The Secret Wife. Gill Paul

but believe me when I tell you that in the outside world he is known as a scoundrel. I am afraid that if he spreads our secret it could ruin any chance of us one day being wed. Of course, I understand your desire to tell someone of our love – I feel the same way myself – but could you not have whispered it to Ortipo instead? She would have made a better choice of confidante than the wild Siberian, and I expect her response would have been more intelligent. I cannot stop to write more now but will try to find a moment soon.

       Your very own, Malama.

      He sealed the note and hurried to the postal clerk’s tent to send it, still feeling discomfited. How could Tatiana not see through such a ruffian? Was she so lacking in judgement?

      He pondered the question as he lay in bed that night, unable to sleep, and it came to him that her very limited exposure to the outside world must mean she did not have well-tuned instincts about human nature. She was a good creature who saw only good in everyone she met. It would be his role gently to teach her more of the world.

      As soon as he realised this, he regretted the pompous tone of his note and hoped it would not upset her or even change her opinion of him. He lay awake long into the night worrying and as soon as the camp awoke the following morning he rushed to the postal tent to retrieve his letter, only to find it had already been dispatched.

       Chapter Nine

      All day Dmitri agonised over his note. Would Tatiana be hurt that he sounded critical? Might she even fall out of love with him? His turmoil continued till nightfall, when he was distracted by devastating news: the Russian XX Corps had been surrounded in Augustow Forest by four German corps without any Russian commander getting wind of it. For five days they had held out under intense gunfire, in a snowstorm, until all hope was lost. It sounded as though most of the 70,000 men had been killed outright and the remainder taken prisoner. Yet again it had been possible because of lack of information about German troop movements.

      There were urgent meetings of Russia’s commanders and a counter-attack against the right flank of the German front was called for the next day. Too little, too late, Dmitri thought gloomily as he prepared his horse, oiled his pistol and sharpened his sabre in a biting wind beneath dark grey, snow-heavy clouds. He couldn’t bear the thought that he might die the following day and the last correspondence Tatiana would receive from him would be that curt rebuke, so he sat down to compose another letter, hoping it might overtake the first.

      Mon Ange,

       Forgive your jealous lover for his temper of last evening. I could not bear to hear of your intimacy with another man, one who is renowned for his promiscuity, no less. It was agony for me to think of him close to you, reading my most personal letter. Like an impetuous fool I responded in haste but now repent and beg you not to love me any less for my outburst.

       Affairs go badly in our part of the front. It seems we will not be able to defeat the German army with any speed, although I hope we will now restrain them at the border so they cannot sink their boots into Russian mud. If only this war would soon be over so that I can rush home to your arms. I yearn to hear your pretty voice and look into the depths of your eyes. Forgive me, angel.

       Your Malama

      He kissed the envelope tenderly before taking it to the postal clerk, although he knew it would pass through many hands before hers. Oh, if only he could deliver it in person!

      Over the next few weeks, Dmitri’s regiment was forced to retreat rapidly as the German and Austro-Hungarian armies combined to push through Poland. It would have been suicide for the Russians to stand and fight because they did not have the artillery and ammunition to rival their opponents. At times the Germans were so close Dmitri could hear them calling to each other, could smell the smoke of their campfires, could see their sentries shivering in the deep snow. He hoped the conditions would be harder for them, as Russians are used to snow. Sometimes he crept out under cover of the forest to set eyes on the enemy but he never asked his men to fire at the German lines for fear of those big guns. Until they had such weapons themselves it would be foolhardy to give away their location.

      All this time, he heard nothing from Tatiana. Postal deliveries were scarce while the army was on the move, and the severe weather meant supplies did not reach them regularly. They shot deer and picked berries for food, and melted snow for drinking water because the rivers and lakes were covered in impenetrable ice. Dmitri knew his comrades had received no letters from their families and sweethearts, but still he feared the silence must mean Tatiana had changed her opinion of him. Perhaps she had found a new beau at the hospital, with whom she now passed her time. Would she be so fickle as to abandon him after a few months’ absence? He couldn’t believe it of her … but still, she might be cross about his rebuke over Rasputin. It was entirely his own fault.

      Winter blew itself out with one last icy storm and watery sunshine began to thaw the snow. Icicles broke off and hurtled from the treetops like daggers thrown by invisible hands. The ground became boggy with snowmelt and occasional rabbits, fresh from hibernation, began to grace the camp’s cookpots. Meanwhile, the Germans took Warsaw and Krakow, and pushed on towards Lithuania and Belarus; seemingly nothing could stop them. Privately, Dmitri grew contemptuous of the commanders who could think of nothing to stop this assault, and was not remotely reassured when he heard that Tsar Nicholas intended to take personal command of the army. There was much muttering round the campfire that Nicholas knew nothing of military strategy and might as well put his young son Alexei in charge for all the good he would do.

      At last, when over two agonising months had gone by without word from Tatiana, Dmitri received a bundle of letters one evening, all of them from her bar one from his mother. He hurried to his tent and began by sorting them into date order before he opened the first one, which was dated February 12th, just after she must have received his rebuke.

       My dearest Malama,

       I have read your note and your explanation sent the following day and of course I can understand why you resent me showing your letter to Rasputin. If our situations were reversed and you had shown one of my letters to a comrade I would have been hurt and surprised. However,I assure you that Rasputin has never been anything but respectful to my family and to me personally.

       I believe Mama and Papa first met him in 1905, and were immediately impressed by his inspiring interpretations of the scriptures. When Prime Minister Stolypin’s daughter was injured in that dreadful bombing, he cured her against all the odds simply by laying his hands on her wounds. He now treats Mama for her headaches and sciatica, and helps my little brother Alexei when he suffers from painful joints. There is no doubt in my mind that he has healing powers.

       One day, when you are back in Tsarskoe Selo, I will introduce you and you will see for yourself that he is a force for nothing but good. I hate to disagree with you by letter when we have no immediate prospect of being together. If only we could look into each other’s eyes and know that all is well. Believe me when I tell you that my feelings for you have not changed one little bit because of this difference of opinion. I am glad we can speak our minds with each other and am sure this is a healthy sign for our married life.

      The letter finished with many endearments and Dmitri buried his face in his hands, overcome with emotion that she was still his Tatiana, his beloved. He kissed the paper and clasped his hands in prayer, thanking God for ending his weeks of mental torture.

      He opened the next letter, then the one after, and read through all in sequence. She wrote of her sadness after the death of a young patient at the hospital. She drew a picture of the special tag, encrusted with tiny jewels set in filigree vines, she had commissioned Fabergé to make for Ortipo’s collar then wrote that the little floozy did not deserve it, having got pregnant by another of the palace dogs, provoking quite a scandale. She wrote of the books recommended by her English tutor, Pierre Gilliard, and of all she was learning from Doctor Vera Gedroit, who flattered her by saying she had a talent