The knocker sounded once more.
The Countess Gronska appeared now, dismissing Zofia and stepping out onto the pillared porch to talk to Jan.
As Zofia turned, she looked up to see Anna on the landing. Their eyes locked for a long moment.
Anna stared at her cousin in mute anger and despair. Zofia’s eyes reflected triumph, but as Anna watched, there did seem to come into the dark eyes a flicker of . . . what? Regret? Remorse? Anna could not decipher it.
Zofia then averted her gaze and wordlessly continued the business of closing the house. She seemed to be humming.
Anna went back to her room. Humiliation kept her from going down to see Jan. Humiliation and shame that she had not waited. She had not trusted in his love. There had been some reason why Jan had not come before this, she instinctively knew. And she had not waited. She had made the mistake of a lifetime and there would be no taking it back.
Still, she prayed that Jan would insist on seeing her. The countess could not stop him if he so decided.
In a few minutes, though, Anna heard the sound of his horse retreating. She could not bring herself to go to the window. Perhaps it is best this way, she thought. What was there to be said? What’s been done cannot be undone. A priest of the Church had married her to a man she didn’t love. She had pledged her love in a sacred vow.
She ceremoniously took the crystal dove now, holding it as if it were a dead thing, and laid it the velvet of its finely-crafted box.
Later, as the carriage trundled on toward Warsaw, away from Halicz, away from Jan, Anna recalled an exquisite vase her father once owned, a foot high and older than the collective lifetimes of fifty men. Against the azure background were the raised white figures of vines, birds, and an Egyptian woman. It was her father’s most prized possession.
One winter day, her father himself accidentally jarred it from its pedestal. Anna watched that priceless treasure smash into pieces at her feet, pieces smaller than could ever be repaired. It was the only time she had seen her father cry. She had thought her heart would break then; only now did she know just what heartbreak was. And, like her father, she could only blame herself.
14
COUNTESS STELLA GRONSKA REMAINED SILENT for most of the journey. Sometimes, in the days following Anna’s attack, her son’s disloyalty, and her husband’s death, she felt as if she were moving into some dense, dark fog, as if her hold on reality were slipping away. Her strict and formal upbringing urged her to go forward, facing up to the demands of her title and station in life, no matter the setbacks. And so she tried to store her recent sorrows in some hidden compartment of her mind, in some locked place she willed herself to visit as little as possible. She needed to keep her wits about her. It was her sincere belief that in the coming days her judgment and moral authority would be needed by her niece, and especially by her daughter.
The countess prayed that life would resume some normalcy in Warsaw. Her diminished family had so much to put behind them. But she was a widow now, and there would be no denying or changing that.
Things had not stayed constant in the city, either. Soon after the enclosed carriage rumbled onto the cobbled streets of Praga, a Warsaw suburb on the east side of the River Vistula, the countess stared out an open window, shocked at the desperate situation of the poor.
Homeless peasants of every age and description evidently had crossed over from the capital, and they wearily carried themselves through the narrow streets, some begging, many more moving as if with no direction. She took in the blank faces, white masks of hopelessness.
The carriage slowed amidst the foot traffic and some five or six ragged children ran alongside of it, crying out in thin voices for a coin or bit of food.
The countess, Zofia at her side, sat facing Antoni and Anna Maria. Her niece’s sudden movements drew her attention. “Whatever are you doing, Anna?” she asked.
At the inn of the previous night’s lodging, the travelers had purchased a luncheon basket, and Anna was rifling through its remains. “I am giving what might be left to these poor children.”
“Are you insane?” Antoni intoned. “They are the brats of the city’s worst elements.”
“They are children and they are hungry.”
“They are certainly noisy rapscallions,” Zofia added.
“A peasant’s mouth may be stopped with bread,” Anna replied, dropping bread, a few sausages, and fruit from her window.
“Given the chance, those same little beggars would cut your throat.” Antoni smiled tightly. “Isn’t that right, Countess Gronska?”
“Perhaps it is unwise, Anna Maria.” The countess was certain that had Antoni been alone with his wife, he would have restrained her.
Anna bristled. “That does not speak well for Warsaw, then. What kind of city can this be? Zofia, do you have any small coins? I have but three or four.”
“To throw to the wind? No!”
“Zofia, please! Give me what you have.”
The countess found it a curious thing how the cousins’ eyes locked for a long moment. Then, as if suddenly deciding that she could afford acquiescence on this small issue, Zofia looked to her purse.
“Here. Father always said I have no concept of money, anyway.” Her laughter tinkled like the coins she passed to Anna.
The countess said nothing as her niece tossed the combined coins out into the growing band of little beggars. She was coming to realize that sometimes Anna had a mind of her own. The countess felt a twinge of guilt as she recalled how she had pressured her niece into the marriage, ignoring her protests. She could only pray to the Black Madonna that she had done the right thing.
“Driver!” Antoni called out. “Put on some speed!”
Just then the countess noticed a particular child—a yellow-haired boy, the tiniest of the paupers—as he bent to pick up one of the coins. As the carriage sped away, he stood and triumphantly waved his tightly-fisted little hand in the air. The countess caught but a glimpse of the gaunt and angular face, illuminated by a great childish grin. Her heart thumped. She suddenly regretted not having searched her own purse.
