“Shush, Zofia, you’ll be heard.”
“I don’t care. This is so ill-timed. I could always give a turn to Father’s view on a subject, but now with Walter rebelling against home and homeland, as Father says, he’s not about to let me get away with anything.”
“But Zofia, with Walter eventually inheriting the estate, you’ll be doing well for yourself. You’ll have a husband, estates in both Poland and Russia. You know men are quick to marry when they can advance themselves, but seldom when the woman—”
“It just may be that Walter will not inherit a thing, Anna.”
“What?”
“Never mind. And you can be certain that Father has promised a healthy dowry.” Zofia tilted her head upward. “Baroness Zofia Grawlinska—is there a ring to it? To me it rings dully of wifely chores, musty rooms, and lost opportunity. Yes, the baron is old and the estates will not be long in coming. But the baroness is scarcely fifty and possesses the vitality of a plow horse—and figure to match!—so she is likely to live to be ninety-five. And she’ll sustain herself on the pleasure a dowager baroness derives from guiding and directing and browbeating a daughter-in-law who is not good enough for a son of hers.” Zofia caught her breath here. “No, I’m confident enough in myself to know I can do better. And if I never marry, so what? Living my life only to please myself will be enough.”
Anna found herself staring at her cousin. At last, she said, “Does Lord Antoni know of your reticence?”
“If he doesn’t, he’s a greater fool than I had imagined. I’ve done everything but send out criers.”
“It doesn’t affect him?”
“He ignores it. I’ve told you, Anna, it’s as if they’ve come here to collect on some investment. My feelings are nothing to them. Father must have promised plenty.”
“Don’t you think you’re seeing ghosts behind every stirring curtain? In many arranged marriages, the relationships have flourished afterward. Zofia, your own parents’ marriage is just one such example.”
“You, too, Anna? Why is everyone so willing to chop a fallen oak? Can you deny that you would rather have a marriage built on love, like your parents had?”
Anna felt her lips tighten. She could deny no such thing. And she could not help but wonder if her own chance at love was gone. Jan was being wrongly accused. It was so unfair. And yet he had not called and he had not written. What was there to do?
“And I’ve told you of his attitude toward women,” Zofia was saying. “I couldn’t bear to be his wife. Not in a thousand lifetimes!” The dark eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Why, Anna, I do believe you’re playing the devil’s advocate! Well, believe me when I say that before I marry Antoni Grawlinski, I would enter a convent!”
“You, Zofia?” Anna laughed. “A convent?”
“Well, at the very least, I would run off to France.”
“Zofia, you are a count’s daughter. That is hardly the best choice of climates. That is, if you wish to keep your head.”
“But the guillotine would be an infinitely more merciful execution than the one my parents have in mind. My dear Anna, I can see you are improving when you’re able to trade quips with me like this. Your lovely green eyes laugh at me. Oh, I know that I’m full of self-pity. There are certain advantages to the marriage, and who’s to say that I couldn’t indulge in a dalliance here and there? Such delicious evils are rampant in the city.”
Zofia paused for a moment now, and her tone turned dark. “Ah, I’m being pressed more and more by the hour. If I’m to do anything . . . ”
The half-sentence hung fire while her black eyes lost focus.
Anna wondered if some idea hadn’t come into her cousin’s head.
“But what can you do, Zofia?”
Emerging from her momentary trance, Zofia pressed Anna’s hand and forced a laugh. “Oh, nothing, darling . . . but fall into the trap set for me so long ago. A trap from which I’ll never escape.”
“If you could only hear yourself, Zofia.”
“Oh, I know how I must sound. Like Medea, I suppose, full of tragedy and angst. You think you know me, but you don’t. I’ll trouble you no more tonight.” She stood and brushed her lips against Anna’s cheek. “Your job, Ania, is to get well. Goodnight.”
Anna watched her leave, thinking that somehow her cousin had thought of something, for Zofia appeared now to walk with some direction in her step. Inexplicably, Anna thought of an expression her mother had once applied to Feliks Paduch: “A liar can go around the world, but can never come back.”
