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  But to their surprise and relief, when they had mopped up the last sops of gravy with coarse wholemeal bread, the older man rose. ‘The gates will be locked in half an hour. We’d best be on our way.’

  ‘You’re riding tonight?’ Glynde asked.

  ‘There’s a moon. And the road to Rendomierz is good; the Princess sees to that. You’ll see the difference in the morning. We’ll get halfway tonight, sleep at a cousin’s of mine, be at Rendomierz at noon. I’ve commissions for the Princess. Shall I tell her who she has the pleasure of expecting? Or perhaps she knows you are coming?’

  ‘I’m a cousin of hers,’ said Jan. ‘From America.’

  ‘A cousin! Her aunt’s child. But, sir, why did you not say so?’ He wrung Jan’s hand. ‘I should have seen the likeness! What a happy day; a cousin from the other side of the world to grace her wedding.’

  ‘Now perhaps the bridegroom will turn up,’ said his surly companion.

  ‘A thousand pardons,’ the other man interrupted him, ‘that we did not introduce ourselves before, but you know how it is these days, travelling the roads. One does not altogether know …’ And he proceeded to name himself and his companion in two of those unfathomable groups of Polish consonants that always defeated Glynde, who was amused to see them make just as heavy weather of his own name. But the time when the town gates were locked drew near, the flurry of congratulation and compliment was soon over, and the two men paid their shot and left.

  ‘Well, thank the Lord for that,’ said Glynde.

  ‘Agreed! I’m sorry I unleashed that flood of compliment on us, but it suddenly struck me it might make sense after all to say I was the Princess Isobel’s cousin. Just in case they had any little idea about ambushing us tomorrow and leaving us dead in a bog.’

  ‘I noticed you didn’t mention that she doesn’t know you’re coming,’ said Glynde. ‘Frankly, I’m grateful to you. I shall sleep sounder tonight and travel more peacefully tomorrow for knowing we are expected.’

  ‘If they tell the Princess. I didn’t much like them, did you?’

  ‘No. Are they what are called the schlachta, do you suppose? The petty nobles who have no land, only their so-called nobility, and no way of earning their living, because a noble can’t take to trade?’

  ‘I imagine so. Hangers-on of my cousin, I would think. Mother used to say that any great house had swarms of such men, useful only when it was a question of swinging the vote in the diet, or impressing a neighbour. Will my cousin look down on me, do you suppose, because my father is in trade?’

  ‘I shall think the less of her if she does.’ But Glynde wondered what his own father would have said if he had suggested becoming a merchant when his wound closed the army against him. Sometimes he found himself thinking it might have been a more honourable calling than the diplomatic service, but his father would most certainly not have agreed with him, and his elder brother would have been enraged. A Rendel of Ringmer in trade. Unthinkable. ‘I imagine things are quite different in your United States of America,’ he said now. ‘I’m for my bed. I wonder if there is clean straw.’

  There was, and a chipped jug full of cold water. ‘The lords should have told me they were kin to the Princess Sobieska.’ The landlord was more obsequious than ever. ‘If I have failed in any way, they must forgive my ignorance.’

  ‘I like him still less when he fawns on one like that,’ said Jan impatiently as they made their minimal preparations for sleep.

  ‘Yes. Intolerable. As if he expected us to kick him.’

  ‘Perhaps people do,’ said Jan sleepily.

  No armed robber disturbed their sleep, and the landlord amazed them by producing coffee for their breakfast. What with this, a fine morning, and the better road that the strangers had promised, they started out for their day’s ride in good heart. And the country was more interesting here as the hard dirt-road ran sometimes along the Vistula, sometimes at the other side of the broad valley it had made by constantly changing its course. The land was better cultivated, too, and the villages began to look more prosperous, with here and there a paned window visible in one of the larger houses, and a pale, clean look to the one-storeyed peasant huts.

  ‘The women scrub them down each spring,’ Jan explained. ‘My mother told me about it. To get rid of the lichens and grubs that otherwise destroy the wood. It must be a terrible job.’

  ‘Women’s work? They do seem to bear the burdens, don’t they? The oriental influence, I suppose. Like those outlandish shaven heads. I cannot get used to them.’

