The short-lived Constitution was but a memory now, yet the king prayed with the whole of his heart that its memory would endure. He prayed, too, that he would not be known as the last King of Poland.
A motion caught the king’s eye. He looked up. It was the Russian general once again approaching, his face screwed up against the cold wind off the river.
King Stanisław gave him the same gentle smile he would give to any suppliant. He had kept the man waiting long enough.
The monarch stood, tucking away his field-telescope and adjusting his crimson cap. Then he took his final look at Warsaw, sighed, and moved toward his carriage.
So slipped the scepter.
5
Late March, 1795
Anna was awakened one morning by sounds on the roof above her. For a moment she thought someone was up there repairing the evergreen tiles. Then came the cries: “Kle-kle-kle!”
She sat up in bed, smiling to herself, then laughing aloud. “You are a bit tardy this year, Józef and Alijca!” she called out, laughing. “I might have done without you. Oh, but you are welcome just the same!” For years the same pair of storks had been returning from wintering in a warmer climate—Africa, it was said. Like clockwork, the storks sought out their fair weather home. They would nestle into the huge awkward nest adjacent to the chimney and stay until September. They were thought to bring luck—and sometimes a child—to the owners of the house.
Anna became lost for the moment in the reverie of childhood. She remembered standing with her father and looking up at the pair, awed by the flurry of black wing feathers against the white plumage of the body and the red of the legs and bills. “Oh, they’re fighting, Papa!” she had cried. “Do make them stop.” Her father spoke gently, telling her they were merely playing. She must have been five or six and could not have known they were engaging in a rhythmic and nearly violent rite of courtship.
A few minutes later, Lutisha knocked and entered. “Will you be coming down to breakfast, madame?”
“Yes, Lutisha. Why shouldn’t I?”
Lutisha brought a ewer of warm water for the wash stand and had her back to Anna. “It’s just that you haven’t always come down, of late.”
“Ah, that’s true, isn’t it?” Anna felt she could keep the secret no longer. “Lutisha, I think the storks have returned.”
“Oh, just the one, madame,” Lutisha said, turning around. “The male, I suspect. That’s the way of it. He repairs the nest and gets it ready for the female.”
“Why is that, I wonder?” Anna asked. “Do you imagine they spend the fall and winter months apart?”
“Some think so, madame, and the way they carry on when the female arrives, well, I do believe it!”
Anna laughed. “Well, I think I’ve beat them at their game, Lutisha!”
The servant understood, her smile lighting her large face. But it was not a smile of surprise. “Then it’s luck to the whole house they’re bringing.”
“You knew, didn’t you?” When the woman pursed her lips, Anna laughed. “I thought so!”
Lutisha shrugged. “There’s just something about a woman in the family way I’ve come to see.”
“What is it?”
“Just a look, madame. A secret sparkle in the eye.”
Anna laughed again. “I’ve always said servants know more of what goes on in a house than does the master.”
Lutisha blushed. “Tis’ the case, sometimes, madame. Truly.” She turned to go.
“I’ll be down momentarily.”
Lutisha rounded about at the door. “Are you looking for another boy?”
“Perhaps.”
“It would be good for Jan Michał to have a little brother. And I expect Lord Stelnicki will be wishing for a boy.” The door closed on Lutisha’s happy smile.
Anna’s euphoria was immediately snuffed out. Her moods were volatile these days, and mention of Jan and the child brought her low.
Jan had gone out early again, hadn’t been around long enough in the mornings these past weeks to realize she had the sickness. What was it he was always finding to do? The estate ran well enough under the watchful eye of Jacob; what could he possibly find to busy himself with? And why? Didn’t he know she needed him? Oh, he was there in the evening, and at night their lovemaking was everything she could hope for . . . but in the morning . . . to find him gone . . .
Anna began to dress. Suddenly, a thought ran through her like an ill wind. She seemed to be thinking and behaving like her mother, who had so resented her father’s desire to get out and about on the estate, directing and doing. It was as if Fate had somehow given Anna’s mother’s life to her. Here she was in her parents’ house, in their bedchamber, and in a relationship that—for the moment, at least—possessed eerie parallels. The spectral thought chilled her.
Anna had understood her father and his love of the land, understood him more than her mother had. But now—as if she were in her mother’s place—she seemed to understand her better.
Her mood still did not lift. Lutisha had cut to the heart of another worry. Would he be wishing—expecting—a boy? Would he be happy with a girl? Anna was praying for a girl, but it was only now that she came to grips with the reason for her prayer. The truth was, she was afraid that delivering a boy now, just as the bonding between Jan and Michał was taking form, could somehow reduce the strength of that father-stepson relationship. As loving and open as Jan seemed to be with little Michał, Anna said a prayer that she bring a girl into the household.
Anna would tell him the happy news tonight. She had no choice, for the whole house would know in no time. Or perhaps everyone did already.
