Polonaise (7 page)

Presented to six ladies in a row, Glynde sorted them out as best he might. One of them might be a young cousin of the Princess, since she had the dark hair and sparkling deep-set eyes that Jan shared with her, but combined with a squat build and sallow complexion that denied her any hope of good looks. The Princess introduced her simply as ‘My beloved Marta,' and passed on to present him to Madame Poiret, the pianist's mother, who plunged at once into so doleful and extended a tale of lost glories in France that he was relieved when the Princess came back to claim his arm to lead her in to supper. ‘I treat Jan quite with disrespect, as a member of the family,' she explained, smiling at him. ‘You will bring Madame Poiret, Jan. And you will not mind my calling you by your given name.'

‘I will not mind anything you do,' said Jan, and Glynde,
taking the Princess's arm to lead her back through the long range of rooms, thought how used she must be to this instant adoration.

Over a meal that would have seemed luxurious in any palace from Vienna to London, the Princess questioned Glynde eagerly about the international situation. ‘We are so cut off here, in what should be Poland,' she explained, ‘that we are quite savage for news of the world outside.' But her questions, close, intelligent and showing her surprisingly well informed, kept him at full stretch. Secretly and thoroughly briefed by his friend Canning before he left on his unofficial and unorthodox mission, he must be careful not to reveal more knowledge than might be possessed by an ordinary tourist.

‘This new Whig government of yours,' she was asking now. ‘You think it will last?'

‘If the peace does. And for that I think I must refer you to Bonaparte.'

‘If we only knew what was in his mind!' She gestured to one of the liveried servants to refill their champagne glasses.

‘I doubt it's peace.'

‘Ah.' Again that distracting smile. ‘So you are a Tory, one of Mr. Pitt's men. I thought so. And being in opposition has left you free to travel. Well, we are the gainers, but I wonder how long you will find you can stay away. I think we are just holding our breath, myself, waiting for the next act. And, when it comes, what hope for us Poles, Mr. Rendel? If your Mr. Pitt has the negotiating of the next peace, will he do something for us, do you think? You British talk very handsomely of liberty, but when it comes to practice at the conference table … Oh, I know England is a long way off. What do you care what happens here in central Europe? I met your poet Mr. Campbell at Ratisbon two years ago. I'm afraid I told him it was all very well to rhyme about
The Pleasures of Hope
, and freedom screaming when Kosciusko fell, but that we Poles need more than fine phrases.'

‘What did he say to that?'

‘He had no answer, poor man. I thought it served him right when he had to run from the French army a few days later.'

‘And you, Highness? Did you run from the French?'

‘No, why? I invited their commanding officer to dinner. A
charming man; we have corresponded ever since. You must see, Mr. Rendel, that the one advantage of being a nation without statehood is that there is nothing to stop you being friends with everyone.'

‘Even your occupiers, Highness?'

‘
Touché!
' She raised her glass and drank to him. ‘But, yes, in fact. I have cousins and good friends in Vienna and go there from time to time – to shop, mainly. And, as I expect you know, my future husband is a close friend of the Emperor Alexander and of his right-hand man, another Pole, Adam Czartoryski. We are not a simple problem, we Poles.'

‘You most certainly are not. Tell me about Prince Czartoryski. Do you know him well? I long to meet him. Will he be coming to your wedding, perhaps?'

‘We're related, of course. You will have noticed, I expect, that we are mostly cousins here. No, I'm afraid the Emperor cannot spare him for the wedding. You will have to go to Russia if you wish to meet him.'

‘I intend to.'

‘I imagined so. In fact, though you are too polite to say so, you are merely passing through Poland on your way there. Nobody comes here now we don't exist any more. Why should they?'

‘For the pleasure of meeting you, Highness.'

‘Compliments, Mr. Rendel? I thought better of you.' And she turned to Jan, leaving him enraged at his own obviousness. But on the other hand, thinking about it afterwards, he decided it had gone well enough. If he lingered a while at Rendomierz, she would think it a natural tribute to her. And so it would be. For once, duty and inclination ran side by side. No doubt about it, Rendomierz, and the society wedding to take place here, was the ideal scene to study the chances of a national Polish uprising actually taking place if the moment should come – part of the purpose of his secret mission.

