A World to Win E-Book

Mary Lancaster

• Herausgeber: Mushroom eBooks
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2006

Beschreibung

A World to Win

Leseprobe

A World to Win

Mary Lancaster

Published byMushroom eBooks

Copyright © 2006, Mary Lancaster

Mary Lancaster has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, to be identified as the Author of this work.

First published by Mushroom eBooks in 2006.

This edition first published in 2006 by Mushroom eBooks, an imprint of Mushroom Publishing, Bath, BA1 4EB, United Kingdomwww.mushroom-ebooks.com

All rights reserved. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It must not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy. If you are reading this book but did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.

ISBN of full version 978-1-84319-435-4

Contents

Part One: Discovery: April — September 1847

Chapter ONE

Chapter TWO

Chapter THREE

Chapter FOUR

Chapter FIVE

Chapter SIX

Chapter SEVEN

Chapter EIGHT

Chapter NINE

Chapter TEN

Chapter ELEVEN

Chapter TWELVE

Chapter THIRTEEN

Chapter FOURTEEN

Chapter FIFTEEN

Part Two: Revolution: November 1847 — March 1848

Chapter SIXTEEN

Chapter SEVENTEEN

Chapter EIGHTEEN

Chapter NINETEEN

Chapter TWENTY

Chapter TWENTY-ONE

Chapter TWENTY-TWO

Part Three: Recovery: April — September 1848

Chapter TWENTY-THREE

Chapter TWENTY-FOUR

Chapter TWENTY-FIVE

Chapter TWENTY-SIX

Chapter TWENTY-SEVEN

Chapter TWENTY-EIGHT

Chapter TWENTY-NINE

Chapter THIRTY

Chapter THIRTY-ONE

Chapter THIRTY-TWO

Chapter THIRTY-THREE

Chapter THIRTY-FOUR

Chapter THIRTY-FIVE

Part Four: War: September 1848 — January 1849

Chapter THIRTY-SIX

Chapter THIRTY-SEVEN

Chapter THIRTY-EIGHT

Chapter THIRTY-NINE

Chapter FORTY

Chapter FORTY-ONE

Chapter FORTY-TWO

Chapter FORTY-THREE

Part Five: Toward Peace: January — July 1849

Chapter FORTY-FOUR

Chapter FORTY-FIVE

Chapter FORTY-SIX

Chapter FORTY-SEVEN

Chapter FORTY-EIGHT

Chapter FORTY-NINE

Chapter FIFTY

Chapter FIFTY-ONE

Mary Lancaster

Also by Mary Lancaster...

Part One: Discovery: April — September 1847

CHAPTER ONE

I first saw him in Vienna.

Sometimes now I think it was in Vienna that I first saw anything at all, but that’s not strictly true. Actually, I first saw clearly in London, at the mature age of twenty-seven, by the simple expedient of purchasing a pair of spectacles — and all at once I was enchanted, amazed by the beauty of everything, the sharpness, the detail that suddenly became so clear to me!

I suppose this euphoria might account for the very odd thing I did in London, but at the time I could only wonder why I had never bought them before, how I could have let so much of my life pass in a dull, myopic haze.

Well, it was easy really. As a child I was ashamed of my constantly worsening disability and hid it lest I be thought stupid. Needless to say I kept my secret and was still thought stupid, which just shows the pointlessness of vanity. After that, as a young girl, no one would let me have spectacles on the grounds that gentlemen didn’t want to marry ladies so disfigured — apparently it gives us a daunting air of intelligence. Myself, I can’t help thinking that neither do gentlemen wish to marry ladies who cut them dead in the street and ignore them at parties simply from not being able to see who the devil they are.

I speak from experience, incidentally. By the ripe old age of twenty-seven, I had only ever received one offer of marriage, an engagement from which I was freed with embarrassing speed. Just as well, for had I married, I would not have been in the position of looking for a genteel situation in London, never have bought my spectacles, never have answered that fatal advertisement, and so never have found myself in an opulent private hotel room, being interviewed by Count and Countess István Szelényi for the post of governess to their two children.

It was at this interview that my spectacles really came into their own. I was still fascinated by the newly discovered details of people’s features and expressions, but when I first encountered Count István and his wife, I was completely bowled over by the sheer sharp beauty before me. As I said, it’s the only excuse I have for my odd — my bad — behaviour.

The Count stood up as I entered the room and approached with a faint, formal smile. Of course, he wasn’t really seeing me: nobles of Count Szelényi’s rank do not see governesses, even if they deign to interview them.

Tall, dark, splendidly built and impeccably dressed, he was younger than I had expected and handsome enough to have turned to jelly the knees of any impressionable young lady, even one used to the joys of perfect vision.

“Miss Kettles?” he said, and naturally his voice was charming too: low, cultivated and exotically accented.

“Count Szelényi?” I countered, inclining my head with a little too much pride — I found it very hard to behave like a governess.

“Yes, I am István Szelényi. This is my wife. Please sit down.”

I sat, casting a glance at the lady while I did so. As befitted the wife of so magnificent a nobleman, she was both elegant and beautiful. She was sitting by the window, relaxing against her chair back in a way that would have appalled my Aunt Edith, but somehow she still exuded aristocratic splendour, her fashionable morning gown of pink silk billowing in luxuriant flounces around her chair. Aloof and superior, she managed to acknowledge me by the slightest nod, but she never said a word throughout the entire interview, contenting herself with occasional glances at me from under her long, blond eyelashes. They were secretive glances, almost suspicious, and it struck me that she looked so at all women who came in contact with her husband. Obviously I set her mind at rest — well, I have never been much of a threat to Beauty — for she raised no objection to my engagement.

“You are a little younger than I expected,” Count István began, civilly but with no trace of hesitation.

