A Fatal Waltz lem-3

by Tasha Alexander

  I’d expected that Cécile would not be able to come with me. She was here, after all, to see her friend, the empress. But although she left the hotel at the same time I did, her destination was not the imperial palace. Instead, she headed for the studio of an artist whose work I greatly admired: Gustav Klimt. He was to paint her portrait. When I asked her if the empress would mind that she did not come to her first, Cécile smiled, and there was a wicked gleam in her eye.

  “No one would understand better than Sissi,” she said, stepping into a carriage and leaving me at the curb.

  The Viennese were early risers. Already, people bundled in furs were streaming in and out of shops, bakeries, and coffeehouses, rushing across the narrow snow-covered streets that cut through the city like a spider’s web. My feet were wet, my unlined leather boots no match for the snow, and by the time I reached the countess’s imposing residence, it felt as if the very fabric of my coat was frozen. The von Langes’ house was palatial, its baroque grandeur dwarfing the very street on which it stood. The interior, full of stuccowork—cherubs and scenes from mythology everywhere I turned—overwhelmed me with its intricate beauty. As a servant in formal livery led me to an impossibly warm drawing room, my opinion of Kristiana thawed along with my toes.

  For a moment, that is.

  She kept me waiting nearly half an hour before she glided into the room and sat directly across from me. “You poor child. You look positively frigid,” she said. “Something warm to drink?”

  “No, thank you. I’m perfectly comfortable.”

  “I didn’t expect Colin to bring you to Vienna so soon.”

  “He’s in Berlin. I came on my own, and am hoping that you can assist me.”

  “Berlin?” She smiled, laughter in her bright eyes. “Is that what he told you?”

  “I’m here because Robert Brandon thought you might know something about a message Lord Fortescue received while we were at Beaumont Towers.”

  She laughed. “Oh, dear, you shouldn’t involve yourself in these things. It’s unseemly.”

  “For me but not for you?” My limbs were beginning to throb as the numbness faded from them. “I don’t like you any more than you like me. But the fact is, we may be able to assist each other. It would be foolish to let our personal—”

  “Assist each other? How do you plan on assisting me, Lady Ashton? I can’t imagine any way in which you could do so.”

  “I’m discreet and able to keep a secret. No doubt at some point in your own work, you might benefit from an ally.”

  “Do not flatter yourself by thinking you could ever be my professional equal.” She was resting her elbow on the arm of the sofa and raised a single finger to hold up her chin as she scrutinized every detail of my face. “There is only one thing you have that I want.”

  I met her gaze and held it with my own. “Colin?”

  She nodded. “Release him to me, and I will tell you what you desire to know.”

  “I don’t have him on a chain, Countess, and I’m not the one who decided to leave you.”

  “Of course not. He would never stand being on a chain. But if you were to change your behavior—flirt in a more serious manner with other gentlemen, for example—he might be more inclined to see me again. If you took a lover, he would too.”

  “I won’t do that,” I said.

  She shrugged. “Then Mr. Brandon’s life is worth very little to you.”

  “I’ll find out who sent the message on my own.”

  “Not before they hang your friend.” She laughed again, and I had to restrain myself from reaching out to slap her.

  “Frankly, I’m shocked that you would stoop to seek my assistance to seduce your former lover,” I said. “I assume he was your lover? Wouldn’t you be humiliated to have me hand him back to you?”

  “You’ve no idea the depth of pain that comes when you are forced to accept that you will never have the man you love.”

  “I didn’t think it was love that was between you.”

  “Then why did he beg me to marry him?” Her smug smile taunted me.

  “I’m the wrong person to answer that question,” I said, feeling a burning heat rushing to my face. Was she telling the truth? Colin had admitted a relationship with her, but had said nothing that suggested this level of seriousness. I was overwhelmed with discomfort.

  “My husband is rather fond of you. Perhaps you’d find him entertaining. He and his most recent mistress had a falling-out a few weeks ago. You should talk to him.”

