‘The heir?’ He took snuff. ‘You are so very sure, my dear? Should you not, perhaps, be preparing yourself for a Jadwiga rather than a Jan? The one I am descended from played a great part in Polish history by her marriage to the Duke of Lithuania. I sometimes think union by marriage has its advantages over that by the sword.’
‘Compliments, Michael?’
‘If you wish to take it as one. But, coming back to small Jan, or small Jadwiga, as the case may be, you hold to it that you prefer Poland in chains to free Russia for its birthplace?’
‘My child must be all Polish.’
‘Our child.’
‘Yes. And not Jan, Casimir.’
‘Ah. For your brother. Why not? And the European spelling your mother favoured? Wise, I think. But Miss Peverel thinks we are counting our cattle before the market and I am superstitious enough to agree with her.’ He turned to Jenny, who was moving to leave them. ‘Don’t go, Miss Peverel, you have a part to play in this decision. My wife, I know, counts more on you than on Dr. Scott. But are we right to let you stay? If war does break out, your chance of getting back to England is gone. This is your moment of choice, to go or to stay. To return to your family, or to throw in your lot with us, which I promise you will never regret.’
‘You’re very kind.’
‘Don’t go, Jenny, please.’ Isobel took her hand. ‘I need you.’ Pregnancy had changed the Princess, softened her, Jenny thought, made her less remote.
‘Thank you. I’d not thought to trouble you with my sad news, Highness. But my father is dead. My mother has had to leave our home and is sharing her time between my sisters. There is no place for me in England now. It makes me very happy that you want me here.’
‘I am so very sorry,’ said the Prince. ‘And, selfishly, so glad. I mean to write and ask my master for leave to stay until the birth, but longer, I know, he will not allow. It will be the greatest comfort to me to know that you are here, Miss Peverel. I just hope, my dear, that your little Casimir does not keep you waiting too long.’
‘Our little Casimir,’ said the Princess.
Glynde and Jan had been settled in the Hôtel de Londres at Petersburg for some time. Neither of them had much wanted to delay in Warsaw, where there was an absolute dearth of hard news, but where they first encountered a disquieting rumour that Bonaparte was imprisoning any Englishmen caught in his territory by the outbreak of war. Jan’s father had been urging for some time that he move to Petersburg and get down to business, and Glynde had been sent in the same direction by a long, irascible letter from Canning. Reading between the lines of their pre-arranged code, he could tell that things in England had not gone at all as Canning had hoped. The office of Foreign Secretary still eluded him, and nothing had improved his soured relations with his old friend Pitt. Glynde thought he needed a brilliant diplomatic achievement to re-establish himself. Perhaps because of this, Poland, that home of lost causes, had become less important in his thinking than Russia, and he urged Glynde to go there. England’s chances of success in the new war against Bonaparte would be immensely improved if the Tsar Alexander could be persuaded to join in. But Alexander and the group of liberal-minded young men who surrounded him still seemed beglamoured by Bonaparte. ‘Even the subjugation of the independent Swiss has not undeceived them.’ Canning went on to thank Glynde for the information he had sent him from Poland, even though much of it had been negative. Now, he wanted him to move to Petersburg: ‘Your friendship with the Prince Ovinski will be of the greatest use there.’
Friendship! If Canning only knew. He did not at all wish to be beholden to Ovinski for his introduction into Petersburg society. Luckily, he had letters from Simon Vorontzov, the Russian Ambassador in London, to his older brother Alexander, who had been Foreign Minister under the previous Tsar, and he and Jan found themselves welcome in his house as well as the British Ambassador’s, where a restfully masculine atmosphere prevailed while Sir John Warren’s wife was in England. And wherever they went, they heard the praises of the new young Tsar Alexander, and whispered descriptions of his dead father’s mindless tyranny.
‘They say Alexander is a great liberal.’ Jan turned to Glynde as they walked along the quay by the River Neva admiring the throng of boats. ‘Plans great things for Russia since his sudden accession to the throne. What a blessing …’
‘Let’s not talk about that.’ Even in Alexander’s freer Petersburg, discussion of his father’s murder was dangerous. ‘But I agree with you,’ Glynde went on, ‘I long to meet the Tsar.’
