Against a Crimson Sky

by James Conroyd Martin

  Zofia’s jaw fell slack. “You know?”

  “What other meetings go on these days?” Charlotte gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “Oh, these men think they are more secretive than they are!”

  Zofia laughed. “Well, I’ve only just learned about it myself.”

  “And how is little Iza?”

  “Izabela is fine but quite a handful. I thank God Paweł procured an able governess for her. Even so, she’s always underfoot.”

  “She’s beautiful, I suppose?”

  Zofia shrugged. “She’s hardly more than a baby.—A real nuisance some days.”

  “Oh, I remember how those two children of that French maid you had—I can’t recall her name—my God, they got on your nerves.”

  “I wasn’t meant for motherhood, Charlotte.”

  “I should say not,” the princess said, a certain naughtiness in her tone. “I don’t know why you don’t send her into the country—after all, it’s healthier there. The fresh air and all that. Why, maybe Anna would take her! Isn’t she out in the country?”

  “Sochaczew. And I already asked her.”

  “Oh?”

  “She said no.”

  “Really? That doesn’t sound like the little Ania I met.”

  “Well, she’s not the same.”

  “She had another child, didn’t— ”

  “Charlotte, you are depressing me! This is my first venture out on my own since—since— ”

  “The Russians?”

  “Yes, so let us truly enjoy ourselves. How long is the ride?”

  “I don’t know—a few hours southwest of Warsaw.”

  The two lowered the shades against the cold and flurries of snow and fell to gossiping. They had not seen one another in many months and had much to say.

  In time the carriage slowed and turned into a drive, falling into a line of arriving coaches and sleighs. Zofia and Charlotte raised their shades and had to blink at the sun-kissed whiteness. Set against the snowbound landscape, the stone Nieborów Palace did not fail to impress, its many windows glinting like the facets of a diamond.

  “Oh, my,” Charlotte cooed, “it’s lovely!”

  “Well, it’s no Willanów, but it will do. How did you manage to fetch an invitation, Charlotte?”

  “I have managed to make a few connections since you bowed out of society. I’m not totally helpless without you and your intoxicating beauty, you know. Besides, with the overabundance of phony French royals in Poland, every good party needs a true French aristocrat.”

  Zofia resisted a retort. Instead, she said, “Speaking of personas, Charlotte, I am about to be take on a new one myself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Now that I know I’m not meant for dull domesticity, I have to get serious.”

  “Oh, Zofia, you’re on the prowl!”

  Zofia smiled impatiently. “Not as in the old days, my dear.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The carriage had moved up to the entryway now, and the dwarf jumped down from his perch atop the coach to open the door and set the stool.

  Zofia gave Charlotte a quick smile and prepared to alight the carriage. Soon they were walking toward the main entrance. The crush of carriages and people costumed in lively attire brought a flush to Zofia’s face. How she had missed this! She could hear Charlotte huffing in her attempt to catch up to her. “How are things to be different, Zofia?”

  Zofia slowed, turned, silently critiquing Charlotte’s orange dress, and whispered: “I mean to get married.”

  “To whom?”

  Zofia walked on. “I haven’t the slightest notion.”

  “But what about Paweł?” Charlotte was huffing in her attempt to keep up.

  “Poor as a pauper.”

  “No!” Charlotte’s arm drew Zofia to a stop.

  “All right, I exaggerate. But he’s lost his estate in the southeast to the Russians. Now, do let’s go. I abhor the cold.”

  “Like Stelnicki?” Charlotte pressed, as they resumed their quickened pace.

  “Yes, exactly. Oh, he has the town house and some funds—but that’s not enough.”

  “Still, he worships you, no?”

  “That’s not enough.” Zofia’s head turned and she tossed off a tight smile. “Charlotte,” she said through clenched teeth, “all these months I’ve tried to be what he wants—I really have! But it’s no use.”

  “Ah,” Charlotte trilled in a consolatory tone, “everybody knows best where her shoe pinches.”

  “Thank you for that,” Zofia said, laughing. “Right now my feet are freezing.”

