“You bastard!” he shouted. “You call us low-lifes, after what you did to us! We worked for you and you fucked us over big time in your office up here in the sky. Like we was nothin’.”
“You are nothing.”
George’s narrow nose twitched. His nostrils flared. He ground the broken glass from the photos into the carpet with the heel of his shoe.
“You bloody bastard! You owe us. We’re dying because of you. Your mine ruined our lungs. And you knew it all along.”
“You didn’t get sick in the mine,” Baron said, shaking with fury. “You can’t prove that.”
“My doctor says it was the mine.”
“They don’t know nothing. I got a doctor that says it wasn’t.”
“This here’s a doctor,” George said, gritting his teeth as he turned around to find her. “Why don’t you ask her? What happens when you work twenty years in a mine that ain’t got enough air because of the asbestos dust? When there’s only one shaft for cutting up the ore and the same shaft for breathing. Because God Awmighty here wouldn’t spend the money for another shaft?”
She assumed it was a rhetorical question.
“The mine had to make a profit,” Baron said, slamming his hand on the desk. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have jobs.”
“You made a profit on our backs. On our graves. We want compensation.”
Baron’s eyes narrowed in triumph. “Ah, so that’s it,” he smirked, his mouth on an angle. “It’s always about money.”
What right does he have to be self-righteous, she thought.
“You owe us compensation. We can’t work no more. How are we supposed to feed our families?”
“You ain’t getting a cent out of me, you scumbags. Not a red cent.”
George spun around, his eyes crazy, searching for something. He grabbed a leather chair, lifted it off the ground, and threw it as far as he could, knocking over a small table that held a crystal vase of roses. The vase broke and spilled water and red petals on the beige broadloom.
“You maniac!” Baron shrieked.
George stared at the pieces of crystal, the wet stain where the water had spilled on the carpet. For a second she thought, He knows he’s gone too far; thank God it’s over. Then, almost in a trance, he reached into his pants pocket and drew something out. She heard a sickening click.
“No, George,” she said. “That’s not the answer.”
He looked up at her with surprise, as if he’d forgotten she was there. He started toward her, holding the switchblade in front on an angle. She couldn’t breathe. Was it because she was already dead? She saw herself lying on the floor beside the broken glass, bleeding to death. Had he stabbed her yet?
“No, man!” said Claude. “Not her!”
He grabbed her from Claude and flipped her around, pinning her arms behind her against his chest with one hand, the other holding the switchblade against her neck. Her legs began to wobble. She had to flex her thigh muscles to keep her knees from buckling.
“Now you’re in for it,” Baron said.
“You think I care about any of that? I’m at the end of my rope, mister. You need to do something and now. You give us what we deserve or I kill her.”
Suddenly everything went quiet. They were all holding their breaths.
Baron sneered. “I don’t care about her. You can kill her if you want.”
“Why you goddamn bastard!” Claude spat out. He marched around the side of the desk. “You don’t give a shit for no one but yourself!” he screamed. “That what it takes to get to the top?”
He raised his arm in preparation to strike. He was taller than Baron, but Baron was faster. He punched his fist straight into Claude’s stomach, making the bigger man double over.
Claude emitted a low, moaning sound. She felt George’s grip on her tense up. The knife blade pricked her skin. It was a standoff.
“I have something to trade,” she said, her voice shaky. “Information Baron wants to keep under wraps. Nothing to do with the mines. This is a secret from Poland.”
Baron turned to face her. She had his attention. “What the hell you talking?”
George swallowed. “Why should we care about that?”
“There are two possibilities,” she continued, addressing herself to Baron. “One: I tell George and Claude the secret and they go to the papers. When they print it, the police will want to question you about Michael’s death. Any hope of respectability you might’ve had will vanish. People will not want to know you. Your stock will plummet.”
Baron blinked at her. “You’re bluffing,” he said. “You don’t know nothing.”
“I don’t bluff,” she said. “Halina told me what you did after the war.”
