Writ in blood : a novel of Saint-Germain

by Yarbro, Chelsea Quinn, 1942-

  “But a royal House isn’t a merchant bank, after all, and it cannot be treated like a stable of horses; it must be kept uncompromised. Well, you know what I mean. Aunt Amalija,” Leonid protested, and glanced in the direction of Nikolai. “I do not mean to say anything against your House, Czar. But you know, I do not think it is fitting for nobles to marry their children to persons who have nothing to recommend them but noble blood.”

  “Sadly, I must agree,” said Nikolai, so heavily that Leonid stammered an apology for voicing his thoughts so bluntly. “No,” he told Leonid, cut-

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  ting off the claims of remorse. “You are quite right. We see evidence of it everywhere. There has been too much intermarriage; I am with you in that regard, as well. I worry about the futures of my grand-children for just that reason. The match must be suitable without so much consanguinity that. . . risks are taken.”

  “There are royal families who have not intermarried with the Romanovs,” said Countess Amalija, her eyes alight with mischief. “You could guarantee there would be no more troubles with Japan, for example, arranging a marriage with the Emperors son for Olga.” She laughed aloud to show she thought the whole notion ridiculous.

  “The Russian people would never stand for that,” said Nikolai seriously.

  “Nor would the Japanese,” Ragoczy added for him. “They are as closed as any people in the world. You would find it difficult to persuade them otherwise.”

  “The Ottoman Empire is at an end, or you might find a match there.” Leonid chuckled, grateful that Ragoczy had steered them away from such dangerous conversational shoals. “If you could convince the Metropolitan to countenance a non-Christian marriage.”

  “Between the Bourbons, the Hohenzollerns and the Hapsburgs, every royal house in Europe is connected by blood,” Nikolai said, shrugging to show his helplessness in the situation. “The Greeks may be a possibility, and they are Orthodox, not Roman, which would sit well with the Metropolitan.” He sipped at his cognac. “The Swedes have the French line in their royals, through Napoleons General.”

  “But there are connections in that line, as well,” Countless Amalija said, and glanced at Ragoczy. “What have you to say, Count?”

  “Nothing,” Ragoczy replied. “I am an exile, after all, and anything I may tell you is not applicable.” He rocked his chair back on its two hind legs. “But if it were my decision, I would go as far afield as I could, and think of the success of my House, not the quibbles of the Duma or the Metropolitan; neither the government nor the Church should dictate my choice. And I should allow my child the opportunity to approve or refuse any offer made.”

  “But why?” Nikolai demanded, more shocked by this observation than any other.

  “Think, Czar,” said Ragoczy, his chair back on all four legs. “You have been uncommonly fortunate in your Czarina. You must be aware that this is not often the case. Consider Franz Josef and Elizabeth, before she was assassinated. You could not describe that union as . . . happy, no matter how much he cared for her. They may have been devoted

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  after their fashion, but they were never truly close. Think of how often she was away from his side, and how ardently she took the side of the Magyars over the Austrians. You know what isolation royalty imposes. Would you want your children to have the burden of their heritage and be unable to find some relief from it with their partners, as you and your Alexandra have done?” He saw the look in Nikolais eyes soften. “You know what it is to love your wife and children. Wouldn’t it be kinder to provide them the same instead of chaining them to the dictates of custom and diplomacy.” He knew that Leonid was trying not to stare at him, but he swung around in his chair to continue. “You have children. Do you wish to see them well-established or do you wish them to be happy.”

  “Must it be one or the other?” Leonid asked, as he put down his glass of cognac. “Cannot both be possible?”

  “Well, the Czar has found both,” Ragoczy said reasonably. “But he is one of the rare few.”

  “Yes,” Nikolai said with a thoughtful nod. “I must agree with Ragoczy. And I know that the consolation of a loving wife can make everything easier to bear.” He looked away. “Except the anguish of your children; that is something that may unite parents, but only in worry and grief.” There was such sorrow in his voice that the other three were silent out of respect for his heartache.

