The Russians Collection

by Michael Phillips

  “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.”

  41

  It was a new century—Cyril Vlasenko did not hold with those equivocators who insisted the century would not turn until next year.

  The year 1900, whether it was truly the twentieth century or not, held many challenges for the government of Nicholas II. The most pressing were unfolding events in Asia. It was yet to be decided how the proverbial chips would fall in that corner of the world, but one thing was certain—Russia would not be squeezed out of its share. Three years ago, Russia had forced Japan out of the Chinese Port Arthur and placed it under Russian occupation, thus gaining its only, and all-important, warm-water port. Russia really had its eye on Manchuria, and, though through various railroad agreements with the Chinese, Russia controlled a great deal of the area, it was hoping for even more domination in the future.

  With the United States and the major European powers all posturing for a piece of Asia, the situation was bound to end in conflict. Vlasenko saw nothing wrong with that if it benefitted Russia. And he reasoned that they might do well to make a more aggressive stand in the region, before others beat them to it. Six months ago the U.S. Secretary of State John Hay had encouraged the nations to agree on an “open door” policy in China, and they all seemed to concur—on paper, at least.

  What worried Vlasenko was that the tsar was now making more dangerous overtures toward peace. He was probably worried about Austria’s latest military buildup. Last May he had convened The Hague Peace Conference and had proposed a policy of disarmament among the world’s major powers. Imagine that! The most powerful nation in the world laying down its arms and, even more ridiculous, preaching universal peace. Nicholas was more than a dreamer—he was absolutely addled at times!

  It was a good thing he and Kaiser Wilhelm II of Germany were such close confidants. The Kaiser might be a strutting bully and a mighty bore at times, but he was no coward. He hated Orientals and would take no guff from the “little monkeys,” as he was fond of calling the Japanese. He was constantly urging Nicholas to defend the European world from the aggressions of the “Yellow Peril.” It might only be the cunning German’s way of keeping Russia distracted with Asia and thus out of European affairs, but a strong stand in Asia made sense no matter what. Vlasenko could only hope that his weak-willed tsar would heed the Kaiser, instead of those moderates like Count Wit
te, who seemed to oppose anything that would make a more powerful Russia.

  However, in Cyril’s position in the Ministry of the Interior, these international questions were not strictly his business. But he did think a little war—a victorious war of course—would be a perfect way to distract the people from their problems and especially from listening to those dratted radicals. And that was Cyril’s business.

  The problem was getting worse every day. Most days he put in twelve to fifteen hours a day working with the police and the Third Section tracking down those fools. And if he could put in that many hours, he had no sympathy for those complaining factory workers. Like him, they ought to be simply thankful they had a job.

  The long hours, however, had not kept Cyril from making the rounds of parties and operas and ballets every night since Christmas, and it promised not to let up until Lent. It was the height of the social season, and because of the special character of the New Year, there was even more fanfare than usual this season.

  Cyril couldn’t be more pleased. The more the better! Yet even with so many invitations pouring in, one stood out among the rest. He turned the gold-embossed paper over in his hand once or twice in a thoughtful manner. So, the rumors were correct after all. Viktor Fedorcenko did indeed have a granddaughter. The circumstances of her sudden appearance on the scene were a bit peculiar, but he had asked around and it could not be disputed that she was indeed the old boy’s grandchild. And now there was to be a gala event to introduce her to society.

  Cyril had no illusions about what that would mean to his schemes and plans for the future. He had been working on several different possibilities for taking over the Fedorcenko properties, including the one he liked best—having Viktor legally declared incompetent to manage his affairs, thus placing them into Cyril’s executorship. The main problem with that was that there was a cousin in the south who might be able to prove he was next in line to receive the inheritance. Cyril had been considering ways to overcome that obstacle.