Tasha Alexander - A Fatal Waltz

“Colin—” 

“You’re crying.” He sat and pulled me up beside him. “What is it?” 

I could not help myself. I put my head in his lap and made no effort to slow my tears. He said nothing, but rubbed my back until it had stopped heaving, then pulled me up and kissed the top of my head, so gently I could hardly feel his lips. I opened my eyes and saw his, inches from me, full of concern. 

“My dear girl, what happened? What are you doing here?” 

I sat up straight, took his hands, and blurted out what Herr Schröder had told me. “I’m scared,” I said. He smoothed my forehead and put his hand on my cheek. 

“There’s no need for concern. As I’ve already told you, I’m accustomed to people wanting to kill me. And now that I know who’s trying to do it, it will be that much easier to avoid.” 

“I cannot treat this with casual disregard,” I said, my stomach burning. “Of course there’s need for concern.” 

“You must trust that I know what I’m doing, Emily. That I’m capable of handling this. I understand how shocking it all seems to you.” He ran his hand through his wavy hair. “This is why I’ve always been loath to marry. It’s a terrible situation to expect a wife to bear. But I cannot hide it from you.” 

“I would not want you to,” I said, my voice so low I could hardly hear it myself. 

“For the moment we must deal with the situation at hand. But then, my dear, you are going to have to consider whether you still want me, knowing that this sort of thing will almost certainly happen again.” 

“Does it have to?” As soon as the words escaped my lips I regretted them, and I shook my head, which had begun to throb again. “Yes, of course it does. I would not love you so well as I do if you were capable of compromising all that’s important to you.”

He did not look at me, and I realized that this was perhaps the first conversation we’d had where his eyes were not fixed on mine. Even when we’d first met, his ability to maintain eye contact had been striking, almost unnerving. I took his face in my hands and turned it to me, but he removed my hands and rose to his feet. The bitter taste of fear stuck in my throat. 

“The very nature of what I do compromises your happiness.” 

“Don’t start pacing,” I said. 

He didn’t listen and began taking slow, measured steps back and forth in front of the window. The snow was still falling. “There will be no easy joy for us.” 

“I’d rather share bursts of joy with you between weeks of unease than years of meaningless comfort with anyone else.” 

“We’ll see if you still believe that at the end of all this.” He took me by the hand. “Come. I’d better give you something more for your friend. I’d prefer not to die before New Year’s.” 

24 December 1891

Berkeley Square, London

My dear Emily,

I feel terrible to be so selfish at this time of year, thinking of nothing but my own dreadful situation, consumed with gloom. You, my friend, are my only hope, and I know that writing and saying that does nothing but make you feel pressure. But I do not know what else to do. 

My world has fallen apart. 

Robert still refuses to allow me to visit him. I can hardly bear it. It’s become increasingly clear that no one holds out much hope for my dear husband. Nearly all our friends are in the country for Christmas, but of those who came to town to shop, very few came to see me. The ones who did might as well have been making calls of condolence. They speak in hushed tones about only the safest, most trivial subjects, all the while looking afraid that I will mention my husband’s plight. I’m sure that were I to raise the subject, they would race from the room. 

And I’m ashamed to admit, Emily, that I’ve hardly any hope myself. It’s as if I’m betraying Robert too. 

I’ve not the courage to write to him about the baby. Wouldn’t knowing make his present situation that much worse? I’m not good at being this alone. 

Forgive me for sending you such uneasy Christmas greetings.

I am your most devoted friend,

Ivy

“Mon dieu!” Cécile dropped the gingerbread cookie she was holding. I had met her coming out of the Imperial on my way back from Colin’s and agreed to go with her to the Christkindlmarkt, a Christmas market in the Am Hof square. So it was while we were surrounded with dolls, toys, candy, and all things festive that I told her of Schröder’s revelation. “You cannot allow Monsieur Hargreaves to continue this.”

“I will not ask him to stop.” We passed by an enormous Christmas pyramid and a row of beautifully decorated fir trees.

“Oh, chérie, you are right, bien sûr. C’est très difficile. What can I do to help you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you believe he will be safe so long as you’re giving Monsieur Schröder what he wants?”

