“Jan?” she asked.
“Yes?”
“Have you been happy?”
His face folded into a question. “Happy?”
“If anything happens to me—have I made you happy?”
He smiled. “Every day, my love. Today is no different. Nothing will happen to you! Everything will unfold as we would hope.”
“And you won’t mind if our child is a girl?”
Jan laughed, squeezing her hand. “No, I won’t mind, but she will have a ways to go to be as pretty as her mother.”
Anna smiled through her pains. “Not today she wouldn’t.”
“It’s time now, Lord Stelnicki,” Lutisha announced. The master of the house was to be ruled by the servant in this one matter. Her tight smile seemed to say, You are to wait downstairs. Jan bent and kissed his wife now. Anna watched him leave the room and prayed that she would live through the ordeal, if only to see him again.
A second prayer came at once. A daughter, dear God, grant me a daughter.
Jan wished he could go out to the far field and split wood to vent the tension within, but he dared not venture out of the house. And so he paced from the reception room to the music room, back and forth, sat for the space of five minutes, then paced again. Back and forth—and again.
He worried for Anna and for his child. And her words kept coming back to him. Have you been happy? What had made her ask the question? he wondered. Had he given her reason to doubt it? Had she seen through to his restlessness?
At three in the afternoon, Lutisha came into the room, her old, large frame straight as a rod, her toothless smile ear to ear. “It is a son you have, Lord Stelnicki, a strong and healthy son!”
Jan bounded up the stairs, two at a time, heart pumping with joy. When he entered the bedchamber, Anna was still in a state of discomfort, but she braved a smile. He moved quickly to her side, taking in her expression even as he sized up the bundle in the crook of her arm, its pink face in repose. “What is it, Anna? Is something wrong?”
“No, nothing’s wrong, Jan.” She pulled herself up a bit against the goose feather pillows. “He’s got all his fingers and toes. You may inspect.”
“No need for that.” Jan bent and kissed Anna, and then the forehead of the child, who did not stir.
“I—I thought it would be a girl,” Anna said.
“Ah, is that it? You wanted a girl? Well, the next one will be!”
Anna tried to smile. “From your mouth to God’s ear. You’re pleased with a son, yes?”
“Of course, Anna! What man wouldn’t be pleased?—What are we to name him?”
“I don’t know,” Anna said in a tentative way. “We have two Jans in the house already.”
“And that’s enough, I quite agree. Whose feast day it is today?”
“I don’t know, Jan. I’ve been looking only at the girls’ names for the days around my birthing time. I was so certain . . . Lutisha, whose feast day is it today, do you know?”
The servant, who had just come in with a fresh ewer and basin, set them down. “St. Tadeusz,” she said.
“Tadeusz!” Jan exclaimed. “Tadeusz! What could be more perfect—the name of a saint and the name of my great patriot friend, Tadeusz Kościuszko! Little Tadeusz Stelnicki!” He kissed Anna again, on the mouth this time. “Let me go find Jan Michał,” he said, drawing back. “He is to meet little Tadek. They will be great friends.” He turned to leave.
“Brothers,” Anna said in a strange voice. “They will be brothers.”
Jan pivoted, facing Anna again. He didn’t know quite how to interpret her correction. “Yes, brothers, Anna,” he assured her, “and great friends, too.” He moved off now to locate Jan Michał.
Three weeks later, the little family was sitting at the afternoon meal when a letter arrived from Paweł. Jan read it to himself, then announced that Zofia had given birth to a girl, Izabela. “Your girl,” Jan teased.
Anna affected a good laugh while thinking, It might have been so! She had never said anything to Jan about Zofia’s request. Neither had she written to her cousin, thinking that best, hoping Zofia had had a change of heart.
Jan lowered his voice. “It says nothing here about marriage, however.”
“Did you really think that Zofia would consent to marriage?”
Jan looked at his wife and shrugged. “Poor little Izabela,” he said. “What chance does she have?”
