Authors: Teresa Grant
Tags: #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Mystery, #Historical, #Romance, #Historical Romance, #Mystery & Suspense
Vienna Waltz (22 page)
She waited another second or so, then pushed open the door. Her husband was sitting at the desk, his hands flat on the ink blotter, as though through an effort of will. The candlelight glittered against telltale traces of damp on his cheeks, though she might not have noticed if she hadn’t known to look.
He got to his feet. “You look beautiful.”
She had completely forgot for a moment about her Carrousel costume. She looked into his eyes. His smile was kind, his gaze a world away from her. “Thank you. You make a very handsome knight yourself.”
He reached for the candlesnuffer and began to put out the tapers. “I’ve been reading David’s latest update from the House of Commons. More Whig criticism of Castlereagh’s lack of concern for the self-determination rights of everyone from the Poles to the Genoese. Much of which I find it hard to argue with.”
“Remember you’re a diplomat, darling.” She subdued every impulse to go to his side and touch him. “That includes being diplomatic with your own foreign secretary.”
He grimaced and she wondered just what had transpired at his interview with Castlereagh this afternoon. “Sometimes one of my greatest challenges.”
“Well, tonight for a change you can journey back a few hundred years and tilt at your opponents.”
“Instead of at windmills, as I usually do?” He moved to her side and offered her his arm.
“Nonsense, darling.” She tucked her arm through his own, curling her fingers lightly round his velvet sleeve. “I’m sure you can tell a windmill from a handsaw.”
His eyes glinted, though their depths were still opaque. “At least when the wind is southerly.”
They moved into the candlelit passage. That cry of anguish might have been a figment of her imagination. But she knew it had not been. That broken, desperate sound would echo in her memory forever.
She kept her fingers steady on her husband’s arm and her gaze fixed straight ahead. She had known Tatiana Kirsanova meant a great deal to Malcolm. She had been almost sure they were lovers. But until now she hadn’t realized how very strong the bond between them had been.
22
D
orothée fingered the end of the long veil draped over her arm. “I couldn’t sleep last night. I kept going over and over all the things that might go wrong.”
orothée fingered the end of the long veil draped over her arm. “I couldn’t sleep last night. I kept going over and over all the things that might go wrong.”
“Dearest, it’s probably inevitable that something will go wrong.” Suzanne squeezed her friend’s shoulders, careful not to crush the black velvet of Dorothée’s overdress. “The trick is carrying it off when something does.” Just as one could maintain a bright tone when one’s husband’s grief over another woman still reverberated in one’s ears.
Dorothée gave her a quick, dazzling smile. “You’re a splendid friend, Suzanne. And I think you must be the perfect diplomat’s wife.”
“Hardly. I’m still learning the language. It isn’t my native tongue.”
Dorothée cast a glance round the twenty-two other women gathered in this anteroom outside the Spanish Riding School’s arena. Their gleaming velvet and satin gowns, in the style of the early seventeenth century, divided them into groups representing four countries. Hungarian green, Polish crimson, Austrian blue, and French black. “I do think the costumes turned out well.”
“The fabric should be splendid beneath the lights.” Suzanne smoothed her full Louis XIII skirts. Like Dorothée, she was in black French dress.
After all,
Dorothée had said,
you are half French. You’d have grown up there if it weren’t for the Revolution.
Which was more or less true. Suzanne’s father had been French, her mother Spanish. That much of Malcolm’s knowledge of her past was accurate.
After all,
Dorothée had said,
you are half French. You’d have grown up there if it weren’t for the Revolution.
Which was more or less true. Suzanne’s father had been French, her mother Spanish. That much of Malcolm’s knowledge of her past was accurate.
“Thérèse Esterhazy always forgets her place in line,” Dorothée said. “I keep worrying we should have had one more rehearsal—”
“It’s a pageant, Doro, not Shakespeare.” Wilhelmine of Sagan joined them in a swirl of green velvet and white satin, sparkling with diamonds. “Do you think Tsar Alexander is really ill, or is he boycotting the Carrousel for reasons of his own?”
“You’d have more reason to know than any of us,” Dorothée said.
