Polonaise (50 page)

The sun was setting in splendour ahead of him and he had to slow his pace partly to favour his exhausted horse, partly to pick his way along the rutted road with eyes dazzled by almost horizontal rays. Not far now. Another hour if the moon rose unclouded, but he must not risk a fall that might lame his horse. He spoke to it, gently, urgently, trying to convey his own sense of crisis. They were old friends after all.

The last crimson segment of the sun vanished below the dark fringe of forest ahead and he had to slow his pace still further in the suddenly diminished light, grateful that he was within the Vinsk estate now, where Miriam saw to it that the roads were well maintained. The moon was up behind him. Why had the afterglow not vanished from the west?

Fire. A wooden palace, burning. Miriam. His horse was making heavy weather of the climb that led up to the watershed of the Vin. At the top there was a cleared place where he and Miriam sometimes rode in the evening, for a breath of air and a wider view of the sunset. Miriam was a woman of great good sense. Whatever had happened, she would have done the wisest thing. He must believe that, hold on to it, while he thought about the French, the Russians, the grinding millstones of war.

There. He was at the top, looking down on an inferno. The palace, all its outbuildings, blazed fiercely in the gathering dusk. Impossible to make out from this distance whether anyone was fighting the flames, and no time to waste looking. His anxiety must have communicated itself to his horse which
plunged willingly into the dark of the forest on the downhill slope.

Presently he could hear the crackle of flames, the crash of falling timber. But no screams, no shouts, no hint of human life. He was praying, under his breath, as he emerged from the forest at last into a great, empty, flickering desolation.

Leon Wysocki was appalled when the Princess told him he must represent Rendomierz at the
Sejm
, and begged Glynde Rendel to intercede with her for him. ‘She will take your advice, lord.'

‘I doubt it.' Glynde's tone was sharp. There had been something in the man's tone he did not like, confirming as it did the speculative glances of which he was increasingly aware. He even caught Jenny's considering eye on him from time to time, and minded this most of all. But what in the world could he do or say? Ten years ago, he had paced his room, night after night, longing for the summons that did not come, aflame with love for the Princess. Love? Passion. And that had worn away, somewhere in the years between. Mary Richards had helped, meeting his hunger with her own, and there had been other women, here and there, some remembered with pleasure, some forgotten on purpose. And now, here was the Princess, visibly older, though as handsome as ever, paying public court to him. No other way to describe it. But what did she want? What did she intend? And how could he stop her without insulting her beyond forgiveness? He had long since given up trying to convince himself that there was no truth in the talk of her affairs with Murat and Davout. But they were men of power. What in the world could she want with him? And how could he convince her that it was not available for her, whatever it was? He would be glad when she left for Warsaw.

Wysocki had, of course, agreed to represent Rendomierz at the
Sejm
. The Princess's servants did not refuse her orders. And as a reward, she had arranged a fête for him on the day before they left for Warsaw. ‘In the garden, of course,' she told Glynde. ‘That way there can be no loss of dignity in our all sitting down together. We'll make what you English would call a picnic of it. How well I remember picnics in the park at Petworth House. Such an easy, delightful, English occasion.
When this war is over, and Poland free, I think I will go and stay with my friends there. Maybe send Casimir to an English school? You would approve of that, I am sure, my wise counsellor.'

‘An admirable idea. I am sure Casimir would profit by the rough and tumble of English schooling.'

‘And you will be there to show us how to go on. What happiness to throw off the burden of my position for a while, and just be an English lady. Yes, Jenny?' Impatiently.

‘It's about the invitations, Princess. You never did decide who should be asked.'

‘Everybody! This is to be Liberty Hall. I've not entertained in state since the Tsar came, and your quick wits saved us all from disaster, Mr. Rendel.'

‘Miss Peverel's rather. Casimir wants to sing Dom-browski's March to the crowd, Highness. All of them in their new uniforms. Do you think it would be wise?'

‘I think it would be admirable. Make sure that the uniforms fit, Jenny. I have been telling Mr. Rendel that I plan to take Casimir to England when the war is over. You'd like that, would you not?'