11
THE RAIN STOPPED SOMETIME DURING the night, and Count Gronski left for the pond before dawn.
By noon Countess Gronska’s nerves were so on edge that she feared she might experience those palpitations which so terrified her. She wondered what he might find, if anything. What would Leo do if he did find something incriminating? Or if he didn’t? Anna had insisted that the criminal was not Jan.
But Zofia had nearly convinced her father that Stelnicki was the guilty one. And Leo was as stubborn as a Lithuanian.
What if it were that Paduch fellow? What then? Might he some night murder all of them in their sleep? Such things were actually happening in France. Was Poland coming to such an end?
The countess hated conflict and she now found it all about her. She knew herself well enough to know that if she could she would opt for the path of least resistance or outright denial, as she had done on numerous occasions when she overlooked the drinking and quarreling of both her husband and her son. But such a blind eye was impossible these days.
Since Walter had learned the truth, he appeared to care little about being dispossessed by his family. He seemed hellbent on staying part of Catherine’s machine. Once he left, the countess worried, would she ever see him again?
And Zofia. Where did she inherit her cheek? The countess was dumbstruck by her daughter’s rudeness to the Grawlinski family. It would be a small miracle if the wedding were to go forward. Zofia seemed determined not to marry Lord Antoni. God only knows, the countess brooded, if Zofia had her choice, what kind she would make.
Countess Gronska smiled and singlehandedly tried to entertain her guests at the noon meal. Her own children had deserted her, it seemed, and she seethed inwardly. To make things worse, the roast was overdone and the puddings were cold. She would have words for everyone later.
By mid-afternoon, however, her worry for her absent husband was her only concern. Zofia and Walter appeared at last. She would question and scold them later—or better, have Leo do it—for now she sent them off on fresh horses to search for their father.
The supper fare was improved, but the air was thick with tension and worry. The countess could no longer mask her concern. Hardly a word was spoken between hostess and guests, and she felt relieved when the meal came to end.
Anna had just finished her supper when her aunt came to visit. The countess brought her up to date on the whereabouts of her family, openly expressing her various concerns.
Anna, too, spoke her mind. “Are you certain, Aunt Stella, that there has been no word from Jan?”
“Absolutely.”
“You would let me know, even if you don’t approve of his attitude toward religion, and even if you suspect him of this terrible thing?”
“I would not deny his right to plead his innocence, Anna.”
“May I write to him?”
“Certainly not!”
Anna retreated into silence. Why had she heard nothing from Jan? What news would Uncle Leo bring? Not knowing anything, she thought, must be more terrible than knowing the worst.
From below, to the rear of the house, came the sounds of horses and the cries of servants. The countess, jittery as a dragonfly, let out a fearful gasp. She excused herself and went directly to the servants’ stairwell.
Anna climbed out of bed—doing so was getting easier of late. She pulled on her wrap. There had been a sense of immediacy in the voices of the servants that propelled her now to th
e window.
Twilight was fast giving way to night, but she could recognize her cousins Zofia and Walter in the violet shadows, both in the process of dismounting.
Draped unceremoniously across a third horse was a body.
Anna put her fist to her mouth to suppress a cry. For an instant she was back in Sochaczew sitting at her windowseat, watching her father’s body being brought home. A profound weakness came over her now. She closed her eyes momentarily as if to banish a bad dream. This could not be happening to her Uncle Leo, she thought, not again, not to Uncle Leo. It could not.
In seconds, the terrible, staccato screams of Countess Stella Gronska pierced the night.
Count Leo Gronski was waked in the reception room of Hawthorn House for the prescribed three days and three nights. A pine coffin without knots was ordered—out of tradition, Aunt Stella maintained, but some of the peasants still held to the folk belief that the number of knots foretold the number of children who would die that year, and should a knot fall out during the ceremonies, the deceased might peek out and take someone with him to eternity. Mourners arrived in shifts around the clock, telling stories, lamenting, singing, praying, and toasting with swigs of vodka the body in the open box.
