“Don’t apologise to me,” said Elisabeth lazily. “I think it’s the best joke I’ve heard in a year.”
István, of course, did not. But he managed to make me feel even worse by saying reasonably, “However we may deplore them, your actions are understandable in the light of the treatment which your mother received from this family...”
“The point is,” the Count interrupted, “that I have a proposition to put before you.”
“Another test?” I enquired politely, and Mattias laughed.
“No,” said the Count with surprising patience. “A genuine proposition. That we let bygones be bygones. That you join our family, which is your family, and live with us accordingly, naturally with an allowance appropriate to our station.”
I blinked at him. I thought of asking him to repeat it, but I could see from the faces of the others that I had indeed heard him aright.
“You want me to live with you?” I said stupidly. “After what I have done?”
“You didn’t do anything,” the Count said. “Except shout at me. I reserve the right to shout back when I choose.”
Of course, it was not possible; and once I had picked my jaw up off the floor, I strove to explain this to them. Even at the time I had the weird feeling I was fighting myself as much as them, and in any case Katalin soon put a stop to it by exclaiming, “Katie, do stop being so wretchedly noble! We want you to live with us! At least the three of us, and Papa, do, and Mattias thinks it might be amusing, which is just about his level, so why don’t you stop atoning, and stay?”
I gazed at her, almost more surprised by this than by all the rest. For the first time, I allowed myself to consider the possibility of remaining, of “joining” the family. I had many reasons for staying, none at all for going, except my foolish pride and dislike of accepting charity. Another idea was born. Thoughtfully, I looked at István.
“I have a slightly different proposition,” I said, “if you will listen.”
“Now we get to it,” Maria muttered audibly. I ignored her.
István nodded. “Go on.”
I took a deep breath. “I propose that I continue to teach Miklós and Anna, at least until you decide to send them away to school, or find a more advanced tutor for Miklós.”
István looked startled, but I could see the idea did not displease him. He glanced across to his wife. So did I. She was regarding me with fixed fascination.
“Do you like being a governess?” she enquired.
I almost smiled. “More than I thought I would,” I confessed. “But truthfully, I have grown fond of the children, and they are used to me now.”
“We’re all used to you, that’s the trouble, and I admit my soul sighs with weariness at the prospect of finding a new governess. But how then am I to introduce you to Society — oh yes, that is part of the plan — if you spend all day in the schoolroom?”
My sense of humour was returning. “It caused you no qualms before,” I recalled.
“True.” Her gaze had grown highly speculative.
“I would drive you mad in an hour,” I reminded her.
“I shouldn’t put up with your company for any longer,” Elisabeth retorted.
And late that night, bemused and curiously relieved, I had settled down to reply to Aunt Edith. “My Dear Aunt,” I had begun, “Many thanks for your last letter, which has had considerable influence on the Szelényi household...”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Despite István’s impatience, we had not returned to Buda-Pest until the day of the elections themselves. This was partly due to the old Count’s reluctance to part with us: though he refused to leave Szelényi, neither did he wish to be alone again, with only Margit and the servants for company.
I wondered briefly if he was afraid after the peasants’ strange, silent demonstration, but he showed no other signs of that, and the peasants themselves seemed to have reverted to sullenly ignoring their lord and complaining about the poor yield of this year’s harvest. Most of them showed no interest whatever in my ‘return’, the exceptions, of course, being Lajos’s parents, who were touchingly pleased about my happy reunion with my family. Of Lajos’s reaction, I knew nothing; he had gone back to Buda-Pest the day after my discovery, leaving me oddly small and lost in my new splendour. It was his mother who had discreetly returned my bonnet.
Yet curiously enough, although I sensed the resentment of the castle servants — even Zsuzsa’s manner was restrained — I seemed to settle into the family with remarkable ease. If I was not yet the most trusted member, I was undeniably accepted and, I saw with something approaching surprise, liked.
And when we did finally part, the Count said to me abruptly, “Will you write?”
“If you bother to reply,” I said unkindly. He looked at me, a small, twisted smile dawning on his thin lips.
“You see? It’s not so easy to forgive.”
My eyes fell before his. “No,” I said quietly, “it’s not easy.” But like the others, I kissed his hand and his cheek when we parted, and resolved to try harder.
* * * *
We eventually arrived in Pest in the middle of an election procession. It seemed to be the custom for voters to march to the polls in massed, triumphant throngs, and this one, clearly supporting the liberal opposition, was certainly huge.
Unable to pass for the cheering crowds, we pulled into the side of the road to let the procession go by, and I was astonished. It was led by the same Count Batthyány I had seen at Teréz Meleki’s house in July, only now he and the other nobles behind him wore national dress, a sort of rich, idealized peasant costume, with huge red, green and white feathers in their hats to proclaim their allegiance. Mounted on a beautiful, thoroughbred horse, Batthyány still looked magnificent, graciously doffing his hat to the crowd as he rode by.
As the procession passed in a blaze of colour and splendour, I could clearly see the different social ranks of the voters. Following Batthyány and the great men came those on less expensive mounts, then those with no horse at all.
