“Don’t you think we should tell her about the arrival of the Grawlinski family?”
“No! That’s one secret I plan to keep from her. I don’t want to put up with her arguments should she find out. They will arrive unexpectedly, the marriage will take place, and that will be that. Are we ready?”
Leaving their bedchamber, they passed through their anteroom. “Tell me, Stella, how have we managed to raise two children who so thoroughly reject our values? A man should leave behind more than land and money.”
“They are just young, Leo. Young beer is frothy. You’ve said so yourself.”
The answer seemed to quiet her husband, but as they came to the dining room, arm in arm, the countess could not empty herself of trepidation. Leo had patience in short supply. Walter, too, was unpredictable.
Anna drew in her breath as Zofia helped her with the hooking of her dress.
“Black is for dead things, darling,” Zofia hissed into her ear. “When a flower dies, it turns black with decay, as do animals and men. Who, then, ever decreed that the living be made to wear such a non-color? Good riddance to your mourning! There. Now, turn around. Why, Anna, you look magnificent! Yellow isn’t my color, but on you it looks divine.”
“Really, Zofia?”
“Really, Zofia?” she mimicked, chuckling. “Believe me, it’s a good thing that there is no suitor of mine downstairs for you to poach. Although there’s to be a party on Saturday, and for that I think that I shall have to lock you in your room.”
Anna gazed into the long mirror. Zofia’s gown did, indeed, seem to transform her.
“Have you seen Walter?” Anna asked.
“Yes.” Zofia’s voice was flat. “Now, let’s see, you scarcely need any rouge on your cheeks.” She smiled wickedly. “Those walks in the meadow have given you a lovely bloom.”
Anna fell speechless with embarrassment. She felt blood rising to her head.
“Just a little touch of red to your lips and some powder—”
“Oh, I’ve never worn anything on my face.”
Zofia cut short her cousin’s concern with a flick of her hand. “There’s a season for everything and everyone, Anna. Doesn’t the Bible say something to that effect? This is our season, cousin.”
Anna acquiesced and found herself impressed by the results.
When the two were ready to descend the stairs, Anna put her hand on her cousin’s arm, detaining her. “Zofia, have you mentioned the riding party to your parents?”
Zofia stared opaquely. “No, dear,” she said simply, starting down the stairs.
Anna raced after her. “But I’ve told Jan. He’ll be here at seven tomorrow morning.”
“Oh, I’ll bring it up tonight. It will sound quite spontaneous. Leave it to me.”
Anna had no time to worry further. Walter was waiting at the bottom of the stairs.
“Ah, the years can work wonders! Is it really you, Anna?” Walter kissed her on either cheek, in the French vogue.
“It is I.”
“The same little urchin who fell out of the willow tree?”
“Oh, how memory can be manipulated,” Anna said, laughing. “I seem to remember being pushed.”
“You were,” Zofia drolly intoned. “Chivalry was not one of Walter’s strong suits as a boy. If indeed you had any, Walter. Or should I say have any?”
Walter bowed dramatically. “We all change, Zosia. I would hope that our dear cousin does not bear a grudge.”
“You can be certain I will bear a grudge if you continue to call me Zosia. My name is Zofia.”
“The stories!” Anna cried, hoping to avert an argument. “Do you remember, Zofia, how at night Walter would frighten us out of our wits with his stories of blood and gore?”
“I do.”
“Good news, then,” Walter said. “My experiences in the army have added significantly to my bank of bloody tales. And these new additions, ladies, are grounded in realism.”
“I’m certain of it,” Anna laughed.
Walter and Anna chatted for a few minutes and were laughing as the three went in to supper. Zofia’s usual effervescence was in short supply.
Anna and Zofia sat across from Walter. The Count and Countess, seated at either end of the great table, seemed delighted to have their little family reunited.
