Anna sat quietly, stunned as much by what he was saying as by the intensity of his political thoughts. There were, she realized, several sides to the incorrigible cavalier of the first meeting. Now she ventured to ask of his family: “Where does your father stand?”
“Squarely behind the Constitution.” A pride came into the musical voice. “He worked hard behind the scenes for it. But he is not a well man. I worry about him.” He paused for a moment. “Anyway, this is to be a new life for you, Anna. It will be a fine one!”
“I hope so.”
“You . . . you don’t worry about the curse that Paduch fellow made?”
“No . . . no, I don’t. I put that down to drunken swagger.”
“I’m certain that that’s all it was. Well, then, we must go riding soon—once your mourning is put off, of course. I would so enjoy showing you the countryside.”
Though his enthusiasm held her, she felt her face flush hot with embarrassment. All her life she wished she could control the telltale reaction.
“What is it?” he asked, suddenly concerned.
Resigned, she inhaled, then blurted out the admission: “Lord Stelnicki, I cannot ride!”
It took a moment for realization to overcome puzzlement, but then he began to laugh, with great relish.
Anna’s uncertain reaction now was to half-heartedly join in his mirth while trying to explain. “Papa had agreed to teach me, but Mama strictly forbade it. She worried over my safety. But Zofia has started to tutor me at riding! We go out mornings. It’s an incredible feeling—like that of a bird soaring! I’m afraid I’m not very good at it, though. And I’m more than a little sore, too.”
“I’ll wager that you are!” Jan was trying, unsuccessfully, to control his laughter. “I’m sorry to laugh. Forgive me. Actually you gave me quite a fright when you became so serious. I thought for a moment that you were going to tell me you are already . . . engaged.”
“What? Oh no, no.”
“Good. And don’t worry. You’ll win your horse over, I’m sure, as you must have done your cousin . . . I mean to get Zofia out and about in the morning.”
He knew Zofia well enough, Anna thought. “Oh, it is late morning!”
The two fell to laughing again. Anna’s amusement was genuine this time. Somehow she felt no guilt that it was at her cousin’s expense.
“You’ll be an expert before you know it.” Jan placed his hand over Anna’s. “And we shall take long, long rides.” The texture of his voice thickened and he inclined his head toward hers.
Anna suddenly sobered, withdrawing her hand from his.
“What is it? What’s wrong, Anna?”
“It’s just that . . . ” she paused, heart thumping. “Jan,” she began again, “I am afraid that my aunt and uncle will not allow you to call.”
He smiled as if in relief. “Of course, they will. We are the very best of neighbors.”
“But . . . you see . . . you are not Catholic.”
“Is that all?” He laughed.
His reaction stunned Anna. “You don’t seem to understand what . . . what a great difference it does make . . . that you are not Catholic.”
“Oh, it is true, I admit. My parents were of the Arian sect, though my father is more political now than religious. But I, myself, follow no religion.”
“Lord Stelnicki,” Anna said with an even preciseness, “that fact only serves to widen the chasm between us.”
“Now, don’t misunderstand me. I do believe in God. Look about us, Anna Maria. How could anyone with sight look and not believe? It’s just that my God is with me here, in my heart, and all about us—in the meadow grass, in the fields of grain, in the flowers, in this old oak tree, and in the blue of the sky. Mine is a personal God. I haven’t followed any of the religions of the churches, though I do not disbelieve their doctrines. Do you understand?”
“I . . . I think so.” In truth, it was a puzzle to her—and disconcerting.
“I’ll speak to your uncle,” he was saying. “If we cannot agree, I shall become a Catholic.”
Anna’s mouth fell slack. “Jan! Please do not make light of this.”
“Oh, I’ll joke as often as the next fellow, but believe me when I say that I am quite in earnest.”
“You can’t be! A religion is not to be put on like a cloak or a hat.”
“Just because I don’t wear a hat doesn’t mean that I can’t wear one!”
Anna stared at him as if he had suddenly started speaking Serbian.