I said, “I am twenty-seven,” and looked straight into his fine, grey eyes. I saw no recognition there. I felt none myself.

“May I ask what your experience is?”

“To be honest, none,” I told him flatly. I think I smiled.

He sighed. “Then perhaps you will tell me what qualifies you to take charge of my children?”

“I have been well educated,” I returned calmly. “I know my arithmetic, history and geography. I can play the piano-forte and sew. I have Latin, French and Hungarian...”

“Hungarian?” he pounced. I knew he would.

“Hungarian.”

He leaned back in his chair, regarding me thoughtfully. “That is unusual in an English lady, is it not?”

“I dare say, but I am Scottish,” I said pedantically, adding by way of explanation, “My mother’s family were Hungarian.”

Again, I looked straight into his eyes. But he only smiled faintly. He doesn’t know, I thought, and felt laughter bubble up inside me. It was a bitter sort of mirth, but it still made me reckless, so I choked it back, and waited.

“That is fortunate for us,” he observed. “In Hungary, people of our class tend to speak in French, but I do not forget I am a Magyar. I would have my children grow up with a thorough knowledge of their own language, as well as French and German — do you have any German, Miss Kettles?”

“A little,” I said cautiously. He nodded consideringly. Again there was a pause.

“Do you have references?” he enquired at last. I delved into my reticule for the required letters. The Count accepted them, read them quickly, occasionally casting a quick, almost curious glance at me. “Your father was a minister of the church?”

“Yes,” I answered, feeling my heart bump. “He died some three months ago. To be frank it is why I am now in need of a situation.”

And how he would have disapproved of this one! I shuddered to think of what he would have said. I hoped the dead did not really watch over us.

The Count nodded. “Of course. I understand. These gentlemen speak very highly of you.”

From the corner of my eye I saw the Countess give me a slightly longer look. The Count leaned forward to hand the letters back to me. I took them without comment.

He said, “May I ask what brought you south to London?”

Before I could help it I shrugged. Aunt Edith wouldn’t have liked that either. “Partly a desire for change,” I said honestly, “and partly because I was told there is a greater variety of situations to be found here.”

“I see,” said the Count. “You realize what this post would entail?”

“Yes, I think so. I would be teaching your son who is seven and your daughter who is six.”

“Of course, but we would require you to do so in Buda-Pest,” he said a little drily. “Also in Vienna when I have to attend the Emperor, and in my father’s castle in Transylvania. It is all a long way from home.”

“I have no home,” I said quickly and then, disgusted by the pathos of such a statement, I added, “I have nothing to keep me here; I have always wanted to see the world, and I need a situation.” I smiled faintly. “I am told Transylvania is incredibly beautiful.”

How fortunate I would now have my spectacles to appreciate it.

The Count said, “Mmm.” He stood up. “Our tour here is nearly over. We plan to leave London at the end of this week. We will travel as fast as possible to Vienna, where we may stay some time before going on to Buda-Pest. I move around a lot, Miss Kettles, and my family go with me. You may find it tiring caring for small children in such circumstances, but I shall expect them to be taught just the same.”

I nodded. He glanced at his wife, but she was gazing out of the window and didn’t turn.

“Then you accept the post at the salary stated?”

With every ounce of sense I had, I knew that this was madness and that I should stop before it went any further. But I couldn’t help myself. After all, the salary was extremely generous.

“Yes,” I said brazenly. “I accept. I have just one question however. Your advertisement mentioned a ‘replacement’ — why did your previous governess leave?”

I told you I was feeling reckless. Such blatant curiosity could easily have cost me the situation. Perhaps I was trying to lose it, knowing in my heart I shouldn’t even be thinking of it. However, it was the Count who looked embarrassed. He half-turned, tidying some papers on the table before him.

“She did not choose to leave,” he said at last. “She — er — died.”

I blinked. “Oh dear,” I murmured. “How — daunting.”

The Countess lifted her head, and I saw her china blue eyes were full of laughter — a mirth not entirely free of malice.

* * * *

I never liked children. You may think governessing an odd choice of occupation in the circumstances, but I had long ago worked out that it was all I was fit for. I was reasonably well educated — for a woman — and of respectable family. I could sew only slowly and badly, despite what I had told the Count, and I had had great difficulty in keeping house for myself and my father let alone for a family of strangers. So I had either to sponge upon my father’s family or become a governess. With regret, I chose the latter.

Even more regretfully, I contemplated the dead governess, my predecessor, and tried not to wonder what appalling acts perpetrated by my charges had driven her to the grave. For I was under no illusions about the position of a governess in a wealthy household. Despised by both family and servants and universally regarded as inferior to the children to be taught and disciplined, it would be very easy to find the situation intolerable. I had resolved to seek what entertainment I could from it — and then the Devil prompted me to answer Count István’s advertisement. Which, as I began to say some time ago, was how I came to be in Vienna and to see Lajos Lázár.

I was only presented to my charges on the morning of our departure from London. They were called Miklós and Anna. The boy was small and slight, delicate looking, with his mother’s secretive eyes; the girl was plump and prosperous. Both stared at me flatly when I smiled at them — I particularly hate when children do that — though they answered me politely in French when their father introduced us in that language.

Their politeness lasted all the way to Vienna, and in the end I was glad to see it go. Initially suspicious of them, especially on account of my predecessor’s demise, I was greatly relieved on that swift, exhausting journey to find them biddable, well-mannered children — a trifle precocious, perhaps, but intelligent and interested. Their grasp of languages was especially impressive: they spoke French and Hungarian with equal fluency, interspersed with odd phrases in German.

However, by the time we reached Vienna there was another nagging suspicion in my mind: that they were just too well behaved to be children at all. Either they were lulling me into a false sense of security — in which case I should look out, or follow my predecessor to the grave — or they were sick and I should report the fact to their parents.

