A World to Win Page 4

  As we drew in to the quay, the steam-ship let off a great whistle, a salute promptly returned from the shore, causing the children to jump up and down with delight. It also caused swarms of people to dash on to the quay. There was colour everywhere: the shore appeared to be full of superbly uniformed soldiers — who later turned out to be merely servants in livery; exotically dressed noblemen glinting with gold and jewels strode among peasants in pig-tails and gaily embroidered shirts selling their wares from huge baskets. I revelled in the sheer ostentation; my Presbyterian soul was tactfully subdued.

  Naturally the children and I watched our arrival from the deck. Somewhat to my surprise we were joined by the Count and Countess. I had supposed their rank entitled them to be first off the ship, but I soon discovered that this was not their intention.

  I saw the Count lift his hand in salute to someone on the shore, while the children swung in my hands like wayward puppies on the end of a leash.

  “Uncle Mattias!” cried Anna suddenly. “Look, look, it’s Uncle...!”

  I should like to think it was my sharp tug to her hand that stopped her yelling like a diminutive fishwife, but I suspect it was her mother’s chilly glare.

  Though I tried, I could not make out which of the waving crowd were Szelényis. However, I had not long to wait, for barely had the ship tied up when two young people leapt up the gangway ahead of the officials whom they had presumably suborned earlier — a tall, well-built young man, dark and good looking and rather romantically dressed in a blue frock-coat laced with gold; and a very lovely, willowy young lady who moved with impossible grace inside her fashionably cumbersome petticoats. Both were laughing as they all but ran aboard and straight towards us.

  It was fortunate that no one noticed me watching the greetings between these newcomers and my employers, for quite without warning I felt a lump in my throat that was almost bile, and the thought that kept going round and round my head, not just with bitterness but with utter rage, was, “What a loving family. What a close, loving family.”

  The fact that their affection was obviously genuine only made it worse. This was what should have been my mother’s, what my mother had been deprived of, coldly and deliberately.

  It was the tight pain in my head that brought me back to my senses. Deliberately, I looked away from the family to the quay, forcing my muscles to relax, my eyes to see the cheerful throngs, and gradually, almost to my surprise, the pain subsided to a dull, manageable ache.

  I wondered if the busy officials would allow Lajos Lázár ashore, or if he would have to swim for it.

  I realized that I was laughing to myself at this entirely imaginable picture. Almost at the same time, I felt myself to be observed. Looking round quickly, I met the gaze of Count István’s beautiful young sister who, I remembered, was called Katalin — curiously enough, for it is the Hungarian version of my own name. Unexpectedly, she smiled, even took a step nearer me.

  “You must be the new governess,” she said in French.

  I inclined my head.

  “Welcome to Hungary,” the girl said with simple friendliness, and I, surprised by the unexpected courtesy, could only murmur, “Thank you, Mademoiselle”; but already she was turning back to her family.

  People were going ashore now, greeting friends and family, directing the gorgeously attired servants about luggage. I found myself watching the departing passengers, but I saw no sign of my acquaintance, the amiable revolutionary. Only as we finally prepared to disembark ourselves did I catch sight of him, already on the quay, the centre of a noisy group of young men who were enthusiastically shaking his hand and clapping him on the back amid much noise and laughter. They had already begun to walk away by the time I noticed them. He didn’t look back.

  * * * *

  The Szelényi palace in Pest was even more magnificent than the house in Vienna. Of course, it was newer, built on spacious, classical lines, with elegant columns on either side of the front door, and a tall wrought iron gate — solely ornamental from all I ever saw, for it was never locked — to discourage the unwashed from wandering too close. It was run by a vast army of maids and wonderfully liveried menservants under the strict eye of an Austrian housekeeper unimaginatively called Frau Schmidt, and a fierce, charming old Hungarian simply known as Ferenc, who had once really been the soldier he still resembled.

