Chapter 279: Princess Vorontsova-Dashkova
October, 1794
Francisco had learned, during his time in Germany, that the secret to superior steel lay not in heat alone, but in control—control of carbon, and the careful removal of impurities such as phosphorus.
Guided by the theories of Johann Friedrich Gmelin of Göttingen, he had begun to move away from the erratic puddling methods favored by the British. In their place, he pursued something more deliberate, more exact.
He designed a modified Stückofen—a compact shaft furnace—yet introduced to it what he privately called a Göttingen refinement. He preheated the air blast before it entered the furnace and employed carefully selected fluxes, particularly calcium-rich limestone sourced from the northern regions, to cleanse the molten iron.
It was not, of course, the vast production of future generations—of that he had no direct knowledge. He had never seen how such abundance would one day be achieved.
Yet he understood the principles.
And that, he believed, was enough.
His earliest insights had come from an unexpected source: Ogundele’s method. A simpler system, yet not without its precision. Using a clay furnace and selected hardwoods, Ogundele produced a high-carbon bloom. The key, as Francisco had observed, lay in the flame.
A particular color—intense, almost blinding—marked the moment when the metal was ready.
Francisco, working within the laboratories of Göttingen, sought to translate that observation into something measurable.
Fortunately, recent invention had favored him. The pyrometer—still a novelty, scarcely more than a decade old—allowed him to approach what others could only guess at. With it, he began to test the so-called "holy flame" of Ogundele, seeking not merely to observe it, but to understand it.
At times, the flame carried a bluish-white hue.
That, above all, intrigued him.
From what he knew, such coloration could not be arbitrary. It suggested temperature—something precise, definable. And so he measured.
The results were striking.
What Ogundele had judged by eye alone revealed itself, through instrument, to correspond to a temperature of approximately one hundred forty to one hundred fifty degrees on the Wedgwood scale.
It was no mystery.
It was a threshold.
From that moment, Francisco’s efforts became singular: to construct a furnace capable of reaching and sustaining that temperature—without collapsing under the strain.
Progress was slow, but certain.
He was near completion when the interruption came.
A student entered the laboratory, slightly out of breath.
"Francisco," he said, "the director requests your presence. It concerns your wife’s laboratory—there appear to be difficulties, and no one has yet found a solution."
Francisco frowned, already setting aside his tools.
"What sort of difficulty?"
"I do not know," the student admitted. "Only that it is urgent."
That was enough.
He made his way at once to the director’s office.
Upon entering, he found the man in an uncharacteristic state—tense, unsettled, a sheen of sweat visible upon his brow.
"Director," Francisco said, stepping forward, "what has happened? Has something occurred to Catalina?"
The director looked up, his expression troubled—more complicated than mere concern.
"No... not in the manner you fear," he replied. He hesitated briefly before continuing. "It seems the Empress of Russia has extended an invitation. To both you and your wife."
A pause.
"And for reasons I do not entirely understand... your wife has accepted."
Francisco felt the tension settle at once across his shoulders.
Until that moment, Russia had seemed distant—respected, even admired in certain circles. The recent conflicts with the Ottoman Empire had cast the empire in a favorable light, and the friendship between Catalina and the Russian princess had appeared... harmless.
He now realized his error.
He knew enough of the future to distrust appearances.
Russia did not expand by chance. It advanced with purpose—and it did not relinquish what it acquired.
Men of knowledge were no exception.
If they went, they would not leave.
Even if Göttingen protested, even if voices were raised in their defense—it would avail them nothing once they stood within Russian borders.
The invitation was not an honor.
It was a claim.
The director watched him closely, reading the shift in his expression. Though he did not share Francisco’s deeper understanding, he grasped enough to recognize the danger.
"Once there," the director said quietly, "our ability to protect you would be... limited."
A measured pause followed.
"This institution may shield you here. Beyond it, we have little reach."
He drew a slow breath.
"You must persuade your wife," he added. "If she insists upon this course, there is very little we can do."
Francisco nodded, his expression grave.
