Polonaise (40 page)

Leon Wysocki was speaking to him. ‘Yes,' he agreed, ‘let's go.' Time to talk later, when he looked and felt himself again. ‘I'm for the Turkish bath, aren't you, Jan?'

‘I most certainly am.' Jan was a complete pirate with a week's growth of beard and dark curls beginning to spring wirily back after their long confinement under a fur hat.

As Wysocki led them up the street by the stream, Glynde automatically turned towards the house they had occupied before. The house with the tunnel. His blood stirred. Perhaps the Princess was waiting to send for him tonight.

‘No, Excellency, not that one,' Wysocki shepherded them forward. ‘The Pani Peverel lives there, now she is in charge of the boys. I am afraid it will be a little further for your Excellencies to get to the bath. The boys have the first houses in the street, you see. They and their tutors.' And as if to confirm this, they heard a great howl of childish mirth from the house they were passing.

‘Boys?' asked Glynde. ‘What boys?'

‘But, Excellency!' The man looked entirely astonished. ‘The little boys! Her Highness's school.'

‘A school? The Princess?' Glynde's amazement mirrored Wysocki's.

‘Her Highness will doubtless tell you about it herself.' Something odd about the man's tone? ‘But here is your house, Excellencies. And Jadwiga awaiting you. I hope you will find everything to your satisfaction.'

‘A school?' Glynde faced Jan across the living-room of the little house that was the duplicate of the one they had occupied before. ‘The Princess running a school?'

‘You can bet your boots that Jenny Peverel really runs it,' said Jan. ‘We'd better get shaving, Glynde, if we're to be fit for the Princess's dinner table.'

‘Yes. You're right.' He was impatient to get to his own room. Dismissing the voluble Jadwiga, he paced it eagerly, looking for the remembered signs of an entrance to the tunnel. And finding none.

When they reached the Princess's salon, they found her as they had before, leaning on the big pianoforte, listening to Monsieur Poiret play Haydn. It might have been a replay of the scene eight years ago except that Jenny Peverel was there instead of Marta, still looking anxious, but surprisingly elegant in demure grey satin. And Jan had surprised him by appearing, formidably handsome, in formal evening rig of breeches and silk stockings. Jan had changed; no doubt about that. In the old days, Glynde had been the unquestioned leader of the two; now, from time to time, he was disconcerted to feel that Jan
was – what? Bearing with him, perhaps even patronising him a little?

He had known that there would be no chance to speak to the Princess before dinner, and the meal seemed interminable. He had forgotten what social trivialities the Poles talked in public, and caused a frisson down the length of the table by asking the Princess how she found life under French rule after the long Austrian domination.

‘It's a change, of course,' she told him lightly, while Jan flashed him a reproachful glance from beyond her. ‘But you have been living in Brighton, Mr. Rendel, you must tell us about this country palace your Prince of Wales is building for himself there. It's something quite out of the way, I understand.'

Thus firmly directed back into normal conversational channels, he exerted himself to be entertaining about Prinny's Brighton fantasy. ‘But my aunt says he has done wonders for the town. She asked me to remember her kindly to you, by the way, Miss Peverel,' he leaned across to where Jenny was sitting on the other side of the table.

‘Good of her to remember.' Jenny flushed and smiled, and he thought with surprise that she was becoming better looking as she grew older. ‘We only met once, when she was staying at Petworth House. I remember her well. A formidable lady. She did not speak much, but when she did, everyone listened.'

‘That's my aunt.' He smiled at Jenny warmly. ‘Sometimes she even frightens me.'

‘And what news of your family in America, Mr. Warrington?' The Princess half turned away from Glynde to ask the question. ‘How do they endure your being away so long?'

‘My father does so very easily, Highness, now he finds me useful to him in his business. My sister used to complain she missed me, but she's a married lady now, with children; I hardly hear from her. Out of sight, out of mind, you know.' He sounded philosophical about it. ‘I flatter myself I am something of a European now.'

‘Or an Asian perhaps? After so long in Russia.'

‘Petersburg, Highness, not outer Mongolia. And – always a Pole. I think my friend, Miriam, will speak for me there.'
He looked across to where she sat, relegated, almost below the salt.