‘Do you think Adam Czartoryski would arrange it for us? It does seem quite extraordinary that the Tsar should have a Polish Foreign Minister.’ They had met Adam Czartoryski at Simon Vorontzov’s house and he had claimed Jan as a kind of cousin after hearing of his relationship to the Princess, reminding them that his family home, Pulawy, was not far from Rendomierz.
‘He’s a brilliant man,’ said Glynde. ‘I just wish I knew whether he’s more Pole or Russian these days. He was pure Pole when I met him years ago, as an exile in England.’
‘And look at him now! I wonder how he and Ovinski get on.’ He paused for a moment to look at the busy crowd crossing the bridge of boats. ‘I wish there would be news of the Princess.’
Glynde was silent. She was never out of his thoughts.
Calling on Sir John Warren, they learned that Prince Ovinski had reached Petersburg the day before. ‘He has come to announce the birth of his son,’ Warren told them. ‘It was a bold marriage that; two dynastic Polish families; I do rather wonder if the Tsar was not counting on their remaining childless when he gave permission for it. The Tsar Paul, of course,’ he explained a little hurriedly. ‘Permission was naturally given before his death. I think it surprised everyone. But then, he was a most unpredictable man.’
The two young men walked home rather silently. ‘What is the form?’ Jan asked as they reached the Hotel de Londres.
‘I think a note, don’t you?’
They duly wrote the notes and delivered them at the Ovinski Palace on the Fontanka Canal. Civil, non-committal replies told them that the Prince very much looked forward to meeting them, but made no positive suggestion.
‘So that’s that,’ said Glynde, relieved.
‘Yes.’ Jan’s laugh was forced. ‘Blood may be thicker than water in Rendomierz, but not here, it seems.’ He took an irritable turn to the window. ‘Let’s go out! I need to stretch my legs. What do you say? Shall we take a walk in the summer gardens?’
‘What a noble view, now the sun’s out for once.’ They were returning along the quay by the Winter Palace and Glynde paused to look across the grey Neva at the spires and domes of the Peter Paul Fortress and the twin lighthouse towers in Vasily Island beyond it.
‘Peter the Great certainly knew what he was doing. I’ve never seen New York, but Petersburg certainly has London or Paris quite beaten when it comes to design and coherence.’
‘I thank you, gentlemen, on my ancestor’s behalf.’ The handsome, fair young man who had come up from behind was taller than either of them and stooped slightly, graciously to speak to them. Piercing blue eyes looked, for a moment, from one to the other. ‘Mr. Rendel, I think, and Mr. Warrington? I have hoped for the chance of making your acquaintance.’
‘Your Majesty!’ Glynde had known him at once, but still found the situation more than he could handle.
‘No, no!’ His laugh was friendly, engaging. ‘I have slipped the leash. I am strictly incognito!’ He looked around him on the crowded quay. ‘I pretend very hard not to recognise the secret police who follow me. They are no affair of mine.’ But he had made a point of a kind, Glynde thought. ‘I am happy to welcome you both to Holy Russia, and only sad that protocol has made it impossible for me to do so formally.’ He had taken his place between them and they found themselves walking along the quay, one on each side, aware of the stares of the crowd. ‘Now, Mr. Warrington, you must tell me about your United States of America, and how you manage to gover
n yourselves in a country almost as vast as mine.’ And he proceeded to put Jan through a remarkably knowledgeable cross-examination about his country, then turned at last, smiling, to Glynde. ‘Forgive me, Mr. Rendel, but I know more about your great country. We must meet again. I count on it.’ And, as easily as he had come, he was gone.
‘What an amazing man!’ Their eyes met.
‘Yes.’
Sir John Warren was more surprised than pleased to find their names included with his in his invitation to the Tsar’s Peterhof Fête, early in August. Their carriage followed his on the three-hour drive from Petersburg to the palace Peter the Great had built on the Gulf of Finland as a setting-off point for his new naval base at Kronstadt. Used by Tsar Paul it had fallen into disuse since his murder and was only opened for this annual fête.
