Irina

by Philip Warren

  “Ah,” Jan said, forlorn, “but dear Andrezski’s notions may all be for naught, given what Maurice Dampierre might do to us.”

  …

  One late October day, when the last of the leaves blew across the roads in great swirls, a lone rider came into view on the long carriageway to Chateau Fournier. Irina watched the man’s horse gallop closer, and dread overcame her. Tomasz had appeared in just the same way. She stood holding little Stashu, not a year old, wondering how she and her household could make the move to another king’s domain. Would King Wenceslas take us?

  “It is a messenger, My Lady Irina. We will give him some warm bread and soup,” Velka said, bowing, not waiting for an answer, and knowing full well her mistress would want the poor rider’s needs seen to in the kitchen by the fire.

  Ignoring the niceties of nobility, Irina and Jan excused themselves from their guests and, together, went to the kitchen, where nearly everyone, including the rider, showed surprise at seeing them. “Remain seated, good man, and finish your broth.”

  Two more chairs were brought for Irina and Jan to sit at the rider’s level, something unheard of at other estates, but not at Chateau Fournier. Velka stood by, a smile of satisfaction on her face, proud of her mistress and her husband.

  “I am sent by Monsieur Tellier, Madame et Monsieur,” he said, nodding to them—his version of a sitting bow—“and he said to give you his apologies for not having returned earlier. The revolt, you know. He will be here in five days’ time, along with several ladies and lords from court.”

  “What are you saying, my man?” Jan said, disbelieving.

  “That is all I know, Monsieur, but he said your household should prepare for guests.”

  “Guests?” Irina asked, her turn to be dumbfounded.

  The rider laughed, forgetting himself. “Oh, yes, Madame. Monsieur Tellier also said something about the other people wanting to see your offerings.” Seeing the expressions on the faces of his listeners, he added, “Oh, my, I am so sorry that I forgot to mention that, Madame, but your food is so good,” he said, grinning and nodding.

  Irina and Jan looked at each other, first with relief, then with wonder. “What can all this mean?”

  …

  After much excited discussion, Irina finally came to a decision. “This can only be wonderful news! We have much to do.” They enlisted their new friend Jerzy and Irina’s brother, Eduoard, to help them refresh the setting at Chateau Fournier. With Andrezski’s assistance, fresh foodstuffs were purchased for as fine a dinner as they could manage on short notice. No effort was spared to put a sparkle everywhere. Most importantly, Chevalle’s pieces were arrayed around the chateau’s public rooms.

  The visitors decided amongst themselves they would best serve their hosts by retreating to their quarters at the appointed time.

  Monsieur Tellier’s four guests rode in a large, enclosed coach warmed by bricks heated in a fireplace beforehand and situated at the passengers’ feet. Glass panels served to further protect those inside from the cold snap, yet allowed them to enjoy the countryside already blanketed in browns and greys. Tellier himself rode ahead on a white horse. Their arrival a few hours past noon allowed time to refresh and join the Brezchwas in the dining room for a repast alongside welcoming fire.

  It was clear Tellier’s guests were used to more sumptuous spaces with luxuries aplenty, but they were uniformly polite, acting as if they were on a country adventure at a well-kept lodge. Irina and Jan couldn’t have been more pleased at the guests Tellier had chosen to bring on a visit, but they remained intensely curious how it had all come about, especially when Dampierre threatened, in effect, to deport them in total humiliation. They agreed it was Jan’s task to glean the answers from Tellier, whose apparent attraction to Jan they both found interesting.

  The opportunity for a private consultation arose when the guests returned to their chambers for some rest before an evening of entertainment and dinner. Tellier surprised Jan by asking that Irina be present.

  Jan spoke first. “Monsieur Tellier, Comtesse Brezchwa and I cannot begin to thank you for making these arrangements, but we remain in shock, shall we say, that those accompanying you weren’t royal guards come to clap us in prison for offending Monsieur le Duc Dampierre.”

