Sisi, page 28
Franz agreed wholeheartedly with Bay’s plan—perhaps he had grown weary of his many houseguests. Sisi merely succeeded in convincing Bay to take her secretary, Baron Nopcsa, with him. The baron would serve as guide and interpreter in the foreign city. But Sisi had a second motive, too, in insisting that the old man accompany Bay; she couldn’t deny that she’d want a full report from the baron when they returned so that she’d know what Bay had done and whom he’d seen.
When Sisi wished Bay farewell for his visit to Budapest, it was with a gloominess that frightened her. If she dreaded saying goodbye to him for just one night while he went to the nearby city, how would she deal with his upcoming departure when he would be leaving to return to England?
Not wanting to ride without Bay, Sisi passed the entirety of the next morning with Valerie, taking whatever solace she could in her daughter’s company. When the appointed time came for the men’s return that afternoon, Sisi stood before the front door ready to greet them, having prepared herself as lavishly as if she were going to host a ball. But she saw with dismay that only Baron Nopcsa stepped out of the coach.
“But where is Bay—Captain Middleton?” Sisi asked the aide. The usually fastidious gentleman looked a bit ragged, his clothes wrinkled and his hair uncombed.
“Your Majesty.” The baron shrugged, his frown weary and apologetic. “I wish I knew. I lost Captain Middleton almost as soon as we arrived in the city. It was as if he was trying to shake off my presence.”
On further questioning, Baron Nopcsa confessed that Bay had been adamant that he needed a few hours alone and that he would meet the old man later that same evening in the casino. But when the baron went to the casino at the appointed hour, there had been no sign of Bay Middleton. The baron remained there all night, staying until the casino closed, but Bay never appeared.
Returning to the hotel where they had taken a suite of rooms, the baron found no sign of Bay. Upon learning from the hotel staff that Middleton had never come back to the hotel, the baron had allowed himself a few hours of sleep and then, on waking, had resumed his search for the still-missing Englishman.
The baron had spent the morning scouring the city’s cafés and other hotels, even returning to the casino, but still had found no trace of Bay. Not wanting to further disrupt the plans he had made with the emperor and empress, he had decided to return to Gödöllő to report on these unusual events and to see what else might be done in the search.
“Seems you’ve done everything you can, Baron,” Franz declared, shrugging as if to indicate that he didn’t understand the ways of horse grooms. “We shall simply have to wait for the prodigal son to return.”
Evening came, and Bay still didn’t arrive, nor did he send word to Gödöllő of his whereabouts. Larisch filled the hours with lighthearted chatter, giggling to Rudolf about the places where Bay might have vanished. “Perhaps he drowned in the Széchenyi bathhouses,” she said. “Or perhaps he took a tumble up on Castle Hill and plummeted into the Danube? No, no, I’m only joking.”
Rudolf picked up the thread, pinching Larisch’s bare arm as he leaned forward and whispered, just loud enough for Sisi to overhear: “I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. I’m sure Brave Bay is simply passing his hours, happy as can be, riding one of Budapest’s legendary…thoroughbreds.”
“Enough!” Sisi scowled at the young pair, finally silencing them with the fury of her stare. She retreated to her bedroom, irate. The next day, after Sisi awoke, she found the baron, who informed her that there was still no word from Budapest. It was then that her anger changed to fear—what if something truly awful had happened to Bay?
The following day Andrássy arrived for prescheduled meetings with Franz. Sisi saw him briefly, and they exchanged a few cordial words. He asked her how the hunting season was going so far. She inquired about his time in Vienna. His face appeared more heavily seamed than she had remembered it, his dark hair traced with wisps of silver. Still, he offered her his kind, striking, black-eyed smile, and Sisi wondered if age had perhaps made Julius Andrássy even more handsome. It had certainly made him more distinguished.