‘Oh, yes!' Jenny blushed brilliantly with pleasure. ‘To see my sisters! My nephews and nieces! Oh –' She had almost said Isobel; restrained herself: ‘Highness, do you really mean it?'

‘If I did not, I would not have said it. But Mr. Rendel is looking glum. What is the matter, wise counsellor?'

‘First this war has to be won, Highness.'

‘Croaking again! Just because you British used to be allies of the Russians, you seem to think that the young Tsar will carry all before him. I tell you, he's a straw to every wind that blows. And to every lady that smiles. Did Jenny ever tell you about the time he came here on his way back from defeat at Austerlitz?'

‘No.' He could not but be interested.

‘Such a performance.' Tolerantly. ‘Come to the door, like any traveller, asking for shelter, in a shabby old greatcoat, and hat pulled down over his eyes. Do you remember, Jenny? Of course I spotted him at once; pretended not to. He likes to play out those charades of his. All he wanted was a cup of tea,
he said, and quiet. We played his game to a nicety, did we not, Jenny?'

‘Oh, yes.' Why was she blushing? ‘I remember he stayed the night in the end.'

‘And has been goodness itself to me since. When the Prince died there was nothing for it but a state funeral in Petersburg. To show how he honoured his old friend, and his old friend's wife. But he's a squire for every dame, that man. Changes with the wind, and his ladies. Napoleon made mincemeat of him before; he'll do it again. And this time, I hope Monsieur Talleyrand will be at the peace table to see that justice is done to us Poles.'

‘I hope so too,' said Glynde. ‘Tell me, Highness, is everyone in Warsaw as sure of victory as you?'

‘Naturally! It would be an insult to the Emperor to think otherwise.'

She meant the fete for Wysocki to give her a chance for a new approach to Glynde Rendel, who was being so obtuse about her delicate advances. She understood it, of course. He knew himself so infinitely beneath her; had trained himself, over the long years, to keep his passion in control. But with wine flowing, her moment would come to let him guess at his happiness.

It was disappointing that many of her neighbours had already gone to Warsaw for the opening of the
Sejm
, but there were enough guests to applaud the boys' singing of Dombrowski's March and walk through the pleasure gardens as the sun set and the moon rose. On Glynde's advice, she had countermanded the wine that was to have flowed from the fountains.

‘You see how I value your wise counsel.' She had found him beside one of the innocuous fountains after the boys had sung their song and the rest of the formal entertainment was over.

‘I try to think what is best for you, Highness. I am sure at this time of crisis you had better be seen spending your money on necessary stores than on ostentation.'

‘Ostentation?' She fingered her pearl choker, remembering what it had cost her, then smiled and held out her glass to a passing footman. ‘You still don't entirely understand us Poles, do you, Mr. Rendel? And who can blame you! But, don't you
see, this extravagant party, which I hope you are enjoying,' she gestured to the footman to top up Glynde's half empty glass, ‘this party is a public declaration of my confidence in Wysocki. Poor man, I'm afraid he is anxious enough about his first venture into politics! I had him for too long this morning, wanting reassurance about the part he is to play at Warsaw.'

‘Yes, he told me.'

‘I'm delighted to hear it! I hope you helped him to clear his mind of the absurd quixotries he had been harbouring.'

‘You mean his odd notion that he should give his vote according to the facts of the situation as he finds them rather than on instructions received from your Highness before he even left home? I'm afraid you must blame me for that absurd idea, Princess.' He drained his glass. ‘I have had it on my mind that I should say this to you. We have talked a great deal, Wysocki and I. If he shows signs of understanding what a democratic parliament is all about, I think you should blame it on me rather than on him. Or even on Napoleon!'

‘Napoleon?'

‘Yes. As an Englishman I hate and fear him, and you should never forget that. But as a democrat, I have to respect what he is doing here, in Europe. Wherever he has taken that conquering army of his, he has left law and democratic government. Look at the difference between Rendomierz and Vinsk. Here you are served by free men; there by slaves. That is what will make the difference, when it comes to war.'

‘That's what you told Leon?'

‘Of course. Let the free Poles rise and show their brothers in Russia what freedom means, and the victory is yours.'

