Here, at Hawthorn House, the Gronski manor home, no one would forbid her to ride. Not like at home. Anna went directly to her bedchamber on the second floor. After washing and changing for supper, she walked to the massive old dresser and tugged at the bottom drawer. She lifted from it a carved wooden box with delicate inlay, a work of art fashioned by the artisans of the Tatra Mountains. Carefully, she placed it on the dresser top and lifted the lid.
Even away from the window, the translucent object shone brightly against the red velvet lining. Anna removed it from the box and placed it on the black marble. She turned it first this way, then that way, somehow dissatisfied. It was only just before her mother died that she had learned its secret. How strange that this beautiful but lifeless object kept her from riding horses. The sight of the dove had never failed to please her, yet the familiar serenity was absent today.
She had told Jan Stelnicki that she could ride. She had never lied before and found it unsettling. No good could come of it.
No matter, she resolved after some moments, Zofia will teach me how. And one day I shall go riding with Jan.
It was the first time she had thought of the stranger on a first-name basis. She looked up into the mirror to find her expression an odd combination of surprise and pleasure, as if in his absence some intimacy had been established between them.
She left the crystal dove on the dresser, certain that the maid would not dare touch it, and went downstairs to seek out Zofia.
Anna found her cousin sitting with her mother in the small parlor that led to the Count and Countess’ antechamber and bedroom. Her buoyancy would not allow her to sit. Thoughtlessly and with a childlike abandon, she poured out the news of the meeting with Lord Jan Stelnicki. Zofia expressed the keenest interest, and Anna forgot for the moment that Countess Stella Gronska was even present. When the story was told, however, Anna saw that her aunt’s face had bled to white and the expressive brown eyes widened now in horror. “Do you mean, Anna, that you met Jan Stelnicki in some field? You were alone?”
“No,” Zofia joked before Anna could reply, “Anna told you: Jan was there. Well, cousin, what do you think? Is he not handsome?”
“Oh, yes,” Anna replied softly, “and charming.”
“And one day,” Zofia said, “he will be Count Jan Stelnicki,”
“Count or not, his behavior is unheard of,” the countess protested. “The boldness! There was no introduction and no chaperone. And he had not the decency to wear a hat.”
“Oh, Mother,” Zofia said, “don’t excite yourself so. You’ll bring on your heart palpitations. This is a new day.”
“That I should live to see it!”
A maid appeared now to announce supper.
Anna had no appetite; she was suddenly as spiritless as a willow tree jilted by the breeze. At her heart’s core, she herself had thought the meeting improper. Why had she not, then, anticipated her aunt’s response? How stupidly impulsive to blurt out everything as she had! What a little fool I am, she thought. I must learn to think before I speak.
Walking to the countess’ chair, Anna knelt and reached out to touch her hand. “Oh, please don’t hold his forwardness against him, Aunt. He approached me only because from the distance he thought me to be Zofia.”
“And where was I?” Zofia intoned. “If only I had known the fields were ripe with men!”
“Zofia!”
Zofia pulled a face. “You are too serious, Mother!”
“Not as serious as your father should he hear such scandalous talk.” The countess took Anna’s hand in hers and softened her tone. “Perhaps you do not realize the impropriety of such an occurrence, my child. In any event, your parents would not have approved, Anna. Jan Stelnicki, though a good friend and neighbor, is not a Catholic but an adherent to the Arian heresy.”
“His father is an Arian, Mother,” Zofia said. “Jan has little interest in religion.”
The Countess Gronska’s lips tightened like a purse drawn closed. “The difference between a heretic and a heathen is thin, Zofia, and one I will not argue.” She stood abruptly, drawing Anna also to her feet. “We will go into supper now.” Although she had to look up into Anna’s face, there was no questioning the older woman’s resolve. “Anna Maria, I must forbid you to venture beyond the outer buildings on your own. Be certain that not a word of this—this meeting—reaches your uncle’s ears. He’s called men out to duel over less. And understand me well, Anna: under no circumstances are you to see Jan Stelnicki again.”
For all appearances, supper was cordial. Anna conversed with her aunt, uncle, and cousin, answering questions, smiling and even laughing a little. But her mind and emotions were working on a different level. She remembered a baby bird with a broken wing she had once found. Her father made for it a little splint, and Anna lovingly nursed it, anticipating the day it would experience its first flight. But one morning she discovered that despite their efforts and its own tiny will to live, it had died during the night.
By the time supper was finished, Anna was, as she had been so many years before, inconsolable.