“Mama, I think you are lecturing me.”
“Yes, I suppose I am.”
“Stephan and I do not wish to marry out of duty or necessity. We love each other.”
Anna gave a noncommittal nod.
“Well?” urged Mariana.
“Well . . . what?”
“What do you say to that?”
“Do you wish my advice, or my blessing?”
“Both, I guess.”
“You have my blessing, Mariana, and, though he must speak for himself, I believe you will have your papa’s. Stephan is a good young man. Nevertheless, my advice would be to wait until you are both older. Does he not wish to go to the university? Will you want to go with him?”
Mariana looked down into her lap, obviously deflated. “Why must he have such lofty ideas?”
“That is just Stephan,” said Anna. “And no doubt that is part, at least, of why you care for him.”
“If we married, he would soon forget all those silly ideas.”
“Are you willing to take that risk, Mariana? And what if he made that sacrifice for you, then ended up feeling like a failure because he never achieved his goals in life? Could you bear that?”
“I don’t much like your questions, Mama,” Mariana said. Her voice bore no hint of anger. She was merely frustrated with the truth.
Anna sighed but said nothing. The time for advising and logic and talk was past. Instead, Anna put her arms around Katrina’s daughter and held her close, smoothing a hand gently over her silky hair. She heard a muffled sigh from Mariana, then felt moisture from the girl’s tears as they penetrated Anna’s blouse.
Gradually, Anna began to realize the cause of her own thoughtful mood these last several days. Pondering over her past had brought her to a conclusion that now could be offered to Mariana. And fretting over the future had also led her to the only answer for the dear, brokenhearted child.
“Mariana, one day you will see how, when we place our lives in God’s hands, each bump, each seemingly wrong turn, even each climb to the heights, is used by God to weave a beautiful pattern. We can’t always discern the shape of the pattern when we are in the midst of it, but it is there and it will be beautiful. That is a promise He makes to believers.”
Mariana sniffed loudly. “I . . . I don’t know if I can wait for that.”
“I know that, dear. I can only offer you the example of my experience. Your papa and I were separated many times, and the last, when he was so far away in Siberia, I truly believed I would never see him again. But look at us now. And God used the time of our separation to make us both whole people—especially your papa, who had been so broken and angry. When we finally were united it was so much better than if it had happened when I thought it should.”
“But you and Papa had no choice about your separation. Could you have waited otherwise?”
“That’s a good question. I doubt it, especially since I didn’t have my mama and papa around to give me their wise counsel.”
“I am glad I have you.” Mariana lifted her head and smiled.
“Even though I lecture you?”
“It could be worse. You should hear Stephan’s mother.”
“Your future mother-in-law?”
“I hadn’t thought of that.” Mariana paused, scratching her chin. “Perhaps I am too young for marriage.” She chuckled softly.
Anna blotted away the tears that glistened on Mariana’s cheek. “You certainly don’t have to get married tomorrow. And just think of the exciting paths life—or I should say, God—will bring your way. Mariana, I—”
Anna stopped. She had come so close to telling Mariana of the true extent of her mother and father’s nobility, of the other road out there that she might wish to explore one day. Yet Anna restrained the words because she knew it could be told not only with Sergei’s blessing but also his presence. And Sergei was not yet ready to take such a step—for Mariana’s sake and for his also. To reveal to Mariana her birthright would involve facing his, and the risks involved with exposure. He was, after all, still a fugitive, an escapee from Siberia. Anna was certain that had something to do with his reluctance to tell Mariana the whole truth, and she could not deny its importance. She did not want their happy life jeopardized either. This was a choice they had made, but she and Sergei would always be open to the hand of God should He alter circumstances so as to direct them down a different path.
“What were you saying, Mama?” asked Mariana, intruding suddenly into Anna’s mental debate.
“Now is not the proper time, Mariana, but we will talk again perhaps when your papa is here. But I want you to know that I appreciate your maturity in this. I think you have a lot more wisdom than some of the girls your age, certainly more than I had at seventeen.”
Mariana shrugged, slightly embarrassed at the praise. “I don’t know about that, Mama. I think it’s mostly that I am suddenly afraid and don’t mind too much staying a child a bit longer.”
Anna hugged Mariana closer. How much longer? She wondered. And when was the proper time?
Her only answer to those questions was that God would show and prepare them. She sensed, though she hardly wanted to admit it, that all this—her melancholy mood, Mariana’s confession—was part of God’s way of bringing them to a point of acceptance.
What she could not guess was just how soon God would bring changes into all their lives.
*
18
In the dense evening fog, the spires of Brooklyn Bridge hung as if suspended over a cloud with no support but that of the heavenly realms. No doubt the practical-minded New Yorkers preferred the solidity of the stone foundations, but for sheer ethereal beauty and spiritual symbolism, nothing could compare with the enchanting sight of the bridge appearing like magic out of the mist.
