The Accidental Empress, page 28
“It’s a brilliant idea, Herr Lobkowitz. Let’s include a toy horse and a special message of birthday wishes for the little English prince.”
“Her Majesty is too kind.” Herr Lobkowitz bowed, flashing a diffident smile.
“Now, we shall start with the letters to my family in Bavaria. I should like to describe everything about my darling little Sophie to Mamma and Helene.”
After several hours Sisi’s mind began to wander, and she felt as though she dictated the same response over and over again. “Are we nearly done?”
“You see the one downside of being so beloved.” Herr Lobkowitz looked up from the rosewood desk, shaking out his cramping wrist. “Too many letters.”
“I’d like to go find Sophie. I haven’t seen my daughter since yesterday.”
“I think we’ve made good progress today, Your Majesty. If you’d like to stop for the afternoon, we can resume this tomorrow. Marie, will you help me clear these papers?” Herr Lobkowitz and Marie began sealing the envelopes in which the dictated letters sat ready, and Sisi rose to find Agata in order to change into an afternoon gown.
Sisi left her apartments, ordering Countess Esterházy and the rest of her ladies-in-waiting to remain behind.
“But . . . Your Majesty,” Countess Esterházy stammered as she heard the order, exchanging a disapproving look with Karoline.
“I know, it’s not custom,” Sisi said. “But I wish you to stay here. I’m going to find my daughter. I wish to be alone with her.” The pinched look on Countess Esterházy’s pale lips struck Sisi as, somehow, amusing.
Sisi climbed the steps, seeking out her daughter in the nursery off of the archduchess’s suite, as that was where the baby was usually kept when not being paraded around the palace and grounds by her boastful grandmother.
But the nursery was empty, as were Sophie’s apartments. Sisi found no one but a timid maid in the archduchess’s bedroom.
“Excuse me.” Sisi cleared her throat.
“Your Majesty!” The maid dropped the sheets, her face draining of color as she curtsied before Sisi.
“Please, where is the archduchess?”
“The archduchess has taken her baby . . . I mean . . . Princess Sophie, Your Majesty’s baby, for a walk through the gardens.”
“Thank you.” Sisi turned and left the bedroom, grinding her teeth as she marched toward the gardens.
She had argued with Franz a dozen times about this ridiculous arrangement—why was it that Sophie insisted on taking responsibility for their baby? Perhaps the Habsburg empresses in the past had been all too happy to relinquish the tiring and arduous tasks of tending to their newborns. But if Sisi said she was up to the task of waking with her daughter, feeding her daughter, and tending to her needs, then who was Sophie to tell her that she could not? She knew well enough what Sophie was telling people, how Sophie was weaving tales of her inadequacy as a mother. She had forced Agata to tell her, had refused to quit until the maid confessed what she knew from the servants’ gossip circles.
“She says that you . . . that Your Majesty . . . is . . .”
“What, Agata? Tell me. I shall not be cross with you.”
Agata lowered her eyes; her round cheeks flushed a deep apple red. “Well, she says that you are just a child yourself. Not up to the task, Your Majesty.”
Sisi’s stomach knotted in anger. But even more so, her heart ached; she was missing invaluable moments in little Sophie’s life—those early hints of a first smile, the arrival of new auburn curls. Fleshy rolls appearing in soft, plump skin. Sisi couldn’t endure the separation any longer.
Sisi would raise this issue again with her husband that very evening, and she would not drop her suit until Franz had agreed that they get their daughter back.
The garden was damp under a chilly, spring mist. Bright tulips shivered in the parterre flower beds where gardeners had recently deposited the bulbs, fresh from the Habsburg greenhouses. The pebbly walkways were slippery, and Sisi was certain that Sophie would not have remained out of doors with the baby in this weather. She changed her mind, turning to reenter the palace and search the rooms for her daughter.
Just then, Franz emerged on the gravel path, flanked by a coterie of liveried footmen and stern-faced guards. In his company were Grünne and—to Sisi’s dismay—a laughing brunette. The same statuesque lady whom Franz had professed not to notice on Christmas. Sisi’s hands gripped the folds of her gown as she stopped, midstep.