Baron watched her, the wheels turning behind the eyes, strands of pomaded hair falling forward. “What difference it makes, after the war? Too long ago. I didn’t kill Michael. I went there to explain. I tried to talk to him but he was furious. He wouldn’t listen. He hit me for Chrissake!”
“And then?”
“Then I left.”
“Hey,” said George, “we’re getting way off topic here.”
“Which brings me to the second possibility: I keep the secret to myself and in exchange for my silence, Mr. Baron, you make a concession. You give these men fair compensation, like a pension they can support their families on. The kind of pension companies have that care about their employees.”
Claude, his arm around his middle, looked up at her, confused.
“And if I don’t agree, this animal here kills you?”
George loosened his hold on her and slowly moved the knife down to his side.
“If you won’t agree, I give George a story he can take to the reporters out there. They’ll get front page headlines for at least a week about your disregard for human life thirty-five years ago. Kind of fits in with today, doesn’t it? You might call it a pattern.”
It was a good thing he hadn’t been outside lately. The reporters had lost interest in the strike; they had disappeared from the front of the building.
Baron’s face was purple with rage. “What you trying to do to me?”
“I’m giving you the opportunity to do the right thing. Own up to your responsibilities. And if that doesn’t convince you, think of the stock market. How fickle investors can be when they discover the founder of a company can’t be trusted.”
His jaw set hard. “I won’t forget this. It’s blackmail,” he said. “I give two pensions. That’s all.”
“No!” said George. “That’s not enough. Pensions for everyone that gets sick.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Baron cried. “I’ll be ruined. I’m not made of money!”
“Sell some property,” she said. “Rent out your chef. You’re a resourceful man. I’m sure your army of accountants can figure it out. Meanwhile, George, why don’t you write up a little contract to that effect so Mr. Baron can sign it. Before the cops come up and I’m tempted to spill the beans.”
Baron plopped his squat body back down in the leather chair, dazed.
“What just happened?” Claude said.
Rebecca stepped away from her abductor. “You better go untie the secretary, George. She can help you with that contract.”
That evening Rebecca sat in her den, still shaken from the events of the day. She put off going to bed, knowing sleep would not come. Instead, she opened Michael’s manuscript to the last chapter, “Voyage of the Heart.” Rebecca was saddened to be finishing the book, especially since it was not the end. And she would never know the end. If she took another tiny half-pill now, maybe she could still get a good night’s sleep.
chapter twenty-five
Voyage of the Heart
January 1757
“Miaow!”
A delightful noise I haven’t heard for months: Naryshkin is yowling beneath my window. Clever lad.
At the signal I jump from my bed in my breeches and ruffled shirt. I am nothing if not prepared. My sweet, tender lov
e is finally here! I throw myself down the hallway on toes that barely touch the ground. It is late and everyone has retired for the night.
This afternoon at court amidst the crowd, our eyes met after so long and I felt as if my soul had found its home. His eyes grew bright at the sight of me and momentarily everyone vanished and we were alone. A peace settled over me such as I had not known for six months since last I had seen his face.
Fumbling with the key to the back door, I finally throw it open. While the winter wind howls at me, I search for the beloved figure. And there he stands in his dark cloak, his smile brilliant in the night. He dazzles me; tears leap to my eyes. Impatiently I pull him inside where it is warm. He sweeps off his hat to reveal a white wig he wears for disguise; very fetching, but it doesn’t hold a candle to his own blond hair. The wig will be removed soon enough, I wager. Joyous anticipation leaps through my body. He takes me in his arms, pressing me close to him ardently as if he has never left.
“You are my first and only love,” he whispers. “I will love you till I die.”
We dare to meet two, sometimes three times a week with the help of Naryshkin and my most trusted chambermaid. Though Sir Charles has warned me of the danger of bringing the Count into my rooms, I confess I am unable to resist the temptation. It is more trouble to go to Naryshkin’s, to say nothing of the danger should I go to the Count’s mansion despite our precautions.
