A Fatal Waltz

Chapter 8

Traveling with Jeremy was like nothing I’d ever experienced. Our mission was a grim one, difficult and daunting. But my friend patently refused to be morose, insisting that I would be in a better position to pursue my work in Vienna if I arrived relaxed. He goaded me, flirted with me, and if I so much as sighed, he read aloud to me from the script of Oscar Wilde’s new play, Lady Windermere’s Fan, which was set to open in the West End in February. Try though I might, I could not convince him to tell me how he managed to persuade the author to give him a copy.

Cécile met us at the Gare de l’Est when we arrived in Paris, and together we boarded the Orient Express. Along with an inordinate number of trunks and her minuscule dogs, Brutus and Caesar, Cécile had brought a picnic for us to share, preferring to dine in the privacy of our compartment so that we could speak freely about the plight of the Brandons. Although the food in the dining car would no doubt have been spectacular—we were on board the most luxurious train in Europe—we did not much suffer. Cécile’s basket was filled with magnificent treats, all of which were served on china and silver by an attentive member of the wagons-lits staff. Jeremy retired soon after we’d finished eating, though I suspect he did not stay alone long. The lure of the smoking car and the company he’d find there would have been too much for him to resist.

The stress of the previous days left me exhausted. The valet had made up the bed in my compartment, which was snug and cozy and reminiscent of the most comfortable rooms in a country estate. Very small rooms, of course, but the effect—achieved with a combination of wood paneling and dark paint with gilt trim—was lovely. When I crawled into my surprisingly soft bed, the lull of the car’s movement on the track sent me to sleep almost at once. Jeremy’s theory proved sound: By the time we reached the Westbanhof station in Vienna the next evening, my mind was clear and focused.

I’d never been to Vienna before, but had always imagined it to be an ornately beautiful place. The reality of it did not disappoint. The Ringstrasse, which Emperor Franz Joseph had ordered built over the remains of the city’s ancient walls, was a series of wide, circular boulevards lined with grand buildings: the Kunsthistorisches Museum, which housed the imperial art collection, the Naturhistorisches Museum, one of the world’s finest natural history museums, and the opera, among others. Now, in winter, with snow covering them, they all looked like prettily decorated cakes set among parks on a tree-lined cobbled street.

We’d reserved suites at the exquisite Hotel Imperial, which had been constructed some years earlier by the Prince of Württemberg as his palace. He sold it when he decided to leave Vienna, and the buyers converted it into a hotel. The prince’s private apartments on the belle étage had been turned into an enormous suite, and it was here that Cécile and I ensconced ourselves, surrounded by every luxurious thing. We had two bathrooms, beds dressed in the finest linens, and multiple sitting rooms, walls covered in pale blue silk that highlighted elaborately carved moldings. Electric chandeliers lit the room, but candles had been placed strategically throughout, in magnificent silver holders, in case the suite’s occupants desired softer light.

Even the route to our rooms was spectacular, up the grand staircase, fashioned from gleaming, pale marble. The high ceiling, smooth columns, and classically styled statues on the landing were worthy of Versailles, although Cécile was quick to point out that the scale was far too small to be part of the Sun King’s palace. Still, it was difficult not to feel royal in such impressive surroundings.

It was too late in the evening to make an unannounced visit, so I instead sent a note to the countess telling her to expect me in the morning. I hoped her contacts with the British intelligence community might prove useful to me. After Meg helped me into a favorite gown—crimson silk covered with intricate beadwork—I joined my friends for dinner in the hotel’s dining room, where the food, all of it delicious, was more French than I would have expected. The next morning, the concierge gave me directions to the von Langes’ house, and I left the Imperial by eight o’clock, feeling not the slightest concern that I might be calling too early. Though I should be loath to admit it, I rather liked the idea of disturbing Kristiana. Regardless, I’d given her fair warning.

I’d expected that Cécile would not be able to come with me. She was here, after all, to see her friend, the empress. But although she left the hotel at the same time I did, her destination was not the imperial palace. Instead, she headed for the studio of an artist whose work I greatly admired: Gustav Klimt. He was to paint her portrait. When I asked her if the empress would mind that she did not come to her first, Cécile smiled, and there was a wicked gleam in her eye.

“No one would understand better than Sissi,” she said, stepping into a carriage and leaving me at the curb.

The Viennese were early risers. Already, people bundled in furs were streaming in and out of shops, bakeries, and coffeehouses, rushing across the narrow snow-covered streets that cut through the city like a spider’s web. My feet were wet, my unlined leather boots no match for the snow, and by the time I reached the countess’s imposing residence, it felt as if the very fabric of my coat was frozen. The von Langes’ house was palatial, its baroque grandeur dwarfing the very street on which it stood. The interior, full of stuccowork—cherubs and scenes from mythology everywhere I turned—overwhelmed me with its intricate beauty. As a servant in formal livery led me to an impossibly warm drawing room, my opinion of Kristiana thawed along with my toes.

