“Have you learned anything?” she asked, eager to get him out of the house before Poppy discovered him and had palpitations. She spoke in Russian, because her request for information about Count Sokolov wasn’t something she wanted overheard by others in the house.
Boris nodded. “It wasn’t a hard case,” he said. “Your count has landed himself in a world of trouble.”
“How so?”
“He’s been convicted of cowardice and dereliction of duty. They stripped him of his title and everything he owns.”
Natalia braced a hand against the cool wood of the billiard table and listened in growing dismay as Boris outlined how he’d wired an old friend in Saint Petersburg, where the scandal of Count Sokolov’s disgrace was trumpeted across the newspapers. Count Sokolov had refused to assist the army in defending the river that marked the dividing line between Russiaand China. His title had been revoked, and he had been exiled to a penal colony.
Natalia shook her head in confusion. Russia wasn’t at war with China, and Dimitri wasn’t in the army, but whatever he did must have been awful if he’d been condemned to a penal colony. A chill raced through her, and she gaped at Boris.
“Are you certain?” she asked.
Boris smirked in satisfaction. “Your fancy aristocrat is about to get a swift lesson in how the rest of the world lives.”
“Don’t be so disrespectful,” she instinctively lashed out.
Boris looked insulted, straightening to his formidable full height as he adjusted his coat. “We’re all equals in America, and I can be disrespectful if I want,” he said, loud enough for his voice to carry. “It’s why I got out from under the czar’s boot, but it looks like you’ve still got a toffee nose. Your mother wasn’t like that. She was one of the richest women in the country, but she never forgot that she was a woman of the Russian heartland.”
“Don’t talk about my mother,” she snapped. Thinking about her gentle mother threatened to weaken her resolve when all Natalia wanted was to understand what Dimitri had done to cause this catastrophe. “Which penal colony has he been sent to?”
“Sakhalin Island,” Boris said. “They must really hate him. That’s where they send the people who personally offended the czar. Most are never seen again.”
The double doors to the billiard room banged open, and Poppy filled the entrance, her face white with anger.
“Natalia, must you consort with Russian riffraff?” she asked stiffly.
Natalia stepped in front of Boris, fearing the tough cop might lash out at Poppy, and that would be a disaster. “Officer Kozlov kindly brought me news of a friend in Russia.”
“And I need to be paid for it,” Boris said in English. “I didn’t come across town to be spit on by the likes of you toplofty snobs. I want my money, and I want it now.”
To Natalia’s dread, her father appeared behind Poppy, glaring at Boris through his one good eye. With his other eye covered by a black patch, her father was a master at projecting a coldly sinister appearance.
“What’s all this?” Oscar asked in a steely voice. That voice could make robber barons wilt, and Boris must have sensed the danger. He immediately corrected his posture and lowered his voice.
“I carried out an errand for Miss Blackstone, sir. I came across town as soon as I could to deliver the results personally.” He gave her father a slight bow, but Oscar’s icy demeanor did not thaw.
“Then accept my daughter’s payment, and don’t ever come to this house again. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Most men feared her father, and Boris proved true to form. Someday it might be nice to meet a man who could stand up to her father, but Natalia doubted it would ever happen.
Natalia was too upset about Dimitri’s fate to return to the reception. The cream pastries she’d eaten felt sickeningly sweet in her stomach. While she’d been sampling champagne and pastries, Dimitri was suffering torments she could not begin to imagine.
What had he done to deserve such a fate? She headed upstairs, then down the corridor to her mother’s private chapel on the second floor. The sanctuary was covered in Russian icons and looked nothing like the rest of the house. She quickly lit a dozen votive candles, then sank onto the kneeler to pray for the man she cared for but did not truly know.
Could he be guilty of the charges? Dimitri was always so melodramatic, bemoaning his misery and discomfort in “the frozen wasteland that is my life.” She always suspected he was a bit of a hypochondriac, for how could a man be “practically on his deathbed,” as he often complained, and then moments later send her messages overflowing with lyrical prose sparkling withhumor? He had the soul of a poet as he paid homage to stars that glittered like diamonds on the velvety night sky or the joy at seeing the first violets of spring peeking out of the wet snow to defy the harsh climate. His observations were keen, sharp, and humorous. He wrote better English than most native speakers.
She rested her forehead in her hands. It was impossible to know the circumstances of his dereliction of duty, but she would not be his judge. Dimitri had enough loyalty to his country to accept an appointment in the middle of Siberia for the past three years. He’d once told her he took the dreadful assignment because he wished to prove himself worthy of his title.
For hundreds of years my family has dined on the nectar of privilege. I wish to venture out of our halcyon valley and into the frozen wasteland, building an iron rail to conquer time and distance.
Over the years, Dimitri moved from outpost to outpost, following the newly constructed railway as it tracked toward the Pacific. He negotiated for provisions, kept the supply lines operating, and worked with the local population to ensure rights of way. In recent months, he’d expressed concern over the Boxer Rebellion, which raged across the border in China, where insurgents had turned violent. Dimitri worked less than five miles from the border with China. Could he have gotten caught up in the violent rebellion? It seemed unlikely, but so did his arrest and conviction.
Someday she might learn more, but no matter what happened, she would always consider him a friend. Dimitri was a man born into unimaginable wealth and privilege, and yet he set out for Siberia to prove himself to his czar and his country. And if he balked in the face of battle ... well, he wouldn’t be the first man to do so.
After saying prayers for Dimitri, Natalia extinguished the candles and retreated to her bedroom, where she set her favorite Brahms record on the turntable of her phonograph. What a miracle of modern technology that the thin disc coated with a layer of wax could contain the majesty of a Brahms symphony.She cranked the handle, set the stylus onto the record, and let the moody music fill her bedroom.
