14
January 1800
Zofia descended the interior staircase of the town house just as Princess Sic was making her entrance. “I’m so glad you’re on time for once, Charlotte.—My goodness, you’ve worn your silver blue gown! There was hardly need for that. We’re staying in.”
“Well, your note was so cryptic. What’s the little surprise?”
Zofia kissed Charlotte on either cheek. “I wanted to do something interesting and amusing to start the new year.”
“They’re calling this the grand century! The prince is in St. Petersburgh, I take it?”
“Yes, but he wouldn’t take me this time.”
“And—I hesitate to ask—what of Paweł?”
“Ah, Paweł!” Zofia took Charlotte’s cape and passed it to a servant. “I do wonder how he can keep up a war and find time to write so many letters.”
“No talk of marriage from the Prince?”
“Ryzsard avoids it. But tonight I may get a clue. Come in to the dining room.”
“Good! I’m famished.”
“You may eat later, if you must, Charlotte. The surprise is in there. As is my friend Anusia Tyszkiewicz.”
“Oh my, the king’s niece! You are traveling in haut monde these days, aren’t you?”
“My relationship with Ryszard has been good for that, at least. Those who knew me before Praga seem to have shortened their memories of my colorful past and warmed a bit.”
The dining table had been moved to the far end of the room, and Lady Tyszkiewicz was sitting at a small table used for cards. She stood to greet Charlotte.
Zofia made the introductions and they sat, making small talk until Lady Tyszkiewicz spoke of Napoléon Bonaparte. “I was just telling Zofia, Madame Sic, that I admit to be taken by the buzz that surrounds your fellow Frenchman.”
“Frenchman, indeed!” Charlotte trilled. “He’s Corsican—and short to boot!”
“That does nothing to lessen my admiration,” Lady Tyszkiewicz said. “Such victories! He seems another Caesar or Aleksandr.”
Charlotte shrugged. “I don’t take much interest in such things.”
“Nor I,” said Zofia. “But I should like to meet him and take the measure of the man myself.”
Charlotte giggled naughtily at this, and a confused look came over Lady Tyszkiewicz’s face.
“Now just what is this surprise, Zofia?” Charlotte asked.
“Yes, do let us in on it,” Lady Tyszkiewicz urged.
Zofia smiled. “Actually, it was you, Anusia, who gave me the idea for it.”
“I?”
“Yes, when you told me about the astrologer that visited the Poniatowski family when Stanisław was newly born.”
“Ah, yes, it is a well-known story, but my aunt actually knew someone who was in the room!”
“What happened?” Charlotte asked.
Anusia smiled. She needed no further prompting. “It seems that years ago the Poniatowskis invited in an astrologer for an evening’s entertainment. On that very night Lady Poniatowska went into labor. While the birthing was taking place, the astrologer cast the horoscope of the Poniatowski children—there were four at the time, I think. He declared glorious futures for them all, boys and girls alike. It was all the elder Poniatowski could do to maintain Polish hospitality when it was so clear he thought the man a complete charlatan and his talent a hoax. Throughout the reading an ironic smile persisted on Lord Poniatowski’s face. The astrologer could do little to convince him. I’m abridging the story considerably, but to get to the end—just as the astrologer was about to take his leave, the mid-wife came into the room with the newborn. Without missing a beat, mind you, the astrologer turned to the infant, little Stanisław, still bloody from birth, and declared, ‘I salute you, King of Poland!’”
“Goodness!” Charlotte exclaimed. “It makes my skin pimple.”
Lady Tyszkiewicz nodded. “The unbelieving Poniatowski admitted years later that at that moment a chill ran through him to the very marrow of his bones.”
“An excellent story, Lady Tysziewicz!—Now don’t keep us in suspense, Zofia! Charlotte cried. “What is to happen? Have you found this Swedish astrologer? Is he here?”
“He’s too old and probably dead, my sweet.” Zofia said. “But I hear he went to school in France. You may have been schoolmates. Your ages are in alignment, at least!”