“Are they the Honoratiores?” I asked Mattias about this last group, remembering Lajos’s explanation of the honorary nobles.
“Lord no, just poor nobles — sandaled nobles, we call them because they can’t afford boots. Magnates like Batthyány — and my brother here — buy their votes with banquets and patronage.”
István regarded him with dislike.
“I have never bought anyone’s votes,” he said repressively.
“Ha!” said Mattias derisively, then, “There, Katie, these look more like the Honoratiores. Do you see? Clerks and teachers and lawyers...”
“Who have no right to vote anyway,” István interrupted.
“They do in Pest.”
“That,” said István, “is constitutionally doubtful. My God! Is that Lajos Lázár? He has no business voting here or anywhere else!”
While Mattias disputed this with him, I searched the procession with something approaching desperation, but in the end, he was easily found. Marching along in the midst of the swaggering group of young men at the end of the line, he was holding one end of a banner bearing the colours of the Opposition.
Mattias abruptly left off his argument and leaned out of the window beside me to yell encouragement. Some of the faces turned towards us, Lajos’s among them. I thought he laughed. Certainly he dipped the banner as if saluting us, and then raised it even higher so that I could clearly see the words embroidered across it: Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité.
I didn’t know whether to be amused or frightened by this boldness. I wondered if the respectable Count Batthyány knew that they or their deliberately provocative banner were behind him. One or two of the young men were waving to Mattias, signalling him to join them until, with a laugh, he began to push open the carriage door.
“What the devil are you doing?” István demanded.
“I’m going to cheer the vote,” Mattias said gleefully. He was too young to vote himself.
“Not with that hoard of rabble-rousers and peasants! If you must march with the Opposition, for God’s sake go with men of your own rank...!” But it was too late; Mattias had gone, running into the centre of the group to be greeted by his friends. When he finally disappeared from view he was arm-in-arm with a disreputable looking student on one side, and on the other a flamboyant young man who might have been an actor.
I glanced at István. He was tight-lipped and angry. “Fool of a boy!” he said furiously.
“I gather you won’t be voting that way,” I said, with an attempt at lightness.
“No!” He looked at me and relaxed slightly. “Forgive me. To be honest, my inclinations are with the Opposition, but men like Kossuth I cannot abide!”
“But why do you so dislike him?” I asked curiously, as the procession receded and the crowds began to part.
“The man is a trouble-maker. A landless upstart with delusions of grandeur. A pompous, lawless...”
“Surely not lawless,” I interrupted in the spirit of justice.
“He has already been in prison once for sedition.”
As our coach moved forward again, I regarded István just a little provokingly. “Very well, but in what way is he an upstart? I thought he was noble.”
“Oh he is — of the minor nobility. But his family have no land and he has to work for his living.”
“That is certainly very bad,” I said gravely. István looked at me suspiciously, and I added hastily, “I am interested in Kossuth. Everyone seems to regard him as the man of the moment, whether or not they approve of him.”
“He is certainly becoming difficult to ignore,” István allowed ruefully. “But this sort of following surely condemns him!” He waved his hand speakingly after the disappearing radical Honoratiores and their blatantly revolutionary banner, adding bitterly, “If anything else were needed to prove the dangers of Kossuth’s policies, surely that rabble is it — damned Jacobins!”
* * * *
Everything was different for me now. Though I held out determinedly against my family’s desire to foist a personal maid on me, I had still been moved to a more suitable bedchamber. Naturally, the servants had been informed of my changed state, so for the first couple of days I was the subject of many furtive glances and whispers. On the other hand, the morning after our arrival, when I went to collect the children from the nursery, I was secretly touched to hear Zsuzsa giving a furious lecture to a couple of lowlier maids and a footman who had apparently been criticizing me.
Though with difficulty, I did make a point of going to see both Ferenc and Frau Schmidt to offer some kind of explanation. After all, they had been kind to me well beyond necessity and as the friendship between us had grown, they had even uttered indiscreet remarks about the family in my presence. Not unnaturally, they were a little stiff. Philosophically, I waited for things to settle down.
And of course, on the very first day back, my spacious new bedchamber was invaded by Elisabeth and Katalin, for once in unholy alliance to take me shopping.
“I will not look at that drab garment one day longer,” Elisabeth announced. “It’s more than I should be asked to bear.”
Somewhat uneasily, I gave in. I had occasionally been granted a terrifying glimpse of the prices the fashionable were prepared to pay to cover their nakedness, and though I was happy to accept the hospitality of my family, running up huge bills at their expense was not part of my plan. István had already given me an unnecessarily large purse with the mind-boggling rider that he would keep the rest until I needed it. I couldn’t imagine ever needing it.
In a dazed whirl, I was dragged through umpteen fashionable couturiers in Vaci Street, and returned to the palace some hours later totally exhausted and the proud owner of what seemed to me a complete new wardrobe.
“That will do to start with,” said Elisabeth with satisfaction, leaving me, for once, speechless.
