The Secret Wife

Chapter Thirteen

At the beginning of May 1916, just over a month after Dmitri’s return, the Romanovs, including Tsar Nicholas, went on holiday to Crimea. It was their first trip since 1913 and Dmitri knew how much Tatiana loved it there, but watching their Delaunay-Belleville automobile disappear down the road towards the station made him feel ill. His limbs were heavy, his brow fevered and his head aching. How would he last three weeks without her? She had promised to write, but letters were no longer enough to satisfy him. He only felt truly alive when in her presence. ‘I am so terribly glad to see the sea,” Tatiana wrote.

Olga and I have been lying in the sun so I hope you will not mind your fiancée’s face being brown as a nut. The warmth appears to be helping Mama’s health, and little Alexei is quite animated, badgering the sailors to tell him stories about German U-boats. We sailed from Odessa to Sevastopol but do not have time to travel to Livadia as Father and Alexei must soon return to the front.

Dmitri read her letter with a sour feeling in his stomach. How could she enjoy herself when he was bereft without her? And then he rebuked himself: what kind of lover would resent his loved one’s happiness? Was love always so selfish? He should be pleased for her, and he tried, but he was out of sorts and moody with the staff in the stables and didn’t regain his cheerful spirits until her return.

Tatiana’s nineteenth birthday fell on the 29th of May, and Dmitri bought her a pair of amethyst drop earrings, which he thought would bring out the violet in her eyes. They were well beyond his means on army pay, and would involve repaying his debt to the jeweller monthly for over a year, but it was worth it to see Tatiana’s delight with the gift. She hugged him and kissed his cheek before threading them through her earlobes and seeking a mirror to check her reflection.

‘I have far less jewellery than you might suppose.’ She turned her head one way and another, admiring the effect. ‘Mama used to give us each a single pearl on our birthdays so that by our sixteenth we would have enough for a pearl necklace, but I have few pairs of earrings and certainly no amethysts. I do believe this is my favourite stone.’

‘Will you celebrate with your family later?’ Dmitri asked, smiling at her girlish excitement and delighted by the apparent success of his gift.

‘Just my sisters. Papa and Alexei are at Stavka.’ She hesitated. ‘I believe Mama has asked Rasputin to stop by.’

Dmitri glowered. ‘On your birthday? Is he so close to the family?’

Tatiana pursed her lips. ‘Yes, he is. I must introduce you so you can see he is nothing like the image you have. He’s a very sweet, gentle man.’

Dmitri snorted. ‘Even if he is a good man and all the stories I have heard are wrong, the fact remains that the Russian people mistrust him. They blame his influence for all that is wrong with the country: for the food shortages, for the lack of progress in defeating Germany, for the railway strikes … He boasts of his power over your mother, saying he can make her do anything.’

‘I didn’t know there were food shortages and railway strikes.’ Tatiana frowned. ‘But how could these be Rasputin’s fault? He is a holy man, a healer.’

‘Of course they are not his fault directly, but people think they are, and that’s what matters. Your mother would do well to ban him from the palace while she is running the country’s affairs. Perhaps he should go back to Siberia, at least till after the war.’ He worried about speaking so frankly to Tatiana, who looked upset and bewildered, but it felt as though he had a duty to do so when he might one day be a member of the family.

‘There’s something I must explain,’ she said quietly. ‘Come, sit down.’ They were in the grounds of the Catherine Palace and she led him to a bench with a view over the chain of waterfalls that gushed into the Great Pond. He waited as she chose her words.

‘It is a family secret but, as you are to be one of us, I think it is time you were told … You know that Alexei has frail health?’

Dmitri frowned. Everyone knew that.

Tatiana bit her lip. ‘I am worried that you might change your mind about marrying me if I tell you the rest.’

Dmitri grabbed her hand and squeezed it tightly. ‘Whatever the secret, I promise I will not change my mind.’

