A World to Win Read online

  I also ‘saw’ Count Batthyány, who was the Opposition’s choice for leader of the Upper House in the forthcoming Diet which was to meet in the autumn. Naturally, he was encountered at the home of the dazzling widow, Baroness Teréz Meleki. A balding man with a magnificent beard, he had both presence and wit.

  As the Countess sat down beside him, her friend said, “The Count was just telling me how important it is that Kossuth be elected as Deputy for Pest.”

  “Indeed? How interesting,” said the Countess, quite patently bored. Not for the first time I wondered what on earth these two friends had in common: the one living for politics which sent the other straight to sleep.

  “And of course, he is right,” Baroness Meleki drawled, smiling at Batthyány in such a way that I was reminded of a beautiful but predatory cat — had Frau Schmidt not hinted at something scandalous in her private life...? “We all know Kossuth is the only one with enough drive and popularity to succeed.”

  “He’ll be elected,” Batthyány said confidently.

  “I understand he is also the choice of the young radicals. With their support, I suspect he can’t lose.”

  At that, I pricked up my ears, for I had often wondered what influence, if any, Lázár and his friends actually had.

  “Ah.” Batthyány regarded her doubtfully. “I don’t think we really want to encourage such a connection. It would too easily drive away influential moderates — such as this lady’s respected husband, for example.” He indicated the Countess with a gallant bow.

  “Oh nonsense, Count. Elisabeth, surely the support of a few writers and poets would not turn István against Kossuth?”

  “No,” said the Countess flatly. “István can’t bear the man under any circumstances.”

  In my corner, I choked back a laugh. I felt oddly proud of her: she was certainly not influenced by her company! Baroness Meleki, however, looked quite irritated.

  Batthyány only smiled benignly, saying, “I have hopes of bringing him round. Kossuth is a hard-working man, you know, and I believe only he can put us on the right course to reform.”

  I wondered. I recalled that first conversation with Lajos Lázár when I had mockingly asked him if he planned to lead his revolution. I wondered what he thought of Kossuth in the role. However, I soon had more immediate things to think about, for in the carriage going home that afternoon, the Countess surprised me again.

  In fact she deprived me of speech by saying suddenly through the children’s chatter, “Do you know what ails my sister-in-law?” Appalled, I could only stare dumbly at her. “I mean Katalin,” she said impatiently, fortunately misreading my hesitation. “She is out of spirits. Nervous. I was wondering if you knew why.”

  I had always suspected that someone would notice Katalin’s state sooner or later. Yet I hadn’t expected it to be the Countess. “She spends an inordinate amount of time in the schoolroom,” she went on. “And I can find no reason for such an unlikely haunt unless she is pouring out her woes to you.”

  I pulled myself together. “She talks to me, yes,” I said uncomfortably. For the first time that I could remember, the Countess was holding my gaze.

  “Is she still hankering after that Romanian officer?” she asked bluntly.

  I blinked. “Yes,” I said truthfully, “I believe she is.”

  The Countess looked away, out of the window. “It won’t do, you know.”

  I said nothing, for I was feeling so guilty that it was all I could do to stop myself from wriggling. It was one thing to help Katalin, even to go against her father. It was quite another to deceive the people who employed me and who had certainly never done me any harm. Besides, rather to my surprise, I had developed a curious sympathy for the Countess; she seemed vaguely unhappy, drifting discontentedly from place to place, without aim or object or the ability to change. Even her affection for her children was frustrated by the custom which dictated they be brought up largely by servants.

  “It won’t do,” she repeated.

  “I know,” I said quietly.

  How had I got myself into this position? By my own foolishness, and not all of it had been good-natured...

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  That Sunday, I found myself high in the hills above Buda, sitting on the terrace of a tiny, secluded inn, sipping sweet, local wine while the warm breeze blew my hair against my cheek, and I idly watched Lajos Lázár flick through the pages of a book.