Strolling on the terrace to admire the view of the sea and the imperial yachts dressed overall, they came face to face with Prince Ovinski, very elegant in full court-dress. ‘We are to congratulate you, Prince, on the birth of a son.’ Glynde had the phrase ready for such an occasion. ‘I trust you left the Princess well?’
‘Both her and the child, thank you. And Miss Peverel.’
‘She’s not gone home?’
‘No. When war was declared, she chose to throw in her lot with ours. To my great satisfaction. What news do you have from England, Mr. Rendel? Are your friends glad it’s war again?’
‘Bonaparte must be stopped, Highness. This high-handed imprisonment of innocent British travellers must enrage all right-minded people.’
‘You would certainly think so.’ Ovinski shrugged. ‘An unprincipled nobody. I will see you later, at the ball, gentlemen.’ He turned and walked slowly away past the waterfall with its brilliant golden statues.
Much later, after an excellent dinner and a ride through the pleasure gardens in luxurious carriages provided by their host, they put on dominoes and masks for the ball and awaited its opening in the crowded central chamber of the palace, a handsome hall painted all over with female portraits. At last, the Emperor and his brother, the Grand Duke Constantine, passed through to the dancing-hall, followed by the Empress and the Empress Mother, with the young Grand Duchesses Catherine and Anna and the rest of the royal family, resplendent with jewels.
Following them into the ballroom itself, they found it already packed with people of all classes who were admitted to this part of the festivities. As a result, only the very senior members of the court were able to walk through the inevitable polonaise, but Glynde recognised Prince Ovinski among them, despite the mask. He was leading a very lissome young lady, whose whole bearing, as she let him guide her through the formal movement of the dance, showed adoration, the unqualified surrender of a young girl to an older man.
‘It’s intolerably hot in here,’ Glynde turned to Jan. ‘Let’s get outside!’
They were soon followed by the Tsar himself, who moved on to the balcony outside the Portrait Hall to watch the illuminations, accompanied by those of his court who could crowd on to the balcony. Watching from the terrace below, Glynde thought the illuminations disappointing, over in less than a quarter of an hour and suffering from the fact that it was still not fully dark. But had he really been watching them? The picture of that elegant young female form, bent adoringly upwards towards the Prince, kept superimposing itself before his eyes. And what right in the world had he to object? He, who had cuckolded the Prince before he was even married, who was almost certainly the father of the young Prince Casimir?
He loathed himself. ‘Let’s go home,’ he said suddenly to Jan. ‘Let’s not wait for supper!’
‘Someone told me the bridges would be raised between here and the city,’ Jan objected.
‘Nonsense! Impossible! With this crowd on its way home!’ It was beginning to get light again already as their coach pushed its slow way through the line of carriages and crowd of walkers that extended almost the whole way from the Peterhof to the city gates.
‘How many people in all, do you think?’ asked Jan as the carriage paused once again.
‘God knows! Forty thousand? Fifty perhaps? A chance for the world and his wife to see their beloved Tsar.’
‘Yes. Shall we call on the Prince?’
‘I think we must.’ And then, ‘Damnation!’ The bridge was indeed raised against them and they had to sit there waiting for a furious hour.
There was not much hard political news in Petersburg, but gossip was plentiful, and Glynde soon heard the stories about Prince Ovinski and the ladies, notably the beautiful young Princess Irene Landowska. He longed to go back to Rendomierz, to tell the Princess about it, make her come away with him. And he made himself face how she would receive such a suggestion. He could see the lift of those strongly marked eyebrows, so oddly like Jan’s, the light laugh with which she would dismiss the idea, and him. He stayed in Petersburg and amused himself as best he could, which was not well.
Chapter 9
‘I still don’t believe it,’ Jan said again. ‘It’s murder, no more no less. To kidnap the Duc d’Enghien on neutral soil in Baden would be bad enough; but to arrange his judicial murder, without even a pretence of a trial … Even Bonaparte would surely not do that!’
‘It seems he has,’ said Glynde. ‘Oh, some sort of a trial, but condemned and executed all in one day …! One of the oldest families of France wiped out. And all on some flimsy pretext of conspiracy. Bonaparte has finished himself. It will mean ostracism in all the courts of Europe. And Baden’s the home of the Russian Empress. The Tsar will be outraged.’
