Grasping for the Crowns (The Powers Book 2)

by Alma Boykin

  István reached the town palace three hours later, very tired and sore in his legs and back. He rang the bell. The door opened and Petr Klarfeld looked out, looming behind the maid Orsolya. “Yes?” she asked, then registered his identity. “My lord! You’re safe.” He thought she would faint, but she recovered and curtseyed very deeply. “Come in, please, my lord Eszterházy.”

  She took his bag and coat, another maid brought better shoes, and he sank into a chair in the library, warming his hands at the small fire. Barbara appeared in the doorway, ran in, and almost threw herself into his arms. “Thanks be to God, oh Blessed Virgin be praised, thank you Lord,” she said, the words blurring together and she buried her face against his shoulder. “When Agmánd sent word but you weren’t on the train, Jenö feared the worst. Or that you’d been stopped by the doctors. They’re trying to keep all soldiers out of Kassa.”

  He felt stupid, now. “Shhh, easy my lady my love,” he soothed. “The train stopped five kilometers out of Kassa and I had no idea how long the delay might be, so I walked the rest of the way.” Her last words suddenly struck his ear. “Wait, what do you mean the doctors are stopping soldiers?”

  “I don’t know, something about carrying a fever from the military camps. Or to the camps, István, it didn’t make sense.” She straightened up and wiped her eyes.

  “Well, I’m here, and I’ll send for Szombor so he can be here before All Souls.”

  But Szombor did not come. Instead Petr returned to the townhouse the next day with strange news. “I’m sorry, my lord, but the man at the telegraph office refused to send the message after he’d seen it. My lord, the city has declared that no one can enter the city for a week. Everything, all the farm produce and milk and mail coming from the countryside has to stop, and then the police will bring it inside the city’s border. No one will say why, my lord.”

  “Probably to stop more Communists from coming in from Budapest,” István decided. “Thank you. You may go.” Well, that was inconvenient at the very least, but now was not the time to pull rank, in case it was the Communists at work. István read his papers and wondered what annoyance would intrude on his life next.

  That evening, the cook apologized for supper being late. “Your pardon, my lord, my lady. Margit, the kitchen maid, took ill after coming back from market this morning, and Zora is also feeling weak. Everything will be ready soon, my lord, my lady, but I apologize for the delay.”

  Barbara thanked Zúard and assured him that she was not upset. After he left she sighed and picked up the book she’d been reading. “Probably let her feet get wet and caught a chill. Or she didn’t wash her hands after getting the shopping. It really will be good when Zúard can order everything in advance and have it delivered once more.”

  “Indeed, my lady, indeed.” Because then all would be back to normal and they could hire more staff and return to life as it had been before.

  Barbara woke István in the night. He heard her being ill and rushed to join Jirina in holding her. She shook with chills and he led her back into bed. “Jirina, tell Magda not to let the children out of the nursery,” he ordered.

  “My lord?” Her eyes looked larger than normal in the dim candlelight.

  “Do not question me, just go.”

  “L—l—love,” Barbara whispered, teeth chattering, “What’s wrong?”

  István washed his hands in the little water left on the nightstand. “I don’t want them getting sick. The maids are ill, now you. If someone brought a sickness to the market, the doctors will be busy and Mistress Nagy is on the other side of the mountains.”

  “I’ll be better in a few hours,” Barbara said, shaking.

  “I’m sure you will, but I’m the head of the house and I do not care to have everyone else and our children sick. Now rest.” He pushed through her weak shields, adding a heavy compulsion to his words. He did not want their next child endangered by Barbara’s stubbornness. Once assured that she slept, he napped in the chair under a blanket.

  By dawn, she’d grown worse, hallucinating and trying to fight free of the blankets, then shivering again. Jirina called the hospital and Dr. Cohen. “There is no room at the hospital,” the doctor told her, as István listened over her shoulder. “The entire city is ill, and they are keeping patients on mats on the floor. Give her warm liquids, keep her warm, and if she starts coughing, call back. I’ll try to come if I have time.”

