Rosie (31 page)

‘Thank you. Yes. Thank you very much.’

Nothing very sensible seemed to be coming out of Nick’s mouth. Nothing at all was coming out of Alex’s, which hung slightly open.

Then Nick saw the questioning look on Elliott Williams’s face. He felt obliged to give some explanation. ‘I suppose it all looks rather suspicious . . .’

‘Oh, I never ask questions, sir.’

‘They were left to me by my grandmother. Well, she’s still alive but . . . and she wanted . . .’

‘Really, sir, it’s a private matter and I quite understand.’

Nick realized that anything he said would sound even more unlikely although it was truth, so decided to quit before he dug himself into an even deeper hole.

The jeweller scooped up the diamonds, tipped them back into the bag, pulled the drawstring tight and handed it back over the counter. ‘I’d get to the bank as soon as you can, sir,’ he said.

‘Yes. Thank you. We will. And thank you again.’ Nick and Alex left the shop, doing their best not to look like the Lavender Hill Mob. When the diamonds were safely back in the custody of Lloyds TSB, they treated themselves to lunch in a wine bar, with a particularly fine bottle of sauvignon blanc.

Once Alex was safely on the ferry to Portsmouth, Nick drove to the hospital, and was delighted to find Rosie sitting up in bed, hair and makeup in apple-pie order. ‘Look at you!’ he said.

‘I did. In the mirror. Much better,’ she retorted.

‘Are you back to your old self?’ he asked.

‘Getting there. Oh, I did feel ropy, and I’m still not a hundred per cent, but I’m on the mend, I think.’

He bent to kiss her, and was relieved to smell Chanel No. 5 once more, instead of the sanitized aroma of hospital. ‘You really had us worried,’ he said, patting the back of her hand as it lay on the covers.

‘Oh, I’m a tough old bird,’ she said, but he noticed that her voice did not hold its usual conviction. ‘What have you been up to?’ she asked.

‘I found a girl, and she found me.’ He sat down, and tried not to sound too pleased.

‘Anyone I know?’ she asked.

‘Oh, yes.’ He beamed.

‘Two girls, then? That’s nice.’ Evidently she was happy for him.

‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ he asked. Something about her seemed not quite right.

‘Yes, of course,’ she said. ‘Anyway, I’m glad about you.’ She smoothed the blanket. ‘You said yesterday that you had some news for me, didn’t you, about my mother? Or was I dreaming?’

Nick hesitated. ‘Yes. But only when you’re ready.’

‘I’m ready. Go on. Tell me.’

The prospect of disappointing her filled him with dread, but he told her of Alex’s researches, the delegation and George Carmichael. Then he mentioned Mathilde Kschessinska. He stumbled over the pronunciation. ‘MK, the same initials.’

‘Well I never. So instead of using my real mother’s name, Tatiana, they used one belonging to the Tsar’s previous mistress to avoid suspicion?’

Nick found it impossible to contradict her: she thought the naval attaché had had an affair with Grand Duchess Tatiana and that the Tsar’s former mistress had been brought in as a smokescreen. What was the point? What good would it do? And he wanted her to get better, not to brood on a distant past that had no bearing now on her life.

He shrugged. ‘That’s as much as we’ve been able to find out,’ he said.

Rosie’s eyes were shining now. ‘So they did exist. This man, George Carmichael, did go there. And it’s true.’

Nick could only smile, he hoped not deceitfully.

‘Oh, what a relief.’ Rosie flopped back on the pillow and closed her eyes.

After a few moments she opened them. Her face was relaxed now. The pinched look had gone. She put out her hand and took his. ‘I knew you’d come through for me.’

‘Not me. Alex.’

Rosie nodded. ‘Good girl. I knew she would, too.’ She looked at him pleadingly. ‘Do something for me?’

‘Of course.’

‘When you next hear from your dad . . .’

‘Yes?’

She beckoned him closer. ‘Thank him for sorting out the diamonds.’

‘What?’ He was astonished.

Rosie pointed to her bedside cabinet. ‘There’s a letter from him in there.’

Nick opened the door, and among the cotton wool, tissues, Lucozade and wet wipes, he found a letter on identical stationery to the one he had received from his father.

‘How did he know where you were?’ he asked.

‘Oh, your father seems to know everything. I’ve never dared ask him how. Open it.’

Nick did so, and unfolded the letter. The writing-paper bore the name and address of the same Moscow hotel.

‘So, does Dad keep in touch with you then, when nobody else knows where he is?’

‘Sometimes. When he feels like it.’

‘But the diamonds . . .’

‘Mmm?’

‘I had them valued today.’

‘Did you? Well, don’t tell me,’ said Rosie. ‘I don’t want to know.’

‘As well as the one you gave to me, there are four, one large one and three smaller ones.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Are you going to tell me what to do with them?’ he asked, exasperated.

Rosie frowned. ‘If you’ll give me a chance to get a word in edgeways.’

‘Sorry.’

Rosie grinned. ‘You look just like you did when you were a little boy and I told you off.’ Then her face became serious. ‘Now, the diamonds. Can you make sure that, of the three smaller ones, one each goes to Sophie and Alice – wherever they happen to be. I know Sophie’s gone off on the toot again because she came and told me. And Alice is in South . . . well, you know.’

‘I’ll make sure they get them,’ he assured her.

‘And you’ve got yours, haven’t you?’

