Heirs of the Motherland (The Russians Book #4)

By Judith Pella

Eighteen years after his daughter's birth, Count Dmitri Remizov returns to Russia from exile to find his only child. But Mariana, who was raised as a peasant, is hesitant to take her place in Imperial Russia. Meanwhile, Sergei and Anna must decide whether to risk emerging from hiding. Will they find a way to reunite their families and claim their h

• Language: English
• Publisher: Baker Publishing Group
• Release date: Oct 13, 2015
• ISBN: 9781441229779

Book preview

Sergei

1

(1881–1894)

An old Russian fable tells of the mythical Tsar Dadone. In his warlike youth he was the terror of all the neighboring countries, invading the regions and making constant war upon them. But in his old age he grew weary of war, and his enemies, perceiving this change as weakness, took the opportunity to retaliate against Dadone. Thus his realm knew no peace and incurred heavy losses from all its enemies.

How can this continue? the tsar raged. I am losing my empire, piece by piece!

After many sleepless nights, he called for help from his friend, a eunuch who was a sage and wise counselor. The eunuch presented a gift to the tsar, a golden cockerel.

Just place this cockerel on the weathervane of your highest tower, he advised. He will be your protector. When there is a threat of war, he will sound an alarm. But if there is no danger to your country, he will remain still and quiet.

Oh, thank you, my true friend! exclaimed the tsar. He rewarded the eunuch with bags of gold and promised him, Because of what you have done, I will grant you your dearest wish.

Thank you, Your Majesty. I will give much consideration to your offer before acting upon it.

The years passed and the cockerel served the tsar well, constantly foiling the attacks of his enemies until no one dared to provoke him again. Peace reigned in Dadone’s kingdom. The cockerel was silent. And Dadone took his leisure and spent his waning years at rest.

Then one day a loud Cockadoodledoo! rang through Dadone’s capital. Dadone raised an army, led by his eldest son, to ride in the direction the cockerel had pointed. Peace settled once more over the capital and Dadone assumed that the danger had passed.

Suddenly the cockerel crowed again. The tsar sent out yet another army, this one led by his second son. Again, days passed with no word from this second army, and the tsar and all the people wondered what could have become of them.

Cockadoodledoo! cried the golden cockerel a third time.

A third army was sent to the rescue, with the tsar himself in command. They traveled toward the east for many days, crossing a treacherous mountain pass. Finally, in the distance on the top of a grassy knoll, they saw a brightly colored pavilion. But as they made their way to the tent, they came upon the remains of the first two armies, surrounded by vultures picking at the bones of the brave soldiers. In the midst of this carnage the tsar found his two sons, both dead, each felled by the other’s sword.

Oh, what a dark day this is! wailed the tsar. Both my sons are dead—what good is my own life!

As he grieved, a young woman appeared from inside the pavilion. She was more beautiful than the richest treasure, lovelier than the glow of springtime. The sight of her made Dadone forget all about his dead sons and his grief. She introduced herself as the Princess Chamakhan and bid the tsar to enter her pavilion. He gave in to her wishes and spent a whole week reveling in her bewitching charms.

Finally he returned to the capital, taking the beautiful princess with him. At the gate he saw his friend the eunuch beckoning to him.

Ah, my friend and counselor, greeted the tsar. Is there something you wish of me?

Your most exalted Excellency, I do indeed have a request to make. If you recall, many years ago you promised that for my services you would grant me a wish. I would now like to avail myself of that boon.

And what is your wish? asked Dadone expansively.

Give me the Princess Chamakhan!

The tsar gaped in astonishment at this most unexpected request. You must be crazy, man! That’s asking too much. You may have anything else, even to half my kingdom, he shouted, but you cannot expect me to give up my princess to you!

I want nothing else.

The tsar began to rage with fury, and when the eunuch stood his ground, Dadone raised his scepter and swung it at his friend, striking him dead. Mounted on her white steed, the princess watched the confrontation, and seeing the eunuch struck down, she began to laugh.

The tsar rode on. As he entered the city gates, the sound of fluttering wings overtook him. The golden cockerel left his perch and landed on top of the tsar’s head. With a single lethal motion, the animal pecked Dadone’s skull and split it open so that he instantly bled to death. And with that the Princess Chamakhan disappeared. Many people wondered if she had ever really existed. Others swore, however, that the tinkling sounds of feminine laughter filled the air for many days afterward.

