Written on the Wind (The Blackstone Legacy #2)(88)
“Which is why I consented to meet with you early in the new year.”
Icicles dripped from the baron’s voice, but Dimitri had expected this. Baron Freedericksz was going to stall, delay, and belittle Dimitri in an effort to sweep everything under the carpet and out of sight, but Dimitri was ready to begin firing his ammunition.
He reached into the deep pocket of his overcoat for the slim volume from his library at Mirosa and presented it to the baron. “Please,” he said, pushing the book into the baron’s hands, “I have marked the chapter on the Treaty of Aigun, and I hope you will review it ahead of our meeting.”
“An old law book?” the baron asked.
“An old law book that is in four hundred libraries across the Russian Empire, two hundred in Europe, and seventy-five in the United States. The treaty is well known here, but I have sent copies to statesmen in the United States, Japan, and England to refresh their memories.” He reached into his pocket again for a copy of Tachenko’s album. “In case you prefer something more modern, here is a recording that has just been released in America. It’s called the ‘Waves of the Amur,’ performed by Maxim Tachenko.”
One of the junior officers scoffed. “Tachenko is a disgraced hothead of no consequence anywhere in Russia.”
“You should see the standing ovations he receives on his concert tours,” Dimitri said. “Nobody in America had even heard of the Amur River until Mr. Tachenko made the song famous. Now this album is being played in parlors across America. The people who commissioned the album would like to distribute them in Russia as well.”
They were fighting words, and the baron recognized the threat for what it was. “I shall prohibit any such recordings from entering the country.”
A junior officer gestured to the album. “At least one copy is already here.”
“Hundreds are already here,” Dimitri corrected, for Natalia had made good on her promise to have them shipped. “At the moment they are in a warehouse, but that might change.”
“Don’t push me,” Baron Freedericksz said. “What has been given can be taken away.”
It was a reference to Mirosa and his title. Dimitri bowed his head in acknowledgment. “No one understands that better than I do. I would be happy to allow those albums to molder in the warehouse, provided the right conditions are met. Perhaps we can meet after the parade to discuss matters?”
Baron Freedericksz narrowed his eyes. “We will discuss it now,” he said, gesturing to the administrative building on the far side of the parade field.
Ten minutes later, Dimitri had agreed to delay the distribution of the albums in exchange for an audience with the czar the following week.
34
It felt strange to listen to Christmas carols in September, but the album Natalia had commissioned needed to be recorded now in order to press enough copies for the Christmas season. Even though there had been no softening of her father’s willingness to allow her back into the bank, he enthusiastically supported her music venture. He offered advice on contracts and let her take advantage of his shipping connections for her overseas exports. He’d even come to the studio to listen as a trio of brass musicians recorded her Christmas album.
The room was small, and the recording device looked similar to a phonograph, except the flaring bell was much larger to capture the sound. Instead of a shellac album, the rotating disc was coated with waxy chemicals onto which the needle would make tiny impressions of the sound vibrations. The two trumpeters and the trombone player stood close to the bell-shaped receiver, while Natalia and Oscar hugged the back wall and held their hands over their ears as “Good King Wenceslas” filled the room. “O Holy Night” came next. Someday deep in December, this recording would be heard in farmhouses, tenements, and homesteads across the nation. Someday it would be heard in Russia too.
Maybe it was the swelling emotion in the music that made her teary-eyed. It was too late to ship the records overseas in time for Christmas, but she could press enough copies to sell them in Russia next year.
Would Dimitri still be a part of her life next Christmas? It had been four months since he left, and even though their lively exchange of telegrams continued, the messages weren’t enough to ease her loneliness. Thinking of Dimitri hurt more than it made her happy.
The final passages of “O Holy Night” were coming to an end when a door slammed in the hallway outside.
The loud bang caused a trumpeter to jerk his instrument aside. “What was that?” he snapped.
The technician lifted the needle off the waxed disc. The recording was ruined, and they would have to start again. Waxed discs were expensive too. She cast a baleful eye at the intruder who stepped inside. It was a delivery boy from the Western Union.
“Telegram for Miss Natalia Blackstone,” he announced, oblivious to the lovely recording he’d just ruined.
“Here,” she said, handing the boy a coin before signing her name on the clipboard to acknowledge receipt of the wire.
“Can I have an extra tip?” the boy asked. “I tried to deliver it to the townhouse where it was addressed, but a construction worker told me you would be here, so it’s almost like I made two deliveries.”
Natalia scrounged in her purse for another coin. It was true that she had asked the carpenter installing her new kitchen cabinets to forward messages to her here at the studio. She’d failed to anticipate anyone would ignore the Do Not Disturb sign on the door.