Baron strolled around an antique oak desk inlaid with leather and settled into a brown leather armchair.
“About Natalka,” she said, standing in the entrance.
“You know, I’m not telling my wife about the whole thing because would upset her. I have family here.”
A photo of his blond wife and, presumably, a son stood on the polished surface of the desk.
“It’s not good, Halina coming like this.”
“She came because Natalka is very ill. Did she explain that to you?”
“I know what she wants. Is good time for her to remember me. She wants me to pay. Natalka not my daughter but I will pay. Because that’s how I am.”
“Natalka thinks she’s your daughter.”
He motioned her with an imperious finger to take the upholstered chair in front of the desk. She approached and sat down with a little thud, the seat lower than she had expected. Looking up, she saw that Baron was much higher in his chair than he had any right to be. She’d heard of executives who cut down the legs of visitors’ chairs while mounting their own on raised platforms. As a result she was forced to crane her neck to look up at him.
He folded his hands together on the desk and tilted his head for emphasis. “We had little time together. Only married a month before the war.”
Maybe she could derail him. “Did you have a happy marriage?”
“Happy? Nobody thought then to be happy, not to be happy. We lived. Like everybody. We knew something was coming, so just before the Germans invaded we got married. When it happened, I knew I had no choice — I went underground and joined the Armia Krajowa, the Home Army. Some of us sent to England. We fought together with the Royal Air Force. We saved their asses lots of times. Finally when we came back — everything was different. I dreamed of Halina for six years, six years I didn’t see her. And when I get home, there she was with a five-year-old brat.”
“She could’ve become pregnant before you left.”
“You don’t know Halina. Like alley cat. She’ll crawl into bed with anyone. You don’t think she found men in those six years? She didn’t like be without a man. Girl never look like me.”
“She could still be your daughter.”
His eyes became slits. “This is what Halina tells. But I know better. A friend of mine — Tomasz — see her just before she leave Kraków to go to parents in the country. She wasn’t pregnant. It was 1940. When she say Natalka was born. I don’t believe word that comes from her mouth.”
A shadow of a smile played on his lips. “She could be killer. This I believe. She could kill Michael.”
Rebecca gazed up at him. He really was a piece of work. But Halina had vanished. Was she really afraid of someone, as Natalka had implied? It had crossed Rebecca’s mind that Halina could have pushed Michael into the pool.
“What motive would she have?”
He shook his head ominously. “Terrible things happened in old country. She was not blameless. Maybe she didn’t want him to find out the truth.”
After closing up the office Rebecca drove to Baby Point Road again. Michael’s manuscript lay on the passenger seat of her car. She had photocopied the pages so that she could finish reading it, but she would return the original to Edward and try to hide her embarrassment.
Though she got tangled in rush hour traffic on the Gardiner Expressway, it really wasn’t very far.
She marched up the stairs to the many-gabled house and rang the bell. Edward opened the door, the early evening light illuminating his face. She caught her breath — he looked so much like Michael, the long aristocratic nose, the sculpted mouth, the blue eyes that saw everything. But were strangely unfocused at the moment.
His hair was longer and disheveled. The buttons of his shirt were undone, showing a few sprigs of brown curls on his chest.
“Hi,” he said, a goofy smile lighting his face.
Had he been drinking? “I wanted to return this,” she said, handing him the binder.
He opened the cover and flipped to a page. “Yeah,” he nodded, holding the binder open on both arms. “I remember some of this.”
“Everything all right?” she asked.
He nodded absently, his eyes still on the page.
“I’ll be going then.” She turned to leave.
“Don’t go,” he said. He closed the binder. “Please come in.”
She smelled it as soon as she walked inside, that sweet, pungent, weedy smell she remembered from her university days. A few of her friends had sung the praises of marijuana, had given her a joint to convert her, the stiff, proper medical student. The thing had had no effect on her whatsoever. She’d never felt the high that her friends had gone on about, and had felt cheated.
