40

It was not unusual for the boardinghouse residents to gather in the parlor before dinner for aperitifs, so that evening when Daniel was coming down for dinner he heard voices and paused at the door.

There were nine people in the room, all but one familiar to him. Besides Monsieur and Madame Durocq, there was Helen Westchester, a forty-five-year-old maiden English schoolteacher. Seated next to her and in rather animated conversation with her was the law student Emil Zorav; on his left, the elderly Alla Gittelmacher was sitting quietly, her hands occupied with a seemingly endless crochet project. Standing by the mantel, a pipe in his mouth and a rather patronizing look on his face was Dr. Aleksei Petrovskij, and across the room from him was Count Remizov, standing behind the settee where his daughter sat with the one stranger in the room. She was an older woman, perhaps sixty. Even seated, she was obviously tall, and she was attractive, with smooth skin that hardly showed her years. But there was a hard aspect to her features that undid whatever impression her lineless skin made of her age. Her iron-gray hair knotted at the top of her head added not only to her height but also to the general severity of her appearance. She had a peculiar way of never looking anyone in the eye but still managing to effect an attitude of superiority, looking down her Romanesque nose.

When Daniel entered the room and Madame Durocq made introductions, he was shocked to learn that this woman was the Countess Eugenia Remizov, Dmitri’s mother and Mariana’s grandmother. She held out a limp hand to Daniel and did not return his smile. He wondered at first if somehow rumor of his and Mariana’s friendship had reached the old lady and she did not approve. Then he realized that this was her usual manner toward everyone she met.

“Countess Eugenia—” Madame Durocq began, then stopped and turned to Daniel. “Daniel, we have already decided that in order to prevent confusion, our Mariana will be Countess Mariana, and her grandmother shall be Countess Eugenia. Now, Countess,” she continued in Eugenia’s direction, “you must tell us the news from Moscow.”

“What can I say? The ‘season’ is long over and society is quiet,” she said in a bored tone. “However the weather is pleasant as it always is in Moscow, not as it is in Peter’s dreadful city. I don’t know why I allowed my son to drag me away at this time of year.”

“The reason is sitting right next to you, Mama,” said Dmitri pleasantly, indicating Mariana.

“Of course. It is not every day a woman learns she has a granddaughter—eighteen years after the fact.” Countess Eugenia cast a sour, biting glance toward her son.

“That must have been quite a shock,” said Monsieur Durocq.

“All with good reason, as I explained several weeks ago when I first told my mama,” said Dmitri. “But,” he added with a glance toward the others, “she was understandably furious with me, until this most recent visit when I finally prevailed upon her to come with me to St. Petersburg.”

“You needn’t air all our business in front of these people, Dmitri,” said the countess sharply.

“These are our friends, Mama. They understand.”

“Well, Countess Eugenia,” said Helen Westchester with an affectionate look toward Mariana, “you were certainly within your rights to be upset, but I do not believe you will regret your decision to come to St. Petersburg to meet your granddaughter. She is a sweet, lovely girl. You can be proud of her.”

The countess turned her peevish gaze on Mariana. “We certainly shall see, shan’t we?”

Daniel watched Mariana turn pale at her grandmother’s look and words. He wanted to blast the woman for her condescending tone about someone he cared deeply about. But he held his tongue, knowing that thoughtless words at this point could only make matters worse for Mariana.

Madame Durocq, apparently also aware of the tension, deftly changed the subject. “Countess Eugenia, I have heard from your son that you are an accomplished musician. We have a few minutes before dinner; would you be so kind as to honor us with a small piece?”

“No, I am sorry, I cannot,” answered the countess, making her apology sound like anything but.

“My dear mama,” Dmitri put in quickly in a conciliatory tone, “is not too keen about performing in public. But, Madame Durocq, if you will permit me, perhaps I can fill the musical void. My talents are far from the level of my mother’s, but I can bumble along adequately.”

“Père,” said Mariana to her father, “I had no idea you could play. I would love sometime to play my balalaika with you.”

“That would be delightful, my dear. Perhaps after dinner, if Madame Durocq would permit.”

“Only if you allow an audience!” laughed Madame Durocq.

“I’m sure we will need some practice first,” said Mariana.

“Then we must do it as soon as you feel prepared,” said the landlady. “In the meantime, Count Remizov, do honor us with a number.”

Dmitri strode to the grand piano in the corner of the room, sat down, and stretched his hands and arms for a moment. “I am quite taken with the works of Rimsky-Korsakov, so I shall attempt a movement from Sheherazade.”

