Tasha Alexander - A Fatal Waltz

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?” 

“We kept it as quiet as possible. Helen had suffered enough, and I didn’t want the fingers of scandal to touch her. Furthermore, I saw no reason to put Sanburne’s family through more grief. I knew that his sister, Mary, would have a difficult time finding somewhere to live after his death. I circulated the story that he’d died of influenza, although I imagine it didn’t make things all that much easier for the girl. Still, better than if people knew there’d been a suicide in the family.” He shifted his weight uncomfortably. 

“I appreciate your telling me all this,” I said. 

“I nearly refused to talk to you,” he said. “But I’ve never felt good about how things turned out with Sanburne. Despite the fact that—well, the less said about it the better.” 

I thanked Mr. Macinnis and made my way back through the fog to Berkeley Square, as the beginnings of a most unwelcome thought started to weave their way through my brain. And though I would have liked more than anything to ignore them, I knew I could not.

Margaret met me at my front door. “Any word from Colin?” I asked. 

“No, I’m sorry. Nothing,” she said. “But your mother! Heavens!” 

“Oh, dear.” I removed my hat and handed it, along with my coat, to a waiting footman. “What has she done?” 

“She’s got Ivy upstairs and refuses to allow her out of bed, let alone to come downstairs. And she’s bent on marrying me off to one of Lady Elliott’s sons.” 

“Not Henry?” 

“Yes, Henry.” 

“No, he’s all wrong for you.” 

“How long is she going to be here? I’ve always considered your house a safe haven, Emily. This is intolerable.” 

“You don’t need to explain, Margaret. I lived with her for years.” 

“What happened with Mr. Hamilton?” 

“Emily! Are you back?” My mother was calling down the stairs. “Come up here at once.” 

I heaved a sigh and started up the steps, Margaret following behind. “I want to hear about Hamilton,” she whispered. 

“It will have to wait.” 

My mother led us to the yellow bedroom, where Ivy was perched in bed, her feet propped up on a towering stack of pillows. 

“You’ve not yet finished your broth, child.” My mother picked up a bowl from the bedside table and thrust it at Ivy. “You must apply yourself to it if you want a strong boy.” 

Ivy did as she was told, her eyes wide. Mother turned to me. “I’ve told your cook she needs at least six bowls of beef broth every day and a strong glass of red wine. She must not be exposed to anything unpleasant during her confinement—” 

“Her confinement?” I interrupted. “Mother, you can’t possibly expect that she’s going to stay in bed for the next…I don’t even know how many months.” 

“Six.” Ivy’s voice was barely audible. 

“Finish your broth.” My mother turned to me and spoke in a low voice. “I’ve removed all the inappropriate materials from this room.” 

“Inappropriate materials?” I asked. 

“That pile of papers, of course. What were you thinking, giving her Oscar Wilde to read? I fear for your common sense, Emily.” 

“You mean the script of Lady Windermere’s Fan? Where is it? What did you do with it?” 

“I threw it directly in the fire. Appalling man, Wilde. Not an ounce of restraint in him.”