As she stared at him, Sisi was aware of something that stirred from within the deepest recesses of her being, flames glowing from the faintest, most persistent of embers, reminding her that their fire had not been extinguished. It would likely never go out. Was she doomed to carry this deep, unremitting love for Julius Andrássy, like an ache that she could ignore but never entirely cure, until the day she died? And yet, she was not as distracted by Andrássy’s presence as she might have otherwise been, so preoccupied was she with Bay’s ongoing, unexplained absence. Perhaps it was even a little bit of a blessing, the dilemma with Bay. It gave her something to focus on, even as Andrássy moved around in the same house as her, dispatching his duties for the empire and sitting in the private office with her husband, the man he so steadfastly served.
And then, finally, a telegram arrived shortly before lunch from Budapest’s police headquarters. The message said that a certain Captain Middleton was in police custody in the Hungarian capital. The police chief apologized for the disturbance to Their Imperial Majesties, informing them that Middleton had been insistent that he was in fact Their Majesties’ houseguest and that he was expected back at Gödöllő. After much deliberation, the officer had decided it was best to relay a message about Middleton’s whereabouts in case the dapper Englishman was indeed expected by any members of the imperial household. Franz replied immediately, telling the chief that Middleton spoke the truth and that he was in fact their guest. The lawman replied that Middleton was safe but bankrupt, having been robbed by a certain lady after seeking her services in a house of questionable repute.
Franz burst into scandalized laughter at reading the telegram over lunch. Andrássy, perhaps noting the paleness of Sisi’s face, lowered his eyes and retreated into unobtrusive silence. As Franz continued to laugh, Sisi’s fury at Bay threatened to erupt in a loud, bloodcurdling outburst. That fury was compounded now by a swell of other violent emotions—outrage, shock, embarrassment. And what else was it? Jealousy? Yes, maddening jealousy. But she forced herself to focus, instead, on her fury and outrage.
“How could he?” she gasped, her blood thrashing around in her veins as she pushed her lunch plate away, disgusted. She needed to excuse herself from this table.
“Come now, Elisabeth,” Franz said, wiping his laughing eyes as he looked once more over the vile telegram. “You hadn’t guessed that the young bachelor wanted a bit of fun on his trip to Hungary?”
“But he…” And then, noticing how the two men—her husband and Andrássy—awaited her next words, Sisi stammered: “He…he makes us look bad!”
“He’s a cavalry officer and a stable groom.” Franz shrugged. “What did you expect?”
Sisi chewed over the question in silence, rising from the meal and offering her apologies. “A sudden headache,” she mumbled, leaving the room without looking in Andrássy’s direction. She exited the house and took off into the fields on foot, walking at a brisk pace, alone. Franz was right, she supposed: what had she expected?
X
Hôtel Beau Rivage, Geneva, Switzerland
September 1898
IT DOESN’T SURPRISE HIM, HOW grand the building is. The Hôtel Beau Rivage. Of course she’s selected the most luxurious place in town. He stares up at it now, studying the structure, its flags billowing lazily in the intermittent lakeside breeze. A front staircase covered in plush red carpet, a limestone façade testifying to money—old money. The careless, unwarranted money of the patrons who file in and out of the front doors, coming from shopping trips or boat rides, going to the theater or eight-course dinners.
Daylight softens and thins until eventually dusk descends across the city. As the last wisps of sunlight slip behind the Jura Mountain peaks to the west, he remains still, posted on the quay across from her hotel, like a sentry keeping watch. Only, he’s not a sentry; he’s not here to protect.
Velvety black settles over the scene, and the lights of ships pop up across the glassy surface of the lake. The windows of the hotel and neighboring buildings begin to glow, their warm brightness seeping like puddles out onto the street where he stands. He crosses his arms in front of his chest, the autumn air turning chilly around him. He’s hungry once more, the day’s soup now completely digested, the heavy knot of emptiness returned to his gut.
He’s thinking about this hunger when the corner room on the third floor becomes bright, its inner space glowing a warm amber that spills out into the night.
Luigi’s heart lurches as his eyes fix on that lit, warm space. Is she in there? Getting ready for bed? Getting ready for tomorrow? Perhaps even saying her evening prayers, without the smallest clue as to what awaits her. Without knowing that God has already abandoned her. That he, Luigi, a black angel of death, is the only spirit she need concern herself with now.