Alexander was indeed shocked and furious. He put his court into mourning for the murdered Duke and recalled his Ambassador from Paris, but the rest of Europe had learned to fear the formidable First Consul. Reaction in England was violent, but elsewhere the protests were surprisingly muted. And Alexander’s own protest had met with a disconcerting reply. Bonaparte’s Foreign Minister, Talleyrand, pointed out that so far as he knew, no one had ever been punished for the murder of Alexander’s own father, the Emperor Paul. And when Napoleon crowned himself Emperor, a couple of months later, in May 1804, with the Pope looking on, Europe once again stirred uneasily and did nothing.
‘But I really believe it has opened my master’s eyes at last to the true character of the upstart Bonaparte.’ The Russian Foreign Minister, Adam Czartoryski, had found he could speak freely with Glynde and Jan, and made no secret of his own Polish sympathies. ‘My hopes for an independent Kingdom of Poland are rising,’ he went on. ‘The Emperor begins to see the need for it as a buffer state between him and that madman in France.’
‘You think the Tsar might really allow Poland its independence?’ asked Glynde.
‘With a King of his choosing? Yes.’ Unspoken between the three of them was the chance that Czartoryski might be that chosen King.
‘Czartoryski is related to the last Polish King, Stanislas Augustus, after all,’ said Jan back at the Hôtel de Londres.
‘For what that is worth. Stanislas Augustus was the Empress Catherine’s appointment, remember, but not much good came of it in the end.’
‘Poland had almost thirty years of quite remarkably humane rule under him.’
‘The tyrant from whom your mother fled?’
‘You’ve got me there! Whatever else you say about Polish history, you do have to admit it’s complicated. But, surely, Glynde, anything would be better than its abject state today. To have even the shadow of independence! If only there were a real rallying point, but you know as well as I do that Adam Czartoryski is practically a Russian by now. He was only in his twenties when they brought him here as a hostage for his family’s behaviour ten years ago. And look what a friend of the Tsar’s he has become!’
‘But he fought gallantly against the Russians in 1794.’
‘A long time ago. If the Poles do remember, do you think they will forgive him for all his collaboration with the Russians since?’
‘Collaboration’s an ugly word. We know how he has sto
od his country’s friend with the Tsar.’ But Glynde was thinking of something else, of the little Prince Casimir Ovinski, now a year old, scion of two royal Polish houses, a planned rallying point. ‘Have the Richards heard anything from Miss Peverel?’ he asked now, surprising Jan.
‘Not for a while. The posts are quicker between Petersburg and London, they say, than between here and Rendomierz.’
‘And more reliable, I expect, since they doubtless send by British merchantmen. But there’s not been one yet, has there, since the Neva thawed?’
‘No. Richards thinks there should be one any day. I just hope it’s not from the United States, with a letter from my papa demanding my instant return.’
‘I should think he must be beginning to find you quite useful to him here.’ Jan had made firm friends with George Richards, was spending a good deal of time with him and obviously enjoying this rather informal apprenticeship in the world of business.
‘George says Mr. Addington’s government is bound to fall,’ Jan said now. ‘He’s a little anxious about what Mr. Pitt’s war party may do to trade, when they get in.’
‘He says “when” not “if’?’ Glynde had developed a considerable respect for George Richards’ judgment. If Pitt came back to power, so, surely would his own friend Canning, and his roving commission might turn into something more official – what he had always hoped for. If not, it was time he went home, stopped enraging himself by watching Prince Ovinski and his series of exquisite mistresses.
But when news finally came of the new British government formed in May, Canning’s name was not listed among the members of Mr. Pitt’s cabinet. ‘Your friend’s still out of favour, it appears,’ said Jan. ‘Richards seems to think it is all for the best. But he believes that Canning’s friend Lord Granville Leveson Gower may replace Sir John Warren as Ambassador here. Do you know him too?’
‘Yes, indeed. We were at school together.’ Glynde laughed. ‘He’ll cut quite a swathe among the Petersburg ladies, I can tell you. If Lady Bessborough lets him come, that is.’
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