Paweł rode alone, the morning mist rising up around him. For the sake of secrecy, he had been told to avoid the road, and so he directed his horse through the dense forest, taking care to avoid fallen trees and low-hanging branches. Tired as he had ever been, he scarcely noticed the buds on the oak trees or the light green shoots on the pines. These trees that rose around him—like pillars in a Greek stadium, he had often thought—failed for once to incite within him his awe of nature. In time he passed through a mile-long clearing, then drew up his horse at a bank of birch trees that stood like sentries at the clearing’s edge. Before him lay a wide expanse that encircled a hill, upon the crest of which sat a large, wooden hunting lodge, its windows like square, unblinking eyes.
He had slept little in the past week. With spring at hand, he had returned to the countryside, talking among the peasants, inquiring, combing the little hamlets along the riverbanks for some trace of Zofia. Hope died hard. But he had yet to upturn a single clue. Zofia had vanished. Lately he had seen only pity in the eyes of his friends, who had given her up for dead long ago. Anyone would have. And yet he could not give himself over to the thought that she lay among the many bodies that had been dropped by peasants and soldiers into pits like so much human refuse. Not Zofia . . .
He dismounted now, fighting off fatigue. He tied his horse to a shrub and took the brown robe from his saddlebag. With the robe in place over his clothes, he began to trudge across the clearing, his eyes on the lodge. Before he reached the halfway point, something flashed from one of the upper story windows, a glint that quickly disappeared. Was it just the reflection of the quickly rising sun? The spectacles of someone at the window? A spyglass?
Paweł allowed his thoughts of Zofia to fall away. The sun was tempering the chill of the forest. He felt relief in thinking of other things. He stopped and drew the hood of the robe up over his head. Through the eye holes, he took his bearings and moved toward the lodge. This was his fourth meeting, and he felt as silly in this costume as he had at the first, in Warsaw. How had he allowed the king to draw him into this little masquerade? He felt a fool. At the word of the king, he had taken up with a group concerned with power and shrouded in secrecy and ceremony. It was not a group to make him feel a true member or even welcome. And there seemed always an undercurrent of danger. But he continued his membership, thinki
ng—at times—that King Stanisław had entrusted to him a quest, one that somehow held the fate of the nation in the balance.
This lodge, hidden away in the country, seemed no different than other hunting lodges owned by magnates. A morning’s ride from Warsaw, the site acted as an artery of its main lodge in the capital, “Charles to the Three Helmets,” where Paweł had been inducted, and where he had sworn to live according to the Rite of the Strict Observance. It was with more than a little hesitancy that he had vowed allegiance to the superiors in the order. But for the moment his promise to the king—who had belonged to this very lodge—stifled his second thoughts.
At the door he was met now with the familiar somber greeting of a short, stout member in a rumpled robe cinched beneath his overhanging belly. He was shown to the large, vaulted hall where some twenty members of the Brotherhood, grouped in threes and fours, were speaking in serious tones. Was it his imagination or had his arrival caused a subtle stir in the movements of the hoods, a lowering of voices? A few Brethren nearby nodded and mumbled hello’s, addressing him as Piotr, the fictitious name he had been given.
Paweł was beginning to tell one from the other by their size, the drape of their robes, and, most especially, their voices. These were nobles for the most part. They, too, had fictitious names, but the voices of some were familiar to him. Some were acquaintances; a few, friends. However, he had been sternly warned never to show a hint of recognition, and he obeyed.
The Grand Master approached him now. “Brother Piotr, you are a trifle late. But we had faith you would come.”
“I was delayed. I’m sorry, Brother.” He could not imagine why his attendance should carry such importance.
“It is good that you are here.”
The Grand Master’s voice was deep and authoritative. Paweł knew his own identity was no secret to him. He wondered if everyone knew his identity. He felt at his core that they did. Or did he imagine as much? The man to whom the king had sent Paweł had sworn that was not the case, and yet . . .
He had heard of the power of the Freemasons. Sometimes he felt it among them. Yet what did they think they could do to restore Poland as a nation? The king was gone. Not dead, but in the clutches of Catherine he had passed into history as surely as if he were stone-cold in the ground. The Brethren knew—as did he—that there would be no resurrection, nor did they long for one.
Over the course of the meetings, he had learned of their plan, or parts of it. The Brotherhood was determined to see a new king seated, a new Polish banner of white and crimson waving once again. Poland would not be swallowed up. It would be reconstituted. The Brotherhood was prepared to wait . . . and to plot. Paweł himself could think of several likely prospects that might rally the nation. Yet names at these meetings—unless whispered in small groups—were avoided.
Members spoke of schooling, languages that would have to be learned, leadership traits inculcated in a newly-chosen king. It was as if Poland’s hope lay in a boy-dauphin or infant Messiah—Paweł found it very strange. And when he pressed them for specifics—what man or child would suit their needs—they seemed to lead him down circuitous paths.
Later, Paweł dared to question the Grand Master: “Why is it that this smaller group meets away from the city, Brother?”
The Grand Master paused before he spoke, and Paweł wished he could see through the hood to his expression.
“The Capital has too many ears and eyes, Brother Piotr, for what we have to say and do.”
“Too many Russian eyes and ears?”