  As if to rub salt in my wounded conscience, the Count and Countess had generously granted me the whole of the day to myself, while they took the children on an overnight visit to friends in Pest County. Ungratefully dismal, I had thought I might go to church. I was still slightly confused as to how I had got here instead, but I had long since stopped worrying about it. Rather, replete after a simple, hearty lunch, I leaned back in my seat, sighing contentedly, letting the peace of the place flow over me.

  It had been Zsuzsa the nursery maid, already dressed for travel and looking conspiratorial, who had brought me news of my visitor that morning, even before I had put the last pin in my hair.

  “There’s someone to see you,” she had whispered, regarding me with a new respect. “In the Little Room.” I had time for a quite startling vision before she added, “Do you know where I mean? The small room on the ground floor, next to the servants’ stairs.”

  Relieved, but still curious, I followed her out and hurried downstairs to greet my visitor. I presumed it was Captain Zarescu unexpectedly returned, or someone with a message from him, though why it should come to me rather than Katalin herself, I was at a loss to understand.

  I found the Little Room easily enough. It was an excellent place for a secret meeting, being quite unused by the family and close enough to the servants’ quarters to enable easy access — or departure — from there. I opened the door quietly, and was immediately brought to a halt by the sight of Lajos Lázár. He was perched on the curly legged table which stood in the middle of the room, idly swinging one foot and reading a book which lay open on his knee. He looked up as I came in, and smiled.

  “Good morning,” he said, closing the book with a tiny snap.

  I recovered quickly, shutting the door behind me. “I had not realized,” I said sarcastically, “that you were on visiting terms with the Szelényis.”

  “I’m not,” he agreed, “but I have friends in the household. I grew up with some of them.”

  I should have known. “Including Zsuzsa?”

  “I pushed her into a pond when I was six. When I was ten, I stole oranges for her.”

  “And now you are — what? — twenty-eight...?”

  “Twenty-five. Yesterday.”

  “Happy birthday,” I said politely. “So now you are so old, she runs errands for you?”

  “I regard it more as a favour than as an errand.” He slid his hip off the table and came towards me.

  Curiously, I asked, “Don’t you find your place in life rather — confusing?”

  “No,” he said simply. “But I’m sure others do. I brought you this.” Wordlessly, I took the proffered book from him. It was a slim volume bearing the legend Petöfi Sándor, and a little further down in Hungarian, The Village Hammer. “I think you’ll find it entertaining — and not too politically offensive.”

  “Thank you,” I murmured, “but you know, I could have bought a copy...”

  “Keep that one; I have another.”

  I looked at him uncertainly. I wasn’t quite sure what he was doing here, but looking at him now, in his threadbare coat and untidy neck-tie, as disreputable as he had ever appeared and somehow larger than life, I knew beyond doubt that I should have nothing more to do with him. He may have been only twenty-five years old — yesterday — but I already knew that he was a dangerous man. And dangerous to me.

  He stood so close that I was aware of the smell of him, a warm, clean, male smell mingled with faint tobacco and something elusive. His body was very still and his rather secretive dark eyes regarded me intently.<
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  My breath caught, but fortunately by then I had become fascinated by the unusually tired lines on his young face: they seemed much deeper than before, the shadows under his eyes much darker.

  “Don’t you ever sleep?” I asked curiously, taking him by surprise. He blinked; his lip twitched, and he leaned lazily back against the table.

  “Sleep? No,” he said casually. “Not much.”

  “Because of your wretched cause?”

  “No, I just don’t need to. According to a physician friend of mine in Vienna, I’m an insomniac.”

  I stared. “You mean you can’t sleep at all?”

  He shrugged. “An hour in a night maybe, sometimes two, sometimes none.”

  I remembered the few hours I had lain awake over the years, worrying, agonizing, grieving, unable to find the release of unconsciousness. “How — awful,” I said, low.

  “It’s not all bad — I have far more time than most people, which gives me an unfair advantage in lots of things: studying, for example.”

  “So that’s how you did it,” I murmured, almost to myself.

