Against a Crimson Sky

by James Conroyd Martin

Paweł was as concerned as anyone. While most did not expect Stanisław to return, few had foreseen talk of an abdication.

  “What does it matter?” Brother Dymitr called out. A few Brothers echoed his reaction.

  “It matters!” the Grand Master shouted. “It matters greatly!”

  Paweł had not seen the angry side of the Grand Master before. The group quieted and the Grand Master continued. “The King of Poland has no right to abdicate! Some of you here in this room, some of you as old as I, elected Stanisław. Not without pressure from Catherine, you will say, but nonetheless, he cannot abdicate. He must know that! Only we, the electors, can release him from the Pacta Conventa that binds him!”

  The Grand Master paused. “Ah, your silence underscores Brother Dymitr’s question. What does an abdication mean? My brothers, it means this: to abdicate is to vindicate, yes, vindicate!—the violent dissolution of our land done by three neighbors. It would say to Europe and to the world that this terrible and insufferable violence was justified!—No, he must remain as king, as symbol of what has befallen us!”

  The brothers sat like monks sworn to silence.

  At last, Paweł spoke up. “Grand Master, is it likely Stanisław will bow to Catherine?”

  The long sigh beneath the hood of the Grand Master was audible. “Stanisław is a good man,” he said. “Even now he thinks of others, writes to the allied heads on behalf of his subjects who have lost so much. He has given attention to thousands of requests insofar as he is able. His heart is big. But his strength is small. You’ve met him, Brother Piotr, can you not answer your own question?”

  Paweł kept his silence. It was, of course, a moot question.

  Anna became so heavy with child that she had to take to her room two weeks before the birth. Each day she checked her calendar for the saints’ feast days, wondering on what day the child would be born and what name she would be given. Some of the names fast approaching were Ireny, Ursula, and Teodora. Of these, she rather liked Teodora, but she still preferred going against tradition—as she had with Jan Michał—by choosing a name other than that of the feast day saint. She wanted to name her child Barbara, whose name day would not come until the fourth of December.

  She never looked to the list of male saints. To do so would allow for the possibility the baby would be a boy—and she would have none of that.

  The days went slowly. On the night of 26 October, sleep would not come until long after midnight, and so it was that she was slow to be roused in the morning when she heard a disturbance in the room. Jan had long since risen. Certain it was Lutisha or Marta checking in on her, she kept her eyes closed, wishing them away. The room remained quiet for a long time, but still she could not fall back into sleep. She sensed that someone remained in the room.

  Anna opened her eyes. She lay on her back, her condition such that she had no other option. The curtains were still drawn, and the day was overcast, it seemed, for the room was cloaked in grays. Anna’s eyes scanned the room ahead of her and to the right, unable to make out anything in the dimness. Her eyes moved to the left now. Her heart caught as she discerned the outline of someone sitting in a chair brought up just a foot or two from the bed. The figure remained silent and motionless. Anna stared, wondering who it could be. She thought for a foolish moment it was the spirit of her dead Aunt Stella. Then she heard the faintest suppressed laugh.

  Anna’s head rolled on the pillow. “Who is it?” she whispered.

  “Who is it?” mimicked the voice.

  Anna’s heart contracted. She could not mistake that mocking tone.

  A hand reached across the blanket and took Anna’s. “It is I, cousin.—Zofia! Is it so dark in here, you don’t recognize me? Let me go pull back the draperies.”

  “No!” Anna held on to the hand. “I—I just couldn’t believe it. I thought for the moment it was your mother.”

  “Well, have I aged so much?” Zofia lifted Anna’s hand and kissed it. “Come to think of it, I feel ancient. What a ride it was getting here! I’m all aches and pains. It comes with getting older, I suppose.”

  Anna laughed. “Good Grief, Zofia, you’re only twenty-two—a year older than I!”

  Zofia laughed, too. “But I’ve lived a lifetime in that year’s space.”

  “No doubt. Especially if you’re talking about this past year!” Anna pushed herself up against the pillows behind her. “Oh, Zofia, I thought you dead.”

