Free A Fatal Likeness by Lynn Shepherd Page B

exiles that gather like summer swarms about Florence and Venice. Without being at all religious in any conventional sense, Charles has rather stern views—sterner, indeed, than you might have expected of him—and finds that sort of behaviour both idle and self-indulgent, and feasible only for the feckless few who have plenty of money they have never needed to earn. Though it seems the latter charge, at least, cannot be laid at this woman’s door.
    “The best part of my life was lived in Italy,” she answers, settling back a little in her chair. “But by that I mean the most precious, not the greater, portion. There was a time when I believed I had buried there everything I loved.”
    There is a silence, and she pulls the shawl she is wearing a little closer about her. It seems worn, the shawl, and much older than the rest of her ensemble, which shows a fine disregard for the corseted constraints of London fashion.
    “I feel the cold,” she explains, observing his observation. “Even after so long in the ruinous wastes of Russia, I still feel the cold.”
    So the Russian books are evidence not only of an unusual flair for languages, but also of an even more unusual strength of character: Few men Charles knows would contemplate travelling to so wild and far-distant a place, and this woman seems to have done so all alone.
    “You cannot imagine the contrast,” she continues, suppressing a shiver. “From the golden heat and scented airs of Italy, to find yourself in such an icy trackless desert. Mile after mile and not a single tree. I once travelled from St Petersburg to Moscow in the very depth of winter. Four hundred desolate unchanging miles by sled. Even with three layers of furs, the cold was unbearable. My eyelashes froze with my own tears.”
    Charles is uncomfortably aware that their conversation has shifted—metaphorically as literally—a good long way in the wrong direction. “I have heard St Petersburg is a magnificent city.”
    “That is certainly the effect its builder intended,” she remarks dryly. “And yes, there are palaces, and domes, and towers aplenty, all bright and new with paint and gilt, but it had to me the feel of fairyland. As if a malicious witch might snap her fingers at any moment and the whole town would fly away. But that is perhaps more a reflection of my own melancholy temper at the time. Though it did bring me one connection I will always cherish.”
    She smiles; clearly she has a rather different view of the value of ‘connections’ than Lady Shelley.
    “My first Russian pupil was in St Petersburg. She is now the Princess Czernicheff”—this with a flicker of pride—“but she will always be merely ‘Betsy’ to me. As I’m sure your Betsy will be to you.”
    Thankfully Charles has now regained some presence of mind. He manages what he hopes is an appropriately avuncular smile.
    “Your niece is an adorable child,” Miss Clairmont continues, a note of wistfulness stealing into her voice. “Such beautiful eyes and such a stubborn little chin. And your sister seems to be in good health. She is fortunate indeed if she has avoided the sickness so often suffered in the first months of pregnancy.” She wraps her arms once more about her, and looks away. Charles has rarely met anyone whose moods seem to vary so swiftly, and he’s not sure how best to proceed, but he is saved, in the end, by the appearance of the maid.
    “Excuse me, madam, but the room is ready now. If the gentleman would like to see it.”
    They both get to their feet, and Miss Clairmont gestures to the maid to take him up.
    “I hope you will find the room is to your liking, Mr Mab. And that it proves suitable for a painter such as yourself.”
    And if he had indeed been a painter, Charles is sure he would have found it eminently so. It’s clean and empty, with a small single bed and light streaming in from the window. The view, when he goes to look at it, is over the little back garden—a garden, he