She nodded, as if she had known this would be the case, then continued. ‘Alexei suffers from the bleeding disorder known as haemophilia that also afflicts some of my cousins in Prussia.’ Dmitri gave a sharp intake of breath and Tatiana continued: ‘When he bumps his leg even mildly, it can mean bleeding into his joints and he has almost died several times in his short life. Back in 1912 after he injured himself jumping onto a boat, he was so poorly that he was given the last sacrament. But every time, Uncle Grigory manages to heal him where the doctors have failed. He has brought Alexei back from the edge of the grave many times. This is why the family cannot be without him. But of course we can never explain this to the Russian people because Alexei is the male heir who must carry on the Romanov line …’

Dmitri could see the problem; they could not admit to such fragility in the succession. ‘I’m so sorry, angel. It must be a terrible worry for you all.’ Suddenly Alexandra’s reliance on the wild man and Nicholas’s forbearance of him made sense.

‘It is something you must consider,’ Tatiana told him. ‘Were we to have a son, there is a chance of him inheriting this vile disease because it is passed through the female line. That’s why it is only fair to warn you now in case you wish to reconsider your proposal.’

Dmitri was aghast: did she know him so little? He fell to his knees on the path in front of her, his voice shaking with emotion. ‘There is nothing that would make me reconsider – nothing. Now I know the truth about your brother, I love you more than ever.’

‘You are so pure and unselfish,’ she marvelled, placing her hand on his shoulder.

He felt unworthy, remembering his recent burst of selfishness when she went on holiday. Sometimes his love felt like a kind of uncontrollable madness. But he was proud beyond measure that she had shared with him the very sensitive family secret.

The trust between them had grown daily that spring. She had often confided in him when her sisters annoyed her, or when her mother’s illnesses were hard to bear, but to share this particular confidence meant she considered him one of the family, and he was deeply honoured.

After Tatiana went back to work, Dmitri pondered what she had said. If Alexei proved too frail to produce an heir, how would it affect the succession to the throne? Would Nicholas be succeeded by Olga and her husband, followed by their children? And what if Olga failed to marry, like his sister Valerina? Would the succession pass to Tatiana and himself? He did not want to be tsar. The desire to rule was not in his nature. His deepest wish was that one day he and Tatiana would have a home in the countryside where they could keep horses and dogs, and have children of their own, God willing. If one of their sons inherited the bleeding disorder, they would deal with it in due course.

He felt as though it was tempting fate to think so far ahead. What if the war continued to go badly for Russia? How many years might it be until they could marry? What if she fell for someone else before then? Was there a possibility that Tatiana could be forced into an arranged marriage as part of a peace treaty? He tortured himself with these imagined scenarios, and only relaxed during his afternoons with Tatiana when he felt the sureness of her love calming him.

The weather in St Petersburg that June was magnificent: warm and cloudless, with just an occasional overnight shower to freshen the flower displays that bloomed profusely across the royal estates in both formal and informal gardens. At last the news from the front was encouraging: General Brusilov’s offensive had forced the Austro-Hungarian army to retreat and by the end of the month they had advanced sixty miles and taken 350,000 prisoners. It proved what the mighty Russian army could do when they had a decent leader at the helm, and gave them all succour.

However, the picture changed in July when German troops were diverted from the Western Front to fight back and Russian casualties once more began to mount. On the 27th of August, Romania decided to declare war on Austro-Hungary, and as a result Brusilov had hundreds more miles of front line to defend, right down into the Balkans. Suddenly, there were whispers in the guardroom that all able-bodied men were to be called back to the front and Dmitri prayed fervently he would not be among them.

One evening in early September he heard that a new influx of wounded officers had arrived at the Catherine Palace and among them was the man named Volodya, with whom Tatiana was rumoured to have formed an attachment in his absence. He had suffered a spinal injury, Dmitri heard, and could be there for some time. Jealousy gnawed his insides like a hungry rodent.

He had never asked Tatiana about Volodya, partly because he was too proud but also because he feared that some tiny passing expression would give away the truth that she’d had feelings for him, and he couldn’t bear that. He considered visiting the hospital to catch sight of his rival but couldn’t face the anguish if he walked in and found Tatiana chatting to him, smiling at him.

Then, as cruel fate would have it, the morning after Volodya’s arrival a letter came with fresh orders for Dmitri: he was to report to a post in Moldova by the 20th of September. He slumped to the ground, his heart beating rapidly. How could he leave Tsarskoe Selo when his rival was there and Tatiana would see him every day? Dmitri sat breathing hard, all kinds of crazy plans flashing through his mind. He would sneak into the ward by night and hold a pillow over Volodya’s face. He would ask Tatiana to elope with him and they would run off together to a country that was not involved in this bloody war.