‘No need. I never forget you are my kin. And nor should you. Enough of this “Highness”. Call me cousin, Jan.'

‘I thank you, cousin.' He raised his glass to toast her. They had reached the dessert stage, and hothouse fruits were being piled on the table. ‘Is young Casimir not to join us? I long to make his better acquaintance. And his fellow pupils? Wysocki tells us you have founded your own school, for the boy's sake. A most enlightened move, if I may say so. It goes on well?'

‘Not altogether.' Her eyes met Jenny's across the table. ‘We have found that the young have a disturbing tendency to sink to the lowest level. Casimir must grow up a Prince, first among equals. But it doesn't seem to be working out like that. They lead each other on, I am afraid. They need the firm hand of one reared in truly democratic principles. Of someone they must respect on every count. A soldier, a statesman, a man of both war and peace. I hope I have found him for them. How can they but respect someone who has braved such dangers to come to us here? And who better than an Englishman to guide the training of a democratic Prince?' She turned, at last, to Glynde, who had been trying not to believe what he heard. ‘Mr. Rendel, you came when I sent you my plea. Tell me that you are not going to fail me now. And Casimir.'

A tutor! A private tutor. He had risked his life, clear across Europe, to be appointed bear-leader to his own son. Not just to his son, to a parcel of boorish little Poles. For a few moments, he was beyond speech. Perhaps as well? He raised his eyes, as if at a summons, and met Jenny Peverel's, anxious, pleading. Advising? He had been a complete, an absolute fool, and she somehow knew it, understood. Was warning him? Yes. If he threw the Princess's offer back in her teeth, what would happen? What would she do? It was a cold and sobering thought. The Princess was absolute mistress here, under the French. His enemies. He had put his head into the lion's mouth indeed. The lioness. The woman he loved, would always love. And their son. The hope of Poland.

The silence had gone on too long. He met the Princess's eyes. ‘You do me great honour, Highness. But I confess you have taken me most absolutely by surprise. Before I decide to
undertake this onerous and honourable task, may I have the privilege of discussing it with you alone?'

‘If you feel the need.' The Princess had expected instant capitulation. What a milksop she must think him. Well: what a milksop he had been. It had taken the life-or-death decisions of his appalling journey to teach him he was a man. Now he must conceal it.

The Princess rose gracefully to her feet, and he saw for the first time the slight thickening under the flow of her dress, the tiny map of lines below the chin shown him in profile. She had been living hard, while he ate out his heart for her in England. All the rumours he had heard and and discounted fluttered about him, bat-winged. Murat? Her cousin Poniatowski? Davout? He was drowning in his own poisoned thoughts. Rising as she did, holding out his arm, he met Jenny's eyes once more across the table, read the renewed warning in them and hoped he had flashed back a message of thanks.

Alone in her study, the Princess turned to face him. No suggestion that they sit. She meant the meeting to be brief. ‘Yes, Mr. Rendel?'

‘Isobel!' She had lain in his arms, night after night, meeting fire with fire. He knew every inch of her, knew what pleased her. If he could only touch her.

It must have shown in his face. ‘No, Mr. Rendel.' Without actually moving, she seemed to withdraw from him. ‘It is “Highness” now. We are engaged in a great enterprise, you and I. We are to bring up a King for Poland. A King whom everyone will accept. It is a heavy charge, a great responsibility, and nothing shall interfere with it. Besides, think of the future, yours and mine, standing behind the throne, giving wise counsel for the peace of Europe.'

‘You truly think it possible? You have grounds?'

‘But, of course. You know on whose advice I sent for you, surely? I had thought he would have told you more. I am sorry if there has been any room for misunderstanding, but I suppose he did not dare risk anything in writing, placed as he is.' She held up a warning hand. ‘We'll not mention his name, if you please, but we know of whom we are speaking.'

‘Yes.' But what had Talleyrand told her?

‘He is playing an immensely dangerous game. I was at both
Erfurt and Vienna. He is walking a tightrope between the two Emperors in the firm belief that in the end they will understand each other, agree to a balance of power in Europe. And for that, Poland is essential. Do you begin to understand? Poland with a King who is on good terms with both France and Russia, but not tarred with either brush, and whom even England can approve.'

