Tasha Alexander - A Fatal Waltz

“Madam?” 

“You’re already dressed,” I said, surprised. 

“It’s nearly five o’clock.” 

“Heavens. I’d no idea you get up so early.” 

“The household, madam, does not run itself.” 

“Well, I shall have to send you to bed earlier. I can’t have you running yourself into the ground.” I passed him the paper I’d brought with me. “Would you please have this wired at once to Mr. Hargreaves in Vienna?” 

“It will be my pleasure.” He bowed neatly. 

“And, Davis?” 

“Madam?” 

“You may take the afternoon off. I’m sure that Odette would appreciate seeing some of London before she and Madame du Lac return to Paris.” 

“Madam, let me assure you that I am not—” 

I raised a hand. “That’s a direct order, Davis. Don’t disappoint me.” 

I returned to my bedroom, but there was little point in trying to sleep now. I rang for Meg, soaked in a hot bath for an obscene length of time, and dressed for the morning. None of my friends was yet awake, and I didn’t want to disturb them, so I breakfasted alone, kept company only by the worry I felt for Colin. 

Alone, that is, until my mother stormed through the door. 

“Lady Bromley, madam,” Davis called over her shoulder, not bothering to come into the room. 

“Mother, I thought you were in Kent,” I said, suddenly feeling even more exhausted than I had before. 

“I came the moment I heard you were back in England. You did go to Newgate. I’ve had it confirmed by an unimpeachable source, so don’t bother trying to deny it. Whatever could you have been thinking?” 

“Robert asked to see me.” I was too tired to come up with an excuse that might be more palatable to her. 

“How dare he try to compromise you with such a request? Where is Ivy? I want to speak to her.” 

“She’s still asleep, Mother, and I’ll not have you bothering her. She’s upset enough.” 

“Well, she ought to be. Made a very poor choice of a husband, if you ask me—” 

“I didn’t.” 

“Emily!” She rapped her umbrella on the floor. “I will not have you speak to me in such a manner. It’s unconscionable that you—” 

“Ivy has trouble enough to contend with. She doesn’t need you to add more.” 

“Her situation is—” 

“More dreadful than you think.” I measured my words carefully, looked at my mother and raised an eyebrow. 

“Really?” She spoke slowly; I nodded. “Poor, dear girl! What will become of the child? This is too awful!” 

“Robert is not guilty, Mother. He will be exonerated.” 

“I wouldn’t say that with such confidence if I were you,” she said. I could see her mind working, going through the ranks of unmarried men. “There must be a respectable widower out there who would be willing to take her on. An older gentleman, perhaps. By the time she’s out of mourning she will be somewhat less tainted by the scandal, but—” 

“Mother! Robert is not dead.” 

She sighed. “Of course not. But it never hurts to plan ahead.” 

“Now that you’ve mentioned scandals, though, I’ve a question for you.” This piqued her interest, but she waited until a maid had poured coffee for her and left the room before asking me to elaborate. “Do you remember Albert Sanburne?” I asked. 

“Sanburne…” She looked towards the ceiling for approximately fifteen seconds before bringing her attention back to me. “Oh, yes. Sanburne. Such a tragedy that he died so young. And his poor sister! How we all despaired for her. She was left without even enough money for a dowry. None of her relatives wanted to take care of the girl—as I recall, she moved from house to house every six months or so. To lose a brother so soon after the deaths of both her dear parents. Too awful for words.” 

“To put it mildly,” I said. 

“I must say, Emily, that I did fear for your health while you were in Vienna. The influenza is worse there than anywhere. I’m convinced Sanburne would never have died had he contracted the disease somewhere else.” 

“Why had he gone to Vienna?” I asked. “I understand there was some to-do over his engagement.” 

“Oh, yes. I believe the girl’s father went all the way to Vienna to break the betrothal.” 

“That’s strange, isn’t it?” 

“Fathers are protective of daughters. It was said that his objections to Mr. Sanburne were very strong indeed.” 

“What were they?”

“I don’t know. It was never discussed.” 

“Who was the girl?” 

“Helen Macinnis. She was heartbroken at the time, but wound up marrying a captain in the Horse Guards. It was an excellent match.” She poured a second cup of coffee. “To return to the reason for my visit, I cannot allow—” 

“Did you know, Mother, that Mr. Sanburne did not actually die of influenza?” 

“What can you possibly mean by that? Of course he did. It was in all the newspapers.” 

“He committed suicide in Vienna. It was in all the papers there.” 

“Is that so?” 

“I’m absolutely certain. Have even confirmed it with Sir Julian Knowles.” As I spoke, I saw in her eyes an admiration that had never before been directed to me. But then I’d never before given her such stunning gossip. 

“Did I tell you that your father and I have been invited to Sandringham for Prince Eddy’s birthday dinner next week?” she asked. “Perhaps I could ask the queen if the invitation might be extended to include you.” 

“I wouldn’t want to impose. Particularly when she’s been so gracious about the wedding.” 

“Oh, I suppose you’re right. Now, have your servants prepare a room for me. I may as well spend a few days with you before I return to the country.” 

2 January 1892

Vienna

Dear Kallista, 

How sorry I was to call at the Imperial today and find you had left Austria without so much as a good-bye! So I must write to commend you and Cécile on your brilliance. Word about my drawing of the empress leaked out almost the moment she left the Hotel Imperial. It was reported yesterday in the newspaper that she was so pleased with the image that she gave it to the emperor, just as she’d told us she planned to do. 

