Free Rosie by Alan Titchmarsh Page A

all killed. But you know that – if you know your history.’
    Nick nodded.
    Rosie took a deep breath. ‘I can remember the dates off by heart. The Tsar abdicated on the fifteenth of March 1917 and on the sixteenth of July 1918 the whole family was assassinated. I can’t think of it without feeling terrified. It was at Ekaterinberg. In the House of Special Purpose. Isn’t that a dreadful name?’
    Nick saw Rosie’s fist tighten and her knuckles turned white.
    ‘Wasn’t there something about one of them escaping. Anastasia?’
    ‘She was an impostor. Her name was Anna Anderson. The Tsar’s cousin – another Grand Duchess Olga – escaped to Britain with her sister Xenia on a British warship, and she met all the impostors. She knew Anna Anderson was a fraud. No. They all died. They were herded into a basement room and shot. All of them. Even little Alexis. And my mother’s dog.’
    ‘So you know which one was your mother?’
    ‘Yes.’ Rosie got up from her seat and walked into her bedroom. For a moment, Nick wondered if she would come back. A few minutes later, she returned, the tears wiped away and her lipstick refreshed. She held the framed photograph that had always stood in her hallway, of the man in the army uniform, the boy in the sailor suit, the girl with the wonderful eyes and the clear complexion.
    In a moment of realization, Nick knew what she was going to say. The photograph was so familiar, but he had failed to make the connection. The obvious connection. Until now, it had always been just a man with a beard, a pretty young girl and a small boy, playing together in the snow.
    ‘That’s my grandfather, the Tsar, my uncle the Tsarevich, and my mother, the Grand Duchess Tatiana.’
    Nick took a deep breath. ‘And you believe all this?’
    ‘Oh, yes. I know it’s true. I can
feel
it’s true.’
    Nick stared at her.
    ‘But why should anybody want to believe me, an old woman from Cheltenham? I mean, I don’t look like a grand duchess, do I? And I certainly don’t sound like one. It’s the most ridiculous story they’ve ever heard. It’s the most ridiculous story
I
’ve ever heard. But I loved my mother – the one who adopted me – and she wasn’t a liar. I could see how frightened she was when she told me, but she wanted me to know. It was so important to her.’
    ‘But who told her?’
    ‘I don’t know. Someone who was involved, presumably.’
    ‘So if it’s true, it means . . .’ He was trying to make sense of it all.
    Rosie brightened. ‘Yes. It’s funny, really, isn’t it?’
    Nick stood up. ‘It’s not funny at all. It’s unbelievable. I mean, if your adoptive mother was right, then I’m . . .’
    ‘Yes, love. You’re in the line of succession to the Russian Imperial Throne. After your dad, that is. But somehow I don’t think Tsar Derek has the right ring to it. Do you?’

  
10
Gloire de l’Exposition
    Loose and untidy.
    N ick didn’t sleep much that night. Well, you wouldn’t, would you, after being told you were an heir to the Russian throne? Early the next morning, he lay in bed scrutinizing the planking on the ceiling and wondering if he really had gone mad. There were a hundred unanswered questions in his head. Had Rosie really told no one else the full story? Was she telling the truth, or was she simply unbalanced? She certainly seemed convinced. Had his parents any idea at all? Why had the details never surfaced before? Enough stories were being dug up about the Tsar and his family, why had this one not been unearthed?
    He got up, showered, and went out on to the veranda with his bowl of cereal. A skein of mist hung over the sea and a watery sun was doing its best to break through. The echoing cries of seabirds floated up from Thorness Bay. He shivered in the morning chill. It was six thirty. In half an hour Rosie would be up and about. He would leave early, give himself time to think – although half of him thought there was little point. It was just a