Anna thought Walter quite handsome in the gold-embellished red uniform of a lieutenant. It took little coaxing on her part to set him expounding on his adventures in the service of Empress Catherine. He claimed that because of his Polish background he was being groomed to do diplomatic work between the Empress and King Stanisław. Anna was impressed. His parents listened, too, but Zofia sat quietly sipping her wine, uninterested in the conversation.
Lutisha began to serve an ambrosial meal of roast duck, dressing, and mushrooms. Anna glanced now across the table; her gaze was caught, and held, by Walter. She thought his hard, angular face somehow appropriate to that of a soldier. What was in those reddish-brown eyes, deep-set under hair black as a starless night, that sent a cold tingling along her spine? It was a soldier’s attitude, she decided, one that reflected a soldier’s cumulative dark experiences.
As the supper continued and the wine flowed, she became aware of how his striking, yet brutish, face would turn in her direction when no one else was watching. However, by the time Anna’s glass of wine was but half drained, she was immersed in private thoughts—of the riding party, and of Jan Stelnicki. . . .
Later, a change in the conversation’s tone at the table reclaimed Anna’s full attention. Walter’s brusque words were directed at his father: “I can scarcely believe that you support the Third of May Constitution.”
The Count Gronski’s short, stout form shifted in his chair. “It is a great reform.”
“For whom?”
“For everyone.”
The wine had affected both father and son, and their volume rose as the debate escalated.
“Oh, it surely seems to contain something for everyone.” Walter’s tone was bitterly sarcastic. “Peasants are guaranteed human rights; indentured servants may purchase their own freedom; the middle classes are given political recognition; and full religious freedom is preserved for all. Now, tell me, how do we gain by it?”
“What do you mean?” the count asked.
“It would seem that everyone gains by it, Father, except the nobility.”
“I can tell you what we’ve gained by it,” Zofia said.
All eyes turned to her. Sitting smugly in her cinnamon-colored gown, she had suddenly come alive. Anna noticed that her second glass of wine stood empty.
“Walter,” Zofia asked, “haven’t you heard the Mazurka that was specially written for the Constitution? Why, it’s a splendid little tune complete with its own dance! I’ll teach it to you, brother.”
Count Gronski’s fist came down on the table, rattling the plates, silver, and crystal and causing the candle flames on the candelabrums to flare and dance. “Your levity in this matter is not appreciated, young lady!”
Zofia had amused herself, though, and winked now at Anna.
“The Polish nobility,” the count asserted, “will earn itself a high place in history for its declaration of rights to all people. If a fledgling country like the United States of America can succeed in a similar undertaking, by God, surely Poland, with its illustrious past, can attempt no less.”
Walter shook his head. “To grant these concessions is to invite trouble. The rabble will only demand more and more from what they will construe as a weakened aristocracy, and with good reason.”
Countess Gronska sat forward in her chair, her huge eyes reflecting concern that the harmony of her carefully orchestrated meal was threatened. “Leo, can’t this discussion be postponed until after supper?”
The count seemed not to hear. “Can’t you see, Walter,” he persisted, “that if the middle classes and peasants are not allowed certain rights and privileges, we could take the same path that France is set upon?”
“Not if the aristocracy maintains a position of strength! I think that the Sejm who drew up this so-called constitution must have been made up of fools. As for King Stanisław’s signing of it—it only confirms my image of him as a bumpkin and a weakling.”
Count Gronski looked as if his rage would get the better of him. “You dare speak that way of your King? Of your homeland? Where are your loyalties, Walter? Where?”
Walter shrugged.
“Please, please. Don’t excite yourself so, dear,” Countess Gronska begged. “There will be no more such political talk until after dinner when you two may discuss this matter privately. Whatever will Anna think?”
An awkward silence ensued. The count deferred to his wife’s wishes.
Walter’s eyes caught Anna’s now. She thought something cold and calculating lurked in their brownish fire. Was this the way of soldiers?
Clearing her throat self-consciously, Anna asked, “How long will you be at home, Walter?”
“Less than a week, I’m afraid. The campaign against the Turks is being accelerated. I’m to go directly to the front.”