2

The ancient Russian tale warns against protection gone awry. The mythical Dadone lived in peace while the cockerel stood guard, sounding a loud Cockadoodledoo! to warn of the approach of enemies. The mighty tsar had a fine rest, depending more and more on the magical bird. And, in the end, inaction rather than incompetence led to his final demise.

Perhaps the story of Dadone rose up in the thoughts of the masses of Russians as they watched the grim funeral procession of their batiushka, their Little Father, who had been brutally murdered in the streets of their capital in March of 1881. Alexander II had been close, so very close, to initiating sweeping reform. But he had hesitated, reluctant to concede the ancient traditions of the tsardom.

Tsar Dadone was finally deceived not by armies but by the beautiful and mysterious Princess Chamakhan. So caught was he in the power of her evil mystique that he did not recognize that she had murdered his sons or perceive that the cockerel’s cries warned him of her. When the eunuch discerned her evil spell and demanded her as his payment, the tsar killed his faithful friend rather than give up the princess.

Similarly, the last tsars of Russia clung to the beguiling spell of their own power, and those who raised a voice of reason and warning were destroyed rather than honored.

But following the death of Alexander II, it seemed that those prophets of doom might have been mistaken after all. By all appearances the cockerel still stood sentinel. The reign of the murdered tsar’s successor, Alexander III, seemed tranquil enough, almost as if some magical force were indeed overseeing the affairs of the mighty Russia. For thirteen years Russia was free from major wars and the paralyzing strife caused by terrorists and revolutionaries.

The people, however, could not see that the pervading peace was obtained by a heavy fist, not a benevolent heart. Under a thin veil of tranquility, the disenchanted and discontented still existed, even if in obscurity. Lenin and Trotsky and Kerensky, still boys at the ascension of Alexander III, had yet to raise their voices of radicalism. Peace reigned. The cockerel was silent.

Alexander III could have been the leader Russia had been waiting for. A towering six and a half feet tall, he liked making a show of his physical power with strong-man antics such as bending iron rods and horseshoes. Once, at a dinner party, the subject of trouble in the Balkans had arisen, and the Austrian ambassador had hinted that his country could mobilize two or three corps. Alexander responded by calmly taking a fork in his hands, twisting it into a knot, and tossing it onto the ambassador’s plate. That is what I intend to do about your two or three corps, he said.

The tsar was a private man, seldom appearing in public. When he did, looking like the definitive Russian bear itself, he made an excellent show of it. But in the modern age, nearing the advent of a new century, physical prowess in a ruler was not enough. People expected initiative, vigor, and imagination—qualities that Alexander III sadly lacked.

His reign commenced with a manifesto that, to a government poised on the brink of constitutional reform, amounted to a slap in the face.

We are constrained by the voice of God commanding us to continue the task of governing with resolve and fortitude, relying on Divine Providence, with unwavering conviction in the strength and truth of autocratic power, of which we have been called upon to preserve and protect for the good of the people.

He immediately lost Loris-Melikov, who had been only a heartbeat away from initiating drastic reform in Russia. Melikov resigned straightaway. Others among the more forward-thinking government servants soon followed—including General Dmitri Milyutin, who had almost single-handedly wrenched the Russian army from its archaic disorganization.

Government influence seemed to be left in the hands of men like the utterly fanatical reactionary Constantine Pobedonostev, who had been Alexander III’s tutor. The key position of Minister of the Interior was bestowed on Count Ignatiev, the avowed Panslav who had distinguished himself during the Balkan crisis of 1877.

The one true visionary to rise to influence in Alexander III’s court was Count Sergius Witte, but his crude, pompous craftiness earned him as much derision as applause. Under Witte, however, Russian railway construction peaked with the near-completion of the Trans-Siberian Railroad. Industry began to expand and the nearly bankrupt Russian economy started to show signs of revitalization.