When Edward led her into the den, she couldn’t help looking out the window toward the pool. It looked so peaceful out there now. They sat down on the couch. His eyes flitted about the room.
“I don’t know if the police have been in touch with you,” she said, “but the pathologist found alcohol and Valium in your father’s blood.”
His eyes tried to focus on her. “I don’t understand it. The world has gone crazy. Or maybe I didn’t know him like I thought.”
“Is there anyone you can think of who might’ve wanted to harm him?”
His eyes widened. “He was just a nice guy. You think someone might’ve…”
“I saw John Baron today.”
He cocked his head. “Uncle Janek. He loved my father. He’s going to take care of all the funeral arrangements.”
“That’s very thoughtful of him.” There must be a side to Baron she didn’t know. “Did your father tell you about Halina?”
“The Polish lady. She fed him during the war. She was coming to Toronto and he was going to see her again.”
“Did he tell you about the compass she was bringing, that it would help him with his book?”
“He might’ve mentioned it. I wasn’t as interested as I should’ve been. Busy with school.”
“Baron thinks Halina could’ve killed your father.”
Edward stood up unsteadily and walked to the window that looked out on the pool. “Janek has always been a little paranoid. Nobody killed my father. Everybody loved him.”
“You know, someone could’ve drugged him, then, when he was unconscious, dragged him to the pool.”
He turned around and looked at her with pity in his eyes. He was certainly Michael’s son.
“Sometimes you have to accept things as they are. There was no sign of a struggle. It was an accident. Look, come into the kitchen. Mrs. Woronska brought over enough cabbage rolls to feed an army.” He waited for her to stand up then led her into the kitchen.
While he set some plates down on the table, Rebecca stood at the patio door looking out at the pool.
“On Saturday there was a pair of your father’s shoes under the patio table. Are they still there?” She turned to find him staring at her.
“I haven’t gone out there.”
She slid open the patio door and stepped out. The sky had clouded over toward dusk and turned everything a deeper shade of itself. The grass was a rich green; the water in the pool had turned an innocent turquoise, as if it hadn’t sucked the air out of a man three days earlier. And the shoes. The shoes yet lay beneath the table, the toe of each stuffed into the heel of the other, some absent-minded ritual that created the shadowy silhouette of an animal about to pounce.
She shuddered and bent down to pick up the shoes. They were lightweight brown leather sandals with full heels. She pulled them apart to examine them.
“What are you looking for?” he asked.
“Look at the heels.”
There were vertical scratch lines along the leather on the backs of both shoes.
“Yeah?”
“He had no scratch marks on his feet. If someone dragged him under the arms to get him to the pool while he was unconscious, there would’ve been scratches on his feet. Unless he was wearing shoes.”
&n
bsp; “Scratch marks on the shoes,” he said, without expression. He turned them around in his hands. “These aren’t new shoes. Maybe the scratches are old.”
“Maybe,” she said. “But I don’t know how anyone could’ve gotten them wearing the shoes under normal conditions.”
Edward sat down on a patio chair and put the shoes on over his socks. He slouched back in the chair, stretched out his legs, and rubbed his heels along the concrete. Then he took them off and handed them back to her.
She stared at the sandals. “Yeah, fine,” she said.
He served her cabbage rolls in tomato sauce from a large pot simmering on the stove. It was the second time that day that a man had offered to feed her.
She hadn’t realized she was hungry. “These are delicious,” she said, cutting into her third cabbage roll.
When they were finished eating, Edward took her into the den where he made a fire with some logs in the fireplace. They sat down in comfortable silence on the sofa, gazing into the flames that leapt at first, then diminished into flamelets.
“Would you like a joint?” he asked.
“No thanks. I have to drive home.”
“Someone waiting for you there?”
“No.”
He put his arm on the back of the sofa behind her head. “I’m so bloody tired. I’ve never been this tired. You know, there’s extra bedrooms upstairs if you want to smoke a bit and stay over.”