“Now let me finish, Lady Anna. I would not be simply bowing to the custom of your religion. I’m certain that my God can be found in your church. You see, I believe that He can be found in all of the churches.”
Jan was becoming more and more enigmatic. Was he serious? Did he truly mean to become a Catholic for her sake? And why was it that she seemed always to be questioning his sincerity?
“If your aunt and uncle will permit,” he was saying, “will you allow me to call on you?”
“Oh, yes.” The words fell from her lips before the thought was processed. Discretion then reclaimed her. “I . . . I should return to the house now, Jan.”
“Will you be walking tomorrow afternoon, Anna?”
Anna smiled. “I may.”
“Good! Do you know you have dimples when you smile slyly like that?” Jan helped her to her feet, then mounted his horse. “I’ll see you here, then . . . unless you would care to practice your horsemanship now?”
“Thank you, no. I’ll walk. Oh, and Jan,” she joked, “do be sure not to mistake me this time for Zofia.”
His lips curled in a devilish smile. “Now it is I who have a confession to make, Anna. I have never seen Zofia dressed in black—why if she were in mourning, I have no doubt that she would sidestep custom and appear in a delicious pink dress. So, you see, I knew full well who you were the other day—she had told me about your impending arrival.”
He gave spur to his horse now and rode off.
Anna stood staring at the retreating figure, wondering what it was about this man that set her pulse running with the wind. But any doubts that this was the man whom she would love and wed dissipated like vapor at noon.
From her vantage point on the little hill above the meadow, Zofia had seen enough. Though she could not hear Jan and Anna, she was able to see the physical interactions and emotions play out on their faces as clearly as if they wore Greek masks.
She stood transfixed, her own emotions stirring a strange heat within her. Seeing was believing, but she could scarcely comprehend the tender scene she had just witnessed.
What was Jan up to? Anna had been correct: he was expressing his interest. And in no subtle way, either. Why? Was he interested in Anna? How deeply? Or was he trying, as Zofia suspected, to arouse her jealousy?
In frustration, Zofia struck her riding crop against the skirt of her dress. She knew her only course of action now was to let the little flirtation play out. It would come to nothing, she was certain. Still, she felt helpless, as if she were drowning. She didn’t like it.
Zofia realized—with a jolt—that it was jealousy she felt. And she liked that less. Did she love Jan Stelnicki? Perhaps. Or perhaps she was reacting to the possibility of being the loser in this drama. A loser to a country innocent. She silently damned her cousin.
Zofia mounted her horse. Just for fun she had encouraged Anna in her attraction to Jan. Well, the game had turned dangerous, inciting the unforeseen, but Zofia became determined that any reversal of fortune not be hers. “Anna Maria Berezowska,” she whispered, her teeth scarcely parting, “You will come to rue the day you came to Halicz.”
6
Anna adapted to life at Halicz. She had not known what to expect, for according to the terms of the Partition of 1772, some twenty years earlier, the city and Province of Halicz had fallen under the rule of Austria. However, she found Halicz essentially no different from her own town of Sochaczew, its citizens and their way of life no less Polish. The old cultur
e survived and flourished under Austria’s Leopold II.
But life’s routine was very different for her now. At home she had assisted her mother and their servant Luisa in the management of the household, but here at Hawthorn House, the women sewed, read, and entertained, contributing relatively little to the real welfare of the home. For this, four servant women were designated to do all of the cooking and housework so that there was not the lightest of tasks for Countess Stella, Lady Zofia, or Anna.
Anna spent her mornings reading, and when Zofia arose—not much before noon—riding. Afternoons were spent with Jan. Countess Stella never questioned her whereabouts, and Anna suspected that Zofia made excuses on her behalf. She worried that she would be found out and that the rendezvous’ would be banned. How long could they be kept secret? Each day, too, Jan urged her to agree to a full day of riding.