  “If you are going to become dismal again, I am going to take us into the salon,” Countless Amalija declared roundly. “We were going along so well, and there you are, back at the same dismal point. I think we should not dwell on misery any longer. Come.” She rose, and the men rose with her out of courtesy. “Count, give me your arm. Leonid, escort the Czar, if you will. It is time we left this room for the servants to clean up; they want to get to bed.” She swept up to Ragoczy, who did as she commanded and offered h0r his arm. “Thank goodness we do not have to stand on ceremony, or we would all be stuck here until Nikolai decided to have mercy on us, and move.”

  “I hear you, Countess, and obey, as you intend I should,” said the Czar from behind her. “I know I have a habit of worrying a subject to tatters; my Ministers often remark upon it. If you had grown up with my uncles, you would do the same thing.” He had picked up his cognac and one of the bowls of chocolate, and fell in beside Leonid.

  The parlor was ready for them, a fire in the enameled iron stove, the gaslights burning, the square Chickering grand piano open. Countess Amalija went over to the instrument and sat down on the piano bench, saying, “If you will permit me to prevail upon you, Count.” Her laughter made it plain that she did not have anything against such talk,

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  only that she felt it was not appropriate for the evening.

  “You must tell me what you want to hear,” he said, taking his place beside her on the bench and flexing his hands.

  “You do have beautiful hands, Count,” she told him, with a great deal of secondary meaning in her compliment.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “I think so, too.”

  She grinned at him, and for a moment she looked twenty again. “Male vanity! Well, at least you are not enamored of your face, as so many are.”

  “I can see my hands,” he reminded her, and prepared to play.

  “Nothing morose; we need invigoration, not moping,” she warned him as she went to sit next to her nephew.

  “As you wish; something rousing,” said Ragoczy, and launched into Liszts Hungarian Rhapsody, playing with more verve than artistry, knowing that it was what Countess Amalija sought. When he had concluded that flashy display, he began on his own piano transcription of Handels Music for the Royal Fireworks, his style less flamboyant but expressed with greater musicality than before.

  An hour later, when Ragoczy had finished playing, and the last of the cognac was gone, Nikolai rose and said, “It is getting late, and I must be going.” He bowed to Countess Amalija, his eyes a little bleary, but that might have been the result of fatigue rather than cognac. “I thank you for a most pleasant and helpful evening, Amalija Romanovna. I have not had so . . . unencumbered an entertainment in . . . many months.” He turned to Ragoczy, favoring him with a weary clap on the shoulder. “And I must thank you as well, Count, and not simply for your exquisite impromptu concert. There is another issue, one in which I have been inexcusably lax. You have done me a great service and have had no reward for it.”

  “I did not undertake your mission for a reward. Czar,” Ragoczy said, his voice solemn.

  “I know,” Nikolai acknowledged, continuing with less exhilaration, “But I would like to express my gratitude in some way. That could prove onerous to do at present, with so many dealings in a state of flux. I would like to make it known how much effort you extended upon my behalf. Unfortunately, as you must be aware, it would not be wise to make such a controversial demonstration just now, and so I must ask you to wait.”

&nb
sp; “You need do nothing, Czar,” said Ragoczy, wanting to avoid the issue if he could. “I am—”

  “I will think of something to recognize; not your work in Europe and

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  England, but something. Perhaps those schools you are establishing for the children of the men working in your businesses. I could use your recognition as the means to encourage others to emulate you, and establish schools of their own. The Duma would approve of that. They are always debating about education for the common people. You thought I knew nothing about that,” he went on with a trace of self-congratulations in his posture. “Yes, I could say I think you set a good example. Your status as an exile might make your work more laudable, and honoring it could bring about discussion on education in general. My father did not think it was wise to provide too much education beyond the Church; he thought it led to civil unrest and a disruption of order. So do most of my uncles. But my father did not have the Duma to contend with, and the people had not rioted ...” His words faded, and then he continued briskly, “None of my Ministers could object to that, and neither could the diplomatic corps. Yes,” he said as much to himself as to Ragoczy, “Your admirable work in educating the people of Russia must be shown the esteem it deserves. In a year or so, I will present you with some sign of—”

  “Nikolai Alexandreivich, I prefer you would not,” Ragoczy interrupted, taking the chance of offending the Czar by not allowing him to continue.