“Can you trust a man who admits to killing?” She did not answer my question, so I continued. “I’m almost beginning to hope that whatever this dreadful plan of his is comes off without the slightest hitch.”

“You don’t wish that.”

“I might.” I frowned. “We must find out what it is.” 

“Isn’t that what Monsieur Hargreaves is trying to do?” 

“Yes, but perhaps we can beat him to it,” I said. “I want to determine whether the destruction they’re planning would be worse than losing him.” 

“And if it isn’t?” 

“I’m not prepared to answer that question at the moment.” I’d been tugging at the trim lining the cuffs of my coat, and it was beginning to unravel. Meg would not be happy with me. “I need you to find out if the empress can be of any service to us.” 

“She has completely removed herself from Austrian politics.” 

“But she may be able to find out if there’s concern for the safety of anyone in the royal family. This is not like dredging up her concerns about Mayerling.” 

“You think your anarchists are planning an assassination?” 

“Possibly.” 

“I will speak to her after Christmas.” 

“I can’t wait that long. Can you see her today?” 

“Impossible. She’s with her family.” 

“You could write her a note.” 

Cécile had ordered our maids and several members of the hotel staff to decorate our rooms for Christmas, and the end result was stunning. We had an enormous tree covered with candles and ornaments, a garland hung across the mantel, wreaths on every door. But despite this, our holiday celebrations lacked any heartfelt enthusiasm. Friedrich was sullen because he couldn’t see Anna. Rina had refused our invitation without explanation, and of course I had never invited Herr Schröder. Jeremy did all he could to avoid speaking to me, and Colin appeared to have taken up brooding as a hobby. The only person with anything to say was Klimt, who proved immensely amusing when discussing the merits of his cats.

“I’m so glad you managed to smuggle this in,” I said, taking another bite of the Sacher torte Friedrich had brought for us. The specialty of the Hotel Sacher, its dark chocolate icing and apricot filling perfectly complemented our vintage port. 

“I wouldn’t say I smuggled it. I don’t think the staff at the Imperial would dare stop anyone from bringing whatever they’d like to this suite,” Friedrich said. “Even if it does come from a rival hotel.” 

“I prefer the Imperial to the Sacher,” Klimt said, his eyes meeting Cécile’s. “I’ve a better time here.” 

“I would hope so,” she replied. “From what I’ve heard, the rooms here are much more comfortable.” 

“Let me assure you, they are.” 

I began to feel that I was watching a conversation that ought to have been private. Colin drained his glass and rose from the table. He looked as if he was going to begin pacing. Cécile must have noticed this, too. She rose from her chair, whispered something to Klimt, and then threaded her arm through Colin’s. 

“Come,” she said. “We’re overdue for a game of chess.” 

Once they were gone, Friedrich turned his attention to Klimt. “I very much admire the murals you did in the Court Theater.” 

“Dreck! Schweinsdreck!” the painter exclaimed. “I do not wish to discuss them.” 

“Apologies,” Friedrich said, the slightest quaver in his voice. 

“Cécile tells me you are an artist,” Klimt said. “Do you have a sketchbook with you? I’d like to see it.” 

“It’s in the other room,” Friedrich said, leaping from his seat and racing towards the door. Klimt followed, leaving me alone with Jeremy, who was idly swirling the port in his glass. 

“Do you need me tomorrow?” he asked. 

“I don’t know. Jeremy, I—” 

“I’ve plans for the afternoon. If you want me to cancel them, could you please let me know before two o’clock?” 

“You don’t have to do any of this,” I said. 

“But you know I will. I must tell you—” He stopped as Colin came back into the room. 

Colin handed me a small envelope. “This was delivered for you.” 

I opened it at once. Inside were two articles clipped from newspapers. The first was Albert Sanburne’s obituary as it appeared in the London Daily Post. The second, the article I’d already seen from the Neue Freie Presse about the duel and suicide. Across the top of the obituary someone had scrawled, “Answers hide where lies are told.” 

“This is Sir Julian’s paper,” I said, holding up the piece from the Post. “I wonder what he could tell us about Mr. Sanburne’s death. Would he know who fabricated the story of the influenza?”