The Longest Winter

by Mary Jane Staples

  About the Book

  When Baroness Sophie von Korvacs meets British painter James Fraser one hot summer’s day in Vienna, the attraction is instant. A whirlwind romance follows, with Vienna bathed in the brilliance of the last days of the emperor. And when James proposes to Sophie it seems a fitting end to that wonderful, enchanting summer.

  But darker days are on the horizon as Europe teeters on the brink of war. James must make the ultimate choice: love for King and Country or love for Sophie. Before he knows it, his difficult decision is made for him, and he and Sophie are on opposite sides of a bloody and devastating conflict.

  Four bleak years of fighting and death roll by. Will Sophie’s long winter ever end and can their love conquer all?

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Book One: The Last Summer

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Book Two: An Empire Lost

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  About the Author

  Also by Mary Jane Staples

  Copyright

  THE LONGEST

  WINTER

  Mary Jane Staples

  To Dolly Sewell,

  friend and counsellor

  He appeared, and I did not think of disaster then

  Or of love

  For he was only another man

  And most men are ordinary

  But on a day unlike all other days

  He became a hero, his badge shining so sternly bright

  That I, as much in fear as all unpretentious mortals,

  Stood palely in his shadow

  And when the trumpets brayed to call the heroes to war

  He was more than a hero

  And far above earthly men in his godlike infallibility

  Showing neither the smallest weakness nor spark of love

  But paying his tributes only to Mars

  It is war

  And though eagles soar to vanish and the hawk ascends invisible

  He flies higher

  I am destroyed, for once I was myself and now am nothing,

  Living only to despise him

  Yet I love him with such unrequited hunger

  That even if every other joy were a banquet

  I should still die famished

  Is this what such men make of women,

  Starvelings?

  Sophie von Korvacs

  Vienna

  December 1917

  BOOK ONE

  THE LAST SUMMER

  He was very old. As he slowly crossed an inner court of the Hofburg he looked as if he had lived for a thousand years. Perhaps he had burdened himself with all the years of his dynasty. But he still wore his uniform each day and still rose at dawn to go to his daily work. That was how it had been from the time he had ascended the throne.

  But work, with its mountains of paper and its demands for orders and decisions, was not quite so easy to come to terms with now. It had kept him a prisoner for how long? Centuries? He would have preferred to have taken command of his empire from the saddle of a horse, not from a desk. But because he was what he was, the servant of his people, he had accepted his chains without complaint. Sometimes, however, he did wonder if his people had not made him more of a bureaucrat than an emperor.

  It was not a change of heart which made the mountains more difficult to move these days. It was simply age. There were occasions when, having reached his desk, he would stand before it uncertain as to whether it was time to commence or time to go.

  But there was one thing he was sure of. And that was that his life, his times, his triumphs and his tragedies were of the past. He had been Emperor for almost sixty-six years. It had been a long, long reign. The longest. That in itself was history. There could be only a little time left before he was laid side by side with Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth. His Sisi, his empress. Assassinated years ago in Geneva. Everyone knew how much he had spoiled her. No one knew how much he had loved her.

  Rudolph, his only son. Gone long ago in the tragic, wintry mists of Mayerling.

  Maximilian, his brother. Barbarously executed in Mexico. An eternity ago.

  Who was left to succeed? Who would come after him to ensure the continuance of an empire that was so self-divisive and yet so enduring?

  He could not for the moment remember.

  Ah, yes. His nephew, Franz Ferdinand. A strong-minded archduke who had obstinately contracted a morganatic marriage with some obscure lady-in-waiting. The archduke had his own ideas about what might be good for stabilizing the empire. Such as turning the Dual into the Triple Monarchy by making a kingdom of the South Slav peoples, this to act as a buffer between Austria and Hungary. Neither Austria nor Hungary would like that.

  Nor would Serbia, which considered there was an ethnic case for incorporating all the South Slavs within the framework of a Greater Serbia.