  “What are you saying?” Nikolai looked at him, his eyes narrowing. “You disdain my honors?”

  “No; no, nothing of the sort,” Ragoczy said, soothing the Czar, knowing from long experience of rulers that he was now treading on very slippery ground. “I would be more pleased than you know to receive any credit for the work I have done in your service, whatever that work may be. I can aspire to no higher prominence in Russia than one bestowed by you. But I know you have manypthers to consider, and I think it may be possible that if you recognize me, an exile, before you show distinction to some of your more ... forward-thinking Russians, your plan may well backfire, creating resentment where you can afford it least.” He saw Nikolai s expression change, his face becoming less impassive, a sign that he was listening. “It might be more to your point to select a number of your own court, men whose innovations have gained approval, and see that they are acknowledged. The court will be more inclined to model themselves on one of their own number than risk copying a foreigner, whose radical notions may not be in tune with those of Russians.” He chuckled once, his manner self-deprecating. “If you want to thank me for playing the piano well, or for sponsoring the ballet or symphony, I will accept it gladly, and count myself happy for it.”

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  He would count himself relieved, as well; he kept this last to himself.

  Nikolais mouth was tight and petulant, but he could not find fault with Ragoczys argument. “If you are certain you want no other tribute?” he said, not entirely convinced of Ragoczy s sincerity. “If there is something, tell me now. I will not look with approbation on a later petition.”

  Ragoczys penetrating gaze fixed on the Czars eyes. “I will not ask anything of you, Czar. You have my Word.”

  “Yes,” said Nikolai in a measuring way. “I understand you.”

  Knowing that Countess Amalija wanted him to keep their talk away from the somber, Ragoczy gestured to the glittering Order of Saint Stephen on his sash. “One of these is enough; two would be intolerably gaudy.”

  Nikolai was willing to laugh at this very minor witticism. “As you wish, Count,” he conceded. “I will confer a distinction upon you for patronizing the ballet. No one will protest that, not even Otyets Grigori Efimovich. You and I will know the full meaning of the recognition, and that must suffice.”

  “I am grateful to you, Czar, and I thank you,” said Ragoczy, his words simple and direct.

  “No, it is I who am grateful to you,” Nikolai reminded Ragoczy. “Including for your patronage of the ballet.”

  Because it was expected, Ragoczy laughed. “As you wish, Czar.”

  “If it was as I wish, Europe and Britain would be disarming, and we could do so safely, as well. At least you tried to make it happen, and at a higher cost than I imagined.” For an instant the distress was back in him, then he made himself smile, and bow to his hostess one last time. “My chauffeur will be getting cold. I thank you once more for this splendid evening, Countess. You and your nephew make most engaging dinner companions.” He looked at Ragoczy. “I am in your debt, Count.”

  “Nothing of the sort. Czar,” said Ragoczy, punctuating his disclaimer with a single, formal bow.

  Leonid bowed as well, and did not straighten up until he heard the Czars footfalls descending the stairs. “I think I should let you two have some time alone together,” he said when he was certain the Czar was out of earshot. “It was a wonderful evening, Aunt Amalija. I have enjoyed myself tremendously. So much, that I am glad Jurgi is the one driving, and not I. With all this snow, I would not like to wager on my chances of getting home without mishap. ” He bent and kissed his aunt’s cheeks, then held out his hand to Ragoczy. “I will admit that I had

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  doubts of you at first, and thought about warning you off, but...”

  “I do not have to seek your approval,” said Countess Amalija, taking umbrage with her nephews tone. “It is not for you to select my friends.”