Countess Gronska had always been aware of the poor, but in recent years she recognized a greater chasm between the Polish peasantry and nobility. She saw, existing side by side, the lame hovels of the poor and the palatial mansions of the nobility and clergy. There were the homes and shops of the middle class, too—the tradesmen, artisans, merchants—but these seemed lost in the contrast of rich and poor.
The texture of life for the nobles in Warsaw was thickening like a well-floured chowder of wealth, pomp, and pleasure. Often now, one could scarcely distinguish between the old moneyed families and the crass nouveaux riches. For this new mixture of nobility there was every manner of entertainment, everything of late organized according to Parisian customs and vogue. They rode in elaborate carriages drawn by teams of high-bred horses, they dressed in the most opulent styles, and both men and women wore great fashionable wigs. Foods and wines were delicious and delicacies like Russian caviar as commonplace on the table as salt. For the poor, the beggars with their colorless rags and crude foot coverings, there was only filth, hunger, and hopelessness.
The countess found herself explaining—matter-of-factly—to Anna Maria that such was the way of all cities. But, afterward, when the window shades had been drawn down by Antoni and only the clip-clopping of the horses’ hooves on the cobblestones could be heard, she found herself questioning such a system.
The white, wooden Gronski townhome was located in the wealthiest section of the suburb of Praga. The narrow, four-storied structure was one of a number situated on a bluff with a splendid view overlooking the River Vistula, the city walls, and Royal Castle. Though smaller than the country estate at Halicz, the Praga home struck Anna as even lovelier and more richly appointed.
Anna had agreed with Antoni and the countess that she should complete her recovery here. She and Antoni took up residence in the six rooms on the second floor while her
aunt and cousin occupied the first level. The families took their meals together.
Anna had hoped for a peaceful marriage, one that—even if it remained loveless—would produce mutual respect and caring. However, it seemed that this simple hope had been dashed by Jan’s appearance at Halicz. How could she ever be content with Antoni, knowing with certainty that she had lost the man she truly loved?
Antoni had made no effort to consummate the marriage on the wedding night or in the remaining days at Hawthorn House. It seemed an unspoken pact between them that she still needed time to convalesce.
Now, several weeks after their arrival in Warsaw, Antoni came into Anna’s room. He was to leave the next day for St. Petersburg. His mother had written that his father was gravely ill. Anna sat in bed, reading. She was quick to realize that an intent shone in his gray eyes, an intent that frightened her. She had known this moment would come but felt her stomach tighten, nonetheless.
Antoni sat upon the bed, took her book away, held her eyes with his, and kissed her softly.
Anna’s entire body seemed to quake.
He was gentle. He was romantic. He is my husband, she thought.
But she wanted no part of this. Nausea swept over her at his touch. She tried to turn her head. His lips searched for hers. She murmured something, asking him to stop.
He gripped her upper arms and held her rigid against the pillows while he kissed her again.
“No!” she cried, pushing him away.
He sat back and looked at her. “What is it?”
“I . . . I don’t know. I’m not ready, Antoni.”
“It’s been weeks, Anna.”
“I know.”
“When will you be ready for us to be man and wife?”
“I don’t know.”
Antoni stood abruptly. He was flushed with anger. “I suggest you find an answer and find it soon, Anna Maria Grawlinska. I am patient only to a point. When I return from St. Petersburg I expect it will be with my rightful title. You will be my baroness. And this marriage will be a marriage. Is that understood?”
She turned her head away from his pinched face. Hearing her married name sent cold shivers through her.
In a few moments, she heard the door close. With my rightful title. How coolly he anticipated his own father’s death. What she wouldn’t give to have the briefest of moments with her own father.
Anna was struck by the irony of the situation. She remembered the advice she herself had given Zofia when her cousin had complained about the marriage planned by her parents. She had said that Antoni might be handsome and noble, that Zofia might come to love him, that she might find happiness.
Little had Anna known then that she would fill Zofia’s shoes. Little had she known the outcome of having to do so. She felt herself recoiling at her own stupidity. No woman should have to submit to an arranged marriage.
The waves of nausea returned and Anna broke out into a cold sweat. She pulled herself out of bed and ran to the chamber pot. She vomited, violently, as if she wanted to force from her system every physical and non-physical ill that plagued her.
Later, she lay sleepless, her eyes vacantly tracing little fissures in the ceiling. He had given her a deadline. She must submit. Or else . . . what?
She dared to voice in her mind the thought that had been recurring for days: was an annulment possible? Why not? The marriage had not been consummated. And while she had any strength, she vowed, it would never be consummated. Antoni was already disillusioned with her, even angry—why shouldn’t he agree to be free of her?
Yes, it might work. It just might work. She didn’t know how one went about getting an annulment, but under these circumstances, it must be possible.