“Why you little—” Charlotte caught herself before taking up the little name-calling game she played with Zofia. In present company such an epithet would have been inappropriate. She gave a tight smile.
“But you have found an astrologer?” Lady Tysziewicz pressed.
“No, dearest—a fortune teller!”
“Really?” Zofia’s friends cried in unison.
“Yes, she’s in the kitchen stuffing her mouth as if she’d never tasted good food.”
“Oh, I should like to have a bite, too,” Charlotte said.
“Later,” Zofia said, giggling, “after we find out if you even have a future.” She rang a little bell, and presently a maid escorted a small gypsy woman into the room. The fortune teller was perhaps in her mid-fifties.
“Come and sit down, Zinia.”
The woman came forward without any air of subservience and sat, wiping at crumbs about a mouth that puckered like a purse drawn closed. Underneath a bright red headcovering, the eyes—like ebony stones—considered her three customers.
“Who is to be first?” the woman asked. The evening went along splendidly as the gypsy read for each the women’s present, future, and past. Charlotte seemed delighted with the reading, as was Lady Tyszkiewicz was promised a sterling marriage to a man of the Potocki clan. It was only when Zofia declined to have her past told that the mood changed—at least for Zofia.
The gypsy would not be deterred from a full reading. “Once I begin your reading,” she said, in her husky voice, “I must finish. It is the way, milady.” Without delay, she laid out the prescribed seven cards: Queen of hearts. Five of Clubs. Jack of Hearts. Queen of Spades. Two of Spades. Ace of Diamonds. Four of Hearts.
The gypsy took in a long breath, then said, “Two young women, one dark, one light, one young, light-complected man—a triangle. The five is Ride. The two is Lie and the Ace of Diamonds is Letter. And the Four of Hearts, as you saw before, is Change.” The woman sighed, as if something had come through clearly. “You have competed with a lighter complected woman, yes?” When Zofia said nothing, she continued, “Somehow, a ride on horseback, a lie, and a letter never opened are involved. The result of these things was change—change having to do with marriage.”
After the gypsy left, Charlotte and Lady Tyszkiewicz enjoyed a little meal while going over their respective readings. Zofia sat at table, but her mind had blurred. She had brought the woman in for a little fun. She believed in none of it. And yet the gypsy had seen into her past with incredible precision. There was the introduction of Anna into Zofia’s life and the plans Zofia had for Jan Stelnicki, the fateful ride in the forest, the lies she told and the letter from Jan to Anna explaining why he had been unable to return to the pond that day—the letter Zofia destroyed. And then there was the change of brides for Antoni Grawlinski—from Zofia to Anna. These were things Zofia cared not to think about, and she seethed that the woman had channeled her into the past. Upon being forced to look back, she burned with—what?—a sense of defeat? Shame? But then again, she wondered whether, if having it to do over again, she would change anything.
That night the gypsy woman came again, entering Zofia’s dreams. The specter forced the King of Hearts card into her hand. Zofia looked at it and seemed to see the face of Jan Stelnicki. She attempted to give the card back, but the woman snarled and declined. For some time the two argued over the card. Then suddenly the woman disappeared, as people often do in dreams. But the card remained in Zofia’s hand.
As she looked down at it, she saw that it was not the likeness of Jan at all. Staring up at her, so real that breath seemed to
be coming from his lips, was the handsome face of Jan’s look-alike, Jerzy.
February 1800
Anna thought she would go mad. The house was in an uproar. All three children had come down with a severe winter fever. The first two weeks of the new century were ruined, but that paled considering the risk at hand. A number of Sochaczew citizens and peasants had been carried away with the sickness, including a child belonging to a milk-maid on Anna’s estate.
“Well?” Anna demanded.
Jacob Szraber stood in the hall, snow still upon his shoulders and fur hat. He had gone to town to bring back a doctor. “No, luck, Lady Anna,” he said, his head hanging slightly. “The old physician is ill himself, and the young one has gone off to join Dąbrowski in Italy.”
