Moonlight Rebel (19 page)

Christopher was always polite to her, but he challenged almost everything she said. Lessons ran between four to five hours each day, and she felt bone weary after each session.

But as the days rolled into weeks and Christopher discovered that he couldn't antagonize his new teacher, that she wouldn't be cowed, that though she could be stern, she was fair and never abusive, he grudgingly accepted her and began to listen to what she was telling him. As his hostility dissipated, Christopher discovered that history, a subject he had always found extremely boring, now unfolded before him like a vast, continuing story. The main characters came and went, but the thread, the progress of humanity, continued throughout the ages. Krystyna made learning a challenging pleasure rather than a hateful chore.

Christopher forgot to be bored and began to look forward to his lessons. By December, he and Krystyna were great friends.

"What does this mean?" Christopher jabbed a finger at a word in the book Krystyna had given him to study. The room was lit with candles, though it was only coming upon noon. It was snowing outside, and the sky had gone dark with heavy clouds.

He has hands like Jason's, she suddenly thought as she bent over to read the word. Christopher was tall for his age and very fair of face, much fairer than Jason, yet he reminded her of him. In Christopher, she saw what Jason must have been like as a boy.

"Renaissance," she read. She straightened up. "Renaissance means rebirth," she explained when he looked at her uncertainly, waiting for further clarification. "It is a name given to this particular period of history because literature and art became important again for the people. Their interests were renewed, reborn," she emphasized the last word and was rewarded with a look of understanding on the young boy's face. "During that time, artists were encouraged to enrich people's minds."

Christopher absorbed this information and appeared to mull it over. He cocked his head and asked, "Is that what we're having now?"

Krystyna looked at him, trying to guess what had prompted his question. She thought of the straitlaced life of many of the people that she met since she had arrived at Smoke Tree. She remembered her only visit to the church, where the bombastic preacher had stood in the pulpit and damned artistry until his very neck had turned red above his stiff collar. He had proclaimed art to be the work of the devil. From what she had gathered, there were many other people here who shared the same view.

She sat down beside Christopher. Her action pleased him a great deal. It was as if she regarded him her equal. "I am afraid I do not understand. I do not know of any artists or writers that you have here."

Christopher shook his head, his blond hair dancing about his ears. "No, no, you said rebirth. Grandfather says that's what's happening now. To us," he added when she still didn't look as if she understood.

"Oh?" He meant the revolution. This was an area that she would have to handle delicately. The boy's father and grandfather were in direct disagreement on this subject and while her pact was with the elder, it wouldn't do any good to antagonize Aaron. "Tell me what your grandfather says."

She didn't need to coax him. He would tell her anything she wanted to know. Christopher was beginning to bear a great affection for his teacher. In fact, he had wondered if she would wait for him to grow up before finding someone to marry. He'd decided if she liked him enough, she would. "Well, Grandfather says that the King is making life hard for us, and if he doesn't stop treating us like serfs," he said importantly, "we're going to rebel and make him listen to us. He's awfully far away, you know, and can't do that much to us."

Krystyna shook her head sadly. "Oh, I am afraid kings have very long arms, Christopher. King George has many soldiers to send over to make your countrymen stay in line."

Christopher's face fell as he looked at her. He had been so sure that he had found a real friend. "Then you agree with my father?"

What have I said to make him so unhappy? she wondered as she looked down into the distressed face. "What does your father say?"

There was anger in his young voice and a note of frustration. "That we shouldn't do anything." He flipped through the pages of the book without looking at them. "That the King knows best when it comes to how to treat us." The hostility she had once seen directed toward her was back in his eyes. "He says that the people who dumped the tea in the bay are just a bunch of troublemakers —and that the soldiers at Lexington and Concord are savages."

This is the stuff that makes up history, she thought. Morgan had discussed these events and more, vividly, at the table. She chose her words carefully, though she knew where her own sympathies lay. "Well, they might have been troublemakers, but they believed in what they were doing. They were protesting a tax that they did not think fair. They killed no one at the 'Tea Party,' they just rid themselves of the cause of the problem. At least for now."

