She supposed somewhere in Russia there was a record of it. Or had all the records been destroyed? She gave up musing and left her seat to go and run a bath. It was time to start getting ready.

Claudia, who had stayed on making herself useful in a dozen different ways for no other reason than she had nowhere else to go and Edward would not dismiss her, helped her dress. The gown, which had cost Edward a fortune, was of heavy cream silk embroidered with seed pearls. Without a distinguishable waist, it was cleverly cut to emphasise the slimness of her figure. Its back was very low and had a train which she could loop up on a catch at her wrist for dancing. Claudia helped her with her hair which was swept up in a chignon and fastened with two glittering combs, a present from Mama. She put a pearl necklace about her throat, slipped into her shoes and went down to the small parlour where Edward and Margaret waited.

Margaret was in a soft dove-grey crêpe dress and Edward in immaculate tie and tails. She entered the room demurely, smiling. ‘Will I do?’

‘Beautiful,’ her father said, coming forward to take both her hands. ‘Absolutely stunning – isn’t that what the young bloods would say?’

She laughed. ‘I’m very nervous.’

‘No need to be, you will be the belle of the ball, as is only right and proper.’ He turned from her to reach for a jewellery box from the mantelpiece. ‘This is already yours,’ he said. ‘I have kept it safely for you, but now I have had it made so that you can wear it.’ He opened the box and took out the Kirilov Star, adapted and hung on a silver chain so that she could wear it as a necklace. The central diamond sparkled in the light from the electric chandelier above her head and all the smaller diamonds in its points glistened like drops of water.

Another of her fleeting memories came to her of her mother sitting at a table in tears, sewing it into her petticoat, and her father taking her on his knee and gruffly telling her she was the star of the Kirilovs. She thrust the recollection from her and turned dutifully at Edward’s command so that he could take the pearls from her throat and replace it with the necklace. ‘There!’ he said as she turned back to him. ‘All yours now. Wear it with pride for what you were and what you have become.’

‘It’s lovely,’ she said, fingering it. ‘I didn’t know you still had it.’

‘I could never part with the Kirilov Star,’ he said. ‘Neither the jewel, nor the child.’

‘Oh, Papa,’ she said, throwing her arms about him. ‘I do love you.’ She turned to Margaret and embraced her too. ‘You are so good to me. I sometimes wonder what I have done to deserve it.’

‘Just been yourself,’ Edward said, embarrassed. ‘Go on being that. Now, I think we had better go into the hall to receive our guests.’

There were more than a hundred of them: distant relations of Sir Edward and Margaret, family friends from far and wide, Lydia’s school friends and others she had met in Cambridge, people from the diplomatic corps, a few displaced Russians with whom Edward had kept in touch, the vicar and the doctor and Alexei, all dressed in their finest, come to wish her well, all bringing gifts. It was exciting and slightly out of this world, a dream from which she might wake and find herself… where? Back in a droshky in a snowy forest or crammed into a freight wagon with hundreds of others? Watching her weeping mother sew? It was strange how those visions kept coming back to her now, clearer than they had ever been. It was as if her traumatised body had shut them out at first, refused to acknowledge recollections that were too painful to bear, and only years later released them, as if saying, ‘Yes, you are stronger now. Now you can face them. You should not forget. It is part of what you are.’

Edward partnered her for the first dance but after that Alexei claimed her. Since the death of his father in Russia, Edward had taken him under his wing, though he really did not need it. He had become a tall, handsome man, popular with everyone, though there was a serious side to his nature that perhaps only Lydia and Sir Edward understood. His mother had died the year Lydia went to Cambridge – of a broken heart, he had said. Since then he had become a naturalised British subject, taking the name of Alex Peters, easily able to pass himself off as an Englishman. He was completely self-assured.

Lydia was very fond of him, had been ever since she had taken him to feed the ducks and he had been kind to a lonely, frightened little girl. He was a presence in her life, not an especially frequent one, but a stable one, someone she knew instinctively she could lean on if need be. He was practical and down to earth, the only one who could curb her more exotic flights of fancy and cheer her up when she felt pulled down by her memories. He understood.

‘You are looking ravishing,’ he said, as they waltzed. ‘I would hardly know the little waif I met in Simferopol.’