Anna suddenly stirred. She had been following the conversation closer than Michał had thought. “And the leaders of this rising, Michał, have they given consideration as to the direction this thing will take—how we will govern, who will govern?”
Michał could only give a little shrug. He had no answer for the very question he had posed to himself earlier that night. He had, however, amazement that his mother had cut to the quick of the matter, the one unknown that would spell liberty or defeat in the coming days.
In any case the genie promising the ever elusive independence was out of the bottle—and no one would be able to cork him up again.
Ten minutes later, with the servants busy in the kitchen preparing the morning meal, Iza opened the door to come face-to-face with Jerzy Lesiak. Her heart accelerated. She stared. Here was the man who claimed to be her father. Was it possible? Or had her mother been telling the truth all along? So few details, other than her father was long dead, a nameless lord killed at the Praga ramparts while defending Warsaw in 1794. She stared, looking for some piece of herself in Jerzy’s strong, handsome face.
“Are you going to ask me in?” Jerzy said.
“What—Oh!” Iza cried, stepping aside.
Jerzy stepped in. “Thank you.”
“Everyone’s in the reception room.”
“Your mother, too?”
“No, she’s gone on to bed.”
“I see.” He looked to the reception room where a muted conversation could be heard. “Is there someplace where we may talk?’
Iza nodded, swallowing hard and feigning nonchalance. “In here.” She led the way to the music room.
Jerzy waited for Iza to sit before doing so himself. Suddenly, however, he seemed tongue-tied.
“You say that you are my father?” Iza blurted, stunned by her own nerve. The mystery had gone on too many years.
Jerzy seemed surprised and somehow relieved. He nodded. “Yes, Izabela, I say so because it’s true. You are mine. Mine and Zofia’s. God’s wounds, it’s time for you to know it.”
“Mother says it’s not true. She says—”
Jerzy raised his voice. “I don’t think she will deny it any longer. She would dare not tell any such thing to my face. You see, we’ve spoken—your mother and I.”
“You have?” The question came as a kind of gasp. Iza sat back into the heavily cushioned chair. “Will you tell me about . . . about you and my mother, Lord Lesiak?”
“I will, but I must begin by saying I am no lord. I am a mere farmer, Izabela. I hope that is not too much of a disappointment to you.”
“Oh no, my lord.” The appellation fell off her tongue before she realized the blunder. She stopped, blushing at her foolishness, then realized that amusement had given chase to his serious expression.
They both laughed. “And you must call me Iza. Only my mother calls me Izabela.”
Jerzy nodded. It was then that he told her of his first meeting with Zofia. Even now, so many years later, Iza could tell how her mother had mesmerized and captivated a young Jerzy. The man was now well into his fifties and yet he remembered with astonishing clarity the day that he, at seventeen, had come upon the seemingly lifeless form of Zofia in the River Vistula. It was All Souls Day in 1794. His story coincided with Cousin Anna’s account of that day when the Russians had come down on Praga in a killing rampage, sending hundreds off of a burnt and broken bridge into the cold waters. Miles to the east, Jerzy and his grandfather had pulled her from a watery grave. In the days following, as his mother and grandfather nursed the beautiful dark-haired girl back to health, Jerzy, helplessly nervous as a mouse, watched in awe and admiration—and then, when she showed him attention, even asking him to teach her his artistry at carving figures out of linden wood, the feelings for her deepened to love.
In speaking of her mother, Iza watched Jerzy’s face come alive and glow with the memories. So many years, and yet it was clear to her that his love for her mother had never died. How had she turned away from such a good and loyal man—to live alone so many years?
“Do you believe me?” Jerzy asked, leaning forward, attempting to bridge the chasm of years and untruths. His forehead was rippled in concern.
Iza fought to hold back tears. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I do.”
Great droplets appeared now in Jerzy’s eyes. Embarrassed, he brushed at them.
Iza wanted to rise, move toward him, embrace him. And yet the great reserve natural to her—inculcated by a mother slow to show her demonstrative warmth and further nourished in the convent—made her hold back.