Since then, I have been flooded with portrait commissions—funnily enough, no one wants me to paint them—only to do a charcoal as I did for the empress. Sketches are now all the rage in Vienna. 

Best of all, however, is that the dreaded Frau Eckoldt is thawing towards me. She wants a drawing of her own, and I have agreed to do hers before anyone else’s. She told me that if she likes my work, she will invite me to tea at her house. I am certain that it is only a matter of time before my darling Anna and I are engaged. I owe you multitudinous thanks, especially because the assistance you provided would have had no effect if the empress did not truly appreciate my skills. So I emerge from this with pride intact. 

On a sadder note, I should tell you that we’ve lost a mutual friend. Gustav Schröder committed suicide on New Year’s Eve. I know you will be as sorry as I was to hear this news. 

I hope this letter finds you well and am wishing you much happiness in the New Year. Please tell your friend Bainbridge that I’ve sent the sketch of you he requested to his London address. 

One last thing. I’ve just come from Klimt’s and saw his finished portrait of Cécile. It’s stunning, but surprising, too. He gave her your eyes.

Friedrich Henkler

P.S. I am enclosing a set of poems that Viktor asked me to forward to you. They are from Hugo von Hofmannsthal, who I’m told regrets very much that he was not able to meet you before your hasty departure from the city. 

I tried to persuade my mother that she would be much happier back in Kent with my father, opening her own house in Grosvenor Square, visiting my late husband’s family, being anywhere but Berkeley Square—but she would not be swayed, and in fact left me in mid-sentence to ensconce herself in one of my bedrooms.

I could not leave my friends to wake up unsuspecting and find her with us, so I knocked on Cécile’s door to warn her of the addition to our party. I was greeted by enthusiastic barks from Caesar and Brutus, who were vying with each other for prime position to attack my skirt from the moment I stepped into the room. I scooped them both up and dropped them on Cécile’s bed.

“Your pets are the most ill-mannered I’ve ever known.”

“They are terrible little things, aren’t they?” She scratched Caesar’s head and patted Brutus.

“I’d wager Friedrich and Anna will be married before next Christmas,” I said, handing her the letter from our friend.

“Magnifique! But what is this about Jeremy wanting a sketch of you?”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“I feel for the poor man.” 

“Don’t. I can assure you that I am attractive to him only because there’s no chance I’ll try to force him to marry me.” Brutus sniffed at my hand, and I scratched his ears. “Here are your letters. One looks to be from Klimt.” 

“How odd. I shouldn’t have thought he would write. But then, we weren’t able to have a formal farewell.” 

“Will you see him again?” 

“Perhaps. Does it matter?” 

“I would hope so.” 

“I must admit it does.” She smiled, but said nothing further. 

“On a wholly unrelated topic, I’ve come to warn you. My mother is here, and I’m abandoning you to her.” 

“Ah! She is always entertaining.” 

“You’ll find yourself exhausted within twenty minutes of sitting down with her.” 

“So why are you leaving me alone with her?” she asked. 

I told her about Albert Sanburne and Helen Macinnis. “I’ve got to speak to her father.” 

“You know where to find him?” 

“Davis sent a footman to his house this morning. The family is not in residence, but Mr. Macinnis is in town, staying at his club.” I sat on the edge of her bed. “And while I’m on the subject of Davis, you’d best give Odette the afternoon off.” 

“Pourquoi?” 

“Because I’ve directed Davis to give her a tour of London.” 

“Must you encourage them, Kallista? Nothing good can ever come of it.” 

“Not for us, maybe, but certainly for them.” 

I had no intention of showing up unannounced at the Carlton Club. Instead, I’d sent a note to Mr. Macinnis and had the boy who delivered it wait for a reply. He agreed to meet me at the British Museum at eleven o’clock. No sooner had I stepped inside the magnificent building on Great Russell Street than a sense of calm melted through me. The familiar galleries welcomed me, and as always, I felt a mythic enchantment at finding myself surrounded by so much history. 

Mr. Macinnis was waiting for me in front of the Judgment of Paris vase my husband had donated to the museum shortly before his death. I’d suggested this location because the Rosetta Stone seemed too obvious. 

“I can’t thank you enough for agreeing to see me,” I said, giving him my hand as he approached me. 

He bowed and kissed my hand. “Your note took me by surprise. Sanburne’s name is not one I’d hoped to hear again.” 

“I can well imagine, and I apologize for dredging it up. I must start by saying that I know all about the scandal in which he was involved. Please don’t feel any need to protect me from unsavory information. I’m here because what happened all those years ago may pertain to the murder of Lord Fortescue.” 

“You’re absolutely on the wrong track, Lady Ashton. Fortescue was the most upstanding man in the empire. Capital fellow. I feel like I owe him my life. Or at least my daughter’s.” 

“How so?” 

“It was Fortescue who alerted me to Sanburne’s deviant nature. Had he not, I can’t imagine the life my Helen would have led.” 

I cringed at this harsh assessment of Albert Sanburne. “Lord Fortescue told you?” 

“Yes. Sanburne had fled to Vienna, and I went after him, wanting to confront him in person. Helen was deeply in love with him. Ending the engagement broke her heart. Frankly, I wanted to kill him.” 

“It must have been awful. What did he say?” 

“Very little, actually. It was a pathetic scene. He cried and begged my forgiveness. Killed himself the next day. Only honorable thing the man did in his life.” 

And just then, my heart broke more than a little for Albert Sanburne. I found myself unable to speak for a moment. “Does anyone else know this?”