“Oh, Walter!” his mother exclaimed, her hands raised to her face.
“Don’t worry, Mother. We anticipate victory within a few months.”
“You do promise to take care of yourself?”
“I do, Mother. Father, you must agree with me on this at least: that the whole of the continent will be a safer place once the Turks are duly trounced.”
“More political talk,” Zofia sighed. “I shall scream.”
“I will admit,” the count said, “that the barbarians deserve it. But the prowess of Catherine’s generals will neither increase my liking for her, nor decrease my distrust. She may very well protect us by aborting some future invasion of the Turks, but who, for the love of the Almighty, is to protect us from her?”
“Did you know,” Zofia whispered to Anna, “that Catherine was once mistress to our King Stanisław? They say she has been mistress to no fewer than—”
“Zofia!” the countess snapped. “I am not as deaf to your vulgar asides as you sometimes seem to think. The topic is not a fit one for the table—or a young lady. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Mother. I’m sorry.” She could not suppress a little laugh, however, and a softer comment murmured to Anna: “But it’s far more amusing than anything else we’ve heard.”
“Walter,” the count was saying, “when the Turkish campaign is finished, I want you to resign your commission and come home.”
Walter was momentarily startled, then piqued. “Father, I’ve written to you about that.”
“Walter, dear,” the countess pleaded, “we are getting no younger—your father and I. It is our wish . . . and it is time . . . that you take up your rightful duties here.”
Walter seemed to have no wish to draw out the tears that swelled in his mother’s eyes. “Ah, look!” he exclaimed. “Lutisha has brought us dessert.”
“Ouch!” the corpulent servant cried.
Walter had pinched her and one of the honey cakes fell from her platter. The strain was lifted for the moment and everyone laughed, even the befuddled, toothless servant, who retreated to the kitchen, her red apron held to her face.
Anna stared over the pages of the book she held, vacantly watching the small blaze in the reception room fireplace. The Countess Gronska had ordered it lighted to cut the chill of that mid-September evening. The countess absently took up her crewelwork. Zofia held a book but made no attempt to read it. All three were listening intently to the Count Gronski and Walter, who were raging at one another in the library.
The countess sighed sadly. “They agree on nothing, Anna. But they are cut from the same cloth. Each is willful; each has a terrible temper.”
Zofia threw her book to the floor and jumped from her chair. “Listen!” she gasped, as if thrilled. “Father is taking Walter down to the cellar!”
Anna stared, noticing for the first time some dark facet of her cousin.
“Oh, don’t look so puzzled, Anna darling,” Zofia said. “Father would often punish Walter and me by taking us down to the wine cellar, sometimes leaving us there for the entire night. Until one time when we drank ourselves senseless.” Zofia laughed at the memory. “I was clever enough, however, to escape the thrashing for that. Walter wasn’t so lucky. Of course, we should be beyond that stage now. He must have said something terribly wicked for Father to become so enraged.”
The countess was annoyed by her daughter’s exultant attitude. “I expect your father merely wishes to spare Anna a scene. Zofia, perhaps you are not so old as to be beyond correction. Now keep to your own affairs.”
“If only I had one to keep to,” Zofia said in an aside to Anna.
“What?” the countess demanded.
“I said,” Zofia lied, “that I’m now eighteen. Anna, don’t you agree that family and society place too many restraints on young people, especially on our sex? Why, a woman must be forty before she can enjoy her freedom—and by that time, what does it matter?” She chuckled at her own comedy.
Anna was not about to be coaxed into a family quarrel. She felt intrusive and uncomfortable. “Goodnight, Aunt,” she said, rising. She kissed the countess. “It’s late and I’m tired.”
She looked pointedly at Zofia. “I should like to go riding early tomorrow.”
The hint seemed to elude her cousin.
Anna pressed the issue. “We should both be rested, Zofia.”