  Arriving at the entrance, they left their wraps with an attendant and moved into a reception hall where the Radziwiłłs—Prince Michał and Princess Helena—stood receiving their guests. Introductions were brief, for the arrivals lining up to be greeted by the hosts were many.

  Zofia and Charlotte explored the ground floor, commenting on the sculptures, Roman sarcophogi, Etruscan vases and the like. The little servant trailed, carrying Charlotte’s train. “Now here is a magnate family,” Zofia said, her eyes moving over the family portraits that spanned several centuries. “They say the Radziwiłłs own half of Lithuania and great chunks of Poland.”

  “That they do.”

  “And their forebears were of the minor nobility,” Zofia said.

  “Yes?”

  “Yes.—Don’t you see? The leap can be made! Marrying forward, I mean, from the szlachta into the magnate class.”

  “If only King Stanisław had given you the title of princess, instead of Anna.”

  “Indeed!” Zofia turned on Charlotte with a sharp voice. “What good did it do her?” She could feel her temples pulsing. “Anna would have had her happy little marriage to Jan Stelnicki with or without it. Whereas, the title would have meant much more to me.”

  “Marriage to a magnate?”

  “Exactly! But I’ll marry a magnate yet.” Zofia noted Charlotte’s narrowed eyes. “Just watch.”

  They walked the length of a long, glittering hall lighted by ornate gold sconces.

  “This place is beautiful, but more like a museum,” Zofia said. “All these funeral urns! Who would want funeral urns in their home?”

  “They’re relics, my dear,” Charlotte said.

  “And they belong in the ground!” Zofia gave a little shudder.

  Charlotte laughed. “I see your point.”

  “Now who is that?” Zofia asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Not the painting, Charlotte, you goose egg! The incredibly tall man at the end of the hall. The one in the turquoise frock coat.”

  “Him? Oh my, he is tall. Well, he’s not a Radziwiłł, if that’s what you’re thinking. But he is a magnate. And unmarried. Come, I’ll introduce you.”

  Before Zofia could respond, it was done. Prince Ryszard Podolski’s long and narrow but handsome face was trained down at Zofia while the three made small talk. The more he stared and smiled, the more assured Zofia became that she had not lost her allure.

  The moment became awkward as the hall filled with people wishing to pass through. Before making a cordial goodbye, Lord Ryszard elicited from Zofia the promise of a dance later in the afternoon.

  “Let’s go upstairs,” Charlotte said, pulling her through the throng.

  Near the foot of the stairs, on a tall, slim table stood the marble head of Niobe.

  “So this is what all the fuss is about,” Zofia said. “All Warsaw is talking about the acquisition.—Charlotte, just who was Niobe?”

  “A mythological character, Zofia. I’m sure Anna could tell you about her.”

  “Indeed, no doubt more that I would wish to know.”

  They began to climb the sweeping stairway, marveling at the blue tiles that covered the walls from the fist floor to the ceiling of the second.

  “Well, it just seems to me,” Charlotte joked as she followed Zofia in tandem, “that magnates like the Radziwiłłs could afford the entire st
atue.”

  Zofia let out a good laugh and was just about to make a comment when her smile vanished. Coming down the stairs in front of her was Lady Dorota Driedruska.

  Zofia almost suffered a misstep, recovered, and continued, keeping to the right and conjuring up a smile for the woman. The hems of their dresses touched in passing.

  Charlotte was out of breath at the top of the stairs. “Did you see who that was?”

  “I did.”

  “And she saw you, Zofia. What a look! It could have frozen summer! If looks were lethal, I’d be stepping over your body.”

  “Your humor is getting tiresome, Charlotte.”

  “Well,” Charlotte huffed, “you did alienate her from her husband, if I remember correctly.”

  “You remember all the wrong things. This is a new day. Besides, he proposed to me, pretending he was unmarried.” Zofia had to laugh to herself. The Driedruskis owned a castle on the cliffs of the Carpathians, and before they purchased a town residence, Lord Branko Driedruski visited Warsaw—and Zofia—on occasion. Zofia had feigned pregnancy and collected several good sums of money over two years—until the poor man found the child was imaginary.

