Written on the Wind (The Blackstone Legacy #2)(2)
Aaron continued hastily knotting his tie. “When I dined with the senior Blackstones last week, Mrs. Blackstone said everyone should wear a tie, even in the back office.”
Natalia’s smile froze. Her stepmother might reign supreme at home, but Natalia refused to let Poppy bully her coworkers on the third floor.
“Mrs. Blackstone rarely visits the bank, and I would prefer to keep a more relaxed atmosphere here,” she said, trying to conceal her dislike for her father’s new wife. It was galling to think of Poppy as her stepmother. After all, she and Poppy were the same age.
She pushed the disagreeable thoughts aside to continue Liam’s tour. “I’m showing my cousin how we communicate with our overseas accounts. Has there been any news from Count Sokolov?”
“Not a thing, ma’am.”
Her spirit dimmed. Count Dimitri Sokolov was her point of contact for the railway, and his continued silence was worrisome. For the past three years, they had exchanged regular telegrams as she wired him funds to supply tons of coal and steel to his remote Siberian outpost. What began as a business arrangement had soon morphed into a friendship. The count’s telegrams were long, chatty, and fascinating. After their initial formality, he soon addressed her simply as “Dearest Natalia.” Then he would fire off all manner of questions and observations. He had opinions on everything from the proper way to brew tea to the merits of classical music. He was a bit of a hypochondriac, frequently bemoaning the state of his health in the desolate Siberian wilderness.
Dearest Natalia, he had written last week. I am glad to report that the sun has been shining, but this morning I noticed a rash on my hands. I fear it is sun poisoning and I am likely to catch my death. It can happen to even the strongest of men.
It was typical of Dimitri’s melodramatic suffering, but she would send him words of teasing comfort, which he thrived upon. She didn’t know if he was handsome or homely, but she knew his favorite ballet was Swan Lake, and that he crossbred apple trees at his summer estate. He was a bit of a snob, always praising the pomp and formality of Russian feudalism, and he teased her mercilessly over American informality. Why do Americans shake hands instead of bowing like the rest of the civilized world? It is unsanitary, Natalia. One day I shall learn of your death by a pestilence contracted from your obsessive handshaking.
When Natalia saw the world through Count Sokolov’s eyes, everything became more vivid. Sunsets were not the end of the day, they were blazing fires of a dying sun as it reclined in exhaustion. The chocolates she sent him for Christmas weren’t a simple gift, but quite possibly the finest culinary creation since God himself sent manna to the Hebrews wandering in the desert.
“Let me show you how we communicate,” she said to Liam, taking a seat beside Aaron at the telegraph machine. Her message notified Count Sokolov of the incoming loan installment and projections for the next month. Even though the wire was going to Russia, they were always sent in English.
Natalia was fluent in Russian, of course. Her Russian mother had raised her from birth on Russian language, folklore, and customs. It was Natalia’s ease with Russian culture that gave her father the confidence to assign her to the Russian account. Soon Natalia had a better understanding of the Russian economy than anyone else in the bank, and she was promoted to lead the Trans-Siberian project.
While Aaron tapped the brass sounder to send the message, she continued explaining to Liam how the Trans-Siberian would soon reach the Pacific Ocean. It meant that Americans could start exporting their goods from California to the huge Russian market. It was a privilege to be a part of something that was going to change the world. Dreaming about the Trans-Siberian captured her imagination, even though she needed to keep this exuberant part of her soul hidden. It was essential to project the same logical formality as all the other soberly suited businessmen of Wall Street.
A cascade of clicks from the telegraph sounder came to life with an incoming message. Its brevity made it obvious it did not come from Count Sokolov, who would have berated Natalia for such a terse message without a salutation or an inquiry about his health.
Aaron passed her the message:
Confirmation received. Payroll next month anticipated to hold steady.
“That’s all?” she asked in dismay.
“That’s all,” Aaron confirmed.
She wouldn’t tolerate it. Dimitri’s continuing absence worried her. “Send a message asking for the whereabouts of Count Sokolov,” she ordered. The miracle of modern telegraphy meant that messages arrived at their destination after only a few minutes, but her growing unease made her impatient. When the answer to her message arrived five minutes later, the news was not good:
Count Sokolov has been reassigned.
“I don’t believe it,” she insisted. Dimitri would love to be transferred back to Saint Petersburg, but he would not have left his post without telling her goodbye. If Count Sokolov no longer worked on the railroad, she had no idea how to contact him.
But she knew who could help.
The police department of New York City served the most diverse community in America. Immigrants from all over the world clustered into ethnic enclaves, where their native languages continued to thrive for generations. Many of those bilingual immigrants found work in the police department, and Boris Kozlov was just such a man.
Boris arrived from the Ukraine twelve years ago and patrolled a Russian-speaking section of the city informally known as Little Odessa. He strolled the two-mile loop through the neighborhood and often stopped in at The Samovar, a Russian market and tea shop that catered to the Slavic community. If Natalia waited at the tea shop long enough, Boris would eventually make an appearance.