Wilhelmine lifted her chin. “He’s called on me a few times. I can hardly claim to be in his confidence.”
“He looks at you as though it’s more than that.”
“Looks can be deceiving.”
“I don’t think we’ll lack for an audience,” Suzanne said.
Wilhelmine adjusted her jeweled toque. “Metternich isn’t here, either.”
“Relieved or sorry?” Dorothée asked.
Wilhelmine shrugged, fluttering her green velvet oversleeves and the embroidered white satin beneath. “It’s his name day today. I sent him a new candlestick yesterday to replace the one on his writing table and he wrote me quite a civil note of thanks.”
“Civil or impassioned?” Dorothée asked.
Wilhelmine smoothed the veil draped over her arm. “I’d have thought he’d have come tonight to see Marie. Whatever his failings, he’s a devoted father.”
Dorothée cast a sidelong glance at her sister. “He probably couldn’t bear watching Alfred von Windischgrätz act as your champion.”
Wilhelmine’s gaze was on Marie Metternich, who was practicing a step of the minuet. “I never desired to make anyone unhappy.”
“But it seems to happen regardless,” Dorothée said.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever worn quite so many jewels at once.” Suzanne stepped between the Courland sisters, literally and metaphorically. A pearl-and-diamond necklace, on loan from Aline’s mother, hung heavy round her throat, and the diamond earrings Malcolm had given her for her recent birthday (reparations for their life in Vienna, she often thought) swayed from her ears. “I feel positively weighted down.”
“I think we’re wearing every pearl and diamond to be found in Hungary, Bohemia, and Austria,” Dorothée said. “I still can’t believe you broke up Metternich’s Order of the Golden Fleece to trim your gown, Willie.”
Wilhelmine glanced down at her jewel-encrusted bodice. “Yes, well, we were on better terms when I started work on the costume, and you made such a point of wanting everything to be lavish. Besides, I loaned out some of my own jewels. I even offered Laure Metternich the choice of my emeralds or sapphires.” Wilhelmine cast a glance round the antechamber. “One could fund a small kingdom with the jewels in this room alone.”
Dorothée twitched a fold of her skirt smooth. “The Festivals Committee want this to be the most dazzling event of the Congress.”
“I wasn’t criticizing the event, Doro. I daresay it will be a great triumph. You’re quite right, at the Congress nothing succeeds like excesses.”
Sisters. They always knew just how to wound. Suzanne touched Dorothée’s arm. “It’s a marvel, Doro. You should be very proud.” She felt Wilhelmine give her a sidelong glance and suspected a good part of the duchess’s sharpness was due to the aftereffects of their conversation the previous day.
A side door opened and the thud of boots and jangle of spurs announced the arrival of the knights. They wore velvet doublets and plumed hats, six each in green, crimson, blue, and black to match the ladies. Malcolm crossed to Suzanne’s side and swept his hat from his head.
“You do know that knights dressed in these clothes would have been cut to ribbons at Agincourt, don’t you?” he said.
Looking into those mocking, ironic eyes, one would never guess he’d been lost in grief a mere hour ago. “Oh, what it is to have a husband who read history at Balliol.” Suzanne took the scarf she’d been holding along with her veil and tied it near Malcolm’s sword hand. The other
belles d’amour
were doing the same with their cavaliers. “We aren’t recreating a proper medieval tournament, we’re recreating the days when young men played at recreating the mythical days of chivalry. Very appropriate. You’re supposed to put on a good show, not really go about bashing each other.”
belles d’amour
were doing the same with their cavaliers. “We aren’t recreating a proper medieval tournament, we’re recreating the days when young men played at recreating the mythical days of chivalry. Very appropriate. You’re supposed to put on a good show, not really go about bashing each other.”
Malcolm looked down at the bow of gold-embroidered fabric. “Doesn’t it rather defeat the idea of a favor that you’ve given us all such similar scarves?”
“Don’t be difficult, dearest.”
A man in a harlequin-patterned tunic hurried into the anteroom and bowed to Dorothée. “It lacks but two minutes to eight, Madame la Comtesse.”