"I will leave the prototype of my furnace in the laboratory," he said. "You must assign someone to guard it. By now, there are surely others watching my work. This design... it has shown enough promise. Not yet fit for commerce, perhaps—but sufficient to strengthen any nation that possesses it."
The director inclined his head without hesitation. He knew well the nature of Francisco’s work—and the consequences it might carry. It was not a matter to be taken lightly.
"I will see to it," he replied.
Francisco wasted no further time.
He turned and made his way directly toward the laboratory where Catalina conducted her studies.
—
He slowed as he approached.
Then stopped.
The sight before him was enough.
These were no ordinary guards—not town watchmen, nor university attendants. They stood with a rigid stillness that bordered on unnatural. Their muskets—similar in form to the Brown Bess, yet marked with distinct Russian insignia—were held upright with perfect precision. The bayonets fixed to them were long, triangular, and gleamed with a cold, disciplined light.
For a moment, Francisco simply observed.
"So... she is here," he murmured.
He stepped forward, intending to ascend the stairs.
The reaction was immediate.
The guards moved as one—precise, mechanical. Two muskets crossed before his chest in a sharp, decisive motion. Wood and steel met with a crack that echoed like a hammer striking an anvil.
"Stoy."
The word was not shouted. It was delivered low, almost as a growl.
The soldier on the right—a broad man with a scarred cheek and a thick mustache stiffened by the cold—looked down at him without recognition. To him, Francisco was nothing more than a thin, soot-marked student in academic dress.
A figure without importance.
And the soldier, who had likely seen war firsthand, had little patience for such figures.
Francisco hesitated.
Language failed him.
He knew no Russian. Only English, German, and Spanish. He attempted each in turn, explaining who he was, why he had come—but the guards remained unmoved.
They did not answer.
They did not react.
They stood like statues.
At last, an officer approached—one who had passed through the university before and recognized him. His manner was composed, his English precise.
"You must forgive them," the officer said. "They do not understand your language—and they do not know you."
Francisco inclined his head, though his thoughts had already moved elsewhere.
Even if he persuaded Catalina... how did one refuse an invitation backed by such men?
This was no mere courtesy.
It was pressure—subtle, but unmistakable.
A faint tension gathered at his temples.
He drew a slow breath, adjusted his coat, and stepped forward once more. This time, the officer gave a slight signal, and the guards parted without a word.
Not one of them spoke.
Only the officer watched him pass.
Francisco ascended the stairs and reached the door. For a brief moment, he paused—then pushed it open.
The transition was immediate.
Behind him lay the sharp cold of a German winter.
Before him—heat.
The laboratory was warm, almost stifling, filled with the layered scents of herbs, alcohol, and chemical preparations. It felt less like a place of study and more like a foreign embassy—transformed by the presence of the visiting princess.
And within it—
Silence.
A near-complete silence lingered throughout the building.
From what Francisco knew of Catalina’s work, many of the women who had once participated in the smallpox experiments had already departed. Some had married and left the investigations behind; others had simply sought a more stable life beyond the uncertainties of study.
Only a small number remained.
Those who had no family to return to—or none willing to receive them. Women who depended entirely upon their own means. Yet their number had diminished, and the absence was felt.
The halls seemed quieter for it.
Francisco moved forward slowly, his steps measured, until the silence gave way to a softer sound—voices. Two women, speaking in low tones, followed by a brief, unguarded laugh.
He paused, listening.
The princess spoke first.
"Are you certain you may come to my country?" she asked, her tone light, though not without intent. "Would your husband not object?"
Catalina gave a small chuckle.
"I cannot say," she replied. "I have not yet agreed. I must first persuade him."
Princess Vorontsova-Dashkova regarded her with quiet attention. A faint, knowing smile touched her lips. She understood well the balance at play—ambition weighed against caution, decision against consequence.
"Persuading a husband," the princess said smoothly, "is often a matter of presenting him with a broader map."
A brief pause followed.
"Or reminding him," she added, with subtle amusement, "of the comforts he would be reluctant to refuse."
