Polonaise (18 page)

‘So it was across country to find you,' he told them. ‘And very glad I am to have done so. I can tell you, the prospect of sleeping in a bed after all these nights in the carriage is a very pleasant one. But, tell me before anything else, is news of our naval victory at Trafalgar confirmed?'

‘Yes. And of Lord Nelson's death, which almost overshadows the great victory he won,' Glynde told him. ‘But you will find that both the sorrow and the joy are ours alone. They don't reckon much to sea battles here in the centre of Europe.'

‘They have other things on their minds,' said Granville. ‘The Prussians still seem to be standing shilly-shally on the side lines, and the Tsar is mad for a great battle to defeat Napoleon once and for all. The Russians are formidable soldiers; they've fought like demons every inch of the way in this retreat, but whether their Generals can match Napoleon is something else again. I know Kutusov wants to rest his forces first and wait for reinforcements from Poland, but the Tsar and the young aristocrats round him are getting impatient. They call Kutusov General Slowcoach and put all their hopes in the Austrian General Weyrother. I just hope good comes of it.'

‘You don't sound sure?'

‘Frankly, I'm not. Napoleon is at Brunn now, where I was just the other day. He moves like lightning, that man. I'm sending my heavy baggage away, and keeping a guard on my carriage and horses at all times. If I were you, gentlemen, I would do the same. Specially living as you do, here to the west of headquarters. You're wise, of course, not to be in Olmütz itself, granted the overcrowding and the risk of disease, but I rather wish you had chosen to place yourselves to the east of the town.'

‘It was a question of beggars can't be choosers,' Glynde told
him. ‘All very well for you, who must be found lodgings close to the court.'

‘You'd not think it very well if you saw them. We're all slumming it.' He rose. ‘Never mind. Maybe I will be proved a false prophet and we will be dining in luxury in Vienna next week.'

Glynde and Jan were waked early next morning by the shrill of trumpets and the call to arms. All that day, December the first, they watched the allied troops marching west to meet the enemy, and chafed at having to remain where they were. After a restless night, they woke to a world charged with rumour. The Tsar was ill; he had fallen from his horse; he and the Emperor Francis still insisted on taking part in the battle. Soon they began to hear the thud of gunfire from the west.

It grew louder as the day wore on. ‘It's nearer,' said Jan. ‘We must be retreating. Should we pack and run, do you think?'

‘Not yet.' But soon, towards evening, the first fugitives appeared, bloody, desperate, heading east on the four-hundred-mile flight that separated them from Mother Russia.

‘The Tsar?' Glynde asked a bearded Cossack.

The man spat. ‘He's running too. Just a man, like the rest of us. He should have kept off the battlefield. Him and that milksop Austrian Emperor. Austerlitz, they're calling it. Bloody muddle, I say. I'm going home!'

The two young men were very quiet as they loaded their few possessions into the small carriage that must be their safety. ‘Pity the roads aren't frozen enough for sledges,' said Jan.

‘Pity about the Tsar.'

‘Of course he's just a man. What else? But unfortunate his soldiers should have found it out. Come on, time to start.'

With the roads half frozen and crowded with desperate fugitives, the going was intolerably slow. They had paused once again at the long, wretched queue for a bridge across a tributary of the March River, when Jan caught Glynde's arm. ‘Isn't that James Wylie?'

‘Good God, yes.' They knew the Tsar's Scottish doctor well enough to be sure that if he was here, desperately scanning faces as they passed, the Tsar himself could not be far away.
By unspoken consent they got their carriage pulled with difficulty to the side of the road. ‘Here!' Glynde leaned out, shouted against the uproar, waved to catch the doctor's attention.

‘Mr. Rendel! Thank God.' The doctor's Scottish accent was more pronounced than usual. ‘Have you a drop of wine for my master? He's in a hovel; here by the roadside; ill!'

‘Dear God! Get in, Dr. Wylie, show the coachman the way. Naturally, we've wine; whatever the Tsar needs. We're at his service.'

‘Thank you, gentlemen.'

Fortunately the ground here was frozen enough, so that it was possible to take the carriage slowly across the fields to the little town of Czeitsch where the two Emperors had found refuge after the disasters of the day. By Wylie's direction, they drew up at last outside a peasant hut.

