To Kill a Tsar by Andrew Williams Read Free Book Online

was wearing a worn, ill-fitting black dress that had clearly been made for a much larger woman.
    ‘Don’t take it to heart.’ Vera Figner followed his gaze. ‘Anna is very close to Alexander Soloviev. This is an unhappy and worrying time.’
    ‘Do you know her well?’
    ‘A little. She’s a friend of Lydia’s.’
    Hadfield frowned: was that why she had exhibited contempt so publicly for a man she had never met? Her name was Anna Petrovna Kovalenko and she was from a village in the eastern Ukraine, Vera told him, the illegitimate daughter of a landowner and one of his serfs. ‘She has done wonderful things in Kharkov, organising workers into a union. They respect and like her. We all do.’
    Well-to-do socialists were always dewy-eyed about comrades who were sons or daughters of the soil, in Hadfield’s experience, so he was inclined to take this endorsement with a pinch of salt. And yet more than resentment drew his gaze back to her; dark and restless, those remarkable eyes – she was intriguing, and, yes, he had to admit it, attractive in an unconventional way. Perhaps he was just as sentimental about peasants as Vera.
    ‘The time spent in the country educating the people achieved nothing . . .’ Goldenberg had taken command once more and was holding forth in a thin little voice. ‘. . . only by striking directly at the machinery of oppression – provincial governors, ministers, the Third Section, the tsar . . . the time has come for action – a new phase in the struggle . . .’
    There were a few nods of approval but for the most part the room listened to his call to revolutionary arms in cool silence. Liberals or popular revolutionaries like me, Hadfield thought, passionate about democracy and the need for change but opposed to terror. He caught a glimpse between heads of their hostess slipping through the doors at the end of the drawing room. It was too bloody and uncompromising for Madame Volkonsky, not at all the sort of political salon she would have wished for. He wanted to escape from the smoky gloom and plotting too, and to feel the wind off the Neva on his face, hear the bells of the old Russia ringing out around the city.
    He glanced across at Anna Petrovna again. She had bobbeddown to exchange words with the man on the sofa who was gazing calmly at Hadfield, his plump hands clasped about his crossed leg.
    ‘Alexander Mikhailov is one of us,’ said Vera. ‘Very clear thinking . . .’
    ‘Why did you invite me here, Verochka?’ Hadfield asked, turning to look her in the eye.
    ‘You were with us in Switzerland.’ Then, after a pause, ‘We both want Russia, the world, to be different.’
    ‘But your views on how to go about it have changed.’
    ‘The people cannot wait any more. The whole nation will have gone to seed before the liberals get anything done. History needs a push.’
    He did not reply. The gathering was breaking into conversational groups again. Their hostess returned with an anxious hand to her face. Anna Kovalenko had drawn Goldenberg aside and it was clear from her angry gestures they were engaged in an ill-tempered exchange. Hadfield began to make his excuses, but as he was reaching for Vera’s hand she said abruptly:
    ‘Lydia meant something to you, didn’t she?’ There was a steeliness in her manner, in the set of her jaw, and she held on firmly to his hand when propriety required him to withdraw it.
    ‘Yes, of course. Lydia was a very good friend to me,’ he said slowly. ‘Is she in St Petersburg?’
    ‘St Petersburg?’ Vera gave a bitter little laugh. ‘Lydia was arrested for distributing propaganda. Imprisoned. Exiled. She’s been sent to eastern Siberia.’
    Hadfield turned his head away. Lydia with the soft brown eyes and teasing smile. He felt a lump the size of a fist in his throat. For a short time they had meant so much to each other. He had not seen or heard from her for three years but her last angry words troubled him still. He knew he had caused her