He made more than an attempt. Count Remizov was a talented musician. Daniel now recalled that the count had played the piano at Joan’s party before they left America, but that had been popular honky-tonk tunes, hardly the caliber of Rimsky-Korsakov. And what was even more amazing, he used no music, playing completely from memory! The man, if he wished, could have made quite a comfortable living on his musical talents alone. Unfortunately he had chosen to emphasize other talents instead.

Later that evening, after most of the boardinghouse residents had retired to their rooms for the night, Dmitri fetched a tray of tea from the kitchen and visited his mother’s room, ostensibly to inquire of her needs. As usual, he had an ulterior motive.

“Ah, Mama, I hope you are comfortable,” he said in his most charming manner.

Eugenia had been given one of the nicest vacant rooms in the house. It was quite large though without its own sitting room. This lack was compensated for by the fine furnishings, among the newest in the house, and the lovely view of the distant Neva.

“I am cramped and chilly, and I do believe the meat at dinner was tainted.” Eugenia was lounging on a velvet daybed, and for all her complaints looked quite comfortable.

“I’m terribly sorry, Mama.” Dmitri set the tea down beside her, fluffed up the pillows at her back, then poured her a cup of tea. “Take this, Mama, and see if it doesn’t help.”

She grimaced slightly as she sipped the tea, but Dmitri could tell by the way she relaxed into the pillows that his attentions were taking affect. He pulled up a chair and sat beside her, pouring himself a cup of tea as well—though he desired a much stronger beverage.

“So, what do you think of our Mariana? She is a sweet angel, is she not?” he asked solicitously.

“She is pretty, I won’t deny it,” said Eugenia. “But then I never denied her mother’s beauty, either. Yet, even you must admit that your wife was strong-willed and self-centered. I was willing to put up with it because of the Fedorcenko name, though precious little good it did any of us in the end. I doubt you will ever see a kopeck of that fortune.”

Dmitri was dying for a cigarette. “Do you mind if I smoke?” he asked as he removed his gold case from his breast pocket.

“Oh, Dmitri! What a detestable habit! I will not have it in my presence!”

Dmitri quickly replaced his case; he supposed he could subjugate his nicotine hunger for more important matters. He drank his tea, although it was small solace.

“Mama, back to what you were saying about the Fedorcenko fortune. I would have thought you a bit more perceptive of the . . . how shall I say it? . . . fine nuances of all that has transpired in recent weeks.”

“All I know is that you and that Katrina had a child eighteen years ago, and you both saw fit to keep it from me.” Eugenia glared at her son. “I might have given her a home and her place in society, but, no, I was slighted, ignored—insulted! And you wonder why I refused to see you or speak to you after you first informed me of those events.”

“We had very good reasons. There was a madman trying to kill us, and we had every reason to believe he’d kill Mariana, too, if he could find her. To send her to live with you might only have endangered you also. Thank God the man is no longer a threat. I recently learned from his father that the villain died in Zurich several years ago.”

Eugenia shrugged as if none of this mattered to her, and the insult could never be repaired. However, she was willing to overlook it for a time, at least. “What’s done is done,” she said. “You convinced me to come to meet the child. I may even feel a certain obligation to take her back to Moscow with me.”

“Mama! Mama! I don’t think you have yet understood the full implications of this entire business.”

“Then perhaps you had better tell me. It’s late and I am tired.”

“Forgive me, Mama. You have had a long day. It can wait—”

“Stop this deception at once, Dmitri!” she retorted with unexpected venom. “You’ve had something on your mind since you first came to me. I am quite aware of the fact that you only contact me when you want something. So, what is it? What do you want?”

“Mama, I am so sorry if it has appeared thus to you. But I have never been able to recover adequately from that terrible blow eighteen years ago, and—”

“Get on with it, Dmitri! I don’t appreciate your whining.”

Dmitri swallowed nervously. He had become extremely unaccustomed to the direct approach and was uncertain of how to proceed.

“All right, Mama,” he said, tentatively at first, but gaining momentum as he continued. “This is it, as clearly as I can make it. Mariana is a Fedorcenko, and thus is the direct heir to the Fedorcenko holdings.”

“Direct, you say? Wasn’t there a son?”

“Yes, but . . .” Dmitri hesitated and his mother latched onto this immediately.

“As I recall, he was exiled,” she said.

“Yes. And life exiles lose all their rights.”

“But there is more to it than that, isn’t there? Come out with it, Dmitri. If you wish my assistance in this, I insist on knowing everything. If you hold any of it back, you will regret it.”

