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Seven - Beyond the Fog

London, Belgravia, 1928

When Violet told other people about her time in St. Petersburg, she mostly talked about the sunny winter, the golden palaces, and their luxury artefacts that made every room look like a museum. She spoke about the good, old days of Russian splendour, the glorious balls, and various receptions around a royal wedding. What she never mentioned was how the cold weather had affected her. How the snowy crystals had burned her skin. How her feet had frozen in her delicate shoes on the icy ground. How the fog over the frozen river had hung in the air, the night she and Igor had wanted to elope…

The day she arrived in London with Isobel by her side was a foggy spring day. Not cold, not warm, just damp. Violet hated fog to this day. She despised the blurry sight, the dampness, the way it turned perfectly known spots and places into an unknown, dangerous country. Fog always reminded her about the night she and Igor had tried to escape on his yacht. And now she was facing a reunion with him and the inevitable end of her own life. A life that had lasted long, too long, as some might say. A life that had almost been turned upside down by her recklessness, by the idea that love was enough to survive in a world that had ousted one. She had been younger, more foolish, and desperate to feel desired. Igor Kuragin, so she had thought, was her perfect match. The man who gave her everything she craved. He had the looks, splendour in abundance, and a boldness that had taken her breath away. If she was honest, he still did. When she had looked at the old man when he had appeared in Downton four years ago, she had seen the young man mirrored in his features. As she settled down in a beautiful bedroom in Dickie's London mansion for a rest before she had to change for dinner, she closed her eyes and allowed herself to travel back in time…

#####

St. Petersburg, 1874

The mist came from the sea and sneaked its way into town where snow and ice were still reigning. The cloudy air that met the freezing cold of the Russian winter became a dangerous mix to everyone moving about outside. The coachman had told them it was dangerous, but Igor had insisted they left as soon as possible. It was less risky to leave St. Petersburg in the middle of the night. They needed the head start, because once Irina and Lord Grantham learned about them running away, all hell would break loose. And it did.

The speed with which the carriage was racing across town was abhorrent. Violet's fist clenched the fabric of her skirt as if her life depended on it. Despite the cold, sweat ran down her spine. She sensed this wasn't ending well. She heard the driver yelling something in Russian and Igor responded with words that sounded more like a curse than an actual order.

"What is it", she asked, scared beyond measure.

"We are being followed", Igor answered darkly.

Violet felt how her throat narrowed and her heart threatened to explode in her chest. "The Princess?"

"Who else?"

Without forewarning the carriage started sliding. She suddenly felt dizzy and couldn't tell if they were driving or just swirling. The horses levanted. She heard someone screaming outside. Or maybe she was the one screaming?

Irina's driver, reckless or stupid, or both, had stopped them on a bridge across the Neva River. The door flew open and Irina's head peeked inside. She said something in Russian and then she grabbed Violets' skirts. The fabric tore apart while she brutally manouverted Violet out of the carriage. By her leg, by her arm, even by her hair until she ended on the frozen ground. Violet tried to fight her, Igor wanted to get hold of her, but Irina was strong and determined. Igor's wife mobilised a physical strength that would have outmatched the devil. Violet could still feel the step of the carriage in her back and the coldness of the ground, when she found herself in the carriage that had carried Irina earlier.

Violet heard herself crying out Igor's name, but his voice seemed far away, once the driver had shut the door behind her. He was yelling something in Russian. From the small window Violet saw Igor punching the driver, while Irina stood aside and interfered in Russian, her voice cool as the ice that covered the ground. Whatever she was saying stopped Igor from violating the servant. Trembling with rage he went to her and shook her by her shoulders. Violet had never seen such fury and she feared he would throw his wife over the bridge and on the frozen surface of the river beneath them.

The last thing she saw as the carriage took her away was how Igor and his wife were shouting at each other at the top of their lungs.

#####

London, Belgravia 1928

"It must have been over twenty years since I last set foot into this room", Violet mused once she and Isobel went into the drawing room after dinner. "It must have been during the season in 1907."

"Why would you remember that?" Isobel wondered.

"I think it was the last season before Lord Grantham died," Violet explained. "It's not a year I like to think of."

"I see."

"As far as I remember Lady Merton wasn't very accommodating either," Violet continued and gave Isobel a meaningful look. "The house hasn't changed since her death."

Isobel, understanding the hint, shrugged. "Larry uses the house most of the time. I won't tell him what to do with it. I couldn't care less about it actually."

"I'm not sure if I've said it, but I am grateful to you and Dickie for offering me shelter."

"Don't mention it. We're happy to help."

The footman entered and served the coffee. Once he was gone Violet asked, "So will you now tell me why you think it's necessary for you and Dickie to spend some time apart?"

Isobel sighed. She had feared Violet wouldn't let the matter rest, but then, why shouldn't she tell her? If anyone could keep a secret it was Violet Crawley.

"Well, I'm afraid, I wasn't completely honest when I told you how Prince Kuragin had contacted Dickie," she admitted. "And it's not a story I wish to leave this room."

