Toasts began again, more boisterous than before the meal and accompanied by the crash of glass upon the hearth. Then came the dancing that continued until well after midnight. It was at the height of the celebration that five young married women took Anna to her parents’ room, the room—and bed—that was to be hers and Jan’s. Had this been her first marriage, much show would have been made in public about the removal of the wedding wreath, the unplaiting and ceremonial cutting of her hair, and the placing of the czepek, the cap of a married woman. None of this had been observed in the marriage to Grawlinski, however, because of the shame associated with the rape.
Now, at least, Anna was to have a czepek for what was politely called the bedding-down. One of the women, Halina, presented Anna with the embroidered wedding cap. “Emma made this for you, Anna.”
Anna gasped. It was the most beautiful cap she had ever seen, all done in pastels and laced with semi-precious stones. Once the wedding wreath was taken from her head, and the cap put in its place, the women cried out their sincere compliments as Anna assessed herself in the mirror. She saw herself as more than a beautiful bride—she saw herself as happy. This cap would be used only for the special occasions of her life—and at her death.
“A toast now!” one of the women—Sylwia—announced. She had brought up to the bedchamber a bottle and six glasses. She poured out the vodka and the glasses were passed around. A naughty sparkle came into her eyes, and she cried, “A girl no more!” so used was she to the saying at weddings.
Embarrassed, the other women quieted, and when the stout woman realized her blunder, her eyes went large and the sparkle disappeared. She put her hand to her mouth in horror.
“I’ve been married before, Sylwia. I’ve not been a girl for a long time!” Anna laughed. “But come now, I’m not offended! You must laugh, too!”
The tension was immediately relieved and ther oor rang with girlish laughter. Sylwia, however, still had a mouthful of vodka and as she released her laugh, the liquor was released as well, spraying out and down her dress. The sound of their collective laughter now became shrill enough to break windows. Halina thought this called for a dance and led the other five in a spontaneous mazurka. They sang
Everyone take a good look
She was in a wreath and comes in a cap.
The dance ended with the other women climbing up onto the great feathered bed. Anna could only stare and hold her breath as the five jumped up and down, laughing and calling out rude things about the future of the marriage as they tested the strength of the bed. One by one, they collapsed onto it. By some miracle, the bed held.
Halina proposed another toast, but by the time she was ready to pour, a strong rapping came at the door. Anna watched the five turn their attention to her, their eyes sparkling with vodka and humor. Anna could read their silly faces like pictures in a child’s book. Sylwia giggled. “They’ve come for you, Anna.”
“Open up!” someone called. The door had been bolted.
“It’s my husband!” Halina laughed. “Go away!” As was customary, the women refused admittance, playing at protecting Anna until the men threatened to take down the door. “Go away!” they cried. “Go drink yourselves silly!”
The revelers persisted. “Much is to be done before the night is over,” someone shouted.
Anna watched and listened to all this as in a dream. She cringed to think that her union at last with Jan was to be so public, such a cause for hilarity. And yet she trembled with elation to think that she no longer had to love him at a distance.
Halina opened the door at last, and the wedding guests crowded into the room, many carrying drinks to toast the couple’s wedding night. Two of the groomsmen pushed their way to the bed and fell upon it. One of them announced in a slurred voice: “We must warm it up for Lord Stelnicki and Lady Stelnicka!” His eyes rolled back into his head then, and he passed out. “Make way! Make way!” someone was calling, and soon another groomsman was pushing through the throng, pulling the husband into the bedchamber. Jan had his part to play, too: that of a reluctant groom. “Make way for Jan Stelnicki!” the groomsman announced. “Where is the Lady Anna? Ah, there she is!—My lady, we have come to deliver the goods!”
That comment set everyone off on a bawdy tavern song that continued through a toast and many good wishes. The guests were still singing as they filed out and crowded into the ante-room. Many were having trouble with the lyrics, but the irreverent refrain—though raucously off-key—was delivered with great enthusiasm. The unconscious groomsman was slapped awake and set to, so that all three groomsmen could wish the couple the best and finish clearing the room.