  “And I thought so, too, for a while.”

  Anna had held onto Zofia’s hand, and she squeezed it now. “I have so much to thank you for.”

  “Nonsense.” Zofia’s hand slipped away. “I really don’t wish to talk about that day—or the past.”

  “Then we’ll look only forward! Why, when we heard from Paweł that you had been rescued by peasants—what news!”

  “Indeed—plucked from the river like a drowning lamb.”

  “My God!”

  “Someone’s God, I guess—I’ll have to tell you all about it—another time.”

  “When we heard that you were in Warsaw, I wrote. Did you not get— ”

  Zofia sighed dramatically. “You know I’m not one for writing. Not like you with your diary. Forgive me.”

  “Of course.”

  “And Paweł—has he come, too?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.” Anna’s surprise was momentary. Zofia had always been one to forge her own way. “How are things in Warsaw?”

  “Tedious as an English tea from my perspective, I must say. But Paweł keeps busy with some kind of political group. He’s very closed-mouth about it—disappears for a day or two at a time going off to clandestine meetings.”

  “Having to do with what?”

  “I don’t know, Anna, and I can’t say I much care. You know I care nothing for politics. Oh, but I do have an amusing story to tell you about Lord Kubacki!”

  Zofia went on to relate how the Kubacki family took in a French count, his wife, and three children, all refugees from the revolution in France, explaining with glee and in great detail how the arrogant little family put the Kubacki children out of their own bedchambers, ate through the pantry and storehouse, insulted their friends, and incurred even the disdain of the servants. All of this went on for six months, it seemed—until a French duke arrived in Warsaw and exposed them as commoners and parasites.

  Anna listened to the story with but one ear. She was still trying to grasp the fact that Zofia was here—and that her own feelings toward her were as ambivalent as ever. Anna owed Zofia her very life—in that there was no exaggeration. Zofia had diverted the attention of a Russian so that Anna could make it to safety across the bridge that connected the walled city of Warsaw with the suburb of Praga. She had put herself at great risk, staying on the Praga side with the maddened Russians swarming down upon innocent civilians, most of whom met death that day.

  She should feel happy that Zofia had lived to tell the tale, happy to see her. And—despite her cousin’s past scheming, she did feel happiness. It was the other feelings that came into the mix now that she grappled with. Waking up to find Zofia in her home, she felt—what? Awkward? Uneasy? Fearful? She could not help but wonder how the meeting between Zofia and Jan had gone. How had Jan reacted? She tried to bury the notion that she had awakened to an enemy within her room. After all, it was she who had won Jan Stelnicki, not Zofia; she who was expecting his child, not Zofia.

  By the time Zofia had finished with her story, Anna had come to terms with her divided self and shored up her confidence. Zofia was not to be feared. The past was the past.

  “And do you know,” Zofia was saying, “this is not just a singular incident. There are as many French commoners in our capital claiming royal birth as there are rats in the gutter.—Now let me go open the draperies. It’s dark as Tatarus in here.”

  “No, please don’t! I’m not ready to receive anyone. My belly’s as large as a pumpkin and I know I must look a fright.”

  Zofia ignored the plea and went t
o the windows and pulled back the draperies. She returned to the bedside, her dark figure silhouetted against the gray light, like a wycinanki. But as her cousin neared the bed, the likeness to a papercut fell away and her face and form took on texture and definition. Anna gasped, her mouth falling slack.

  “My God, Anna, you should see your face!” Zofia laughed, her head going back in that old familiar way. “You see, I’m as big as a manor house, too!”

  Anna couldn’t think what to say.

  “Just imagine, Anna, we may deliver on the same day!”

  “Zofia—have you—? ”

  “Married?—Good God, no!” She laughed. “Better a cholera on any husband of mine!”

  “Oh.” Again, Anna should not have been surprised.

  “Not that Paweł didn’t ask. It’s just that I’m not ready. Remember, once I told you that old saying that one should live wildly for three years before marrying?”

  “Yes, but that was more than three years ago!”

