Written on the Wind (The Blackstone Legacy #2)(40)

They’d arrived only an hour ago, and their luggage had been sent directly to Oscar Blackstone’s mansion, where they were expected for dinner. Natalia would escort him there after they paid the necessary visit to her bank, where she would transfer his funds and he could send some to his mother.

He craned his neck to look all around. Horns honked, and a boy selling newspapers shouted at pedestrians. The buildings were impressive, even if they were crammed too closely together. All the windows had ornate moldings, and each floor was demarcated by elegant entablatures. Straight ahead was a graceful four-story building of granite with arching windows and a mansard roof. Dozens of men were clustered outside, shouting and jostling to get closer.

“What are those people lined up for?” he asked.

“That’s the New York Stock Exchange,” Natalia said. “Those are traders waiting to get inside. It’s going to be torn down later this year and replaced with something much grander.”

“But it looks brand-new.”

“It’s almost fifty years old,” she replied as though that explained everything. “Come, the bank is just around the corner.”

He quickened his steps to follow. He needed to quit worrying about the traffic or the waste of a perfectly good building and get his finances in order.

Soon they arrived at the intersection of Devon and Wall Street, where the Blackstone Bank’s stately building dominated the corner. Columns across the front soared all five stories high, and uniformed men stood guard at the front door. Walking up the marble steps felt like entering a temple.

“Welcome back, Miss Blackstone,” one of the guards said as he opened a brass-studded door, and they stepped into another world.

Street noise faded as they entered a spacious lobby with Persian carpets, arched colonnades, and tapestries warming the cold stone walls. As Natalia had once told him, this wasn’t the sort of bank that had tellers standing behind counters to deal with individual customers. It was the sort of bank that funded the development of cities and states, the kind that paid for harbors in Seattle and railroads across Russia.

“Would you like to see where the analysts work?” Natalia asked as they stepped inside the elevator. “They’re near my office, which has a splendid view of the city.”

Dimitri shook his head. “I’d like to conclude the transaction with my mother as quickly as possible.”

“Of course.” She gave instructions to the elevator’s attendant to take them to the third floor.

Unlike the grandeur of the first floor, the third floor had a mail room, clerical offices, and an oversized room with a telephone switchboard and two telegraph machines. Clerks shuffled paperwork, but a heavyset man with a full beard and bright red suspenders stood as they entered the communication room. Natalia performed the introductions.

“Aaron, this is Count Sokolov, all the way from Saint Petersburg.”

It felt odd to be referred to by his title. For the last eight months, Dimitri had been a vagabond scrambling for food and shelter. Now this portly telegraph operator stood at attention and sent him a slight bow, as if uncertain how to address a man with a title.

“It is an honor to finally meet you,” Aaron said.

Natalia stepped in to explain the odd comment. “Aaron is the operator who has decoded most of our messages over the years.”

Dimitri sent him a polite smile. “Thank you for your patience. Natalia often says that my messages were long-winded. I shall be more concise with the message to my mother. Can we start that now?”

Natalia seemed a little taken aback by his abruptness, but he was anxious for this task to be concluded. While she and the operator discussed how to wire a large sum of money to his mother, he studied the room. It was a bustling office crammed with people and technical equipment. The windows were closed, but noise from the street still trickled inside.

This was nothing like where he’d imagined Natalia when she received the heartfelt messages he sent. His rural outposts were so different. Sometimes he had been stationed deep in the pine forests, other times in the barren steppes, but always out in nature. In his mind, he pictured Natalia alone in some cozy, book-lined room as they exchanged messages. He never imagined this congested office or the chaotic city that was unlike anything he’d ever seen, and it felt strange. He drifted to the window, where he had a better view of the urban streets below. It was almost hypnotizing. So many people moving so quickly. Where were they all going?

Behind him, the clicking of the telegraph sounder came to life as the operator established contact with a bank in Russia. It took a while to complete, but Dimitri remained transfixed at the window, wondering at this strange malaise that had blanketed him ever since their train entered the city this afternoon.

Natalia joined him. “You can see the townhouse where I live,” she said brightly. “It’s the third brownstone building just past the church. You see it?”

“I do.” The street was cluttered with traffic and telegraph lines and electrical wires. It was ugly.

“Dimitri? What’s wrong?”

He didn’t know. He should be elated. After months of fear and deprivation, he had arrived at his destination, but a strange exhaustion had come from nowhere and clobbered him.

“I miss home. I don’t belong here.”

She blanched, and her wounded expression cut through his self-pity. He shook off the malaise and forced himself to stand upright.