When all of the guests were assembled in the ante-room, Jan walked over and closed the door, bolting it securely.
He turned to face his bride. He smiled.
Anna’s heart beat as if a sparrow were held captive in her chest. She walked to him now, her eyes on his—those cobalt blue eyes she had discovered that day in the meadow years before. She had wished for this day a thousand times, never fully believing it would come. But it had come. They were husband and wife. Whatever the future, they were as one.
When she reached Jan, he bent to kiss her. And the kiss held . . . oh, she had had her share of vodka, but it was some other unearthly elixir that lifted her now . . . transporting her. His mouth went to her ear. “Anna,” he said—in the same soft murmur he had said her name that fall day so long ago in a forest near Halicz. Eyes tightly shut, she could hear the rustle of leaves that day, smell the very scent of earth, feel his body near hers. . . .
Outside the revelry and singing continued, as if at a distance. “Now, don’t be lazy!” someone was calling. Anna laughed.
“May God grant you descendants as plentiful as the stars,” said another.
“At last!” It was a woman’s voice this time that came through the door. Anna thought it Halina’s. “The bedding down is complete!”
“Oh, it is hardly that!” Jan called back, laughing, and the crowd beyond the door responded in kind. He bent now to lift Anna, scooping her up as if she weighed no more than a hummingbird.
“You’ve brought some of your carvings!” Zofia exclaimed, moving from the bed to her chair. “Come, sit!”
Jerzy nodded. He had come to visit her several times, each time managing to do so while his mother and grandfather were on some business in the village. He carried to the chair next to Zofia’s an armful of his wooden carvings, painted and unpainted.
Jerzy sat and started to hand them, one by one, to Zofia for her inspection. “Oh, my, these are excellent, Jerzy,” she said, noticing that he was well-groomed and his hands scrubbed clean. “How long have you been carving?”
“Since I was five, I think. My grandfather taught me. His fingers are too bent these days for carving.”
Zofia smiled. “So he carves now through you?” She turned over in her own slender hands the figures of a bird, a cow, a dog, a windmill, passing them then to the bed.
“What kind of wood is this?”
“Linden. It’s best to use.”
Zofia inspected now the wooden replicas of peasants, crudely hewn, but surprisingly evocative in emotions. She felt something for each likeness, something in their stance and in their faces that went to the heart. The people depicted were impoverished, but they were rich in spirit and character.
“Who is this one?” Zofia asked, for the bearded figure did not look like a peasant.
“John the Baptist, milady.”
“Ah, I see the halo now. . . . And this one? Another saint?”
“St. Barbara.”
“Ah, some say that when one dies, the soul must spend a night with St. Barbara. Do you suppose that’s true, Jerzy?”
The boy reddened.
“Well, it is true. That some people believe it, I mean. But then, some people believe anything. . . . Oh, these are all wonderful! You’ve got one more. Let me see it.”
Jerzy seemed uncertain and held back. Zofia reached for
it, but the boy moved it out of reach, as if he were afraid for her to see it.
“What’s so special about that one? You wouldn’t have brought it if you didn’t mean for me to see it!” Zofia rose now, laughing, but quickly managing to pull it from his grasp.
“It’s not finished,” Jerzy said.
As if in slow motion, she took her seat again, turning over the figure in her hand, her eyes wide in amazement. It was the unpainted figure of a woman, not in village costume but in a modern western dress with a wide skirt. It wanted only a little splash of red paint. The almond-shaped eyes of the face stared out, eerily transfixed, as in death. “Why, it’s me!” Zofia exclaimed. “Dog’s blood!—Did I look like that when you found me?”
Jerzy eyed Zofia cautiously. He was blushing to the roots of his hair. “Yes, milady.”
