“A distillery?” Countess Gronska looked up, dumbfounded, her knitting dropping to her lap.
Anna stood before her. “Yes, Aunt Stella, a distillery. It’s true. And were it not for Princess Charlotte, I might not have found out until after the fact.”
The countess struggled to compose herself. “And you knew this, Zofia?” Her tone was accusatory even though she knew in recent days her own opinion carried little weight with her daughter.
Zofia shrugged. “I did.” She stood staring out the French windows.
“And you said nothing?”
“I didn’t think it my place.”
The countess sensed an unpleasant electricity pass between her daughter and niece. “But it does concern Anna Maria’s welfare.”
“If the venture makes Antoni and Anna rich beyond measure, what can come from it other than good?”
“I did not raise you to think that money is what constitutes nobility.”
“It is a sad noble who has none,” Zofia said, turning to face the countess. “Money is the way of the new order, Mother. With the kind of wealth Antoni hopes to acquire, Anna will not have a care in the world. I should be so lucky as Anna.”
“I don’t want that kind of money,” Anna said, displaying an uncharacteristic abruptness.
Zofia’s gaze shifted to her cousin. “What you want, Anna,” she said, “is impossible.”
The countess saw some masked tension pass between the cousins. “What is there to do?” she asked, to no one in particular.
“I plan to go to Sochaczew,” Anna said.
Zofia’s reaction was quick: “You can’t do that.”
“I can. I will quite literally stand my ground. It is right, too, that I have my baby at home.”
“Anna Maria, I, too, must oppose that plan,” the countess heard herself say. “Your husband will no doubt return here and he should find you here.” She paused a moment. “And there is the baby, dearest. Here in Warsaw you have midwives and doctors. Why, even I could provide more expertise with your confinement and delivery than you would find on your estate.”
As it did in moments of distress, the countess’ heart beat irregularly, surging in rapid little fits, then slowing to skip a beat. Countess Gronska was truly torn. This man that she had encouraged Anna to wed had plans to destroy the Berezowski estate and tarnish the dignity of Anna’s family name and parents’ memory. What’s more, he had left her, running off to his mother in St. Petersburg. And now the countess found herself telling Anna to await her husband’s return. It was the conventional advice, the advice that a noblewoman had been bred to give. But she could not help but wonder: Is it the best advice?
“And there is that Paduch culprit, too, Anna,” Zofia was saying. “I won’t have you alone on that estate while that man runs free. It’s too dangerous.”
“Danger,” Anna said, “is not always outside the home.”
Again, the countess detected a taut current flowing between Anna and Zofia. Again, she didn’t understand.
Zofia’s solicitude suddenly took on a hardened edge. “Well, it would be a futile trip for you. You would only have to turn around and come back.”
“Why?” Anna asked.
“Because, Anna, your home at Sochaczew has already been razed.”
Neither the countess nor Anna could respond before Zofia opened the French windows and bolted from the room.
Although Zofia had been thinking of ways to rid herself of Anna, her cousin’s scheme to go to Sochaczew alone was unacceptable. The little chill of fear that ran through her at the thought was not fear of Feliks Paduch.
No, it was fear of Jan Stelnicki. At such a short distance, a morning’s ride from Warsaw, Sochaczew was entirely too close for a husbandless Anna to a stupidly determined Stelnicki. There must be no recurrence of the catastrophe at the Royal Castle.
If Antoni were at Sochaczew, it would be a different matter. Or if Anna were to join Antoni in St. Petersburg, that would be better yet!
Telling Anna of the demolition of her home was perhaps impulsive, Zofia thought, but it had given her time. How much time? She was certain that at that moment Anna was scribbling out a letter to Jacob Szraber, asking for verification.
Zofia sat down to pen her own letter. It should not be hard, she hoped, to find someone in the capital who, for the right price, would go to St. Petersburg on the spot. Anna might get her reply from Sochaczew within the week. Zofia knew she had to do better despite the great distance her correspondence would have to travel.