I felt rather sick myself as I unpacked my meagre possessions in Count István’s elegant Vienna house. The elegance had not yet impinged upon my brain, only my own tiredness and that nagging worry over the children. I thought I was getting another headache.

Still, I revelled in my solitude and the stillness of my quiet bedchamber. I felt quite joyful at the prospect of staying in one place for several days.

“Travel,” I said to my one evening dress as I hung it up in the wardrobe, “is, after all, overrated.”

I had longed for years to see more of the world, and now that I had — admittedly at a cracking pace — I was ridiculously disappointed, harassed by a vague sense of insecurity that had very little to do with my menial position or the strangeness of the Szelényi family. It had more to do with glimpses of poverty, faces turned towards me with want and discontent and hardness in their eyes.

My sombre thoughts were interrupted by an abrupt knock on the door. I nearly screamed with vexation for I dearly wanted a few hours’ peace. Instead I stayed silent, hoping I would be presumed asleep, but the knock came again, accompanied by a double-voiced giggle that was unmistakable for all its rarity.

Surprised, I crossed the room and opened the door. Two small night-gowned figures erupted past me in a medley of mirth and garbled words, from which I deduced that they had escaped from Zsuzsa, their nursery-maid — it wasn’t difficult, Zsuzsa’s attention was easily distracted by anything male and over the age of sixteen — and for some reason come to say goodnight to me.

“That’s very kind of you,” I said, eyeing them dubiously as they dived on to my bed. My heart was unwilling to be touched. “You’ve never done this before.”

Heaving herself in to a sitting position by leaning on her brother’s head, Anna grinned at me.

“We thought you might be lonely,” she said disarmingly.

“I haven’t had time to be.”

“We wondered,” Miklós chimed in, emerging flushed from under his sister’s elbow, “what your name was.”

“Miss Kettles,” I said primly and, I hoped, repressively.

“Don’t you have another name? Frau Weitel did.”

“It was Marta,” Anna added. “What is yours?”

“Katherine,” I said, surrendering to the inevitable.

“We could call you Miss Katherine,” Anna offered in friendly spirit, “only it’s even harder to say than Miss Kettles.”

I found myself admitting, “My friends call me Katie.”

“Oh, that’s much better!” cried Miklós. “Can we be your friends then?”

I opened my mouth, and closed it again. “If you’re good,” I said, taking off my spectacles to wipe an imaginary smudge.

“Why do you wear these?” the girl asked.

“To see.”

She stared. “Can’t you see without them?”

Suspicion returned. I could imagine all sorts of future catastrophes resulting from this conversation.

“Certainly I can.” I put the glasses back on and regarded her fully. “They help me to see even better.”

Anna looked quite awed, but Miklós was holding out his hand to me.

“Can I try them?” he asked. I contemplated him for a moment, eventually deciding it would be the lesser of two evils to get it over with now. I took the spectacles off again and helped the boy hold them over his eyes. His face screwed up alarmingly.

“I can’t see anything at all — it hurts!”

“That’s because they are my spectacles,” I said, taking them back. “They only help me. Do you know, I think you should run back to bed now before Zsuzsa reports your escape to your mother.”

“Very well,” Anna said reasonably, “but will you take us to the Prater tomorrow, Miss Katie?”

“Perhaps,” I said, pulling them both off my bed and pointing them firmly in the direction of the door.

“Please — we’ll be very good — even Frau Weitel took us once... “ She broke off in surprise as her brother’s outburst of laughter interrupted her. “What?” she demanded.

“Katie Kettles! Katie Kettles!” he chanted gleefully. “What a funny name!”

His sister regarded him pityingly. “I think it’s a very nice name,” she announced, no doubt with an eye to tomorrow’s expedition to the Prater. I watched them go, still arguing and giggling. The politeness had vanished for good, I suspected.

When the door was closed behind them and the patter of their running feet had receded into the distance, I sat down in front of my bedroom mirror and began to unpin my hair for the night. The looking glass was the most ornate I had ever been able to call my own, however temporarily.

Unfortunately, my eye was caught by its own reflection and I examined myself critically. My straight brown hair was straggling free of its pins; my skin was too pale and there were large, dark shadows under my eyes. I resembled nothing so much as a refugee from an infirmary.

On the other hand there was no sign now of my headache, and as I peered closer I thought I detected a slightly brighter light in my eyes. My eyes, I should say, I have always regarded as my best feature: unfortunately they are so weak that either I can’t see out of them, or my spectacles hide and distort them.

Dissatisfied, I sat back and thought instead of the children. I sighed, for I suspected myself of softening towards them. Well, it was an interest in life, and those had been sadly lacking in recent years.

“Watch your back, Katie,” I told myself severely. “Remember they are still the Enemy!”

CHAPTER TWO

During the time we stayed in one place, the Enemy’s lively good humour persisted, so I grasped my opportunities and unashamedly picked their brains about the family. I confirmed that they were somewhat in awe of both parents, that they liked living in Vienna and Buda-Pest, but liked best to be at Szelényi Castle in Transylvania, with Grandpere.

“So you get on well with your grandfather?” I enquired, carefully neutral.

“Oh yes,” said Anna. “He’s quite fierce, but he likes us.”

“I hope he does. Who else lives in the castle?”

“Aunt Katalin,” said Anna, “and Uncle Mattias — but sometimes they live in Pest too. Like Aunt Maria.”

“Don’t forget Aunt Margit,” Miklós added, and they giggled — at Aunt Margit, I inferred. Further digging elicited the information that Aunt Margit was dotty, but that this was all right because she was only Papa’s half-sister.

I looked forward to Aunt Margit.