The East River, one hundred feet below, revealed itself only in muffled sounds—water slapping against cement pilings, the lonely foghorn of a distant ship. The damp white blanket veiled the sights that were so much a part of New York’s intricate tapestry. The damp night brought feelings of ambivalence to at least one passerby that particular evening. He hungered for a final view of the magnificent city where he had been born. Yet this dull, pervading fog suited his morose mood.
Daniel Trent was not normally given to mysticism, nor to a melancholy bent. Usually he was a practical, hardheaded sort—too hardheaded, his father always said. The last thing he would do was thrive on philosophical debates or introspection. He could hold his own in debate quite adeptly, but such intellectual pursuits required him to be still, and he preferred being in the thick of the action, doing rather than analyzing. His father, apt to call his behavior frivolous, was thankful Daniel had an older brother. At least the survival of the family fortune and honor did not rest solely with Daniel. As luck would have it, Daniel was as thankful for his birth order as was his father. He was frivolous in some respects, and he rather liked it that way.
But his present introspective mood, as he leaned against the cold iron railing of the bridge, came from the deeper side of his nature—a side he was not comfortable in revealing to others. He was about to embark on a journey, not only a journey of space and time, but one of personal growth as well. He was wildly excited about the prospect, although that hidden part of his nature was also a little afraid about what lay ahead.
None of this had been his choice for his life’s direction. Even his father would have preferred to see his son fit into the society mold of the American gentry, making the right contacts, rubbing shoulders with the right people, and courting girls with impeccable family credentials.
Daniel’s father had worked hard to enter into that society, having started out as a smudged-faced, poverty-stricken kid hocking newspapers and shining shoes on the Lower East Side. It had taken a lot of sweat to climb the ladder of success that finally brought him to his present position of wealth and power. After the paper boy and shoeshine jobs, he had struck out on his own, first working on the Union Pacific Railr
oad, then after a few years owning a part of it. It wasn’t long before he bought other rail lines; soon he became one of the foremost rail tycoons in the country. He then invested his wealth in steel and, as if the man were Midas himself, that too flowered into further wealth. His company, Union Steel, rivaled the Carnegies. After that he bought a newspaper—the very one he had once sold on street corners. He’d had his fill of the dirt and grime of the streets, and wanted better for his sons.
But Daniel rather liked the teeming life on the Lower East Side, the excitement, the unpredictability, the possibilities. This was the stuff of real life, and as a promising young news reporter that’s what interested him most.
“Daniel, you are an intelligent boy. Why must you waste your life in this way?”
“Even you gotta admit, Pop, it’s what sells newspapers.”
“Why can’t you leave that to the hacks I hire for the city desk? You’ve got an education; use it.”
Daniel had breezed through Yale, his high marks coming effortlessly. His father had wanted him to attend law school.
“Get out of the newspaper business, Daniel. I want you to do something with prestige.”
But Daniel loved the newspaper business. Unfortunately—at least according to his father—he cared nothing for the spacious, impeccably decorated offices in the tenth-floor suite that housed the publisher and his staff. Daniel wanted to write news, not study ethics or sales reports or market trends. He liked the company of the so-called “hacks” on the city desk. They had told him more than once—and these men didn’t easily hand out compliments, even to the boss’s son—that he had a “nose for news” and a talent for writing.
So, against his father’s wishes he had taken English courses and some history, not law. After all, he was going to college as his father had insisted, even though he could report news with only a high school education, like most of the Register’s reporters.
When he graduated, his father considered him unfit for any proper occupation. Of course, he had no real need of any occupation. Money was no problem for the children of Archibald Trent, steel tycoon whose wealth ranged far into the millions of dollars.
“Archie” Trent, East Side street urchin, was now a bonfide scion of New York high society, with as much class as the more formal rendition of his given name. Daniel was quite comfortable with his sizable allowance from his father. Even his father’s frequent threats of cutting him off were of little concern; Daniel had inherited enough from his mother’s deceased father to support himself lavishly.
No, he didn’t need a job. But he’d go crazy if he got caught forever in the treadmill of New York society.
When his father refused to let him work as a reporter for the Register and coerced the Register’s city editor to fire him, Daniel got a job with the paper’s biggest competitor, the Herald. The tension between father and son mounted, especially when, through Daniel’s work, the Herald scooped the Register on a big story of corruption in the city manager’s office.
The elder Trent was furious and wouldn’t speak to Daniel for days. Then he began to soften when he read his son’s piece on the political scandal. It was well done . . . and very professional.
Archibald might have made amends at that point, but then Daniel landed in another scrape—a talent that seemed almost as great as his talent for writing. He had gotten thrown out of half a dozen public offices, tossed out of a bar where he was trying to finagle a story from a county clerk, and threatened several times with harassment suits. All in one week, while he was covering the city manager’s scandal.
His latest trouble came on the tail of a longshoremen’s labor dispute. The assembly of strikers had been peaceful enough, and Daniel was getting some good interviews with the workmen. The more he talked with them, the more he grew sympathetic with their cause—a real taboo for a good reporter. One evening they were all in a local bar and Daniel was getting some sidebar material on the everyday life of longshoremen. A few of the strike-breakers, or “scabs,” came into the bar.
