“Only the kind that wear skirts.”
“I hope you weren’t too badly wounded,” I said drily.
“I was, Madame, but wounds scab over: There’s not a girl yet who kept me from sailing, or who saved me from my own mistakes. So under French arrest I was told my only salvation was to seek my wayward brother.” He laughed. “Or was that my punishment?”
“We often don’t know until long after the fact,” I told him. “Fate has a sense of humor. But I for one am glad we reunited. Aren’t you, Ethan?”
“I’d better be. It’s costing me fifty percent.”
Caleb leaned forward with the grin of a horse trader. “Well put, brother. Aye, I’m sensible enough to know that no member of the Gage family tromps through a snowy wilderness without chance of reward.”
“And danger,” Ethan said. “I had to break into an island fortress and pretend to drown to get those swords, Caleb. Other men are willing to do just as much to get them back, I suspect.”
“But now you have an ally!” He tousled the head of Horus. “And an uncle! Together we’ll prevail.” And then he snuck a glance at me.
There was nothing untoward in his look and yet it reinforced my unease. I’ve learned to trust my instincts, and instinct warned that Caleb still hadn’t told us everything. Yet didn’t everyone have secrets?
So why did I have trouble falling asleep that night as I picked at our conversations with my mind?
At length, however, in the alternately bright and dreary weeks in which winter gives way to spring, we finally came to Pulawy. From its village square we could see the Czartoryski palace roof, a sturdy reef amid waves of greening trees, the silver Wisla River just beyond.
Ethan sent a message. The courier returned with a carriage and orders to drive us the last mile. It was a scrubbed and breezy afternoon, birds singing, the warming sun casting lovely shadows, and at last I allowed myself hope again. Izabela Czartoryski had sent a letter.
“Come to a place of rest and safety,” she wrote.
CHAPTER 15
I decided Astiza’s worry about Caleb could be made irrelevant by simply arriving at our destination and delivering our cargo. Pulawy was approached on a gravel avenue through a forested park, and had the same monumentally broad shoulders as Catherine’s palace outside St. Petersburg or Louis’s refuge in Jelgava. The palace was in the shape of a U, its center three stories high and painted a cheery yellow. There were the usual sprawling wings, high windows, and the obligatory decorative pillars, urns, cornices, escutcheons, and statues. In front was a rectangular reflecting pool big enough to fish in. Shrubbery was cut as upright as soldiers, cobbles were swept clean, and the pruned limbs of the nearest linden trees bent as artfully as the arms of Oriental dancers. Outbuildings included a stable, theater, barns, storehouses, servant’s quarters, and an infirmary.
We descended in the arched carriageway like frontier refugees, in stained clothing and weathered hats. The swords slung in a bedroll on my back. Caleb shouldered his musket. Astiza held Harry’s hand.
“Is this where we’re going to live, Papa?”
“Looks like it has room.”
A footman announced our arrival and after a wait of several minutes a dubious butler led us into a grand foyer and relieved us of coats, hats, and gun. Ahead was a marble staircase, the room smelling of new paint. Descending regally to greet us were two women. The elder must be Adam Czartoryski’s mother Izabela, as elegant as we were begrimed. She was a slim, handsome woman of sixty with silk dress, topaz pendant, and hair pinned as erect as her torso. Accompanying was a spectacularly gorgeous young woman with eyes as vivid as the topaz and thick dark hair that fell to bare shoulders. A daughter? The two didn’t resemble each other. Izabela had the same strong face as her son, her nose long and straight, her smile firm, her chin firmer, and her eyes shrewd. She embodied authority and sophistication. The younger woman had a rounder face, delicate nose, and the voluptuous body that men conjure in fantasies. Caleb stiffened like a hunting dog. I tried not to.
Izabela paused three steps high until we remembered to bow. Then she addressed us in French with fluency honed by what Adam had told me had been several years in Paris. “Bonjour, Ethan Gage! My son told me to be on the lookout for a band of determined wanderers.”
“Princess Czartoryski,” I replied. Again, ‘princess’ did not mean daughter of a king, but was rather an honorific for a powerful noblewoman. “Thank you for receiving us. I bring you greetings from your son Adam in St. Petersburg, as well as a package he entrusted us to deliver.”