  “Was it?” Zofia let loose a peal of laughter. “Well, perhaps I’m not meant for marriage at all.”

  “What does Paweł say?”

  “What does that matter?—Anna, Paweł is not the father.”

  “I see.” Anna’s surprise at this admission did not easily dissipate. She could think of nothing more to say.

  “It happened while I was recovering,” Zofia said, filling in the silence.

  “Then it was an . . . attack?”

  “No, and that’s all that I will say on that subject.”

  Anna’s head reeled. Zofia would give birth to a fatherless child—and yet she seemed so blasé.

  “Anna,” Zofia said now, “I’ve come to Sochaczew to have my child.”

  “But—why?” Anna was suddenly afraid that Zofia planned to stay with her. And with that fear came no little guilt.

  “I’m going to ask the greatest favor of you, cousin.”

  Anna stared at the beautiful face, waiting for her to continue. The dark, almond eyes were uncharacteristically serious.

  “Anna, I would like you to . . . ”

  “What, Zofia?”

  Zofia took in a long breath, then said, “I would like you to raise my child.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, Anna! You of all people should know I would not be a good mother. It wouldn’t be fair to the child.”

  What seemed a full minute passed before Anna finally found her voice. “But, Zofia, I’m about to give birth to my own child—and I have little Jan Michał.”

  “True, but you are fit to be a mother. You have it in your nature. There is an able staff here to help you, some of whom came from my family’s estate, I might add. And you would certainly be able to find a wet-nurse nearby.”

  “Zofia, you are most welcome to have your child here. Lutisha and Emma and the others will see to everything. But I cannot for one minute— ”

  “And you have Jan. You have your happiness, I can see that! Please help me find mine.”

  “It’s impossible, Zofia. Impossible. I’m sorry that you’ve come all this way. You really should have written.”

  “Ah, it’s just that I didn’t think you could say no to me.”

  Anna felt hot tears beading in her eyes. “I must, Zofia. I must.” Anna searched Zofia’s face for emotion, but it was beyond deciphering. “Listen to me, Zofia, keep your child, please do. Mothers should not give away their children as if they were puppies. You will thank me one day for refusing you.” Anna’s words brooked no discussion.

  A dark expression fell like a curtain over Zofia’s face. She stood. “I should let you rest. I’m sorry to have upset you.” She bent forward and kissed Anna on the forehead, a false smile hanging on her lips like a half-moon.

  “Zofia, I— ”

  Standing erect, Zofia interrupted: “You’re happy here, yes?”

  Anna nodded. “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  Zofia walked across the room to the door. Turning around, she fixed her eyes on Anna. “And Jan—is Jan happy?”

  Anna was dumbstruck. What intent was there in such a question? Zofia’s face was still inscrutable, but it was no innocent question, she was certain. Had he in some way indicated his feelings to her? Said something? The thought that Jan might speak his feelings to Zofia brought on a sick dizziness. The thought that Jan was not happy threatened to break her heart.

  A long moment passed, then Anna said, “We are very happy, Zofia.”

  Zofia smiled enigmatically, turned, and left the room.

  “May I have a word with you, Brother Piotr?” The Grand Master asked. “Will you walk the grounds with me?”

  Paweł agreed and together they left the social that followed a regular meeting.

  The weather was warm for October. Paweł wished he could remove the hood—after all, he knew the Grand Master’s identity, just as his was known—but all formalities were strictly held to on the premises of the lodge.

  They moved away from the lodge and along a field path. “As you know, Brother Piotr, the greatest desire of the true Polish patriots among us is that one day Poland will be restored—led by a worthy noble, one capable of being king.”

  “But discussion varies greatly as to who that might be. Which of the families— ”

  “Discussion, yes. Ah, yes, the Lubormirskis, the Poniatowskis, the Czartoryskis, I know. Arguments is more like it. Bitter feuds. No one can agree. And each family carries with it its history, often proud—and justly so—but often negative, too. The competition among them is great, and to choose one family over the others makes for bitterness, jealousy, and divisions.”