  From the second story salon, they looked out through the rear windows at the perfect snowscape formed by the English style gardens below. From downstairs wafted up strains of a polonaise from the orchestra and wonderful aromas of the food being prepared. “You see, Charlotte, the way they live here, rather breathtaking, isn’t it? A perfect sort of world.”

  The French princess sighed. “As it was in France, once upon a time.”

  This go-round, Zofia told herself, she would play things differently. She would think less about immediate pleasures if they didn’t suit her larger motive. She was determined to marry into a magnate family—and not one of those newly impoverished by the wars, either. There were a good number of families who had held on to their estates and wealth despite the shifting political winds. “Look, people are starting down to take their seats,” Zofia said. “Let’s go down.”

  In the great hall the two friends took their places at one of the many large round tables, and Charlotte sent the dwarf off to find the company of other servants.

  Presently Prince Podolski came up to the table, bowed and asked if there was a vacant seat. The little group of five or six assured him he was welcome, and the gentlemen stood to greet him. He took a seat across from Zofia, his clear, blue eyes lingering on her. Zofia silently cursed the stout gentleman who had taken the seat to her right, certain that had it been vacant, the prince would have chosen to sit next to her. She returned his gaze, her blood quickening. How long she had been away from society, she thought. It was good to be back in the game.

  Conversation and wine flowed as tardy guests found their seats, and attendants started to move in with the first courses. Spicy marinades and bowls of borscht were laid before them. Someone commented then on the lush and romantic gardens Lady Radziwiłł had created. “Have you seen them in the summer, Lady Grońska?” the prince asked, his eyes fixed on Zofia. “Lady Radziwiłł calls them Arkadia.”

  “This is my first visit to Nieborów, Lord Podolski.”

  “A winter promenade can be as nice as one in summer, if you don’t easily take a chill.”

  Zofia nodded and smiled. “I’m immune to the cold weather, my lord.”

  His laughing eyes affirmed an assignation for later. A little thrill—long frozen—unthawed within and coursed through her like a summer brook.

  At that moment Zofia became aware of Charlotte’s elbow in her ribs. She looked at her friend’s stricken face, then followed her line of sight to a woman taking the last vacant seat at the table, two to the right of Lord Podolski. Zofia felt the blood from her face draining away. The woman in the midnight blue dress was Lady Dorota Driedruska.

  The gentlemen stood and introductions were made, the man next to Zofia presiding. When it came to Charlotte, Lady Driedruska nodded in a perfunctory manner, but when her eyes locked onto Zofia’s, she said, “Yes, I am familiar with this woman.”

  Zofia smiled in return, all politeness and ice. With roast quail, rump of boar, and hare in cream sauce, the long meal progressed peaceably, and Zofia regained her inner composure. After all, she was certain she had secured not only a dance but also a snowscape promenade in the Radziwiłł gardens with the magnate across the table. She could afford to quietly bide her time—and once she had Lord Podolski away from the table, she would make certain they kept a good distance from Lady Driedruska.

  She quietly chatted with Charlotte, and both were now and again brought into the larger conversation for a brief comment. The eyes of the prince would occasionally catch those of Zofia—and she would allow herself to briefly return his glance. Then, into the second course, at precisely one of those flirtatious moments, something made her glance at Lady Driedruska.

  The woman returned her look, turned to the prince and back again, taking in everything. Damn! Zofia knew instinctively she had given the enemy an opening. The woman would somehow try to spoil the flirtation. Zofia declined to cast her eyes at the prince again through the succeeding—though some voice inside her told her the damage was done.

  Nearing the end of the meal, a lull in the conversation ensued. Lady Driedruska had been waiting for just such a moment, it seemed, and she spoke up. “Lady Grońska, I was sorry to hear of the destruction of your home in Praga.”

  Zofia nodded. “Thank you.”

  “Why, you haven’t been seen about all these months and some people—well, they thought you might have been among the twelve thousand lost.”