  I stood to leave the room. “I’m sorry for you. You must be deeply unhappy.”

  As I left the Von Langes’ house, I was stopped briefly by the count, who effused delight at finding me in Vienna. Charming though he was, I found it difficult to speak with him after the conversation I’d had with his wife, so I stepped outside, feeling as battered as the snow crushed under the fiacres traveling up and down the street. Unsure of what to do, I started to walk aimlessly, not wanting to return yet to the Imperial. It was growing colder, and snow had begun to fall, but no graceful soft flakes. Icy edges strengthened by the wind slashed at my cheeks.

  My mind was uneasy, though I knew I had no right to the feelings consuming me. I could not fault Colin for loving someone before he’d met me. But faced with the woman who came before, I felt wholly inadequate. She and I were so different. How could he have loved us both? Would he find in the end that I was a poor substitute for what he’d known in the past?

  I was walking along the Michaeler-Platz, looking over at the sprawling Hofburg, residence of the Imperial family, when a gentleman slammed into me. He apologized quickly and walked on. I watched him cross the street towards Schauflergasse and duck into a café. The golden light escaping through the windows looked inviting; I followed him.

  Inside, round tables filled a room with an arched stone ceiling. Newspapers hung on wooden racks or were scattered in front of gentlemen bent over them with eager eyes, many of them scribbling frantic notes in the margins. I took a seat in the back of the room, and the man I’d followed turned and glared at me. I ignored him, smiled at the waiter who’d appeared next to me, and ordered a coffee mehr weiss. He brought it almost at once, along with a glass of water. My friend was still scowling at me. Despite the milk in it, the coffee was too hot to drink, so I walked to the nearest newspaper rack and pulled down a copy of Weiner Literaturzeitung. A man at the table next to it smiled at me.

  “A disgruntled former lover?” he asked.

  “Excuse me?” I answered in German, wishing, not for the first time, that I spoke it as fluently as I did French.

  “Forgive me, I did not mean to offend.” He jumped to his feet and bowed. “I am Friedrich Henkler.”

  “Lady Emily Ashton,” I said, hesitating, never before having encountered someone bold enough to introduce himself to a total stranger. I backed away, slinking to my table and sitting down. I spread the paper in front of me, hoping I looked engrossed, then tasted my drink and cringed.

  “You do not like your coffee?” Herr Henkler called from his seat.

  “No, it’s not the coffee. Not this specific coffee, that is. I don’t like any coffee.”

  “So why did you order it, Lady Emily Ashton? You are English? You want tea?”

  “I didn’t come to Vienna to drink tea,” I said.

  “I like you.” He crossed over to me and flung himself into one of the vacant chairs at my table. “We speak English?”

  “My German’s terrible.”

  “Not at all. But I must practice my English.” He waved an arm in the direction of the waiter. “Viktor! Holen sie ihre heiße schokolade mit gepeitschter creme.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Can I have your coffee?”

  “I—I suppose so.”

  “Danke.” He drained the cup before Viktor returned with my chocolate. “So if he’s not a spurned lover, who is he?”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Your friend.” He nodded at the man who�
�d bumped into me.

  “I’ve not the slightest idea.”

  “I like a woman who can offend without even realizing it. Shows a supreme lack of awareness.”

  “I can assure you I did nothing to offend him!”

  “I’m teasing. May I draw you?” he asked.

  “Draw me?”

  “I’m an excellent artist.” He leapt from the chair, went back to his table, and returned with a large sketchbook that he handed to me.

  “These are magnificent,” I said, looking at his work, each sketch so full of energy it seemed it could spring from the page. He took the book from me.

  “So I may draw as we talk?”

  “I—I suppose so.” I scooped up a mound of whipped cream from my cup of chocolate. “What are we to talk about?”

  “Well, Lady Emily Ashton, what has led you to grace Vienna with your royal presence?”