Daniel smelled a setup too late to do him or the strikers any good. The argument began with verbal sparring. Daniel wasn’t certain who threw the first punch, but he did know he got in a few good licks himself before the police arrived and broke up the melee. The whole lot, including Daniel, were herded into a paddy wagon and dragged off to jail.
“This is the last straw, Daniel,” his father had declared. “I have been lenient with you, but when a son of mine lands in prison, I know it has gone too far. You are twenty-one years old. At that age I had already invested in my first railroad. At twenty, your brother was already a vice-president at Union Steel. It is time you had a career.”
“But I have a career, Father!” Daniel said. “Maybe it’s time you accepted that!”
“Don’t get cheeky with me, boy!”
“Why must you force me to do something I’d hate? Just because you earned your position in society, do I have to accept it also? Let me earn my own way. Let me see what I’m made of, what I could become on my own. Because even if you don’t let me, I’m going to do it anyway!”
Daniel’s words finally sank in, or perhaps at that moment Trent saw more of himself, the old Archie, in his son than he had ever seen before. He saw that, like him, Daniel would never be satisfied with the easy road.
Whatever happened within Daniel’s father, it did prompt him to have a talk with the city editor, who had become friendly with Daniel over the years. The man had just hired two new reporters, however, and now had more staff than he needed.
“Why don’t you try over in National, or even International? There’s bound to be something,” the editor suggested.
Trent might have decided then that he had done his part for his son—he had tried—and then insist Daniel take a job managing one of his subsidiary companies. But he had a lunch appointment with his international desk editor, Bill Bradley, and casually mentioned his problem with his son to him.
When Trent spoke to Daniel the next day, Bradley was there, and Daniel could only wonder what was up. Had his father finally seen fit to support Daniel in his job choice? The presence of the international editor opened up some promising possibilities.
Trent cleared his throat and meticulously began to fill his pipe. Daniel watched in impatient silence. There was no sense in prodding his father along and risking falling further out of his graces. Trent took two long draws from the expensive mahogany pipe before beginning again.
“You know Bill Bradley, don’t you, Daniel?”
Daniel nodded and decided this might not be too bad after all. A position in a foreign office might be just the ticket. Having toured Europe before entering Yale, and having traveled there often with his father, he had seen several promising places. London or Paris, where he knew his father had offices, would be delightful. He had been there frequently and had several friends and acquaintances. If his father planned to get him a position in one of those cities, this little setback might turn out fortuitous after all. He could be quite content with Paris.
“Mr. Bradley here tells me he has an opening in one of his offices abroad,” Trent continued. “He’s seen your work and thinks he could use you, if you are willing.”
“With your blessing, Pop?” Daniel had been half expecting this, but he was no less stunned.
“It seems I am never going to be able to make a gentleman of you,” his father replied, “but I haven’t given up hope of making a responsible man of you. At any rate, I see it is useless to fight with you further about this.”
Daniel restrained a triumphant grin. As respectfully and evenly as he could, he said, “Thank you, Pop. You’re not gonna regret this.” He paused and let the gratitude on his face speak what his words could not express. “So, where are you gonna send me?”
With a disapproving grimace at his son’s appalling use of the English language, the elder Trent hesitated briefly, a flicker of reluctance crossing his countenance. In that moment Daniel’s confidence wavered. “I appre
ciate your positive approach to this,” said Trent.
Why wouldn’t he be positive? His father was offering him a reporting job. Were there strings attached?
“I sincerely hope,” Trent went on, “this will be in your best interests in the long run. If nothing else it will give you invaluable experience, and perhaps it will show you all sides of the profession you have chosen.” He said the word profession with some hesitation. “I hope it will lead you to make more educated choices for your future.”
So, the old boy was hoping this assignment would scare Daniel out of the newspaper business! Suddenly visions of Paris faded from his mind, replaced with a frightening panorama of backwater provinces where vermin outnumbered the human population and the only news consisted of tribal weddings.
“Yeah, Pop.” Daniel eyed his father warily.
“Now, hear me out, Daniel. And just be grateful I am compromising this much.”
“So, where is it?” Daniel asked again.
“It’s with our St. Petersburg office.”
Daniel swallowed. “Russia . . .?”
“Yes.”
“Russia?” Daniel said again dumbly.
“I know it is far, and heaven knows it is foreign,” said Trent. “But you need to think of the advantages—”
Daniel could only see this as some cruel punishment from his father. “The only advantage I can think of is it is the farthest location to which you could remove me from your presence.”
“You can’t seriously believe that to be my motive, Daniel?” Trent was genuinely hurt by his son’s harsh indictment.
Daniel recanted immediately. His father might be a stern disciplinarian; they clashed often, and on more issues than just his choice of career. But aside from this, he was a good man and had always tried to do his best by his sons. Left to raise them alone from their early boyhood, Archibald Trent had developed a close relationship with his two boys. And perhaps that was part of the problem. When they had been boys he had tended to be rather liberal with them, especially his younger son.
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