“At great peril to you and your family, I understand. Adam wrote me about your mission and we’ve been anxious about your fate. And here you are, by the grace of God whom still blesses Poland. I’ll try to make your relics as useful to my country as they were troublesome to you. You’ve the character of Washington, Monsieur Gage, to have returned our heritage so gallantly.”
Well, I liked that. Izabela had rare good judgment, I decided, and probably had been quite the beauty in her day. “Adam befriended my family. We’ve tried to return the favor. And we hope to continue our partnership.” Couldn’t hurt to hint at the expectation of reward. Napoleon had cynically said to promise everything and deliver nothing, so I was gambling such advice hadn’t infected the Czartoryskis.
“You’ve assembled a curious fellowship.”
“My family, princess. This is my wife Astiza, my son, and my brother Caleb.”
“I understand that you’re the guiding angel, Caleb, guarding the Gage family with gun and skill.”
“No one has mistaken me for an angel before, princess. And I ask your pardon for arriving armed. All our possessions are in our hands or on our back.”
“Because you’re Spartans! And please, call me Izabela. What’s the name of our littlest soldier?”
“This is my son Horus,” Astiza said. “Ethan calls him Harry.”
“Named for the falcon god?”
My wife was pleased at the recognition. “Yes. I’m from Egypt.”
“That’s a pretty lady,” my son said, pointing past Izabela.
Izabela glanced at her companion. “Indeed she is: Almost as pretty as your mother, young Horus. This is Countess Marie Walewska, married to Count Colonna-Walewska. She’s visiting for a few weeks and seems to find this old woman’s company tolerable.”
“I find you inspirational, Izabela,” Marie said in a pleasantly melodious voice. “And instructive.” Her buoyant gaze was intoxicating, and I felt Astiza imperceptibly stir at my equally imperceptible appreciation, demonstrating just how married we were. But Marie was very young and very married and, like a new flower, was something to admire, not pick. Besides, this girl was still a promise; my wife is beauty realized. Which was such a good line that I thought I’d try it that night.
Izabela smiled indulgently at her guest. “Marie is only nineteen, appreciates the flattery of children, and is not yet entirely skeptical of her elders. Still, it’s good to have admirers, is it not, Monsieur Gage?”
“I’d assume so. My own family knows me far too well to play that role. I get the flattery I deserve, which means it’s heavily rationed.”
“You simply don’t look like Marie, Izabela, or Astiza, little brother,” Caleb said cheerfully.
“Adam wrote that you two brothers were reunited after long separation,” Izabela said.
“Yes. And your son apparently had a role in our reunion. Caleb rescued us from imprisonment by Louis, the French king-in-waiting.”
“Such adventure! Life is full of coincidence, is it not?”
“And coincidence is sometimes a sign of fate,” Astiza said.
“Do you think so?” Izabela looked keenly at my wife.
“Or necessity,” Caleb said. “My brother is in need of frequent rescue.”
“But only because he undertakes astounding missions,” Izab
ela said. “And you, Caleb, have the look of an able rescuer. A hunter, perhaps. A soldier. A sea captain. And Ethan is a protégé of Franklin. Did you know that I met the American philosopher in Paris in 1772? Rousseau and Voltaire as well. So long ago, and yet I remember them as if it were yesterday. That’s a prerogative of age, I’m afraid.”
“I was Franklin’s apprentice late in his life,” I said. “And I’ve been a friend of Jefferson, and a friend and enemy of Napoleon, depending on your preference.”
“I haven’t decided whether to admire that man or fear him.”
“It’s reasonable to do both.”
“You know the French emperor, Monsieur?” Marie asked me. Like everyone in Europe, she was curious about Bonaparte. And he, rogue that he was, would almost certainly be interested in her.
“Better than I might wish, Lady Walewska.”
“As you know,” Izabela told her, “We hope Bonaparte can be persuaded to reconstitute Poland, should his victories continue.”
“Perhaps I’ll have a chance to ask him,” Marie said boldly.