“Elisa, there you are!” Spotting his wife up ahead, Franz splintered off from his two companions, trotting toward Sisi.
“Franz, hello.” She stood, surprised at this rare midday meeting with her husband. These days, she never saw him before dinner, if then. And yet, here he was, with company by his side. “Where are you coming from?” Sisi’s glance slid over Grünne to land directly on the lady.
“Meeting of the council.” Franz looked to Grünne, then to the third member of their party. “My darling, have you met Elizabeth, Duchess of Modena? We were lucky to come across her on our way out.”
This woman shared her name. Sisi looked upon her, her dark eyes the color of coffee. Full lips that now spread in a modest smile. She bowed before Sisi. “Your Majesty,” she said, her voice carrying the faintest hint of an accent. “My most humble congratulations to Your Imperial Highness on the birth of the princess.”
Tossing her head back, her tone haughty, Sisi nodded. “Thank you, Duchess. You are too kind.” Sisi noticed the faint floral scent that skipped off this woman’s skin, the healthy sheen of her glossy dark curls. “You must be new at court.”
“I am, Empress.” The woman lowered her long-lashed eyes to the ground.
“We shall leave Your Majesties.” Grünne stepped forward, extending an arm through which the duchess slid her own. Without another word, the count whisked her away, their heads angling in carefree conversation as they continued on up the pebbled path. Franz and Sisi, side by side, watched them go.
“Shall we?” Franz turned now, offering his own arm to lead his wife in the opposite direction. They walked on, silent, for a moment.
“Is Grünne courting her?”
Franz turned his head. “Hmm?”
“The Duchess of Modena. Elizabeth. Is Grünne courting her?”
“No.” Franz shook his head. A bit too emphatically. “Sisi, she is a widow. The Duke of Modena just recently died.”
Sisi considered this. “She didn’t appear to be in mourning.”
“She’s just come out of mourning. The duchess is here for a change. Only for a few months. No one is courting her.”
It took Sisi a moment to collect her thoughts, scattered as they were, like wisps of a wind-blown dandelion. She blinked, pushing Grünne and the duchess out of her mind. She knew there was a purpose, something of far greater import, for which she sought Franz. And then she remembered: “Franz, you didn’t happen to see your mother at the council meeting, did you?”
“No. She rarely comes now, only when little Sophie is napping.”
Sisi frowned. “I am looking for little Sophie. Do you have any idea where they might be?”
“In my mother’s suite, most likely.”
“I’ve just come from there.”
Franz lifted his shoulders, a shrug. “Anyhow, I was coming to find you, Elisa.”
“You were?”
“I was. How are you feeling?”
“I am feeling very strong, thank you. I’ve had a productive afternoon of answering dozens of letters.”
“Good.” He nodded, still distracted, his mind stretched like a string in too many directions. “Say, are you up for an outing?”
“Perhaps.” Sisi cocked her head, intrigued. “But I’d like to see little Sophie. Is it something for which she could join us?”
“Not for this. I’d like to take you to the opera this evening.”
“The opera?”
“Yes, they are putting on Don Giovanni. They’ve heard how much you loved your journey to Salzburg, and so they’ve planned a Mozart opera.”
“Salzburg was Mozart’s hometown, of course.” Sisi smiled at that, flattered. And a bit overwhelmed that the imperial opera house would plan its schedule to please her. “A night at the opera listening to Mozart sounds lovely.” Sisi accepted the invitation and her husband’s arm and they continued down the gravel path. “Will your mother be joining us?”
“She avoids any Mozart work written in Italian. Doesn’t understand why anyone would attend the opera unless it’s in German. Flatly refuses to come.”
“Even better.”
“Elisa!”
“I’m joking, my love,” Sisi answered, smiling sweetly to offset the barb.
Vienna’s opera house dazzled Sisi anew as she entered it, especially after these many months confined to her own private rooms. The interior, with its high-vaulted ceiling and gold-gilt trim, was illuminated by thousands of candles. Rows of chandeliers hung just low enough to graze the high feathers that burst forth from the ladies’ hairdos. A private stairway wove up to the second floor, where Sisi and her husband were escorted via a secret passage into the imperial box, looking directly onto center stage and the orchestra pit below.
