Only Anna stood still in the centre of the room hugging her joy.
Then Sergei saw her and parted the people that were between them and she was in his arms. They had shared a childhood and a country. They had not seen each other for three years and, for two of them, Anna had believed him lost. Now, even their excited ebullient compatriots were silent, awed by the measure of their joy.
‘Annushka! Milenkaya…dorogaya. . .‘He put up a finger, brushed away her tears. ‘Is it you … is it really you?’
Anna could not speak. She just stood looking up at him, letting the tears run down her face, while Sergei pulled her close to hug her, then away so that he could see her and closer once again.
But even in this moment of homecoming and happiness, Anna did not long forget the little girl whose wound she had set herself to heal, and presently she dried her eyes and led her cousin over to where Ollie sat.
‘Sergei,’ she said, ‘I want you to meet a very special friend of mine. Miss Olive Byrne.’
Sergei, from his great height, looked down on Ollie. He clicked his heels and bowed. Then he reached for OHie’s hand, turned it over and kissed the palm.
‘Enchante, mademoiselle,’ he said gravely. ‘Permit me to say that all my life I have wanted to meet a girl with hair the colour of a sunset over the steppes.’
Ollie tilted her head at him. Sergei’s gold-flecked eyes were warm and tender, the smile that lit his lean, tanned face and showed his dazzling teeth was unforced, caressing and perfectly sincere.
She stared down at her kissed palm and up again. And unhesitatingly, uncomplainingly, joined the long, long line of women that were in love with Anna’s Cousin Sergei.
----*
While Ollie was being feted at the Russian Club, Rupert was being led into an upstairs room at Aspell’s, the discreet and world-famous jeweller in Bond Street. Mr Aspell had intended to deal with a client such as Lord Westerholme himself, but Rupert was early; Mr Aspell was still at lunch and it was to old Mr Stewart, whose dry and scholarly exterior hid a deep and romantic passion for rare stones and their history, that Rupert explained his errand.
‘Sapphires … Ah, yes.’ The dry fingertips met, the gold pince-nez fixed themselves on the good-looking young nobleman. ‘What kind of sapphires had you in mind, my lord?’
Rupert smiled. ‘I’m afraid I thought sapphires were just sapphires.’
‘Oh, dear me, no! No, no, not at all.’ Mr Stewart, shaking his bald head, looked quite upset. ‘There are sapphires so dark as to seem almost black in certain lights. Siamese sapphires are like that. So much so that they have been used as mourning jewels during certain periods of history. Then again the Australian stones are almost turquoise with a light, translucent quality that is very characteristic. They’re not quite so valuable, but very pleasing. Whereas certain star sapphires are quite grey intone …’
‘I see. Well then I’m afraid the limitation may be one of price. I’m not very well off.’
Mr Stewart nodded sympathetically. ‘Yes, quite. Well, this is an exceptional time to pick up a bargain. We are getting some quite outstanding pieces at a very reasonable price from the Russian emigres. For example, we would be in a position to offer you the Galychev necklace of one hundred and seven cabochon sapphires, each stone weighing not less than thirty carats. Or we are acting as agents for Madame Bogdanin - she is selling off a chain of Burmese stones with an exceptionally fine gold-beaded mounting by Faberge. No one, in my view, can set jewels like the Russians.’ He sighed. ‘Of course, if I could have offered you the Grazinsky sapphires…’
Rupert leaned forward, wondering why his heart had begun to race. ‘The Grazinsky sapphires?’ he prompted. Mr Stewart nodded. ‘I have never seen such sapphires. Never. It was as if God had at that moment invented the colour blue and wanted it preserved for ever in those stones. It was almost a religious experience to look at them.’
He glanced up, suddenly anxious, for he was aware that of late he had begun to reminisce and ramble in a way that betrayed his age. But the earl’s silence was one of total attention.
‘All the Grazinsky jewels were like that. Beyond price, beyond belief… There was a triple row of pearls with which I suppose one could now purchase Blenheim Palace. I’ve never seen such pearls anywhere. Even in Russia they were a legend and what country understands pearls like the Russians do? Every nursemaid pushing a perambulator has a kokoshnik studded with them. But these… They had the Potempkin pendant, too, and of course the emeralds. They were one of the great showpieces of the world, the Grazinsky emeralds.’
‘You sound as though you have seen them yourself?’ said Rupert.
The old man nodded. ‘Yes, I went out to Russia … oh, twelve years ago it would be now. The autumn of 1908.1 was collecting material for a monograph on eighteenth century court jewellery. The period of the Empress Elizabeth.’ He smiled apologetically. ‘It’s my speciality. It may seem dry to you, but I assure you—’
‘No, no, not at all,’ said Rupert. ‘I’m extremely interested. Did you actually meet the Grazinskys?’
‘I didn’t just meet them, I stayed with them. They invited me for as long as I wished. People tell me,’ said Mr Stewart, removing his spectacles and polishing them, ‘that Russia was corrupt, that the revolution was necessary - and I have no doubt that they are correct. But all I can say is that never in my life have I experienced such hospitality … such democracy as I experienced in that house. But I must say their attitude to their jewels amazed me.’
‘In what way?’
‘It’s not easy to put it into words. To a certain extent, all Russians are like that. They treat their jewels -not carelessly, exactly - on the contrary, they glory in them. After all they’re halfway to the Orient. But it’s almost as if they thought of them as… family friends or household pets. For example the Grazinskys didn’t keep anything in the bank - it was all just lying about the house. Once -1 really couldn’t believe my eyes -1 was invited into one of the upstairs salons and found the baby lying on a bearskin rug - and playing with the Crown of Kazan!’
He looked up to gauge the effect of this on his client.
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to enlighten me,’ said Rupert. ‘I’m very ignorant about jewellery. What is the Crown of Kazan?’
‘You may well ask, my lord. It’s a fifteenth century piece; it ought to be in a museum, let alone a bank. Enamelled, gold-studded with uncut rubies and diamonds … The countess used to wear it to costume balls - and there was the little boy dribbling on it! His sister had given it to him because it was so pretty, she said, and would help him to cut beautiful teeth.’
Rupert waited, willing him to go on. ‘She sounds a very enterprising child,’ he said.
‘Oh, she was, she was,’ the old man continued. ‘A most unusual child. Not pretty exactly but … it was difficult to leave a room that she was in. Her parents thought the world of her, of course. I remember her mother going out to a charity gala one evening. She was wearing the diamond tiara that Alexander the Second bought for the Princess Dolgoruky - and a necklace of sunflower seedsl Anna had made it for her, so she wore it to the tsar’s box at the Maryinsky!’ He paused, shaking his bald head. ‘I’ve often wondered what happened to them. There were rumours that they’d lost everything -robbed by their old wet nurse, I’ve heard. She was an incredible woman - used to wear the finger of some Georgian saint round her neck; nasty looking thing. Her people came from a cave village near the Turkish border; there must have been dreadful poverty there. I suppose the temptation was just too much for her.’