“Damn them,” Anna said, forgetting herself. “What business do Poles have in Italy, I ask you.” It was more a statement than a question. “A cholera on them.” Anna turned and hurried upstairs. Softly, she walked into Barbara’s bedchamber. Lutisha looked up from her place at the two-year-old’s bedside. The child had at last fallen asleep, but beneath the yellow halo of hair, a frown, like an old woman’s, bore witness to the body’s struggle with the fever. Then she took up her own post in the boys’ bedchamber. Jan Michał, nearly eight now, had come down with it first, but he seemed to be past the danger. He opened his eyes slightly at the sound of his mother. Anna put her finger to her lips, shushing him in case he was about to speak. On the floor at the end of Jan Michał’s bed, Borys lay faithfully in a great furry heap, one eye on Anna. Like the children—even Tadek—she had come to love the dog.
Anna sat in a chair between the boys’ beds. The dog came over and sat in at her feet. She looked from one boy to the other. With time the three-year difference in their ages had become less of a divide. They learned together, played together—and now they were weathering this sickness together. Tadeusz was Anna’s chief worry now. He was very ill. Even in sleep, he gasped for air. A rattle sounded from deep within his lungs. Lutisha had done everything she was able to do, tried all her herbs. “Keep the covers piled high, madame,” she had warned Anna. “The fever must burn itself out.”
A day went by with little change. On the next, Anna was called downstairs where a visitor awaited in the reception room. As she entered, the stranger rose. He was a large man with thinning hair, small dark eyes, and a wide nose. He immediately started speaking in Prussian, telling Anna he was a doctor who had come to tend her children.
“Thank God! Thank God!” she cried, leading him upstairs almost immediately.
He first gave the three a cursory look, then returned to Tadeusz’ bed. “The other two are past the crisis,” he said. “This one is not yet out of danger.”
The tears came to Anna’s eyes, and her throat closed. She couldn’t speak. How could she face the death of this child? How could she face Jan upon his homecoming?
Tadeusz was moved into another bedchamber so that he could be attended without disturbing Michał. The doctor stayed with Tadeusz through the night, applying and reapplying hot compresses, forcing medicines down his throat. Katarzyna sat on a chair in the hall so that she could fetch anything the doctor might request. Once, during the night, Michał’s head turned on his pillow to Anna. “Is Tadeusz going to die, Mama?”
Anna steeled herself, stifling the emotions that question called up. She was about to tell him she didn’t know—until she realized the boy was putting his faith in her and she could not fail him. “No, Jan Michał, little Tadeusz is not going to die. He’ll be back in this room with you in no time.”
Michał accepted her words and soon fell back to sleep. Dear God, you must make him well now, Anna prayed. I’ve given my son Your word. The night crept by. Anna stayed at her place next to Michał, sleepless, helpless, afraid. Only once before had she faced this kind of fear—when as a baby Jan Michal had nearly died of a fever. If only the end of this trial would be as happy. What terrible pain bringing children into the world, she thought. And then every pain, every sickness, every heartache of each child was there for the mother to take on and share and try to remedy.
Michał stirred just after dawn. “Is the doctor coming in again?”
“I don’t know.” Anna felt his forehead. It was cool. “You’re getting well, Michał. It’s Tadeusz that needs the doctor’s attention.—Now, don’t be disappointed. You want your brother well, too, yes?”
“Yes.” A little later, Michał fell back to sleep.
Katarzyna knocked lightly on the door at mid-morning. “Madame Stelnicka, the doctor wishes to see you.”
Anna hurried past her to the guest bedchamber. The doctor stood just inside the door. Even as she greeted him, Anna’s eyes tried to see past him for sight of Tadeusz. He stood in her way, however, high as a wall. “Tadeusz?” she asked fearfully. “How is he?”
The doctor affected a thin smile. “He has made it through the night, my lady.” He stepped aside. “Your son is out of danger now.”