And then came an idea that was not quite so far-fetched. There was only one way he could return to the front with any kind of equanimity. It had to be worth a try.

Chapter Fourteen

Dmitri told Tatiana of his orders while they sat in the wildflower meadow just beyond the Llama House in the grounds of the Alexander Palace. She had woven a garland of camomile flowers and placed it around his neck, where it hung over his uniform, the white petals already drooping.

Immediately she burst into tears. ‘Oh, Malama, I can’t bear it. How shall I live without you?’ She clutched his arm, distraught. ‘You have no idea how scared I was when you were at the front line before. I woke every morning with a lump in my throat, as if a stone were lodged there. And now we are so much closer, it will be unbearable …’ Her shoulders shook with sobbing.

‘Hush, angel.’ He put an arm around her, close to tears himself. Tatiana brought out a softness in him that he was not familiar with.

She continued: ‘At least with Papa and Alexei, I know they will be kept out of danger. But you – you are the type who rushes out in the face of enemy fire. I can’t lose you, Dmitri, I simply can’t.’

He kissed her hair, his insides melting at her anguish, then he leaned over so his forehead rested against hers. ‘Can you read my thoughts?’ he asked.

She shook her head and a silky strand of hair tickled his cheek.

‘I have faced death many times during this war,’ he told her quietly, seriously, ‘but never when I had so much to lose. The strength of our love has grown so vast these past months that I find myself unable to risk losing you.’

‘You will never lose me,’ she replied huskily.

He breathed hard, his forehead still resting on hers, and continued: ‘I’m going mad, Tatiana. I feel like banging my head against a wall with frustration that I must wait till this infernal war is over to marry you – and that I might die without ever knowing that sweet joy. The only thing that would make this parting bearable would be if you would marry me before I go.’

She drew a quick surprised breath and he spoke hurriedly.

‘I know we can’t have an official state wedding but why not a secret ceremony, just for us? I am not asking that we lie together, much as the idea thrills me. I only want us to be united in God’s eyes so that if my time is up I will go to Heaven knowing that you truly loved me and that you will one day join me for all eternity.”

Tears pooled in her eyes. ‘I couldn’t bear for you to die. Please don’t talk that way.’

‘Being married to you, I would have everything to live for. I would know for sure you’d be waiting for me on my return and that I could trust your love to be as strong as ever. I promise you, Tatiana, that if you do this for me, I will ensure I survive.”

She leaned her head back to look him in the eyes. ‘But who would perform such a ceremony?’

‘A friend of mine, Father Oblonsky. He is a priest from my hometown. I have already asked if he would be willing to conduct a secret ceremony between me and the girl I love, and he has agreed. His chapel is a few miles down the Kuzminka River. We could go there by night to avoid being seen. No one need know.’ He waited for her to drink this in, grateful that at least she hadn’t ruled it out straight away.

‘But if we then married formally after the war, would it not be bigamous?’

‘Father Oblonsky says not.’ He had only half-listened to the old priest’s explanation about how it could work, overjoyed to hear that he was prepared to conduct a ceremony. He watched as love and duty wrestled in Tatiana’s mind.

‘My parents must never find out. And you must promise with all your heart that you will not make me a widow.’ Her eyes were sad, but she had a determined air. It was only then Dmitri realised with a start that she must love him almost as much as he loved her; otherwise she would not take such a risk.

‘I promise.’

He touched her eyelashes with the tip of a finger to brush away a tear caught there.

Three nights later they met at a side entrance of the Alexander Palace at midnight. Dmitri led two horses, and they jumped on horseback and rode to the riverbank, where he had moored a rowing boat. He lit a candle for Tatiana to hold as he rowed downstream, and her eyes were wide in the flickering light. Neither spoke, each lost in their own thoughts, with the lapping of the water against the edge of the boat and the hoot of an owl the only sounds.

‘Are you sure about this, angel?’ Dmitri asked as he helped her ashore at a little mooring.

‘I’m sure.’

