Polonaise Read Online Free Page B

that curious prickly reserve of hers, and made friends. And now she was marrying a Russian. No, not a Russian. A Russian-loving Pole. Surely worse? More despicable? They had played a game that summer the Sobieskis stayed at Petworth House. One of them would be the King of Poland. Jenny had found his name hard to pronounce then, Stanislas Augustus; she knew it well enough now. The one who played him – often Isobel, because it was the smallest part – would stand in the little Greek temple in the pleasure gardens and look down towards the London road, now in their game the Vistula, shading her eyes, watching the Russian soldiers massacre the innocent citizens of Praga. The lesspopular of the children staying at Petworth House played the Russians and all the rest were Poles. ‘Where are my gallant Poles? Where is Kosciusko?’ Isobel was supposed to cry, and then all the rest of the children would fall upon the ‘Russians’ and drive them out of the gardens, sometimes right down into the fields beside the London road. Casimir had thought of the game, and it was he who finally put an end to it by losing his temper and nearly strangling a visiting English boy. Later that day, deep in disgrace, he had caught Jenny for a moment on the nursery stairs. ‘My mother says we must leave tomorrow, but I shall come back. You’ll wait for me?’
    Had she really been waiting? Not knowingly, she thought, unpicking the stitches of some blonde trimming. And she smiled to herself, remembering Dick Forester’s proposal, his absolute certainty that she was his for the asking and angry amazement when she refused him. A dangerously good listener, she had been more careful after that, choosing just the moment for a small question or quiet comment hinting a flaw in the male argument. It had worked like a charm. Too well? But now: Isobel certainly wanted her. With her mother and brother both dead, she wrote, she had no close relatives left, since one whole family of cousins had died in the massacre at Praga. No wonder Casimir had struck the Russian officer who made a joke about that day. ‘You’re the nearest I have to a sister,’ Isobel had written. ‘Come to me and we will mourn him together.’ Of course she was going.
    Travelling to London by the night mail, with some discomfort and considerable saving, she reached Mr. Richards’ brother’s house in Holborn very early, since the mail coach got to London at six in the morning, and found only Mr. Richards himself up to greet her. He was younger than she had expected: a stocky, fresh-faced man, maybe in his thirties, and looking anxious.
    â€˜Miss Peverel? Delighted! Can’t tell you how glad. You must let me –’ He took over the business of paying the boy who had brought her trunk from the General Post Office, and she could only be grateful. She had never travelled alone before and had fretted over the problem of tipping the boy. ‘No, no.’ Richards refused her timid offer of repayment. ‘More than delighted.Company for Maria. She’s not quite the thing this morning; you’ll cheer her up, I’m sure of it. A seasoned traveller like you; all the way from Petworth by yourself! Now: breakfast. Kidneys, perhaps a chop, a little bacon? Maria’s having her chocolate in bed; not at her strongest first thing, poor girl. We start in half an hour.’ An anxious glance at his watch. ‘Easy stages: Ipswich tonight; Yarmouth tomorrow; packet leaves tomorrow night; mustn’t miss that.’ He watched with satisfaction as Jenny dealt with her loaded plate. ‘Pleasure to see you eat, Miss Peverel. Keep your strength up! Poor Maria! Homesick, of course. Never left her mother before; sad business yesterday; feel better once we’re on our way. Of course she will.’
    â€˜I’m sure of it.’ But when Maria Richards appeared Jenny felt less so. Tall, fair and sylph-like, Mrs. Richards