Written on the Wind (The Blackstone Legacy #2)(82)

“Two rubles,” the shopkeeper demanded, holding the telegram to his chest.

Dimitri paid the man, impatient to see what Natalia wrote. He smiled as he read that she had commissioned a recording of Brahms’s Hungarian Dances. The master copy was already complete, and she was headed to the factory in Jersey City to oversee the production of a thousand copies.

His heart swelled with pride. Natalia had made the bank the center of her world for too long. Now that she had been driven out of it, she was pursuing her love of moody, romantic music that she’d always kept carefully concealed.

He could not resist the temptation to advise her on upcoming recordings.

No more German music, please. I humbly suggest one of the new Russian composers whose visionary style will lead us into the new century.

Her response wasn’t long in coming. She insisted that Russian composers like Rimsky-Korsakov and Alexander Borodin were not well known in America and she wouldn’t earn her investment back on the master copy. He replied they were famous in Europe and had attained near-sacred status in Russia.

Once again, her response came within a few minutes.

I am not selling records in Russia. I need to sell them in America.

Dimitri set the message on the front counter, thrumming his fingers against it. Why couldn’t she sell them in Russia? If she could ship railroad supplies to Siberia, why couldn’t she send a few crates of record albums to Saint Petersburg? It was the most sophisticated city in all of Russia, and he could sell them for her. He and Natalia had been business partners on the Trans-Siberian, and they could be partners again.

He impulsively scribbled out his proposal and thrust it at the clerk.

Commission five thousand copies of “Flight of the Bumblebee” by Rimsky-Korsakov and ship them to me. I will sell them for you here.

Her reaction was shocked, as he knew it would be, but Natalia was a woman of business and naturally cautious. In time, she would see the merit of his proposal. After only two more exchanges of messages, she agreed to the venture.

That day began their new business relationship. In the coming weeks she advised him on which types of retail shops sold musical recordings, and he sought them out to initiate an agreement to sell Natalia’s records. Their new partnership wasn’t as good as having her here, but it was satisfying.

And perhaps in time, he could figure out a way to bring her here in person, and for good.





32





Dimitri had been back at Mirosa for two weeks but still had no response from Baron Freedericksz about an audience with the czar. Perhaps the baron thought Dimitri would be satisfied by the return of his title and property and would no longer stir up trouble regarding the massacre on the Amur.

If so, the baron thought wrong.

Tachenko’s recording of “Waves of the Amur” was now selling all over America, and Dimitri was prepared to start selling them in Russia too. It would be dangerous to release the incendiary violinist’s recording, but unless the czar renewed his commitment to the 1858 treaty, Dimitri intended to start the drumbeat here in Russia as well.

In the meantime, he sank back into work at Mirosa’s cider mill, doing everything from making the apple mash to bottling the cider. It was exhausting work, but a good sort of exhaustion that came with a sense of accomplishment from a job well done. Things were exactly as he remembered, from the creak of the waterwheel to the sweet scent of autumn hay. All of it was a balm to his soul.

Yesterday he had worked with Pavel Golubev, the overseer of the mill, to repair the ancient waterwheel, which was beginning to wobble and show its age. This morning he helped unload a cartload of apples from a local farmer. The Sokolovs grew more than enough apples to supply the mill, but they always bought from local people too. Apples were an easy form of income for the poor, and buying from them helped ease tensions in the valley.

The afternoon was growing late, and Dimitri hoisted another bushel of classic reds onto his shoulder and dumped them into the vat of water. Pavel cranked the flywheel while Dimitri used a rake to nudge the apples toward the millstone, blinking as cold droplets splashed his face.

He and Pavel had worked in tandem for several minutes when Pavel abruptly stopped cranking the flywheel and swept the cap from his head. Dimitri followed his gaze, surprised to see his elegant mother picking her way across the lumpy yard outside the mill.

“Mama!” he greeted her affectionately. He had been upset when he first saw her upon his return to Mirosa. Her hair had turned mostly gray, and worry lines had been permanently carved onto her face. Her traumatized appearance eased following his return, but the past year of being turned out of her home had been difficult for her. Perhaps that was why she was doing her best to regain her former standing in the valley by always appearing immaculately dressed, with jewels on her hands and pearls around her neck.

“Come in out of the mud,” he urged, leading her to the patio outside the mill.

“Why is the ground so sticky?” she asked as she eyed the slate pavers.

Dimitri had been too busy to notice the condition of the slate, but Pavel quickly answered. “Ilya Komarov was here last night. He never cleans up properly.”

His mother’s face stiffened. “If that ruffian can’t be respectful of the privilege we grant him by allowing him to use our mill, he should be fined and banned from the property.”

“Mama, please,” Dimitri said soothingly, even though it looked like Pavel agreed. The last thing Dimitri wanted to do was stir up trouble in the valley, and Ilya was a hard worker. He lived in a ramshackle cabin with his wife and two sons down at the river’s bend. Instead of selling his apples to Dimitri like others in the valley, Ilya paid a small fee to use the mill and produced his own cider. At least, that was what Ilya claimed to be doing. Dimitri suspected Ilya fermented his cider into applejack, which was almost as potent and profitable as vodka.