The time spent with Jan was the highlight of her day. Whether walking in the meadow or sitting under the oak, the two seldom lacked a topic of conversation. As Anna spoke of her former life at Sochaczew, she realized she was coming to terms with her past. And as she listened to Jan talk of his thoughts and experiences, she was awed by his worldliness, intelligence, and humor.
At night, when Anna lay alone in her bed, her mind and heart were filled with thoughts of Jan Stelnicki. She came to hope that he loved her, a hope undermined at times with self-doubt. She was certain that his winning ways could bring him the woman of his choice: the richest, the most sophisticated, the most beautiful. Was it conceivable that he would one day propose to her?
On occasion, a certain intangible fear invaded her; later, she would put this dark foreboding down to the loss of everyone she had loved, but for now she fought it. Wasn’t she deserving of some happiness? When a heart is in the full bloom of first love, destructive thought finds no welcome. And Anna was very much in love.
Anna saw Zofia waiting for her on the pillared porch.
“Walter is coming home, Anna!”
“How wonderful! It’s been so many years that I wonder whether I’ll recognize him. How old is he now?”
“Just twenty-two.”
“And a soldier of fortune! You and your parents must be very proud and happy.”
“I swear, you do have romantic notions, dearest. He’s a mercenary in Catherine’s military machine—an officer, true—but a mercenary just the same. He’s as brash and incorrigible as ever, no doubt. We never did get along. Oh, don’t look so puzzled.”
Zofia hugged Anna to her. “If only I had had a sister like you, Ania. But his coming does at least mean some life in this dreary house, some entertaining, a party or two to while away these last dull days in the country. Oh! And then this fall I shall be able to show you Warsaw!”
“Zofia, I’ve been to the capital. Have you forgotten that Sochaczew is but a short distance away?”
“Ah! But have you been to the theatre? To concerts? To the opera? Royal receptions?”
Anna could only shake her head.
“Well,” Zofia scoffed, “then you have not been to Warsaw!”
“It all sounds so sophisticated and exciting.”
“And, my dear, absolutely everything is done in the French fashion. It’s that way on the entire continent.”
“Is it? Well, in the meantime, I shall be glad to see my cousin. And you will be, too, though you may not admit to it. When does Walter arrive?”
“Wednesday. And now for the real surprise!”
“What? What is it?”
Zofia’s dark eyes twinkled as she held Anna in suspense.
“Oh, Zofia, tell me!”
Zofia spoke slowly to heighten the effect. “Mother has agreed that you put off your mourning on that day.”
“Really?” Anna gasped. “But that is so very soon.”
“I know and you can be certain it took some clever speeches on my part.”
“But . . . do you think it proper?”
“It’s every bit as proper as the way you spend your afternoons.”
Anna was struck silent. Her face burnt with embarrassment.
“There, there. I only mean that it’s wonderful, you little fool—nothing less. Walter was the perfect excuse. Oh, don’t look like that! Now—I shall personally see to your apparel and toilette for the occasion. Come upstairs this minute and we shall select the dress!”
Anna hesitated. “Zofia?”
“Now you are not to feel guilty.”
“No, it isn’t that.”
“What is it, then?”
“Today Jan made me promise to go riding on the very day after my mourning is finished. How can I keep that from your parents? I am not ready for a confrontation with them about Jan . . . not yet.”
“Riding with Jan? The day after?” Zofia paused, her almond eyes narrowing into mere slits for a moment, then opening wide. “I know! What if I tell them I’ve arranged for a riding party, one that includes Walter and me?”
“Oh, that would be wonderful, really! In fact, I would prefer having the two of you along.”
“It does sound like fun. Lutisha will pack a lunch basket. Let’s set it for Thursday morning then.”
“But do you think you can smooth it over with your parents . . . about Jan, I mean?”
Zofia shrugged. “What harm can there be in having him join our little riding party? It’ll be perfectly innocent, darling.”
“I hope so. I feel terrible about having disobeyed your mother.”
“There is one thing, Anna.”
“What?”
