Rosie (16 page)

‘Yes.’ He half laughed. Sandy had been their first dog. She must have died twenty-five years ago.

And then her conversation was replaced by gentle breathing.

Nick turned out the light, kissed her cheek, and quietly closed the door.

 
 
17

Of uncertain parentage.

I
f Nick had been honest with himself he would have realized that the reason he had not arranged another meeting with Alex was that he was too scared. Scared that it might lead somewhere – or that it might not lead anywhere. Or just scared full stop.

He cursed himself for not having had the nerve to ask her out again when they parted. If he had he would have more of an idea now where he stood. As it was he was clueless.

He dropped Rosie off at the sailing academy, with only one warning to be careful. ‘Is that all?’ she had asked. ‘You don’t want to walk me in?’

Then he drove on to Newport and the public library. The librarian was one of those polite but contained women who so often preside over books. She listened attentively while he enquired about the best way of tracing one’s ancestors, and recommended him to the parish registers in the churches where his parents had grown up, and the National Archive in Kew. ‘It’s a bit more tricky than that,’ confessed Nick. He wanted to ask the question without giving too much away. ‘You see, my grandmother came from Russia when she was a baby, and the National Archive doesn’t have any record of her real parents.’

‘Well, no,’ confirmed the librarian, over the top of her rimless glasses. ‘That’s why it’s called the National Archive – it doesn’t deal with other countries. The best place to start, I suppose, would be the Russian embassy in London. They could point you in the right direction.’

‘Thank you.’ He made to leave, feeling dissatisfied. Half of him wanted to tell the librarian the entire story, and watch her eyes widen as she realized who she might be talking to. He turned back and asked the woman another question. ‘You know the Russian revolution?’

‘I am acquainted with it.’

‘After the assassinations . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, all the immediate royal family were killed, weren’t they?’

‘Almost certainly.’

‘I’d like to find out who is their closest descendant.’

She took off her glasses and asked, just a touch patronizingly, ‘Do you have access to the Internet?’

As he switched on the computer he wondered if Rosie had been there before him. Could the quest for her ancestry have been the reason why she had been to computer-skills classes at night school? Why else would she need to be computer literate?

He called up assorted sites with the word ‘Romanov’ in the title and, after some sifting, found one that looked promising: ‘The Romanov Imperial Dynasty in Emigration XX Century by Sergey P. Shishkin, translated from Russian by R. Konnoff.’ The typeface and layout of the document had a utilitarian look. Primitive, somehow. East European.

He felt a frisson of excitement as he started to read:

The names were a bit of a mouthful. Not exactly in the Nick Robertson mould. He read on:

Nick felt relieved: if his grandmother had been born of a daughter of the Tsar, perhaps it didn’t count. Then he scrolled up: ‘If the male line dies out completely, then the throne passes to a female closest in relation to the last reigning Emperor.’

Damn. That theory had been shot down in flames. The next statement seemed almost tailor made for Rosie: ‘Also, no member could now be denied their succession rights, except those who had voluntarily relinquished them.’

He slumped back in his chair and took a deep breath. So there it was. If she could prove she was of the female line, and should the monarchy be reinstated, Rosie could legitimately claim her position as heir to the Russian throne.

For one brief moment in his life, Nick understood what it was like to be a male Cinderella. At any time in the future he might be whisked away and made to rule his country. He could be only a hair’s breadth away from becoming Tsar Nicholas III, after Tsar Derek had taken over from Empress Rosie. No: Empress Alice Marie Xenia. There was no denying it had a certain ring to it. A vision of Alex in a tiara flashed into his mind. He shook his head to clear it of ridiculous thoughts. But what a prospect.

Could a future tsar of Russia continue to live on the Isle of Wight? Would he be allowed to get on with his life, or was there some kind of ‘court in exile’ that would govern his every move? Perhaps there was a temporary palace that came with the job. No: it was a destiny, not a job. He was destined to rule his people, wisely and responsibly. ‘I will be good,’ Queen Victoria had said, on her accession to the throne. He remembered that from school. Yes, he would be good.

And then he read the paragraph that followed. It ended his reverie and brought him down to earth with a welcome bump:

It seemed as though the words spoke only to him – to warn him off. He read on: ‘Accordingly, the offspring of these marriages were considered dynastic, while children of morganatic (unequal) marriages were not considered members of the Imperial House.’

So there it was. If Rosie had indeed been next in line to the Imperial throne, she had relinquished her claim when she had married his grandfather, who was not, as far as Nick knew, a ‘person from another sovereign house’.

For a moment he felt slightly disappointed. He had not become entirely comfortable with the idea, but it had held a certain appeal.

