Ken Follett - The Man From St. Petersburg

She washed in cold water and dressed quickly in a long skirt, riding boots and a jacket. She never wore a hat for these morning rides.

She went downstairs. She saw nobody. There would be a maid or two in the kitchen, lighting fires and heating water, but otherwise the servants were still in bed. She went out of the south front door and almost bumped into a large uniformed policeman.

“Heavens!” she exclaimed. “Who are you?”

“Constable Stevenson, miss.”

He called her miss because he did not know who she was. “I’m Charlotte Walden,” she said.

“Pardon me, m’lady.”

“That’s all right. What are you doing here?”

“Guarding the house, m’lady.”

“Oh, I see: guarding the Prince, you mean. How reassuring. How many of you are there?”

“Two outside and four inside. The inside men are armed. But there’ll be a lot more later.”

“How so?”

“Big search party, m’lady. I hear there’ll be a hundred and fifty men here by nine. We’ll get this anarchist chappie-never you fear.”

“How splendid.”

“Was you thinking of going riding, m’lady? I shouldn’t, if I was you. Not today.”

“No, I shan’t,” Charlotte lied.

She walked away, around the east wing of the house to the back. The stables were deserted. She went inside and found her mare, Spats, so called because of the white patches on her forelegs. She talked to her for a minute, stroking her nose, and gave her an apple. Then she saddled her, led her out of the stable and mounted her.

She rode away from the back of the house and around the park in a wide circle, staying out of sight and out of earshot of the policeman. She galloped across the west paddock and jumped the low fence into the wood. She walked Spats through the trees until she came to the bridle path, then let her trot.

It was cool in the wood. The oak and beech trees were heavy with leaf, shading the path. In the patches where the sun came through, dew rose from the ground like wisps of steam. Charlotte felt the heat of those stray sunbeams as she rode through them. The birds were very loud.

She thought: What can he do against a hundred and fifty men? His plan was impossible now: Aleks was too well guarded and the hunt for Feliks was too well organized. At least Charlotte could warn him off.

She reached the far end of the wood without seeing him. She was disappointed: she had been sure he would be here today. She began to worry, for if she did not see him she could not warn him, and then he would surely be caught. But it was not yet seven o’clock: perhaps he had not begun to watch out for her. She dismounted and walked back, leading Spats. Perhaps Feliks had seen her and was waiting to check whether she had been followed. She stopped in a glade to watch a squirrel. They did not mind people, although they would run away from dogs. Suddenly she felt she was being watched. She turned around, and there he was, looking at her with a peculiarly sad expression.

He said: “Hello, Charlotte.”

She went to him and held both his hands. His beard was quite full, now. His clothes were covered with bits of greenery. “You look dreadfully tired,” she said in Russian.

“I’m hungry. Did you bring food?”

“Oh, dear, no!” She had brought an apple for her horse and nothing for Feliks. “I didn’t think of it.”

“Never mind. I’ve been hungrier.”

“Listen,” she said. “You must go away, immediately. If you leave now you can escape.”

“Why should I escape? I want to kidnap Orlov.”

She shook her head. “It’s impossible now. He has armed bodyguards, the house is patrolled by policemen and by nine o’clock there will be a hundred and fifty men searching for you.”

He smiled. “And if I escape, what will I do with the rest of my life?”

“But I won’t help you commit suicide!”

“Let’s sit on the grass,” he said. “I have something to explain to you.”

She sat with her back against a broad oak tree. Feliks sat in front of her and crossed his legs, like a Cossack. Dappled sunlight played across his weary face. He spoke rather formally, in complete sentences which sounded as if they might have been rehearsed. “I told you I was in love, once, with a woman called Lydia; and you said: ‘That’s my mother’s name.’ Do you remember?”

“I remember everything you’ve ever said to me.” She wondered what this was all about.

“It was your mother.”

She stared at him. “You were in love with Mama?”

“More than that. We were lovers. She used to come to my apartment, alone-do you understand what I mean?”

Charlotte blushed with confusion and embarrassment. “Yes, I do.”

“Her father, your grandfather, found out. The old Count had me arrested; then he forced your mother to marry Walden.”

“Oh, how terrible,” Charlotte said softly. For some reason she was frightened of what he might say next.

“You were born seven months after the wedding.”

He seemed to think that was very significant. Charlotte frowned.

Feliks said: “Do you know how long it takes for a baby to grow and be born?”

“No.”

“It takes nine months, normally, although it can take less.”

Charlotte’s heart was pounding. “What are you getting at?”

“You might have been conceived before the wedding.”

“Does that mean you might be my father?” she said incredulously.

“There’s more. You look exactly like my sister, Natasha.”

Charlotte’s heart seemed to rise into her throat and she could hardly speak. “You think you are my father?”

“I’m sure of it.”

“Oh, God.” Charlotte put her face in her hands and stared into space, seeing nothing. She felt as if she were waking from a dream and could not yet figure out which aspects of the dream had been real. She thought of Papa, but he was not her papa; she thought of Mama, having a lover; she thought of Feliks, her friend and suddenly her father…

She said: “Did they lie to me even about this?”

She was so disoriented that she felt she would not be able to stand upright. It was as if someone had told her that all the maps she had ever seen were forgeries and she really lived in Brazil; or that the real owner of Walden Hall was Pritchard; or that horses could talk but merely kept silent by choice; but it was much worse than all those things. She said: “If you were to tell me that I am a boy, but my mother always dressed me in girl’s clothing… it would be like this.”

She thought: Mama… and Feliks? That made her blush again.

Feliks took her hand and stroked it. He said: “I suppose all the love and concern that a man normally gives to his wife and children went, in my case, into politics. I have to try to get Orlov, even if it’s impossible, the way a man would have to try to save his child from drowning, even if the man could not swim.”

Charlotte suddenly realized how confused Feliks must feel about her, the daughter he had never really had. She understood, now, the odd, painful way he had looked at her sometimes.

“You poor man,” she said.

He bit his lip. “You have such a generous heart.”

She did not know why he should say that. “What are we going to do?”

He took a deep breath. “Could you get me inside the house and hide me?”

She thought for a moment. “Yes,” she said.

He mounted the horse behind her. The beast shook its head and snorted, as if offended that it should be expected to carry a double weight. Charlotte urged it into a trot. She followed the bridle path for a while, then turned off it at an angle and headed through the wood. They went through a gate, across a paddock, and into a little lane. Feliks did not yet see the house: he realized she was circling around it to approach from the north side.