“Sergei Fedorcenko escaped from Siberia and has been living under an assumed identity in the provinces these many years . . .” He paused. He was betraying a friend, but he had come too far to worry about such things. “He and that maid of Katrina’s raised Mariana. But, Mama, we mustn’t tell anyone about Sergei . . . there is no need, anyway. Sergei has no interest in the family inheritance, and even if he did he couldn’t claim it without bringing serious consequences upon himself. Thus, Mariana is next in line.”

“But Viktor Fedorcenko is still alive.”

“Yes, but not in his right mind. It might be possible to have Mariana made executor of the estate. In any case, there is no reason for her not to be taking advantage of the Fedorcenko fortune now.”

“Rumor has it that the estate is not as substantial as it once was.”

“I have made some discreet inquiries.” Dmitri relaxed and refilled their teacups. “An accountant several years ago extorted several thousand rubles from the business holdings, which had mostly been in the form of several large investments in various enterprises—a St. Petersburg metal works, a cotton mill in Moscow, an iron foundry in the Ural Mountains, and a handful of smaller businesses. All except the metal works were lost through that indiscretion. The metal works seem to be the only income-producing resource at present, and it has enabled Fedorcenko to hang on to the properties and a somewhat comfortable lifestyle. All the properties remain, and they are quite valuable, if one should ever place them on the market.”

“How valuable?”

“Hundreds of thousands of rubles, Mama.”

“It’s hard to believe that Sergei Fedorcenko accepted living like a peasant with those resources available to him.”

“As I said, they were not available without a heavy price. Besides, Sergei has some peculiar notions about the virtues of the peasant life, or some such thing. He was always a strange bird. And, as long as the old man lives, he’d be unable to dispose of the real estate.”

“So, what do you expect from me?”

Dmitri was surprised that his mother could be so direct, but then he’d never talked to her much in the past, avoiding her whenever possible.

“Mariana needs the guidance of a woman,” he answered. “I would like her to be returned to her place in society, a necessary first step to claiming her rightful inheritance. It may be that she could also make a good marriage, and thus bring even more financial security to the . . . ah, family. I wish for her to have a gala ‘coming out’ so that everyone knows that the Countess Mariana Dmitrievna Remizov is back in circulation, as it were. I would like us to take up residence in our old St. Petersburg house and live in a style worthy of people in our social position.”

“St. Petersburg! How could I bear it, Dmitri? Why not Moscow?”

“You know very well, why not, Mama.” Dmitri was beginning to warm up to this business of directness. “St. Petersburg is the social hub of the country. It is the only place where Mariana can take full advantage of who she is. Why, it is entirely possible for her to be accepted into the royal family itself! Her grandmother was a lady-in-waiting to the Empress dowager, and Katrina was well on her way to assuming such a position also.”

“But the family fell out of royal favor.”

“We will get around that.”

“You know I hate St. Petersburg. And with summer coming on now! I will die of cholera, or something horrid.”

“We won’t need to spend the summer in the city. We have been invited by Princess Gudosnikov, an old friend of Natalia Fedorcenko’s, to join her in the Crimea for the summer. She is an excellent contact, Mama, and indicates that others of the Fedorcenko acquaintances will be anxious to receive Mariana—and thus, ourselves, also.”

“Well, I don’t need any of them, but for the child’s sake, I suppose it would be beneficial to play up to them.”

“Mama, you need not put on airs for me. We do need Mariana and what she can do for us. You are barely hanging on to the Moscow properties yourself. The only reason you have kept the St. Petersburg house is because you couldn’t find a buyer and were able to make more money by renting it out.”

“And just what do you think we will do if we move back into that house and lose that income? I refuse to allow strangers into my Moscow home.”

“If we play this right, Mama, we won’t have to worry about that. I predict that in less than a year we will be sitting pretty, as they say in America.”

Eugenia sat forward and tapped her chin thoughtfully. “You said a ‘coming out’ party. That will take planning. When is her birthday?”

“She will be eighteen next month.”

“Ugh! In the summer. That will never do. We will wait until the ‘season’ begins. Perhaps right after Christmas. It will take some initial outlay of capital. I suppose there are a couple of paintings I could part with.”

“I am certain it will be worth all our efforts. And it won’t hurt Mariana, either.” He added this last more as an afterthought, an appeasement for any pangs of conscience that might assail him.

“Mariana will benefit the most.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Dmitri, you are certain about going to the Crimea this summer?”

“Positive.”

Eugenia managed a smile, though it was thin and taut. “If we had a bit of brandy, we could toast our future success.”

“Say no more, Mama! Your wish is my command. I will be back in a moment.”

True to his word, in five minutes he returned with a decanter and two glasses, and a toast was made between mother and son.

“To our future good fortune . . . and of course, to Mariana’s also.”