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“Do you think I want a war?” he said incredulously. “Do you think I would like it? Do you think it would do me any good?”
“Of course not-but you’d let it happen, under certain circumstances.”
“Everyone would-even Feliks, who wants a revolution, you tell me. And if there’s to be a war, we must win it. Is that an evil thing to say?” His tone was almost pleading.
She was desperate for him to understand. “I don’t know whether it’s evil, but I do know it’s wrong. The Russian peasants know nothing of European politics, and they care less. But they will be shot to pieces, and have their legs blown off, and all awful things like that because you made an agreement with Aleks!” She fought back tears. “Papa, can’t you see that’s wrong?”
“But think of it from the British point of view-from your own personal point of view. Imagine that Freddie Chalfont and Peter and Jonathan go to war as officers, and their men are Daniel the groom, and Peter the stable lad, and Jimmy the bootboy, and Charles the footman, and Peter Dawkins from the Home Farm-wouldn’t you want them to get some help? Wouldn’t you be glad that the whole of the Russian nation was on their side?”
“Of course-especially if the Russian nation had chosen to help them. But they won’t choose, will they, Papa? You and Aleks will choose. You should be working to prevent war, not to win it.”
“If Germany attacks France, we have to help our friends. And it would be a disaster for Britain if Germany conquered Europe.”
“How could there be a bigger disaster than a war?”
“Should we never fight, then?”
“Only if we’re invaded.”
“If we don’t fight the Germans in France, we’ll have to fight them here.”
“Are you sure?”
“It’s likely.”
“When it happens, then we should fight.”
“Listen. This country hasn’t been invaded for eight hundred and fifty years. Why? Because we’ve fought other people on their territory, not ours. That is why you, Lady Charlotte Walden, grew up in a peaceful and prosperous country.”
“How many wars were fought to prevent war? If we had not fought on other people’s territory, would they have fought at all?”
“Who knows?” he said wearily. “I wish you had studied more history. I wish you and I had talked more about this sort of thing. With a son, I would have-but Lord! I never dreamed my daughter would be interested in foreign policy! And now I’m paying the price for that mistake. What a price. Charlotte, I promise you that the arithmetic of human suffering is not as straightforward as this Feliks has led you to believe. Could you not believe me when I tell you that? Could you not trust me?”
“No,” she said stubbornly.
“Feliks wants to kill your cousin. Does that make no difference?”
“He’s going to kidnap Aleks, not kill him.”
Papa shook his head. “Charlotte, he’s tried twice to kill Aleks and once to kill me. He has killed many people in Russia. He’s not a kidnapper, Charlotte, he’s a murderer.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“But why?” he said plaintively.
“Did you tell me the truth about suffragism? Did you tell me the truth about A
“No, I didn’t.” To her horror, Charlotte saw that his cheeks were wet with tears. “It may be that everything I ever did, as a father, was mistaken. I didn’t know the world would change the way it has. I had no idea of what a woman’s role would be in the world of 1914. It begins to look as if I have been a terrible failure. But I did what I thought best for you, because I loved you, and I still do. It’s not your politics that are making me cry. It’s the betrayal, you see. I mean, I shall fight tooth and nail to keep you out of the courts, even if you do succeed in killing poor Aleks, because you’re my daughter, the most important person in the world to me. For you I will let justice and reputation and England go to Hell. I would do wrong for you, without a moment’s hesitation. For me, you come above all principles, all politics, everything. That’s how it is in families. What hurts me so much is that you will not do the same for me. Will you?”
She wanted desperately to say yes.
“Will you be loyal to me, for all that I may be in the wrong, just because I am your father?”
But you’re not, she thought. She bowed her head; she could not look at him.
They sat in silence for a minute. Then Papa blew his nose. He got up and went to the door. He took the key out of the lock, and went outside. He closed the door behind him. Charlotte heard him turn the key, locking her in.
She burst into tears.
It was the second appalling di
Lydia knew she would not sleep. Everything was unresolved. She had spent the afternoon in an indecisive haze, drugged with laudanum, trying to forget that Feliks was there in her house. Aleks would leave tomorrow: if only he could be kept safe for a few more hours… She wondered whether there might be some way she could make Feliks lie low for another day. Could she go to him and tell him a lie, say that he would have his opportunity of killing Aleks tomorrow night? He would never believe her. The scheme was hopeless. But once she had conceived the idea of going to see Feliks she could not get it out of her mind. She thought: Out of this door, along the passage, up the stairs, along another passage, through the nursery, through the closet, and there…
She closed her eyes tightly and pulled the sheet up over her head. Everything was dangerous. It was best to do nothing at all, to be motionless, paralyzed. Leave Charlotte alone, leave Feliks alone, forget Aleks, forget Churchill.
But she did not know what was going to happen. Charlotte might go to Stephen and say: “You’re not my father.” Stephen might kill Feliks. Feliks might kill Aleks. Charlotte might be accused of murder. Feliks might come here, to my room, and kiss me.
Her nerves were bad again and she felt another headache coming on. It was a very warm night. The laudanum had worn off, but she had drunk a lot of wine at di
Feliks’s presence in the nursery was like a bright light shining in her eyes, keeping her awake. She threw off the sheet, got up and went to the window. She opened it wider. The breeze was hardly cooler than the air in the room. Leaning out and looking down, she could see the twin lamps burning at the portico, and the policeman walking along the front of the house, his boots crunching distantly on the gravel drive.
What was Feliks doing up there? Was he making a bomb? Loading a gun? Sharpening a knife? Or was he sleeping, content to wait for the right moment? Or wandering around the house, trying to find a way to get past Aleks’s bodyguards?