‘Good God!' exclaimed Glynde. ‘This is where your master lies?'

‘On straw! Come in, gentlemen. Warm yourselves while I heat the wine and give my master an opiate. He is very far from well; must have some sleep.'

Since the main room of the hut had no chimney, it was full of smoke from the small fire that burned in the centre of the room. They could just make out the figure of the Tsar in the corner, the handsome face grimed with smoke, and they thought tears, the golden hair tarnished and in disarray. They could hear his teeth chatter on the silver cup in which Wylie proffered the warm wine and its soothing draught.

Next morning, Alexander was himself again, convinced that Austerlitz was merely a temporary setback, that he now had the measure of Napoleon. It was but to regroup and defeat him. But the Emperor Francis had other ideas and signed a separate peace with Napoleon the next day. Under its terms, all hostilities would cease, and the Russians would not be molested so long as they retired across the River Bug on to Russian territory.

As the long retreat began, the Tsar was still pinning his hopes on help from Prussia. He learned his mistake in mid-December when news reached him on the plains of Austrian Poland that the Prussians, too, had signed a separate peace with Napoleon, who had bribed them with the offer of British
Hanover. Alexander had been travelling up to then with his defeated army, doing his best to put new heart into the sullen troops; now he gave up. ‘Everything I've tried to do has been a disaster.' He must get back to Petersburg. A triumphant Tsar might safely stay away from his capital. A defeated one faced the threat of deposition and death. A death like his father's. And the only place to fight this was the capital, Petersburg itself.

Jenny was relieved when Prince Ovinski left at the end of November. He had seemed his usual agreeable self throughout his stay, but something had been wrong just the same. Even Olga had noticed. ‘They want to know what is the matter between the Prince and Princess.' She never mentioned the Brotherhood by name if she could help it.

‘Then they will have to find out from someone else, because I have no idea.' Jenny had been tempted to insist that Olga be sent away after the episode of the water gardens; had decided, on thinking it over, that it was better to hang on to the devil one knew. The little Prince had a new bodyguard called Lech, a member of a family who had been devoted to the Sobieskis for generations. She did not think she need worry about him, but the Princess looked exhausted, hag-ridden. She had grown thin; her cheeks had lost their glow and her dark eyes their sparkle; even her hair, usually so crisp and curling, hung limp and lifeless in its stylish short cut round the pale face.

It was snowing hard the day the Prince left for his estates at Vinsk, near Vilno and the couple said their public farewell in the main hall. ‘Take care of yourself and the child.' Ovinski bent to kiss his wife formally on the cheek. ‘I will expect you at Vinsk before the thaw. And you too, Miss Peverel.' He had his usual friendly smile for Jenny. ‘It will interest you to see how we go on in Russian Poland.'

‘You do not mean to join the Tsar, sir?' It was a question she had longed to ask.

‘On his triumphal march against Napoleon? I think not. My master knows me for a counsellor grown old in service; I am of more use in the court than the camp. Besides, my steward writes that it is time my serfs at Vinsk saw their master. You'll take good care of my wife, Miss Peverel.' He flicked a finger at his secretary, standing just behind him. ‘Here.' He handed her the leather case. ‘This is for you. For
a faithful –' Had he been about to say servant? If so he changed his mind: ‘Friend.'

‘Oh, no!' It was a magnificent chain of rubies. Something he carried about with him for a possible mistress? ‘Please, I would much rather not. No need …' For a bribe, she would have said, but thought better of it.

‘You must indulge me, Miss Peverel.' It was final. She caught the Princess's anxious eye and was silent. And after all, despite the kind things the Prince had said before Casimir was born, it was the first actual payment she had received. Impossible to say that she would much rather have a small salary.

A few minutes later the great doors closed behind the last of the Prince's train, leaving the hall still ice-cold despite its great stove. The Princess was shivering. Jenny took her hand and felt the tremor run right through her. ‘Come to your room, ma'am. You're worn out.'

‘Yes.' She seemed to pull herself together. ‘Yes, I am a little tired.' She looked round the circle of curious faces. ‘I believe, perhaps, an early night. Madame Poiret, if you would preside at dinner in my place?'

