The Kirilov Star by Mary Nichols Page A

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.’
    She laughed. ‘The waif is still there, underneath.’
    ‘You would never know it. All this …’ He moved his head to indicate the room, the dancers, the orchestra, the heady scent of hothouse flowers. ‘All this for a little waif.’
    ‘I do realise how privileged I am,’ she said. ‘Others were not half so fortunate. I should like to do something to help them. Surely there is a way of tracing their relatives and perhaps bringing some of their assets out of Russia?’
    ‘That was what my father was trying to do and he paid for it with his life.’
    ‘I’m sorry, I should not have reminded you.’
    They were silent for a minute or two and concentrated on their dancing, each thinking of the past – unhappy, disjointed, another time, another world. And then he suddenly shook himself as if shaking off a cloak. ‘Are your studies all finished now?’
    ‘Yes. I have the equivalent of a degree, but I can’t call it a degree. It’s not fair, is it? I bet I worked just as hard as you did to get your BA.’
    ‘I’ve no doubt you did.’ He whirled her round. ‘But times are changing. Your day will come.’
    ‘I want to be useful, so I am thinking of taking work as a translator. Do you think I should?’
    ‘My dear Lidushka, it’s no good asking me. You must go where your heart leads you.’
    Prophetic words, she decided later.
    ‘I don’t have to make my mind up just yet. We are going to Paris for a holiday in a couple of weeks.’
    ‘And is there a young man waiting in the wings?’
    ‘Oh, lots of them,’ she said lightly, oblivious of the intensity of his question.
    ‘But no one special?’
    ‘No one special. I’ve been too busy getting an education. What about you? Anyone special?’
    ‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘I, too, have been busy carving out a career for myself in the diplomatic service.’
    ‘Have you ever thought about going back to Russia?’ she asked, as the dance came to an end and they left the floor.
    ‘That, my dear little Countess, would be the height of folly. The Russia we knew has gone for ever.’
    He did not tell her that he had been back because he had been sworn to secrecy. Nor did he tell her that the regime under Stalin was worse than it had been after the Civil War, that almost everyone, particularly the intelligentsia, waited for the knock on the door in the middle of the night when they were hauled off to prison and sentenced to death or years in a labour camp for being an ‘enemy of the people’