For a moment, that is.

She kept me waiting nearly half an hour before she glided into the room and sat directly across from me. “You poor child. You look positively frigid,” she said. “Something warm to drink?”

“No, thank you. I’m perfectly comfortable.”

“I didn’t expect Colin to bring you to Vienna so soon.”

“He’s in Berlin. I came on my own, and am hoping that you can assist me.”

“Berlin?” She smiled, laughter in her bright eyes. “Is that what he told you?”

“I’m here because Robert Brandon thought you might know something about a message Lord Fortescue received while we were at Beaumont Towers.”

She laughed. “Oh, dear, you shouldn’t involve yourself in these things. It’s unseemly.”

“For me but not for you?” My limbs were beginning to throb as the numbness faded from them. “I don’t like you any more than you like me. But the fact is, we may be able to assist each other. It would be foolish to let our personal—”

“Assist each other? How do you plan on assisting me, Lady Ashton? I can’t imagine any way in which you could do so.”

“I’m discreet and able to keep a secret. No doubt at some point in your own work, you might benefit from an ally.”

“Do not flatter yourself by thinking you could ever be my professional equal.” She was resting her elbow on the arm of the sofa and raised a single finger to hold up her chin as she scrutinized every detail of my face. “There is only one thing you have that I want.”

I met her gaze and held it with my own. “Colin?”

She nodded. “Release him to me, and I will tell you what you desire to know.”

“I don’t have him on a chain, Countess, and I’m not the one who decided to leave you.”

“Of course not. He would never stand being on a chain. But if you were to change your behavior—flirt in a more serious manner with other gentlemen, for example—he might be more inclined to see me again. If you took a lover, he would too.”

“I won’t do that,” I said.

She shrugged. “Then Mr. Brandon’s life is worth very little to you.”

“I’ll find out who sent the message on my own.”

“Not before they hang your friend.” She laughed again, and I had to restrain myself from reaching out to slap her.

“Frankly, I’m shocked that you would stoop to seek my assistance to seduce your former lover,” I said. “I assume he was your lover? Wouldn’t you be humiliated to have me hand him back to you?”

“You’ve no idea the depth of pain that comes when you are forced to accept that you will never have the man you love.”

“I didn’t think it was love that was between you.”

“Then why did he beg me to marry him?” Her smug smile taunted me.

“I’m the wrong person to answer that question,” I said, feeling a burning heat rushing to my face. Was she telling the truth? Colin had admitted a relationship with her, but had said nothing that suggested this level of seriousness. I was overwhelmed with discomfort.

“My husband is rather fond of you. Perhaps you’d find him entertaining. He and his most recent mistress had a falling-out a few weeks ago. You should talk to him.”

I stood to leave the room. “I’m sorry for you. You must be deeply unhappy.”

As I left the Von Langes’ house, I was stopped briefly by the count, who effused delight at finding me in Vienna. Charming though he was, I found it difficult to speak with him after the conversation I’d had with his wife, so I stepped outside, feeling as battered as the snow crushed under the fiacres traveling up and down the street. Unsure of what to do, I started to walk aimlessly, not wanting to return yet to the Imperial. It was growing colder, and snow had begun to fall, but no graceful soft flakes. Icy edges strengthened by the wind slashed at my cheeks.

My mind was uneasy, though I knew I had no right to the feelings consuming me. I could not fault Colin for loving someone before he’d met me. But faced with the woman who came before, I felt wholly inadequate. She and I were so different. How could he have loved us both? Would he find in the end that I was a poor substitute for what he’d known in the past?

I was walking along the Michaeler-Platz, looking over at the sprawling Hofburg, residence of the Imperial family, when a gentleman slammed into me. He apologized quickly and walked on. I watched him cross the street towards Schauflergasse and duck into a café. The golden light escaping through the windows looked inviting; I followed him.

Inside, round tables filled a room with an arched stone ceiling. Newspapers hung on wooden racks or were scattered in front of gentlemen bent over them with eager eyes, many of them scribbling frantic notes in the margins. I took a seat in the back of the room, and the man I’d followed turned and glared at me. I ignored him, smiled at the waiter who’d appeared next to me, and ordered a coffee mehr weiss. He brought it almost at once, along with a glass of water. My friend was still scowling at me. Despite the milk in it, the coffee was too hot to drink, so I walked to the nearest newspaper rack and pulled down a copy of Weiner Literaturzeitung. A man at the table next to it smiled at me.

“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