An utterly new phenomenon began to rise in Russia—a working class. This concept was so alien in Russia that once when Witte happened to mention it to Pobedonostev, the old imperial tutor replied: I have never heard of anything in Russia called a ‘working class,’ Sergius Yulevich. Pobedonostev sneered contemptuously. Russia is its peasantry if it is anything, and that forms ninety percent of the population. A small number of these happen to be employed in factories, but they are peasants just the same. You, my dear count, are attempting to create something that is totally alien to Russia. And I must say, Sergius Yulevich, that you are flirting dangerously with socialism.

Witte sighed. He had seen it before—this narrow-mindedness that plagued the dreams of the new Russian visionaries.

Meanwhile, Alexander III encouraged a fervent nationalism. Despite his own German ancestry, he had a passion for all things Russian. During his reign, non-Russians in the empire suffered more than they had under any other tsar. Even Russian-born citizens of differing religious beliefs were swept into the net of persecution. Russian Muslims were harassed and persecuted, but not nearly as much as Christian sects that had spurned Orthodoxy. Baptists, Mennonites, Uniats of Western lands, and above all, Catholics were treated as heretics, with little hope of finding mercy at the hand of the patriarch of the Orthodox Church, old Pobedonostev himself. But the Jewish population received the harshest lash of the nationalistic whip. These so-called murderers of Christ became the victims of sanctioned violence and organized pogroms.

Although I have no sympathy for the Jews when they receive beatings, Alexander admitted, nevertheless we cannot permit this practice.

But it was permitted.

And the revolutionary movement began to swell with a new element—the Jewish population. Before the reign of Alexander III, they had not been deeply involved in the radical movement, even though they had often been accused of radical fervor. But persecution upon persecution drove them at last into the arms of the revolution.

Although the repression of revolutionary activities gave a false appearance of national stability, the revolutionary ranks nevertheless began to expand in many new directions during Alexander III’s reign. Many rank and file Russian citizens, particularly the growing working classes whose existence Pobedonostev had so vehemently denied, were becoming disenchanted with the government, especially the autocracy. A growing contingent of the liberal-minded noble classes also began to align themselves with radical movements.

After devastating crop failures and accompanying famine in the nineties, staunch peasant loyalty to the tsar also seriously eroded. Only the firm resolve and iron fist of the unbending tsar held the country together. And given a few more years, it might have been enough.

But only thirteen years into his reign, the powerful Tsar Alexander III, the image of virility and strength, suddenly fell ill. On a dark November day, he died.

The death of the sovereign at age forty-nine was a shock to the entire country, but most of all to his son and heir. Nicholas Alexandrovich, only twenty-six, had dreaded this moment all his life.

To his brother-in-law, Nicholas lamented, What am I going to do? What is to become of us now, Sandro? I never wanted to be tsar, and I am not prepared to be one. I don’t even know how to talk to the ministers.

Was Nicholas destined to fulfill the role of the mythical Dadone—constrained within a power structure for which he was not suited, committed to crumbling traditions without the ears to hear the cries of warning, or the courage to heed them?

But whatever the so-called fates might mete out to him, Nicholas II was bound not only to tradition but to his own inner sense of sacred duty as well. He was called to do what every Romanov heir had done for nearly three hundred years. He must take up the crown and rule. . . .

1

The month of May stretched a benevolent springtime hand over the Russian landscape. Upon the broad steppes new shoots of grass pushed through the muddy earth to wave in the brisk, pleasant air. Peasant farmers began the arduous task of plowing the rich black loam, preparing it to receive the seeds of autumn’s harvest. Farther north, in the vast forests, wildflowers bloomed through the snow as warmth penetrated the thick mesh of branches and leaves. Even the icy tundra took on a different appearance, welcoming new green shoots and brief, dazzling signs of life.

But in the heart of true Russia, in the ancient city of Moscow, the newness of spring led to the welcoming in not of a season but of a new ruler.

The year of mourning for the dead Alexander III was over. His heir was about to be crowned.

Even a pragmatic and cynical man could not deny the singular honor of this occasion. To Cyril Vlasenko, riding in the coronation procession with the ranking Russian nobility was the crowning achievement of his career. This ought to impress even the likes of his haughty cousin Prince Viktor Fedorcenko.