  “I’m not royal, and you must stop calling me by my full name.”

  “All right, Lady Emily.”

  “It’s Lady Ashton, actually.”

  “I’m not much fond of either. Do you have anything else?”

  “Herr Henkler, I—”

  “Nein. You must call me Friedrich. I insist.”

  It was impossible not to find this man endearing. His dark hair was a tousled mess, his suit so wrinkled it was nothing short of a disaster. He must have been about my age, perhaps a bit older, and his hands were rough, as if they knew hard work.

  “Some friends call me Kallista,” I said.

  “‘Most beautiful’? That I can enthusiastically support.”

  “You know Greek?”

  “I’m not wholly uneducated.” He hardly looked up from his sketchbook as he spoke. “You’ve not told me why you’ve come to Austria.”

  “I’m searching for someone.”

  “The lost lover?”

  “No. Someone I’ve never met.”

  “That makes things considerably more difficult, but I have faith. Everyone comes into the Café Griensteidl eventually. Do you see that man over there? With the dark hair and mustache? He’s handsome, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, rather,” I said.

  “That’s Gustav Mahler. You know his music?”

  “Of course I do. Is it really him?”

  “Ja. You want me to introduce you?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t know what to say.”

  “Another time perhaps. But I think you will find the man you seek here. You’ll simply have to join the rest of us, holding vigil all day, every day, week after week.”

  “I can’t afford to waste any time,” I said.

  “I wouldn’t have thought there was anything a woman like you couldn’t afford.”

  Suddenly I felt self-conscious. “I understand that you might think such a thing, but—”

  “Again, I do not mean to offend.”

  “You need not apologize.”

  “Why the urgency to find this man?”

  “My friend’s husband stands to lose his life if I’m not quick enough.”

  Friedrich whistled and leaned back in his chair. “Who’s after him? It’s impossible to keep track of who’s assassinating who these days.”

  “It is?” I asked.

  “I’m beginning to think the anarchists are right.”

  “The anarchists?”

  “Enough spurts of violence will cause the state to collapse, leaving us in blissful anarchy. Or so they’d have you believe.”

  “Are they plotting something now?”

  “They’re always plotting something.” He smiled. “You know nothing about any of this?”

  “No,” I said. “But the man I seek has some connection to anarchists. I’ve got to figure out how to find him.”

  “It’s not so easy, or so difficult, for that matter. There are lots of anarchists here. Lots of groups. Some are easy to find, but I don’t see how you’d ever track down one nameless individual.”

  “His name—” I stopped myself. I knew nothing about Friedrich; it might not be wise to identify Schröder.

  “You don’t need to tell me,” he said. “It’s perfectly understandable.” He put down his charcoal and held up his sketchbook.

  I gasped. “It’s as if I’m looking in the mirror!”

  “Very well done.” I started at the sound of a familiar voice, and looked behind me to find Mr. Harrison, whose gray eyes were fixed on Friedrich. “Will you excuse us?”

  “Selbstverständlich.” He went back to his own table, taking the sketchbook with him.

  Mr. Harrison leaned close to me. “Coming here was a mistake.”

  “You prefer a different café?” I asked. “I find that I’ve already grown quite fond of the Griensteidl.”

  “You should not have come to Vienna.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

  “I know why you’re here. You can’t help him, and trying to do so will put in jeopardy not only yourself, but the man whom you hold most dear.”

  “And who is it that I should be afraid of?” I asked.

  “Me.” He reached into an inside pocket of his jacket, and I saw that he still carried the gun he’d had at Beaumont Towers.

  “Take this, and remember every time you see one like it that I’ve been there. I can get to you, Lady Ashton, and those you love, whenever the fancy strikes me.” He rolled something across the table, a small object that I did not identify until it had stopped moving: a bullet.