I have devised a complicated arrangement of screens and had them installed in my boudoir, where the Count can be concealed in case of unexpected visits. I am prepared.
One night I am lying in my love’s arms when there is a sudden knock at the door. We both jump from the bed at once. I throw on a silk robe and the Count, terror on his face, ducks behind the screens. Mon Dieu! He has left his coat on the chair in full view! I toss it after him, tripping over my own feet.
I stand ramrod straight, shoulders back, head high. “Who is it?” I say imperiously.
“Alexander Shuvalov, Your Highness.”
My heart sinks. We have been found out.
I steal a look behind myself: nothing is visible but the screens, which are covered in flowered silks. I move the closest screen on a tighter angle.
“Enter!” I say.
The door opens and in steps the most feared man at court, the head of the secret police. His black hair frames a large, cruel face, which is made hideous by a nervous tic on the right side when he concentrates on something. I must keep my composure.
“I deliver a message from the Empress,” he says bowing, his eyes discreetly leaving my face to search the room behind me.
I pray the Count makes no sound.
The note is a ruse; it could have been delivered in the morning. The Empress invites me to see my son for a few minutes after lunch the following day. I am still holding my breath.
“A delightful array of screens,” says Shuvalov, the tic convulsing his cheek. “And, if I may be so bold, what do you have behind them?”
I smile stiffly. He is fishing. “Why, that is where I keep my portable commode.”
He stares at me a full moment, then the right side of his face goes into a hideous spasm. He asks me no more, but moves backward out of my room like a crab.
I don’t see much of Sir Charles during that winter since he is ill and cannot leave his house. I send him a note to cheer him:
Monsieur,
What do I not owe to the providence which sent you here, like a guardian angel, to unite me with you in ties of friendship? You will see, if one day I wear the crown, that I shall partially owe it to your counsels.
By the spring, I am relieved to find that his strength must be returning for I receive a note I would consider impertinent from anyone else: “The wish is very near my heart, Madame, that your son should have a brother. Dare I ask if there is one on the way?”
It is too early for stirrings in the womb, but my monthly bleeding has stopped and every morning brings nausea. So, yes, dear Sir Charles, I will bear a love child.
During the summer, the war goes against King Frederick. Our own Russian troops, led by one of my supporters, Field-Marshal Apraxin, join the armies of the Empress-Queen, Maria-Theresa. Together, they defeat the Prussians in Bohemia. To my horror (to say nothing of the chagrin of Sir Charles) the French occupy Hanover. Despite her failing health, the Tsarina is triumphant and strikes medals to commemorate the battles; she offers Te Deums in the Cathedral. Once, on our way out from a service, the crowd shouts, “To Berlin! To Berlin!” The Empress waves cheerfully, and I force a smile.
Peter mopes about, not even trying to conceal his misery at the downfall of his idol. He defiantly wears the large ring sent him by the King of Prussia, which bears his hero’s likeness.
At the end of August, Field-Marshal Apraxin defeats King Frederick’s forces at Gross-Jägersdorf. Both Chancellor Bestuzhev and I send secret letters to him suggesting he not pursue his advantage but go easy on the Prussians. Therefore the Field-Marshal allows them to retreat in good order. Instead of advancing on Berlin, the move all of Europe expects of him, Apraxin withdraws to the Russian frontier.
The Austrian Ambassador is livid over Apraxin’s retreat. The French faction in court has begun to spread rumours about treachery, and I am afraid that Sir Charles and Count Poniatowski bear the brunt of the court’s indignation.
Sir Charles tells me he has been given leave to go back to England. I am stricken at the news. I have no better friend in court — his knowledge of the world, his wit, his sympathy for me and my possibilities. I give him my word that I will support the new British envoy, Lord Keith, but tell him that no one can ever take his place.
I am heavy with child in October and send him a final letter, stained with my tears, shortly before he leaves.
