KOREAEBOOKDOCUMENT1.3.0A World to WinLancaster, MaryMushroom eBooksMushroom eBooks5aEpara.xmlMLWTW_cover_kml.pngnormal.sty .para.xmlC smaller.styC small.sty3C normal.styvC large.styC larger.sty) MLWTW_cover_kml.png     A World to Win         Mary Lancaster             a Mushroom eBooks sampler       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 published in 2006 by Mushroom eBooks, an imprint of Mushroom Publishing, Bath, BA1 4EB, United Kingdom www.mushroom-ebooks.com   All rights reserved. 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 complete edition: 184319435X       This is a sampler of A World to Win by Mary Lancaster. If you enjoy reading these sample chapters and would like to read the rest, you can buy the complete Mushroom eBook edition from the usual bookshops online, or find more details at www.mushroom-ebooks.com.           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. 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 pronounced 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 enrolled 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.” I smiled innocently as I said it, but they were busy exchanging unhappy glances. Count István obviously did have objections to Captain Zarescu, whether or not they had anything to do with the disreputable Lázár. Having thus cast a blight on the proceedings, I swallowed the last of my cheese and reached contentedly for an apple. I don’t enjoy being used — not without permission. I consider it rude.     CHAPTER FIVE “Miss Kettles,” Katalin burst out, almost as soon as the schoolroom door closed behind Zsuzsa and the children. “I have to speak to you.” “Yes?” I sat down at the recently cleared tea table, regarding her expectantly and not entirely seriously over my spectacles. She walked slowly towards me. “This afternoon — you — you suspect I planned it, to meet Alex — Captain Zarescu.” I sighed. “It’s none of my business.” She sank into the chair opposite me, frowning. “I know I was wrong to drag you into it...” “I would rather be asked.” “Of course. I’m sorry.” She looked at me from under her long, tangled lashes. “Will you tell my brother?” I said again, “It’s none of my business.” “It’s not even as if he’s my guardian,” she said eagerly. “I have a perfectly good father...” “And would he approve?” I asked sardonically. She opened her mouth, then closed it again and sighed. “No.” “I thought not. Oh, don’t worry — I have no occasion to speak to either of these gentlemen about you. Why on earth should I?” Katalin almost sagged with relief, so I took the opportunity provided by her temporary weakness to satisfy my own curiosity. “I would like to know why you need to meet him secretly,” I said as neutrally as I could. “Why is he so objectionable in your family’s eyes?” “Don’t you know?” I shrugged. “I suppose he is poor. And if he is a friend of Lajos Lázár, I presume his politics are — er — radical.” She sighed. “Both are true. And his father is a priest.” “So was mine,” I said, amused. “No, you don’t understand. He is an Orthodox priest. Alexandru is Romanian.” Bewildered, I heard the tragedy in her voice. “Is that bad?” I asked naively. “It is when I am a Magyar. Magyars despise Romanians as dirty, ignorant, lazy peasants.” I blinked. “I don’t believe anyone could so accuse Captain Zarescu!” “Of course not! He is a gentleman in every sense of the word! It is only antiquated prejudice. And, of course, the fact that Alex supports the Romanian nationalist movement makes it worse...” “You mean you are forbidden to speak to him simply because of his nationality?” “I may speak to him, I suppose, but I certainly may not marry him.” Her tone held bitterness now as well as profound unhappiness. I felt an uncharacteristic wave of sympathy. “You wish to marry him?” “More than anything in the world. But they wouldn’t let me, so all I can do is snatch clandestine meetings, like this afternoon’s.” She sighed again. “Do you think I’m behaving badly, Miss Kettles?” “Yes, I suppose you are,” I said, after a slight pause, “but to be honest, I don’t see what else you can do that isn’t worse.” Her face lit up with a quite enchanting smile. “I knew you would understand! I liked you as soon as I saw you! I can’t think how István came to employ anyone so sensible!” I shrugged. She was silent then for a time, deep in thoughts that were clearly not all pleasurable. At last, she looked at me again and took an audible breath. “I have no right to ask this of you, but — would you — perhaps — occasionally bring the children, and