While in Vienna I saw as little of the Count and Countess as I had on the journey. The Count was busy on important Court business — he was the Emperor’s best friend according to Anna — and the Countess was equally busy on no business at all. She only once found the time to spend an afternoon with her children, and that turned out to be momentous in many ways. It cast the Enemy into raptures, causing them to ignore their paid governess; it opened their governess’s eyes to the precise depth of their worship of their beautiful mother — as well as to the illogic of petty jealousy in lonely spinsters; most of all, it gave me a few precious hours of freedom.

It was not exactly a gracious proposal on the Countess’s part. Glancing back at me over her shoulder, a child clinging to either elegant sleeve, she said carelessly, “Do you want the afternoon off? You look as if you need it.”

Needed or not, I jumped at it as my one chance to see Vienna unencumbered by my small enemies. Pausing only long enough to check my state of health in the mirror — I was in fact less pale than a week ago — I grabbed my old bonnet and sallied forth into the city.

I had a truly wonderful afternoon, for Vienna is one of the most relaxed and friendly cities in the world. Even the street corner loafers are decidedly unthreatening. Greatly daring, I spent part of my generously advanced salary on a new bonnet, which I wore at once — it was a rather frivolous affair of straw and green ribbons, not quite suitable to my position — and then wandered happily through narrow streets and grand avenues, watching the people and browsing in dark little book shops. I treated myself to The Count of Monte Cristo, which I had heard to be a rattling good yarn, and was just contemplating beginning it over a cup of delicious Viennese coffee, when the most momentous event of the afternoon occurred.

I was just walking, enjoying the people and the sunshine and my own anonymity, and reflecting on the good fortune that had brought me here. Then, as I rounded the next corner, I was pulled up short by the sight of a large gathering of people directly in front of me; I had been so lost in reverie that I had not been remotely aware of the low murmur of the crowd or even the loud, passionate voice speaking over it.

Intrigued, I moved closer. I could see a young man on some sort of platform haranguing the attentive crowd with much gesticulation. He looked like a student. Those I could see of the audience seemed to be mostly poor working people, factory hands and shop workers or the unemployed, with a scattering of the more respectable who might have been clerks or teachers.

Though I could not make out what the young man was saying, I had a distinct feeling that it didn’t much matter since such large gatherings were illegal in Austria for any purpose. Nervously, I contemplated skirting the crowd and going on my way, but curiosity was ever my downfall.

I paused at the edge of the mob, straining my ears and craning my neck to see better, both in vain. The girl beside me — she was little more than a child and might have been a seamstress or a shop girl — shifted her position and bumped into me. She apologised at once, so timidly that I smiled reassuringly and took the opportunity to ask, “What is going on here?”

“The young man is making a speech,” she answered helpfully.

“What about?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I can’t hear.”

“We could move nearer,” I suggested.

“It’s better to stay on the edge of the crowd,” she said with devastating simplicity, “in case the soldiers come.”

I looked around me uneasily — I had a respectable position to keep after all — but this was my sole afternoon of freedom, of exploration and adventure. Prudence never really had a chance.

“Well, if I’m to be arrested,” I said drily, “I’d rather know why,” and began to ease my way through the throng towards the speaker. The crowd parted for me easily enough, even when I came right to the front, for there are few people who cannot see over my head.

“Heavens,” breathed an awed voice in my ear, and I realized the timid girl had followed me after all.

The speaker was standing on a large, old wooden table which looked as if it had been carried out from the coffee-house across the road. My German was not yet good enough to understand all he was saying, but it was definitely a political speech, and a disgruntled one at that. I sighed, rather disappointed, and examined his face and dress instead: both were pleasing if unremarkable.

Much more remarkable, I found, was the other young man sitting on the edge of the table, idly swinging one leg. He was shabbily dressed and rough looking, with dark blond hair too long to be tidy and skin well browned by the sun. A working man, I guessed, with political aspirations.

“Do you know him?” my new acquaintance whispered, seeing the direction of my gaze.

I shook my head and whispered back, “Do you?”

“No, but I know who he is. That’s Lajos Lázár.”

I looked at her blankly.

“The radical,” she said, amazed by my ignorance. “He writes articles in the liberal newspapers and he’s a lawyer for poor people.”

I blinked in some surprise and re-examined the subject in question.

“He doesn’t look like any of the lawyers I’ve ever met,” I said dubiously. He looked, in fact, inherently disreputable: young, lean and hungry.

“He defended my neighbour’s son,” the girl said simply.

I doubted he would be an asset to a man in the dock, but I kept my opinion tactfully to myself. By this time, I could see that one or two people were becoming decidedly irritated by our constant whispering — one huge man in a dirty black cap was glaring at me quite fiercely. However, my informant was not to be stopped there.

“And he’s the one who got Ehlberg released.”

I was obviously meant to know who Ehlberg was, and after a blank moment I did remember over-hearing the name in several whispered conversations during the last week. I gathered he was some sort of political prisoner who had just been released, to the joy of a few and the amazement of many.

By the time I had registered the implications of that, my companion was musing a little wistfully on her hero. “He’s got such an attractive face, hasn’t he?”

“It’s an interesting face,” I allowed. He had a wide, mobile mouth and prominent cheekbones, and etched around his eyes and forehead were surprisingly deep, weary lines. “Is he a friend of the speaker?”

“Probably. He might even speak himself!”

She seemed quite excited by this. I, however, felt a stab of unease. I really was in rather unsavoury company, I suspected. To confirm it, I turned my attention back to the speaker, and listened with some disfavour as he did his best to stir up men and women who would suffer far more than he for any crime he incited them to commit.

