Written on the Wind (The Blackstone Legacy #2)(95)
The minister looked annoyed as he left the courtyard, and the czar strolled over to his wife, who poured him a cup of tea. He seemed to be enjoying himself as a toddler pulled on his leg. Everyone else in the courtyard affected casual stances while hoping they would soon be recognized. Dimitri’s discomfort from standing on one leg morphed into pain, but he dared not sit. Not when he was this close to his goal.
Baron Freedericksz finally approached. “His Imperial Majesty will see you now.”
Dimitri nodded and positioned the crutches, his heart thudding as he crossed the smooth lawn to the shade of the tea table. Several officers and courtiers stood nearby, listening to everything. The czarina ignored him, but Czar Nicholas sent him a tepid nod.
“Count Sokolov,” he said. “I have been informed of your efforts to call attention to the terrible business out east. What a dreadful affair. I understand there was some confusion about your title and assets, but that’s all been cleared up, correct?”
Dimitri bowed. “Correct, your Imperial Majesty.”
“Excellent. So what happened to your leg?”
His face heated. “An unfortunate accident at my family’s cider mill.”
The czarina tutted in sympathy, and the czar looked amused. “Good heavens. Well, be sure to have some schnapps before you leave.” He glanced up and sent a signal to Baron Freedericksz, indicating the transaction was over.
That was it? Dimitri straightened to meet the czar’s gaze. “And who shall I see about the reaffirmation of the Treaty of Aigun?”
The czar quirked a brow, and Baron Freedericksz looked ready to implode. A few of the courtiers glanced nervously among themselves.
The czar’s voice was cool. “Have we decided a reaffirmation is necessary?”
“No final decision has been made,” Baron Freedericksz insisted, looking pointedly at some of the nearby courtiers, all of whom shook their heads in agreement.
“I didn’t think so,” Czar Nicolas said and proceeded to slather butter on a scone.
“We have, your Imperial Majesty,” a strong voice called out from several yards away. It was the man who looked like a college professor.
The czar’s manner cooled even more. “Count Witte,” he said in a tight voice. “I gather you have an opinion on this, as you do so many things.”
Dimitri straightened in surprised admiration. Count Sergei Witte had been a rising star under the previous czar and was the driving force behind the Trans-Siberian Railway. Ever since Nicholas ascended to the throne seven years earlier, there had been a concerted effort to diminish Count Witte’s influence at court. The czar did not appreciate people who brought him bad news.
“Yes, we have,” Count Witte said as he approached the table. “In two years, the Trans-Siberian will reach the Pacific. It will aggravate our relations with Japan and raise military concerns with our allies in the east. We don’t need additional trouble from China. The existing Treaty of Aigun must be publicly reaffirmed.”
The czar took a bite of scone, chewing slowly and deliberately as he pondered. Count Witte’s forceful declaration hung in the air, and the courtiers shifted in discomfort as the czar dabbed his mouth and wiped his fingers.
“Very well,” he finally said. “I shall alert the foreign minister that a public reaffirmation is to be issued. And then we shall speak no more of this, correct, Count Sokolov?”
A warning underlay the words. A dozen officers and courtiers had just heard the pronouncement, and with the momentum already underway in America, it would be hard for this matter to be ignored again. Dimitri had won.
“Correct, your Imperial Majesty,” he murmured, taking care that his bow was low, obsequious, and long. His entire body ached, but he’d endured worse. He straightened, and Count Witte gave him a brief nod of approval.
Dimitri gripped his crutches and started toward the courtyard door, feeling hostile eyes on him the entire journey.
“You idiot,” a gentleman wearing a peach satin waistcoat hissed. “You’ve made him angry when we need him to grant us concessions to avoid hereditary taxes.”
Another man with a diamond cravat pin glared at him as well. “You have just taken food out of the mouths of my children.”
Dimitri ignored them as he hobbled onward toward the palace. A pair of servants opened the doors, and a footman led him through the twisting corridors.
“Please,” Dimitri appealed to the footman. Exhaustion overcame him as tension from the past few hours drained away. Every muscle ached, his lungs wheezed, and he was dizzy with relief. He braced his hand on the silk wallpaper, trembling in fatigue. It was a struggle to catch his breath.
He had won.
He had won!
Natalia should be here. Relief cascaded over him, but instead of rejoicing, everything hurt because Natalia was not here to share this moment. The triumph was not complete without her.
After a moment, he regained his breath and repositioned the crutches. “Thank you,” he said to the footman once he was ready to proceed, then continued following the man through the maze of corridors.
What sort of symphony would Tchaikovsky have composed to capture this past year of adventure? Natalia would be represented by the sweet tone of an oboe, soaring high above the music, while Dimitri would be the clarion call of the trumpet. The drumbeat of the percussion would represent Maxim Tachenko and Count Witte and Ilya Komarov, all of them a force driving toward a better world.