  Tellier put his fingers across his lips and began to laugh quietly, then out loud. Finally, he all but guffawed like a street peddler at a dirty joke. Then, embarrassed with himself, he said, “Oh, you don’t know, do you?”

  “Know what, kind sir?” Irina asked, unable to remain silent.

  “That’s right, isn’t it? You have had no news from Paris because of all the uproar, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Yes, that’s true. We’ve heard nothing, and in fact, it was somewhat difficult to prepare for your wonderful visit inasmuch as the village of Giverny has had little contact with the outside world as well.”

  “Well, that explains all, doesn’t it?” Tellier looked directly at Irina. “My dear Comtesse, I doff my hat to you and your courage. The scoundrel Dampierre galloped all the way to Paris in a frenzy to undo you both. You humiliated him, the poor fellow.” Tellier began to laugh once more, surprising his listeners once again.

  “You have to understand, my dears, that Dampierre and I, well, let’s just say there was never anything between us,” he said vaguely. “I hope you don’t mind, dear Comtesse, but I, uh, just happened to mention to my father what I’d heard Dampierre gloat to you.”

  “And that was?” Irina asked, but wasn’t sure to which insult Tellier referred.

  “Please do not be offended, my dear, that Dampierre’s horrible remarks to you were of no matter to those at court. It was what he said about Lady Delphine.”

  “Lady Delphine?” Jan wanted to know.

  “Ah, you poor innocents. You should spend more time at court, but no,” he said with emphasis, “you’re better off.” He cleared his throat dramatically. “Lady Delphine is the king’s mistress. Ah, I should say, his former mistress.”

  “Former, you say?” The soft auburn hairs on the back of Irina’s neck stood on edge.

  “It seems that about two days after Dampierre’s return to Paris, and on a day when King Charles left le Louvre to inspect construction at la Bastille, Dampierre arranged a tête à tête with Lady Delphine atop the parapet of a tower adjoining the royal residence.”

  “And?” Irina swallowed hard. She noticed Jan leaning back in his chair, not ready to believe what he was about to hear.

  “It was all so horrible,” Tellier went on. “Instead of some sort of tryst, guards reported hearing them quarrel. Dampierre reached for Lady Delphine, who took an unfortunate step backward. It seems that somehow, she slipped and fell over the edge. Dampierre, it was said, made a feeble attempt to grab for her, but he himself lost his footing and went over. Just awful!”

  Irina and Jan remained speechless.

  “Nothing could be done,” Tellier exclaimed, his voice rising. “Nothing! They fell into some debris in the Seine, and although guards along the river’s edge attempted to reach them, well, you know how strong the current can be. Apparently, they were swept under where no one could get them. Poor things!” He shrugged, as if discussing drowning rats. “God only knows where they wound up.” Tellier sat back, ready to turn the conversation in another direction.

  Irina and Jan were stunned. Then Jan spoke. “And everyone is certain it was an accident?” he asked, knowing full well what Irina was thinking.

  “Well…I don’t know what to say,” Tellier responded. “Accidents do happen, you know.” He paused. “In any event, the whole affair, shall we say, saved the king trials for treason.”

  “Treason?” Jan asked.

  “Seducing the king’s principal mistress, then bragging about it…” he said, eyeing Irina and clearing his throat but not finishing his sentence. “The king would have considered the whole affa
ir an act against the state. Perhaps,” he said, exhaling fully, “their demise was the nicest way—for them—to leave this world.”

  …

  Irina and Jan continued to struggle with their finances, despite the interest in Chevalle’s work shown by the Duke and Duchess of Montpelier. Their order for several pieces carried Chevalle & Companie through the end of the year. The Montpeliers had said his work was perfect for their country estate some miles distant. Despite the many livres brought to the company coffers, the nobles were ordering furniture for an estate very few others would see. Few orders followed. The other couple had no use for Chevalle’s work, saying there was nothing new about what had been presented to them.