Anna attended for a length of time each night, but Aunt Stella forbade her to go to the cemetery for the burial services. On the burial morning, she remained upstairs, sitting erect in her wickerwork chair, listening to the coffin being closed and nailed shut with wooden pegs, each strike of the hammer sending a shudder through her.
At last the hammering ceased and she heard the sounds of the men removing the coffin. They deliberately struck the front door frame with the box three times, for this was the way the deceased bade farewell to his home. Everything that could be opened—doors, windows, drawers, cabinets, and chests—was opened, so that should the count’s soul be lingering in his home, it would find its way out.
Anna was left alone in the house. Lutisha offered to stay with her, but knowing that her uncle was much revered by the peasants, Anna said she had improved and insisted that the servant attend. It was true, too; the spasms of pain that had plagued her since the attack were becoming less frequent, less painful.
What plagued Anna now was her guilt. It consumed her. Were it not for her and the disobedience that led to tragedy, her uncle would not have fallen into the marshy area on his way to the pond. He would not have drowned in the quagmire.
Anna shivered. Aunt Stella was something of a fatalist and insisted Anna had no role in her husband’s death. Neither of her cousins seemed to blame her, either. At least Zofia seemed not to hold it against her. As for Walter, he was not present in the reception room at those times Anna came down to join the mourners, so Anna had to accept Zofia’s word that he did not hold her responsible. She had always been quick to forgive others: her father had told her once, Forgive others easily, but don’t be so quick to forgive yourself. In this, the matter of her uncle’s death, the words rang true.
When everyone returned from the service, Countess Gronska came upstairs to visit Anna, who could not help but notice the toll her husband’s death had taken. Her thin form seemed even slighter, her lined face more gaunt. Not only was her spirit gone, but she also seemed oddly distracted, peculiar.
Accompanying her aunt was Lord Antoni Grawlinski, whom Anna had met briefly during the mourning services. She had had no real opportunity to speak with him, however. “I’m pleased, indeed, to finally chat with you, Countess Anna Maria Berezowska,” he said, “a bit more removed from the sad circumstances downstairs.” He bent to kiss Anna’s hand. “However, I must say that the Ladies Stella and Zofia have always been most generous in their speaking of you.”
He is a charmer, Anna thought. Had they told him the nature of her illness? Of course, they had. She sensed it. It had been whispered of in some tactful way, no doubt, but he knew.
“Thank you, Lord Grawlinski. It’s good to make your acquaintance.” She would have to play the politician. “I have heard you spoken of, as well.”
“I’m so glad to see that your health is improving,” he said, smiling. “And I trust that we shall be more than mere acquaintances, Countess.”
What did he mean? Anna wondered whether Zofia had consented to the marriage, after all. Was he therefore to be her cousin? Now that the Gronska women were left without a man—Walter was leaving that day to rejoin his regiment—perhaps Aunt Stella had forced her daughter’s hand, insisting on a prompt engagement and marriage.
The three made small talk for a time, idle and a bit strained. Anna watched Lord Antoni. He was very thin, but his considerable height, his black hair, and his refined features made for a handsomeness that belied Zofia’s harsher commentary. He wore no moustache. The gray eyes seemed glazed—opaque—and this Anna put down to the sadness of the day. His disposition was certainly amiable.
At last, Countess Gronska said, “We should let Anna Maria get some rest now, Antoni.”
“Of course.” Lord Antoni rose and kissed Anna’s hand again. “How dreadfully isolated you are up here, Countess Berezowska. If you would permit, may I visit again tomorrow?”
Anna smiled politely. “Yes, of course.”
Later, Lutisha brought Anna her supper.
“Was the service at the cemetery nice, Lutisha?” Anna asked.
“Oh, yes, it was, Mademoiselle. I think all of Halicz must have turned out. The entire parish. And no one cried more than his peasants!”
“And Walter—I expect he will come up to say goodbye after supper—or has he decided to stay another day?”
