Written on the Wind (The Blackstone Legacy #2)(76)

Tachenko insisted they call him Maxim and was apologetic as he set out a paltry tea served in mismatched china.

“All I can offer is cheese and apples,” he said. “I dislike having servants underfoot and am too engrossed learning new music to bother with nonsense such as food.” Nevertheless, he did not decline Gwen’s offer to send over a few loaves of bread and a side of ham.

His jovial mood cooled when Natalia proposed a recording of “Waves of the Amur.” He wasn’t rude, but he wasn’t polite either.

“I refuse to submit to the horror of a phonograph recording. They can never capture the depth and volume and vibrations of a live performance. My music must be heard live or not at all.”

“What about people who don’t have a chance to come to a big city?” Natalia asked, but Maxim shrugged.

“This is not my concern. I cannot be a hero to the entire world.”

She was no poet, but she tried to describe the feeling she had just experienced in the overgrown garden when she caught a few passages of his music. “It was like stumbling into an enchanted glade. I felt like I didn’t need air or water, just the chance to listen and let my mind follow where that violin led me.”

He preened at her admiring words but remained adamantly opposed to letting himself be recorded. “I won’t let my music be reduced to an inferior recording. Those tinny records will never rival the sound of the real thing.”

She persisted. “But if you won’t let yourself be recorded, when you die, your music will die with you.”

He shrugged again. “I have already been praised in newspapers around the world to commemorate my genius. It is enough.”

For every inducement Natalia offered, Maxim had an excuse. Money was not tempting to him. He had no need of additional fame. He wanted nothing to do with the business aspect of music or promoting the nascent recording industry.

Dimitri joined the fight. “What about the people of Russia? You have lived a decade in exile, but shouldn’t they have a chance to hear their country’s greatest violinist?”

For the first time, Tachenko hesitated, but he quickly retrenched. “My countrymen know I play on their behalf. I won’t let them hear an inferior recording. What if I make a mistake? It will be carved onto that wretched wax disc for all eternity.”

Dimitri leaned forward, his voice earnest. “If you make a mistake, we stop, throw out the disc, and allow you to try again.”

Natalia tried to stifle her surprise. It never occurred to her that Tachenko’s reluctance was rooted in fear of capturing a poor performance. Recordings were shockingly expensive, and musicians were rarely given a chance for a second performance. Still, if Tachenko needed two or even three chances to play the song, she would pay for it.

“How many opportunities will you give me to capture it to my satisfaction?” Maxim asked, his voice cautious.

“As many as you need,” Dimitri enthused. “Ten. Twenty. Fifty!”

She nearly choked but remained silent. Whatever it took. She was prepared to pay whatever it took to capture that song, pair it with Dimitri’s story and Tachenko’s renown, then send it out into the world.

Tachenko seemed on the verge of agreement when he upped the pressure. “If I record ‘Waves of the Amur,’ I insist on recording ‘The Internationale’ too.”

Natalia’s father would have a heart attack if she participated in recording the notorious communist anthem, but that was a worry for another day. She shot to her feet and extended her hand. “It’s a deal!”



In light of Maxim’s bare pantry, they rowed across the lake to celebrate their newfound alliance at Gwen’s house. The cook brought out platters of roast beef and crusty French bread. They popped corks, swapped stories as though they were longtime friends, and Maxim treated them to delightful folk songs on his violin.

The music prompted Dimitri to show off in an impromptu squat dance, sinking down onto his haunches with a huge grin. Maxim played an energetic tempo as Dimitri spread his arms wide and kicked his legs in impressive rhythm. She and the others clapped along until Dimitri lost strength and staggered upright.

“Natalia, join me,” he beckoned.

“I can’t do that!” she laughed.

“Nonsense, your mother was a dancer. Gwen, you too. Time for a troika dance!”

They followed his lead. Soon she and Gwen had their elbows looped with Dimitri’s, and he taught them the fast-moving circle dance. The cook and two maids joined in, and soon everyone was dancing as the world’s most famed violinist provided a flurry of riffs to keep them moving.

Then came the sound of hoofbeats outside. The music scudded to a stop.

Gwen glanced at Patrick. “Are you expecting anyone?”

Patrick shook his head and strode to the front door. Moments later he returned with two men. One of them was Oscar Blackstone’s butler.

“Mr. Tyson?” Natalia asked, still a little breathless. “What’s going on?”

“A message for Count Sokolov arrived at your father’s home,” Tyson said. “It’s from the Russian embassy in Washington. This fellow insisted on delivering it directly into Count Sokolov’s hands.”

An imposing envoy in uniform stood beside Mr. Tyson. “You are Count Sokolov?” he asked Dimitri.

“I am,” Dimitri said, looking cautious and worried.