Mounted astride his spirited charcoal stallion, obtained at no small expense from a famed Cossack horse breeder, Cyril felt he had finally arrived. He was decked out in the stunning blue-green uniform of the Preobrajensky Guard—he had purchased a commission in the prestigious regiment, also at no small expense. But he knew every kopeck had been well spent when he learned that the tsar would be garbed in the regalia of the Preobrajensky for the coronation ceremony. Gold braid hung from Cyril’s shoulders, and across his ponderous chest he proudly sported the blue sash of the Order of St. Vladimir. He had actually earned this honor—though mostly by ingratiating himself by any means possible to ministers and other important government officials. He might not have the shimmering rows of jeweled medals across his chest like many of the nobles accompanying him, but he was satisfied enough with his other gains in the last fifteen years.

He glanced around at the mobs of spectators lining the four-mile route of the Imperial procession. Thousands upon thousands had poured into the city for the great event, and the squadrons of Cossacks had their work cut out keeping the excited people in tow. Cyril swelled within at the boisterous cheers almost as if they were being offered for him alone. It never occurred to him that if it were he alone, the crowds would be more inclined to attack than cheer him. His past association with the police had not made him especially popular with the people.

Cyril Vlasenko, however, cared less than nothing for the people, that overly glorified symbol of the Russian spirit.

What had always mattered to Cyril in the past, what continued to drive him even now, was the acceptance by the men who this moment surrounded him—men of power and influence and wealth. He had striven for their acceptance, fought, lied, cheated, and stolen for it. He had earned it.

He thought about the last fifteen years. In hindsight, he congratulated himself on his great wisdom during the reign of Alexander II, when he had chosen to curry the favor of the tsarevich instead of the tsar. He had not openly alienated the tsar—heaven forbid! But since the tsarevich’s conservative political stance aligned more closely to Cyril’s, it had been natural to lean toward his camp.

When Alexander II had been assassinated, Cyril had mourned with as much shock and grief as anyone. But down deep he was exhilarated. The new tsar, Alexander III, would not forget his past friends when he ascended the throne. And Cyril was thus carried closer to the coveted inner circles of power.

First, he had been promoted to Assistant to the Supervisor of the state police. He had contributed to the writing of The Statutes for the Protection of State Security and Social Order, in which nearly every manner of political action was effectively banned. In later revisions, the document gave governors-general immense latitude in overriding the law, thus offering them potential for great individual power. This provision worked greatly to Cyril’s advantage when he had been elevated to the governor-generalship of a small Ukrainian province.

Although he could enjoy vast power in that position, and it was a tremendous career move, he had not liked the idea of once more being removed from the real hub of power. And the province was one of the smaller and less influential of Russia’s ninety-six provinces. He was not fool enough to protest, however, but rather sought to use his new position to his advantage. Availing himself of the ancient Russian institutions of bribery and taxation, he had comfortably padded his personal coffers.

But his true moment of opportunity had come during a series of peasant outbursts in the area. Not wanting the disturbances to be credited to their true source, the revolutionaries—for the government preferred to perpetuate the myth that revolutionary activity had abated in Russia—Cyril had pulled off a masterful stroke by turning the wrath of the discontented peasants onto the large Jewish population in the province. A successful pogrom had ensued, forcing the emigration of thousands of Jews while at the same time raising the esteem of the government in the eyes of the anti-Semitic majority in the community. Violence had been averted—at least, violence against orthodox Russians not Jews—and Cyril came out looking quite heroic to the passionately nationalistic central government.

He was immediately brought back to St. Petersburg to serve as the Director of the Committee for National Indemnification—a grandiose title that simply meant he was to carry out on a national level the kind of effective Russification he had implemented in his province. The position represented nothing short of government sanction of his rabid bigotry and prejudice. And with this advancement, Cyril was directly responsible to the Minister of the Interior. He had never been closer to real power.

The sudden death of Alexander III had been a blow, for Cyril had little idea where he stood with the new tsar. Alexander had not thought much of his shy, frivolous heir, and thus had done little to prepare him for the duties of rule. In 1894, Alexander assumed he had two or three more decades yet to rule, plenty of time to whip his son into shape. Nicholas meanwhile had enjoyed the role of playboy-heir and had never shown any strong inclination toward taking a greater hand in government. The tsar’s death caught up with both of them.

Cyril had no reason to believe that Nicholas Alexandrovich did not adhere to his father’s conservatism. But to his delight—and relief—the new tsar made his position clear.