  He looked amused. “Partly. I am also strong-willed, but boredom in the night was certainly a motivation.”

  “But how can you work if you’re tired?”

  “If I’m tired, I sleep. I didn’t realize you were so maternal.”

  “I’m not. I take a scientific interest.” He smiled at that; and more easily now, I smiled back.

  He said idly, “Zsuzsa tells me you’re not going into the country with István.”

  “No, I have a whole day of freedom!”

  “What will you do with it?”

  “What would you recommend?” I asked unwisely.

  * * * *

  On the way we had talked of many things, for my unlikely companion knew an amazing amount about lots of different subjects, contriving to make them all funny or fascinating. I felt much as I suspected Katalin had all those years ago, following the young Lázár around the Transylvanian countryside, drinking in his words.

  Once he had mentioned something about collecting messages from his fellow villagers among the palace servants, to take back with him to Transylvania.

  Surprised, I had asked, “Are you going soon?”

  “Tomorrow, if I can.”

  “So quickly?” I said involuntarily, then bit my lip. I could feel his eyes on me, so I roused myself to say mockingly, “What will you do at home? Rouse the peasantry?”

  His lips quirked. “The peasantry is roused already — I’ve lived there a long time. No, my aim is to see my family, and to help with the harvest.”

  From then on, I had stopped being surprised by anything he said. Now, with the ease of much longer acquaintance, we were discussing Petöfi’s poem, The Village Hammer, reading parts of it to each other, smiling over its jokes and appreciating its cleverness, till we lapsed into a brief, companionable silence.

  Into it, I said quietly, “I have also read your — piece of work.”

  “Ah yes,” he said deprecatingly, tossing Petöfi’s book on to the table between us. “My magnum opus — at least for this month. You needn’t tell me what you think — I know you disapprove.”

  “I think you write very well,” I said frankly, “and I think you should be a lot more careful. How many people saw you handing these things out at the coffee house?”

  He shrugged. “The police know all about the Pilvax. They won’t touch me.”

  “Aren’t you being a little arrogant?”

  “Just practical. They could have arrested me any time in the last two years, but they won’t do anything until I become a bigger nuisance free than I would be in prison. I can make an awful lot of noise if I choose to, and no one wants the ‘common people’ to be incited.”

  I glanced at him, half-doubtful, half-fascinated. “Is that what would happen if they arrested you?”

  “It's what they’re afraid of. Shall we walk? There’s a wonderful view from the top of this hill.” I rose readily enough, and then realized he was smiling to himself, as if at some pleasant memory.

  “What?” I asked resignedly, though I was in fact intrigued.

  “I was just imagining the faces of the Vice Regal Council. Vasvári and I delivered some of my leaflets to their chamber, that night you were at the Pilvax.”

  I closed my eyes, wondering how quiet — and how dull — the world would be if he were silenced for good.

  * * * *

  By the time we returned to Buda — in a friendly peasant’s cart — and found a fiacre to take us back to Pest, the light was beginning to fade, and with it my unexpected joy in the day. The quiet wonder had gone; reality was returning to haunt me. Discontentedly now, I stared out of the window as we bumped over the bridge of boats. With panic, I realized I was fast losing the chance to talk to him about anything important.

  Taking a deep breath, I said abruptly, “What do you think about Katalin and Captain Zarescu?”

  “I think they’re making each other unhappy,” he said surprisingly.

  I looked at him. “But do you think there’s any chance of her father letting them marry?”

  “I doubt it. He might have been induced to swallow an impoverished Magyar officer, but a Romanian is too much. The prejudice is deep.”

  I frowned, shaking my head. “I must say it’s one I don’t understand.”

  He shrugged. “It’s just the negative side of the nationalist feeling that makes you proud of your country: you despise — or fear — other races. It’s not new and it’s not peculiar to Hungary.”

  “So you approve of nationalism?” I said, recklessly.

  He stirred, turning to face me more fully. I felt his knee brush my skirt. My eyes were caught and held. “Come to the Pilvax with me,” he invited, “and I’ll tell you.”