Two nights later, something roused Glynde from his first sleep. They had retired early, the Princess having pleaded fatigue after a long day spent riding with her guests to show them the model village she was building south of the palace. He had fallen asleep at once, now waked, as always, into complete
consciousness. Absolute silence, but some sound must have waked him. A night bird probably, or the dying scream of a small animal out there in the park. But something made him open his eyes. A faint glow of light in the far corner of the room. Fire? He smelled nothing. And now, surely the sound that had wakened him, a loud creak as the light focused itself into a narrow band where a piece of the floor was slowly rising. An oubliette? An attack? Incredible, but his hand had already found the pistol automatically tucked under his pillow. He lay still, finger on trigger, as the section of floor lifted completely back. A hand, holding a lantern. A woman's hand?

She emerged slowly, quietly, and Glynde lay still as death, watching. He knew her almost at once. Marta. The Princess's beloved Marta, her visibly adoring shadow through the days he had spent at the palace. It was entirely fantastic, something out of the thousand and one nights, and he lay still, finger now slack on the trigger, waiting to see what would happen next.

‘Mr. Rendel?' Her English was heavily accented, but adequate enough. ‘Mr. Rendel!'Just a little louder.

He would play this comedy her way. He turned over heavily in the bed, pretended to wake, let the pistol drop back under the pillow. ‘Yes? What is it?' He sat up straight. ‘Miss Marta! What is it? What's happened?' Instinctively, he kept his voice low.

‘Hush!' She put a warning finger on her lips. ‘We must not wake Mr. Warrington.'

‘No? But – I don't understand.' And he had never said a truer word, he thought, watching her embarrassment, as she stood there, confronting a strange man in his bed. Could this, possibly, be part of the Princess's idea of hospitality? It was a thought to disgust, to enrage.

‘The Princess sent me.' She put down the lantern on a small table. ‘She asks you to come to her. She needs your help, badly. Here.' She handed him a folded note. It was short and to the point. ‘Please come to me. You will understand, by the drastic means I use to send for you, how badly I need you.'

‘She wants me to come now?'

‘Please.'

‘You're a good friend.' He needed time to think.

‘I love her. She would not ask if it was not urgent. Please –' she said again.

‘Very well. If you will be so good as to look the other way while I put some clothes on, I will be with you directly.'

‘Thank you.' She moved away, to look out into uncurtained darkness while he climbed hurriedly into the riding-clothes he had worn that day.

‘There.' He shrugged himself into Mr. Scott's well-fitted coat. ‘I'm at your service, Miss Marta.' And then, on an afterthought. ‘Should I, perhaps, lock the door?'

‘Please.' She watched him push down the bar that held the latch immovable. ‘Now –' She was eager to be off.

‘Close it behind me?' He was following her down a solid enough flight of stairs from the trapdoor.

‘No need, since the door is locked. It will be easier, coming back.'

‘Yes.' The trapdoor had squeaked, as if it had not been used for years. They had reached the bottom of the short flight of stairs, which opened on to an arched tunnel. Musty with long disuse, it stretched darkly before them, the lantern only illuminating the first few yards. The ground was damp as the tunnel sloped gently downwards. It must be following the line of the lane that ran between the houses. Over the years, water would have seeped down from the stream that lay somewhere to their left. Marta turned and put a finger to her lips, but it had not occurred to him to speak; he had far too much to think about. The going was level now; they must be under the palace, to which this secret way must lead.

Marta paused at an open arch where a winding stair twisted up to their right. ‘Not a word now, and be careful how you go.' She held the lantern low to illuminate the worn treads of narrow stone steps. The hem of her skirts was soaking, he saw, and reached out to take the lantern gently from her. She would need both hands for this steep climb.

She nodded her thanks, picked up her skirts with one hand and clung to the rope that served as hand-rail with the other. This was a much longer and steeper climb than at the cottage and he remembered the imposing height of the palace's grand stairway.