She could see him watching her from the corner of her eye. “I should go. You’re tired and I’ve got an early day tomorrow…”
“You really a doctor?”
She smiled and turned to find his blue eyes scrutinizing her. “You don’t believe a word I’ve said, do you?”
“You’re so beautiful…”
Angling his head slowly he bent toward her, closer, closer, in slow motion, she saw it coming but couldn’t pull away, wouldn’t pull away. His lips, soft, full, covered hers with sudden warmth, pressed hers until she found the energy to pull away.
His eyes were closed. He winced and opened them a crack. “I thought doctors were supposed to make you feel better.” He closed his eyes and his head fell back. He was fast asleep.
So much for her sex appeal. She lifted his legs onto the sofa, evened out the embers in the fireplace, and locked the door on her way out.
It was past midnight and Rebecca couldn’t sleep. Wary about taking unnecessary medication, she usually gritted her teeth and ignored anxiety, even pain. But since David’s death, she had kept a bottle of tranquilizers — technically muscle relaxants — for those times she needed something to help her sleep. She broke the tiny pill in half and swallowed it. Then she sat in bed with her lamp shining on Michael’s manuscript and read the next chapter, “The Beginning of Love.”
chapter twenty-one
The Beginning of Love
December 1755
It is late when I creep out of my apartments in the clothes I feel most comfortable in, the ones I’ve borrowed from my little Kalmuk hairdresser. Breeches, a ruffled shirt, and a jacket, with a dark cape thrown over for warmth. My long hair is pinned under the tricorn. During the day I would fool no one. But in the dark I can stride through the streets to Naryshkin’s mansion, unnoticed on a winter’s night. A bracing walk of a mile or so along the river. I attract no attention dressed as a man. I must confess, however, I enjoy it too much. The freedom, the power. Even my step is stronger and I begin to feel that I will be able to do what is necessary when the time comes.
Naryshkin’s sister greets me in the salon. I remove my tricorn and let my hair fall loose over my shoulders. Here, like last week and the week before, eight or ten young friends from court are assembled, mostly in pairs. There is a characteristic low murmur, sometimes the peak of a familiar voice. The corpulent, good-natured Naryshkin is holding forth with a joke as usual. The individuals rarely change, only the arrangement of pairs. They each take a moment to give me an informal bow of the head before they return to their wooing. They are accustomed to my men’s clothes and no longer blink at the sight of them as they once did.
Ten minutes after my arrival, Naryshkin’s sister greets a new guest. I am teasing a young countess about the attributes of her latest choice of lover when my eyes are drawn to the door. There stands the comely young man I have seen with Hanbury-Williams. Extraordinary, intelligent eyes take everything in. Take me in. He appears somewhat uncertain — perhaps my ruffled shirt and breeches baffle him — but his lovely bow-shaped lips hint at a smile.
Naryshkin brings him to where I stand. “Count Stanislaw Poniatowski, Your Highness,” he says. The low murmur stops abruptly.
I offer him my hand. His eyes drop shyly as he bows, kisses it. His fingers are long and slender, graceful for a man. His face has such delicate features, yet a strong nose. I admire the contradiction.
“Your friend, Hanbury-Williams, speaks very highly of you,” I say. I make a point of turning my face to the small group so that they may carry on as usual.
“He is a dear friend and mentor,” says he with a slight smile. “He advises and I listen.”
“He is a wise man of the world and you are fortunate in his friendship.”
“I hope, Your Highness, I will be as fortunate in yours.” He locks me in his arresting brown eyes, and I am entranced. If the others are watching, let them all go to the devil.
“We are all friends here,” I say, drinking in his milky white skin. “You may call me Sophie.”
His long lashes sweep down, hiding his beautiful eyes for an instant. I have embarrassed him with my familiarity. Oddly enough, I delight in his shyness. It is a refreshing change from the conceited self-assurance of the louts who frequent the court.