  Ah well, it would be Franz Ferdinand’s problem, and of his own making. But even under Franz Ferdinand the empire would survive. The man would at least be conscientious. And the dynasty, around which the empire revolved, was indestructible.

  It was a beautiful day. Was it May? April? June?

  It was May and it was a beautiful day indeed, the harbinger of a long hot summer.

  He hesitated before a door, its meaning and his purpose escaping him for a second or so. Then, with the ghost of a smile, His Apostolic Majesty Franz Josef I walked from the sunlight into the shadow of the waiting mountain.

  ‘You don’t know,’ said the Archduke Franz Ferdinand in a letter to his affectionate stepmother, Maria Theresia, ‘how happy I am with my family.’

  He was indeed happy, despite his critics, of whom there were many, some in high places. Various were their complaints. He was too taciturn and too sensitive. He was uncommunicative and gruff. His ideas concerning the well-being of the empire were too radical or too impractical. Nevertheless, Franz Ferdinand, well aware that the empire was showing signs of falling apart, persisted in his belief that entirely new policies were necessary, and he was preparing himself for the day when he would become Emperor. His policies would be strong but sympathetic. There were a dozen different nationalities to consider. He must win them all over.

  Meanwhile, as Inspector General of the Imperial Army, he accepted an invitation from General Potiorek, Governor of Bosnia and Herzegovina, to attend manoeuvres in Bosnia at the end of June. General Potiorek had also asked the archduke to set aside a day when he could attend a reception in Sarajevo, the capital of Bosnia. Franz Ferdinand agreed.

  News that the archduke would definitely grace Sarajevo with his august presence on 28 June reached the higher echelons of the anarchist organization, the Black Hand, in Belgrade. The information was passed on to Colonel Dragutin Dimitrijevic, Chief of the Serbian Army Intelligence and the shadowy figurehead of the Black Hand. The colonel, so industrious a plotter that he was known as Apis, the Bee, did not take long to decide what was required.

  Simply, a select band of bomb-throwers willing to face subsequent martyrdom.

  Among those who answered the call was Gavrilo Princip, a nineteen-year-old Bosnian
student. Also interested was Boris Ferenac, a musician.

  Chapter One

  Vienna, 1914. The city of the Habsburgs, where the Hofburg, a maze-like complexity of administrative buildings, reached out to peer into streets, invade gardens and overlook parks. Through its ancient arch in the Michaeler Platz bowled the carriages of those privileged to attend its glittering social functions. If one did not have the entry through that arch, then in the eyes of Vienna one had so little standing socially that one was a nobody.

  Vienna, which the waltz kings had made eternally gay and haunting, was in 1914 at the peak of its splendour, its colour, its culture. Its Ringstrasse captured imagination, its women were the most elegant in Europe, its officers the most dazzling and its emperor the most incorruptible. It was the city of the imperishable Merry Widow, of Lehar, Strauss and Mozart, of writers, poets, love and scandal. For the rich there was everything, for the people there were the dance halls and the Vienna Woods.

  Baroness Teresa von Korvacs adored Vienna and thought the family residence could not have been better situated. It was on the nicer side of the Salesianergasse and within easy reach of elegant shops and fashionable restaurants. And not far away was the Hofburg, where the dear old emperor still kept his eye on everything, including the Hungarian Magyars, the most acquisitive people in the empire. They were always after more than they knew they were entitled to. Her husband Ernst said that was how they always got as much as they actually wanted. And Ernst should know. He had served the emperor in more than one of his ministries. He was in the Foreign Ministry now.

  Their house, with its domed vestibule leading to a baroque-style staircase and a chandeliered ballroom the envy of the exalted, was fronted by a paved forecourt, high iron railings and a gilded, ornamental gate bearing their coat of arms. Nearly ninety years old, the house had the appearance of being graciously mellowed by time while remaining impervious to change.

  The bright morning room overlooked the Salesianergasse. When she was in a busybody mood the baroness liked to observe who was driving by with whom. Open carriages and trotting horses gave the thoroughfare an air of dash and elegance. It was a pity motor cars had been allowed to intrude. The baroness did not think automobiles suited a city like Vienna. Berlin, yes, because that city was all boisterous bustle, the noisy upstart of Europe. Vienna was the established, cultured Queen.

