The prince turned to Lily. ‘Well, I thought it very striking. What d’you say, Lily?’
‘I’d say you were right, sir. Gloomy indeed but a brilliant vision, executed with skill and passion.’ She heard her father’s voice as she said the words. And she’d recognized the scrawled signature in the corner. She dared to add: ‘The world will hear more of this young man. A product of the St Petersburg school? Whoever acquires it will not regret his investment.’
The prince grinned and opened the bidding. A few others followed, more out of duty than interest perhaps, though the French ambassador, Lily noted, seemed genuinely keen. As the prince doggedly sent the price higher his competitors faded and retired one by one until Lily was hearing: ‘And the lot goes to His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales. Congratulations, sir!’
Judging the moment, he rose to his feet and nodded affably to left and right.
And the evening moved on towards its climax. The princess herself announced that the last offering before supper would be a song. To the highest bidder was promised the song of his choice to be performed by the finest Russian soprano. Madame Vera Lavrova, who was at present appearing at the Alhambra, Leicester Square, had been released by her producer, Monsieur Diaghilev, for the evening to grace their gathering. Cecil Cardew’s drummer gave a roll on his drums and the singer herself emerged from a clump of potted palms to greet the audience, bow and curtsy and stand by, waiting for the winning song to be announced.
The prince leaned close and whispered to Lily, ‘Poor dear! She’s a baroness, you know, in her real life. Her husband was a cavalry officer in the White Army. Killed in action.’
Small and slender, Madame Lavrova was wearing an outfit that brought a tear to many a sentimental eye in the audience. A slim gown of richly embroidered gold satin reached down to a neat ankle, and a Russian headdress of the same stuff framed a round and girlish face, a face vivid with dark eyes and red lips, open and smiling with anticipation.
The bidding stopped, miraculously, it seemed to Lily, when one of the Russian princes got to his feet and raised it from three hundred pounds to a thousand pounds in one swoop. Beyond that no one would venture. Murmurs of approval ran around the room.
‘Then the song goes to His Royal Highness,’ the hostess announced. ‘And may we all hear your choice of song, Mikhail?’
Lily became conscious that she was witnessing a rehearsed scene and was mortified that she hadn’t realized it earlier. These people were elegant professionals, not ones to be caught out by an odd request unknown to singer or orchestra. And yet all were joining in the spirit of the performance, waiting with bated breath and sighing with satisfaction as the Russian prince announced: ‘There’s a sweet song of these islands where we now shelter. A song of exile. A song sung by men, like us, who wear the white cockade — the Jacobites, in mourning and far from their native land. The sentiment echoes our own: “When shall we see thee again, our homeland?” I wonder if Madame Lavrova has it in her repertoire?’