The door of the chapel was open and Father Oblonsky was waiting in his vestments of rich red and gold pattern, with a gold mitre on his head and a heavy gold cross around his neck. He ushered them in, quickly blessed the rings Dmitri handed over, then began the age-old rituals to bind them for life. They were each given a candle to hold. Tatiana’s hand was trembling and she looked dazed but incredibly beautiful in her chaste white gown with throat-hugging neckline. The sweet fog of incense rising from the censors, the priest’s deep lilting voice, the glittering gold icons of the chapel interior made it seem like a dream.

‘Eternal God that joinest together in love them that were separate, who hast ordained the union of holy wedlock that cannot be set asunder …’

They followed instructions as the priest asked Dmitri to put his larger ring on Tatiana’s finger, then her smaller one on his own little finger, and signed them with the cross.

‘O Lord, our God, who hast poured down the blessings of Thy Truth according to Thy Holy Covenant upon Thy chosen servants, our fathers, from generation to generation, bless Thy servants Dmitri and Tatiana, and make their troth fast in faith, and union of hearts, and truth, and love …’

This was the moment at which they officially became man and wife, and they caught eyes shyly: Tatiana smiled but Dmitri was too overawed to react. His ears were buzzing, his legs like jelly, his brain on fire: it was the most precious moment of his life and yet he felt he was barely conscious. He wanted time to slow down so he could savour each second, analyse each word of the service, live this moment to the full. They both took sips from the proffered cup of rich altar wine then the priest wrapped his stole round their joined hands, to unite them till kingdom come.

All too soon it was over and they embraced, letting their lips graze the other’s, the most delicious sensation Dmitri had ever experienced.

‘May God bless you and keep you safe for the rest of your lives,’ Father Oblonsky said in farewell. ‘I wish you all the happiness in the world.’

They did not have time to linger as it was already three in the morning. Back on the river, Dmitri had to strain to row against the current. Black trees waved their branches against the moonlit sky. Tatiana was silent and he wondered what she was thinking. Even at this moment when they should be closer than any two people in the world, he was frustrated by the ultimate unknowability of another person. Was she regretting their actions? Did she feel he had forced her into it?

‘Are you all right?’ he asked tentatively.

She sighed, sounding blissfully happy. ‘I am going over the priest’s prayers in my head. I never want to forget a single detail of this night. No grand state wedding could ever compare to the beautiful simplicity of the promises we have made.’

A sob escaped from Dmitri’s throat and he lifted an oar from the water so he could wipe his eye with his sleeve. His father used to chide him for crying, saying he was like a silly chit of a girl who needed to learn to control his emotions. A few moments later a bend in the river brought his face into the moonlight and he knew Tatiana would see that his cheeks were glistening with tears, but he also knew it didn’t matter because she would understand.

Chapter Fifteen
Lake Akanabee, New York State, end of July 2016

Kitty threw herself into work on the cabin with a passion. First she used her chainsaw to hack down the branches overhanging the track so she could drive along it. That was vital so she could transport planks of wood and panes of glass for her repairs, as well as take away all the rubbish and the old bed to a dump. She climbed onto the cabin roof and mended a rusted patch then pushed her broom down the chimney to clear the abandoned birds’ nests inside. She cut down the sapling that had grown up through the porch steps, chopping it into lengths for firewood. She painstakingly rebuilt the steps, planing, sanding and weatherproofing the wood then adding curved banisters on either side. In her head was her father’s quiet voice: ‘Slow and easy, now; don’t cut corners or that’s where the rot will set in.’

She scrubbed the interior of the cabin, clearing out age-old spiders’ webs, the skeletons of small rodents and clusters of fungi. She patched a couple of gaps in the walls forced open by creeper roots and hired a local firm to empty the septic tank. They confirmed her water came from a well and advised her it couldn’t be drunk because of rust in the supply pipes but was perfectly good for washing.

Every morning she set herself tasks for the day: replacing the window glass, scrubbing the ancient grime on the bathroom fittings, digging a fire pit for barbecues, reconstructing the swing seat … there was always more to do. She bought a camp bed, a little folding chair and a coolbox to keep insects out of her food supplies, but otherwise left the cabin unfurnished, apart from Dmitri’s old desk and the stove that looked nice but was too rusty to use for cooking. Her bags were piled in one corner of the spacious main room, and the only decoration was a bunch of wildflowers thrust in a plastic tumbler on the desk. She rather liked the minimalist look.