“To bed! To bed! Oh, how I despise the dreary country. There are no weddings, no banquets, no opera, no balls—only the deathly fresh air. And the music—Oh! How I do miss the music!” Zofia flung her hands in the air now and began dancing the lively steps of the Mazurka in front of the hearth, gaily humming its melody.
Anna started to leave the room, brooding that her cousin seemed bound to forget to mention the riding party to her parents.
Zofia halted her self-amusement. “Wait! Listen,” she whispered sharply, “is it possible Father would use the whip on Walter?”
“Don’t be absurd,” Countess Stella said. Yet Anna could see that she was concerned.
Anna chose not to stay and listen. She gave her cousin a perfunctory kiss and went directly upstairs to her room.
For a long time Anna lay unable to sleep, unable to exorcise dark and vague premonitions. The evening had upset her. She felt uncomfortable, too, caught up as she was in a family squabble. Walter had not favorably impressed her; secretly she was glad that his stay would be short. Zofia, too, in her attitude toward her brother revealed a sinister side that had only been hinted at before. There must be real love there between brother and sister, but other issues seemed to keep it buried.
And why hadn’t Zofia mentioned the riding party? Anna could not believe that she hadn’t picked up on her hint. Her cousin was not so obtuse. She had deliberately put her off. Why?
Perhaps it was just as well, considering the humor the count and countess were in.
What was to happen now? She would almost surely have to send Jan away in the morning. Would he understand?
What was Zofia thinking of? Anna lay listening for the sound of her cousin passing her door so that she might speak to her. But the rich food and the wine lulled her into a deep drowsiness. With the strains of the Mazurka still dallying in her head, sleep rose up to claim her.
7
ANNA AWOKE AT SEVEN, FILLED with tense anticipation. Shivering in the chilled room, she washed, quickly dressed, and hurried to her cousin’s room.
“Wake up, Zofia,” she whispered, gently shaking her. “Jan Stelnicki will be at the stable in only minutes. Perhaps he’s already there. What are we to do?”
Zofia moaned and turned her face into the pillow.
“Zofia, please!”
She stirred. “Oh, is it truly morning?”
“It truly is. Now, what are we going to do about the outing?”
“Surely we must cancel—”
“But why should we?”
“Your parents will—”
“I shall fix it,” Zofia said, sitting up in bed.
“Oh, do you think you can? Did you speak to Walter about joining us?”
“Yes. Once everyone went to bed, I went down to the cellar to ask him. All I got for my effort is this headache.”
“Zofia, you were drinking!”
“Oh, a little wine,” she crooned as she wiped the sleep from her eyes. “We laughed over our childhood days. You know, you may be right, that I do hold some fondness for Walter.”
“Of course you do. But he didn’t wish to come with us?”
Zofia shook her head. “He seemed wholly uninterested. I suppose he’s had enough riding of late. The three of us shall go.”
“If you are certain . . .”
“I am. Why should your day be spoiled?”
“Do hurry out of bed, then.”
“I must have time to get ready, Anna. You know how I am about my appearance.”
“We’ll wait for you at the stable. You must promise to hurry.”
“What is this you’ve got on?”
“My silk blouse and green skirt.”
“The skirt will never do, darling. It’s so . . . rustic. Now that you’re out of that horrid black, we must do something with you. In the wardrobe you’ll find a russet riding skirt and matching jacket.”
Anna suspected that it would be more expedient to comply with her cousin’s wishes. She quickly found the outfit. “Why, it’s stunning, Zofia!”
“You may keep it. Your blouse is fine; the creamy color will set off the russet nicely. Hurry and change!”
Zofia sat motionless, watching Anna slip into the outfit. “There! Now that’s much better.”
Anna moved to the bed. “Zofia, won’t you please get up?”
“I’ve come up with an idea, darling,” she announced. “Ride to that secret pond of ours in the forest. The stable master and I will take a shorter route I know of and perhaps be there even before you and Jan. That will give me time to get ready and Lutisha time to pack a lunch. I’m afraid I failed to mention the outing to her.”
Push Not the River Page 7
