Written on the Wind (The Blackstone Legacy #2)(79)
His fears came to nothing. As he stepped off the train in Saint Petersburg, he was greeted by the familiar face of Felix Lapikov, the clerk who had served the Sokolov family for the past thirty-five years. He had long sideburns, a bald head, and eyes as sharp as an eagle’s, and he quickly set Dimitri’s fears to rest.
“I have secured ownership for your townhouse in Saint Petersburg,” Felix said. “It has been cleaned, aired, and prepared for occupancy. Same with Mirosa. Your mother has already moved back to Mirosa and has summoned people from all over the valley to a party to welcome you home.”
The relief was dizzying. Dimitri arranged for Felix to deliver his trunk to Mirosa because he was too impatient to accompany the lumbering wagon that wouldn’t arrive until after nightfall. He hired a horse to ride directly home and could arrive within two hours if he hurried.
Soon he was riding through the countryside, fields of grain stretching on either side of him. How desperately he had missed the sights of these expansive Russian skies. He nudged the horse into a canter once he was on Sokolov land, smiling at the groves of apple trees interspersed with woodland meadows.
It felt like a dream as he rounded the bend of cedar trees and Mirosa came into view. The dacha’s peaked roofline and wooden timbers were exactly as he remembered, nestled into this calm, timeless haven. The old waterwheel beside the cider mill rotated as always. Crates of apples were stacked beside the mill, ready to be made into cider.
He hadn’t even dismounted when people came rushing out of the house. Old friends. Neighbors. People from all over the valley streamed toward him. Laughter came from deep inside as he vaulted off the horse, striding the last few yards to meet them.
He reached for his mother first. Others surrounded them to bombard him with back-pounding hugs and kisses on both cheeks. So many familiar faces! He came of age with these people. The Antonovichs from across the lake. Count Ulyanov had taught him how to hunt doves, and he used to fish with Baron Moroshkin. Olga, still as lovely as the moon. The local shopkeepers, the priest, and the tutor from the local school were all here.
After three years stationed in Siberia and then the year of exile, at long last Dimitri had come home. And for the first time in four years, he was utterly and entirely content.
The celebration to welcome him home lasted so long into the night that most of the guests remained at Mirosa and slept late the following morning.
Not Dimitri. Knowledge that he was back home awoke him before dawn. At four o’clock he stood on the front porch, watching the sun rise above the horizon in a dreamlike haze of amber light.
God, thank you for bringing me home, he silently prayed. The glory of your everlasting kingdom is spread out before me, and everything inside me rejoices. I know I must continue to fight in your name. Please be with me as I carry out the final chapter of this quest.
Dimitri stayed to feel the sun begin to warm the earth and until the chatter of sparrows in the cedar trees became lively. People were stirring inside the house, and it was time to join his guests, but he wanted to remember this moment for all time. His life came with no guarantees, and each golden sunrise could be his last.
By the time he headed back inside, Boris Antonovich was settled in the breakfast room, preparing a pipe. Mr. Antonovich was a lawyer from Saint Petersburg who rarely indulged in languid mornings of leisure. Already he had a law journal open before him, but he pushed it aside to welcome Dimitri to the table.
“Your mother is impatient to return to Saint Petersburg,” Mr. Antonovich said, drawing on his pipe. “She knew you’d want to come straight to Mirosa, but she’ll start nagging to go back to town soon.”
Dimitri prepared himself a cup of tea. “My mother deserves to do whatever she wishes. I shall remain here.”
“Olga has been waiting for you. She’ll probably want to go back to town too.”
Lovely Olga. When they were children, he and Olga used to catch frogs together, and in the evenings, they searched for fireflies. Now she was a widow with two children under the age of five. She had left her children in Moscow with their nanny, which was a sign that Olga might be here to rekindle their romance. There were all sorts of reasons he should welcome it . . . but he had not given up on luring Natalia here.
“What about you?” Dimitri asked, since lawyers like Mr. Antonovich rarely spent much time at their country estates.
“Saint Petersburg isn’t what it used to be,” Mr. Antonovich replied. “Even the czar has left. He now lives at Tsarskoye Selo and rarely ventures into the city except on state business.”
Dimitri blinked in surprise. The town of Tsarskoye Selo was south of Saint Petersburg and where the czar had a summer home, but it was nowhere near as grand as the Winter Palace.
“Why has he left?” Dimitri asked.
“Baron Freedericksz insisted upon it.”
Woldemar Freedericksz ruled over the imperial household with an iron fist. It was Baron Freedericksz who had refused to allow Dimitri access to the czar after the catastrophe at the Amur River. To this day, Dimitri didn’t know if blame for what happened to him should lie with Baron Freedericksz or Czar Nicholas. Possibly both.
“So if I wish to see the czar, Baron Freedericksz is the man I must consult?”
Mr. Antonovich nodded. “Yes, but why jump into matters of state again so quickly? You have your freedom and your property back. Relax and regain your strength, because it looks like you have aged ten years in the past twelve months. Nothing in the world will heal you like a month at Mirosa.”