“Oh, thank God! Thank God and you, doctor!” She rushed to the sleeping boy, her hand reaching for his forehead. It was cool and dry now, finally cool.
An hour later, the doctor stood in the front hall, preparing to leave. “Have you been given something to eat?” Anna asked, coming down the stairs.
“I’ve been well fed. Now I’m on my way.”
“Have you far to go?”
Pulling on his great coat, the doctor named some Prussian town she had not heard of before.
“However did you hear of my children’s illness?”
He smiled enigmatically. “I heard.”
She could tell he wasn’t going to say any more about it. “What about your fee, Doctor?”
The smile widened slightly. “I have been paid.”
“By whom?”
“Goodbye, Lady Stelnicka.”
Anna watched him pull the door closed behind him now, a sick feeling rising up within her. She suddenly knew who had sent for the Prussian doctor.
15
December 1800
News of a mighty battle at Hohenlinden arrived in camp in mid-December. Both Jan and Paweł listened in awe to the stories. The Polish Danube Legion, serving with France’s Army of the Rhine, had stood near Hohenlinden with its force of one hundred thousand engaging the Austrian army. In two separate units, the Austrian army totaled one hundred twenty thousand.
Engagement occurred on 3 December under an iron gray sky that sprinkled down snowflakes. One of the first to attack was the Second Batallion under Józef Drzewiecki. The bayonet charge proved effective, but losses were many. The battle broke down into many smaller skirmishes then because of the weather and terrain, which was wooded and laden with marshes. The story came back how a young brigadier, Jan Pawlikowski, spied enemy infantry in the shrubbery, and—accompanied by a French chasseur—charged the Austrians, calling out orders to nonexistent fellow soldiers. He took down two officers with his lance and took a third into custody—along with fifty-seven infantry soldiers! When Pawlikowski was offered a promotion to lieutenant, he declined, admitting he could neither read nor write, qualifications required of an officer.
By the end of the day, the Austrians were in full retreat, having lost at least twenty thousand men. The French lost twelve hundred, of which Poles numbered fifty. Toasts were raised in the Lombardy camp that night for the brave soldiers of the Danube Legion—and for Jan Pawlikowski.
Just two months later, with the treaty of Lunéville, France made peace with Austria and her allies, dashing the hopes of thousands of Polish soldiers. The Polish legions were for the moment an embarrassment to the French government. What to do with them?
Dąbrowski’s legion was to become the army of the new state of Lombardy. Some units were disbanded. One force of six thousand was to be sent under the French aegis to put down a rebellion in Santo Domingo. “What about Santo Domingo?” Paweł asked.
“Are you crazy?” Jan sat on his cot, his spirits crushed. They had been twice-fooled by Napoléon’s m
achinations. “That’s not our war!”
“Won’t you stay with Dąbrowski, then?”
“This wasn’t our war, either. What did we gain? Scars and medals and dead on the field—and for what? For what, Paweł?”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry? Why should you be sorry?”
“For encouraging you to come.”
“I think I’d be here in any case. And I’m still alive. And so are you, my friend. Forget Santo Domingo. Forget Dąbrowski—God bless the man! But come home. Come home with me!”
Paweł fixed his eyes on Jan but said nothing.
He would not come home, Jan knew. And he knew not to insist.
February 1801
“How old is the boy now?” the graveled voice demanded. “Four?”
“Not till the end of the year.” Anna found herself once more sitting across from Doliński, the desk between them.
Doliński smiled. “I appreciate your coming, Lady Anna.”
“What choice did I have?”
“Your dress is very pretty. Green suits you. Do stand and let me see it.”
“Lord Doliński, I did not come here to show off a dress. You have not had me come here for a very long time. You must have your reason.”
He fixed his eyes on Anna. “Humor me.”
Anna stood and was told to turn about. “Lord Doliński— ”
“Turn. More slowly this time.”
Against a Crimson Sky Page 19