  ‘No more can I,’ admitted Jan, ‘though one has to see that they have advantages from the point of view of cleanliness. I’m ashamed to arrive at my cousin’s so very far from presentable.’ Travelling even lighter than Glynde, he had been reduced to borrowing a clean cravat from him that morning but was still unhappily aware that his attempts at shaving in the exiguous supply of dirty water had not been totally successful. ‘I wish I was fair like you,’ he said now. ‘I feel shabby all over. Mother always made their trips to Cracow or Vienna sound like parties of pleasure … picnics almost.’

  ‘I imagine it was different then. Mind you, even now, with a sufficient retinue it would be another case altogether. I was warned that travellers in these parts were judged by their servants and the lace on their coats, but who wants to be cumbered with a lot of grumbling retainers?’ All the same, he liked the prospect of meeting the Princess Sobieska in his present travel-stained condition even less than his companion did. And when they got their first view of Rendomierz that afternoon even he, who had grown up in one of England’s smaller stately homes, felt daunted. ‘It really is a palace!’ They paused by common consent to gaze at the cluster of buildings set back in a fold of the foothills that separated the Vistula from its tributary, the Renn. Westering sun caught the glass of windows in the gothic tower and central block and sparkled on what must be an immense orangery.

  ‘Or a village! I had no idea …’ Jan put up an anxious hand to the borrowed cravat, then withdrew it hurriedly, aware that it was bound to be dirty. He met Glynde’s eyes ruefully. ‘Frankly,’ he said, ‘just now, I wish I’d taken father’s advice and stayed home. This is no place for me. A cousin who owns all that! She’ll be proud as the devil, of course. Making a dynastic marriage –’ He looked wildly round him and Glynde actually wondered whether, on his own, he might not simply have turned and fled.

  But it was too late. Glynde’s sharp eyes had caught sight of a group of horsemen galloping towards them from the direction of the palace. A cloud of dust at first, they were soon distinguishable as wild, Cossack figures, lances and sabres gleaming in the sun. ‘I hope that means we are expected,’ he said drily to Jan. ‘I think we wait for them here, don’t you?’

  ‘Lord, I’m glad I ran into you,’ said Jan. ‘I suppose it is a reception committee.’ He did not quite make it a question.

  ‘Oh, I imagine so.’ And as his hand almost unconsciously reached towards the pistol he carried, a shouted order halted the oncoming mob in its tracks, horses foaming to a halt, their riders suddenly motionless and silent. One man rode slowly forward, sabre raised in salute, shaven head gleaming in the sunshine. ‘Welcome, the Princess’s cousin!’ The greeting, in admirable French, was spoken equally to the two of them, but his eyes were fixed on Jan.

  ‘Zenkue,’ Jan chose the Polish word for thank you and went on in that language, introducing himself and Glynde, then switched to French to explain that Glynde did not understand Polish.

  ‘Then we will speak French, though it makes me happy and will delight the Princess that your Lordship has taken the trouble to learn our language. She bids you both welcome to her home, and looks forward to meeting you when you have recovered from your journey. I am her chamberlain, Leon Wysocki, entirely at your service.’ They were riding forward now, at a reasonable pace, the Cossack escort skirmishing round them. ‘This is where we leave the road.’ He shouted an order to one of their outriders. ‘I have told him to guide your c
oachman to the stables,’ he explained. ‘We will ride through the park; it is the shorter way to the guest-houses. The park was planned by an Englishman, a pupil of your William Kent.’

  ‘He certainly knew what he was doing.’ Glynde looked across the close-cropped grass to its groups of ornamental trees; beech, and live-oak and towering pine.

  ‘It must take an army to keep it like this,’ said Jan.

  ‘The Princess has an army of serfs, and more acres than she can count.’ He pointed. ‘The kitchen gardens are behind that wall, and the maze over there, but I am going to take you by way of the ornamental waters. The Princess’s father designed them himself. They were his pride.’

  ‘I should think so,’ said Glynde as they paused for a moment beside the ornamental pool at the end of a long yew walk lined with statues. ‘I’ve seen the ornamental water at Chatsworth and it is nothing to this.’