Isobel's earnesty intrigued Violet and so she promised solemnly,"My lips will be sealed." Isobel drew a deep breath and finally told Violet about Edward Pilgrim and their affair, the sketches, and Dickie's reaction when he had confronted her about them. Violet reactions while listening to Isobel's report ranged from disbelief to amusement and sheer surprise.

"He actually called you a dark horse?" she wondered once Isobel had finished.

"He was upset, though I begin to think he has no right to be upset."

"Well, my dear, show me a husband who is thrilled to learn about his wife's lost love."

"But Edward's not a lost love," Isobel argued. "I should think my word for it should be enough for Dickie." She finished her coffee. It was cold and tasted bitter. Just like she felt on this damp night in a house that she never wanted.

Violet let out a sigh. She understood Isobel's predicament. "Never underestimate the power of a male ego. All he sees is that you risked your reputation for a fling with a young man who painted you as God made you. His restrained English fantasy must run wild with speculation over what happened between the two of you."

"Oh, Violet, please." She didn't want to think about the details of it. She had buried her memories and Violets' words tore them back to the surface. She had been another woman back then. Sometimes she wasn't even sure if any of it had been real. Memories did these to people. They became foggy and twisted the mind.

"If it's any comfort," Violet said when she saw the distraught expression on her friend's face, "I'm sure he will come to the conclusion that it doesn't matter who warmed your bed thirty years ago. Give him some time to come to terms with your wild past."

"Wild is not the term to describe it," Isobel defended herself. "Not when the truth is that I exiled a man from his hometown to make sure I wouldn't do anything more foolish."

"So what would you call it?"

"Edward called me a coward and I can't say I don't agree with his assessment. I mean it was right to break it off, because I didn't love him, but if I had loved him, who had the right to judge me?"

"Society is what it is and the rules are still in place. One day they may change, but I doubt we will live to witness it." Violet sighed. "In my eyes you did the only right thing. Your son needed a mother who was in possession of her right mind and her reputation." Violet gave Isobel an encouraging pat on the back of her hand. "So, should we end this day with a glass of brandy?"

Isobel eyed her carefully. "I'm not sure brandy is what Doctor Clarkson prescribed."

Violet scoffed dismissively. "What does he know? If you won't tell him, I won't."

Isobel chuckled and rang for the footman. A brandy was a good idea. Perhaps it helped her to find a good night's sleep.

#####

Irina Kuragina was angry. She had spent another day reaching Larry Grey and once again she had failed to meet him. The man was like a fish. Slippery and nimble.

Her time was running out. She had also tried to locate her husband, but Igor was nowhere to be found. He was either already hiding under the wings of the Dowager Countess of Grantham or he had more than enough money to hide in places that she didn't have access to.

Her venture was threatened and so she had come to the conclusion that she had to regain control of the situation. She had found out that Amelia Grey's family owned a country estate outside London. Amelia's father, a banker, was a rich and powerful man. She had not lost love for people from new money, Irina was sure a man of his standing was ready to provide for his daughter when she needed help getting rid of her adulterous husband.

She sat down and wrote a letter that explained her proposition in enough detail to arouse Amelia's curiosity but without giving too much away either. If she knew one thing about scorned women it was this: they looked for revenge wherever possible and she was providing the bait.

#######

Igor Kuragin was restless. When he had arrived at his quarter, he had received the most unsettling information. His landlady, a fellow Russian who rented rooms for stranded Russians, had informed him that a lady had been looking for him. From the description he got the woman in question was Irina. How did she find him? How on earth did she find out he had gone to England? He had left her breadcrumbs that should have taken her to the south of France. Once again he had to concede that she was more resourceful and intelligent than he wanted to give her credit for. But she wasn't just clever, she was also cunning - and she thirsted for revenge like others thirsted for lust or wealth.

He looked at the letter in his hand. Violet had sent him a response and she was ready to receive him. His dream was coming true. Finally. To hell with Irina who was once again about to destroy his happiness. The last time she had come between Violet and him, he had resisted the wish to kill her. He wasn't so sure he wouldn't do so now, if she attempted to ruin his plans!

#####

After Violet had retired to her bedroom, Isobel stayed behind. She was too agitated to go to bed just yet. She thought telling Violet about her problems would help her restless mind to settle down, but it hadn't. Her mind was still fixated on the one person who wasn't there.

Dickie.

She missed him with every fibre of her being and although she was sure that a few days of separation would help them to overcome their problems, it didn't change how much she dreaded the situation.

To occupy herself with something more useful than moping about, she left the drawing room and strolled along the deserted hallway to the library. Perhaps she found some novel to distract her from the sleepless hours ahead. She didn't believe in ghosts or spirits, but it felt as if Ada was watching her every move.

Dickie had told her that Ada used to spend a lot of time in this house. Just like her oldest son Ada had preferred to spend her time in the capitol, far away from Dickie.

To her dismay the library wasn't nearly as well equipped as their own in Crawley House. The volumes were old and the shelves needed a serious dusting off. Should she tick off the maids and order them to clean the room just for once?