And this was the pattern of my new life. In the mornings at least, I taught the children — who seemed just as pleased with Cousin Katie as with Miss Katie the governess. On most afternoons I was extracted from the schoolroom by my relatives and taken either shopping or visiting. On the occasions of the latter, I amused myself by searching for recognition in the faces of my hosts, who never seemed to see a connection between the Szelényis’ new, fashionably dressed relation and their old, dowdy governess. Yet I was sure the news must have filtered through the city via the servants if no one else. I could only conclude that it would have been bad manners to recognize me as the governess now, just as, apparently, it had been good manners to ignore me when I was the governess. Polite Society has always been a mystery to me.
My evenings were generally full of frivolity. Of course, Buda-Pest being now obsessed with politics and patriotism, no aristocratic ball was complete without at least one czardas — a rather more restrained version of the dance I had learned with Lajos — and national costume was becoming accepted fashion. Fascinated, I enjoyed the colour and the novelty of it all, especially when I was engaged for every single dance at the Esterházys’ ball. This was a felicity quite unknown to me before: whether it was due to the Szelényis’ rank and influence or to my own oddity in being Scottish, bespectacled, and a female acquiring an undeserved reputation as a wit, I had no idea. I simply savoured the experience and treasured up amusing incidents with which to entertain Lajos at our next meeting. If we ever met again.
On one memorable evening, I finally encountered the great Kossuth himself. This was, apparently, quite a coup achieved by Baroness Meleki, for Kossuth was generally too hard at work and too austere by nature to attend social functions, especially now that he had been elected to the Diet — by a huge majority, needless to say. However, Teréz had somehow contrived to acquire a reputation for political seriousness, as well as discreet adultery, so the great man was persuaded to attend her dinner party whose guest list, admittedly, read more like a political rally.
I was rather surprised to have been invited, because although Teréz had treated me with perfect civility since learning my identity, it was quite obvious that she liked me as little as I did her. I imagine she believed I might tell her friend Elisabeth how she had once threatened to have me dismissed, a memory which I was treasuring rather maliciously now, but which I was, at least for the moment, keeping to myself.
When we arrived in her fashionable drawing-room, it was to discover just about every prominent liberal politician already present, including Count Batthyány and the sad, cynical Count Széchenyi, who had accepted the invitation before he realized his arch rival would also be there. István felt much the same about Kossuth, and with amusement I watched him and Széchenyi gravitate towards each other. Only Kossuth himself was lacking. I admit to an unworthy glee at the prospect that he might have let her down at the last moment, but since I was, in fact, extremely curious to meet him, I managed to squash my spurt of ill-nature quite easily.
And Kossuth did indeed arrive in the end. Watching him, unexpectedly handsome and graceful with a fine, round beard, a proud carriage and an air of importance, I suspected he liked to make entrances. Yet I was immediately aware of his distinctive presence. His eyes were grave, direct and brimful of extraordinary energy.
I came to his notice only because I was seated beside Elisabeth, who was being courted at the time by Batthyány — for political rather than amorous ends, I should add — and Kossuth could hardly ignore the man who was to so large a degree his patron. Batthyány was obliged to introduce us both to Kossuth. During the performance of this ceremony, I noticed with amusement that Mattias — who had done us the unprecedented honour of accompanying us solely in the hope of exchanging a word with his hero — was making his way determinedly towards us. It came as quite a shock, when I pulled my attention back to my companions, to discover that Kossuth’s clear eyes were not on my beautiful aunt, but on me.
“So, you are from Great Britain?” he said, in careful English. “I am a great admirer of your political sys
tem.” I murmured something gratifying. “In Scotland,” he pursued, “you have your own law, within the British monarchy, is it not so?”
“Yes...”
“I find that admirable. An example to us in the Empire, perhaps.”
“We don’t have our own Parliament in Scotland,” I pointed out, “which, I suppose, puts Hungary rather ahead of us!”
He smiled slightly. “No Parliament? But how does that come about?”
“We voted it away.”
“For good reasons, I hope?”
“For greed,” I said cynically. “You speak English very well, Mr Kossuth.”
“Thank you! I learned by reading Shakespeare when I was in prison.” He was shockingly blasé about something as shameful as incarceration, but since he had in fact emerged from his experience both a martyr and a hero to the people, I felt my eyes begin to smile in response to the twinkle in his. There was something very charming about Kossuth. He was a little pompous and terribly arrogant, but I confess I liked him.
* * * *
Now, on the Danube steam-ship two weeks later, finally en route to Pressburg and the opening of the Diet, Kossuth was the name on everybody’s lips.
But I remembered Lajos and the deadly serious young men in the Pilvax. I found myself praying quite hard that their hopes would be at least partially fulfilled. If they weren’t, I didn’t want to think of the consequences.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A week later, I returned to Buda-Pest quite disgusted.
I had seen the King-Emperor, poor, gentle Ferdinand, open the Diet amid wild optimism and infectious enthusiasm. And then I watched it all collapse in a welter of furious heckling by the young men in the public gallery — led, inevitably, by Lajos and his friends — and in endless fights between the Upper and Lower Houses, between supporters of the Government and the Opposition, between Magyars and Croats and Serbs...
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