The young tsar stated unequivocally, I shall maintain the principle of autocracy just as firmly and unflinchingly as my dear father also strove to preserve it.

Many hopeful liberals groaned with despair, but for Cyril it meant a renewal of the life he had come to depend upon. The quiet, demurring new monarch didn’t look like much on the outside, but he was no liberal, and that was all that mattered. Such a diminutive young man might be an asset for the government if those in power could perfect the proper techniques for using him to their best advantage.

So, Cyril had kept his coveted position. Here he was, riding in a place of honor with men of power. And, if he had a shread of humanity, it could not have prevented him just then from thinking of his cousin and old nemesis, Viktor Fedorcenko. The once-mighty prince had fallen ignominiously while he, the despised country relation, had risen to the heights. The thought brought a grin of immense satisfaction to his pudgy face. The only thing that could possibly dull the swell of pride within him was the fact that Viktor himself was not present to see his cousin’s grand moment. Perhaps, Cyril thought with evil delight, I shall drop a little note to him, expressing my regrets that he could not have been present at the coronation, mentioning—off-handedly, of course—my own elevated role in the festivities. Ah, yes! I shall do so tonight.

A note would not be as effective as a first-hand witness, but it would have to suffice. Cyril grimaced. Even absent, Viktor managed to rob him of some of his glory.

Cyril’s smile faded. Why, even now, did Viktor stir such ambivalence in him? His prideful gloating teetered on the edge of anger and a feeling of inferiority. Yes . . . as much as he tried to ignore it, that horrible demon of inferiority always lurked inside Cyril. Maybe it would be there even if he were to become a tsar. Perhaps he would not be able to shake it as long as Viktor Fedorcenko lived.

2

Sarah Remington had harbored deep reservations about this trip to Moscow. In deference to the employer-employee relationship, however, she could voice only a small fraction of her objections. If fear for her position were her only consideration, she would have presented herself more boldly. After all, she had been a loyal employee of the Fedorcenko household for twenty-five years and that alone ought to permit her some liberty.

Her greatest fears, however, were not for herself but for Prince Viktor Fedorcenko. How would he handle this sudden exposure to a life that had been essentially snatched away from him? Wasn’t he just opening himself up for a terrible setback? And how could she, in clear conscience, permit such a risk?

Those questions had plagued her for the last two weeks since the decision had been made. But how could she voice them to a man who did not, perhaps could not, accept that he had a problem? In the end she had relented, placating her fears by obtaining permission to accompany the prince. At least if something did go wrong there would be a trusted, steadying hand to support him. Perhaps that was the thing she did best; after all, that had been her main function these past fifteen years.

Ever vigilant of her duty, Mrs. Remington glanced at the prince, who sat next to her in the open carriage. He was taking in the long and ornate coronation parade with rapt attention. Every now and then his brow would furrow slightly, and sometimes Mrs. Remington could connect the faltering lapse in his impassive features directly to the appearance of a former acquaintance in the parade. This was just the kind of encounter she had feared most.

Do you know, Viktor, she said, trying to distract him, this is the first Russian coronation I have ever seen?

Is it? It seemed an effort for him to focus on her attempt at conversation. But at least he was trying.

Actually, she went on, rambling but compelled to continue, this is the first coronation of any kind I have seen. I was not born when Queen Victoria ascended the throne.

The Empress Alexandra is part British, you know, said Viktor of the new tsaritsa.

Yes. Queen Victoria’s own granddaughter. It shall be interesting to see how the two worlds meet, don’t you think?

At least it will cut some of that dratted German blood.

She is still a Hesse-Darmstadt princess and half German, Mrs. Remington reminded him.

Viktor made no response. Mrs. Remington glanced his way again and saw that she had lost him once more. His vacant gaze was focused on the procession, his brow more deeply furrowed. Count Cyril Vlasenko was passing among the cortege of nobles. By rights Viktor should have been in that honored company. But all Mrs. Remington could think of was that she hoped no one noticed him in the crowd. It would only make matters worse if one of his old associates sought him out.

She tried again to engage him in conversation, but he took no notice of her. She wasn’t even certain that he was really seeing the parade on which his intense gaze was focused. He was lost in some inner world she could neither fathom nor penetrate.