Nick nodded.

‘But it was a bit smaller than the ones your dad sent back, or so he said.’

‘Oh, that doesn’t matter,’ he said, dismissively.

‘Well, hopefully it doesn’t. You see, the third one is for Alex.’

At first he thought he had misheard her. He wanted to ask, ‘Alex who?’ Instead he blurted out, ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, I could see that you two were made for each other, even if
you
couldn’t.’

‘But . . .’

‘And it wasn’t just that you were called Nicholas and Alexandra. I’m not that stupid.’ She looked reflective for a moment. ‘Odd, yes, but stupid, no.’

‘You can’t . . .’

‘Oh, I’m afraid I can. Old lady’s prerogative. You can’t stop me.’

‘I suppose not.’

‘And the last one . . .’

Nick had barely had time to keep up with the last bombshell, when Rosie said, quite calmly, ‘The last one is to be sold and the proceeds are to be put into a trust fund. I don’t know what it will amount to, but it should make sure that the brightest little girl I’ve ever encountered gets a decent education.’ She looked hard at Nick. ‘I take it you’re managing to keep up?’

‘Victoria?’ he asked.

Rosie nodded. ‘Yes. Something tells me that she’s going to be very special.’

‘But this is so sudden! How do you know—’

‘How do I know that you’ll stick together?’

Nick nodded.

‘I don’t. I just have a feeling. And it’s such a strong feeling that I see no reason to question it. Sometimes you have to rely on your instincts. I’ve always done that. You’re a good man and she’s a good woman. You’re also crazy about each other, and the child. Anyone with half a brain can see that. You’ve got your heads screwed on. You’ll manage.’

Nick’s face bore the expression of someone with concussion.

Rosie leaned back on her pillow mountain and smiled. ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Say it for me.’

‘Say what?’

‘Oh, I think you know.’

For a moment he looked bewildered, and then he smiled. And as he smiled, so the tears welled up in his eyes. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘you really crack me up.’

 
 
35

If I had to choose just one Hybrid Perpetual, it would have to be this one.

J
ust three days later Rosie Robertson died peacefully in her sleep. Nick was with her, holding her hand. There were no last words, just a sigh, and a great calm. He eased his hand out of hers, and kissed her forehead. Unable to stop the tears cascading down his face, he sat with his head in his hands for a while and wept, remembering nothing but the good times.

Death was due to delayed shock, said the doctor. It happened quite often in people of advanced age when they had suffered a broken hip.

At first Nick found it impossible to believe she had gone. The loss of Rosie’s company, her influence and her wise counsel had left him bereft. He would also miss her unpredictability, his exasperation with her, and the laughs they had shared. Yes. He would miss those more than anything.

Victoria, too, took it hard. It was her first experience of death.

Alex was a rock to them both, and a comforting shoulder to cry on. There were lots of tears, but Rosie had left many happy memories – and quite a lot of money. It was some time before Alex could come to terms with her bequest, and her daughter’s legacy. ‘For now,’ she said, ‘do you mind if I just leave it in the bank?’

The day of the funeral was warm and sunny. There were few people at the Newport crematorium. Nick’s parents made it, and stood next to each other silently. There were half a dozen friends from Cheltenham, who had seen the announcement in
The Times
, Sophie and Nick, Alex and Victoria. Henry spent most of his time blowing his nose into a large red and white spotted handkerchief, and blaming the pollen from the flowers. Rosie would have liked that.

There were no hymns, just prayers of thanksgiving. Rosie had always believed in God, but had not been a regular churchgoer and thought it would be hypocritical to have an overly religious ceremony. She had said as much in a letter she had lodged with her solicitor. She also asked that Nick read something for her. It took all his willpower to get through it, but get through it he did. With clarity and with great feeling he spoke the words of a poem that Rosie had loved:

Sniffs and a fumbling for tissues followed, and then came the only piece of music in the short ceremony, which generated both smiles and tears as it rang out from the speakers at the front of the chapel. Rosie’s coffin disappeared to the strains of ‘Lara’s Theme’ from
Dr Zhivago
. Whether or not she had come into the world as a Russian princess she certainly went out as one.

As they emerged into the sunlight, Nick’s parents came over to where he, Alex and Victoria stood. There were the usual family pleasantries – a little strained – and compliments on Nick’s having managed to get through the poem. Anna greeted Alex as some dowager might a visitor to her home, and Derek, in smart suit and camel coat with astrakhan collar, gave her a peck on both cheeks. He winked at Victoria, who smiled nervously.

As they got into their cars and drove away, Nick noticed that his mother was tidying her hair and that his father was already on his mobile.

Then there were the goodbyes and thanks to the friends who had taken the trouble to come from Cheltenham, and afterwards Nick, Alex, Victoria, Henry and Sophie gathered together to go off for lunch at the Red Duster.

It was only then that Nick noticed the solitary figure laying a wreath of lilies under the card that bore Rosie’s name, where the family flowers had been placed. He was an old gentleman in a dark coat, tall, a little stooping, with iron-grey hair.

Nick walked over and introduced himself. ‘Hello. I’m Nick Robertson. Thank you for coming.’

‘My pleasure,’ said the old man, with a neat bow. He had a thick accent.

‘I’m afraid I don’t know who you are,’ Nick confessed.

The man bowed once more. ‘I am sorry. I should have introduced myself. I am Oleg Vassilievsky.’