The day had been no less perplexing to Daniel. One moment Mariana was warm and responsive, and the next as cool as a winter afternoon, and as distant . . . as the Statue of Liberty. Well, in truth, only occasionally was she cold and distant, but it was still puzzling.
When he had tried to kiss her that afternoon, he had felt certain that she would be willing from the way she had looked at him. But then she had pulled back and told him she just wanted to be “friends.”
But he was a normal “red-blooded” American male, and it just wasn’t easy to be restrained with a girl as attractive as Mariana. Still, he had forced himself to back off for the rest of the afternoon because he didn’t want to scare her. He couldn’t forget that he was committed to writing that article.
He wondered if her peculiar actions supported what he had come to suspect—that she was hiding something, probably about her adoptive parents. He was intensely curious about what it might be and how it might affect his article. But he wasn’t ready to press that issue yet. He would wait until he had a few installments in print before he took that risk.
In the meantime, he just did not know what to make of this Mariana Remizov, peasant girl turned countess.
One thing he did know—she was wonderful. She had a lively spirit, a warm voice, a manner that was sometimes innocent and naive, sometimes as refined and incisive as the aristocrat she was. With her he felt alive, as if he could conquer the world or hold a fragile butterfly in the palm of his hand. When he wasn’t with her and thoughts of her flitted through his mind, he felt like singing, and a grin would slip unbidden across his face.
Once, at the office, Cranston had commented on the change, and Daniel had actually turned red!
The afternoon after his outing in the park with Mariana, Daniel had returned to the office, and the subject of his frequent absences had come up.
“You are getting that article done, aren’t you?” asked Cranston.
Daniel was working at his typewriter, and in response to Cranston’s question, he pulled out the sheet of paper that he was working on, picked up two more sheets that were lying next to the machine, and handed them to his boss.
“There you go, George! The first three pages of ‘From Izba to Palace: A Russian Story.’”
Cranston scanned the first page. “This is quite good, Daniel.”
Daniel didn’t enjoy Cranston’s compliment as much as he should have. He was still thinking about Mariana, wondering what she would think of it. He felt a small twinge of guilt for not telling her about it before.
He wondered if the peculiar sensations he was experiencing had anything to do with love. He wondered if she felt the same way. Most of the time he thought he was sweeping her right off her pretty little feet. Yet there was something wrong. Daniel couldn’t exactly pin it down, but he knew it had something to do with those moments when Mariana would retreat from him. Perhaps with all the sudden changes that had come recently to her life, she was reluctant to fall into an entangling romantic liaison.
Well, I can be patient, if that’s all it is, he told himself with confidence, returning his attention to his typewriter. He had a lot of work to do, and he couldn’t be mooning about like a lovesick schoolboy. Not only did he have to finish ‘From Izba to Palace,’ but he had other assignments to write. He had been neglecting his work, and George wasn’t the kind of man to give favors to the boss’s son—in fact, Daniel had insisted he not be treated differently because of his father.
“Your Remizov and his daughter should be pleased when they see this,” Cranston went on, still reading the article.
“I suppose so,” said Daniel unenthusiastically.
“Are you kidding? They’ll turn somersaults. I’ll have the Register send a bunch of extra copies for them to give to friends. Who knows, we might even be able to syndicate this in some Russian papers!”
“That might not be a good idea, George.”
Cranston eyed his reporter. It was most unusual for Daniel Trent to be so subdued about the prospect of fame and acclaim. “What’s going on, Daniel? We do have Remizov’s permission for this, don’t we?”
“Yeah. I even got it in writing.”
“I never told his daughter about it, that’s all.”
“That shouldn’t pose any legal problems as long as the old man—” Cranston stopped suddenly and grinned. “But it’s not legal problems you’re worried about, is it? This is going to cause you some woman problems, isn’t it? Some big woman problems!”
“I don’t see why it should,” said Daniel defensively. “Anybody would love this kind of attention.”
“You don’t know much about women, do you?”
“Aw! There’s no reason she would ever see this, anyway. The Register’s circulation is thousands of miles away. We can just forget about syndication.”
“And what about the old man? He’s going to want to see it. Why, he’s always coming around here, nagging you about the story.”
“And that’s just why I never told the girl—I didn’t want her to start acting like that.”
“Hey, I can see your point. But it isn’t going to help you in the romance department.”
“Who cares!” retorted Daniel as if he were arguing with Cranston. “I’m getting a story, and a doggone good one. That’s what matters.”
“You get no argument from me on that.”
“If there was ever any real news happening around here, I wouldn’t have to write this drivel.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Daniel. You’re doing a good job here. Your only mistake was in getting personally involved.” Cranston tapped Daniel’s article thoughtfully against his chin. “As a matter of fact, I have another assignment for you.”
“What about the ‘Izba’ article?”
“I’m still going to want enough for five installments, but it’s not exactly breaking news, so it can go on the back burner for a while.”
“Say no more, George! I’m ready.”
“Okay, here it is: the tsar has called a peace conference in The Hague. I’d like you to go along with the Russian delegation to cover it for the Register.”
Daniel could have jumped up and kissed Cranston. Instead, he just let out a loud whoop.
“Yeah, well just call me your fairy godmother,” said Cranston wryly. “Maybe it’ll help you in the romance department, too . . . give you a chance to iron things out with the Remizov girl before anything appears in print.”
That was a possibility. But in the flurry of his excitement and preparations for his trip to the Netherlands, Daniel all but forgot his worries about Mariana and his slightly seared conscience. No sense shaking things up prematurely. It would be months now before that article would appear in print.