  Zofia affected a smile. “No, I survived, Lady Driedruska. It’s nice of you to have been concerned.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t. I didn’t believe for a minute that you wouldn’t survive. In fact, I thought perhaps you had accompanied our good King Stanisław to Grodno.”

  The woman next to Charlotte gasped at the snide allusion to the affair Zofia had had with the king.

  Zofia felt a sick sensation in her stomach. “No,” she said. Knowing the woman expected her to ask why such a thought came to her, Zofia said no more.

  Lady Driedruska’s face did reflect disappointment—but she wasn’t about to lose the thread of conversation. “Well, he fawned over you so, they say. Had Catherine allowed it, I’m certain he would have appreciated the company.”

  Zofia’s face flushed with anger and embarrassment. “You overestimate my influence with the king, Lady Driedruska.”

  “Do I? Well, I couldn’t overestimate the influence of your salon in Praga. Everyone was welcome there, including the Russians during the occupation.”

  “I did entertain Russians, Lady Driedruska,” Zofia said, summoning up a half-truth. “I did so in order that my cousin could hold patriot meetings with impunity in the same house.”

  “A well-rehearsed answer, I must say.”

  The table went silent for a few moments. The gentleman next to Zofia tried to end the awkward moment with a political question directed at the prince. Before the prince could reply, Lady Driedruska continued: “I hear, Lady Grońska, that the fact is there was no end to the comings and goings at your town house.”

  “You seem to rely on hearsay to a excessive degree, Lady Driedruska.” Zofia was losing patience.

  Before the woman could reply, Charlotte chimed in: “I can tell you something that’s not hearsay.” All eyes went to the princess. “I must bear witness,” Charlotte trilled, “that your husband certainly enjoyed his visits to Praga.—How is the dear man?”

  Zofia could have kissed Charlotte.

  But the moment quickly went sour. Lady Driedruska put her knife down with a clatter as color rushed into her gaunt face. She grew flustered as she seemed to be searching for words. At last, she cried: “He’s dead!” She threw down her napkin and stood. “And I won’t have you speak of him in that way! Why, you’re despicable—the both of you!”

  “You’re not leaving, Lady Dorota?” The deep voice command
ed everyone’s attention. It belonged to Lord Radziwiłł himself, who was moving table to table, playing the perfect host.

  “I’ve been subject to insult, Michał!”

  “Have you?”

  The prince stood now. “Lord Radziwiłł, the matter is not so serious. Lady Driedruska made comments about our king that I’m certain were sincere on her part, but others at this table may have thought them slanderous.”

  Lady Driedruska’s dark eyes went wide.

  “We will not have that, Dorota,” Lord Radziwiłł said, attempting to make light of the matter. “Polish hospitality does not extend to guests speaking ill of the king. But I’m certain you meant no such thing. Surely!” He paused, clearly expecting a defense in harmony with his tone.

  Lady Driedruska’s reddened face turned to Lord Radziwiłł. For a moment it seemed as if she was about to reply, but finding no defense that would not lead dangerously close to the disclosure that her husband had had a brief affair with Zofia, she excused herself and left.

  Lord Radziwiłł bowed to those at the table. “An emotional type, Lady Driedruska.—I trust otherwise you are all enjoying yourselves.—Ah! Here comes the dessert—from my own hothouse, I might add.” He moved on as everyone assured him that his party was a great success.

  Servers brought in plates of pineapples, figs, and oranges.

  Zofia waited to catch the prince’s eye so she could communicate her thanks, but the man next to him kept him involved in conversation.

  The music started, and a few of the guests at the table excused themselves, saying they were going off to dance or take a walk about the palace.

  Prince Podolski stood now. “I regret that I must leave the party,” he said, his eyes passing over everyone at the table, and lingering on Zofia no longer than on the others.

  There would be no dance, no promenade. Zofia attempted to keep her face devoid of emotion. Damn him—and damn Lady Dorota Driedruska! She had triumphed, after all, spoiling Zofia’s chances with Prince Podolski. Zofia held her composure, praying Charlotte would not say anything—trivial or not—for a good long time. She reached for her glass of wine, watching—seething all the while—the prince make his goodbye to the Radziwiłłs. Damn him!