An awkwardness ensued.
“Perhaps,” Jerzy said at last, standing and managing a smile, “we should go in to the others now?”
Iza stood, too, thinking how this man—her father—could possess such childlike anxiousness. Impulsively, she went up on her toes and kissed him on the cheek.
He was at once surprised and touched. “I’ve waited years for that kiss, Izabel—Iza.”
“As have I,” Iza said.
They entered the reception room, and Michał had only just made a formal introduction of Jerzy to his parents when a knock came at the door. A few minutes later Elzbieta came into the room to announce the arrival of Lady Barbara Anna Baklanov.
Sleepy-eyed and still in their little white night-shirts, the twins were urged forward by their mother. Their grandparents greeted them as if a dawn visit in night clothes were quite routine.
Presently Barbara called the maid and had the boys taken upstairs. Once they were away and out of earshot, Barbara’s façade of equanimity fell away. Iza had always thought Barbara so very strong emotionally, but pale and unsteady now, she seemed on the brink of collapse.
Michał stood and helped her to sit next to her mother.
Anna took Barbara’s hand in hers. “Basia, dearest,” she said, “what is it?”
Barbara choked back her tears, the green eyes moving about the room, taking in every face. “Józef?” she asked.
“We don’t know,” Anna whispered. “But about you—”
“Where’s Viktor?” her father interjected, his left hand moving over the gloved hand, as if to hide it.
Barbara bit her lower lip. “He’s gone.”
Anna squeezed her hand. “Because of his Russian background, dear? It was to be expected, I suppose. No matter the outcome of this night, I’m sure you’ll be reunited. You must take heart. Jan and I have been through many separations because of war. You know that.”
“Yes,” Barbara said, “yes, but—”
“There’s more,” Anna pressed. “What is it, Basia?”
“Viktor is targeted by Poles in retribution.”
“Targeted?”
Barbara nodded. “You see—I only just found out—that Viktor’s position is with the secret police.”
Iza drew in a very long breath at the news. Viktor Baklanov was a piece of a puzzle that had not fit well into the Stelnicki family. For love of Barbara and her love for her husband, Iza and the other family members had tried to welcome him into the clan at best and tolerated him at worst. But the thought that he was working against Polish citizens in perhaps terrible ways—everyone knew the ways of the secret police—made Iza ill at her stomach.
The shock that Iza felt was mirrored in Anna’s face. Iza’s line of vision moved to Jan and then to Jan Michał. Here was another jolt. Neither father nor son seemed even mildly surprised. Had they known Viktor was in the secret police? How?
The maid stepped into the room now, her voice as drained and tired as her expression. No one—but for Zofia—had gotten any sleep this night. In Zofia’s absence, she addressed Iza: “Are there any instructions for the breakfast, Mademoiselle?”
“Use your judgment, Wanda.”
The maid nodded but stood motionless.
“Yes,” Iza asked, “what is it, Wanda? Something else?”
The maid nodded toward Barbara. “Lady Baklanov’s trunk has arrived, milady.”
Bar
bara and the twins had come to stay.
At eight in the morning, Michał joined Jerzy and Iza in the reception room after the three had taken a modest breakfast. His parents and Barbara had retired before the meal. Zofia had yet to emerge from her bedchamber; she had retired in the early morning hours and it seemed intermittent cries, calls, and songs out in the streets or the comings and goings within her own town house little disturbed her rest. His mother had told him that Zofia slept with an eyemask and ears stuffed with cotton. He smiled to himself, wondering at her reaction when she finds out that Barbara and the rambunctious twins had moved in, trunk and all. She had little use for children. And if Jerzy were still here when she arose—what then? How would she treat him? He could not help but wonder what went on between them the other day when they met.
“Are you about ready?” Michał asked Jerzy.
“I’m at your disposal and chomping at the bit, as they say.”
“Where are you to go?” Iza asked. “To look for Józef?” She stood. “Allow me to quickly change so that I might—”
Jerzy rose at once. His demur came a beat earlier than Michał’s. “No, Iza.”