  Tellier apologized for their bluntness but promised he would seek more clients like the Montpeliers, people who knew fine quality for just the right place and price. More fortunate for the Brezchwas, Tellier lost interest in Jan as a partner of sorts, but it was clear from his many warm words, Irina and Jan had become favorites of his.

  One such favor materialized at just the right time. With further unrest across France, Tellier’s father, the minister of finance, sought to dispose of what he considered marginal properties in the king’s portfolio, and despite improvements made by the Brezchwas, Chateau Fournier was seen as a costly liability to the king. As a consequence, the main house, all the outbuildings, and some two hundred acres were signed over to them.

  It cost the Brezchwas a custom chest, intricately carved and made of fine woods, large enough to hold a noblewoman’s court gowns, to be delivered to Lady Tellier, the most pleased wife of the minister. Jan suspected the whole transfer of property may have been the king’s way to thank the Brezchwas for surfacing treachery within his household. That the deaths of Dampierre and Lady Delphine may not have been accidental, after all, no one ever mentioned.

  All the while, Jerzy Andrezski and Eduoard Kwasniewski assisted the Brezchwas in every way they could. The former supplied needed livres—“recompense for our lodging these months, My Lady,” he insisted—and the latter put himself to work in Chevalle’s shop.

  * * *

  1380

  When he arrived from Poland, Edouard made two comments that stayed with Irina. She couldn’t believe he’d meant anything by them, but they rasped across her conscience like a piece of Chevalle’s sandpaper on a soft wood’s surface.

  The second one, she knew, would stay with her the rest of her life. He told her their parents and little siblings left St. Michael to look for her, and she couldn’t get out of her mind the idea that had they stayed where they were, they’d all be alive today. Did I cause their death? Oh, Madrosh, where are you? Then, They must have loved me still.

  The first comment, however, struck home in an entirely different way. She had lived the part of Lady Kwasniewska for so long, she’d all but forgotten that Jan would not know much—the truth—about who she really was. She had looked in Jan’s direction to see what he was thinking, but could not read his face.

  Making the excuse that she and Jan had a business matter to which they needed to attend, Irina led Jan to their bedchamber and closed the door. He looked puzzled. She stood facing him, her hands flat on his chest as she looked up at him. “My husband,” she began in a hoarse whisper, “I’m afraid I have not been truthful to you. Our m-marriage is a f-fraud against the church if you believe you married Lady Kwasniewska from Gniezno.”

  For the briefest moment, Jan said nothing, then smiled broadly. With some drama, he placed his hands on her shoulders. “I’ve known from the very beginning, Comtesse,” he said, deliberately using her title.

  “How could you possibly have known?” she demanded, shocked. “Did Father Madrosh betray me?”

  “Not at all,” he hastened to say. “You have no reason to remember,” he added, ever so gently, “my dearest, dearest wife, but on the very night of your great loss in Poznan, you ran around a corner and almost knocked me down.”

  Irina revisited her memory of that horrible night, and after a moment, her recollection cleared. “Yes!” she said, “but why would you remember me?”

  “Irina, my love, I knew nothing about you, of course, but I loved you from that very moment, and hoped that the pretty farm girl in the blue woolen cape would someday run into me again. So, you see, Madrosh needn’t have told me a thing, but I decided to go along because being with you was exactly what I wanted. I just couldn’t bring myself to do anything about it until I was sure you were ready.”

  Tears welled up in Irina’s eyes, flowed freely down her cheeks, and ran across her lips as she stood on her toes and kissed him hard and long.

  …

  Despite everyone’s efforts, there was little movement for the fledgling furniture business. Chevalle and his men were getting restless, impatient. Worse for all of them was that money was running out.

  Early in the year, their visitors began talking about returning to Poland. There had been some brief talk about Zuzzie staying on with Jan and Irina—and her little playmate, Stashu—but in the end, it was decided she should be in her homeland.

  One unusually warm day in early February, when preparations for departure were nearly complete, they lunched on the flagstone terrace. After plates of cold chicken, buttered bread, and sliced apples—the last from their fruit cellar—Eduoard asked Irina to solve the mystery for him.