“I don’t think you should tell Jan that Walter and I are to join you. At least not until Thursday morning.”
“But why—”
“Just trust me, Ania. Now, come along. And don’t fret so. I said that I would arrange it, didn’t I?”
Countess Stella Gronska inspected the kitchen fireplace where a roast sizzled on the spit. “Is this being turned often enough?”
Old Lutisha rolled her eyes but answered in the French fashion in which all of the housemaids had been tutored. “Yes, Madame Gronska.”
“And is it being basted enough?”
“Yes, Madame.”
“Good. Everything must be perfection tonight.” She walked quickly to the table near the great white ceramic stove used only for bread. “Marta, is this bread fresh? Not this morning’s bread, that would never do.”
Lutisha’s daughter smiled indulgently. “It is still hot to the touch, Madame Gronska.”
“So it is.” The countess pulled a crust from a loaf of rye and tasted it. “Excellent! Without bread even meat has no flavor.”
“’Tis so,” Lutisha laughed.
The countess finished her rounds of the kitchen. “Ah, I can see everything is in order, as I might have expected. I suppose I have only slowed the pace here, but it is over a year since my son has been home.”
“A very long time,” Lutisha said. “We are all glad to see Lord Walter again.”
The countess checked the preparations in the dining room for the third time, then moved toward the west wing.
Walter had arrived in good spirits. He seemed happy. Proud of the work he was doing in Russia. The countess had her own thoughts about that, but what worried her now was how he would react to what she and Leo had to say concerning his future. He was hotheaded, as hotheaded as Leo. She would have to play peacemaker, no doubt, as in the old days.
The countess found her husband dressing for supper, buttoning his best shirt.
“How handsome you look, Leo!”
“For an old man, you mean?”
“I do not!”
“Damn, I’m all thumbs with these pearl buttons. Why must they make them so damn small?”
Moving to her husband, the countess assumed the task, as she had done a hundred times before. “You must take your complaint directly to the oysters,” she laughed. “Tell them to make bigger pearls. Our children may be grown, Leo, but that doesn’t make us old.”
He grunted. “Nor does their growth me
an that they are adults, Stella.”
“You won’t bring up at the table the subject of Walter’s returning home, will you? Not at supper, not in front of Anna.”
“No, I won’t.”
“And you won’t drink too much?”
“No.”
“And you won’t encourage Walter to drink?”
“Walter doesn’t need encouragement,” the count laughed. “And you’re nagging, my dear.”
“I’m sorry.—Leo, what will you do if Walter does not come back to Halicz?”
“We’ve spoken of that, Stella.”
“You don’t truly mean to say that you could disown him?”
“I sincerely hope it does not come to that.”
“But if it even comes to making the threat, must you reveal . . . you know . . . that which we have kept from him?”
“I’m not so sure it was a wise thing not to have told him years ago. He will have to know someday.”
“Be that as it may, I fear telling him now. I fear his reaction.” The countess thought for a moment. “And there is Zofia, too—There, finished!”
The count turned to look in the mirror. “Thank you, my dear.”
“You could do it, too, had you the patience.” From behind, the countess stared at her husband’s reflection. “Leo, sometimes I feel as if she knows our secret.”
“Zofia? Nonsense, how could she know? As long I have you here, will you help me with my sash?”
“She can be very sly at times,” the countess said, taking in hand the brown and purple silk of Turkish design. “She’s my own daughter, but she has a touch of the devil in her.” The countess pulled the sash tightly about her husband’s waist and secured it. “You know, I never know what she’s thinking. Not like a mother should.”
“Is there any way she could know about Walter?”
“Perhaps. A few months ago I found my secretary unlocked. I never leave it unlocked, Leo. And I found some old papers and letters askew. I didn’t want to make an issue of it. I didn’t want to believe it.”
“Well, let it be,” the count said, turning to his wife, “unless she should say something about it. She’s a wild one, Stella. Always has been. I dare say marriage will calm her down in a hurry.”
Push Not the River Page 6