  15 December 1891

  Berkeley Square, London

  My dear Emily,

  I hope all is well with you in Vienna and that you will be able to return to England soon. I miss you so very much. I can’t stand the thought of Christmas this year. My parents have wired to say they would return from India at once, but I can’t bear to face them and begged them to stay away. How quickly our fortunes have changed.

  I have news that should be joyous, but in the present circumstances brings angst rather than pleasure. I’m sure you can guess what it is. How cruel that such a thing—something Robert and I have wanted for so long—should happen now. I’ve told no one else, Robert included, though I think Margaret may be suspicious. It would be difficult for her not to be. I can’t bear the sight of breakfast.

  Robert’s mother calls on me daily, but we do little more than sit in grim silence. She used to give me cheery updates on the plans for Robert’s defense, but she’s had nothing positive to say for many days in a row now. I’m afraid that if she discovers my condition, she’ll insist that I go to her house, and I don’t want to do that.

  Every day there’s another story in the paper, each one more wild than the last. Margaret and Davis try to hide them from me, but I manage to find them nonetheless. Today it was suggested that Robert is a German spy. Can you imagine? I don’t know how they can print such baseless accusations. But apparently Lord Fortescue had sensitive documents that went missing from Beaumont Towers. Do you know anything about this? How could anyone think Robert had taken them?

  There is so little at present that I can tell you to offer a bit of joy. But you should know this: Margaret’s friend, Mr. Michaels, has been sending letters to her with alarming frequency, and I caught her blushing as she read one. What a pity he is an Oxford don instead of a peer of the realm—and don’t scold me for saying that, Emily. It’s only that I fear her parents would not approve of the match.

  But I don’t know Margaret so well as you do. Perhaps it is only an academic correspondence. I may be entirely misjudging the situation.

  I miss you very, very much and am your most devoted friend,

  Ivy

  Chapter 9

  Cécile and I were snug under heaps of blankets in a carriage, slowing as it reached the Amalienhof wing of the Hofburg Palace, where we were to call on the empress. It was our second full day in Vienna, and already I could see how easy it would be to get caught up in the lovely frivolity of the city. In many ways, it reminded me of the London Season: balls, parties, concerts, the
opera. But added to that was the café culture, with which I was much taken, the postcard-perfect architecture of the Ringstrasse, and a lively community of artists. Notably absent, of course, were the matrons of London society. The Viennese had their own rules, but as a foreigner, I found it deliciously simple to do what I wanted without being the target of withering glares on a regular basis.

  It had taken me longer than usual to dress for our trip to the palace, a fact that disappointed me, as I liked to believe that I was utterly undaunted by royalty. In the end, I settled on one of Mr. Worth’s creations, a striking gown on which gold embroidery covered a dark burgundy underskirt. Fastened over the high-necked bodice was a trim jacket and overskirt made from soft golden velvet. Flounces at the hips were gathered to reveal the rich burgundy below, and the material from the underskirt, with its lovely embroidery, featured again on wide lapels and fitted cuffs. Meg had taken extra pains with my hair, taming my curls in an upswept knot and pinning a darling hat trimmed with wispy feathers to my head. She would not let me leave the hotel until she was confident I could impress the empress.

  In contrast, Cécile was nonchalant when choosing a gown. She knew full well that she would be all striking elegance no matter what she wore. Despite her age, her face was still beautiful, her silver hair shone, and her every movement was filled with grace. Furthermore, there was not a single item in her wardrobe unfit for a queen.

  She and Sissi had met when they were girls and Cécile was visiting Bavaria. From that time, they corresponded, although they saw each other infrequently. The connection between them, she had told me, was strong, and in difficult times, each turned to the other.

  The empress’s eccentricities were as infamous as her beauty was legendary. It was said she maintained her figure with a never-ending series of extreme diets: oranges and violet-flavored ice cream, raw eggs and salt, substituting meat juice or milk for meals. She pampered her face with masks of strawberries or raw meat (although I never quite understood how raw meat fit with pampering), and bathed in water mixed with olive oil or milk and honey.