Why, Natasha didn’t even realize that she was envious of the various servant girls who saw to Bernie’s needs!
Not that Sofia wasn’t concerned by Vladimir’s interest in the Bates girl, but at least he had been encouraged to get a certain amount of practice, as were all men of his class in Russia. Natasha was most certainly a virgin and, because of her mother’s attitudes, Natasha had had very little even theoretical knowledge until she started corresponding with Brandy Bates. She was totally unprepared for the feelings Sofia could tell she was having for Bernie, which effectively prevented Sofia from being able to offer advice on how to deal with them.
The only good news here was that Bernie was also unaware of Natasha’s interest. Sofia hoped he continued to be unaware. The political consequences of Vladimir getting involved with an up-time woman would be bad. The political consequences of Natasha getting involved with an up-timer would be worse. Partly because Natasha was a woman, and partly because Bernie was right here in Russia.
Perhaps Sofia should encourage Natasha to visit the estates in Murom. Take that new steam barge downriver. That should keep her distracted. Sofia could only hope that the distraction wasn’t fatal, considering that the first boiler they made had blown up.
* * *
“It must have come from the Dacha!” Sheremetev roared at the patriarch. For most people roaring at Patriarch Filaret was a serious, sometimes fatal, mistake. Fedor Ivanovich Sheremetev wasn’t most people. He was a cousin of the czar and one of the most powerful nobles in Russia.
“Do not shout at me, Cousin,” Filaret snarled back. “It may have come from the Dacha or it may have come from the bureaus—not even necessarily the Grantville Section. The same sort of thing is coming from Germany and Sweden. The up-timers’ founding fathers are often quoted.”
“Wherever it comes from, the writer, this Flying Squirrel, needs its pelt removed and publicly. We can’t allow this sort of rhetoric and you know it. After what that fool Zeppi did in Moscow last spring, anything attributed to an up-time source is given extra credence almost as though it were holy writ.”
“I know, and that is the very reason we must tread carefully. Aside from offending the Gorchakovs, who have shown themselves both loyal and of considerable financial worth to the czar, a raid or attack on the Dacha would engender quite a bit of ill-feeling among the people. Further, I don’t want to give it that much credence.”
Sheremetev wasn’t satisfied but Filaret wouldn’t budge. The American had become a danger to Russia, Sheremetev thought as he left the meeting. It was time to consider removing that danger. Besides, without the Zeppi fellow, the Sheremetev clan would have a better chance of getting control of the up-timer knowledge away from the Gorchakov clan.
Chapter 37
On the Oka River, between Moscow and Murom
August 1633
“Hey, Stinky. What do you have there?
Pavel Mikhailovich didn’t much like being called Stinky, since he didn’t stink any worse than his brother did. “I got a pamphlet, Shorty. There was this kid handing them out in Moscow.”
“What’d you want a pamphlet for that you can’t read?” Ivan Mikhailovich demanded. He didn’t much like being called Shorty, since his brother was only one inch taller than he was.
“Well, I figured you’d read it to me. Oh, that’s right! You can’t read either.” Pavel Mikhailovich made a rude gesture at his brother, then continued. “The kid stuck it in my hand. I wasn’t going to stop in the middle of a Moscow street and explain to him that I couldn’t read. So I stuck it in my pocket and forgot about it.”
Pockets, not entirely by chance, had become the mark of a well-dressed man—to the extent that someone had suggested a law forbidding them to peasants and Streltzi. The notion hadn’t gotten very far, but just the fact that it had been broached was enough to make pockets a fad.
“Fine, then. How’s the engine doing?” In theory, Ivan, being three years older, was the captain and Pavel was the engineer. In fact, they switched off and both turned their hands to whatever needed doing on the Gorchakov Steam Barge One. It was the only steam barge in Russia and it was brand new. The barge was thirty feet long and twelve feet wide. The front twenty feet had boxes and barrels like any barge on the Moskva river might. But the back ten feet were different. They contained a Frankenstein monster of an engine that James Watt wouldn’t have recognized in his worst nightmare. The engine started with a big iron pot, the boiler, which was connected to a big wooden tub by a copper pipe. More copper pipes led to two wooden cylinders, each about six feet long, held together by what a wine merchant would call an excess of barrel hoops.