He read the rest of the article, and discovered that the current heir to the Russian throne was Grand Duchess Maria Vladimorovna who was now forty-one and living in Madrid. Well, at least she was older than he was – by a couple of years. She had also had the foresight to marry Prince Franz of Prussia, keeping the marriage dynastic, and they had a son and heir: Grand Duke George Mihailovich ‘the present successor to the Russian Throne’.

So that was that. If Rosie had once been heir to the House of Romanov, she was heir no longer. And neither was he. But if Rosie had surfed the Net, how had she not found this particular site, or another offering similar information? After all, he’d turned it up in a matter of minutes. Perhaps that was not her concern. Perhaps it was simply acknowledgement of the truth that was important to her. The confirmation that she was who she thought she was.

He would ask her when she came home. But that night Rosie didn’t come home: she went instead to Queen Mary’s Hospital in Newport, with a broken hip.

 
 
18

Beautiful when behaving itself.

N
ick sat by the hospital bed in which Rosie was sleeping. Occasionally her face would contort in pain, but then it would relax again as the drugs took over.

‘She’s been sedated,’ said the doctor. ‘It was a clean break and we’ve put her back together again. It wasn’t the artificial hip, fortunately.’

‘And will she be all right?’

‘Well, at her age it’s difficult to say. It will take her a while to get going and it’s likely that she’ll be less mobile than she was before. That said, she’s fit for her age.’

Nick stroked Rosie’s hand, and listened to her breathing.

‘We’ll need to keep her in for a while, get her on her feet as soon as we can, and then I would suggest a period of convalescence in a home. There are one or two good ones on the island – unless you want her to go back to the mainland so that she can be nearer her friends?’

‘I’d rather she was here, but I’ll have to check with the rest of the family. My mother’s on her way.’

‘Yes, of course. We can talk about it later. She’s in good hands for now.’ The doctor saw the look in Nick’s eyes, and answered it: ‘The next few days will be the most critical. After that we’ll have a better idea of how she’s progressing.’

Nick looked back at Rosie. No longer in her lacy nightdress with the pink net over her hair, she was wearing a rough-textured hospital gown that was far too big for her, and her normally neatly curled hair was lopsided and unkempt. Carefully he brushed a wisp off her forehead and into place. Her hands lay on top of the bedcovers, a plastic identity bracelet on her right wrist. She looked like a refugee. Except for her nails: as always they were perfectly manicured, the varnish deep red and unchipped. Even now. It was all he could do to hold back the tears. He gritted his teeth.

The sound of sensible shoes on a hard floor broke in on his thoughts. He looked up. His mother was standing over him.

The grilling took place in the hospital waiting room –
sotto voce
, thanks to the presence of another couple who were waiting for news of their father in the wake of a stroke.

‘Well, how did it happen?’

‘She slipped.’

‘Where?’

‘On a boat.’

‘Oh, Nick! What was she doing on a boat?’

‘I told you, she was on a sailing course.’

‘Stupid idea.’ Anna Robertson’s face was a picture of righteous indignation.

‘Well, you were right, weren’t you? And I was wrong. I just wanted her to have a bit of fun. And so did she.’

‘And this is where it’s led. So, what happens now?’

Nick was leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. He delivered the information to the floor, rather than to his mother. ‘They’ll have to keep her in for a while, get her moving. Apparently the next few days are the most critical, in terms of her future mobility, and then they recommend a convalescent home.’

‘Of course. Whereabouts?’

‘I suggested here, but I thought you’d probably have an opinion on that.’

‘It’s out of the question. She’ll have to come back to Richmond where I can keep an eye on her.’

‘Lucky her.’

‘Nick!’

He sat up. ‘Well, we want her to get better, don’t we? And she’ll need encouragement for that, not you barking at her all the time, telling her what she can’t do.’

‘That’s not very kind.’ She looked hurt.

‘No, Mum, but it’s accurate,’ Nick continued stubbornly.

His mother seemed to be on the verge of saying something, but she failed to articulate it.

‘Look, you’ll only get cross with her. You know you don’t get on, and it would probably be better for both of you if she stayed on the island.’

Anna shrugged.

‘Anyway, let’s just see how she gets on over the next few days.’

‘Does your father know?’

‘Not yet. I’ve tried ringing him but there was no reply. I think he was going abroad.’ He avoided meeting her eye. There was no way he would mention the package, or explain that contacting his father had proved impossible. Every time he thought about it he felt irritable and powerless. He had even called Derek’s former secretary, Mavis, who knew everything, but she, too, had drawn a blank – and where the redoubtable Mavis failed, it was unlikely that even Interpol could succeed.