‘Victory?' she said thoughtfully. But if it was indeed Glynde Rendel who had carelessly talked Wysocki into his astonishing moment of resistance it was more than time she brought him to heel. ‘Mr. Rendel; Glynde. It is so long, so very long since we talked, you and I. Give me your arm. Let us take the yew walk where I once had to faint for the Tsar's benefit. We can be private there, and you can explain this odd advice you seem to have been giving my poor muddled Leon.'

‘Odd, Highness?' What else could he do but take her arm?

‘Odd indeed. You know how I care for my serfs. The villages I have built, the schools I have founded, the chances they have. Well,
have. Well, look how they have flocked into the army, shaved their beards, become men. And have I stopped them? Never!'

‘No.' He did not add, but could you have?

‘It's gone far enough,' she said. ‘If this mad idea Bignon seems to have favoured of a universal Polish rising, of master and man off to fight Russia together … If that should really happen, it would be the end of Rendomierz, the end of civilisation.'

‘It might mean victory over Russia,' said Glynde.

‘At such a price? You, as a member of a landowning family, must know how many people – call them serfs, peasants, what you like – it takes to run an estate. I remember the people at Petworth House … the keepers, the beaters, the men in the fields. They may not have been serfs, but they were not much different. And we need them, we landowners, you and I!'

‘You, Princess. Not I.'

‘By birth you are. By breeding. That is why we have always understood each other so well.' They were in the dark yew alley now, moonlight above, shadow all around. She paused, pulling gently back on his arm, turning to face him, her eyes raised to his. ‘Glynde! Do you remember how we understood each other?'

‘Remember?' His blood throbbed with the message her flesh was giving to his. ‘Highness, how could I forget?' Moon mad? He was pulling her into his arms. All those years … He was a young man again, pacing a room; waiting for a summons that did not come. And now: ‘Isobel!' He bent, found her lips awaiting his, met them. Felt the passion of her response. And knew, too late, that he felt nothing.

‘At last! Oh, Glynde, after all these years!' She drew away a little to smile up at him. And at that moment a boy's hand pulled the lever that controlled the joke fountains and they were suddenly drenched from either side.

Reaching Vinsk at last, Jan found the fires dying down. The moon showed nothing but desolation. ‘Miriam!' His voice sounded strange against the last whispers of the flames and the great silence beyond. ‘Miriam!' he called again, knowing it hopeless. Palace, outbuildings, stables: everything was reduced to the same dark rubble. His only comfort was the silence. No screams, no groans, human or animal. No horrible smell of burned flesh. Occupants and animals alike must have been out of the place before it was set ablaze. But to what fate?

No hope of an answer here. He turned his horse along the familiar track to the village and paused at the corner to look across the valley at the Russian camp. And there, too, was nothing but darkness and silence. Not a camp fire burned. The whole detachment must have marched during the few days he was away. Forward, to confront the French? Fool, idiot to have relied on their protection for Miriam.

Where was she now? Reaching the village, he was relieved to find its hovels still standing, but here again there was nothing but silence, no cackle of hens, no smoke from the chimneys. Had Miriam had notice of disaster and taken her people to safety? But where? He had come some way along the Vilno road and seen no sign of their passage. Above him, a nightingale sang, making the moonlit scene more lonely still. But he must make sure. He dismounted, tethered his horse where it could get an illicit meal from the thatch of one of the hovels, and made his way to the hut of the village's headman. His knock on the door sounded harsh in the silence. The nightingale stopped singing. Nothing else.

He stood there in the moonlight, facing disaster. Miriam had vanished into the vastness of Russia. Was dead? Or so savagely treated that she had crept away to hide? Where was the nearest convent? Would its nuns accept her? A Jewess. And how should he find it? He must find her. He must know.
If she was alive, he would marry her, whatever had happened. It was all his fault.

If she was alive she would not have gone without leaving a message for him. Suddenly he was sure of that. Even if it was only goodbye. Could he have missed it, back at the palace? He did not think so. Here, surely? He knocked again on the headman's door, shouted against the enveloping darkness. ‘It is I, Jan Warrington, looking for Miriam, looking for my wife.' Strange that it should be so difficult to shout into this alien darkness, but he repeated it, over and over again, walking up and down the village street, pausing to listen.