  Margit died that afternoon, choking, her face a strange ashen purple. István and Jenö moved her body to the ground floor and called for a priest. Instead, an ambulance with hastily-painted black crosses came, taking her body to the cemetery at St. Giles. Duty seen to, István knelt in prayer beside Barbara’s bed, reciting the rosary and begging any saint who might hear to add their prayers to his, especially the Fourteen Nothelferen, led by St. Christopher and St. Aegidus. Please, dear Lord, spare the children and I will go to Mariazell, to offer thanks and praise. Please spare Barbara, please. Barbara moaned as if in pain and panted. She sounded like a woman in labor might, or so István imagined. He recited two more decades before the thought penetrated. “No, oh no, please,” he gasped. He lifted the blanket and saw red on the sheet beneath. It was too early! He pulled the sheet back and held his wife’s gown down, so he could watch her belly. It didn’t move. Maybe it’s just a little blood. Some women have that, I think, please. He put the blankets back and called for Jirina.

  “I don’t feel well, my lord,” she said, face pale and greenish. “I think I should stay back.”

  He opened and shut his mouth. “Who else?”

  “Zora’s better, my lord, Petr is still well, but Zúard and Jenö are sick, as is the scullery girl and the other chamber maid. Magda seems fine and Petr has a way to send food to the nursery.”

  István retuned to the bedroom and heard coughing and a horrible, almost strangling sound. As he watched, Barbara’s skin darkened and she fought to breathe. He went to his office and telephoned the doctor and the priest, but no one answered the phone. The operator said he’d try to call again and have the priest come. “Dr. Cohen and the others are too busy, my lord.”

  Just before midnight Barbara lost the battle, taking their unborn child with her. “No, dear God no.” István lay on the carpet beside the bed and wept. How could you, God? How could you do this to us? How? I need her. The children need her. Why God, why? How could she die so fast, so young? How could she die without Last Rites? He’d lost his wife and child, his father and mother. Who next?

  Jenö died the next evening. The others remained weak, too weak to work. István felt tired and chilled a little during the night, but it passed quickly. After the health officer’s men took Jenö and Barbara’s bodies away, István forced himself to contact the House and formally tell them of his lady’s passing. It was then that he learned the news from Budapest. Mátyás had died that morning. He’d seemed to get better, then collapsed and died of the choking cough. One maid had also died, and Ferenk and Dobroslov had been ill but were recovering. The Matra suffered as well from the deaths within its territory, while, to the east, Galicia shuddered, or so the Power warned. The Power in Kutna Hora also worried the Matra, and Bohemia as well, or so István inferred, but those were not his concerns. István stared at the wall, numb. He’d lost everyone. The House snarled—driving him on, pulling him out of the pit he wanted to crawl into.

  When news came of the armistice, István barely noticed. Only after the last member of the household had fully recovered, and everything had been washed, wiped with alcohol or carbolic acid, and otherwise cleaned, did Magda and the children emerge from the nursery. István knelt and hugged Imre until the boy squeaked in protest. “Where’s Mommy?”

  It took two tries before István could speak. “Your mother is with God.” Tears ran down his face, and he did not try to hide them, hugging Imre close once more. He heard Magda weeping as well.

  The plague had struck in late October. On November twentieth, the acting-mayor and the doctors allowed th
e disease watch to be lifted. People could go into the streets and parks once more, and a few brave farmers and others ventured to the markets. István sent for Szombor to come to Kassa from Nagymatra. Then he and Magda and Jirina took the children to the church of St. Barbara, near the townhouse, where they prayed for the souls of the dead. István would have Masses said for his wife and brother, as well as the servants, later. He would go to Mariazell, as he’d vowed, later. Now, he wanted to watch his children and prepare for the worst. Famine, war, and plague had swept the land. When would the rider on the pale horse gallop through?