  I quickly discovered the sternness of these two to be a façade assumed solely for the benefit of the lower servants. Unlike their counterparts in Vienna — who had seemed more embarrassed by me than anything — Frau Schmidt and Ferenc never showed me anything but kindness and a friendliness that sprang originally, I’m sure, from compassion. However, my own gratitude for such unexpected consideration made me respond with uncharacteristic warmth, and the friendship between us was soon genuine.

  So, although I ate with the children in the school room during the day, I dined every evening with Ferenc and Frau Schmidt in the housekeeper’s private sitting-room, enjoying increasingly comfortable gossips; after which I would repair to my own cramped but comfortable quarters to while away the remains of the evening, reading novels or writing letters home to Aunt Edith and to the friends who were my only regret in leaving Scotland.

  I suspect these letters were full of surprised glee at landing in so comfortable a position, with employers who barely noticed me, let alone plagued me with extra duties or excessive supervision.

  I think it was the third day after our arrival when, not long before noon, a maid appeared with the request that I bring the children to the blue salon.

  Having delivered her message, she scuttled off, which was most inconsiderate of her when I had not the remotest idea where to find such a room. It was Miklós who led the way along wide, scented and polished passages, past innumerable closed doors and wildly over-dressed footmen, until we finally arrived at the correct apartment — a spacious, elegant drawing-room decorated in a tasteful China blue, with a highly polished wood floor and a scattering of small, expensive Persian rugs. Here I made the acquaintance of yet another Szelényi, Maria, Count István’s older, married sister, now Baroness Mirányi.

  She and her sister Katalin, together with another most striking young woman, were visiting the Countess. While Baroness Maria hugged the children and questioned them about various things, I watched her rather curiously. Like all the family, she was handsome, a tall, statuesque lady who, I suspected, revelled in the description “formidable”. There was nothing of Katalin’s rather charming air of frailty about Maria. She was as strong as Count István. At the very least.

  Eventually, her busy eye fell on me.

  “This is the new governess?” she enquired in French.

  The Countess turned her beautiful head towards me, looking slightly surprised to see me there. “Oh yes. Miss Kettles, from England.”

  “Scotland,” Miklós corrected promptly.

  Baroness Maria inclined her head graciously. I returned the gesture.

  “You seem rather young,” she observed.

  “I am getting older.”

  She blinked. “I hope you have the proper talents — and experience — to teach my brother’s children?”

  “Really, Maria,” the Countess said lazily. “You don’t imagine we would have employed her if she had not? Her credentials are excellent. Sit down, Miss Kettles.”

  I had never been a weapon between sisters-in-law before. I decided to savour the experience.

  Since Katalin politely gathered in her spreading skirts, I sat on the sofa beside her. The children hung around their mother, quiet but clinging — I had never clung so to my own mother, but then she had not left me to be brought up by other people. From this position, to my silent disapproval, they were somewhat casually introduced to the third visitor, Baroness Teréz Meleki.

  I knew that name already from household gossip. She was the Countess’s best friend, a wealthy widow and a quite famous hostess in political circles. I studied her with interest, for it was said she held prono
unced liberal views and possessed great influence among Hungarian politicians, including the great reformers Kossuth and Count Széchenyi. It was difficult to tell her age, but though she lacked the Countess’s classical beauty she was nevertheless a most attractive woman: her movements and her speech were languid to a fault, yet somehow she exuded power and intelligence. Naturally, she didn’t so much as glance at me.

  “So what are your plans for this afternoon, Elisabeth?” Maria was asking the Countess, who wrinkled her forehead distastefully.

  “I have promised to call on Sofia Zolnay,” she said, as one doomed.

  “Oh dear,” drawled Baroness Meleki, half pitying, half amused.

  “Precisely, but I couldn’t avoid it. I was hoping you might come with me, Katalin, to preserve me from annihilating boredom.”

  Katalin’s unquiet hands suddenly stilled in her lap. “This afternoon? Oh, poor you, but I can’t, Elisabeth. I promised the children I would take them on a picnic to Buda Hill.”