At the end of each day, when she had achieved her goals, she had a long swim round the tip of her bay and into the next, to cool down and cleanse the dirt and sweat from her pores. Afterwards she sat on the edge of the porch with a glass of wine, letting the breeze dry her hair, looking out over the lake and planning what she would tackle tomorrow. Thoughts of Tom hovered in the periphery but she kept them there. As an only child she was good at managing without company, but it wasn’t easy to forget a marriage; at some point she would have to decide what to do. Later. For now she was focused on making her cabin perfect. The surroundings were so stunning that she wanted to do them justice; she decided this would be her finest building project ever.

Jeff at the vacation park proved very helpful, letting her drop in to recharge her power tools and advising on local suppliers. One day when she stopped by he handed her a parcel: the copy of Dmitri Yakovlevich’s novel Interminable Love had arrived. Its old-fashioned cover with a pattern of bottle-green, taupe and black swirls gave no clue as to the contents, and there was no description on the inside flaps of either the story or its author. She took it back to the cabin and sat in her little canvas chair by the water’s edge, naked because the heat of the day was stifling. She kept a big t-shirt nearby in case any ramblers appeared but clothes seemed superfluous so far out in the wilderness.

The story began with a young country boy called Mikhail who sees a local girl, Valerina, falling off her bicycle and rushes to help. The grazes on her hands and knees are bleeding and obviously painful but she bites her lip and blinks away the tears and at that moment he finds himself starting to fall in love with her.

The translation of the text was uneven with some awkward phrasing but Kitty was soon hooked as young Mikhail explored the sensations of love: he wished he could get inside Valerina’s skin and experience her every thought and feeling so that he would never say or do the wrong thing; he was tortured with jealousy when he saw her in conversation with anyone else; he felt as though he was losing his mind to some overpowering affliction that brought more pain than it did reward. Soon his devotion paid off and she fell in love with him too but he found it hard to believe. His emotions swung from exhilaration one moment to anxiety the next and, without meaning to, Kitty found her thoughts wandering back to her early days with Tom.

She had first spotted him playing his songs to a small group at the students’ union, and she liked his absorption in the music, his unruly hair, the striped Pierrot t-shirt and braces he was wearing, and his grin when everyone applauded at the end. For a few weeks she stalked him, looking for a way to introduce herself, but in the end he made the first move, appearing by her side when she was placing an order at the bar and saying, cheekily, ‘Mine’s half a bitter.’

‘Can you add half a bitter?’ Kitty asked the barman, and Tom was shamefaced.

‘I was joking. You don’t have to buy me a drink. Let me give you the money.’

She insisted on paying and he followed her over to join the group she was with, introducing himself around the table. He was affable and everyone seemed to like him, but Kitty was so attracted to him at close range that she could barely focus on the conversation. She longed to place her hand on his thigh, nestle into his shoulder, press herself against him. She’d never felt such lust for anyone and wondered how he could be oblivious to the sheer force of it. But it seemed he wasn’t: at the end of the evening, as the others rose to leave, he took her hand and whispered, ‘Can I come back with you please?’

Kitty was staying in student accommodation, where they weren’t supposed to have overnight guests, but she sneaked him in. As soon as the door closed behind them they ripped off their clothes and spent the night in a frenzy of steamy, compulsive sex that left her head feeling as though it was stuffed with cotton wool. When she got up to make tea in the morning, Tom said, ‘This is a little awkward, but I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.’ And they both collapsed in giggles; it still made her giggle now. And then she remembered Karren with the double ‘r’ and stopped abruptly.

She got up and laid the book to one side while she waded into the cool waters of the lake. It was shallow close to shore but she always swam out until the cabin was barely distinguishable amongst the dense woods that surrounded it. From that distance she could see how isolated it was, with no other man-made structure for at least a mile on either side.

It was three weeks since she arrived at Lake Akanabee and she hadn’t been in touch with anyone back in England. She knew this might be construed as eccentric behaviour but the solitude was feeding something within her. She could feel herself getting stronger with each day of self-sufficiency and she supposed before long she would be tough enough to go home and deal with her marital problems. Perhaps she could also deal with her discontent about the whole fabric of her life. She was thirty-five years old and it was time to decide how she wanted to spend the next few decades. If she wasn’t going to be with Tom, she should look for someone else before the wrinkles and grey hairs set in. She shook her head to dispel this image. The thought of being with another man filled her with dismay: all that adjustment as you learned someone else’s tastes, their sleeping habits, their moods …

She dived down through the clear, cool water. She could see the bottom but it was further than it looked and she had to turn and come up for air before she reached it.