‘Send away the girl.' She had got as far as her boudoir; subsided on to the chaise longue. It was warm here, the stove red-hot in the corner, but Jenny found a light cashmere shawl and threw it over her. ‘Thank you.' She pulled it close. ‘I don't think I'll ever be warm again. These last weeks … Jenny, can I trust you?'

‘You know you can! He tried to bribe me! I'm sorry I had to take it. What's the matter, Isobel?' Had she ever used the given name before?

‘Jenny!' The cold hands clutched hers convulsively. ‘I told him I was pregnant. The only way to make him stop. It was horrible, Jenny, horrible. An old man … trying … not for pleasure … not for lust even. Just for an heir. Night after night. Over and over again.' She was crying at last, the cold calm broken.

‘But you're not pregnant?' Jenny went to the heart of the matter.

‘No, thank God. If he'd stayed much longer, he must have known. I've had no peace, Jenny, no privacy …'

‘You say, “Thank God,”' Jenny said. ‘But Princess, why?'

‘Call me Isobel. Please. I like it. I'm so alone … But you'll stand by me.'

‘Of course I will. If only you will explain.' She tucked the shawl more snugly round the Princess, moved across the room to pour vodka for them both. ‘We need this, I think.'

‘Yes.' Her teeth chattered against the glass. ‘You'll help me, Jenny? I'm going to say I've miscarried. Tonight. The cold; the shock of the Prince's going; all kinds of reasons. You'll help me make it convincing? By the time he hears – the messenger will be slow – he'll be at Vinsk. Busy. Please God, he won't come back. He must have hated it just as much as I did. And – he trusts you. If you tell him, he'll believe you.'

‘But I don't understand. Princess –' She corrected herself. ‘Isobel. A brother for Casimir. Or a sister. Why not?' But she was afraid she knew.

‘Because then he would kill Casimir. Oh, he'd not do it himself. He never stains those white hands of his. But he would click his fingers, and Casimir would die. Do I need to say more, Jenny? Do you understand what I'm saying? What he thinks … what he suspects?'

‘I'm afraid I do.' How could she ask: ‘But, Princess, is it true?' How could she not wonder? Look back, those years of Casimir's life, and before, to her own arrival in the Prince's cortege. To that scene at the stables, where Glynde and Jan, very much at home, had rescued her from the filthy yard, the crowd of serfs. The Princess had been awaiting her affianced husband. Pregnant already? Glynde? Jan? Monsieur Poiret? Who else? And, more important by far than what she imagined, what did the Prince think? What might he do to the man he thought had cuckolded him? Had they all been on wafer-thin ice, all this time? ‘Princess! Isobel!' But the Princess, her secret shared at last, had fallen deeply asleep.

She stayed in bed for several days, quite obviously ill, and her little court was in a buzz of sympathy for the miscarriage proclaimed by her doctor. Scott had grown old and lazy in her service, and gratefully accepted the hint Jenny threw him. ‘Poor lady. What a bitter blow to her. No, of course I'll not trouble her with questions.' She thought it a great relief to him. ‘Should we inform the Prince, do you think?'

‘I wish you would, Doctor. Better from a man.'

‘Yes. Yes, of course. Man to man. Naturally it is for me to do …' She knew he would find it extraordinarily difficult; would put it off from day to day. No fear of a messenger catching the Prince before he reached Vinsk and the problems that awaited him there.

There was another bull to be taken by the horns. Jenny sent for Olga on the pretext of needing clean linen for the Princess; made sure they were alone. ‘You'll let the Brotherhood know about the Princess, Olga?'

‘That she has miscarried? They'll hardly be interested in such women's work.'

‘I'm not so sure.' She had thought a great deal about the attempt to implicate little Casimir in the practical joke on the Tsar; had never been able to understand the Brotherhood's motive. Was it possible that they too had their doubts about his legitimacy? Or was it that they wanted Poland to turn to France, not Russia for help? She knew herself for a moral coward because she had boggled at asking the Princess if there was any truth in her husband's suspicions. But how could she have? And the subject was now closed between them.

‘What's going on downstairs, Jenny?' The Princess had waked looking much better, demanded coffee, and asked Jenny to share it.