His hands fly instinctively into his pockets where he feels for it, just to be sure. Yes, the blade is still there. Ready. One more black night to endure, and then, tomorrow will come.
CHAPTER 10
Summerhill House, Meath, Ireland
Winter 1879
There was no evading Viennese news, Sisi realized, even in a place as far-flung and remote as Ireland.
Word of Andrássy’s resignation caught up to Sisi upon her arrival to the British Isles, where she and Valerie and the rest of her household were to pass the late winter and early spring in the region of Meath, Ireland. The letters awaited Sisi at her rented estate, stiff and sealed and carrying news of faraway places, distant conflicts; like uninvited guests who now demanded her immediate attention, unwelcome but impervious to the unpleasantness that their presence imposed. Sisi’s head spun as she tried to absorb all that she read: Russia had defeated Turkey to the east and now sought to make its power even greater across Europe. Given his extreme dislike of Russia and his inability to chart a course forward for Austria-Hungary that wouldn’t be affected by his enmity for the Slavs, Andrássy decided to retire after a lifetime of public service.
Though Meath was itself an area that threatened revolution and roiled with discontent from its local Irish populace, Sisi had hoped to find there a temporary reprieve from politics. What she had wished to concern herself with during her stay was her stable full of thoroughbreds, stocked with Bay’s expert advice and buying prowess, along with the thousands of acres of fields and hills that surrounded her estate. She’d planned to leave the tensions of British politics to Victoria and the stresses of Austrian politics to Franz back in Vienna.
That was, until she read this news of Andrássy. The announcement filled Sisi with an odd and dazed feeling of disorientation. It felt like a disruption in the proper order of things. Andrássy, whose personality had loomed large over the court since her earliest days as a young bride, would be gone when Sisi returned to Vienna. Having served his entire life as a tireless statesman for the causes of first Hungary and then Austria-Hungary, he would, at long last, retire. He’d return to his estate in Hungary and enjoy—or at least try to enjoy—the peace that he had never before allowed for himself. She’d no longer see him. She’d no longer bump into him in the halls, or find him in Franz’s study, or see his dark-eyed smile of greeting.
Sisi consoled herself with the bald facts of her current situation: she was so far away, at the lovely Irish mansion of Summerhill, and she never saw much of Andrássy these days anyway. The distance from Vienna and Budapest was well-timed, as it offered her a bit of a shield, softened the blow of his sudden and permanent absence. She’d already bid Andrássy farewell, hadn’t she? He was already out of reach; what difference did it make whether he was out of reach in a remote Hungarian castle or in a separate wing of the Hofburg?
And so Sisi put the letters aside and forced herself not to grow melancholy. She turned to look out the window, over a rolling expanse of emerald green, willing herself to recall the rapture that such views usually roused. The pleasures that such landscapes held. How could she remain melancholy when Bay was expected to come and fetch her for their afternoon ride at any minute?
“The Queen of the Chase!
The Queen! Yes, the Empress!
Look, look, how she flies,
With a hand that never fails,
And a pluck that never dies.
The best man in England can’t lead her—he’s down!
Bay Middleton’s back is done beautifully brown—”
“I must stop you right there.” Sisi raised a hand, fighting back laughter. “Bay, you hear how they speak of you?”
“I take great offense!” Bay leaned forward, his cheeks rosy, his voice roaring merrily across the long table. “I’m glad you do the empress justice, but must you have such a go at me? My ‘back is done beautifully brown’?”
They were in the grand dining room at Summerhill: Sisi, Bay, the Spencers, her ladies, as well as a wealthy family who had been staying in the area, the Rothschilds. Supper had been cleared, but they remained at the table. The room was warm with the postprandial glow of good food and conviviality, and Spencer was reading aloud from a poem that the locals had composed in honor of Sisi’s arrival in Meath, Ireland.
“I must say, Empress, it is good to have you back in Britain,” Lord Spencer said now, tipping his glass toward the wine for a refill.
“And I’m glad to be back. Especially here, where the things written about me in the newspapers are so uncharacteristically favorable.”
