At daybreak the travelers came upon a cluster of peasant dwellings. The inhabitants were receptive, recognizing at once the Gronski name.
“Take the candelabra, Marta,” Anna said, “and give it to these people. We will need food and water for our journey to Warsaw. And try to bargain for a fresh horse.”
The three were received into one of the little cottages where they washed and ate a tasty breakfast of kasza, cakes, and chicory. Anna and Marta were pleased to see Marcelina eat a fair amount. She would be fine in a few days.
As they stood thanking their hosts, Anna thought how different these Poles were from the peasants of France. She knew there were some abused and bitter peasants to be found in Poland, but it was hard to imagine these good people, who were saddened by the losses of the Stelnicki and Gronski estates, taking up pitchforks and scythes against the Polish aristocracy. On the contrary, it was people just like these, from border to border, who had taken up their farm implements against the foreign influx, as they had for centuries. Such was the essence of being Polish.
The three had just climbed into the wagon when Anna noticed that the candelabra had been returned to its place behind the seat. “I told you to give them the candelabra, Marta,” Anna said.
“They would not take it, Countess.”
Before Anna could question further or insist that they accept the payment, a force of Russians arrived in a long caravan of a hundred mounted soldiers, several well-appointed carriages, and assortment of supply vehicles.
The sun played on the gold braiding of the captain’s long red coat as he directed his stallion toward the wagon. Neither his demeanor nor that of his mounted men indicated that this regiment was anything other than rigid and disciplined. His face was clean-shaven and sternly set. “Who are you?” he asked. He removed the three-cornered hat but did not introduce himself.
“I am Countess Anna Berezowska-Grawlinska of Sochaczew.” Anna was careful to use the name Zofia had used in writing to her.
“You are of the nobility?”
“I think I just made that clear, Captain. Is it captain?”
“Yes, Captain Krestyanov.” He was eyeing her dress and the modest wagon.
Anna told him about the burning of the estates, avoiding mention of Walter’s regiment.
“You were fortunate to have escaped, Countess.”
Anna nodded. His words rang hollow.
“Tell me, Countess, are you allied with the Empress?”
Anna swallowed hard. “My name has been attached to the Confederacy of Targowica.”
The captain made a show of calling for a list from his lieutenant. Anna thought he still doubted her nobility.
“The name again, Countess?”
Once she told him, he began searching the list which went on for pages. “And your destination?” he asked even as he looked.
“Warsaw—or rather, Praga.”
“Ah, here it is, Countess Anna Maria Berezowska-Grawlinska.”
Anna had been right in suspecting Zofia had registered both her surnames with the Confederacy.
“Why is it you do not use your husband’s name exclusively?”
“I’m a widow, Captain Krestyanov,” she said, pronouncing his name with precision. “I plan to start using my maiden name exclusively.”
“Isn’t that unusual?”
“My marriage was unusual. Captain, are we to be allowed to continue?”
He held her gaze. “Listed here also is a son, Jan Michał Grawlinski.”
“Yes. He was too young to travel. He is in Praga, at the home of my aunt, Countess Stella Gronska. She, too, is allied, if you would care to look.” Anna knew that while something sweet usually catches the fly, here a little condescension and irritability might go a long way toward convincing him of her station.
“That’s all right.” He would not be manipulated into looking for the name. “You have the sanction of Catherine, Empress of Russia. We, too, are going to Warsaw and we ask the honor of your company along the way. We will afford you protection. I’ll see to it that the Countess is accommodated in a better vehicle. One of my men will take charge of your wagon.”
Anna sensed Marta stiffen. She attempted to refuse his offer, but her objections fell on deaf ears. She soon found herself being helped into a luxurious carriage.
The owner of the vehicle was a prosperous Polish physician, a rotund man with a full beard and thinning gray hair. When he grumbled his greeting, Anna assumed he had been given no choice in sharing his capacious coach.
They were soon underway.
As they passed through tiny hamlets, Anna became aware of the slow, mournful tolling of church bells. “Is our country mourning the invasion of the Russians?” she whispered.
“It’s more likely funerals,” the physician said. “All the Polish patriots who were foolish enough to go against the Russian tide have been slaughtered like deer.”
Later, Anna caught sight of a funeral procession, watching as men and women lifted their voices in a sorrowful song for those who had died and for those who were left behind to face the devastation of the country. Anna sighted then a group of peasants following a dung cart laden with a pine box, its crudely-drawn coffin portrait a testament to the youth of its inhabitant. For the survivors, masses of peasants—people who knew little, but whose hearts were big—the world had betrayed them. Their lords, their nobility, their king had all failed them. The Prussians, Austrians, and Russians would sit at Polish tables and drink Polish blood.
Anna felt at one with these people. Yet, she was part of the aristocracy Catherine had chosen to spare. At what cost was the aristocracy saved? She felt traitorous toward those faceless thousands gathering in every Polish village, town, and city across the length and breadth of the country.
Anna realized that her nobility itself meant little to her. What truly mattered was the safety and well-being of her loved ones and the plight of the whole nation. She prayed for Aunt Stella and little Jan Michał. She prayed for Jan Stelnicki—where in the flow of blood was he to be found? And, yes, she prayed for Zofia. Jan Michał would be in Walter’s hands were it not for her aunt, her cousin, and the emerald stickpin. As for herself—where would she be, sadly, had not Zofia affixed her name to the Confederacy?
At one point, the carriage was halted briefly to allow for another funeral procession. “Why is it,” the physician muttered, “we must be delayed? These patriots have nothing but time left to them to bury the dead!”
“Then you don’t support the cause?”
“I am my own cause. I’ve learned well at the hands of the nobility.”
“That is a sweeping statement, Doctor. In fact, the selfish nobles are those who invited Catherine in. There are so many other nobles worthy of respect.”
He grunted.
Anna persisted. “The patriots’ cause has united all Poles, whether they are of the aristocracy, the landed gentry, the merchant class, or the peasants.”
The physician shrugged. “The cause has failed, nonetheless.”
“Do you intend to remain in Poland?”
“I do. Oh, I have an eye to my main chance, Countess. I’ll cater to the Russians, if need be. I expect to grow quite rich.”
“You can do that? Without a care that Poland is being torn into strips like a sheet?”
“I’ll take those strips and make them into bandages and charge the Russians for them!” The thick black brow above his left eye lifted, his forehead furrowing. He smiled, revealing small, yellowed teeth. “What about you, Countess? You, who have been so careful to ally yourself with the evil Empress? Do you care?”
I do, Anna wanted to scream. But she realized that the doctor had removed her line of defense, as surely as if he had removed her heart.