Fifteen years ago he had descended into that world, and except for brief sorties on the fringes of reality, he had remained ensconced in its warmth and safety. Sometimes Sarah wondered if it were not better that way.

For Viktor, reality was not a pretty encounter. The weight of guilt it imposed upon him for his son’s imprisonment—and especially for his wife’s death—was too much for him to bear. His snubbing by the Tsar Alexander II, and the subsequent eroding of his influence and purpose at court only compounded the tragic sense of futility. Most people who knew Viktor would have thought him strong enough to cope with these losses, but he had apparently masked his deeper sensitivities quite well. Many thought his son, Sergei, had inherited his sensitive nature entirely from his mother, but it now seemed likely that the strong, well-controlled Prince Viktor had contributed his share of what he had often called a flaw in his son’s character.

If only people had known just how much energy Viktor expended toward covering his own flaws. Of course such a revelation would never have been acceptable—even he himself could not accept it! When his world crashed in, he had only two or three choices that would help him cope. Suicide was one option, and although he had never tried it, no one could tell if he had entertained such a possibility in the veiled recesses of his mind. But suicide was an admission of weakness, an act that would never come easily to Viktor. Only acceptance or rejection of reality was left for him. Since acceptance was as impossible as suicide, he was forced to reject that which was tormenting him. Thus were born his fantasies: his children were tending their own families, his wife was away, he was retired from government service.

Sarah Remington had opted not to tell him of his daughter’s tragic death. She feared that would be the proverbial straw, that he might be driven to finally do away with himself. His life might well be a sham built on a flimsy foundation indeed, but at least he still had life.

Sarah’s mother used to tell her that where there is life, there is hope. The faithful housekeeper prayed that would prove true in Prince Fedorcenko’s case.

At least within the confines of his make-believe world, he had found some semblance of peace, if not happiness. Sarah attributed this peace to his decision to move to the family estate in the Crimea.

That first awful Christmas alone, Prince Viktor had drunk himself nearly to death, and had almost killed himself when, in a drunken stupor, he had fallen down the stairs. The housekeeper conceived the idea of the move while Viktor was recovering from a broken ankle resulting from the fall. He had to get away from the constant barrage of painful memories. Subtly she began presenting him with the idea of a change. Finally he accepted the concept, though, much to Sarah’s chagrin, he agreed because it was high time they joined Princess Natalia in the Crimea.

She almost regretted her suggestion, worrying over the probable consequences all during the preparations. But when they arrived at the Crimean estate, Viktor had found some new way to excuse his wife’s absence.

Life on the secluded seaside estate was a balm to the prince’s tormented soul. The responsibilities of running the large St. Petersburg estate were behind them. Most of the servants had been dismissed, except for the oldest and most faithful who were moved to the Crimea. The slow idyllic pace, the warm, healthful breezes, and the beautiful countryside acted like a tonic to the beleaguered prince. He turned to alcohol less frequently. On occasion, the housekeeper still came upon him in a drunken stupor. But he was sober most of the time. He continued to cling to his fantasy world, but the terrible dark shadow that lay over him began, by degrees, to lift.

When, by nothing less than a miracle, the prince’s son appeared at the estate, Sarah had held great hope for the elder prince’s recovery. But Viktor had accepted Sergei’s visit as a matter of course—a son merely visiting his father, not a son returned almost literally from the dead, from an exile the father felt responsible for. Sarah supposed that for Viktor to accept the miracle of his son’s deliverance, he must also accept the reality of the other tragedies in his life. And this, he was still unable to do.

But during one moment of the reunion, Sarah did see a tiny spark of hope. The two men had embraced and tears had coursed freely down Sergei’s face. Viktor had maintained his usual stoicism, except for one unguarded moment when a trace of moisture invaded his eyes and threatened to seep from the corners. The prince had quickly regained his composure and his protective ramparts, and the moment was lost, but not forever, Sarah hoped.

One of the greatest boons Prince Viktor experienced on the Black Sea came quite by accident, yet it had proved a lifesaver of sorts. A flood after their second winter had washed out a little bridge that formed part of the main access road to the estate. The workmen required some direction as to design of the new bridge, but at first Viktor waved off the request disinterestedly. The workmen, left to themselves, proceeded to build the bridge with little imagination. Viktor happened to observe the work one day and was most dissatisfied. He tried to tell the men what he wanted, but they did not seem to understand. Finally he made them a sketch. Later, when he showed Sarah the drawing, she was impressed at his skill and told him so.