“You are quite popular in the British Isles,” Spencer said, nodding. At that, Sisi’s eyes couldn’t help but land on Bay, who stared at her with a look of such intensity that she felt her cheeks ignite with warmth.
Later, well past midnight, Lady Spencer succeeded in coaxing her garrulous husband and the rest of the guests out of the hall and into their waiting carriages. “We must allow the empress her rest, John.”
Sisi hid her urge to yawn as she wished them farewell. She was tired, yes, but she regretted to see them go. She, who retired first from any evening assembly in Vienna, would have gladly stayed awake all night to enjoy their company and their easy, good-natured laughter. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt this happy. And she had the entirety of the hunting season still stretched out before her!
—
The next afternoon while out riding, she and Bay found themselves caught in a sudden downpour, a common occurrence, he explained, in the moody, soggy climate of Ireland. Too far from the stables to return without becoming thoroughly soaked, they guided their horses into a thick copse, taking refuge under the cover of its leafy branches. “Are you terribly drenched?” Bay asked, both of them laughing as they watched the furious rain pound the slushy earth around them.
Sisi looked down at her riding skirt, its crimson silk ringed with brown at the hem. “Only a bit of mud,” she said, “no worse than on the days when I tumble out of the saddle.”
“You’re not covered enough. Here, step closer.” Bay reached forward, pressing his hand ever so gently to her lower back as he guided her farther out of the rain, closer to him. Sisi turned, her breath catching at the back of her throat as she felt the soft press of his palm on her body. Bay returned her stare, neither of them speaking. Eventually, he leaned even closer, saying in a low voice: “Just a passing shower; nothing that comes on this sudden and furious can last. It’ll move off in no time.”
“Yes,” she agreed, lowering her eyes. In truth, she didn’t mind the delay in the slightest, even found herself hoping that the storm might linger for hours, holding them close in this spot.
“Sisi?”
“Yes?” Her eyes lifted to meet his.
“I have something for you.”
“Oh?”
“Nothing fancy, I’m afraid.” He reached into the pocket of his scarlet riding coat and pulled out a small pinch of bright green. “For you. A welcome gift, I suppose.”
Sisi looked at his fingers. “A clover?” Already she knew that Ireland was practically carpeted with the plant—clovers with leaves so green and bright she thought they put the Habsburg emerald collection to shame.
“It’s not just any clover,” Bay said, holding it forward. “Don’t you notice something? This one…is different. Special.”
Sisi gasped. “It has four leaves.”
“That’s right,” Bay said, nodding. “It’s incredibly rare to find one. They say it brings good luck to its carrier.”
Sisi looked more carefully, opening her palm for Bay to place the clover in it. He did, his fingers touching her palm before he took her hand in his own, threading his fingers through hers. He leaned forward now. The closeness of his lips, the way his breath landed on the soft, sensitive skin of her neck—she felt a shiver pulse through her entire body. She shut her eyes, hyperaware of his body beside hers, of how his nearness set her skin to tingling. “But…wouldn’t you like to keep it for yourself?”
“No,” Bay whispered, allowing his lips to graze her ear. “My good luck came to Ireland in the shape of a beautiful lady, the lady who rides with me by day and haunts my dreams by night.” And then, before she understood what was happening, his lips slid to her neck. They lingered just a moment; so fleeting was their touch that Sisi thought she might even have imagined it. Before she could open her eyes, Bay had removed his lips from her bare, shivering flesh, pulling his face away and dropping her hand from his.
Sisi opened her eyes and looked to him, aware that the moment had passed. A feeling of dizziness hummed through her. She longed to ask: Did that even happen? She couldn’t be sure, but she thought, she hoped, that she had felt Bay Middleton kiss her.
—
But the next day brought another interruption, this one threatening to disrupt her fragile and precious happiness even more than the news of Andrássy’s departure. This note came from Rudolf. The sight or mention of her son’s name always, these days, filled Sisi with a wave of unpleasant anxiety, mixed with guilt and discomfort. He and Franz were always at odds, and he seemed to thrive on shocking his parents with his indiscreet behavior and intemperate statements. But as Sisi read Rudolf’s words now, that feeling of dread thickened, settling into her gut like a hot brick.