“Walter, Mademoiselle?” Lutisha’s eyes waxed full. “Oh, Countess Anna, he left early in the afternoon with hardly a word to anyone!”
Lord Antoni Grawlinski visited Anna every day, often twice a day, for the next week, seeming to take a pointed interest in her progress. For the sake of propriety, Lutisha or Marta remained in the room during these times. Anna was feeling better, and as long as she could block out the death of her uncle and thoughts of Jan, she was in fair spirits.
Lord Antoni was no conversationalist, but he settled into a pattern of reading to Anna, a pastime that she came to enjoy. Marlowe and Shakespeare were frequent choices. Voltaire became a favorite.
Zofia, on the other hand, was suddenly as elusive as a butterfly. She would alight in Anna’s doorway on occasion and ask how she was getting on, but she allowed no time for extended conversation before flitting away. Anna could only wonder if Zofia secretly blamed her for her father’s death. She wondered, too, whether Zofia would accept Lord Antoni. That the Grawlinski family stayed on seemed proof that the hope for a marriage was still alive. Perhaps the families were allowing an interval of respect to pass following the count’s funeral.
Anna dared not ask Lord Antoni himself. And as for Aunt Stella—she remained strangely morose and distant.
It was a Tuesday evening, and a fire in the grate warmed the bedchamber. Anna was still confined to her room. Although by now she spent much of her time in a comfortable wickerwork chair, she was already settled in her bed when her aunt and cousin appeared in her doorway.
“Are you awake, Anna Maria?”
“Yes, Aunt Stella. Do come in.”
“We thought perhaps that you would like to say the rosary with us . . . for your Uncle Leo.”
“Yes, of course.”
Zofia followed her mother into the room, scarcely speaking. The two drew up chairs to Anna’s bed.
Countess Gronska spoke her prayers clearly and fervently this night, even though since her husband’s death there was some indefinable frailty about her.
It was Zofia who seemed a bit strange. Of course, she had never been one for prayers and she recited them absently now. From time to time Anna would catch her cousin looking at her with oddly analytical eyes. When Anna would return her gaze, she would immediately look away.
This is not the Zofia I know, Anna thought.
After prayers, the three sat for half an hour rem
iniscing about the count, each relating some touching or humorous anecdote. The shock was wearing off and acceptance seemed within reach.
Presently, the countess sobered and her rigid form leaned toward Anna, as if to impart some secret. “Now, Anna Maria, we wish to discuss something with you—”
Zofia was suddenly on her feet.
Jan had been wrong, Anna thought, when he told her that Zofia would not defer to the custom of wearing black for mourning. Her cousin would wear black—and she was no less stunning in it.
“Excuse me, Mother—Anna, darling—but I’ve some things to attend to.”
“What things?” her mother hissed in distraction.
Zofia deftly kissed her mother and Anna and glided quickly toward the door.
“Zofia!” the countess snapped. “I demand that you stay!”
Ignoring her mother, she turned in the doorway. “I’ll look in on you later to say goodnight, Anna.”
The door closed.
The countess clucked her tongue sadly. “She is every bit as incorrigible as her brother. Oh, where did Leo and I go wrong? It is a sad irony. I had always thought that my sister made a grave mistake in following her heart and marrying your father, but to look at you, Anna Maria, is to realize my own folly.” She sighed. “Ah, Lord Antoni is fortunate not to be taking on the . . . the responsibilities . . . that would come with such a one as my Zofia.”
“But I assumed . . . since the Grawlinski visit has been extended— ”
“Anna, my dear child, you’ve been witness to so much tragedy within the course of a very short time. You must put it all behind you now. You must complete your recovery and look forward to a life bright with hope and promise.” Her thin hands trembled as they took Anna’s.
Anna could only stare in wonder. A dark, scarcely-formed premonition took hold of her.
“Anna Maria, as I am your elder and guardian, it is my duty to serve as go-between.”
What was she saying? Fingers of ice grasped at Anna’s heart. “What do you mean?” She hardly recognized the voice as her own.
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