Polonaise (2 page)

‘Her father was a friend of the hero Pulaski, fought with
him at the time of the Confederation of Bar, went into exile with him. Was killed with him, too, in the American attack on British-held Savannah in ‘79. No hard feelings, I hope!'

‘Not the least in the world! That war between our countries was a bit of idiocy. But what chance of reasoned argument between a mad King, an obstinate minister, and, excuse me, a bunch of hot-headed colonists? I just hope to God it never happens again.'

‘You think it might?'

‘Not if this peace holds in Europe. If we should find ourselves fighting Bonaparte again, and I am very much afraid that we may, there is no knowing what may be the end of it.'

‘You really think the peace they made at Amiens won't hold?'

‘It will be a miracle if it does.' Glynde turned to look at his companion as they picked their way over huge cobbles on the steep slope down from Cracow's Wawel Hill where the palace and cathedral stood. ‘You can't want war to break out again.'

‘As a Pole, I must. Napoleon betrayed us at the peace conference. After all Dombrowski's Polish Legion had done for him, all the blood they had poured out fighting his wars, he let the partition stand! Another war, another peace; it's our only hope.'

‘I'd be careful how you say such things here in Austrian-occupied territory. Even in English.' They had left the Wawel now and plunged into the narrow, crowded streets of Cracow itself. ‘I was warned in Vienna that there are spies everywhere.'

‘Thanks!' Bitterly. ‘Of course their spies would speak English even if their soldiers don't! I begin to think that the sooner I get to my cousin's, the better.'

‘I'm sure you're right. In the meantime, come and dine with me at my hotel. I've a private room, such as it is. At least we can speak freely there.'

‘Thank you.' The young American turned and held out a friendly hand. ‘And thanks again for what you did back there. I could have been in real trouble.'

‘I'm afraid you could.'

Glynde had rooms in a hotel on Cracow's main square, overlooking the handsome old Cloth-makers Hall. Instructing his servant to order them a neat dinner as soon as possible, he
poured a glass of wine for them both, and raised his own. ‘To our lucky meeting.'

‘Lucky for me, and no mistake. But tell me, what brings you to this God-forsaken country?'

‘I'd have said God was Poland's only hope right now. You're not a Catholic?'

‘No. I was brought up as one, of course, but father's a Unitarian. It seemed to suit me better, somehow. It's the only argument I have with my sister. She stuck; I didn't.'

‘Is she as passionate a Pole as you, then?'

‘Not quite. She was younger, when mother died. She doesn't remember so clearly. Mind you, she speaks Polish as well as I do, maybe better. And German! Pity she couldn't come too.'

‘I'm surprised your father let you.' But then, he thought, fathers …

Jan laughed. ‘It took some persuading! When I finished at Harvard College, he wanted me to stay home and learn to manage the plantation. A life sentence!'

‘A pleasant one. I'm a younger son, myself; no estate to manage.'

‘But not exactly starving,' said Jan with transatlantic frankness. ‘Those damned Austrians were your servants on sight. Do you think they would treat me as well if you were to lend me that caped greatcoat of yours?' He had begun by dismissing his new acquaintance as a typical English fop, the kind of young aristocrat who was obeyed simply because he assumed he would be. Now he began to revise his opinion, aware of a hint of steel under the charming manner, a firm twist to the engaging smile.

Glynde laughed. ‘It would hardly fit you!' Slender, though strong himself, he had approved his companion's broad shoulders. ‘I think that if I provide the language for the pair of us, you're the one who will keep the footpads at bay. That is, if you are going to agree to let me join you in exploring Cracow, as I hope you will.'

‘Frankly, I hadn't reckoned to spend much time here. I had to see the cathedral, but the rest of the place gives me the glooms. All these relics of former splendours! Have you seen the university? It'd break your heart! And the poverty everywhere, the beggars … the way they cringe … I hate it!'

‘I know. But you can't blame it all on the Austrians. It goes further back than that, if you ask me.' He had been about to mention the evils of serfdom, remembered just in time that his new friend came from one of the slave-owning states of America, and held his peace as his man reappeared to usher in a pair of inn servants.

‘It's a kind of stew, sir.' The man's tone was apologetic. ‘The best they can do, they say.'