I disapproved of rabble-rousing. Once, with my father, I witnessed a “small” hunger demonstration in Glasgow: I saw the ugliness, the desperation of the mob, and I saw the callous brutality with which it was squashed. I had no desire to see it again, anywhere.

I had already turned to my companion, ready to bid her a brief good-bye, when that odd instinct that tells us we are under observation made me look beyond her, straight into the eyes of the radical lawyer sitting on the table.

He showed no signs of embarrassment at being caught so vulgarly staring. Instead, he smiled, a slightly upward quirk of the lips.

I didn’t know whether to be outraged or simply to smile back. As a respectable lady, the former would have been wiser, but he had one of those vital, arresting faces that somehow compels collusion.

However, before I could make up my mind, the speaker himself demanded his attention by flinging both arms out towards him and crying, “I give you my friend, Lázár!”

Shouts of applause greeted this. Lázár’s smile died; his eyes released mine. Casually, he swung up on to the table, coming lightly to his feet beside the student — who clapped him heartily on the back before jumping down to lean on the table, facing him.

Lázár held up his hand for silence — and received it. Beside me, my companion held her breath. Well, he was an oddly imposing figure for one so shabbily dressed.

When he spoke, his voice was almost lazy, though deep and pleasing to the ear, with an accent at once unusual and familiar to me.

“He’s Hungarian, you know,” whispered my young companion.

I nodded: Lajos is the Hungarian for Louis.

He began: “I don’t think Hermann has left me anything to say, but...”

The “but” was treated as a huge joke by the crowd, who roared their appreciation until Lázár, carelessly good-natured, again held up his hand for silence. Still half-poised for flight, like everyone else now I was quiet and waiting.

He stood at his ease on that rickety old table, much as if he was entertaining a party of friends in his own home, and began to speak easily, quietly, without any of the elaborate gesticulation or passionate outbursts indulged in by the student. Lajos Lázár did not harangue: he conversed, with friendliness and humour; he gave his opinion and answered questions that were thrown at him civilly enough but quite without awe by his avid audience.

It was this original impression of calm good sense that held me, at first from surprise and then from interest. So, though I had truly meant to leave, I didn’t. I stayed to listen and that was fatal.

Of course, I still could not understand all that he said, but I grasped that he was urging some kind of unity against the injustices of a government that left so many poor and powerless in the hands of so few.

It didn’t sound unreasonable.

I found myself straining to catch his meaning until gradually even the words themselves hardly mattered. It was the honesty, the feeling behind them that was important. And despite his deceptively casual manner, this man was deadly serious. There was anger in him, and a kind of restrained passion, and permeating everything, an air of excitement, a knowledge that soon we would be able to change things.

The emotion flowing from him began to sweep me along with it. I remembered the pinched, discontented faces of the poor that had stared at me so accusingly all across Europe, and I knew suddenly that I was wrong to bury my head in the sand. I knew that a better world had to be worth fighting for.

My breath caught in my throat. I felt uplifted, as if by a revelation.

And then I was dropped again with a bump. For, as Lázár listened to the rather unclear question of someone behind me, I saw his eyes shift suddenly beyond the crowd and stare at something in the distance, something he continued to watch as he spoke.

“I’m sorry. I’ll have to answer you a bit later. There is plenty of time, so don’t panic, but the soldiers are coming. You have to disperse now.”

In Glasgow that day, I had never imagined that I would be one of a mob run down by soldiers.

My heart was lurching unpleasantly, even though Lázár was proving his point of “plenty of time” by continuing to stand on the table with an incongruous air of leisure, while the crowd, curiously silent now, pushed and swarmed and dispersed itself with agonizing slowness.

Still half-bewildered, I looked around for my youthful companion, but she had already fled. I was sure we both regretted my boldness.

Taking a deep breath, I moved decisively onwards, mingling as sedately as I could with the other scurrying, buffeting fugitives. As I passed the ridiculous platform, I heard someone cry urgently: “Lajos, for God’s sake get down from there! You know it’s you they really want!”

Involuntarily, I glanced up towards Lázár. He had crouched down on the table to speak to the student, but over the young man’s head his eyes uncannily met mine. Again I beheld that funny, upward tug of the lips.

Someone pushed against me; I stumbled, and tore my eyes free, hurrying away with the melting crowd until I wondered where in the world I was.

It was fully half an hour before I could force my hands to unclench enough to hail a fiacre. Blindly, I stared out of the window at the passing houses, aware only of the scene I had just escaped, and of my own unforgivable reactions.

Oh, I allowed him to be convincing. I even admitted that he would be a positive asset to a defendant in court. It was just a pity he chose to waste, to abuse his undoubted talents in such a mean, unproductive way as this afternoon. Some part of me was still spellbound by his performance — no doubt the fault of my spectacles which continued to provide me with an all too fascinating, new view of the world — but the thinking part of me, the important part, angry at my common weakness, wished that I had jumped up there beside him and warned the people against him, for I knew him now to be a very dangerous man.

Regardless of rights and wrongs, I knew that if people followed him — and, God, how easy it would be! — it could only lead to violence.

CHAPTER THREE

Two days later, we left Vienna.

I was dreading the resumption of travel, but as it turned out we took the steamship up the Danube to Buda-Pest, and I found this to be a much more pleasant way to move around. So did the children. Though they had made the same journey several times before, it still excited them wildly, causing them to dash about from rail to rail, trying to chase each other and engage the crew or other passengers in conversation. It took the combined resources of Zsuzsa and me to prevent them leaping over the side in sheer high spirits. Their parents, needless to say, were relaxing below.

When the children’s behaviour had calmed down to the extent of being no longer life-threatening, Zsuzsa wisely felt unwell and also retreated below. So, while the ship chuntered and puffed along the river, I sat the children down on a bench and read them a story. Peace lasted until we reached Pressburg — where the Hungarian Diet, or parliament, met — and took more people on board. The children watched the whole process of landing and departing with an intentness that bordered on supervision.

