Written on the Wind (The Blackstone Legacy #2)(87)
He grabbed a rough canvas coat from a hook in the mill and nodded a greeting to Pavel, who had already begun a vat of apple cider vinegar. Dimitri pried the lid from a barrel of discarded apple cores needed for making vinegar. It was a sticky, smelly job, but he didn’t mind.
He was scooping apple scraps into the hopper when he spotted Olga picking her way across the yard.
“Dima, please,” she coaxed as she stepped up onto the old slate of the mill. “Let’s talk.”
He didn’t want to have this conversation, but it was time. Pavel pretended not to notice as Dimitri brushed off his hands and gestured to the old stone wall bordering the creek that fed the waterwheel.
This wall of fieldstone rock was one of his favorite places on the estate. As a child he used to walk along the top of it even though his father forbade it because a loose stone could send him tumbling into the frigid water. Later he learned that his father had also walked atop the wall during his youth, and his grandfather before him. They had all been scolded about the danger, and should Dimitri ever raise a child here, he would do the same.
Dimitri gestured for Olga to join him on the bench beside the wall, and she started pressuring him to come to Moscow with her.
“You are a celebrity,” she said. “Come to Moscow, where you will be the toast of the town. It won’t last forever. You can come to the city and meet my children. They are adorable.”
A fond ache bloomed in his chest. Olga would someday make a charming wife to a Moscow aristocrat who enjoyed city life as much as she did. Perhaps the curse of the illness he suffered at nineteen had been a blessing in disguise. Olga was not the right partner for him. He wanted Natalia. He wanted Natalia here in the valley, where they could adopt children and watch them grow up tramping through the apple orchards and fishing in the lake and making cider in the autumn. They could spend time at his townhouse in the city, where Natalia could commission the Saint Petersburg Philharmonic to make records to sell all over Russia and Europe. Their lives would be perfect.
“Dima?” Olga asked, her expression confused. “What’s wrong? You seem very far away.”
He wasn’t. His heart was here at Mirosa as it had always been. Now he merely needed a way to bring Natalia to him.
He turned an affectionate gaze to Olga. “You are a rare gem, Olga. You are meant for champagne and caviar, not apple cider and country living. I belong here, not in the glittering world of the city.”
Her pout was equal parts teasing and sorrowful. “And that will never change?”
“That will never change.”
She kissed him softly on the lips. It was their first kiss since he was nineteen years old, and it would be their last. Affectionate, gentle, and a little bittersweet.
“Farewell, my friend,” she said. “I will be off to Moscow in the morning.”
Memories of Olga haunted Dimitri the rest of the afternoon while he made cider vinegar with Pavel. He didn’t want to return to the house yet because things might still be awkward with Olga.
Just as the sun began to set, Ilya Komarov came down the path with his ancient nag pulling another cartload of apples. Dimitri didn’t want Ilya’s surly mood tainting one of the last fine evenings of the year, so he retreated back inside.
Even the awkwardness of dealing with Olga was easier than making peace with Ilya. It made Dimitri wonder if allowing the surly carpenter to use his mill had been a mistake.
It was time for Dimitri to confront Baron Freedericksz about the czar’s continuing silence on the Treaty of Aigun. Thanks to Felix, Dimitri had everything he needed to make his point blindingly clear to the baron, and hopefully to Czar Nicholas as well. Since his request for a private audience with the czar had been blatantly disrespected, it was time to confront the baron in public.
Before his elevation to the czar’s household, Baron Freedericksz had been commander of the Imperial Stables, a sprawling complex of manicured fields and stable blocks built in the Gothic Revival style. The buildings all featured pointed arches, mullioned windows, and turrets with crenellated towers. Perhaps Dimitri had spent too long with Maxim Tachenko and Liam Blackstone, but it seemed a shame that the czar’s horses lived in better quarters than most of the Russian people.
Baron Freedericksz still attended the weekly cavalry drill, and as expected, he was in attendance today. A group of cavalry officers had gathered near the review stand, all wearing jodhpurs and riding boots, but the sixty-year-old baron was easy to spot. Baron Freedericksz had been growing his mustache for decades, and it was waxed, groomed, and twisted to extend several inches from each side of his face, making him the most recognizable man in court.
Dimitri smiled thinly as he approached. He would project an aura of relaxed charm, but he and the baron would both know the truth.
Dimitri paused a few paces away from the group of cavalry officers. “Baron Freedericksz, we met a number of years ago at the Nevsky Regatta. Count Dimitri Sokolov, at your service.”
The officers paused their conversation, and the baron’s eyes grew cold. “Yes?” he drawled.
“I would like to arrange an audience with the czar.”
“My secretary already made arrangements for us to meet early next year,” the baron said dismissively, turning back to the junior officers. On the far side of the field, soldiers walked their horses out of the stable blocks, preparing for review.
“The matter is of considerable importance,” Dimitri said.