  This was news to me. It appeared to be also news to the children, whose expressions of joy were not unmixed with surprise. However, if the Szelényi ladies could not tell when one of their own was lying, I was not about to point it out to them.

  * * * *

  “But you aren’t dressed to go out, Miss Kettles,” Katalin exclaimed in alarm when she eventually appeared in the schoolroom. “Aren’t you coming with us?”

  My suspicion grew that there was more to this outing than the desire to avoid Mme Zolnay.

  “If you wish,” I said equably.

  “The children wish it too — don’t you?”

  Flatteringly, they assured me they did, so without fuss I fetched my pelisse and my bonnet — on which I was gratified to see Katalin’s gaze linger just a little too long — and we set off.

  Travelling in Hungary is an experience. The coachmen there believe in wasting no time on any gradual build-up of speed: one moment you are still, the next you are jolted into flying motion. Flung back against the luxurious cushions of the Szelényi carriage, I made involuntary noises of alarm. Katalin only laughed.

  “László is gentle,” she said ominously. “You should travel in a fiacre.”

  Even in foul weather Pest looks bright, vital and handsome, and today the June sun displayed it in all its glory: wide, paved streets and large, curiously empty squares surrounded by white stone houses which dazzled me at first by their splendour; and modern shopping thoroughfares with brightly painted boards hanging over each shop to proclaim its purpose. Hurtling past these delights, we sped eventually down to the harbour area, where Katalin, in friendly spirit, pointed out the new chain bridge being built across the river to Buda.

  “It was Count Széchenyi’s idea,” she told me. “He’s our great reformer.”

  “It looks magnificent,” I said with some truth.

  “It will be when it’s finished.”

  “But how do we get across now?”

  “By the Bridge of Boats!” Miklós said gleefully.

  I had visions of leaving the coach in Pest and hopping across the river from boat to boat, but in fact they were joined by rough, uneven planks over which vehicles could bump their way quite easily. Though the bridge was guarded by a toll house, László blithely drove us past it without stopping or even slowing down.

  “Don’t we have to pay?” I asked naively, looking back over my shoulder for angry pursuers.

  “No,” Katalin said simply. “Nobles don’t pay tolls.”

  Of course they don’t. Only the poor pay taxes here. Relaxing, I allowed myself to admire the river scenery, dominated, it seemed, by the huge fortress of Buda, at which Miklós now pointed excitedly.

  “Papa is in there!” he exclaimed.

  “Is he?” I said doubtfully.

  Katalin smiled. “He is actually. He sits on the Vice-Regal Council which meets there.”

  I didn’t need to ask what the Vice-Regal Council was. It was a kind of privy council consisting of important nobles who advised the King and implemented his orders — or at least such of them as they saw fit, for all Hungarians seemed to be rebellious by nature: it was just a matter of degree.

  I hadn’t known that István was on the Council. It seemed the Szelényis were a more important family than I had imagined...

  “Shall we walk round the ramparts?” Katalin suggested to the children, “and you can show the views to Miss Kettles.”

  “Can’t we have the picnic first?” said Anna.

  “Oh no — you’ll enjoy it much more after your walk.”

  Though this was meant to be a treat for the children, Katalin was being very firm about the order of our afternoon. I soon discovered why.

  She airily dismissed the coach — leaving me to carry the picnic basket — and hurried us up to the castle ramparts, which had been converted into very pleasant walks with quite extraordinary views across the Danube to Pest and the vast, sandy yellow plain surrounding it. From here I could see the shape of the whole town, the neatly laid out squares and crescents of the inner city and the sprawling, yet cramped suburbs. I could even make out the scurrying, ant-like figures of the bustling citizens. I was impressed.

  Nevertheless, we seemed to be the only people around. Anna and Miklós danced between Katalin and me, chattering and questioning, but Katalin was obviously distracted, answering vaguely, if at all, and leading us on at a cracking pace.