The heat was too intense for hard physical work so Kitty decided to take a day off and immerse herself in her great-grandfather’s novel. It was strange to get a glimpse of his personality through the story while living in his cabin and walking in his footsteps. She felt a kinship with him as she lay in the shade of the trees he must have looked up at, and read Interminable Love, his first novel.

Civil war separated Mikhail and Valerina when their families were sent to opposite sides of the country and he was forced to fight, but their love remained strong as ever. Neither would marry; neither could contemplate being with anyone else, so they lived half-lives shadowed by the memory of their first and only love.

As the sun set, Kitty lit a fire, cooked herself a burger on a rack set over the flames, opened some wine, and continued to read in the orange flickering glow. In the final chapter, Mikhail tracked down the remote Siberian village where Valerina now worked on a collective farm. He asked around to be told she was out in the fields operating one of the new-fangled tractors that had just been delivered. Modernity was often portrayed as evil in the novel, with machines taking the place of people in a metaphor that suggested the unquestioning obedience to the regime of its cowed citizens. Mikhail spotted Valerina from afar and began to run towards her. She saw him approaching, realised who it was, and tried to turn off the tractor’s engine – but something went wrong and it started to accelerate. It was heading straight for Mikhail so she pulled down hard on the steering wheel and as the vehicle turned it toppled onto its side, crushing her underneath. Mikhail struggled to lift the tractor but it was far too heavy. He called for help but there was no one in earshot. Valerina’s injuries were too severe for her to survive so he lay on the earth beside her, kissing her face as she slipped off into the blackness of death.

It was something of a clichéd ending but tears were streaming down Kitty’s cheeks. She wiped them on the hem of her t-shirt but couldn’t stop crying and soon she was sobbing out loud, with huge painful spasms that hurt her chest. She hugged herself and buried her face in the crook of her elbow, crying with the abandon of a child. She hadn’t even cried like this when her parents died. Was it because she was tipsy? What was this about? And as soon as she asked the question, she knew: it was because she missed Tom. There was so much she wanted to tell him. She wished he could see the work she had done on the cabin. She wanted to tell him about this Russian great-grandfather who had been an author. Perhaps he could help her to decide how to make her life more fulfilling … But he was not ‘her Tom’ any more. She couldn’t talk to him because the huge matter of his infidelity lay between them and until she could decide how to deal with that it was easier not to be in touch at all.

As she lay in bed that night, wrung out from crying, Kitty’s thoughts turned again to Dmitri Yakovlevich: he must have been a romantic soul to write so movingly about love. Why had he been living in such a remote spot? Was he alone there? Did he ever come to London to meet his great-granddaughter or was he too elderly and frail to travel by the time she was born? His bed had been in the spot where she now lay, in a corner beneath the window, so he must have looked out at the silver birch tree branches swaying in the moonlight just as she was doing now. She didn’t believe in ghosts but at that moment she felt as if she could almost sense his presence, standing a few feet away, calmly watching over her.

Next morning, she drove to the coffee shop with her laptop and tried to find out more about Dmitri. She went to an ancestry website she had used for journalistic research at college. It had a US immigration section, but she couldn’t find anyone with Dmitri’s name. She tried her grandmother Marta’s maiden name and the search engine whirred and finally came up with a child of eight years old, who had entered the United States in 1934. That sounded about right. Travelling with her, in a second-class cabin, were her mother, Rosa Liebermann – a name Kitty had never come across – and her brother Nicholas, aged nine. She’d heard there had once been a great-uncle Nicholas, so this must be them. She looked further up the page and there it was: Dmitri Yakovlevich Malama, aged forty-three years and four months. Was his real surname Malama? Why had he used Yakovlevich on his novels? The party’s place of departure was given as Berlin. It took Kitty only a few seconds to speculate that the reason for their departure from Germany in 1934 might lie in Rosa’s Jewish-sounding surname. But how had Russian-born Dmitri come to be in Berlin in the first place?