  Come December, the rationing limits eased. With fewer people needing to eat, and a good year in the barns, why not? Some villages had lost all but a handful of souls, as it proved. Despite the uprisings in the cities and on the manors, the country had not fallen into total chaos, and transportation appeared to be returning to war-time normal, if not quite to the speed and safety of 1914. Zúard, with his lord’s permission, squandered the household’s ration points and crowns on a quarter beef. István tasted fat beef for the first time in months, and smiled as Imre and Erszébet met a good broth, which they both liked. Maybe they could try gingerbread at Christmas, and roast pig, he thought, watching them sleep later that night. The smell of simmering meat lingered in the air, a promise of decent food still to come. Perhaps, just perhaps, things were getting better—István almost dared to hope. Then he stopped himself, closed the nursery door, and went to his empty bed.

  Despite the anger of his mother-in-law and sister, István refused to dress the children in black. They wore mourning when they went to Mass, but no other time. “No. It makes them look like ghosts. Hungary and the empire have been in mourning since June 1914. Imre and Erzsébet will wear baby colors.”

  “But István,” Duchess Agatha Paula Rosenberg said, eyes wide with dismay, her black fan fluttering, her other hand on the front of her black brocade dress. “What about my daughter’s memory? How else will people know that they are in mourning and still grieving?”

  Because Imre clings to Magda and to me as if he’d been glued? Because your granddaughter wakes up crying for Mama? But he held his peace. He needed to keep the Rosenbergs pacified and willing to help him. Now was not the time for a spat within the Houses. “Your Grace, one look at the staff and at me tells everyone that the household is in mourning, as do the black ribbons. As you know, I have had Masses said in Barbara’s memory, and will continue through the year, and have given to the Sisters of Charity and to the Franciscan Foundling Home as well.”

  The latter had almost broken him, seeing long rooms of children, from week-old babies to almost grown, all abandoned or orphaned. That afternoon he’d insisted on having the children take their naps in his office, where he could see and hear them as he worked. Magda had protested once, weakly, before dragging the cradle and pallets down.

  Duchess Agatha sniffed, mollified for the moment. István considered asking her if she knew how much black cloth cost, and how much it showed all the dirt and lint that Imre seemed to collect even within the four walls of the townhouse. And how fast Imre had started growing. The addition of meat to his diet seemed to agree with the boy.

  Agatha said, “I presume the children will visit during Easter.”

  “I hope so, Your Grace. It appears that all will be well and quiet.”

  “Good. I trust that you have no objection to my sending staff to assist you during this trying time?”

  Once he would have objected before the sound of his mother-in-law’s words had even stopped. Now he considered her order before saying, “Yes, I do. I am concerned about their ability to work with the staff at Nagymatra, and about their willingness to stay after the Hungarian referendum.” After a moment more he decided to be honest, and added, “And I am not certain that I can afford to pay more staff right now, Your Grace.”

  The affronted look returned to her soft, round, wrinkled face. “What do you mean you cannot afford to pay the staff? The Eszterházy family is one of the wealthiest in the empire, one of the most politically and socially prominent. Serving such a family is an honor.”

  Do you know what year this is? For the first time István started to wonder about Duchess Agatha’s mental state. “Your Grace, even servants must eat, and wages are high for skilled staff. And the income of the family, and all noble families in Hungary, has declined because of fear surrounding the events taking place in Paris.” No one wanted to build until they knew what country their house or business would be in, and if they would be allowed to keep their property. And a few people maintained that they should not have to pay for anything, because it all belonged to the people and the government, so they could take whatever they wanted or needed. Thus far the foresters had disabused several unhappy men of that idea, but there would be more.

  “Well, that is all the more reason for me to send staff.” The arrival of Imre terminated the discussion for the moment, for which his father blessed the child. Duchess Agatha began cooing, “Oh, come here you dear little— What have you gotten into?”

  A bit of flour from the top of the fresh bread, apparently. István hid his smile.