  I could have done with consuming the contents of the basket before lugging it with me on a route march.

  However, relief was in sight, in the shape of an army officer in a plain, white uniform, dawdling — lurking — in our path. Somewhat to my surprise, as soon as he saw us, he took his hands out of his pockets and came purposefully towards us. The mystery of Katalin’s desire for our company — especially mine — became instantly clear. It was a Man. I should have known: with a girl of Katalin’s beauty and charm there was bound to be a Man.

  He did not seem to see the rest of us, but went at once to Katalin, who paused, flushing attractively and smiling straight into his eyes.

  “Katalin,” he breathed.

  She recovered quickly, glancing surreptitiously at the children and me. With a creditable, if entirely futile, attempt at aloofness, she said, “Captain Zarescu! What a surprise.”

  I choked back my laughter as I saw the Captain take in the presence of two small children and one dowdy spinster. My visions of a dashing seducer from whose evil clutches I would eventually be forced to rescue her, were then dashed entirely, for the wretched man actually blushed.

  Unless I have read all the wrong books, evil seducers do not blush.

  I looked at him with more interest: tall and thin to the point of lankiness, he was raven-haired and fine featured with huge, deep-set dark eyes that were somehow unbearably sad. I could see his attraction.

  “We’re going to have a picnic,” Katalin was rattling on, almost desperately. “Perhaps you’d care to join us?”

  “Thank you, I’d love to,” the Captain replied promptly, then hesitated. “That is, if there is enough to go round?” He spoke Hungarian fluently, but with an odd accent that was new to me. Assured of our abundance of victuals, he politely offered to carry the basket. I gave it up gracefully, and for the next fifteen minutes allowed myself to be used as planned — to occupy the children while their aunt occupied the Captain.

  Our picnic, when we eventually stopped, was quite informal. We sat on a rug which Captain Zarescu took out of the basket and spread on the ground for us, and the children took great delight in setting everything out, while I admired the new view, stretching this time over the ancient walled city of Buda to the blue-tinted mountains beyond. In contrast with Pest, Buda seemed quiet, almost still, nestling cosily into the foot of wooded, vine-laden hills.

  All this while the Captain looked slightly bemused, though not displeased at having to share his assignation with two small children and their governess. Of course, by this time, Miklós and Anna had charmed him and enroll
ed him in the massed ranks of their friends.

  I regarded Katalin thoughtfully over my cheese, wondering just how she would prevent the children telling anyone who would listen — including their parents — about the jolly picnic with Aunt Katalin’s friend the Captain.

  She met my gaze briefly, at once pleading and conspiratorial. Of course, the children had nothing to tell, I realized. As far as they knew, we had met the Captain by accident, and nothing could be more open and respectable than this gathering. It was my silence she needed — and she knew it.

  I couldn’t quite understand her reason for making secret assignations at all. Captain Zarescu seemed quite unexceptionable to me: well-mannered, intelligent and obviously ridiculously in love with Katalin. I expected he was poor.

  I decided to forget my role as silent governess for a while, and asked the Captain where he was stationed.

  “Here in Buda,” he answered.

  “Have you been here long?”

  “About a year, I think...?” He glanced automatically at Katalin for confirmation.

  “A year and two months,” she said with a smile.

  “Is this where you met?” I asked casually.

  “Oh no — we’ve known each other for ever! Alexandru's — Captain Zarescu’s — family live quite near us in Transylvania.”

  That was a surprise; but it gave me another, not entirely improbable idea. “I don’t suppose you know someone called Lajos Lázár?” I suggested.

  The Captain’s eyebrows flew up. “Why, yes, very well! Do you know Lajos?”

  “Hardly. The children introduced us on the steam ship from Vienna.”

  “Oh dear,” said Katalin uneasily. “István wouldn’t like that.”

  “He didn’t. But I don’t suppose his objections extend to all M. Lázár’s friends.”