Zofia stared at the carving. “Dog’s blood,” she murmured. He had captured an emptiness, the emptiness of death. But it was the emptiness she had also felt in life.
Jerzy pulled himself to his feet, as if to begin collecting the sculptures.
Zofia was at a loss. What was she to say to him? What did she mean to him—that he could create such a thing?—Or he to her?
When he reached for the figure, Zofia held it away from him, teasingly. It was a childish reaction, she knew, but it was the only one that came to her. Jerzy leaned across her for the extended arm that held her likeness. Zofia reached up with her free hand, lightly touched his face, and arched her back so that her face moved near to his.
His blue eyes flashed surprise at her touch, then as she held her hand on his smooth cheek, fear suffused his blue eyes.
“Jerzy?”
“Yes?” His voice, cracking slightly, betrayed another reaction—arousal.
Zofia gave him her most generous smile. “Would you teach me how to carve?”
4
Anna was alone when she awakened. She pushed her arms out from under the counterpane, stretching. How long she had slept, and how deeply! The soft winter light in the room caressed her, whispering that it was already mid-morning. She looked over to Jan’s place, ran her hand over his pillow. He had roused her a few hours before, already dressed, saying he was going to tend to some things on the estate and that she should sleep. She thought she remembered murmuring something in reply, but she was quite certain of the kiss he had given her. She smiled now to think of it. Now the bedding down was complete.
Things to do on the estate, she thought. Oh, he had much in common with her father! Although Jacob had always been an excellent estate manager, in the old days her father himself had done much of the overseeing of his modest estate and several serf families. Anna’s mother had never approved of her husband’s taking such an interest and let her opinion be known. No, she had never understood her husband. But the count had taught his daughter to love the land and how to grow things, beginning with a small garden that yielded an array of tulips and other flowers, as well as vegetables. Much to her mother’s vexation, Anna wasn’t afraid to get her hands dirty or tear a nail.
I will not make the same mistake as my mother, Anna thought. I will understand my husband. Her father would have been quite satisfied with the match she had made. She pulled Jan’s pillow to her, held it, suffused with contentment.
A light knock came at the door. Then a whispered voice: “Madame?”
“Come in, Lutisha! I’m quite awake.”
Lutisha entered, taking a tray directly to a little table near the bed. She seemed careful not to glance at Anna, who smiled to herself at the maid’s modesty. “I’ve brought coffee, madame, with extra cream, the way you like it.”
“Thank you, Lutisha. Good country cream—not like we get in the city, I can tell you!” Anna sat up in bed and tucked Jan’s pillow behind her. She watched as the servant started placing upon the tray the glasses from the night before. Anna interlocked her hands behind her head. “Well?”
Lutisha paused a moment but did not look up. “Well, madame?”
“Lutisha! Every day you come in and you say, ‘How is Madame this fine morning?’ And today you are silent.”
The woman began to color and could say nothing.
“Lutisha! Look at me! Yes, that’s it. I can tell you I am very fine this fine morning.” Anna laughed.
Lutisha turned crimson now. “I am . . . pleased, madame. . . . Will you be coming down to breakfast?”
“Yes, Lutisha, I will be coming down to breakfast.” Anna put on a serious face. She enjoyed teasing the old servant, but thought it best to bring it to an end.
When another knock sounded, Anna, thinking it Jan, called, “Entré!”
Two blond heads topped with ruffled white caps appeared in the doorway. “Oh, pardon, madame,” Katarzyna said. “Marcelina and I thought Grandma would need some help, but we didn’t know you were still in bed.”
“Didn’t you?”
“Oh, no,” Marcelina said, giving her sister a gentle push into the room. “We’re sorry to bother you, madame.”
“It is no bother. You may help your grandma by taking those bottles there and picking up Lord Stelnicki’s sash from the floor. Katarzyna, would you bring my morning robe? The blue one—it’s in the wardrobe.”
The girl obeyed, managing to steal a look at Anna as she approached her. Setting the robe on the bed, she stood for a long moment staring at Anna’s embroidered wedding cap that lay on the bedside table.