  “And what is that, cher ami?”

  “May I ask?” he said, clearly uncomfortable with his words, but determined nonetheless. “How did you become Lady Kwasniewska?”

  Irina looked at Jan, then said, “Let us sit awhile longer.” To her brother, she said, “You have been both kind and patient.” She then told her brother and Andrezski about the Joselewiczes and what happened to them, but in relating much about the aftermath and their journey to France, she decided to omit any hint about Stashu’s parentage. She thought about the lie for days afterward. Was it not better these men think Jan Brezchwa is the father of my child? Or was it better they think Velka and I had no right to take the Joselewicz silver and gold? Madrosh would have called it my conundrum, but my answer is simple. Jan Brezchwa has become Stashu’s father, and I will not change what the world sees.

  Finally, the day came. Zuzzie and the nun who’d escorted her—who had worked at Père Dubois’s parish during her stay—made themselves comfortable in their small carriage. Just before they left, Andrezski said, “I have not forgotten about Chevalle & Companie.” Looking at his hosts, he said, “I have two simple questions for you. Are there other types of woods the nobles might want to have? Can you fashion such woods in ways that are different from what they can have now?”

  After Andrezski left, Velka came running to them with a leather pouch and a note, which said, “We have been expensive guests, I’m afraid. Zuzzie and I hope this will repay your many kindnesses.” Inside, there were enough gold sovereigns to last them another year.

  …

  Spring dragged into summer and into some of the hottest months the French had known. With little rain, crops dried and died. Workers were idle, and the English, as always, threatened to take Normandy and Calais.

  Jan and Irina had hoped to present little Stashu at court in September, when he was just under two years of age. The Telliers, père et fils, offered to sponsor them and a September date

  was set. The younger Tellier, in particular, encouraged them in thinking their small splash at court might attract a modicum of attention to them and their business venture.

  Fortune frowned upon their plan, however, when Charles died unexpectedly, and in an instant, the court was in an uproar. The heir to the throne in the House of Valois was the eleven-year-old dauphin, and a regency of nobles immediately asserted itself to manage France’s affairs. Restlessness reigned amongst the people, however, and beset by seemingly unending strife, scarce foodstuffs, and an oppressive rule, the people had enough, apparently, and outbursts by one mob afte
r another made Paris a frightening place. Few were in a mood to buy what Chevalle & Companie had to sell.

  Chapter XXI

  1410

  Irina lay on the chaise and draped herself with a goosedown coverlet to fortify her against the frigid swifts of November air slicing their way through the tall windows. So relentless were they, each candle required a glass globe to keep a struggling flame from wafting away. Under the coverlet, what remained of the large blue woolen square softened the edges of her pain.

  Though she had been in France a little over thirty-two years, she had never forgotten the customs of her native land, and neither had Velka and Rosta. The two of them had been at her for days to prepare for Dzien Swietego Mikolaja, or, as they had learned it in their adoptive land, Sainte Nicolas Day.

  She gave them permission to bake the special cookies they would enjoy and serve to guests who came on December 5 for dinner or throughout the day on December 6. Her body was rejecting most foods, and it was painful to partake of even her favorites, but she would make an exception for the thin confection, cut out from raw dough in the shape of a star or heart, baked, then iced in white. With just a little effort, she imagined a bite of piernicki, the sugar icing hanging on her lips for her tongue to lick fully away.

  In St. Michael, her mother made sure the children had nuts and cookies in the white stockings they hung for Swietego Mikolaja to fill. At Giverny, she and Jan supervised the giving of cookies and sweets to the town children, and she knew Velka and Rosta would continue to fulfill the Christmas dreams of the young ones.

  At the same time, there was still the business. It was to their workshops that Irina forced herself to go when need demanded it. In the afternoons she would see Chevalle, and she would spend the evenings with the wealthy clientele she cultivated. For this and her son, the other of her life’s obsessions, she wondered how much more time she would have.