  I blinked. “Certainly not!”

  “Why?” he asked at once. “You’ve been before.”

  I had, but with Katalin. The Pilvax was too well known, too public — what would people think if I went there alone with him?

  “That was hardly the same thing,” I snapped.

  “Why not?” he asked, and of course, I couldn’t answer. He reached out and took my hand. I wished he wouldn’t touch me. “Come — I’ll buy you supper, or just coffee if you prefer.”

  It wouldn’t do. I didn’t want to lose my post, and though I told myself I only wished to keep it till I met old Count Szelényi, that wasn’t strictly true. I didn’t want to stop teaching the children, my rather delightful enemies; I didn’t want to lose Katalin’s friendship, or abandon my interesting observations of the Countess. I didn’t want to be sent home in disgrace, and if this was somehow confused with the man beside me I didn’t want to think about it. No, this was one time I would not be swayed.

  I shook my head. “No,” I said firmly, drawing my hand free with an odd reluctance.

  He sat back. Deliberately provoking, he said softly, “Oh dear, and I believed you were an independent woman, impervious to other people’s prejudices.”

  Stung, I looked out of the window. “I could lose my position, Lajos.”

  “Unlikely. I think you are just ashamed to be seen with me.”

  I was furious at this aspersion — not least because there might have been a grain of truth in it. I turned back to him consideringly. “I suppose,” I said sweetly, “you might consider another tailor.”

  That surprised a laugh from him, but he persisted. “So you’ll come?”

  “For five minutes,” I said recklessly. I have a perfectly sound brain. Sometimes I wonder why I let it be so easily overruled.

  Lajos shouted the change of direction to the driver, and then lapsed into silence for the rest of the journey. I didn’t mind; I had plenty to think about. But when the fiacre pulled up outside the Pilvax, he didn’t get out at once. Instead he sat looking at me, and I saw with surprise that he was serious and a little rueful.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “That wasn’t fair. I wanted
to see if you would do it, but you’re right — it would be foolish to risk your post by being seen here with me. I’ll tell the driver...”

  “No.” His eyebrows lifted in surprise. But with his admission, my doubts about the scheme had somehow vanished, perhaps because he was caring for my reputation after all. And I, perversely, now chose to consider it worth the risk; the sparkle had come back to my day.

  “I would very much like a cup of coffee,” I said calmly.

  His lips curved upwards. “You’re a strange creature,” he observed. I sighed.

  “No,” I said wryly, “just contrary.”

  For a brief instant his smile broadened as he reached over to open the door but then, before he could get out, it was suddenly wrenched from his hand and someone else climbed in, forcing Lajos to fall back into his seat.

  * * * *

  I was too paralysed by shock — and then by fear — to make a sound. Another man followed the first, in equal silence, closing the door behind him and then plucking Lázár’s bag off his shoulder.

  Almost more bewildering was the fact that Lajos did not react. He simply dug his hands into his worn pockets, and watched the two intruders opposite us by the pale light of the street lamps, one slight and bespectacled, the other large and burly, as they wordlessly opened his satchel and rummaged inside.

  Outraged, I tried to demand an explanation, but the words stuck in my throat as my first, instinctive assumption that these men were robbers began to wobble precariously.

  “I hope,” Lajos said conversationally at last, “that you have proper authority for this.”

  Police, I thought with a powerful jolt of fear for him. Dear God, what did he have in that wretched bag today?

  “Every authority we need,” the first man snapped. His companion threw the contents of the bag down on the seat between them, one at a time — a newspaper; a large, dull-looking book; a sheaf of papers, quickly rifled and discarded; a half-eaten piece of bread and cheese, gingerly removed between thumb and forefinger.

  “Sorry,” Lajos said apologetically. “If you’d given me warning, I’d have cleaned up for you. Incidentally, if you come across any of my underclothes in there, I’d be grateful if you’d spare my blushes and leave them where they are.”