come with me to meet Alex? You see, I’m afraid Maria and István will get suspicious if I go out alone too often, and the children are such a wonderful excuse — there could be no talk against me if Alex and I were seen together with you, and them...” I met her gaze steadily. “No,” I said. “You have no right.” “But will you?” she persisted. I looked away, considering. I had my own reasons for wishing to disoblige her father, but I rather liked Katalin and encouraging her affair was likely to lead only to her greater hurt. On the other hand, I suspected she was already in far too deep to avoid pain. “How did you meet him?” I asked at last. She smiled. “He used to come to Szelényi when I was a child. He went to school in Kolozsvár, you see, and became friendly there with Lajos Lázár. The Lázárs are our people. Alex stayed with them sometimes at school holidays, and that was when Mattias and I were always hanging around Lajos, whenever we could escape from the castle — pestering him, I dare say! But he was always kind to us, and patient; he told us lots of things about the countryside and the animals, things we never knew. Lajos was different then: less — frightening.” I was intrigued to hear that he frightened her; I wondered if István’s excessive dislike stemmed from the same cause. Taking off my spectacles and calmly polishing them on my skirt, I said neutrally, “Exactly how terrifying are Mr Lázár’s politics?” “Oh, impossibly! He is a republican, he would abolish the king, the nobility, break up the Empire — he’d abolish the Church itself! Have you ever heard of the Young Hungary movement? They are outrageous radicals, aiming at nothing less than revolution — they say the poet Petöfi is their leader, but Lajos is certainly one of them!” Rather surprised by this passion, I put my spectacles back on and regarded her. “And Captain Zarescu?” “Oh no. Though I suppose he has some sympathy, feeling so strongly about the injustices of society. Anyhow, after we grew up, we didn’t meet for years till one evening we ran into each other in the theatre foyer in Pest. I knew him at once — it’s funny how instantly pleased I was to see him. Without thinking, I asked him to call — after all, he is an officer — and he did. Maria was polite to him, but I was advised not to encourage his encroaching ways — can you believe that?” I could. “Fortunately, Mattias began flirting with radical politics at university, and he met Alex in the Pilvax Café — which is where they all congregate to talk and swap their forbidden books! — and he used to bring him to the house sometimes.” She paused again. The Pilvax Café, I thought irrelevantly, was where one could usually find Lajos Lázár. Clearly it was a den of political vice, and to be avoided at all costs. Which was a pity in some ways, for although — naturally — I thoroughly disapproved of the enigmatic Lázár, I would not really have been averse to seeing him again. Accidentally, of course. It was true he disturbed me in some ill-defined way, but he also intrigued me, and I confess I wanted to know his opinion on a number of points, not least this of Magyar prejudice... Katalin was saying, “There’s no more to tell really. I fell in love with Alex and he with me, and when Mattias began to get wind of it he stopped inviting him to the house.” “His liberal politics didn’t extend that far?” “Only in thought,” she said, with a touch of contempt. “In practice, he wouldn’t dream of allowing a Romanian priest’s son to marry his sister. I can’t forgive him for that, you know. Whenever I remember it, I can’t bear to look at him.” She glanced at me from under her lashes again. It was a charming trick — I’m sure men everywhere would have offered her the world for a look like that. “So will you help me?” I, however, am female. And in any case I have always been immune. I regarded her thoughtfully. “Why don’t you just run away together? Marry him in spite of their disapproval.” Her eyes widened a little; she smiled. Her head even lifted as if she imagined herself proudly defying her family for love. But in the end, the smile died, and she shook her head ruefully. “No; we couldn’t. For one thing, my father would put a stop to Alexandru’s career prospects. He’s extremely vengeful about such things — I must tell you about my eldest sister one day...” “Oh?” I said calmly, though my heart was hammering in my breast. “Sofia. She was my half-sister, I never knew her, but Margit, my other half-sister remembers her. She ran away with a man my father disapproved of, and he