She looked at the small, open face and saw the responsibility that rested on her shoulders. Here was someone to teach, someone to set on the right path. She couldn't let that opportunity just slip away. Couldn't take the easy path. That would be cowardly.

Krystyna took a deep breath, her hand covering the boy's. "No, Christopher, in answer to your question, I do not think your father is right." The boy beamed immediately. "Kings tend to forget that they must make decisions for all the people, not only themselves. And kings are only human. Sometimes they listen to the wrong advisers and make the wrong decisions."

She rose and wandered toward the window. Snow was falling heavily. "Things in America are very different than they are in England, and in my opinion, the King should not rule on matters here from a seat so far away. He is stifling growth. The men who threw the tea away knew this. It was their way of telling him he was wrong in his tax and in his thinking." She turned to see that the boy was hanging on her every word.

"Perhaps they should not have been so wasteful, but sometimes you have to do things you would not normally do in order
 
to
 
be
 
noticed.
 
My
 
own
 
King," she thought of
Stanislaw, "was weak, just as King George is, and he listened
to the wrong people. That is why we lost parts of our land to our neighbors—Russia, Prussia, and Austria. If your King is not careful, he will cause a rebellion. And then other countries might come in and take the Colonies over, as parts of my land were seized."

Christopher looked at her, wide-eyed. Then confidence filled his young soul. "That can't happen here. We'd never let them take us," he boasted proudly.

How wonderful to have such conviction, she thought. Perhaps if King Stanislaw had had some of Christopher's spirit, I would be at home right now.

Krystyna leaned over and closed the book on Christopher's desk. "The lesson is over for today."

Christopher looked up in surprise. It was only the noon hour. Did she mean to stop for a meal, or was she serious?

Krystyna smiled at his obvious confusion. "It is snowing." She gestured toward the window. "Back home, when I was your age, I loved to build castles in the snow."

Christopher was almost to the door when he suddenly turned around. "Will you come, too, and build a castle with me?"

Krystyna laughed as she joined him. "I am glad you asked. Come," she took his hand, "we need coats."

Without trying, Krystyna slowly began to win over most of the family. Her kindness to Christopher gained her not only the boy's but Lucinda's affection. Aaron, however, continued to regard her as a growing curiosity and, more to the point, a possible future mistress.

One member of the family didn't change her opinion. Savannah. From the first moment she'd seen Krystyna, Savannah had thought her the enemy. She resented having her at the table, resented her presence in the house, and passionately hated the way her brother and father acted toward the woman. In addition, Charity was as close a friend as Savannah cared to have. As far as she was concerned, a marriage between Charity and Jason was imminent.

Krystyna's untimely arrival had changed all that. Charity cried on Savannah's shoulder and blamed Jason's inattentiveness and preoccupation on Krystyna. Savannah did nothing to change her opinion.

To Savannah, Krystyna represented competition, plain and simple. Having her here disrupted the order of things. And Krystyna was a potential complication for her well-thought-out plans.

Krystyna felt Savannah's hostility, though very little was said between the two women. Krystyna saw no reason to go out of her way to try to change Savannah's mind about her. There was no point to it. She was what she was, and Savannah could like her or not as she chose.

What Krystyna did go out of her way to do was to avoid Jason whenever possible. She answered his questions politely at dinner when there were others around, but she never allowed herself to be alone with him. All his invitations to go out riding again were politely but firmly refused. She didn't trust him. She didn't trust herself.

Krystyna's most surprising conquest was Morgan McKin-ley. Everyone noted the fact that he was increasingly less gruff with her. The probing questions he shot at her ceased to be verbal attacks on her class and became inquiries into her life in Poland. More than anything, he was fascinated by the fact that she was so different from his previous conception of an aristocrat.

"How many peasants did your father work to death?" he had asked her over dinner on one of the first evenings she spent at Smoke Tree.