  ‘So other gentlemen have said.’ Wysocki was pleased. ‘It used to be a great sport with the Princess and her brother, God rest his soul, to take guests to see the statues in the yew walk and then drench them from the secret outlets. There’s a stone you press,’ he explained to Jan, who was looking puzzled, ‘and water spurts out of their mouths.’ He led the way across an ornamental bridge and round the corner of the yew walk. ‘Rendomierz,’ he said.

  From here, the house looked still more enormous, the symmetry of its pale yellow and white front relieved by the orangery glittering to one side and the church with its gothic tower on the other. The huge front door under its classic pediment stood hospitably open to late afternoon sunshine, but their guide turned his horse down a neatly gravelled side-path that led towards the orangery. ‘The Princess has given you one of the guest-houses,’ he explained. ‘You will not mind sharing it? She thought you would be more comfortable there than in the main palace, where we are all at sixes and sevens because of the wedding. Each of the family used to have their own house,’ he went on, as they rounded the corner of the orangery and saw what looked like a village street running up the centre of a small valley, a stream sparkling beside it, houses on either side. ‘The Princess had this one made ready for you.’ He stopped outside the first house. ‘It’s the most convenient for the Turkish bath, which her father built at this end of the orangery. And here is Jadwiga to welcome you.’ A smiling servant in tight-fitting velvet waistcoat over voluminous striped skirts stood curtseying at the open door. ‘Ask for anything you need. She will send a boy to conduct you to the Turkish baths, and I will come – shall we say in two hours? – to take you to the palace, where the Princess hopes you will sup with her.’

  A boy had appeared from nowhere to take their horses; their guide bowed and left them; the smiling servant stood back to let them enter the house.

  ‘Not exactly a cottage.’ Glynde looked at the luxurious living-room. ‘And we didn’t need to worry about our appearance after all.’

  ‘No, thank God. Mother never said … I had no idea.’ He crossed the room to where Jadwiga was standing at the far door. ‘Dining-room through there, kitchen beyond …’

  ‘And bedrooms on each side.’ Though he had immensely taken to his new companion, Rendel was nevertheless delighted at the prospect of a room to himself again. There was so much writing to be done.

  ‘You will take some vodka, lords, while you wait for your baggage?’ asked Jadwiga, in Polish. ‘Or anything else?’

  ‘She’s offering us vodka,’ Jan translated. ‘Or anything else?’

  ‘I wonder how all-inclusive that is,’ said Glynde thoughtfully. ‘She’s a striking creature, isn’t she? It’s the first time I’ve seen the Polish national dress worn with style, as it should be. But no vodka for me, or anything else. I cannot begin to tell you how I look forward to that Turkish bath.’

  Two hours later they were ready, glowing with cleanliness, scrubbed and pummelled and soothed by the willing staff of the Turkish bath, and dressed in the formal best each had saved for this occasion. They made a comic enough contrast, Glynde thought, he in full court-dress of knee-breeches and silk stockings, Jan in another of his loose-fitting coats over straight trousers, but these of the finest alpaca. ‘Father said I should get a rig-out like that,’ he looked a little anxiously at Rendel’s costume. ‘I said he was crazy. I’m an American. This is how I dress.’

  ‘And very comfortable it looks. Frankly, I envy you.’

  ‘Thanks. But what will she say?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Glynde. ‘Whatever else she is, your cousin is a great lady.’

  Which did not do very much to calm his young companion’s nerves, but luckily the chamberlain appeared at this point, cast an approving glance over Glynde’s costume and a puzzled one over Jan’s, and said, ‘You are ready, lords? Then come with me.’

  They entered the palace by a back way that was only marginally less stately than the front one and passed through ranks of liveried, bowing footmen to a grand stairway that swept up through the centre of the building. Dusk had fallen while they were in the bath, and every third footman held a flaming torch, while candelabra on the walls had their myriad candles reflected over and over again in the huge looking-glasses that adorned the stair. ‘I feel like Tom Thumb,’ muttered Jan. ‘I wish I’d stayed home.’