“I am honoured,” he murmurs.
“And what may I call you?”
“My friends call me Stanislaw.”
I lower my eyes and incline my head at the exchange of familiarity.
“I compliment you on your attire,” he says, mischief in his eyes as they sweep down to my breeches. “It is wickedly becoming.”
I have had my effect on him. I am well satisfied.
“Why, I thank you, sir. It is the price I pay to leave the palace unobserved. Pray, come, meet my friends.” I lead him toward the fashionable young men and women who, of a sudden, turn to each other with more animation than is their usual wont. Even then, I begin to plot such scenes as my friends will never take part in.
He and I spend the evening discussing Montesquieu and Diderot, bandying about clever words, sometimes lobbing them at each other. I am quite entranced by him, drinking in the heart-shaped face, the brown eyes that sparkle at me with quiet intelligence and mischief together, the graceful mouth.
For his part, he barely takes his eyes off me, inclining his head as I speak as if each word from my mouth is a jewel he must capture. At the end of the evening I am quite heady with his attention.
When it is time to go, he offers to accompany me home.
“You look extraordinary in those clothes,” he whispers, eyeing me sideways as we leave Naryshkin’s. “Even lovelier than in a ball gown.”
I take his arm as we stroll back toward the palace in the dark. The night is very brisk and our breaths become visible clouds rising in the air.
I take him in a side door to which I have the key. Inside the dim hall we are suddenly diffident with each other.
“Meet me here tomorrow,” I murmur. “Instead of Naryshkin’s.”
His eyes widen, unsure. Do I see excitement as well?
I bend toward him and kiss his cheek softly. “I’ll wait for you at midnight.”
And before he has time to answer, I fly away.
The whole of the next day I am filled with anticipation for the evening: Will he come? Is he as enchanted with me as I am with him? It is no good looking at a book or exchanging serious words with anyone. I am truly distracted.
At midnight I creep along the hallway toward the back entrance, carrying a candle. No one is abou
t. My heart is fluttering and makes me quite giddy.
I pull back my shoulders, preparing for his absence. Holding the candle aloft I creak open the door. In the dimness I see no one before me. I can taste the disappointment.
Then an abrupt movement! A figure leans in a corner of the doorway. I bite my lip to keep from shouting for joy. It is him, arms wrapped across his chest for warmth. He straightens up and approaches until the light from the candle reveals him. His eyes shine at me with a warmth that spreads around my heart.
I open wide the door, the chill air rushing about me. He steps inside, the fresh scent of the cold night clinging to him.
“Is it very cold?” I say, trying to keep the elation from rising in my voice.
He removes his hat to reveal the wondrous blond hair tied back. “Very cold,” he says. Playfully he touches my face with freezing fingers. “Cold as Siberia.”
I exaggerate a shiver. “I will warm you,” I say and take his chilled hands between mine, rubbing them softly.
“Siberia is where I will be sent if your husband finds me.”
“Are you afraid?” I ask.
“I tremble with fear.”
His hands are soft between mine. “But is it my husband you fear? Perhaps you fear me.”
“Do I have reason to fear you? Are you a dangerous woman?”
“I am when I am crossed.”
“Then I will be sure not to cross you.” He smiles into my face like a cherub and my heart rises toward him.
I step up close to him and lift my chin so that I may stare into his eyes, golden in the shadows. He bends his face slowly toward mine. My throat goes dry. At long last his lips touch mine, sending a flame that spreads through my body.
I take him by the hand and lead him to my apartments.
The first time we make love is a revelation. I admit I have not the experience of some, but that a man can be tender and at the same time strong, stalwart yet generous, is a joyful discovery. Tho’ I have taken him into my bed, we spend half the night in discussion of philosophy, literature, and our respective countries. To my astonishment, he finds my opinions of interest and seeks to find the basis for them. No man before has been curious about my convictions.
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