When Sisi and Franz entered their box, the entirety of the audience turned to gawk. Here, after all, was the real show. The tuxedoed men and diamond-bedecked women broke out in applause; many of them called out wishes for a long life to the emperor. Everyone craned to get a look at the young woman who had just given birth to Franz Joseph’s firstborn.
Come tomorrow Vienna’s coffeehouses, newspaper columns, public boulevards, and parks would be abuzz, detailing every inch of Her Royal Highness’s appearance. Sisi had dressed for the part. She had selected a wide-hooped gown of rich scarlet satin. Her shoulders were bare, revealed now as Franz helped her out of her cream-colored stole, but her neck, fingers, and ears were covered with Habsburg rubies. She and Agata had spent two full hours pinning her curls, weaving crystals throughout her thick locks so that she twinkled as gaily as the chandeliers overhead.
“You are the most breathtaking woman in here, and every man knows it.” Franz took the seat to her right as he waved dutifully, acknowledging his gawking, cheering subjects.
“Thank you, darling.” Sisi smiled, tossing her head back so that her crystal-laden curls caught the glimmer of candlelight overhead. She was aware that the entire audience watched. The show about to unfold onstage was of little interest to them when compared to the rare glimpses of the emperor and his wife, and so Sisi made sure to keep the smile affixed to her lips until after the candlelight was dimmed.
The orchestra united in its first notes and the curtain opened on Don Giovanni—the scene set in the gardens of the wealthy Don Pedro, Il Commendatore. Sisi gasped in delight, amazed at how the backdrop truly looked like shrubs and flower-lined paths. “The skill of these artists,” she whispered to Franz, who sat beside her quietly, his face wearing the stern mask it always assumed in public.
Sisi’s favorite melody came in the first act; the duet sung by the despicable Don Giovanni and the unsuspecting Zerlina. Sisi pitied Zerlina, the innocent maiden set to wed another man but somehow seduced by the lecherous don. As he sang to Zerlina, “Là ci darem la mano” (“Entwine your hand with mine”), Sisi felt the overwhelming urge to cry out to the young girl, warning her not to fall for this man’s honey-laced words of ruination.
Sisi applauded louder than anyone when divine justice took its vengeance on Don Giovanni at the finale, with the spirit of one of his many victims, Il Commendatore, rising from death to drag the don down into the fiery inferno.
“Bravo!” Sisi hollered, thrilled that, in the end, evil had been vanquished. She hoped that Zerlina and Masetto would be able to live their lives together, clear of the unwelcome meddling of Don Giovanni.
“Ready to go, Elisa?” Franz offered his arm. She was not ready to go; she could have sat there for hours more, absorbing the rich melodies and the heart-rending plot twists. But they were to leave first, and the entire audience would remain in their seats until the imperial pair had exited, so she smiled one final time over the edge of the banister and rose to exit the box.
“Let’s take the public exit,” Franz suggested, extending his arm to her. “They are all salivating to see you. Might as well give them a glimpse of what they came for.” Franz winked, and, arms linked, they walked toward the broad, curving staircase that intersected the main hall of the opera house.
“Did you enjoy it?” Franz asked her as imperial guards fanned out before them, lining the steps as the royal pair approached.
“Oh, I loved it, Franz,” Sisi gushed. “I could see the opera every night if we had the time. Didn’t you think it was incredibly moving?”
Franz cocked his head. “It was . . . impressive, I suppose. Though I have to admit, I find opera a bit . . .”
“What?”
“What is the right word? Tedious? It’s all so very dramatic.”
Sisi smiled, turning a sidelong glance at her husband. “Come now, Franz. I know that you can be romantic.”
Franz turned to look at her. “Only you bring that out of me. But given the choice, I’d rather spend the evening reading a military report than sitting through hours of singing. Opera does not appeal to me.”
“Please, Your Majesty, wait a moment?” As they approached the ground level, Sisi turned to see a tall, dark-haired man in a long-coat tuxedo hurrying down the stairs behind them. From just these few words Sisi presumed his accent to be foreign, but she could not have guessed its origin.