  “Certainly not,” said Leonid, wholly unaware of the implied contradiction in his last two statements. “But I would be remiss if I did not look after your well-being, now wouldn’t I?” With that, he gave a flourishing bow, then turned on his heel, calling for his coat and hat as he descended the stairs.

  “He’s a bit self-important, but he is an oldest child, and he has been in charge ever since his father died. He does not mean to take over, it is just a habit with him,” said the Countess fondly as she watched Leonid prepare to leave the house. When she turned to Ragoczy, she said, “I am surprised that you declined the Czar’s offer of advancement so summarily.”

  Ragoczy listened to the door slam as Leonid departed. “Those who patronize the ballet are not of any interest to anyone but ballet directors. Those who are given the Czar’s confidence are of interest to everyone; they acquire enemies, sought or unsought. Their life is scrutinized, and those near them are subjected ...” His words dwindled as he stared into the distance.

  “As your English artist was subjected?” Countess Amalija suggested kindly.

  “Yes. As she was. As many others have been.” Something in his eyes kept her from asking any more. He kissed her gently, as if to banish any apprehension she may have felt. He went on more conversationally. “And speaking of scrutiny, there is something I must do tonight. I hope you will forgive me if I leave you for an hour or so?”

  “Is your mission dangerous?” she asked, trying not to sound too serious.

  “I doubt it,” he answered. “An unfinished matter; nothing drastic.” He stepped away from her and started down the wide stairs. “I will not be long.”

  “Then I will wait up for you, in the salon. I think,” she said with a slight smile, “I will practice my scales. I am growing very sloppy about fingering.” Lifting her hand to wave, she added, “When you come back, we will play duets. Some by Schubert, some of our own composition.”

  Ragoczy showed her his engaging smile before he went down to the ground floor and summoned Roger from the servants’ hall, asking him to ready the Dupressoir. “It should not take long, this errand.”

  “At once,” said Roger in mild incredulity; he had not expected Ragoczy to leave until just before dawn. “It is after two.”

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  “So it is,” Ragoczy said affably. “But Kuba’s will not be closed quite yet. There is someone I must speak with, and tonight; I was told I could find him there.”

  Over the centuries, Roger had become acc
ustomed to Ragoczys deliberate obliqueness, and did not challenge it now. “I will be ready shortly,” he said, and went to get the automobile out of the end of the stable.

  Kuba’s Restaurant on the Morskaya could exist only in Saint Petersburg: all the decor and chefs were French; all the waiters were Tartars, and vodka was served as often and as extravagantly as champagne. When Ragoczy arrived, two parties were still lingering over the midnight buffet in the side dining room, too tired or too drunk to be rowdy, but most of the restaurant was quiet.

  The heavy-eyed waiter pointed Ragoczy to the rear of the restaurant, an out-of-the-way alcove lit by a single branch of guttering candles; a lone figure was seated there, hunched over a small, leather-bound book.

  “Spasiba,” said Ragoczy, handing the waiter two silver coins before threading his way between the empty tables, making no sound as he moved.

  “Grammatikoff?” asked the man with the book as Ragoczy drew near. He turned slowly in his chair, not yet alarmed, looking into the darkness beyond the pool of candlelight.

  “No,” Ragoczy said in English.

  At that, Reilly’s face sharpened, his deep-set eyes grew brighter and he sat straighten “How did you find me?” he asked in the same language, his wariness concealed with what seemed idle curiosity.

  “Like you, Captain, I have my ways.” He came into the spill of the candlelight and looked down at Sidney Reilly; he considered a moment before he held out his hand. “After all this time, don’t you think we should—”

  Reilly cocked his head, his edginess fading. “You were aware, then,” he said, not as startled as he thought he would be. The two shook hands briefly.

  “Of you, and of others, yes; in Berlin, in Amsterdam, in London, here,” said Ragoczy, nodding to the vacant chair opposite Reilly. “Do you mind?”