“Why not? I insist. I am as worried as anyone over Józef.”
“Of course you are, Iza,” Michał said, rising, “but we don’t know what we will find out there. There may still be neighborhoods controlled by the Russians. There may still be fighting going on.”
“That’s fine by me. This is historic!”
“You haven’t slept all night, Iza,” Michał said. “You need your rest.”
“Neither have you two slept,” Iza said. “I couldn’t possibly sleep.”
“It’s dangerous,” Jerzy said. “Too dangerous.”
Michał saw that Jerzy had caught her by the wrist as she attempted to exit the room and the touch seemed to send a current through each of them. They stood as statues for a moment. Then Iza glanced down at the hand that had somehow moved so that Jerzy held her hand in his. Was this the first touch—awkward and tender—between father and daughter?
A kind of embarrassment ensued now and their hands fell away.
A knocking at the front door broke the spell.
A flustered Elzbieta came in moments later, announcing in an excited tone: “Prince Adam Czartoryski!”
Michał’s own amazement was reflected in the faces of Iza and Jerzy. The three turned to greet the prince. Introductions were quick and lacking in small talk. “I’ll get right to the point, Michał,” the prince said. “For the most part, the city of Warsaw is under Polish control. This morning we formed a provisional government.”
“We?” Michał asked.
“A number of us. Quite a few from the Administrative Council.”
Michał was taken by surprise. He knew that the Administrative Council was largely a body of older men, more or less content with things as they were. “But what about the conspirators?”
“Most inept, you can be sure. They lit the fuse but had no idea how to lead afterwards. It’s our feeling that a direct confrontation with Russia is to be avoided at all costs. If we don’t step in, rule will go to the masses and chaos will abound.”
“But we’re not to give up?” Jerzy cried.
The prince turned to Jerzy. “No, not that. But cool heads are needed to end rebellion and reach some accommodation with the tsar.”
“Excuse me, your grace,” Jerzy said, “but how is that not giving up?”
The prince forced a smile. “We cannot afford to incite the full brunt of Russia to come down on Poland, as in ’94. We must deal very carefully with the Grand Duke and his brother the tsar. We have made gains and perhaps—just perhaps—this volatile situation can be used to our advantage.”
“But not to gain full independence?” Michał asked.
Surprising even herself, Iza suddenly insinuated herself into this male conversation. “And the restoration of the full kingdom? The Commonwealth of Poland and Lithuania?”
“Ah, Iza,” the prince said. “Full restoration is a pipe dream, I’m afraid.—I’m sorry, but in our hurried introductions, I did not catch your family name.”
“Gronska,”
“Of course, you are related to the Lady Zofia?”
“She is my mother, your grace. We met before—you and I—quite a few years ago now.”
“Really?” he said, rubbing his chin. Michał remembered Iza’s story of how Zofia had tried to mastermind a romance and marriage between Iza and the prince—and this only after having tried to land him herself, years earlier. Michał watched as the prince—usually the quintessence of equipoise—clearly recalling Zofia’s unbidden overtures, slowly colored and shifted his footing. “Of course, my dear. Of course.”
Michał came to his rescue. “How can I be of service, your grace?” Another prince might have felt nothing, shown nothing, at such a delicate moment, but Michał knew this prince well enough already to call him princely.
The prince granted him a thankful smile. “I am here to deputize you, Jan Michał Stelnicki. You, along with Prince Drucki-Lubecki and Joachim Lelewel, are to go to meet with Grand Duke Konstantin. He and his forces—both Russian and Polish, I might add—are camped within the city limits at Mokotów.”
“I?” Michał knew he must look as dumbstruck as he felt. He heard Iza, too, draw in a breath of astonishment.
“I have two reasons, Michał. First, you have seen war firsthand, time and again. You are no longer a slave to glory and a stranger to violent death. You will not be carried away like some young cadet. Your sense and equanimity will help you in the role of arbiter between Druck-Lubecki and Lelewell, who do not often see eye to eye. Neither have you been shy of telling me your honest thoughts. I assume you can do so with these two. If they go into a meeting with the Grand Duke already at odds themselves, we’re doomed.”