I watched too, for I was in Hungary now. The city seemed to be a handsome place, dominated by a square, strangely austere castle which glared down from the hill above the town.

When the crowd on the quay had waved us all off again, quite impartially it seemed, and we pulled away from Pressburg, on through flat, sandy countryside, I asked the children if they would like to go below.

“Oh no. We like it best on deck,” Anna assured me. “We can watch the captain up there on his box.”

“To make sure he doesn’t do anything wrong?”

They giggled at that, and we decided to stroll round the deck — with the emphasis on “stroll”. Nearly everyone we encountered smiled at the children. Some even nodded politely if distantly to me — my situation in life being all too evident, despite my frivolous new bonnet which, incidentally, had gone quite unnoticed by the Countess.

Needless to say, Anna and Miklós got quickly bored with this sedate behaviour, so I allowed them brief forays between myself and the rail. They were instructed not to run, but I watched them rather nervously all the same; horrible visions of explaining their loss overboard to the Count and Countess kept popping in to my head.

I quickened my pace as they bounded suddenly out of sight, only to discover when I caught up with them that they were doing nothing more dangerous than engaging yet another total stranger in their bright, precocious conversation.

Their victim this time was sitting on the deck floor with his back resting against the ship’s rail and a book open on his raised knees. Such an unusual posture in an adult was bound to attract their interest.

I hurried over.

“Miss Katie, we’ve found Lajos!” Anna greeted me happily in French.

“Indeed?”

Their unconventional new companion turned his face up to me and smiled, a slightly upward quirk of the lips that was both peculiarly charming and immediately recognizable.

My breath caught. I knew a moment of pure panic, because of what he was and where I had first seen him, but then, ruthlessly, I squashed the upheaval and tried to look as staid as possible — I do that rather well.

He came to his feet with the same easy, casual movements I remembered. “Mademoiselle.”

Now I was looking up at him. Of little more than medium height, he was still considerably taller than I, slight in build and dressed carelessly enough to be called shabby with some justice. His eyes, I realized with surprise, were a warm, dark brown, contrasting oddly, though not unattractively, with his light hair.

“Lajos lives near us in Transylvania,” Miklós informed me. I blinked behind my spectacles, but could think of no suitable comment. Lajos Lázár was still looking down at me.

“You were at the meeting,” he remarked, “on Tuesday.”

“No,” I said coldly, regarding him with considerable suspicion. People do not remember me from crowds without very good reason. “I was not at the meeting. I merely stumbled across it in ignorance.”

“Do you know Miss Katie then?” Anna asked with interest.

“No,” said Lajos Lázár gravely, “but I would like to.”

“She’s our governess,” Miklós said, with an air of pride that would have touched a less stony heart than mine. “From England — well, Scotland.”

Lajos Lázár held out his hand. It was brown and sinewy and rough. Primly, I put mine in to it.

“Lázár Lajos,” he said. Hungarians, I should point out, put their surnames first.

“Katherine Kettles,” I responded politely, and slid my hand free. In fairness, he showed no signs of wishing to retain it. Men don’t, as a rule.

“Are you going to Buda-Pest, Lajos?” Anna asked.

“Yes. Are you?”

“Oh yes. Will you come and see us there?”

At this point, Anna’s amiable if impractical plans were interrupted quite unexpectedly by her father.

“Miss Kettles!” his voice thundered behind me. I think we all jumped, except Lajos Lázár. I certainly did.

“Sir?” I said neutrally, turning to face him. I would only once see him more furious than he was that afternoon. He was rigid with anger, his cheeks livid, his normally cool eyes flashing dangerously.

“A word, if you please,” he ground out.

I took the silent children’s hands and went to meet him.

“Take the children below,” he ordered, “and then you may explain yourself.”

I have never relished being spoken to in such a way, but in truth I was then too curious to be angry. Obediently, I took the children to an amazingly revived Zsuzsa, and rejoined the Count where he stood on deck, leaning against the rail farthest from Lajos Lázár.

He did not look at me as I approached, but began to speak immediately. “What do you mean by allowing my children to consort with that man?”

“I beg your pardon. I didn’t know you would object, and they did appear to know him.”

“Unfortunately, in the freedom of Szelényi, these things sometimes happen,” he said bitterly. “But I will not have it, Miss Kettles! They are to have nothing to do with him — do you understand?”

“Perfectly,” I said equably and he glanced at me with quick surprise, as if he had thought I would object. “They are your children, sir. “I am only the paid governess.” Despite my tone this seemed to calm him a little. He almost smiled, so I ventured, “May I know why you object to him?”

“He is — unsuitable.” The Count was tight-lipped again. “He is a peasant, rude, loud-mouthed, immoral and extremely stupid.”

It was, I reflected, a fairly comprehensive denouncement, though I doubted if one could be a lawyer, however poor one’s clients, if one were merely a stupid peasant. But then, since I knew Lázár to be, on the contrary, quite dangerously clever, I had already discounted the Count’s opinion in its entirety, only wondering exactly what had provoked it. However, I simply nodded and was already leaving him when another thought occurred.

“Do the children know he is out of bounds to them?” I asked, and when he looked at me uncomprehendingly, added, “I was wondering if they acted out of disobedience or misguided friendliness when they spoke to him?”

The Count laughed, a harsh, short sound. “Oh, misguided, certainly.”

“Then you wish me to explain to them that he is — unsuitable?”

“Of course,” said the Count coldly.

Of course. The Szelényis had very fixed ideas of suitability — not all of them correct, as I well knew. For the first time I felt a hint of sympathy for the young radical. And then, was I not myself guilty of dismissing him in much the same way as the Count, simply from one half-understood speech? A man who helped the poor could not be all bad.