She had raised her sapphire eyes to look at him and had retorted calmly, "None. How many slaves have you tortured to death?" Without missing a beat, she continued to sip her wine.

A hush had fallen over the room, and with bated breath, everyone awaited Morgan's response. An explosion was foreseen by all. But after the bright color had receded from his face, the old man had laughed heartily. "Good God, girl, you've got guts." His stomach shook as he laughed. "More guts than brains, I'll wager."

But that had been the beginning.

Morgan liked her spirit and the fact that she was not afraid of him the way Aaron and Lucinda were. Winthrop, whenever he came, which to Morgan's sorrow was often, was afraid of him as well. But that rather pleased Morgan. And even Savannah, for all her haughty airs, could be subdued with a raised brow. The only ones who were not afraid of him were Christopher, who was too innocent and honest to fear him, and Jason, who was more like him than the others. And now this uppity, displaced countess.

"A countess." Morgan laughed to himself, lighting his worn pipe with a poker as he stood by the hearth in the den. The pipe had been the one thing he had carried with him when he had escaped to the new world. It was his only reminder of his father.

The irony of the situation struck him. "Who would ever have thought that I'd harbor a countess in my home?" And like her at that, he added silently. But then, he had Each}an in his employ, and there had been a fondness between the two men. Jan had been of noble blood. I didn't know that, of course, Morgan thought as he drew on the stem. Not when I hired the man.

Jan had been very closemouthed in the beginning, asking only to be given a chance to prove himself. It wasn't until Morgan found he depended heavily on the little man that he began to ask Jan questions about his past. After several years, in a rare moment of truth, the two men being in their cups, Jan had revealed the truth.

Morgan, too drunk to care, saw the humor and roared with laughter. After that, Jan slowly told him everything, about his country, about the cause and the danger his brother and niece were in. Morgan had been the one to suggest that perhaps a position could be found at Smoke Tree

for Jan's brother. He hadn't given much thought to the girl who would be coming along with her father.

"You do seem to like her," Jason said as he stood watching his father.

"Who?" The question was too innocent as he looked toward his son. Things had changed for the better between the two in the last two months. Jason ran the plantation as well as he himself had once done, when he was young and could sit a horse all day. But those days were gone. A back injury sustained when he'd been thrown from a horse kept him from riding for any length of time now.

Jason is a handsome man, Morgan reflected, turning more than his share of ladies' heads. Oh, to be young again —and to look like Jason. God forbid, he thought, that I should look like Aaron.

"You know very well who. Krystyna. Our resident princess." Taking a long cigar, Jason bit off the end and threw it into the flames. He lit his cigar with the same poker his father used.

"Countess," his father corrected, then allowed himself a smile. "Oh, she's a mite uppity," he proclaimed, shrugging.

"Nobody could be more uppity than Savannah," Jason pointed out.

"That's for damn sure. I worry about her, Jase. She's a hellcat, that one. All the wrong values. If I had my druthers, I'd have her more like the Countess."

"Changed your tune about her, haven't you?"

"Yes, yes, I like her." Morgan waved a hand, annoyed at being cornered.

Jason blew out a smoke ring and straddled a chair. "I thought you would. She's a lot like you, you know."

"Oh, is she now? And in what way, may I ask?" He raised his brow, his interest peaked.

"I overheard her teaching Christopher."

Morgan was glad that arrangement had come about. Christopher seemed a lot happier these days. But because it suited him, he feigned ignorance, wanting to see what Jason had to say on the subject. "How's that going?"

"It's one of your better decisions." Jason nearly laughed out loud at his father's frown. As far as Morgan McKinley was concerned, all his decisions were good. "Christopher really likes her. He listens to everything she has to say. And despite Aaron's little lecture to her about not talking to Christopher about this rebellion of yours, Christopher tells me very happily that she's on the side of the rebels." Jason blew out another smoke ring and watched its crooked form fade.