I didn’t know you had such artistic talent, sir, she said.

Neither did I, really. Always thought such pursuits somewhat frivolous.

I don’t believe any talent is frivolous.

Never had time for that kind of silliness before. But with the children busy with their own families and Natalia away, I suppose I could indulge myself a bit.

His reasoning might have been somewhat amiss, but the positive effect made up for it. After that he could be found most days wandering about the property, his sketch book constantly in hand. He produced reams of drawings, most of them quite good. And, oddly, his analytical, military mind did not produce purely technical detail. Although his eye for detail was scrupulous, he had an unexpected knack for capturing mood and feeling in his sketches. Sarah especially loved a drawing of a rocky stretch of beach in early morning with one solitary gull winging over a cresting wave. The lonely beauty of the scene made her want to weep and smile at the same time.

Once one of the servants had gone into town and purchased a small set of oils for the prince’s birthday. Viktor had tried them and, out of politeness, had made several paintings—all excellent. But in private he told Sarah that he really was not fond of oil painting.

All the colors detract from the scene, he said. I prefer the simple expression of black and white.

Even if the world was black and white for him, at least he was surviving. And in it he was finding some small meaning and purpose, though it might be no more than capturing the lonely beauty of a single sea gull.

The idea of the trip to Moscow for the coronation seemed to spring up out of nowhere. For years he had remained almost totally insulated from the political world, in spite of the fact that Tsar Alexander III spent a great deal of his time at Livadia, not far from the Fedorcenko Crimean estate. Alexander had, in fact, died at Livadia. Viktor had stayed completely aloof—not that any overtures were ever made toward him. It was as if tsar and government no longer existed. But when the tsar died only a few miles away, it was impossible to keep the news from penetrating the Fedorcenko household. It seemed to set off a restiveness in Viktor. He began to drink more, and that dark cloud again settled over him. Finally he announced that he would go to Moscow for the coronation.

I am Russian, he said. It is my duty.

Of course, Sarah could not tell him that she feared the exposure would upset his delicate mental balance. Nor could she use his physical health as an excuse because, except for a slight limp from that broken ankle, he was in outstanding condition for a man of sixty-one. She could do nothing but relent. He was, after all, still master. And she was, whatever else her heart suggested, his servant.

But she was able to convince him to take her along, ostensibly because she had never witnessed a Russian coronation and greatly desired to do so. And she had thus far been able to shield him from upsetting situations. They were staying in a small out-of-the-way hotel in modest quarters to keep from attracting attention, and for the present had been able to maintain complete anonymity. And so far Viktor had been satisfied to remain merely a spectator. He truly seemed interested only in doing his patriotic duty by supporting his new tsar. Only occasional flickers of bitterness or depression arose over what had been denied him.

There he comes, said Viktor as the

Reviews for Heirs of the Motherland (The Russians Book #4)

[judyg54 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A lot will happen in book 4 of this series. You will meet Daniel Trent, a young American journalist who is trying to find his way in the world and in the process will become a real friend to Marianna (who has been raised by Sergei and Anna as a peasant in Katyk but who is really a countess). Then their is Count Dmitri Remizov who returns to Russia after 18 years in exile to claim Marianna, the daughter he left behind. Sergei and Anna will find themselves leaving their hiding place in Katyk to help Marianna with her difficulties in St. Petersburg trying to fit in to her rightful place as a countess of Imperial Russia. Anna will also be reunited with her brother Paul for a short time. This is a story that continues to follow the Burenin and Fedorcenko families as they, with God's help, learn to survive amidst strife and upheavel during this time in Russian history. These people are strong and able to endure a lot and have a deep and abiding love of their country, despite its corrupt nature. This is a series that really needs to be read in order to fully grasp all that is going on. YES, it is 7 books, but so far I have not tired of reading about these families and the Russian history behind each story.

[Steve McKay · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Am a huge fan of both of these authors. They provide excellent historical knowledge and great storytelling ability in the back drop of Christian principles.