Izabela nodded sagely, probably remembering her own diplomacy in bed. “Perhaps you shall. We see Polish resurrection as the key to peace in Europe. Isn’t this so, Ethan?”
“So Adam explained. Then we’re all a fellowship, princess—Izabela—with you and Marie our newest members.”
“Very good! Now: My membership dues will be to give you a roof over your heads tonight. Marie’s will be to charm you, which is her habit. In return, where is your contribution to the cause of Polish independence?”
“Here.” I unslung the bedroll containing the old swords, rested the hilts on the floor, and began to untie them.
“Not yet, my new American friend, not yet. Anticipation is as delicious as consummation, and revelation must be precisely timed. The antiquities will be unveiled tomorrow. Right now, let’s have you bathe, rest, and dine this evening. Would you like supper, Harry?”
“Yes, Princess,” he said gravely. “You have a big house.”
She laughed. “I had to rebuild it after a fire, so you’ll find everything very new. Can you smell the paint?”
“It smells like Mama’s workshop.”
“And what would you like to see in my big house?”
“Supper.”
She clapped in delight. “I love the honesty and wisdom of children! And so you shall, sensible boy. In the meantime, I think my footman can find you a candy.” As if by magic, a servant came forward with a sweet on a silver platter. This won instant loyalty from my son, who chewed like a beaver.
“Ethan, we’ll wait until morning to inspect what you’ve brought, when I’ll show off a surprise of my own. Tonight we can gossip and plot. We follow the norms here. Coffee at nine in the morning, dinner at 1:30, tea at six and supper at 9:30. Oskar and Lena will find you some clothes.”
“Plot what?” I’ve had enough of those for a lifetime.
“The uses of Napoleon.” Her look was as conspiratorial as her son’s.
Marie spoke up. “Is he as handsome as we’ve heard?”
“He has the dash and vigor of a thirty-six-year-old soldier,” I said.
“My husband is almost eighty.” She said this blithely, as if it was the most common thing in the world. Four times her age!
“Marie made a political union,” Izabela explained.
“We’re fond of each other,” the girl added.
No wonder this Walewska was interested in the virile new master of Europe. “Bonaparte’s power gives him allure,” I said. “He has magnetism, which made me think of using that electrical phenomena to fetch what I’ve brought. But Napoleon’s looks are something for women to judge. What do you think, Astiza?”
“Handsome, but beginning to put on weight. Intense. As frightening as he is fascinating. Quite brilliant. He’s really extraordinary in so many ways, and because of his role he’s always on stage, delivering like a performer. I urge you to meet him should he ever march to Poland, Lady Walewska, but beware. He’ll use you at least as much as you try to use him.”
She nodded. “Intriguing. And how extraordinary his victories!”
“On the battlefield and in the bed,” I noted drily.
Marie wasn’t insulted. She was an opportunist like the rest of us.
With Harry listening, my wife changed the subject. “What’s this surprise you promise to show us tomorrow?” she asked Izabela.
“If I tell you it spoils the surprise, does it not?” She winked at Harry.
“I like surprises,” he said. “Like candy.”
“We’ll get you more, with Mama’s permission. But my surprise for tomorrow, Horus, is a grown-up secret, and grown-ups are poor at keeping them, so I might as well tell your mother right now. Don’t you think?”
“Are you really a princess?”
“Yes, but I’m more of a scholar and a patriot. I’ve built a Temple of Sibyl, named for the prophetic women of the past. I’m quite proud of it. I understand you’re something of a sibyl yourself, Astiza.”
“I’ve read The Tarot and once encountered a mechanical oracle,” my wife said. “I don’t claim to be a true seer. If I were, my family could avoid our troubles. But sometimes fate whispers in my ear.”
“My temple is dedicated to the sibyls but its design is based on the Temple of Vesta in Italy’s Tivoli, built for the Roman goddess of the hearth. Ovid equated Vesta to the Earth itself. But I also like to think my temple represents Minerva, the goddess of wisdom, art, and magic. She’s closest to the building’s purpose.”