Anna smiled. “It’s beautiful, yes?”
“Oh, madame,” Katarzyna gasped, “I’ve never seen a czepek like it!”
“How old are you, Katarzyna?”
“Eighteen, milady. . . . I mean madame.”
“You’re seventeen,” Marcelina contradicted.
“Nearly eighteen!”
“But that’s months away!” her sister said.
Anna turned to Marcelina. “That must make you sixteen this year, Marcelina.”
She gave a little wince. “Not ‘til October, madame.”
“Well, it won’t be long before you are both married off, I’m certain. Tell me now, have you prospects?”
“Oh, no, madame!” Katarzyna cried. Marcelina shrank back, shaking her head.
“Very well,” Anna said, “but I’m not sure I believe you. Two pretty girls like you! Katarzyna, you may try it on. Go ahead . . . look in the mirror now. Come, Marcelina, you may have a turn, too.”
The sisters radiated their pleasure as one posed, then the other, before the mirror at the vanity table that had belonged to Anna’s mother. Lutisha’s expression, however, darkened by the minute. “Madame, they should not be in your chamber today.”
“Shush, Lutisha. They only wanted to see if I am a changed woman, didn’t you girls?”
The girls’ heads turned toward Anna, their eyes widening. They looked at each other then in guilty wonder to be found out.
“Perhaps you would like to try it yourself, Lutisha?”
“Oh, madame! What nonsense you talk.” Lutisha looked as if she didn’t know whether to give herself over to indignation or laughter. The servant tried to cover her toothless smile as laughter won out. Everyone joined in.
“Whatever you say, Katarzyna and Marcelina,” Anna said, “it will not be long before the two of you will require caps.” The sisters giggled, squirming in embarrassment. “I will see,” Anna continued, “if I can’t prevail on Emma to make your caps for you when the time comes.”
Again the eyes widened. “You would do that?” Marcelina whispered.
“Yes, I would!” Anna laughed. “Now time to leave me alone or I shall be certain to come upon you on your marriage morning! Out!”
“You heard madame, out!” Lutisha cried, shooing her granddaughters from the room. She turned toward Anna at the doorway, gave a little embarrassed smile, and made her own exit, closing the door behind her.
Before coming to serve at the Berezowski estate in Sochaczew, Lutisha and her family had been servants at Anna’s aunt and uncle’s larger estate in Halicz. Anna
smiled to herself, remembering how these two girls had regarded her when she came to stay at the Groński home. Anna had questioned them about the garden that they kept, even commenting on the variety of an onion. They answered nervously, giving each other side glances, clearly aghast that a countess should concern herself with such things.
But Jan had understood her inherited love of the land. And he loved her for it.
As for being a changed woman, she was that, indeed!
The hard snow crunched under the highly-muscled stallion’s hooves. Jan was exploring field and forest, his head held high as he inhaled the frosty January air. He had tried to be of help to Walek earlier that morning, but everyone had his assigned Monday chores, and there seemed to be nothing in need of doing. For his offer he had gotten some odd, knowing glances—some, too, that perhaps questioned his absence from the wedding bedchamber. So he had gone riding instead. Concerned with getting Anna’s manor house ready for her arrival, he had not ridden in days. How good it felt to have a horse beneath him again.
As he rode, he fell into his old habit of reliving the campaigns he had made with Kościuszko, reveling in what was done right, guessing how the mishaps and defeats might have been avoided. A true Pole sought glory, or so the saying went. He wondered if it were so. He had fought for democracy, fought against the allied forces. He did not bask in his victories, nor did he show off the shoulder scar rendered by a Russian lancer, the scar Anna had so delicately traced with her fingertips last night.
He found himself singing aloud a ditty about swordsmanship popular among the cavalry:
Hungarians cut directly,
Muscovites cleve from above,
Against a Crimson Sky Page 7