As evening approached, the unexciting, flat landscape on either side of us gave way to a low range of hills and later, more spectacularly, to mountains so close to the river’s edge that they seemed to rise up out of it.

I abandoned the children to Zsuzsa — she was not the only one who could be diplomatically unwell — and settled myself in a quiet corner of the deck to drink in the beauty around me.

It was a wonderfully clear, balmy evening, causing the mountains to stand out magnificently against the darkening sky. I did not see how I could possibly sleep that night. There were few people on deck now, but somehow I was not surprised when someone came and stood beside me at the rail.

“Good evening,” said Lajos Lázár, in English, oddly enough. “May I join you, or have you been forbidden to speak to me?”

I glanced at him uneasily. “I haven’t, but the children have.” All the same, my daring in talking to him at all was causing a distinct flutter in my stomach.

“A pity.”

I was still determinedly watching the mountains, waiting for the next spectacular view as we rounded the river bend, but I felt his eyes on me. I suppose I was an odd sight in my drab dress and frivolous hat and spectacles — though I have to say I had never valued my glasses as much as then.

I knew I should make a civil excuse to abandon him — after all, I didn’t want to lose my post just yet, and the Count’s unequivocal view had been made quite plain to me. Anyone could see us here.

Yet when he said idly, “Have you been a governess for long?” I found myself answering promptly, “For nearly one month.”

“Do you like it?” There was a note of genuine curiosity in his voice.

I shrugged. “They are good children in their own way.”

“Is István a very demanding employer?”

His English was excellent, I reflected, and unlike the Count’s almost without accent. On the other hand his manners appeared to be informal to a fault: I was sure Count Szelényi would not relish being referred to by his Christian name, not by this ‘unsuitable’ personage. My curiosity concerning his connection with the Szelényis grew apace. I glanced at him again. He leaned one arm on the rail, half-turned towards me, watching me with his disconcertingly direct gaze.

I found myself answering him truthfully, “No, not at all. My friends led me to believe that if I took a post as governess I would also be unpaid seamstress, secretary and general slave, so I suppose my life is actually remarkably idle.”

“I think you’ll find István’s household already has plenty of seamstresses, secretaries and slaves, without recruiting you.”

“Obviously I have taken an excellent post.”

“Why did you take it?”

“Badness,” I said on a sudden choke of laughter, quickly suppressed. “Curiosity. Necessity.”

His lips curved slightly in the characteristic half-smile I remembered. Turning my gaze quickly back to the mountains, I pulled myself together and instinctively went on the offensive.

“And yourself, Mr. Lázár. Is there much demand for lawyers in Transylvania?”

Too late, I realized my mistake: without questioning others, I could not have known his profession. I bit my lip, but he answered easily, “Oh, plenty. Every landowner needs a legal adviser. Unfortunately, most of them do not value my advice.”

“Why is that?” I asked lightly. “Aren’t you a good lawyer?”

“It’s not my legal skills they question. They object to my politics. They are afraid I shall incite the peasants to rise up in revolution against them.”

I curled my lip. “So they forbid you to come within a hundred miles of their property?” I suggested rather insolently.

“Something like that.”

“And Count Szelényi — does he feel the same way?”

“I’m sure he does, but he has a problem in keeping me away. My parents live on his property.”

I looked at him in surprise. Stupidly, I asked, “What do they do?”

“My father works the land,” Lázár said frankly. “He is a farmer.”

I took this in slowly, eventually connecting it with Count István’s contemptuous denunciation: “He is a peasant.”

It seemed I was correct in my initial opinion of Lajos Lázár. He was indeed remarkable. He smiled slightly, and I had the uncomfortable feeling that he was reading my thoughts. I looked away, downwards at the river flowing past us.

More seriously now, I asked him, “Is it hard for you to find work?”

“I find more work than I can handle, but I suppose none of it is very lucrative, if that is what you mean. I have a permanent position as assistant to a lawyer in Pest. Kecskés is — sympathetic to my cause, so providing all my work is done in the end, he gives me leave to do more or less as I please.” He shifted his position, turning more fully towards me. Unexpectedly, he added, “I wish you didn’t disapprove of me quite so much.”

“Mr Lázár,” I said drily, “we are both well aware that my approval or disapproval makes absolutely no difference to you whatsoever.”

He smiled slightly, his eyes unblinkingly on mine. “You’re wrong,” he said after a moment. “Besides, I want everyone on my side.”

“I suspect you have a long way to go.”

“True.”

“And anyway, what makes you think that you are right, and all the people who oppose you are wrong?”

“Observation,” he said promptly. I shouldn’t have asked. “Come, Miss Katie, you are an intelligent woman — you cannot pretend that poverty and injustice do not exist, or that they are acceptable?”

“Of course not,” I said coldly, even while I flushed at his unexpected use of the children’s name for me.

“Well, it is equally obvious that they cannot be eradicated by perpetuating the same old political system we have now.”

“I think more is likely to be achieved through existing systems than by agitating the people!”

“In Britain, perhaps,” he allowed, straightening his back and placing both brown, working man’s hands on the rail, “but here there is never any progress; in Transylvania even last century’s land reforms were never implemented! Meanwhile, the Hungarian Diet meets every few years and achieves absolutely nothing because it opposes the King-Emperor’s schemes on principle. The Lower House traditionally opposes every reform proposed by the Upper, and vice-versa, even when their proposals are exactly the same! Why? Simply to maintain their own power! Even when they finally agree on a principle, it is rarely, if ever, put into practice because the nobility runs the administration. In effect the nobles own the peasants as their subjects, and have so many privileges that for the most part they are reluctant either to abandon them or to extend them to others less fortunate.”