The top now, and a crack of light ahead. She turned, finger
again to her lips and motioned to him to stay where he was, then pushed open the door where the light showed. It led into what must be the back of a huge closet and she moved forward and out of sight through a whisper of stirred silk and satin.

‘All's well.' She was back again, speaking normally now. ‘Come, Mr. Rendel.'

The Princess's dressing-room? Blue velvet curtains; he was facing a Chippendale dressing-table flanked with ormolu-framed looking-glasses. Doors to right and left gave on to lighted rooms. He followed Marta through the door to the left, found himself in a luxurious boudoir also hung with blue velvet, but had eyes only for the Princess who stood there awaiting him, dressed in a plain white gown like the one she had worn when he first met her.

‘Mr. Rendel. I am more grateful than I can say.' She held out her hand and he badly wanted to kiss it, but pressed it firmly instead and was angry with himself at what the touch did to him.

‘I am at your service, Highness. But …'

‘Deserve an explanation. Marta, will you keep watch in the anteroom. I gave strict orders, but just in case …'

‘She should change her slippers,' said Glynde.

‘What? Oh,' looking down. ‘Thank you, Mr. Rendel. Take a pair of mine, Marta dear.' And, as she left them, ‘It's a long time since the tunnel was used. Since my father died …'

‘He built it?'

‘The branch that runs to the Renn was part of the old fortress he replaced with this palace. I'm afraid he must have seen its possibilities at once. He had it made good and built the extension up to the guest village. I'm afraid you can guess what he used it for, Mr. Rendel.' And then, for the first time, he saw her blush, a slow crimson flood that drained as slowly away and left her white and drawn. She moved over to an inlaid side table. ‘Let me pour you a glass of vodka, Mr. Rendel, after your damp journey.'

‘Thank you.' It was the last thing he wanted, but he thought she needed it. ‘You must tell me how I can serve you.' Could she possibly have learned of his secret mission? The question had been hammering at him as they talked.

‘Yes.' She handed him the brimming glass and sat down in
a heavy straight-backed chair. ‘This is even more difficult than I expected.' Her eyes met his. Appealing for help? Extraordinary from this great lady he had watched directing a palaceful of courtiers.

‘I am yours to command. Just tell me … Short of murder, that is …' The days he had spent with her had taught him how passionate a Pole she was. Could she want him to use his diplomatic entree to assassinate one of the enemies of Poland? In this fantastic situation, it seemed entirely possible.

But, surprisingly, she was laughing. ‘Oh, no, not murder, Mr. Rendel. Quite the contrary,' And again that miraculously becoming blush. ‘But, first, your promise that even if you refuse my request, you will never speak of it to a soul.'

‘You have it.'

‘Thank you.' Gravely. ‘Then, forgive me if I tell you something about myself. It will help you understand …'

‘I shall be honoured, Highness.' But his eyes moved involuntarily to the gilt and marble clock on the chimney-piece.

‘It's early,' she said. ‘There's time. Do I need to tell you how much I care about my country, Mr. Rendel?'

‘No. Everything you do and say shows it.'

‘Thank you. Believe me, if it would serve Poland, I would gladly die. As my brother died, defending it.'

Now, for the first time, he was sorry for her. To delude herself that her brother's absurd duel had done anything for Poland … ‘You know how sorry I am,' was all he could find to say.

‘Thank you.' A regal inclination. She had herself in hand again. ‘His death leaves me the last of our line, the last of the Sobieskis.'

‘Yes?'

‘And, as you know, I am marrying a man of equally ancient line. A Jagiello.'

‘Yes.'

‘You know about my future husband?'

‘Know?' This was difficult ground.

‘Of course you do.' She stood up, almost violently, reached for the decanter, refilled their glasses. ‘I've not met him for years, but he's an old man, Mr. Rendel, an old roué, his health
wrecked by the life he has led. My brother's was the smaller sacrifice.'

‘Then why?' And why in the world was she telling him this? He had never felt himself so entirely out of his depth and dared no more than these scant monosyllables.

‘You really don't see? What easy lives you must have in England! And yet you strike me as having thought a great deal about Poland. Has it not struck you that what we so gravely lack is a leader? Freedom did die when Kosciusko fell.'