  Chapter 4

  ‘But why didn’t she tell me?’ asked George Richards, distracted. ‘I’d never have brought her. You must see, Miss Peverel, that I would never have brought her.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ said Jenny, ‘but whether that would have been a good thing is more than I can tell. I haven’t met her mother, but I did wonder …’

  ‘A terrible creature,’ said George Richards. ‘A blood-sucker. I’d thought to get Mary clean away to Bristol, but not a bit of it. Can’t leave dear mama. Or rather, dear mama won’t be left. So I bought a house in Bath – only thing to do, hoped for the best. Drew the line at her living with us. Better living on her own, I said; her own life, all that. But in and out all day; Mary quoting her to me till I thought I’d choke on it. Planned this trip as a last recourse. And now, look what’s happened. If only she had told me!’

  ‘But she didn’t know. And really, Mr. Richards, from everything you say, I think it may be all for the best, if we can just get her safely through this first difficult time. My sisters were always poorly at first; merry as grigs the rest of the way. By what Mary says – if I may call her Mary – I would think she is probably almost over the worst of it. If we take great care of her for the next few weeks …’

  ‘How can we? If only you had told me at Yarmouth,’ he said again. But they both knew it had been quite impossible during the chaos of embarkation the night before. Now, Mary was prostrate in the tiny cabin and Jenny had asked George Richards to take her up on deck for a breath of air after the noisy, crowded ship’s breakfast. It was a fine morning with the ship running easily under what she thought Giles would have called a following wind. She found she liked the live feeling of the deck under her feet; felt herself automatically yielding to its movement.

  Impossible not to feel exhilarated by the fresh, keen air, the cheerful bustle around her. She pushed back the hood that warmly framed her face and smiled at him. ‘That inn was no place for her. It would have meant going back to Bath, I think. Which would have been bad for her too. She says young ladies in Bath stay at home with their feet up when they are in her situation.’

  ‘Ridiculous! If I could just get her to Petersburg! Safe enough in Holy Russia from ma-in-law – and from Bonaparte. It’s a handsome city. Their customs are strange, of course, take a bit of getting used to, but there’s a British colony centred round the Factory, and this new Tsar of theirs is quite a fellow, they say. I’ve not been there since that madman Paul was killed last year. I’d never have considered settling there while he was alive. Do you know, Miss Peverel, if his carriage met yours in the street, you had to stop and get out and stand bareheaded while he passed? In the snow, even, with the temperature well below freezing. Women, too, and children.’ />
  ‘And if you didn’t?’

  ‘Siberia the least of it. Well – a foreigner might just have been ordered to leave, but I wouldn’t have banked on it. He was army mad, you know. It’s a fortunate thing for us all that he died, or he might have come to blows with Bony in the end, though he seemed to think well enough of him. Well: two tyrants! His son Alexander’s a liberal, a man of peace. He’ll do great things for Russia and I mean to be there to see them. Profit by them. It’s bound to mean more trade. Do I shock you, Miss Peverel? It’s hardly the kind of talk you can be used to.’

  ‘I like it,’ she said. ‘It reminds me of when my brother Giles used to talk of life in the navy. It’s real, somehow. Different.’

  ‘I’m sorry about your brother. Mary told me last night. She didn’t seem to be able to settle. She’s … worried about herself, I think. Frightened, maybe?’ He was half ashamed to admit it. ‘I’m from a family of ten. Mother never had time to fret. Too busy keeping us out of trouble, I reckon. I wish she’d lived so I could give her a bit of comfort in her old age. I’m selfmade, Miss Peverel, proud of it. I’ve been wanting to tell you, so you know where you stand. Mary never would tell, poor girl. She’s ashamed of it. I’m not, but I understand how she feels. Course, we did have to pretend a bit for her ma. She’d never have swallowed me whole, not as I really am. Wasn’t it a lucky thing for me that when I started making my mint I had the wits to get me a speech master?’ His voice changed, rose a note or two, took on an accent she had never heard. ‘Born and reared in Liverpool, miss, if you call it rearing. Begging in the streets; fighting for crusts; holding horses for halfpence. Mary’s ma would never have stood for me, talking like that, would she now?’ He reverted to the King’s English. ‘And even you might think twice about being seen with me, Miss Peverel.’

  ‘I wish you would call me Jenny.’ It was the most complete answer she could think of.