Dorothée straightened her spine, an actress about to step onto the stage. She draped her gossamer veil over her head and signaled to the other ladies to do likewise. The twenty-four
belles d’amour
and their cavaliers lined up in their predetermined order. A bouquet of lustrous velvet, brilliant white satin, and sparkling gems. A trumpet fanfare sounded from the arena, just as two footmen in tunics and hose pulled open the double doors. They stepped through into the glare of candlelight.
belles d’amour
and their cavaliers lined up in their predetermined order. A bouquet of lustrous velvet, brilliant white satin, and sparkling gems. A trumpet fanfare sounded from the arena, just as two footmen in tunics and hose pulled open the double doors. They stepped through into the glare of candlelight.
A multitude of crystal chandeliers blazed down on them. A roar went up from the crowd. The galleries on either side of the riding school were packed. Though Suzanne had known the crowd would be huge, somehow rehearsals had not prepared her for the sight. The golden light gleamed indiscriminately off ancestral tiaras and gifts from current lovers, gold braid on dress uniforms and coats encrusted with medals and decorations.
They passed the British delegation and she caught a glimpse of Eithne’s pale face, Tommy Belmont’s appreciative gaze, Aline’s bright eyes. In the gallery reserved for ambassadors and dignitaries, she saw Castlereagh, austere and elegant in black, and Lady Castlereagh, once again wearing her husband’s Order of the Garter in her hair.
Hammered metal armor flashed on the Corinthian columns that supported the vaulted ceiling, and she glimpsed the mottoes of the knights who were to compete in the tourney (many of which she and Doro had invented while poring through books of medieval legends over glasses of Rhenish wine).
The knights escorted the
belles d’amour
to a brocade-draped stand at one end of the hall. The ladies sank into their seats with a unison that should make Dorothée proud, gossamer veils swirling about them. The knights bowed and withdrew.
belles d’amour
to a brocade-draped stand at one end of the hall. The ladies sank into their seats with a unison that should make Dorothée proud, gossamer veils swirling about them. The knights bowed and withdrew.
Another trumpet fanfare signaled the entrance of the sovereigns. The spectators rose to their feet, and the
belles d’amour
did likewise. Dorothée lifted her hand. At her signal the ladies pulled their veils from their heads. A cheer went up from the crowd. Suzanne didn’t want to ruin the picture by glancing round, but it seemed no one’s headdress had tumbled to the ground. So far so good.
belles d’amour
did likewise. Dorothée lifted her hand. At her signal the ladies pulled their veils from their heads. A cheer went up from the crowd. Suzanne didn’t want to ruin the picture by glancing round, but it seemed no one’s headdress had tumbled to the ground. So far so good.
The sovereigns occupied the stand at the opposite end of the hall from that of the
belles d’amour
. Tsar Alexander was a notable absence, but Tsarina Elisabeth was there, lovely in white satin and diamonds, a tiara glinting on her white-blond hair. The Emperor of Austria moved to the gold velvet chair in the center of the stand, his wife and Tsarina Elisabeth on either side of him. The other sovereigns and princes regnant took their places according to their precedence.
belles d’amour
. Tsar Alexander was a notable absence, but Tsarina Elisabeth was there, lovely in white satin and diamonds, a tiara glinting on her white-blond hair. The Emperor of Austria moved to the gold velvet chair in the center of the stand, his wife and Tsarina Elisabeth on either side of him. The other sovereigns and princes regnant took their places according to their precedence.
“Thank God they didn’t get tangled up,” Dorothée murmured to Suzanne as they dropped back into their seats.
“You’d think after nearly two months in Vienna they’d be clear about precedence,” Suzanne replied, settling her full skirts. “Especially considering they agreed to go by order of age.”
“I imagine they could disagree about that if they put their minds to it,” Dorothée murmured.
A military fanfare echoed through the hall, announcing the arrival of the knights. Hooves thudded against the ground. Bridles jangled. Twenty-four page boys entered the arena first, carrying banners that rippled as they walked. The knights followed riding coal black Hungarian horses, whose glossy coats gleamed in the warm candlelight. Their squires, dressed in the Spanish fashion—
Why do Hungarian, Polish, Austrian, and French knights have Spanish squires?
