The Concubine's Secret
Kate Furnivall
The Concubine's Secret
KATE FURNIVALL
Hachette Digital
www.littlebrown.co.uk
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
THE RUSSIAN CONCUBINE
UNDER A BLOOD RED SKY
Kate Furnivall was born in Wales and now lives by the sea, with her husband, in the beautiful county of Devon. She has worked in publishing and television advertising. Kate’s love for all things Russian stems from her family history in pre-Revolution St Petersburg. Look out for her previous two novels, The Russian Concubine and Under a Blood Red Sky, also published by Sphere.
Visit the author’s website at www.katefurnivall.com
Praise for The Russian Concubine
‘A pulse-racing romance . . . breathtakingly good’
Marie Claire
‘[An] achingly beautiful epic’
New Woman
‘[A] highly accomplished, sweeping epic . . . Escapism at its best, this novel brilliantly captures the sights, sounds and atmosphere of early twentieth-century Russia and China’
Glamour
‘A rollicking good read, with a fast-moving plot and oodles of colourful characters and evocative locations’
Telegraph
‘Extraordinarily lush’ Richard Russo,
author of The Bridge of Sighs
‘A great story of love, loss and conflicting loyalties in a fascinatingly precarious moment of history’ Diana Gabaldon,
author of the Outlander series
For Under a Blood Red Sky
‘For fans of historical, epic fiction, it doesn’t get much better than this - exciting and atmospheric, with strong and gutsy characters’
The Bookseller
‘This gripping novel is poignant, beautifully written and will capture the reader to the last’
Sun
‘A great wintry epic; rug and hot chocolate optional’
Elle
‘[A] gripping tale . . . truly captivating ****’
Now
‘A heartbreaking book, full of twists and turns, treachery and friendship . . . A real page-turner’
Glasgow Evening Times
Also by Kate Furnivall
The Russian Concubine
Under a Blood Red Sky
The Concubine's Secret
KATE FURNIVALL
Hachette Digital
www.littlebrown.co.uk
Published by Hachette Digital 2009
Copyright © Kate Furnivall 2009
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters and events in this publication, other than those
clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance
to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library.
eISBN : 978 0 7481 1327 9
This ebook produced by JOUVE, FRANCE
Hachette Digital
An imprint of
Little, Brown Book Group
100 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DY
An Hachette Livre UK Company
For
Edward and Richard
Liz and Anne
with all my love
Acknowledgements
A big thank you to Joanne Dickinson and all at Little, Brown UK for their sensitive editorial support and elegant artwork. Especially to Emma Stonex for her fine attention to the detail of the manuscript and to Catherine Duncan for getting me out among my readers.
Special thanks to my agent Teresa Chris for always being there and always knowing when to listen or encourage or bully - depending on which I need at the time.
Many thanks also to Elena Shifrina for her dedicated research in Moscow and help with the Russian language.
Finally my love and thanks to Norman for everything else.
1
Russia, 1930
Lydia Ivanova couldn’t sleep. Tiny rats were taking bites out of her brain. Ever since she’d arrived in Soviet Russia the nights had been hard, and through the long dark hours it felt as though sharp yellow teeth were gnawing through her skull. Sometimes she could smell them. Worse, sometimes she could hear them. Chip, chip, chip.
She was angry with herself for listening to them. At seventeen years old she should know better. She sat up in the narrow bed and dragged her fingers through her tangled mane to rid herself of the noise, yanking any rats out by their tails. She had to keep her mind clear. But nights were never quiet in this hotel, one of Stalin’s new breed of concrete rabbit warrens which she found impossible to navigate. She was always getting lost in it and that startled her. She couldn’t afford to get lost. She tucked her chin tightly to her chest and closed her eyes, trying to find the bright warm place she kept in there, but tonight it was impossible. Snores were rattling in from the next room and a couple were arguing further up the corridor.
Lydia was impatient now for the morning to arrive. She was tempted to leave her bed and prowl up and down the scrap of floor space in her room, eager to push on to the next step. But she was learning to keep herself in check, to curb her instinct to seize each day by the throat. So to fill the dead time she unzipped the moneybelt at her waist, which she didn’t take off even at night. It felt warm and soft to the touch. From it she extracted first her Russian passport. In the trickle of yellow light that spilled through the window from the gas lamp outside, it looked genuine enough. But it was forged. It was a good one and had cost her more than she could afford to pay, but every time she had to hand it over for inspection her heart clawed at her chest.
