And perhaps in time, he could figure out a way to bring her here in person, and for good.
32
Dimitri had been back at Mirosa for two weeks but still had no response from Baron Freedericksz about an audience with the czar. Perhaps the baron thought Dimitri would be satisfied by the return of his title and property and would no longer stir up trouble regarding the massacre on the Amur.
If so, the baron thought wrong.
Tachenko’s recording of “Waves of the Amur” was now selling all over America, and Dimitri was prepared to start selling them in Russia too. It would be dangerous to release the incendiary violinist’s recording, but unless the czar renewed his commitment to the 1858 treaty, Dimitri intended to start the drumbeat here in Russia as well.
In the meantime, he sank back into work at Mirosa’s cider mill, doing everything from making the apple mash to bottling the cider. It was exhausting work, but a good sort of exhaustion that came with a sense of accomplishment from a job well done. Things were exactly as he remembered, from the creak of the waterwheel to the sweet scent of autumn hay. All of it was a balm to his soul.
Yesterday he had worked with Pavel Golubev, the overseer of the mill, to repair the ancient waterwheel, which was beginning to wobble and show its age. This morning he helped unloada cartload of apples from a local farmer. The Sokolovs grew more than enough apples to supply the mill, but they always bought from local people too. Apples were an easy form of income for the poor, and buying from them helped ease tensions in the valley.
The afternoon was growing late, and Dimitri hoisted another bushel of classic reds onto his shoulder and dumped them into the vat of water. Pavel cranked the flywheel while Dimitri used a rake to nudge the apples toward the millstone, blinking as cold droplets splashed his face.
He and Pavel had worked in tandem for several minutes when Pavel abruptly stopped cranking the flywheel and swept the cap from his head. Dimitri followed his gaze, surprised to see his elegant mother picking her way across the lumpy yard outside the mill.
“Mama!” he greeted her affectionately. He had been upset when he first saw her upon his return to Mirosa. Her hair had turned mostly gray, and worry lines had been permanently carved onto her face. Her traumatized appearance eased following his return, but the past year of being turned out of her home had been difficult for her. Perhaps that was why she was doing her best to regain her former standing in the valley by always appearing immaculately dressed, with jewels on her hands and pearls around her neck.
“Come in out of the mud,” he urged, leading her to the patio outside the mill.
“Why is the ground so sticky?” she asked as she eyed the slate pavers.
Dimitri had been too busy to notice the condition of the slate, but Pavel quickly answered. “Ilya Komarov was here last night. He never cleans up properly.”
His mother’s face stiffened. “If that ruffian can’t be respectful of the privilege we grant him by allowing him to use our mill, he should be fined and banned from the property.”
“Mama, please,” Dimitri said soothingly, even though it looked like Pavel agreed. The last thing Dimitri wanted to dowas stir up trouble in the valley, and Ilya was a hard worker. He lived in a ramshackle cabin with his wife and two sons down at the river’s bend. Instead of selling his apples to Dimitri like others in the valley, Ilya paid a small fee to use the mill and produced his own cider. At least, that was what Ilya claimed to be doing. Dimitri suspected Ilya fermented his cider into applejack, which was almost as potent and profitable as vodka.
“He’s using our best barrels too,” Pavel said. “The older the barrel, the better the cider. Last night two of our best barrels went missing. He’s been doing it every year since you left for Siberia.”
“Does he bring them back?” Dimitri asked.
“Eventually.”
Dimitri didn’t want to discuss this in front of his mother. He turned to her with a smile. “What can I do for you, Mama?”
“I need help planning the house party, and you always have such clever ideas.”
His mother loved hosting gatherings that lasted for days. Local landowners and aristocrats from the valley gathered for party games, walks in the woods, and singing long into the night.
“Come sit on the bench and let’s discuss it,” Dimitri said, eager to get his mother off the subject of the sticky mill floor. It was a working mill, which meant it was going to get dirty, but someone of his mother’s station had little experience with the world of work.
He led her to the bench outside, but before they could begin the discussion, he spotted a familiar figure heading their way.
“Is that man back again?” his mother asked, displeasure plain in her voice.
Ilya Komarov had just rounded the bend by the cedar trees, walking alongside a wagon filled with apples and pulled by an aging nag. Dimitri pitied the old horse. At least Ilya had the decency to walk instead of riding in the wagon and making the nag work even harder.
“He pays to use the mill every evening after six o’clock,” Dimitri said.
She frowned in disapproval. “We don’t need the money, and I don’t like him spattering apple juice on the floor.”
“Then head indoors while I speak with him.” Dimitri didn’t care about the sticky floor, but he did mind the loss of the barrels. The milling season wasn’t even halfway over, and he might need them.
His mother was gone by the time Ilya pulled the wagon up to the mill and unhooked the kerosene lantern attached to the buckboard. Ilya would need the lantern because he rarely finished before midnight. It couldn’t be an easy life. During the day Ilya worked as a carpenter, and then he made cider long into the night.
“Is Pavel done for the day?” Ilya asked as he began unloading crates of apples. He had blond hair and pale blue eyes and was the sort of strong, brawny man whose features looked like they had been carved by an ax.