Malcolm had asked—brought up the rear.
Why do Hungarian, Polish, Austrian, and French knights have Spanish squires?
Malcolm had asked—brought up the rear.
The pages and squires lined up on either side of the arena. The knights, two abreast, advanced to the sovereigns’ stand and lowered their lances in a salute. Tsarina Elisabeth and Empress Maria Ludovica waved, and the other ladies in the stand followed suit.
The knights wheeled round and rode to the opposite end of the arena where they bowed to the
belles d’amour
. The crowd rose to their feet again with a roar of approval.
belles d’amour
. The crowd rose to their feet again with a roar of approval.
Dorothée and Wilhelmine stood to greet the knights, and the other ladies followed their example. Dorothée’s cavalier, handsome young Count Karl Clam-Martinitz, lifted her hand to his lips. She blushed like a schoolgirl. Wilhelmine tugged playfully at the feather in Alfred von Windischgrätz’s hat.
Malcolm edged his horse up to the stand near Suzanne. His eyes held an ironic glint. “Of all the roles I ever thought to find us playing, this seems the least likely,” he murmured in English.
“But one must still play one’s part with conviction.” On impulse, she pulled her handkerchief from her sleeve and fastened it to his shoulder with a pin.
“You already gave me a favor,” he said.
“But this one is unique and really comes from me.”
He grinned and then, to her surprise, lifted her hand and pressed it to his lips. He held it for a moment, and the shock of the contact ran through her.
The knights turned their horses and circled the arena twice to the delight of the crowd. The heralds blew a fanfare echoed by the orchestras situated above the stands at either end of the arena. The rich sound reverberated off the high ceiling and washed over the hall. Then the thunder of horses’ hooves shook the ladies’ balcony as the first six knights to compete rode into the arena, accompanied by their pages and squires.
The tournament began with the
pas de lance,
the knights riding at a gallop and removing on their lance point one of the rings hung from ribbons before the sovereigns’ stand. “You can scarcely tell Monsieur Rannoch and Lord Fitzwilliam from the Austro-Hungarians,” Dorothée murmured to Suzanne. Given the value Austro-Hungarians placed on riding skills, it was praise indeed.
pas de lance,
the knights riding at a gallop and removing on their lance point one of the rings hung from ribbons before the sovereigns’ stand. “You can scarcely tell Monsieur Rannoch and Lord Fitzwilliam from the Austro-Hungarians,” Dorothée murmured to Suzanne. Given the value Austro-Hungarians placed on riding skills, it was praise indeed.
They proceeded to tossing javelins at models of Saracen heads. Suzanne turned her head away in cold shame. Dorothée cast an anxious glance at her and squeezed her hand. Suzanne had argued strenuously for not including this particular game in the tournament, putting diplomacy and good taste ahead of historical accuracy. Goodness knows they were bending historical accuracy in a number of other ways. Doro had listened, but the Festivals Committee had held firm. She could only wonder what some of the dignitaries present, such as the turbaned Pasha of Widdin and Prince Manug, Bey of Murza, made of the distressing spectacle. Malcolm flung his javelin wide of the mark. She doubted it was an accident.
The less troubling game of cutting at apples dangling from the ceiling followed. At last they progressed to jousting, a parody (supposedly safe, like stage combat) of a medieval joust. The rules of attack and defense had been carefully laid out, and the heralds of arms intervened the moment they saw the faintest move out-of-bounds. Suzanne had seen greater aggression in a tennis match, let alone a real battle.
Then in the midst of a charge, the Prince of Lichtenstein’s horse reared, and the prince thudded to the ground. A murmur of concern rose from the crowd as the illusion of the pageant was rent by the reality of physical hurt. Squires rushed forward and carried the fallen prince from the arena.
Dorothée rose to her feet, her hand to her mouth. Wilhelmine pulled her back into her chair. “I saw him move his hand, Doro. He’ll be fine. He’s probably suffered worse on a morning ride in the Prater.”
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