Tasha Alexander - A Fatal Waltz

“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 

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.

I had never seen her in person, but when we were girls, Ivy had a postcard that pictured her, and we’d lamented that our own queen was not nearly so lovely. Empress Elisabeth was a vision of royal perfection: a fairy tale. But the woman who greeted Cécile and me after we’d been settled into a formal salon in the Amalienhof bore little resemblance to the figure from the postcard.

“My darling Cécile, I have so longed for you.” She was shockingly thin and swathed from head to toe in black, still mourning the loss of her son, Rudolf, whose death at the imperial hunting lodge at Mayerling had shocked the Austrian nation.

“You should have sent for me sooner. I am distressed to find you in such a condition.”

“Don’t scold me. I can’t bear it. Things are more dreadful here than ever. I don’t know why I ever come back to Vienna. I wish we were still girls, playing in the Alps.”

“How are the horses?” Cécile asked, and the empress’s face brightened at once. They embarked on a spirited discussion of the animals (one of whom was called Nihilist, an excellent name) that lasted nearly a quarter of an hour, neither of them paying me the slightest attention. At last, Sissi sighed and looked at me with eyes void of energy.