Next she pulled out her British passport and ran a finger over
its embossed lion. It was ironic. This one really was genuine because of her English stepfather, but it was even more dangerous to her than the Russian one. She kept it well hidden in the moneybelt among the roubles, because all foreigners foolish enough to set foot on the black soil of Soviet Russia were at best watched like hawks; at worst interrogated and interned.
Finally she took out the bundle of rouble notes and considered counting them yet again, but resisted the temptation. Instead she weighed them in her hand. The bundle was growing lighter. She made a low sound, almost a growl, in the back of her throat and thought of what it would mean if they ran out. Quickly she pushed everything back into the moneybelt and zipped it up hard, as if to zip up her fear.
Her hand slid instinctively to the thong around her neck and the amulet that hung there. It was a quartz dragon. A powerful Chinese symbol, rose pink and nestling against her flesh. She circled her fingers around it.
‘Chang An Lo,’ she whispered.
Her mouth curled into a smile as she saw the bright warm place rise into view. She closed her eyes and her feet started to run, flying over ice and snow, feeling the morning sun reach out its golden fingers to stroke her skin, her toes suddenly bare in soft treacly sand, and beside the shimmering sheet of water a figure . . .
A door banged and the image slipped from Lydia’s grasp. Chyort! Outside the sky was still as dark and dense as her own secrets, but she’d had enough of waiting and rolled out of bed. She pulled on her long brown coat which she used in place of a dressing gown and padded barefoot down the hall to the communal washroom. With a yawn she pushed open the door and was surprised to find the overhead light already on. Someone was standing at one of the washbasins.
The room smelled. An odd mix of lavender, disinfectant and layers of something more unsavoury underneath. But Lydia wasn’t complaining because she’d smelled worse. Much worse. This was better than most of the communal bathrooms she had trawled through recently. White tiles covered the walls right up to the ceiling, mottled black ones on the floor, and three basins lined one wall. Yes, one was chipped and another had lost its plug, probably stolen, but everything was spotless, including the mirror above the basins. In the corner a tall cupboard door stood half open, revealing a damp mop, bucket and disinfectant bottle inside. Obviously a cleaner had been in early.
Brushing back her unruly hair, Lydia headed towards one of the three cubicles and glanced with only casual interest at the figure by the basin. Instantly she froze. The other occupant of the room was a woman in her thirties. Average height, slender, wearing a burgundy woollen dressing gown, her feet in stylish little maroon and gold slippers. On her finger a thick gold wedding band looked too heavy for her delicate hands. But Lydia saw none of that. All she saw was the swirl of dark silky hair that was twisted into a loose knot at the back of her head. A narrow neck, long and fragile.
For one blinding moment Lydia believed it was her mother. Returned from the dead. Valentina, come to join in the search for her missing husband, Jens Friis.
An ice pick of pain under Lydia’s ribs wrenched her back to reality and she turned away abruptly, hurried into the first cubicle, locked the door and sat down. It wasn’t Valentina, of course it wasn’t. Reason told her it couldn’t be. Just someone of similar age with similar hair. And the neck. That same creamy vulnerable neck.
Lydia shook her head and blinked hard. Valentina was dead. Died in China last year, so why was her mind playing such tricks? Her mother had been the victim of a hand grenade meant for someone else; she’d been just a beautiful innocent bystander. Lydia had cradled her shattered and lifeless body in her arms. So why this? This sudden confusion? She placed one hand over her mouth to hold in any screams that rattled around inside her throat.
She had no idea how long she remained like that in the stuffy little cubicle, but it felt like for ever. Eventually she unlocked the door, walked over to one of the spare washbasins, rinsed her hands and splashed cold water over her face. Her cheeks were burning. Beside her, to Lydia’s astonishment, the woman was still washing her hands. Lydia avoided looking in the long mirror above the basins because she didn’t want to see her own face, never mind the other woman’s. But her eyes were drawn to the movements the woman was performing next to her. They were hypnotic.
With firm rhythmic strokes she was dragging a wooden nail brush down her arms from elbow to fingertips, over and over again. Smooth and unhurried, but relentless. Slowly she rotated each arm so that the soapy bristles scraped over the soft underside as well as the upper skin, first one, then the other. Then back to the first one. Strong, stern strokes. Lydia couldn’t make herself look away. The woman was using a bar of lavender soap that scented the air, and the water in the basin foamed with bubbles. Not Russian soap then, that was certain. Bubbles were almost impossible to create with the greasy Soviet utility soap. More likely French, from one of the shops open only to the Communist Party elite. On a smattering of the bubbles gleamed tiny specks of scarlet. Her skin looked raw.