‘
Bigos
,' said the young American with relish. ‘My mother used to make it. You might as well eat the food of the country while you're here, Mr. Rendel.'

‘Spare me the “Mister”.' He was refilling their glasses. ‘And tell me where you are heading when you leave Cracow. I'm not hell-bent on staying here either; I mean to spend more time in Warsaw, so if by any chance you were going that way, maybe we could at least start off together, and I'll teach you some useful German phrases as we go.'

‘Thanks! Yes, I'm going north too, to my cousin's at Rendomierz.' He coloured. ‘I'd like it very much if you would join me that far. And of course you must meet my cousin. I'm sure … that is, I don't quite know …'

‘I'm a fool!' Glynde interrupted him. ‘When you said cousin, I thought of a man. Well, one does. But, of course, it must be the Princess Sobieska. You're here for the wedding! And she'll have enough on her hands without entertaining a stray Englishman she's never heard of. But I would most certainly like to meet her. They say she's a great beauty, and a great lady. And Rendomierz itself one of the most famous Polish palaces. What do they call it? The Polish Urbino?'

‘Drawing rather a long bow,' said Jan. ‘But, yes, when we got news of my cousin's marriage last fall, it was the feather that turned the balance. My father knew mother would have wanted me to come. Says he hopes a year or so here will cure me of my Polish mania, and from what I have seen so far, I think he's likely right. But, what I don't know is whether the marriage may not already have taken place; it was a while before I could get a ship, see. Father insisted I travel on one of his.'

‘I can set your mind at rest there.' Rendel made a mental note that Jan Warrington was clearly the son of an affluent
father. ‘The marriage contract seems to have presented various problems. Well, it most certainly is a dynastic alliance; the heiress of the Sobieskis with a man who claims the blood of the Jagiellos, that old, great, royal family.'

‘You do know your Polish history.'

‘I've tried.' Deprecatingly. ‘It's partly why I've rather made a set at you. A real live Pole. Well, Polish American. I've an eye to the diplomatic service, you see. A man must do something. I've money for my tailor – as you've remarked – left me by my mother, but that's no reason for sitting idle. I'd meant to join the army, but a damned inconvenient wound I got at Valmy put paid to that idea.'

‘You were at Valmy?'

‘Yes. I'm not so good a son as you. I didn't wait for my father's consent. I'd have waited for ever! He meant me for the church. He doesn't change his mind, my father.' He ran an angry hand through fashionably cut fair hair. Even now, ten years later, the memory of that scene enraged him. ‘So I ran away, got myself taken on with the Duke of Brunswick's staff. And a sad, mismanaged business that campaign was, I can tell you. The Duke's a soldier; no diplomat.'

‘And you were wounded? You must have been a mere boy.'

‘Old enough to know what a fool I'd been as I lay there in the mud, with the rain pouring down. Not my cause, not my army … And nearly the end of me. Damn fool boy. Your glass is empty. It's a long time since I thought about Valmy. Ten years ago! And how I've wasted them. Well, let's not go into that. This fricassée is good. What did you call it?'

‘
Bigos
. My mother used to make it when she could get the cabbage and enough bits of meat and sausage. We always loved it, Anna and I.' He turned and spoke in rapid Polish to the inn servant who had remained in attendance, and got a flashing smile and a flood of speech in response. ‘I told him you liked it. They don't often get praise from foreigners, he says. Complaints mostly, because it's not what they're used to.'

‘He said it at some length!' Glynde was wishing he had made himself learn Polish as well as Russian before he came on this odd venture. But there had not been much time for preparations. His friend Canning, the Tory politician, had
approached him about this secret mission the moment the peace was signed at Amiens, and Europe open to travellers again.

‘It's mostly like this. They're so pleased to find I'm a fellow countryman. Tell me terrible tales of the occupation. I think it helps them to be listened to.'

‘I'm sure it does. What now?' The man had bent forward to speak again to Warrington, then left the room.

‘He's gone to order us their special dessert. Told your man there was nothing in the house, but of course he was lying. It's a kind of pancake. I hope you'll like it.'

‘I'll eat it anyway,' he promised. ‘You Poles certainly hang together.'

