Written on the Wind (The Blackstone Legacy #2)(61)
“Have you met her?” one of the wives asked.
“She served us tea,” Natalia replied, reluctant to fuel the gossip. Her and Dimitri’s objective was to force the count to act, not to disclose an affair with his housekeeper.
“If I have to kowtow to that wretched teenaged girl one more time, I shall be tempted to burn down the embassy,” the congressman’s wife said, and plenty of other women at the luncheon agreed.
After five days of engagements, Dimitri had become so popular that their calendar was filled with invitations from morning to night. A professor from Georgetown asked Dimitri to speak to his classes, and reporters from the AP and Reuters both wrote flattering profiles of him. Getting picked up by the AP wire meant Dimitri’s story was now being published in newspapers all across America. Reuters was the British equivalent, so the story was being published in Europe too. It didn’t matter that Dimitri’s title had been revoked. He was consistently referred to as Count Sokolov, and his courage in the face of his trial and punishment only added to his heroism.
Dimitri was vain enough to love the attention. One evening he escorted Natalia and Poppy into the dining room at the Willard, and someone in the back of the room stood to raise a toast to him. All the other diners applauded, and a few came over to shake his hand. Poppy basked in Dimitri’s fame, but Natalia no longer cared about her stepmother’s embarrassing need to claim the limelight alongside Count Sokolov. Dimitri deserved every bit of acclaim being showered on him.
During the dessert course, a Russian officer wearing full regalia arrived in the dining room to hand-deliver a message to Dimitri.
“Count Cassini requests a private meeting,” the officer said, clicking the heels of his polished boots together and proffering an engraved invitation with a formal bow.
“When?” Dimitri asked, caught off guard but not displeased.
“Now.”
Dimitri arrived at the embassy alone, since bringing Natalia might be seen as a needless provocation. All he cared about was forcing Czar Nicholas to acknowledge that the 1858 treaty had been violated and to renew his commitment to honor the treaty in the future.
It was dark by the time Dimitri arrived at the embassy. This time he wasn’t greeted by a belligerent teenaged girl but by the ambassador himself.
“Count Sokolov,” Count Cassini said with the tiniest of bows as he met Dimitri in the sweeping front hall of the embassy.
Dimitri responded with a matching infinitesimal bow. Count Cassini escorted him down the meandering hallways and into his private office. The normal formalities of offering him a drink and a cigar were offered and accepted, and then Count Cassini took a seat behind his desk.
“I want you to know how shocked I am to learn the full details of the events in Manchuria,” he began. “Such a tragedy.”
“And yet you seemed to know all about it when I saw you last week.”
Count Cassini gave him a thin smile, the smoke from the tip of his cigar spiraling upward as the pungent scent filled the dim office. “As a sophisticated man of the world, you understand how the public positions of the imperial government may sometimes differ from actual historical events. The wonderful thing about history is that it is so easy to rewrite. And perhaps it is time to rewrite what happened last summer.”
So far, the Russians had billed the atrocity as a skirmish in which soldiers defended themselves against Chinese belligerents affiliated with the Boxer Rebellion. There was no mention of the thousands of civilians who met their death in the river.
“And how do you propose we rewrite history?” Dimitri asked.
“There was a miscommunication between Moscow and the eastern outposts. All a misunderstanding, but it won’t happen again.”
“No acknowledgment of guilt? No officers to be punished?”
“Correct.” The ambassador’s statement was emphatic.
“Not good enough,” Dimitri said.
Count Cassini’s face hardened. “It is time to make myself clear. You need me, and you need the czar if you want to see those treaties with China honored. I don’t care if you paint yourself a hero in the United States. Go to the parties and speeches in your honor. Bask in the celebrity that easily impressed Americans wish to bestow upon you. But in the back of your mind, you know there are thousands of people living in rural isolation on the other side of the world. Those people wish only to tend their fields and raise their children in peace. Simple people with modest desires. Isn’t it ironic that their ability to have that life will be decided right here in this room while we smoke cigars that cost more than they earn in a month?”
The ambassador took a long pull on his cigar, then blew it out with a laugh in an attempt to break the tension. “Come, Dimitri. It was a miscommunication, and what happened to you was a series of unfortunate events. Let us put it to right. The czar is more than willing to affirm the ongoing status of the 1858 treaty and will assign ownership of Mirosa back to you as a sign of goodwill. He is prepared to restore your title, as well.”
Dimitri’s heart skipped a beat. He hadn’t expected this, and a wave of hope surged, but he held tightly to his impassive expression. There were untold millions of people in the world, most of whom had no control over their lives. Their safety was decided in palaces and embassies thousands of miles away. Today he was a hero, but his celebrity would soon fade, and his ability to demand change would deteriorate.