‘It would be a miracle.' But, despite himself, he was engaged, interested …

‘A miracle we all need. And – miracles don't just happen, Mr. Rendel, they must be worked for. That is what you and I are going to do, together.'

‘How soon do you expect your miracle? The chance of it.'

‘Who can tell? Not too soon, I hope, or Casimir won't be ready. I warn you, it's no sinecure I am asking you to take on. He's a spirited child, and the others are little tearaways. They egg each other on. We Poles don't bend the neck easily.' She was proud of it.

‘No.' Amazing to find himself becoming engaged in this extraordinary project. ‘He knows why I've come, of course. I thought he was taking a great interest in me.'

‘Looking for chinks in your armour,' said Casimir's mother. ‘He's army mad, they all are. You'll have to share them with the military instructors.'

‘My problem, of course, being that I cannot tell him for what he is being trained. Why it matters so much.'

‘To be a Prince of Poland. That's enough, surely.'

‘Like all the others, who care more for their estates than their country?'

‘Not all of them. Think of my cousin Poniatowski, think of Adam Czartoryski.'

‘They do rather sum up the problem,' he said. ‘One all for the French, the other all Russian.'

‘So Casimir must be all Pole.'

‘And to achieve that, you have sent for an Englishman!'

‘Who better? And – the right Englishman.' Now, she seemed nearer again, leaning a little towards him, with a waft of scent, heavier than what she used to wear. ‘We'll be his mentors,' she said. ‘You and I.'

Now? In the future? A bribe? A promise? She was right, of
course. If Talleyrand really thought Casimir a possible answer to the problem of Poland, nothing must threaten his claim to be both Sobieski and Ovinski. And yet: ‘The tunnel?' he asked. ‘We may need to confer.'

‘The tunnel is closed. We will confer publicly, you and I. And have done so, this time, for long enough.' She held out a white hand heavy with rings. ‘I am more glad than I can say, Mr. Rendel, that you agree to take on this heavy charge.'

He thought she meant him to kiss it, took it instead and shook it warmly, finding it oddly limp in his grasp, the hand of a woman who did not do very much. ‘I shall try to bring him up as a democratic Prince,' he said, and wondered if that was a threat or a promise. ‘It won't be easy.' Still holding her hand, he turned to lead her towards the door. ‘I had better go back and start.'

‘But you'll say nothing about the future,' she hung back for a moment. ‘To anyone, to Jan Warrington … I don't entirely trust him. He seems remarkably thick with the Jewess, Miriam.'

‘They've been making money for you, the two of them. And, no doubt, for themselves, too. But I agree with you about Jan. He's changed.' He had meant to say more.

‘We've all changed.' The Princess let him lead her back to the supper-room; the first time, he thought, that he had taken the initiative between them.

‘So you've agreed to do it?' Jan moved eagerly across the room to meet them. ‘I'm delighted to hear it.' He sounded more than a little surprised. ‘You must promise to let me know how you go on. I take a great interest in young Casimir. Miriam says she will see to it that your letters get through to me.'

‘Indeed I will,' she was on Jan's arm, smiling at them both, a beautiful woman still if you looked at the right side of her face.

‘Thank you. Of course I'll write, Jan. And you must send me all the news of Petersburg. But now I must have a word with Miss Peverel, who knows, I suspect, better than anyone, just what I have agreed to take on.'

‘You're going to do it! I'm so glad.' Jenny's smile was
brilliant with relief. ‘He needs it so badly. But … I was afraid …'

‘As well you might be.' He smiled back. ‘Would it have been the oubliette, do you think, if I'd refused? I'm sure there must be one somewhere in Rendomierz.' Disconcerting to realise that he was not entirely joking. ‘You'll have to show me how to go on. I'm counting on you for that. The duties of a pedagogue are a closed book to me, I'm afraid. If the Princess were to ask for qualifications, she'd be grievously disappointed. I never had a tutor. My father sent me off to school when I was in short coats.'

‘Poor little boy,' she said. ‘Of course I'll help in any way I can. What's needed, really, is a firm hand, someone Casimir respects. You come with great advantages: a soldier, a traveller, an English aristocrat.'