Did she have the resolve to pursue it, however? No matter what? Did she have the resolve to take control of her own life? Anna imagined—if only for the moment—that she had that courage and she fell asleep in the early morning hours, dreaming of a scene in which the Cardinal of Warsaw himself was assuring her of an annulment. She was content for the first time in weeks.
But Anna’s new sense of ease did not outlast her dreams: she became ill again in the morning.
Lutisha attended her and must have spoken to the Countess Gronska after leaving Anna’s room because the countess and Zofia entered soon afterward. The countess appraised the pale Anna, asking one question after another.
“What is it, Aunt Stella?” Anna asked after the litany was finished. She was becoming concerned by her aunt’s grim expression and manner. “Am I terribly ill? Is it serious?”
“No, you’re not ill. But, yes, it is serious.”
“What do you mean?”
“It means, my dear, that you are with child.”
Anna’s heart dropped. She became dizzy with the news—even though she had denied her own suspicions for days.
Zofia gasped. “Anna, is this child—is it Antoni’s?”
“No.”
Aunt Stella’s face bled to white. “Can you be so certain, Anna?”
“I can.”
Zofia took her meaning immediately. “You mean to say that the marriage has not been consummated?”
“Zofia!” the countess cried.
“There, there, Aunt. I can speak of it. No,” she said, shaking her head, “it has not.”
In those first minutes, before all the other factors regarding having a child could complicate Anna’s reaction, one thought rose to the surface: annulment was now impossible.
15
WHEN ANTONI GRAWLINSKI RETURNED FROM St. Petersburg, his face and demeanor were dark, so Anna’s first thought was that his father had died, that Antoni had come back a baron.
But, no, he told her abruptly, his father had astonished everyone by staging a recovery. And without further comment, he retired to his room.
On the day after Antoni’s arrival, Countess Stella Gronska held what was, in essence, a family meeting after the evening meal. It was she who spoke first. “Anna Maria, I have told Antoni about your . . . condition. He understands, my dear.”
Anna looked to her husband, who smiled weakly.
“And you will accept, Antoni?” Anna asked.
“Accept?” he asked.
“Yes. Does my aunt mean to say you will accept my child?”
Antoni cleared his throat. He was clearly surprised. “You mean as my own?”
Zofia spoke up now. “The child is not Antoni’s, Anna, and as such will always—always—remain an impediment to your marriage.”
“But Aunt Stella said that he understands. Do you understand, Antoni?”
“Yes, Anna, but I cannot recognize such a child as my own.”
“I meant that Antoni would see you through your term,” the countess said. “There are too many difficulties for him to adopt it, if that is your thought. Supposing the child is a boy . . . you could not expect Antoni to allow a child not his own to be his heir.”
Anna felt her body go rigid. “Heir to my father’s fortune and estate!”
“And to his own, dearest.”
“Mother is right, Anna. Of course, no one needs to know that the child is not Antoni’s, but from a legal point of view as well as from Antoni’s, your baby could not inherit his title and estate. Listen, dearest, keeping the child will make things impossibly difficult for everyone concerned . . . including the child. You must think about that.”
“I have thought about that,” Anna said, her eyes making contact in turn with those of her aunt, her cousin, and her husband. “I had thought about the possibility of a child in those first days of recovery, but then I put it from my mind, or nearly so. God would not allow it, I thought. But now . . . it is strange . . . since I know there is life within me, my feelings have changed. Perhaps this life, like all life, is a gift from God. I want my baby.”
“I do not mean to make light of the tragedies you’ve suffered,” the countess said, “but only think if you had not married. My dear child! Your name has been saved. And can you question your goo
d fortune in making a respectable match?”
While Antoni said little, the countess and Zofia continued to tap away at Anna’s fragile shell of resistance. The child must be given up.
“What would become of my baby?” she asked at last.
“It would be offered to a good home in some other parish or city,” the countess said. “We will say that you and Antoni lost your first child.”
“The greatest secrecy will be taken with the matter,” Zofia added. “Mother knows all about such matters, don’t you, Mother?”
Countess Gronska’s brown eyes flared with surprise and anger. Anna noticed some unspoken current pass between mother and daughter, but she was too concerned about her own child to care.
Anna respected and loved her aunt. And even though the countess seemed detached and distracted of late, her aunt’s judgment was important to her. But Anna was not the same young girl who had come to live with the Gronski family only a few months before. She had loved and she had lost. She found herself locked in a loveless marriage, a marriage she was convinced had no future. In this matter, then, she vowed to follow her own mind and heart. She would not be the water making way for the rock; the rock would make way for her.
Anna stiffened in her chair, summoning her resolve. She realized that it would not be easy to defy everyone. “I intend to keep my child, Aunt Stella. It is the only reason for me to live.”
Antoni’s fist crashed onto the table. “Enough! I’ve listened to enough.” He stood. “I’ll leave it to you, Countess, to talk some sense into your niece. Goodnight.”
The three women sat in silence for a long minute after Antoni’s departure.
“Well,” Zofia said, “I think that Anna’s attitude is most admirable, Mother. Remember that she has many months to come to a decision.”
Zofia is playing the solicitous diplomat, Anna thought. How confident she is that she will win me over.
Push Not the River Page 14