“Minerva goes by many names,” my wife said. “Athena. Isis. Freya. Sophia. All represent the insight of women.”
“Best combined with the energy of men. Minerva had an owl. Do you speak to animals?”
“The trick is listening to nature, not lecturing it.”
“Well said! My, what an intriguing quartet you are. I can see why Adam befriended you. Now, let my servants show you to your rooms. A hot bath first, and then supper. Caleb, we’ll return your musket in the morning, but tonight you’re perfectly safe at Pulawy. I’ve two hundred servants, adopting more than I need to give them homes after the recent wars. Noblesse oblige, no?”
Obligation that bought protection. Adam’s mother was clearly shrewd. I bowed, Astiza curtsied, and Caleb gave a salute. “I suspect they are loyal,” he said.
“You’ve no gun, Ethan?”
“Lost in the Neva River, I’m afraid, which is my habit. I’ve had guns broken, stolen, chewed, and dunked, and yet always feel naked without a rifle. I was accustomed to one in my early days on the American frontier.”
“Adam reported that you’re a good shot,” Izabela said. “Not a hunter, he said, but a marksman.”
“I don’t like to shoot at animals that can’t shoot back. Doesn’t seem fair.”
“And I don’t like to shoot at men that can shoot back,” Caleb said. “Doesn’t seem safe.”
“Heart and head in two brothers! Come; let me show you my house. Ignore the hods of plaster and pails of paint. Our family roots go back one hundred and fifty years and we’ve rebuilt this residence many times. Repairing the fire is only the latest.”
The restoration was sumptuous. A game room held a billiards table. The library had bright new books, their titles gilded. A study table supported a mechanical model of the circling planets. A music room had violins, a harp, and a harpsichord. Izabela pointed to a timepiece. “That clock plays eight tunes.”
“You said this was burned by the Russians?” Caleb asked.
“They accused us of supporting the Kosciuszko uprising twelve years ago, when our country was partitioned and devoured. The vengeful Russian soldiers swarmed through like maggots, taking furniture, china, silver, paintings, bronze statues, and curtains. They set fire to the rest. Adam had to swear obedience to Tsar Paul, but then
found greater favor with Paul’s son. Thanks to Alexander’s generosity, we’ve repaired the damage.”
“You don’t hate the Russians?” Astiza asked.
“I don’t hate the ignorant soldiers who burned Pulawy, but I hate their leaders for burning the idea of Poland. I’m an old woman who can’t take up arms, but my revenge will be to make Pulawy a repository for the dream of Polish independence. My temple is a national museum in disguise.”
“But you’ve gone from being looted by the Russians to having your son work for them?” Caleb clarified.
Her smile was grim. “Only so they don’t come again. Haven’t we all made compromises? Hope for the best and prepare for the worst. Which is why I want to show you my trophy room.”
Servants swung wide a pair of heavy wooden doors and we entered what looked like an elegant armory. Oak-paneled walls were decorated with all manner of muskets and rifles, from earliest times to the present. Racked swords and pikes glinted in the angled light of a setting sun. An oriental carpet covered almost the entire floor. A banquet table occupied the room’s center. On it was a blue felt cloth felt that held a breathtaking display of pistols, knives, bayonets, powder horns, and bullet molds.
“For a woman who can’t take up arms, this is quite a collection,” I said.
“Make your choice, Monsieur Gage. I fortify my champions.”
I rotated. “Some of these are priceless.”
“Oh, I hope you choose a pretty one!” Marie exclaimed. “With gold filigree and mother-of-pearl!”
I shook my head. “I understand your preference, Countess, but better to have a weapon that draws less attention. The last thing you want when stalking an enemy is to throw off light. A plain and sturdy gun is less tempting to steal and less liable to break.” I studied the array. “That one, for example, looks like a frontier rifle from America.”
“You’ve a good eye,” Izabela said. “My late husband acquired it from Virginia.”
“I used to have one much like it,” I said, stepping close. “Often called a Pennsylvania longrifle, although they’re made in other states as well. A hunting gun, but one that stood my nation in good stead during our Revolution.”
The Trojan Icon (Ethan Gage Adventures Book 8) Page 13