Without looking up from her task, the woman asked, ‘Are you all right?’
The voice was completely calm, totally composed, and took Lydia by surprise.
‘Da,’ Lydia said. ‘Yes.’
‘You were a long time in there.’
‘Was I?’
‘Have you been crying?’
‘No.’
The woman sank one whole forearm into the basin, let the soapy water swirl over it and murmured a long, drawn out, ‘Aah!’
Lydia wasn’t sure whether it was pain or pleasure. The woman flicked a glance in her direction and for the first time Lydia saw her eyes. They were dark brown, deep-set and not a bit like Valentina’s. She had pale skin, as if she had lived her life indoors.
‘Don’t stare,’ the woman said in a sharp tone.
Lydia blinked, leaning back against the washbasin. ‘We all do things,’ she said, and folded her coat tight across her chest. The room was chill. ‘To make ourselves feel better, I mean.’
‘Like shutting yourself in a lavatory?’
‘No. Not that.’
‘So,’ the speculative eyes slid again to Lydia, ‘what does a young girl like you do to make herself feel better?’
‘I steal.’ Lydia hadn’t meant to say it. She was appalled that the words had crept out. It had something to do with the unreal hour of the morning.
One dark arched eyebrow shot up. ‘Why?’
Lydia shrugged. It was too late to take the words back. ‘The usual. My mother and I were poor, so we needed money.’
‘And now?’
Lydia shrugged once more, a gesture her brother was always pointing out made her seem unthinking. Was he right? Did it? She stared thoughtfully at the neat maroon slippers.
‘It became a habit?’ the woman asked.
‘Something like that, I suppose.’ She glanced up and caught the woman’s gaze intent on her, saw it slide away self-consciously from Lydia’s smooth pale hands to her own scuffed ones. In the mirror reflection, she saw something falter deep in the dark eyes, a crack open up somewhere. Lydia gave her a smile. At this unearthly hour of the morning normal rules of conduct didn’t quite apply. The woman returned the smile, lifted her arm from the water and gestured towards a smart leather bag on the windowsill.
‘Feel free to steal from me, if it helps,’ she offered.
‘Don’t tempt me,’ Lydia smiled.
The woman laughed and reached for a pristine square of white towelling that was draped ready over one shoulder, but in doing so she tugged too hard and it tumbled to the floor. Lydia watched the pale face crumple in panic.
‘It’s all right,’ she reassured the woman quickly and stooped to pick it up. ‘The floor’s clean. It’s just been washed.’
‘I know. I washed it. I washed everything.’
Lydia spoke soothingly, with the same tone she had used to her pet rabbit when he was nervous. ‘Don’t worry, no harm done. You can use the other side of the towel, the side that didn’t tou
ch the floor.’
‘No!’
‘There’s a hotel towel on the wall over there.’
‘No. I can’t touch that . . . thing.’ She said the last word as if it were covered in slime.
‘Do you have another one?’
The woman breathed out. Nodded and pointed to her bag. Lydia immediately went to it, removed a small paper package from its depths and opened it up to reveal another pristine square of white. Without actually touching the material anywhere, she held it out to the woman but kept a good arm’s length away from her. Any closer she knew would be too close. For both of them.
‘Thank you. Spasibo.’ She patted her dripping arms, meticulously dabbing at each spot, and Lydia noticed scarlet hairline cracks in the skin.
‘You need cream on them,’ she said matter-of-factly.
‘I have gloves.’
The woman walked over to the leather bag and, using only forefinger and thumb, carefully extracted a pair of long white cotton gloves. She slid her hands into them and released a soft sigh of relief.
‘Better?’ Lydia asked.
‘Much.’
‘Good. I’ll say goodnight then.’ She moved towards the door.
‘Do svidania. Goodbye and . . . thank you.’ Lydia had opened the door when the woman asked quietly, ‘What’s your name?’
‘Lydia. And yours?’
‘Antonina.’
‘Get some sleep, comrade.’
Slowly the woman’s head started to move from side to side. ‘Nyet, no, I have no time to sleep. You see . . .’ For an awkward moment no words came, then she murmured, ‘I am the wife of the camp Commandant, so . . .’ The words stopped again. With an uncertain frown, she stared for a long moment at the pure white gloves.