The Grand Master paused, nodded. “Or Prussian.—Oh, we may owe the existence of our order to the Prussian influence, but with our nation fully partitioned today—and no little part of western Poland gone to Prussia—the interests of true Poles like you and I, Brother Piotr, will do battle with Prussian interests.”
“I see.” Paweł had hoped to draw more out of the Grand Master through his questioning, but hadn’t learned anything he hadn’t already figured out for himself. His efforts went unrewarded.
“Come, let us all be seated,” the Grand Master announced, “so that we can discuss as one body. There is business to be done!”
It was fully dark when Paweł returned to Warsaw. He walked from the carriage house to the rear door of his town house. Any real business that had transpired at the lodge escaped Paweł’s notice. Thankfully, the return trip by road had made for a shorter one than the morning’s trek through the forest. Still, he felt as drained as he had after battle. The thought of sleep quickened his pace up the stairs.
“My lord,” his servant said, greeting him at the door, “you have a visitor in the reception room.”
“Yes? Who is it, Fryderyk?”
The servant took Paweł’s coat. He seemed afraid to speak. The palor of the man put Paweł on notice. Rather than repeat the question, Paweł strode quickly to the reception room. The chamber was dimly lit, and had the servant not told him of a caller, Paweł would not have noticed the motionless figure at the far end of the room.
“Hello,” he said, starting across the room. The low fire in the hearth sent flickering shadows playing on the visitant’s form. It was a woman, he saw now, in peasant attire, a mass of dark hair crushed under a kerchief. What business could she possibly have with him? How was it that his servant had admitted her?
To his surprise, she started to move toward him with assurance and familiarity. He immediately recognized—despite her costume—that her posture and gait were those of a woman of high birth. The hearth light fell across her face at that moment, shimmering on the arresting features. He recognized her.
His heart swung out in an arc over a void—and slowly, slowly—returned.
If God had given him the breath, he would say later, he would have gasped. As it was, he was struck dumb, and his legs threatened to fail. “Zofia,” Paweł said at last. It was nothing more than a whisper, and he could say no more.
“Paweł,” she replied, the old uninhibited smile playing under the dark, almond eyes and aristocratic nose. She was in front of him one moment, embracing him the next. He could not tell which of them was trembling—he thought perhaps they both were.
After a long, long moment, Zofia drew back, apprising him, the smile teasing now. Her eyes were wet. He had never seen her cry. The moments seemed to draw into minutes. Paweł was afraid to speak, afraid that this was a vision or a spell or a dream and that the slightest noise would crack the illusion. That she would dissolve into dust.
“Paweł,” Zofia said, “you look as if you’ve seen a ghost!” She threw her head back in that old familiar way.
It was her laugh—like the tinkling of coins—that made him believe her real and alive.
“By the white eagle and all things holy, Zofia, I believe I have.”
6
3 May 1795
Anna decided to hold a little celebration for Jan Michał on his third birthday instead of 15 May, his name day. Although when that comes around, she thought, another celebration might be in order just the same. As for the third, Anna knew that everyone’s mood would be dampened by the thought of the Third of May Constitution and how it had been brought down the previous winter by the allied powers—as well as by certain short-sighted and greedy magnates within the Commonwealth. A party would be something to divert darker thoughts.
While little Jan Michał took his afternoon nap, Jan, Jacob, and Emma gathered in the reception room that had been decorated with colorful wycinanki cut by Marcelina and Katarzyna. Anna longed for the day when she could teach her son how to make the papercuts like those that hung from the rafters and at the windows, but for now he was too young to handle the dangerously sharp sheep shears.
“Why is it,” Emma asked, “that you named your son as you did?”
“Oh, I could have named him after St. Antoni, whose feast day it was, Emma, but— ” A sick feeling washed over Anna. She could say that Antoni was the name of the man who had married her for her estate, the man who had hired men to
kill her—but they knew that. Everyone knew that. Instead, she finished by saying, “That name held little meaning for me.” Anna held everyone’s attention. “I chose Michał for his second name after my good friend Michał Kolbi, who quite literally saved my life.” Now something must be said about the first name. She felt herself coloring in embarrassment, for there was no turning back, and she had never been a cool liar. “And as for the name Jan . . . well, as you know, King Jan Sobieski is one of our forebears on the Berezowski side of the family.”
“I see,” Emma said.
The answer seemed to satisfy. She wondered if they suspected she had chosen the name Jan to honor, not the legendary king, but the man she truly loved, Jan Stelnicki. Surely Jan knew, but they had never spoken of it.
“Tell me,” Emma said. “With this child, will you go against tradition again?”
Anna felt a warm flush come into her face. She looked across the room to where Jan stood at the hearth, talking to Jacob. “Well, Jan and I have yet to discuss it, but I have my heart set on having a Barbara.”
Upon hearing this, Jan turned and cast an inscrutable smile.
“Then you expect a girl?” Emma pressed.
Anna shrugged. “It will be as God wills,” she said.
“As God wills!” cried Jacob. “This calls for a toast!” He poured vodka into four short crystal glasses. Everyone drank, expressing good wishes for the health of the child.
“What about you, Jan?” Jacob asked. “You’ll wish for a boy, won’t you?”
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