Late into the night, Anna lay sleepless, thinking back to his comment. Her heart ached. Zofia’s asking her to take on the responsibility of her child had been too much. It really had been. Yet, Anna regretted not agreeing to Zofia’s request. Had it been a mistake?
What would become of the child?
Part Two
Everyone will get in Where
The Fence is Low.
—-Polish Proverb
8
February 1797
“Hold your spoon steady, Tadeusz,” Anna said. “The kasza is spilling onto your vest. There that’s it! The cinnamon makes it just right, yes? Good boy. One more bite and you can get down from the table.”
Anna worked at finishing her own meal while tending to Tadeusz. Michał had finished his porridge and gone out to see what mischief he might get into. As was often the case, Jan was late for breakfast because he was out seeing to things on the estate.
Tadeusz thrust out his arms for Anna, miming for her to let him down. Freed from his chair, the boy’s quick, little steps took him to the window where he dropped to the floor and resumed play with his carved wooden soldiers. Anna watched him. The winter sun shone in on his blond head, creating a halo effect. His perfect features and cobalt blue eyes made her think him a replica of his father. He would grow to be just as handsome. Michał was handsome, too, but his looks contrasted greatly with his little brother’s. His tousled hair was a very dark brown now that matched his almond-shaped eyes, and his features had become more prominent, his complexion almost olive. He reflected, no doubt, the fact that his father’s bloodline carried some Tatar blood. That was often the way of it in Southern Poland, where Anna’s aunt and uncle had adopted Walter as an infant. Zofia, too, possessed a dark beauty and the same almond-shaped black eyes that might be traced to the incursion of Tatars centuries before.
His face red from the cold and wind, Jan entered through the swinging kitchen door and made his familiar apology for being late. Anna smiled at him, her irritation dissipating. She would tell him later about the letter that awaited him in the reception room.
Marta came in and went to the sideboard to prepare a plate for him. Anna studied him as he ate his kasza, scrambled eggs, and ham, listening as he commented occasionally on the line of Polish-bred horses he had taken to raising. It had been some little while, she noted, since he had touched upon politics. She could not escape a sinking feeling that something was happening to him—or to them. A distance had opened up between them, little by little. What was it? Oh, he worked harder than the lord of an estate need do, he found time to play with his children, and he made love to her into the night. But he had become quiet, thoughtful, reticent to open up his heart to her.
Anna was not blind to the fact that he had lost his own estates and that his current status depended in a large part upon her. It was only their marriage that had spared him from becoming one of the myriad landless nobles. He still held significant funds, but the situation would sting anyone’s pride. And she knew his love for Poland could only make him seethe at its demise. She felt the same.
She was certain that in his heart he brooded and railed against the fate that had brought low his own fortunes and that of the motherland. But his pride was such that he spoke not a word of it to her. She sensed that beneath his taciturnity, resentment festered.
And Anna could not help but recall Zofia’s question to her from so many months before: Is Jan happy? The implication that marriage to Anna had not made Jan happy had hung over Anna like the belly of a cloud—darker, more threatening, and more real than
any past scheme of her cousin.
A commotion arose in the kitchen, and moments later Michał appeared in the doorway. Pushing past him, his dog—full grown now—came bounding in.
Tadeusz stood up, his eyes enlarging. He had a great fear of the huge and shaggy animal. Pausing to shake the snow off his fur, the dog fixed his eyes on the toddler now and happily loped toward him. Tadeusz screamed, unaware the dog meant no harm.
“Borys!” Jan shouted. “Halt!”
Too late. The boy was already knocked off his feet. He lay on the floor, shrieking and striking out at the animal whose tongue and slobber covered his face. In an instant Jan pulled the dog off Tadeusz and with a smack on its behind sent the animal out into the kitchen. Jan turned now on Michał. “You know Tadeusz is afraid of Borys and yet you behave so carelessly!”
