Free Rosie by Alan Titchmarsh

can imagine how I felt. It was like a dream – a fairy story. I mean, I lived in Gloucestershire, I was a Cotswolds girl, always had been. I thought she must be rambling but she kept on. She said I had to know, that it was only right. She said that back in 1917 there had been some sort of group of people – what do you call it? You know, when they send diplomats and things.’
    ‘Delegation?’
    ‘Yes. That’s it. A delegation was sent to Russia from Britain – to do with King George the Fifth and the Tsar. They were cousins, you know. Very alike, too. They used to be mistaken for each other.’ Rosie’s eyes were misty.
    ‘And?’
    ‘The Tsar had five children. Olga and Tatiana were in their early twenties by then, Anastasia and Marie were in their teens, and their son, the Tsarevich Alexis, was about twelve.’
    Nick watched her intently. There was an almost trancelike quality about her face. This old lady of eighty-seven was reciting history with a calm lucidity that belied her years – almost as though it were a mantra.
    ‘There was a young diplomat in the delegation. My mother didn’t know his name, only that he came from a good family. Apparently he’d got on a bit too well with one of the elder daughters, as a result of which she became . . . well . . . I was the result.’
    ‘
What?
’
    ‘That’s what she said.’
    ‘But if it’s true, why were you shipped out?’
    ‘There was enough scandal in the Russian royal family already. Some of the Tsar’s cousins had been a bit . . . loose in the years leading up to the revolution. At that time it was just a year away. For one of the Tsar’s daughters to have an illegitimate child would have been unthinkable.’
    ‘But why didn’t they just . . . get rid of you?’
    ‘Abortion? Too risky. Imagine if anything had gone wrong. It was out of the question.’
    ‘But you’re not . . .’
    ‘No. No, I’m not. The Empress, the Tsarina, was the carrier. She was one of Queen Victoria’s grandchildren. Her mother, Princess Alice, was a carrier too, and so was the Queen. The Tsarevich was the only one of the Tsar’s children who was a haemophiliac.’
    ‘But how did they keep the pregnancy secret?’
    ‘My mother’s clothes would have done the job until the last three months or so, and after that I suppose she was simply kept out of the public eye.’
    ‘When did all this happen?’
    ‘In the summer of 1916. I was born in 1917, just before the revolution, and spirited away.’
    ‘How?’
    ‘I’ve no idea. By diplomatic means, I suppose. Probably in a diplomatic bag. With a bottle.’
    ‘What does it say on your birth certificate?’
    ‘Not much. Two fictitious names were given as my parents.’
    ‘How do you know they’re fictitious?’
    ‘Because I tried to trace them.’
    ‘When?’
    ‘About six months ago. I’d always thought the names must be made up, so I went to check at the Public Records Office – the National Archive, they call it now – in Kew. It’s just down the road from your mother. They have no record of any married couple called George Michaels and Matilda Kitching.’
    ‘Maybe they weren’t married.’
    ‘I thought of that, so I tried that avenue, too. I could find a George Herbert Michaels, but he was the wrong age and lived in the wrong place. I couldn’t find any Matilda Kitching.’
    ‘So they were just made up.’
    ‘Yes. By the people who smuggled me out, I suppose.’
    ‘But you said your real name was Alice Marie Xenia.’
    ‘That’s what it says on my birth certificate, but my mum – the one who adopted me – always called me Rosie because she didn’t want people to start asking questions.’
    ‘But wouldn’t it have made sense for whoever sorted out your birth certificate to have called you Gladys or Doris rather than Alice Marie Xenia?’
    ‘Oh, they could pass as British names. I like to think someone was being kind to me about my heritage.’
    ‘And after you came over here?’
    ‘They were