She ran her finger across the spines and picked Jane Austen's 'Pride & Prejudice', more for the lack of alternatives rather than genuine interest.

She opened the volume and smiled when she recognized Dickie's handwriting on the half-title. Apparently he had given the novel to Ada for Christmas in 1890. Under the usual holiday greetings he had noted "We need less of both" - a reference to the famous book title. Sadness overwhelmed her when she thought of the thirty years Dickie had been trapped in this hopeless, loveless relationship. She couldn't imagine the hardships of his life by Ada's side, because her life with Reginald had been so very different from it. She had been so very lucky in life - with the one cruel exception of Matthew's untimely death.

The message aroused her curiosity and at the same time she feared to learn the whole truth about Dickie's first marriage. She remembered his confession about his affair with an American actress and how much she had hated listening to it. As much as he was appalled by her affair with a young painter, she was distressed by his relationship with another woman. Both were no threats to their current marriage, but they were a reminder of everything they had been before they met.

She browsed the pages of Jane Austen's masterpiece and found an improvised bookmark. It was a letter addressed to Ada written by Dickie. She recognised his familiar handwriting and ran her thumb over the faded ink. The stamp showed it had been sent in September 1898.

Should she commit the sin to read it? Would he mind?

With trembling hands she unfolded the pages and started reading.

"Dear Ada,

I hope this letter finds you in better health than the last time we saw each other. I won't pretend to understand what you're going through. Just know this, I'm neither responsible for your condition nor did I commit the atrocious act you blame me for…"

She closed her eyes and folded the page. This was too personal to finish and she regretted having given in to temptation. Unnerved, she placed the letter back between the book pages. It was going to be a very long night.

######

The wait for Igor to arrive was pure agony. Violet found herself in the drawing room nervously tapping her cane onto the floor. At least the fog had vanished overnight and outside the house a beautiful spring day gave the ugly city almost a cheerful look. If her hip didn't hurt so much she would stand at the window, watching out for him. Sometimes it was an advantage to be old and frail - it prevented one from doing foolish things.

When the footman finally announced him, Violet forced herself onto her feet to greet him, ignoring the protest of her bones. He entered the room as forcefully as she remembered him and he was as tall and handsome as ever. His suit was new, the cut of it modern and Violet wondered if he was showing off or if he had actually made a decent living during the last couple of years.

"Well, there you are," she welcomed him when the footman had left.

"Thank you for receiving me," he said. "I wasn't sure you would."

"Oh, neither was I," she quipped and offered him a seat. "You've gone through a lot of trouble to get my undivided attention." It was an open accusation and he understood it.

"It wasn't my intention to cause trouble," he replied earnestly. "But I'm not unhappy about the way things turned out."

"I gathered that much." She cleared her throat. "How's the Princess?"

Igor groaned. Irina, the ever piercing thorne in her side. The wife from hell.

"I take it she's alive and well?" Violet mused when she saw his unhappy face.

"She's alive," Igor conceded. "And she hasn't been well since 1861."

"What an unkind thing to say."

"Oh, it's true, my dear."

"So, tell me, what brings you here?" Violet wondered. "Why all this fuss? Surely not for a cup of tea."

He gave her a dry smile, "Isn't it obvious?"

"No, it is not," she answered. "And please, don't be mysterious. I'm tired of people who try to appear interesting when they have nothing to offer but platitudes."

He chuckled in response. "I've been accused of many things during my lifetime. Being boring was never one of them, though."

"That's what you say."

His smile vanished and he looked down at his hands. "I'm not here to be teased," he said after an effective moment of silence. "I want us to spend time together. I want to be in your life."

"I've told you…"

"I know what you told me," he cut her off. "I remember every word, but I've come to the conclusion that I cannot accept them any more."

"It is not that easy."

"Because Irina's still alive?" he asked in disbelief. "She doesn't care a button about me. She isn't even jealous, just vain."

Violet's hand cramped around the rest of the chair she was sitting on.

"I admit that the Princess' fate is just part of the problem," she finally conceded.

"So, what is the reason for your rejection of me? Is it your son? Your family? They won't even take notice of me."

Violet shook her head. "This isn't about my family. You see… I'm not well." The words came out slowly and with a bitterness she hadn't thought herself capable of.

He looked up, as if a bolt of lightning had struck him. "What do you mean?"

"Don't look so surprised," she scolded him, because that was easier than accepting his shock. "At our age it happens that people don't have long to live."

"You're immortal," he said bluntly.

She wanted to laugh, but the sound got stuck in her throat when she saw how crestfallen he looked while he was digesting this new piece of information.

"Not quite," she answered in a low voice. "But I admit I've done my best to be remembered." She held out her hand and he took it after a short hesitation. He led her hand to his lips and placed a tender, yet possessive kiss on it.

"If you think this will put me off, you don't know me at all," he whispered gently. "I haven't come here to be sent away again."

###tbc###

So, will Irina succeed and find herself an ally? Will Dickie come to his senses? And will Kuragin get what he wants? Stay tuned for more ;-)