He paused, then disarmed me totally by adding apologetically, “I’m sorry — I didn’t mean to preach to you.”

I smiled involuntarily. “I’m sure you can’t help it! Besides, I didn’t know about the Diet.”

“Hungary is a backward country. We need political and social modernization, economic progress, land improvements; yet we only stagnate because the wealthy — that is, the nobility — are afraid to change things that have always provided well for them in the past.”

“All of the nobility?” I asked, thinking of Count István and his father.

“Not quite. A few see the need for reform — even your employer on his better days. Some, like Miklós Wesselényi — who went to prison for his beliefs — and Count Széchenyi, have been arguing the case for years.”

By now I had forgotten the unwisdom of speaking to him, of being seen in his company. Frowning, I asked, “But what exactly do you mean by reform?”

“Ah,” he said ruefully. “What I mean is not the same as what Count Széchenyi means. His ideas — capitalism, the ending of serfdom, a wider franchise — are only the beginning of what I believe to be necessary.”

This was dangerous ground. I didn’t really want to know the extent of his radicalism.

“It’s your country,” I said hastily, “but even so, stirring up the people as you did on Tuesday can only lead to violence, and in the end I believe it would change nothing.”

“I wasn’t trying to stir up the people, only to wake them up.”

“It’s the same thing.”

“On the contrary. I don’t want to hurt, Miss Katie, only to educate.”

“Educate?” I scoffed. “You were haranguing!”

He smiled faintly. “Surely not. No, I really mean ‘educate’. Some friends and I teach classes for workers, for poor people and the illiterate...”

“That’s not ‘education’,” I interrupted indignantly, “it’s ‘indoctrination’. That I do find despicable. To take poor, uneducated people and fill their gullible heads with your nonsense...”

“Why are you so determined to quarrel with me? We teach people to read, Katie.”

I dropped my eyes. “Oh.”

“It’s the first step,” he said. “A basic right. Only when people can read can they learn properly for themselves. Until then, they must believe those who can, whether that is you or I or Prince Metternich. If I had not been able to read, I would never have known the existence of other forms of government, like Britain’s or America’s, never have heard of the Great Revolution in France.”

“I suspect your country would have been better off if you hadn’t,” I said, rallying briefly.

“Touché,” he acknowledged. “Am I preaching again?”

“Yes!” But still I couldn’t leave it there. I glanced at him sideways. “So, revolution by education — is that your aim?”

“Yes. I believe it can be managed without violence.”

“You are sanguine. And will you manage this revolution?”

“Oh no. I don’t think I’m the right man for such a job.”

“No? But I’m sure you know one who is.”

He smiled and shrugged. “Perhaps.”

Sometimes my own perception surprises me. I laughed. He watched me for a moment, still smiling a little in response, then asked, “Have I convinced you?”

“Of the righteousness of your cause? I reserve judgement. I am a newcomer here, after all, and a foreigner. But I’m afraid I very much doubt your bloodless revolution, however noble your motives or intentions.”

He nodded. “It’s a start.”

I blinked. “Mr Lázár, I’m only an impoverished governess. Why are you trying so hard to convert me? Do you wish me to murder the Szelényis in their beds? For I give you notice — I won’t!”

“I’m relieved to hear it.”

I regarded him. “Am I to convert the Count’s heir to egalitarian principles?”

“You are free to try, of course, but it might cost you your position.”

“I should think it would.”

I turned away at last from his humorous gaze, and for the first time in nearly an hour noticed the scenery. The mountains were further back from the shore now and we were coming close to a town with elegant towers and domes.

“Waitzen,” said Lajos Lázár.

“It’s beautiful,” I said, meaning everything.

I felt him nod beside me, but he was silent, and that too suited my mood. Together we watched the town go by. The mountains, still some distance away, were more beautiful without it. I was almost afraid to move and disperse the dream. The man beside me stirred. I felt his hand touch mine lightly, briefly, yet the unexpected shock broke into my peace.

“Look,” he said, and I turned quickly, following his gaze to the other side of the ship. I was amazed, for on this east bank of the river everything was flat, a dark, vast plain as far as the eye could see.

“How extraordinary!” I exclaimed.

He did not respond, so I looked at him, my mouth already open to speak again, but I closed it, for he was watching me with an odd intensity that made me only too aware that he was in fact utterly unknown to me. His rough, angular face was strangely attractive in the moonlight, and that made it worse.

I caught my breath. The flutter of panic I had felt when he first approached me returned now with a vengeance. I knew an instant of confusion, a dangerous tug of attraction.

“I must bid you good night,” I said, a little too abruptly.

“Of course.” He straightened his body from its relaxed pose against the rail. “Thank you for your company.”

It seemed a peculiar civility in him, but I almost believed he meant it. I smiled a little uncertainly and began to walk away, but his voice stayed me. “Miss Katie?”

I glanced back over my shoulder.

He said, “I hope we meet again in Buda-Pest.”

“I don’t see any reason why we should,” I said, and knew that already I was regretting it. Lajos Lázár was a little too remarkable for my peace of mind. For anyone’s.

“You can usually find me at the Café Pilvax,” he offered.

I smiled over my shoulder. “Thank you,” I said sweetly, “for the warning.” And I walked resolutely away. I was pleased to hear his soft, surprised laughter following me on the breeze.

CHAPTER FOUR

I knew to expect something wonderful of Buda-Pest, because my mother had told me — and I was not disappointed. As if I was coming home, I drank in the ancient, brooding splendour of Buda, with its great fortress on one side of the river and the new, bustling beauty of Pest on the other; and between them, the Danube itself, wide and majestic with tiny green islands scattered picturesquely into the distance.

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.