Michał’s brown eyes went wide in fear. He couldn’t speak.
Jan took a step toward Michał.
“Jan!” Anna cried.
Jan turned to Anna, his face reddening. Had he meant to strike Jan Michał? She couldn’t imagine his doing so, and yet he was so angry.
Jan went to Tadeusz now and picked him up. “There, there, Tadek, no need to cry.” Continuing to shush the crying child, he carried him into the reception room.
Anna sat stunned by the turn of events. Her gaze came back to Jan Michał—almost five now—who stood like a stick, his face reddening by the minute, his eyes brimming with tears he attempted to hold back.
“Come here, Michał,” she said, holding out her arms. “Come to Mother.”
The boy stood a few moments more—and then could resist no longer, running to Anna and hiding his face in the folds of her dress.
In another situation, Anna might have lightly taken her husband to task for thinking a sheep dog an appropriate choice for a house pet. She had often chided him on the subject. But the way things had just unfolded—with Jan seeming to place one son before the other—she kept a bitter silence.
Had he come to love Tadeusz more than Jan Michał?
She held her son to her, remembering that she had not told Jan about the letter from Tadeusz Kościuszko. All afternoon she had agonized over what it might contain—and how it would strike Jan. Her deepest fear was that one day such a letter would arrive, calling Jan to some duty and he would be taken from her.
Anna had every intention of speaking to Jan at bedtime about his treatment of the two boys, but after the evening meal, Jan lay on the floor with the two boys playing with the wooden soldiers, delighting them both and providing equal attention. Her fears seemed unfounded after all, so she chose to remain silent.
“How is the boy?” the Grand Master inquired.
“Tadeusz is fine,” Paweł said. “Fifteen months now.”
“You’ve not mentioned the interest of the Brotherhood in him to the Stelnickis?”
“No, Grand Master, I have not.”
“Good. Secrecy is the best course, Brother Piotr. As quickly as events are unfolding now, it’s only one of several options open to us. And the fewer people to know about it, the better.”
Paweł watched the Grand Master move away. It was true—he had not told Jan. The subject of Jan’s son made him uneasy. What would come of it? Might the Brotherhood actually put him forward one day as a candidate for a reinstated monarchy? How would Jan and Anna react to such a plan? Or to its actual implementation, should it come to pass?
Paweł walked to his usual bench in the highly vaulted hall. A brother was lighting the candles atop the three decorative columns that represented the trinity of Beauty-Strength-Wisdom. What news would be revealed today? He dared not miss a meeting because word of anything of import happening on the continent was spoken of here long before surfacing in the newspapers or in reception rooms of Warsaw.
The signing of King Stanisław’s abdication document in late 1795 had placed a pall on the nation, but a succession of events recently breathed life into those who believed Poland still lived and possessed a future. Catherine of Russia had died in November of ’96, and her death seemed to ignite a little light in the dark prison Poland had become. No love had been lost between her and the son that succeeded her, so much so that Tsar Paul I immediately began to undo certain actions of his mother’s reign and to redress what he saw as wrongs. Of chief interest to Poland was the tsar’s decision to release those prisoners of war held in Russian prisons for two years—General Tadeusz Kościuszko among them.
Rumor had it, too, that the Tsar met frequently with King Stanisław and that—dared anyone believe it?—a plan was afoot to restore the Polish Commonwealth.
And yet the noose around Poland tightened not long afterward, when the three powers—Prussia, Austria, and Russia—came to an agreement on the disposition of the Commonwealth, signing a protocol that bound them to expunge from all future records the very name of Poland. If they were to have their wish, this country with its long, proud history would to be relegated to a mere footnote in the chronicle of nations.
At a subsequent meeting, the presumption by the rest of Europe that Poland was fated to vanish from the contenent’s map brought the blood of the collective Brotherhood to a boil, and for the first time, Paweł felt as one with them. “We have no allies,” the Grand Master had declared at the news, “we have only our sweat and our blood and our faith! It is enough. We will prevail. We will swim against the current until our arms and lungs give out—and then we will swim some more!” He concluded in the prescribed way of the brotherhood: “I have spoken.”