  Paweł shrugged. He knew all this and could only wonder where this was leading.

  “The chance to install a new monarchy may be years away,” the Grand Master said. “You know that we’ve been considering educating a child and preparing him for the throne.”

  “But not from one of the families?”

  “No.”

  Again, Paweł waited.

  “Brother Piotr, you are close friends with Lord Jan Stelnicki. You know also that just before Warsaw fell, King Stanisław saw to it that Jan’s wife—then Lady Anna Berezowska-Grawlińska—was named a princess of the Commonwealth.”

  Paweł caught on at once. “And that would make a son of hers eligible for election?”

  “Exactly.—And the fact that the Groński line can be traced to King Jan Sobieski clinches it.”

  “But I should tell you that the lineage of her son Jan Michał is—well— ”

  “Questionable. We know that. We’ve had people looking into this matter, I can assure you.”

  “Then why would you— ?”

  “We have no interest in Lady Stelnicka’s first child.”

  “Ah!—But a son she and Jan might have together would be considered?

  “Absolutely,” the Grand Master said, nodding. “The Stelnicki lineage may be of the szlachta, but it is not to be questioned. His father worked to implement the Constitution.”

  “I see.”

  “We know—as I’m sure you do, too—that the princess is in her final weeks of confinement.”

  “She is.”

  “We would like you to let us know when she delivers. And, naturally, whether it is a boy. Will you do that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good! We’d better go in now for the closing ceremony.”

  Paweł wanted to ask what plans would be put to work should Anna deliver a boy, but the Grand Master was already loping toward the door that led into the main hall.

  By the time Paweł had set his horse on a canter toward Warsaw, his amazement that the Brotherhood was considering for king a child of Jan and Anna’s had worn off. After all, with Poland’s being held in three pieces by Prussia, Austria, and Russia, the likelihood of such an event occurring seemed remote.

  In time his thoughts returned to Zofia. It was she he had been thinking of when the Grand Master took him out of his melancholy. He was certain that Zofia had g
one to Sochaczew. Why? Would she return? When? He worried—not only was it unseemly to be traveling in her final months, it was dangerous to her health and that of the baby.

  Paweł pressed his horse into a gallop now. He was angry with himself. When Zofia had refused marriage, he should have put her out of his house. She had her own money. She would survive—she always had. He knew now that he and his home were merely conveniences to Zofia. But he had stowed away his pride and bowed to her terms. He knew he loved her too much. The road beneath him flew past in a blinding blur of hope that when he reached Warsaw he would have some word of her.

  Anna’s emotions were many and strong and as tangled as the tendrils of Medusa’s hair. She remained close to tears all morning.

  It was enough for Zofia to show up, releasing in Anna a thousand emotions, each at odds with the others. All the old insecurities came to the fore. And now, to ask Anna to take on the responsibility of yet another child—it was unthinkable!

  And yet, as the morning wore on and her reservoir of tears dried unspent, she did think about it. The child of her cousin deserved a good life. Would Zofia be able to provide that? Anna doubted that she had the capability. She certainly didn’t have the inclination, that was evident. By noon, when Marta came into the room carrying a tray, Anna had reversed herself, deciding to take on the responsibility of Zofia’s child. Somehow, she would make it work.

  “Will you be able to eat a bit, today, Lady Stelnicka?”

  “Not now, Marta.—I wish to see my cousin, Lady Zofia. Will you go down and tell her?”

  “Oh, madame,” Marta said, placing the tray on a nearby table, “the Lady Grońska went off in her carriage this morning.”

  “For a ride?”

  Marta’s eyes waxed large. She seemed not to know what to say.

  Anna grew impatient—and fearful. “What of her portmanteau?”

  “She had with her a trunk, madame.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Oh, it was still lashed to the top of the coach when the carriage drove off.—I think she was returning to Warsaw, Lady Anna.”

  On the morning of the 28 October, Anna went into labor. Jan stood at the side of the bed, holding her hand while the women moved like worker bees about her, making the necessary preparations. Anna knew he would soon be shooed from the room.