Kate Furnivall - The Girl from Junchow The Concubines Secret
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The Girl from Junchow The Concubines Secret: summary, description and annotation
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An epic journey of love and discovery from the national bestselling author of The Russian Concubine and The Red Scarf. China, 1929. For years Lydia Ivanova believed her father was killed by the Bolsheviks. But when she learns he is imprisoned in Stalin-controlled Russia, the fiery girl is willing to leave everything behind- even her Chinese lover, Chang An Lo. Lydia begins a dangerous search, journeying to Moscow with her half-brother Alexei. But when Alexei abruptly disappears, Lydia is left alone, penniless in Soviet Russia. All seems lost, but Chang An Lo has not forgotten Lydia. He knows things about her father that she does not. And while he races to protect her, she is prepared to risk treacherous consequences to discover the truth.
Kate Furnivall: author's other books
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The Girl from Junchow The Concubines Secret — read online for free the complete book (whole text) full work
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The Concubine's Secret
KATE FURNIVALL
Hachette Digital
www.littlebrown.co.uk
Table of Contents
Kate Furnivall was born in Wales and now lives by the sea, with her husband, in the beautiful county of Devon. She has worked in publishing and television advertising. Kates love for all things Russian stems from her family history in pre-Revolution St Petersburg. Look out for her previous two novels, The Russian Concubine and Under a Blood Red Sky, also published by Sphere.
Visit the authors website at www.katefurnivall.com
Praise for The Russian Concubine
A pulse-racing romance... breathtakingly good
Marie Claire
[An] achingly beautiful epic
New Woman
[A] highly accomplished, sweeping epic... Escapism at its best, this novel brilliantly captures the sights, sounds and atmosphere of early twentieth-century Russia and China
Glamour
A rollicking good read, with a fast-moving plot and oodles of colourful characters and evocative locations
Telegraph
Extraordinarily lush Richard Russo,
author of The Bridge of Sighs
A great story of love, loss and conflicting loyalties in a fascinatingly precarious moment of history Diana Gabaldon,
author of the Outlander series
For Under a Blood Red Sky
For fans of historical, epic fiction, it doesnt get much better than this - exciting and atmospheric, with strong and gutsy characters
The Bookseller
This gripping novel is poignant, beautifully written and will capture the reader to the last
Sun
A great wintry epic; rug and hot chocolate optional
Elle
[A] gripping tale... truly captivating ****
Now
A heartbreaking book, full of twists and turns, treachery and friendship... A real page-turner
Glasgow Evening Times
Also by Kate Furnivall
The Russian Concubine
Under a Blood Red Sky
Under a Blood Red Sky
The Concubine's Secret
KATE FURNIVALL
Hachette Digital
www.littlebrown.co.uk
For
Edward and Richard
Liz and Anne
with all my love
Edward and Richard
Liz and Anne
with all my love
Acknowledgements
A big thank you to Joanne Dickinson and all at Little, Brown UK for their sensitive editorial support and elegant artwork. Especially to Emma Stonex for her fine attention to the detail of the manuscript and to Catherine Duncan for getting me out among my readers.
Special thanks to my agent Teresa Chris for always being there and always knowing when to listen or encourage or bully - depending on which I need at the time.
Many thanks also to Elena Shifrina for her dedicated research in Moscow and help with the Russian language.
Finally my love and thanks to Norman for everything else.
Russia, 1930
Lydia Ivanova couldnt sleep. Tiny rats were taking bites out of her brain. Ever since shed arrived in Soviet Russia the nights had been hard, and through the long dark hours it felt as though sharp yellow teeth were gnawing through her skull. Sometimes she could smell them. Worse, sometimes she could hear them. Chip, chip, chip.
She was angry with herself for listening to them. At seventeen years old she should know better. She sat up in the narrow bed and dragged her fingers through her tangled mane to rid herself of the noise, yanking any rats out by their tails. She had to keep her mind clear. But nights were never quiet in this hotel, one of Stalins new breed of concrete rabbit warrens which she found impossible to navigate. She was always getting lost in it and that startled her. She couldnt afford to get lost. She tucked her chin tightly to her chest and closed her eyes, trying to find the bright warm place she kept in there, but tonight it was impossible. Snores were rattling in from the next room and a couple were arguing further up the corridor.
Lydia was impatient now for the morning to arrive. She was tempted to leave her bed and prowl up and down the scrap of floor space in her room, eager to push on to the next step. But she was learning to keep herself in check, to curb her instinct to seize each day by the throat. So to fill the dead time she unzipped the moneybelt at her waist, which she didnt take off even at night. It felt warm and soft to the touch. From it she extracted first her Russian passport. In the trickle of yellow light that spilled through the window from the gas lamp outside, it looked genuine enough. But it was forged. It was a good one and had cost her more than she could afford to pay, but every time she had to hand it over for inspection her heart clawed at her chest.
Next she pulled out her British passport and ran a finger over its embossed lion. It was ironic. This one really was genuine because of her English stepfather, but it was even more dangerous to her than the Russian one. She kept it well hidden in the moneybelt among the roubles, because all foreigners foolish enough to set foot on the black soil of Soviet Russia were at best watched like hawks; at worst interrogated and interned.
Finally she took out the bundle of rouble notes and considered counting them yet again, but resisted the temptation. Instead she weighed them in her hand. The bundle was growing lighter. She made a low sound, almost a growl, in the back of her throat and thought of what it would mean if they ran out. Quickly she pushed everything back into the moneybelt and zipped it up hard, as if to zip up her fear.
Her hand slid instinctively to the thong around her neck and the amulet that hung there. It was a quartz dragon. A powerful Chinese symbol, rose pink and nestling against her flesh. She circled her fingers around it.
Chang An Lo, she whispered.
Her mouth curled into a smile as she saw the bright warm place rise into view. She closed her eyes and her feet started to run, flying over ice and snow, feeling the morning sun reach out its golden fingers to stroke her skin, her toes suddenly bare in soft treacly sand, and beside the shimmering sheet of water a figure...
A door banged and the image slipped from Lydias grasp. Chyort! Outside the sky was still as dark and dense as her own secrets, but shed had enough of waiting and rolled out of bed. She pulled on her long brown coat which she used in place of a dressing gown and padded barefoot down the hall to the communal washroom. With a yawn she pushed open the door and was surprised to find the overhead light already on. Someone was standing at one of the washbasins.
The room smelled. An odd mix of lavender, disinfectant and layers of something more unsavoury underneath. But Lydia wasnt complaining because shed smelled worse. Much worse. This was better than most of the communal bathrooms she had trawled through recently. White tiles covered the walls right up to the ceiling, mottled black ones on the floor, and three basins lined one wall. Yes, one was chipped and another had lost its plug, probably stolen, but everything was spotless, including the mirror above the basins. In the corner a tall cupboard door stood half open, revealing a damp mop, bucket and disinfectant bottle inside. Obviously a cleaner had been in early.
Brushing back her unruly hair, Lydia headed towards one of the three cubicles and glanced with only casual interest at the figure by the basin. Instantly she froze. The other occupant of the room was a woman in her thirties. Average height, slender, wearing a burgundy woollen dressing gown, her feet in stylish little maroon and gold slippers. On her finger a thick gold wedding band looked too heavy for her delicate hands. But Lydia saw none of that. All she saw was the swirl of dark silky hair that was twisted into a loose knot at the back of her head. A narrow neck, long and fragile.
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