Written on the Wind (The Blackstone Legacy #2)(65)
Dimitri flushed with pleasure. He was vain enough to enjoy the praise of America’s leading novelist and was about to add some of his own insights about Siberia when Countess Cassini inserted herself, along with a footman carrying a tray of delicacies.
“Would anyone care for some vorschmack?” she offered.
Hannah Schreiber, the German matron wearing a scarlet sash, looked with curiosity at the tiny crackers topped with a meat paste. “What is vorschmack?” she asked in her heavily accented voice.
Instead of answering, the countess glanced at the footman and spoke in Russian. “Frau Schreiber’s husband used to be an accountant, so perhaps her ignorance is to be expected. It’s a pity I didn’t ask the cook to prepare boiled cabbage.” Then she pasted an overly sweet smile on her face and reverted to English. “It is a delicacy made from minced lamb and caviar. It may not be to your taste.”
Dimitri glared at the countess, and even the footman looked embarrassed, but Frau Schreiber gamely sampled a bit of vorschmack. Apparently she didn’t appreciate the delicacy, because she excused herself to fetch a glass of water, and the countess soon left as well.
Mark Twain watched the interchange with ill-concealed delight. “What did the countess say?”
Dimitri thought carefully before responding. “She had some pointed observations about German cuisine.”
“Ha!” the older man exclaimed. “That fiendish girl will be the font of literary inspiration for decades. I came tonight specifically to watch the matrons of Washington cringe in her wake. She is too outrageously fabulous not to be immortalized on the page.”
Dimitri had no interest in that awful girl but wouldn’t mind discussing literature. “I had a chance to read The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. You are to be congratulated. The story was quite good, but I think it would have been better had the boy died in the end.”
Natalia choked on a cracker, but Mr. Twain seemed intrigued. “You think so?” he asked. “Tell me why.”
It ought to be obvious to any serious literary artist, but Dimitri explained anyway. “It would have solidified his heroism. He came through many challenges with wit and ingenuity, but in order to prove his heroic stature, he must be willing to die for a cause. This is true in all the great Russian stories.”
“I’m not Russian,” Mr. Twain said.
Dimitri raised his glass with a smile. “A pity. It is the only thing standing between you and literary greatness.”
Mr. Twain warmed to the challenge. “According to your logic, you should be dead by now. Allow me to rewrite the ending of your adventure. You would have staggered into Port Arthur and then, with the last of your strength, sent a desperate telegram to the rest of the world announcing your findings. A lovely Russian maiden would have noticed your suffering and taken you under her wing to heal you, but alas! You were too far gone. With your last bit of strength, you would have proclaimed love for the girl, then let death claim you as the sun rises on another Russian morning.”
“Ah, but my story isn’t finished yet,” Dimitri said. “I have yet to secure a full restoration of my honor from the czar, so perhaps all is not yet lost. I may still have the opportunity to enjoy a tragic fate.”
Mr. Twain’s laugh came from deep in his belly, and he asked to be seated opposite Dimitri and Natalia at dinner. It caused a ruckus with the seating arrangements, and the young countess fumed because the last-minute adjustment stuck her next to the grim Russian bishop.
The dinner lasted until midnight, followed by more drinks and conversation in the courtyard. Each course of the meal had been paired with its own wine, so like most of the other guests, Dimitri had sampled a Bordeaux from France, a fine German riesling that tasted like distilled sunlight, a hazelnut liqueur produced by Italian monks, and the finest Russian saperavi wine from the hills near the Black Sea. A haze of well-being enveloped him as he escorted Natalia to the courtyard. Goodwill and comradery abounded among the three dozen guests from across the world who gathered in this enchanted moonlit garden.
No wonder state dinners such as these were a staple of diplomacy. They were essential in building trust and friendship among the elites who ruled the nations of the world. The bonhomie was alive and vibrant tonight. The king of Denmark prodded Mark Twain to compose extemporaneous poetry, the German diplomatic corps played with the countess’s French spaniels, and the Swiss delegation jested with the Canadians about when they would break free of the British Empire.
All Dimitri could see was Natalia, and his chest ached at the sight of her. Would this be all they had? A few fleeting weeks of joy before he returned home? Natalia was no country mouse, but perhaps she could find happiness at Mirosa. Without a doubt she had the ability to navigate the royal palaces of Saint Petersburg. Even now he enjoyed listening to her converse with guests on everything from Renaissance sculpture to the politics of the Suez Canal.
Bishop Raphael joined their little group beside the splashing fountain to ask Natalia about a rumored collection of religious icons owned by the Blackstones.
“My mother collected them,” Natalia confirmed. “She built a private chapel in our house and lined it with the icons that reminded her of home.”
Countess Cassini overheard and once again chose to speak in Russian. “I’m surprised she didn’t decorate it with a stage curtain and greasepaint.”
Natalia stiffened, and Dimitri was rendered speechless, but this time Frau Schreiber refused to overlook the breach of decorum. “I wish you would speak in English when you know most of us don’t understand Russian.”