  As winter dragged on, the sense of anger and dread within the empire grew stronger and stronger, until even István could feel it. Once more, imperial troops fought a two-front war, this time against Russia and Romania. Italy had, for the moment, pulled back from the borders, and the imperials did likewise. At least the Romanians were also trying to beat up on Serbia as well, István thought, enjoying a moment of Schadenfreude. Of course, if Romania pushed harder in the south, aiming to cut off southern Hungary and attack across to Belgrade, it might cease to be amusing. Or perhaps not, depending on how wet the spring proved to be. And where the borders were drawn.

  Three maps lay on his desk. Josef Meciar, visiting from farther north, and Attila Gabor sat across from him in the townhouse office. Attila and István had both been summoned to Vienna, and Attila had detoured north to meet with István and Meciar. He and Meciar had discussed church business, then called on István. After the session in Vienna, István intended to go on to Mariazell, as he had sworn, and make good on his debt to the Lord and Our Lady.

  Count Gabor tapped the third map with his pencil. “You can guess who is demanding that the Entente enforce that idea.”

  Meciar snorted. “Do they want Rome and Ravenna as well, my lord?”

  “It would be entertaining to watch them try.”

  The map horrified István, as it did the other men. It showed the border between Hungary and Romania at the Tisza River, the Serbian-Romanian border a few miles east of Belgrade, and Bosnia given to a new Croat country, with most of Carinthia, Kraina, and even Trieste, now included in “Slovenia.” Galicia and half of the new Poland bore the label “Russia,” which István took to mean that Romania had agreed not to fuss if the Russians tried to annex that much. And “Czechoslovakia” extended to a few kilometers north of Budapest, then ran east until it bumped into the Tisza River and Romania.

  “I believe I can safely say that this,” István tapped the offending map, “will never come to fruition. This area has too many Hungarian-speakers and Germans in it, this swath,” he pointed between the Danube and Tisza, “has never belonged to either Transylvania or Wallachia, or Dacia for that matter, and they will have just as much joy capturing Serbian territory as we had. More so, I suspect.”

  “And, my lord, the Entente will not tolerate the Russians devouring Poland again. The gift of Silesia would not make up for losing Warsaw and Krakow again.” Meciar pushed the map aside and scooted a second one to the center of the desk. “I suspect this is a more likely outcome, my lords.”

  On the second map an improbably straight line extended south from the point where Bukovina, Hungary, and Galicia touched, not stopping or shifting until it reached the Romanian border. That slab would go to Romania. From the triple junction a second line ran north to the Russian border, and the land to the east would be Russian. Somehow that is not what th
e Ruthenes have in mind, István thought. The Polish border with Galicia came a little more south, closer to Lemberg and enfolding the bulge north of the Wisloka River and Tarnow. Czechoslovakia included Bohemia, Moravia, and the foothills north of the Hernánd River, then cut south to envelop Kassa, and then ran east and north to cut out the area with Ungvár and Mimkács. “I trust you understand why I am not entirely happy with this version?”

  Gabor snorted, derision obvious. “At least you would not lose all of your land and properties. The Romanian government is already encouraging ‘blood Romanians,’ as they call them, to drive out Hungarians and Saxons to purify the region, so that when Wilson and the Entente soldiers arrive there will be no one to protest the new borders.”

  “The loss of Silesia will hurt the new Czechoslovakia,” Meciar observed. “Apparently they are already protesting the loss, my lords, but since most of the people there are Polish or German speakers, the Entente seems less than persuaded by their plaints, my lords.”

  Gabor frowned as he looked at the page. “It has been many years, but did not the Poland that existed before the first Partition sit farther to the east?”

  István got up, stretched his back a little, and found the book he needed. He thumbed through and located the map, a copy of an engraving from the mid-seventeen hundreds. “You’re right. This,” he ran his finger along the modern map, “is all from Germany.”

  “They also give a slice of Bavaria to Bohemia, my lord.” Meciar sat back, his expression troubled. “My lord, I am not certain but that this may cause trouble later on.”

  “I suspect it will,” Gabor said. “Unless everyone is equally unhappy, and tired, no national group will feel satisfied. And Transylvania, or the Sudetenland, or Trieste, where you have as many of one so-called nation as of another?” He shook his head. “But the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.”