Beside her, Franz’s frame stiffened. “It’s all right, let him approach.” Franz nodded to his imperial guards, two of whom had stepped in front of the approaching man. “Hello, Count Andrássy.” Franz dropped Sisi’s arm, his voice suddenly unnaturally quiet as this man bowed before him. Andrássy. Sisi knew the name, but from where?
“Your Majesty.” The man stayed one step above Franz, so that he looked down upon the emperor as he rose from his bow. “I was delighted to hear you would be attending the opera tonight. I knew I had to come.”
“Pleasure to see you, Count.” Though Franz’s tone said otherwise.
“And you, Your Majesty, Empress Elisabeth.” The man turned inquisitive eyes on Sisi now, holding her gaze for just a moment too long, before bowing his head. His coloring—dark eyes, thick black hair—was entirely the opposite of Franz’s.
“Did you enjoy the show?” Franz asked.
“Very much, Your Majesty.” The dark-haired man nodded, his expression affable, bearing none of the sniveling servility Sisi saw so often in the smiles of the Viennese courtiers. “I am a great admirer of Mozart’s.”
“Mozart is one of the many reasons why we Austrians feel such national pride,” Franz said.
“Indeed. I especially enjoy his Italian librettos,” this man, Andrássy, replied.
Franz did not respond to this, but Sisi guessed that he noticed the barb.
“Your Majesty, I have a message from Budapest.”
At this, Sisi felt her husband brace beside her. Andrássy. Sisi knew the name now. This was the Hungarian count she’d heard Franz and his advisors criticize. Sophie, especially, had always spoken his name with such contempt. Sisi looked at him now with greater interest, studying him; she’d never before met a political opponent of her husband’s, and one so recently returned from exile.
Suddenly, Andrássy’s affable confidence, his brazenness in directly approaching them—she saw that it was all an affront to her husband. A lack of respect and submission from a conquered subject. And did he purposely garble his German with such a thick Hungarian accent?
“The Hungarian people wish both of Your Royal Highnesses many congratulations on the birth of your daughter, the Princess Sophie. And we extend our warmest invitation to the whole royal family, hoping that Your Graces can travel to Budapest.” Andrássy paused now, swallowing before looking directly into Franz’s eyes. Another challenge. “We hope to welcome you to our city of Budapest, and begin discussions whenever you are open to conducting them.”
Andrássy did not await a reply, but rather bowed once more and sped back up the stairs, the tails of his tuxedo coat flapping in time with his long steps.
“Insolent. Intolerable.” Franz seethed as they exited the opera house and stepped into their carriage for the short ride back to the palace. “The nerve of that man. Coming into my opera house, watching my artists perform. And then approaching me like that.”
“We ought to invite him for a concert of waltzes given by Master Strauss and lose a violin bow down his—”
“Elisabeth, please!” Franz crossed his arms, in no mood for humor. Instead, he stared out the carriage window, his jaw set in a tight line as the horses pulled them down the rain-slicked boulevard. “He invites me to Budapest? Why, it’s my damned city, I’ll go there anytime I want. I’ll go there with a conquering army, like I did back in ’49, if he needs reminding.” Franz, uncharacteristically ruffled, spit out the name now when he said it: “Andrássy. Insubordinate traitor. Mother was right—I shouldn’t have let him go. I should have hanged him years ago when I had the chance.”
Franz was still in a sour mood when they got into bed that night.
“I’m sorry that our night at the opera was ruined.” Sisi sat beside him, pulling a comb through her hair, its teeth getting caught on the last few remaining crystals.
“It was fine until I had to be subjected to that filth by Andrássy.” Franz looked cross as he sipped from a mug of wine.
“Do you really think that war with the Hungarians is inevitable, Franz?”
“I don’t know.” Franz creased his brow in a manner that aged him ten years.
“Please, my darling, talk to me,” Sisi pleaded, taking her husband’s hand in her own. She knew he detested bringing politics and military conversation into his time with his wife, but Sisi longed to know more of the matters that weighed so heavily on her husband’s mind.