My dear Sir Charles,
I am in despair at being deprived of the pleasure which I should have had in seeing and talking freely to you. My heart is scarred by the harsh treatment that you have received, but my deepest gratitude will be for ever yours. May happier times allow me to prove its full extent!
Farewell, my best, my dear Friend.
On December 9 I bear my second child, a daughter whom the Empress names after her sister, Peter’s mother, Anna Petrovna. I am allowed barely a glimpse of her before the Empress whisks her away to her own apartments. A trusted lady in waiting later whispers to me that the baby has a rare anomaly — she has six fingers on each hand and six toes on each foot. Since she is otherwise healthy, I take it as a sign of good fortune, an extra endowment from God.
Early in the new year I receive shocking news: Chancellor Bestuzhev has been arrested. He has been implicated in the scandal of Field Marshall Apraxin’s retreat, mostly on the meagre evidence presented by Shuvalov. I am terrified that I will be next. I cannot eat or sleep for days. Then it happens.
I am summoned in the middle of the night to the Empress’s chambers. Shuvalov is there, and Peter, who has become my enemy. I fall to my knees in tears before her and beg her to send me back to my relatives in Germany. She is disarmed. Then she insists I stand up and face her.
“You have meddled in many things which have nothing to do with you,” she says. “We have letters you wrote to Apraxin.” She points to a gold basin behind her.
But I have had reports that all my letters were burned. “I wrote to congratulate him on the birth of his son.”
“Chancellor Bestuzhev says there were many others,” the Empress says, watching me closely.
“If Bestuzhev says that, then he lies.”
“If he is lying about you, I will have to have him tortured.”
I make no response but keep my composure.
For the next few hours, she interrogates me. At the side of the large room, Peter confers with Shuvalov in whispers, then shouts out angry accusations about my obstinacy and bad temper. The Empress listens to my reasoned answers and appears to be losing patience with him. She knows that once she is gone, Peter intends to dethrone me and replace me with
his mistress. The Empress is weak from her last stroke. Who knows how long she will yet live? I force myself to stand straight and remain calm.
Finally the Empress lowers her voice and says, “Do not be distressed. My nephew is an idiot.”
Count Poniatowski does not escape so easily. Among the Chancellor’s things, a letter is found written by my beloved, thanking him for his assistance in securing the Count’s position as envoy. At the time, Bestuzhev had acted on his own, without consulting the Empress. He is consequently called high-handed and treasonous, considering that Poniatowski was a protégé of Sir Charles, the English Ambassador, who is now the enemy’s envoy.
The Count quickly writes a letter to King Augustus asking to be recalled, then he retires to his bed, feigning illness. After a while he receives word that he may depart his post when he is ready. The storm dies down. In the next few months he is forced out of retirement when dignitaries arrive from Dresden and must be escorted to the usual court functions.
To our delirious joy, the Count and I resume our trysts, usually in my rooms, putting off the day when he will leave. We could continue thus indefinitely, but we become careless and our enemies in the French camp take note of our movements. Had I but listened to Sir Charles! He advised us to meet anywhere but in my apartments. One night the Count is stopped outside my chamber by Peter’s men and taken away for questioning. My husband has known about him for a year but only now creates a fuss. He knows that the Empress is weak and the time approaches when he will ascend to the throne. We will not rule together. I must decide now which direction to take when the time comes. I must be ready. I know in my heart that I will not stand by and allow Peter to banish me to a convent while he takes his mistress for his consort. I think not only of me, but of Russia.
On a sad day in autumn the Count departs for Warsaw, pledging with all his heart to seek the first opportunity to return. Before he leaves he presents me with a beautiful little silver sundial in which a compass is embedded. The golden box in which it lies is inscribed with a message that breaks my heart. “So that you may always find me again.” Though we embrace with passion, I feel a shadow rising between us, the distant memory of a story of lost love that sometimes steals into my dreams in the night.
Rebecca Temple Mysteries 3-Book Bundle Page 52