‘Odd you should say that. It's just what my father doesn't think. He says we need a foreign enemy to stop us fighting amongst ourselves.'

‘I'd like to meet your father. He studied Polish history too?'

‘What is there to study? No, but he was a friend of Pulaski; did his best to help him over his various problems with George Washington and the government. He was a hothead, too. Pulaski, not my father. Father said, in a way, he was lucky to be killed gallantly at Savannah.
Enfant terrible
one day; dead hero the next. You know how it is.'

‘What did your mother say to that?'

‘Father never said it when she was alive. She'd not have borne it. Pulaski and Sobieski were her heroes. It was after she died, when I started to grow up, that father began really talking to me about Poland. When he saw how mad keen I was to come here.' He looked round the shabby room. ‘I still feel I owe it to my mother. She was only ten when they went into exile in '72. She owed Poland a life, she said.'

‘Your life?'

He emptied his glass. ‘I hope not.'

In the snug English vicarage on the banks of the Arun, the discussion had been raging for three days, ever since the letter had come. Now Mr. Peverel banged a hand on the dining table, rattling glasses and china. ‘I say that, since she wishes it, the girl should go. It's a damned flattering invitation, and a damned surprising one, as you must admit, Mrs. Peverel. That the Princess should have remembered our Jenny, these eight years since they met at Petworth, and remembering her, want to see her again –' His impartial gaze, summing up and dismissing his twenty-two-year-old unmarried daughter, finished the sentence for him. His wife made to speak, but he raised a formidable hand to stop her. ‘Times are bad, as you know, and this peace won't change things overnight. Taxes up; tithes down. If it wasn't for the farm, I'd have to give up the carriage, and then where would you be, ma'am? No more jauntings to Petworth then. A mouth to feed has to be a consideration these days, not to mention the laces and ribbons, the fans and furbelows for the Chichester Assembly. And all of it wasted.' He fixed his daughter with an angry eye. ‘Young Forester that you turned down in your first season's a Rural Dean now. Told you there was good stuff in him, remember? To think I was fool enough to listen to your pleadings! He has influence with the Bishop, they say. Didn't take him long to marry that friend of yours, what's her name? Maria Kemp, pretty little puss. I remember her.'

‘I met her in Petworth the other day.' His daughter spoke at last. ‘You'd not know her now, father. Four children in four years; and a husband who never listens. She looks an old woman.'

‘Never listens? How do you know he never listens? Been tittle-tattling with her, hey?'

‘He didn't listen when he was courting me. Just talked. Men
don't change, father.' She met her mother's horrified eye and blushed crimson.

‘That settles it!' Another thump on the table. ‘I'll not be preached at in my own house. By a chit with only one offer to her name! And no wonder. Bella was a beauty; Araminta had style; what have you got, hey, Jenny?'

‘Jenny has very good sense,' said her mother. ‘It's selfish of me not to want her to go, and I know it. I had so hoped …' It was her turn to blush and to suppress a surreptitious tear at the thought of those hopes for her youngest daughter's company through the years as some modification to life with her husband. ‘But if you really wish it, Jenny love? You're sure? It's such a long way to go … Everything so different … And on so short an acquaintance. You'll be entirely dependent on the Princess, remember. Suppose you should not suit?'

‘I'll see to it that I do,' said Jenny. ‘It will be an adventure, mama. Such an adventure! To go all the way to Poland … I've only ever been to London once.'

‘And a sad waste of money that was,' said her father. ‘But how to get you there; that's the question. No one goes to Poland any more, now it's not a sovereign state. No Ambassador, no diplomats. Tell you what, I'll put on my hat and ride over to Petworth House. See if Lord Egremont has any suggestions to make. It was there that you met the Princess and her mother after all. Sad about the young Prince. I remember him. Shaping up for a proper young blade, he was. These duels are not at all the thing … And with a Russian too. Awkward for everyone. You'll need to turn your mind a bit to politics if you're going, Jenny. Or at least remember to still that tongue of yours and keep quiet when you don't understand. For God's sake, what's the matter now?' He spoke to his wife, for his daughter had risen, mute and scarlet-faced and hurried from the room.