The response of the Brethren had been strong and spontaneous—they fell into the old chant: “The King with the People! The People with the King!”
The Grand Master quoted then the patriot Stanisław Staszik: “A great nation may fall,” he cried out, “but only a contemptible one can be destroyed!” Paweł would never forget those words. He thought about them now as he watched the flames of the candles flicker and dance. The Grand Master stepped up onto the dais. Paweł could not have guessed that what he would hear today would change the course of his life.
Zofia appraised herself in the full-length mirror. Her pulse beat faster at the sight. Set off by an emerald necklace and earrings, the high-waisted gown of green silk, light as gossamer, scarcely covered her breasts and draped beautifully. It was worth every ducat. Ringlets of her black hair peeked out from an orange turban with feathers at the front. She smiled.
She felt as if she were starting afresh, as if she had been given a life to start over. To look at her, no one today would guess that she had nearly died at the hands of Russians and then of a fever—or that she had given birth some fourteen months earlier. Her color and figure had come back. Her black eyes sparkled in the reflected sunlight. True, she was twenty-four, but she would give any sixteen-year-old a good race.
Her self-satisfaction vanished as she turned from the mirror and her gaze fell upon the trunk that held her carving materials. She walked over and picked up the figure she had been working on most recently. It was supposed to be Jerzy, but she saw now that it was a very poor likeness. No likeness at all, in fact. Her finger lightly touched the face. The night before she had dreamt of him again, dreamt of the humble little cottage that for months had been her home, a refuge that had restored her to life. She could smell the baking break and simmering bigos, hear the voices of the happy little family.Jerzy came to her so vividly in her dreams, every feature perfectly defined, as in the best of the Dutch portraits. But, strangely, in her waking hours when she went to carve him, attempting to conjure the handsome face in her mind, she could not see him. It was as if the portrait painter’s model had excused himself and walked away. What did it mean?
Out of frustration, Zofia would put aside the figure for days or weeks at a time.
A knock came at the door. “Entre!”
Elza entered and curtsied. “The carriage has arrived, madame.”
“Very well. The princess can wait a few minutes.” She pushed Jerzy from her mind. “Help me into my
silver slippers.” Downstairs, the dwarf belonging to Princess Charlotte Sic stood in attendance at the door. Lifting the end of Zofia’s ermine cape, he followed her to the carriage and helped her up into the coach.
“My God, Zofia, you look divine!” Charlotte exclaimed.
“As do you, dearest!” Zofia sat on the bench across from her. With wigs quite out of fashion, Charlotte had her own hair—pitifully thin these days—powdered and set in curls. Zofia noted that her friend no longer could be called plump. Here was one woman who should have decried the decline of corseting, for she appeared quite fat in her white muslin. But the three-tiered diamond necklace would no doubt deflect negative attention at the Nieborów Palace. It was magnificent.
The carriage began to move toward the West Gate. “Your headpiece is divine, Zofia!” Charlotte cried, giggling. “It serves to bring out your Tatar blood.”
“Does it?”
The French princess was not aging well. Zofia didn’t know her true age. To hear Charlotte tell it, her age varied like the whimsical temperature outside. Zofia was certain at least that she would not see the sunny side of forty again.
“How have you fared under the occupation, Charlotte?”
“Oh, I’ve managed. Money oils the wheels of any government. But everything’s been so dull these many months. And you! Keeping yourself under wraps, too! It’s so wonderful to see you. And I’m so glad that social events are staging a comeback, aren’t you?”
Zofia nodded. “I tried playing at domesticity, Charlotte. But I’ve lost interest.”
“How is Paweł?”
“Oh, he’s fine—off at one of his meetings.”
“The Brotherhood?”
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