never forgave her. He never spoke to her again, cut her off without a penny. And you see, that’s my other reason — I’m not really suited to a life of poverty.” I pulled myself together. “Not even to be with him?” “Oh, I’d try, but I know I would behave badly, and in the end, I’d drive him away. I have seen what irrational meanness can do to a marriage, to affection. I would do that, and I couldn’t bear it.” I wasn’t sure whether to despise her poor spirit or admire her unexpected insight. In the end I said only, “What happened to your half-sister, Sofia?” “I don’t know. He never speaks of her, but Margit thinks she’s dead.” I looked away. “Do you never think to find out?” “No,” she said with devastating simplicity. “None of us knew her, except Margit. She chose her life, as I must choose mine. I hope she was happy.” How magnanimous, I thought bitterly, but Katalin was already repeating urgently, “So will you help me?” I shrugged. “As well be hung for a sheep as a lamb,” I murmured. “I beg your pardon?” “Very well,” I said hastily, “I’ll do it.” “You angel!” she cried, enraptured. “My dear Miss Kettles — oh the devil, I can’t call you that now we are conspirators! May I call you Katie?” “If you wish,” I shrugged, but she was already dashing ahead. “I’ll move back here tomorrow — I usually do when István is home. Maria drives me mad after a few weeks.” I could believe it. My own endurance was considerably less. “So,” said Katalin brightly, “that should make everything easier.” Easier, I wondered, for whom?   * * * *   Well, my life may not have been simplified by the shouldering of Katalin’s problems, but it was certainly made more interesting. We had a positive spate of educational outings: to the new national Museum, to the beautiful old Matthias Church in Buda, and to the observatory on the Blockenberg Hill. We also went on a few rather less improving visits to The English Lord, which sold the best bonbons in the two cities. On all these expeditions, Katalin came with us, and at some stage was always joined by Alexandru Zarescu. They had very little privacy for lovers, but for the moment at least, just being together seemed to make them happy. What the family thought of Katalin’s sudden penchant for the governess’s company, I never found out. Frau Schmidt never said anything either, but as time passed and she came across Katalin in the school room more and more often, her expression of surprise was not entirely free of disapproval. Katalin, naturally, never noticed. Then, disaster struck. I was waiting for the children to finish the work I had set them, occupying my time by gazing out of the window at the sand storm rushing down the street. Pest is subject to these commotions, when the sand blows off the Great Plain and into the town, sometimes totally obliterating the streets for minutes at a time. The storms leave little piles of sand everywhere — even inside the house if you’re not fast enough in shutting the window, as I had learned from experience. I enjoyed watching this phenomenon, so I was not entirely pleased when Katalin came bursting in to the schoolroom. Naturally, the children were immediately distracted and I had to speak to them severely to make them continue, before dragging Katalin to the other side of the room to let her tell me her problem. “He can’t come today,” she said tragically, waving a letter in front of my eyes and then snatching it back as she recalled the private nature of its contents. I hadn’t known they wrote to each other as well — they really were indiscreet. “Can’t he?” I said with a touch of impatience. “Never mind — it’s happened before. You’ll see him tomorrow or the next day instead.” “No.” She shook her head; tears were glistening on the ends of her lashes. “He’s going away.” “Away? Where?” “Oh I don’t know — Vienna, I think. Only for a few weeks, but it seems so long, Katie!” “Well, when is he going?” “Tomorrow morning. He says I can send him a letter tonight at the Pilvax Café...” The Pilvax again. Meeting place of radicals and revolutionaries. I gazed a little blindly at the children, trying to talk myself out of it. At last I said, “Where had you planned to go tonight?” “Oh, some party, but I’ve already cried off. I can’t face it. I said I had a cold.” She wasn’t a very credible liar — I had never seen anyone look healthier. I regarded her thoughtfully. “Then you could go to the Pilvax,” I said. She stared back at me. “Go to the...” she began in amazement, and broke off. “Seriously?” “Seriously. Who would know you?” “Mattias if he’s there! But no, he’s going to that party with István and Elisabeth.” “Well then,” I said reasonably. I heard her breath catch. “I could, couldn’t I?” she murmured. I nodded, and she seized my hand. “You’d come with me, Katie?” “I suppose I’d better, to save your honour.” Her honour, at the expense of mine, I thought wryly. At least in my own eyes.   * * * *   I had dinner as usual with Ferenc and Frau Schmidt, excusing myself early on the grounds of letters which had to be written. I was becoming an adept liar. My one evening gown was quickly donned. It was no longer new and, as Aunt Edith had pointed out when I had insisted on buying it, it was quite impractical, being made of cream-coloured silk, but I had always liked it for it was both simple and elegant in shape, innocent of the excessive flounces so much in fashion, and with only moderate petticoats. And, now that I seemed to have recovered my health and spirits, its paleness brought out the colour in my cheeks in a way I thought not wholly unattractive. In a fit of vanity, I threaded a bright red ribbon through my hair, and was rather doubtfully admiring its effect in the glass when Katalin burst into the room, resplendent in her plainest evening gown — which, of course, cast mine into the shade in any terms you can think of — and holding a velvet cloak over her arm. “Are you ready, Katie? Do hurry!” I met her eyes in the mirror and sighed. “Do you really want the entire household to know that you left the house with the governess at this time of the evening? I think that might be carrying eccentricity too far.” “Oh.” No doubt her maid had dressed her too, in the full knowledge of her “cold” and her refusal to attend tonight’s party. “Quite,” I said. “Can you — er — creep out? Wait for me round the corner and we’ll find a fiacre.” In Buda-Pest, fiacres are rather smart vehicles drawn by two surprisingly small horses. Unfortunately, in the spring and summer they are open carriages, so we had to trust in the darkness and Katalin’s hood to hide her memorable countenance. “The Pilvax Café,” I told the driver as we got in, and he seemed to know where I meant. We bounded into motion, leaving my stomach well behind. It was only a short drive, which caught me unawares, for I had just had the belated thought that two unaccompanied ladies entering such a place — exactly what sort of a place was it? — might well be leaving themselves open to unwelcome interest or even insult. However, situated in a broad, tree-lined boulevard, it looked respectable enough from the outside. Katalin showed an irritating tendency to cling to me as, typically, she left me to pay the driver. “Do you think we should?” she whispered. “He’s your lover,” I said baldly. “Make up your mind.” I almost thought she would back out; I found I was holding my breath, but as the fiacre sped off in a cloud of dust and sand, she straightened her shoulders and marched forward. I couldn’t help feeling it would have been a shocking anti-climax to have crept cravenly home. A liveried doorman bowed to us respectfully as he ushered us in. Though I looked at him quite hard, I could see no speculation or disapproval in his face, so I murmured thanks and swept past him. Both coffee-house and restaurant, the Pilvax was a large, open hall with vaulted ceilings, bright and well-lit. Tonight it was busy, but I was relieved to see the company did not consist solely of men. In fact it seemed to be quite unexceptionable, even fashionable, despite the few threadbare coats I spotted in among the sartorial elegance. A waiter hurried to meet us. “Captain Zarescu?” I asked him, since Katalin appeared to be temporarily dumb. “Certainly, Madame, this way, if you please,” he said cheerfully, and much to my relief. He led us towards one of the long tables, at which a group of young men sat with the remains of a meal and some wine, and various pieces of paper scattered about. With the aid of my invaluable spectacles, I picked out the Captain quite easily. He was idly playing with the stem of his glass and smiling faintly at the man next to him when the waiter spoke to him. Not unnaturally, his face expressed surprise as he looked up at us — but that was nothing to his amazement when he saw who his uninvited guests were. His chair ground on the floor as he swung it back and stood up. Two strides brought him to us and his hand was almost crushing Katalin’s. “Why, what is this? What brings you here?” Meanwhile I was quickly scrutinizing his companions. Some of them glanced at us with only minor curiosity; some didn’t even stop talking. They were a mixed looking group, but only Captain Zarescu was in uniform. The others were plainly and rather casually dressed for Hungarians, without any of the emblems of nobility which I had become used to. Lajos Lázár, I had realized at once, was not among them. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed, but something had gone from the evening. Katalin was saying almost brokenly, “You’re going away. I was distraught — and then Katie had the idea that instead of sending you a letter here, I should come...” The Captain shook my hand warmly. “You are a good friend indeed, Miss Kettles. Come, will you join us here? Shift up there, Petöfi, make way for my guests!” The young man thus addressed glanced up from a spirited argument with his neighbour, and immediately came to his feet. He was a slight, good-looking youth with curly black hair and extraordinarily sparkling dark eyes; but uneasy bells were already ringing in my mind — was Petöfi not the name of the revolutionary leader of “Young Hungary”? “Allow me to present Sándor Petöfi,” said Zarescu, confirming my suspicion. “He’s our greatest living poet — or so he tells us.” Either by accident or design, this sally cleverly glossed over the problem of Katalin’s identity, for by the time we had all duly smiled at the joke and been divested of our cloaks and ushered into seats between Zarescu and Petöfi, the moment for introductions was past. “I’ve never met a poet before,” I said cautiously to my new acquaintance, “or, at least, not a good one.” “I am very good,” grinned Petöfi. “Though I will be better yet.” “What kind of poetry do you write?” “Oh, whatever I think about. I write about the people, about my country, about injustice — perhaps you have read some of my work?” he asked confidently. “Not yet,” I said tactfully. “But I would very much like to.” One has to be civil. “I would send you some,” Petöfi said regretfully, “but unfortunately, I leave Buda-Pest tomorrow.” “Petöfi is off in pursuit of love,” Captain Zarescu explained, pouring some wine for Katalin and myself. “They mock me,” Petöfi complained. “Nonsense — we’re trying to keep your spirits up.” “My spirits are up. Parental opposition is only there to be overcome.” I glanced meaningfully at Katalin, murmuring, “Good luck.” Remembering the reason for our visit here, I turned back to Petöfi to allow the lovers some private conversation. It was no strain. Petöfi was an immensely charming young man who spoke with enormous, nervous energy and a rather stringent wit, though permeating all his conversation was a sound lack of respect for authority. However, he was serious about three things. One was his love, a lady called Julia who resided in Transylvania and whose parents disapproved of Petöfi’s suit on the grounds of his poverty and lack of definite prospects. Julia herself was apparently impervious to these faults and as determined to marry as he. His second serious love was literature, which he discussed with great enthusiasm and knowledge, and his third the rather nebulous concept of the Hungarian people. After some time I was both baffled and dazed by him, but in an odd way I found I liked him. However, since this was to some degree Petöfi’s farewell dinner, I felt a little guilty about monopolising him, so eventually I turned away and touched Katalin’s arm. “How long should we stay?” I murmured. “Just a bit longer,” she said brightly. Her self-confidence had returned with a vengeance. I sighed and looked around me. Between me and the door were a lot of people eating and drinking. Huddles of young men were in serious conversation; others were in gales of wine-induced laughter. I wondered what Aunt Edith would say of it. I knew exactly what my father would have said, God bless his Presbyterian soul. Even after several months, it’s odd how grief can hit you again out of nowhere with the same, devastating force. Appalled, I fought to control my weakness. I was aware of a slight commotion by the door, so I concentrated on it blindly, slowly blinking away my emotion until the blur cleared, and through it, standing by the door, I saw Lajos Lázár.     That's the end of the sampler. We hope you enjoyed it. If you would like to find out what happens next, you can buy the complete Mushroom eBook edition from the usual online bookshops or through www.mushroom-ebooks.com. For more information about Mushroom Publishing, please visit us at www.mushroompublishing.com. 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