Read Online The Man from St. Petersburg by Ken Follett - Free Book Online Page B

There must be a Countess of Walden.
    There must be an heir.
    “I need a wife, Pritchard.”
    “Yes, my lord. Our bachelor days are over.”
    The next day Walden saw Lydia’s father and formally asked permission to call on her.
    Almost twenty years later he found it difficult to imagine how he could have been so wickedly irresponsible, even in his youth. He had never asked himself whether she was the right wife for him, only whether she was good countess material. He had never wondered whether he could make her happy. He had assumed that the hidden passion released when she played the piano would be released for him, and he had been wrong.
    He called on her every day for two weeks—there was no possibility of getting home in time for his father’s funeral—and then he proposed, not to her but to her father. Her father saw the match in the same practical terms as Walden. Walden explained that he wanted to marry immediately, although he was in mourning, because he had to get home and manage the estate. Lydia’s father understood perfectly. They were married six weeks later.
    What an arrogant young fool I was, he thought. I imagined that England would always rule the world and I would always rule my own heart.
    The moon came out from behind a cloud and illuminated the bedroom. He looked down at Lydia’s sleeping face. I didn’t foresee this, he thought; I didn’t know that I would fall helplessly, hopelessly in love with you. I asked only that we should like each other, and in the end that was enough for you but not for me. I never thought that I would need your smile, yearn for your kisses, long for you to come to my room at night; I never thought that I would be frightened, terrified of losing you.
    She murmured in her sleep and turned over. He pulled his arm from under her neck, then sat up on the edge of the bed. If he stayed any longer he would nod off, and it would not do to have Lydia’s maid catch them in bed together when she came in with the morning cup of tea. He put on his dressing gown and his carpet slippers and walked softly out of the room, through the twin dressing rooms and into his own bedroom. I’m such a lucky man, he thought as he lay down to sleep.

    Walden surveyed the breakfast table. There were pots of coffee, China tea and Indian tea; jugs of cream, milk and cordial; a big bowl of hot porridge; plates of scones and toast; and little pots of marmalade, honey and jam. On the sideboard was a row of silver dishes, each warmed by its own spirit lamp, containing scrambled eggs, sausages, bacon, kidneys and haddock. On the cold table were pressed beef, ham and tongue. The fruit bowl, on a table of its own, was piled with nectarines, oranges, melons and strawberries.
    This ought to put Aleks in a good mood, he thought.
    He helped himself to eggs and kidneys and sat down. The Russians would have their price, he thought; they would want something in return for their promise of military help. He was worried about what the price might be. If they were to ask for something England could not possibly grant, the whole deal would collapse immediately, and then …
    It was his job to make sure it did not collapse.
    He would have to manipulate Aleks. The thought made him uncomfortable. Having known the boy for so long should have been a help, but in fact it might have been easier to negotiate in a tough way with someone about whom one did not care personally.
    I must put my feelings aside, he thought; we must have Russia.
    He poured coffee and took some scones and honey. A minute later Aleks came in, looking bright-eyed and well-scrubbed. “Sleep well?” Walden asked him.
    “Wonderfully well.” Aleks took a nectarine and began to eat it with a knife and fork.
    “Is that all you’re having?” Walden said. “You used to love English breakfast—I remember you eating porridge, cream, eggs, beef and strawberries and then asking cook for more toast.”
    “I’m not a growing boy anymore, Uncle