Vladimir sighed. “I know. Adam Smith and all your economists tell us that free labor is more productive than slaves or serfs. That slavery and serfdom is bad for the economy of the nation. But what they usually neglect to mention is that it’s still very profitable for the people who own the slaves.” He looked down at his coffee cup.
“Brandy, I’ve lived here for a long time and have accepted many of your principles, but that doesn’t mean my countrymen have. I agree that serfdom must be eliminated but I don’t see any way to do it.”
* * *
When Brandy got up to light the gas lights against the darkening of the room, Vladimir moved just a tad closer to her end of the sofa. Whenever she leaned forward to pour more coffee, or stood to busy herself with something, he moved just a little bit closer. Eventually, Vladimir was right where he wanted to be. Close, nearly touching.
Brandy looked a little nervous when she discovered just how close he was. Deciding not to give her, or himself, a chance to bolt, Vladimir took one of her hands in his own. “Branya, I have something I want to speak of, something that is not about Bernie or even about Russia.”
Brandy’s breath caught just a bit before she nodded at him. “You can speak to me about anything, Vladimir. What is it?”
He had been quite confident of her response when he had written the letters asking permission from Czar Mikhail and informing Natasha of his intent. Somehow, that confidence had disappeared when he had been informed that Mikhail had agreed to the marriage—at least conditionally. The condition being that she make a valid conversion. And Natasha had informed him that several ladies from Russia would be coming to Grantville to look Brandy over. At that point he had seen the looming disaster of the dragons arriving to inspect her before he even asked for her hand.
But Vladimir was still hesitating and Brandy was looking at him expectantly. “I am not one of your up-time men, Branya. And I may not have the correct words. But I have grown very . . . fond of you. Very fond. And I, I . . .” Vladimir paused a moment. “I wish you to be my wife, Branya. I wish it very much.”
Brandy’s eyes glittered in the candlelight. “Wife? You want to get married?”
“I do,” Vladimir said. He watched her face closely. What would she answer?
“Yes.”
* * *
Half an hour later, after some very pleasant kissing and some not so pleasant explanation. Brandy wasn’t quite so sure.
“We don’t do that,” Vladimir said, sounding a bit desperate. “Abandon thy family, abjure thy name.” He shook his head. “It sounds glorious, but Romeo and Juliet ended up dead. Were I to marry without the czar’s consent, our family’s property could be seized and my sister could end her life in a convent. Forced to take holy orders. Not because Mikhail would want to do it, but because the cabinet would insist.”
Brandy knew that was all too likely an outcome. But Vladimir was continuing. “If I asked the czar first and you said no, I would look foolish. But if I asked you first and the czar said no, I didn’t know what I would do. I didn’t wish to make a promise to you until I was sure I could keep it.”
* * *
“All right!” Judy the Younger Wendell was grinning from ear to ear. “So, when’s the wedding, Brandy? What are you going to wear?”
“I don’t know to the first question.” Brandy took a sip of root beer. “And I don’t know to the second one, for that matter.”
Brandy’s friends looked confused. As a group they were often called the Barbie Consortium because they were teenagers who had gotten rich selling their old dolls—which, in one of the Ring of Fire’s most quirky ramifications, turned out to be highly prized objects for Europe’s wealthy classes. They were quite bright, generally speaking, but as could be expected from girls most of whom were no older than sixteen, their experience with life in general was limited.
Marriage was simple and straightforward, in their world view. Fall in love; get married; the bride wears a really nifty outfit and the bridesmaids wear outfits that are almost as nifty, there’s a big cake which is usually cut by the groom and in the seventeenth century they thought he got to use a really nifty sword for the purpose.
“It’s more complicated than I knew,” Brandy sighed. “It turns out that Vladimir is sort of a prince or something like that. He can’t just get married, not to a foreigner, not to anybody, really. He has to get permission.”
Vicky Emerson looked outraged. “What, from his father? He’s a grown man! Why does he have to ask for permission?”
Brandy shook her head. “His parents are dead. Both of them. He’s got a sister, Natasha. No, it’s not his parents, it’s the czar. He had to get permission from the czar. He apparently asked him before he asked me. And the czar has already sent a bunch of dragon ladies from Russia to check me out,” Brandy added, with some resentment. Vladimir had explained that they had to do it that way but it still ticked her off. “And then there’s the religion thing, too.”