“I see.” Michał did a quick calculation. While Prince Franciszek Drucki-Lubecki, a Russian in his early fifties, was Minister of the Treasury—Joachim Lelewell, in his middle forties, had been a Polish professor of European History at Wilno until the Governor ousted him at the bequest of the Grand Duke, who was intent on fostering the Russian point of view in education. No doubt the very identities of Druck-Lubecki and Lelewell made them polar opposites. “You’re saying, your grace, that my person is to stand between two mountains and coax them together without my getting crushed in the bargain?”
The prince gave a lively and genuine laugh.
“And the goal? What outcome do we wish to attain—from your point of view?
“I would like to see the rebellion end. Enough have died already. You are to determine whether the Grand Duke is inclined to come against the city. You should caution him that such a decision—given the mind of the general populace—is most unwise. For both sides. It would be best if he departs, and if he agrees to do so he may safely take a prescribed route. Accommodations would be made for him along the way. I would even have my mother receive him honorably at Puławy, my family estate. When enough time has passed, I hope that we can gain some constitutional concessions from Russia.”
“In return for encouraging an end to the rebellion?” Michał asked.
“Yes. An odd situation, I know. But see here, Michał, the Grand Duke took a Polish bride and considers himself Polish. I’m convinced he won’t wish to inflict harm on Poland. Now, my boy, will you do this in my stead? I have much to do here to try to put the lid on this boiling cauldron.”
“Yes, your grace.”
“Excellent! You must get your things together. There are carriages outside.”
“I’ll take my horse, if you don’t mind.”
“Fine.”
Michał felt Jerzy nudge him in the side. “Your grace, would you mind if Jerzy accompanies me?”
“What? No, I guess not.”
“Just what is going on here, may I ask?” The mellifluous but slightly tart question preceded the arrival of Zofia in her reception room. Her hair and makeup were perfect and the morning dr
ess of light blue showed off her figure to advantage.
Michał sorely wished he had a painting of her expression when she recognized Prince Adam Czartoryski. Her eyes went wide as moons and he gauged her scalp as pulling back at least an inch. “Your grace!” she cried, dropping into a curtsey.
“Countess Zofia Gronska,” the prince said. “How is it the years take their toll on everyone but you? Look at you! If I didn’t know better I would deny the fact that Iza here is your daughter. You are more like sisters.”
“Thank you, your grace.”
That Zofia did not contradict him made Michał chuckle to himself.
“What is the reason for this call?” Zofia’s almond-shaped black eyes sparkled. “Why didn’t someone come fetch me? I’ve been awake and at my toilette for a good hour or more.”
The prince took and kissed Zofia’s hand. “I must take my leave, Lady Zofia. Your daughter can relay the meat of the meeting. Michał and Jerzy are to accompany me.”
Jerzy’s name brought Zofia up short. She drew back her hand from the prince and spun about to face Jerzy. The look she gave him—so sudden and unplanned—resonated an honesty she had no artifice to camouflage. Her breathing came in short gasps while her mind must have been spinning.
Jerzy stepped toward her, bowed, and kissed her hand. His head came up now and she looked into his eyes. Her mouth fell open a bit as if to speak, but she could not. Instead of words, she gave a slow nod of her brilliantly coiffed head.
It was a nod, Michał thought, that acknowledged her relationship with Jerzy so many years before and a nod that brought a supremely happy smile to Iza’s face. For the first time in her life, Iza had both parents.
The prince seemed lost amidst the heaviness of the moment, for he had no way of knowing the significance of the situation. “Well,” he said in a halting manner, “I—rather, we—must be off. Michał, you are to meet Druck-Lubecki and Lelewell at Bankowa Square. Hurry. And—thank you.” He turned and started moving out of the room.
“Wait, your grace,” Michał called.
The Warsaw Conspiracy Page 25