  Motor cars were only a fad, of course. They would never last. Carl, their only son, wanted one simply because other young men did. Ernst had said he would see. Carl had smiled and said he would see that his father saw. The baroness hoped that whatever was seen would not be allowed.

  The drawing room was her favourite. It was wallpapered in old gold on which clusters of roses danced. The printed chintzes were softly subtle, the deeply upholstered armchairs designed for comfort. Tall windows looked out on to gardens stretching as far as the boundary of the Modena Palace. Through the windows one could watch the four seasons come and go. In the spring the blossom hung fragrant in the sun or scattered sensitively before the wind. In summer the lawns were a green canvas for every other colour.

  The gardens were lovely today. She mused on them from the quiet of the room, then turned her attention to new fashion plates. Heavens, ostrich feathers were in again. Ridiculous. And impossibly expensive, besides leaving the poor ostriches bald and bereft. Baroness von Korvacs, forty-four, was fair, aristocratic and still a handsome dresser. But she could do without ostrich feathers.

  Life was very agreeable. Other mothers worried about their children. She did not. Well, very rarely. She was blessed with perfect offspring. Well, almost perfect. Carl at twenty-four was the most good-natured of young men. Anne, eighteen, was a delightful girl. A little impulsive, perhaps. And Sophie, just twenty, was so elegant and intelligent. But it was just a little disconcerting that she was not yet engaged. She could have been. A charming and infatuated French diplomat had enquired after her hand. The baroness received the enquiry cordially. Sophie did not. Neither did her father.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mama, but really, he’s too fat,’ said Sophie.

  ‘Darling, his figure is robust, that’s all,’ said her mother.

  ‘He’s not only too fat, he’s too old,’ said her father.

  ‘He’s mature,’ said the baroness.

  ‘Then let him marry Elizabeth Schaeffer,’ said the baron, ‘she’s as mature as he is.’

  ‘Elizabeth Schaeffer is all of forty,’ protested the baroness.

  ‘So is he,’ said the baron.

  ‘Perhaps you are right,’ smiled the baroness.

  ‘Thank you, Mama,’ said Sophie in her winning way.

  Sophie supposed she would fall in love one day. But she was less worried about it than her mother. She did not want to marry simply for the sake of it. Life was lovely, exciting, and there must be a man somewhere in this colourful world waiting for her. She was quite happy to wait for him. There was so much poetry to write until destiny brought them together.

  The baroness looked up from her fashion plates as her daughters came in. As usual, Anne entered all animation and colour. As usual, Sophie followed unhurriedly. Anne was as fair as her mother, her hair the colour of harvest gold, her eyes a warm green. Life for her was an exuberance. She adored shops, weddings, men, Strauss, Lehar and Austria. She was kind to everyone, even cab drivers, and considered the ageing, aloof emperor a monarch of benign fatherliness.

  Sophie was vividly brunette, with richly dark chestnut hair, taking after her father. An inch taller than Anne, she carried herself with superb elegance, dressing her hair in Edwardian crown style and enhancing her height. Her face was classically oval, her brilliant brown eyes and beautifully white teeth giving her looks a striking quality, particularly when she was amused.

  Anne dressed with apparently careless rapture and always looked delicious. Sophie rarely departed from long sweeping green or blue velvets in winter and the simplest of silk pastels in summer, and winter or summer she looked elegantly superior to fashion’s frills and flounces. Sophie loved life. Anne found it breathless. Anne asked that men should be gallant, dashing, attentive and amusing. Sophie did not ask anything quite so specific of them, only that they shared her appreciation of the world and its wonders.

  Neither sister lacked admirers. Anne was a flirtatious delight, Sophie with her smile was captivating. One young man who admired them both was Ludwig Lundt-Hausen, son of the police superintendent. Sophie assured him that if he preferred Anne she would not take the slightest offence. Ludwig earnestly assured her that if he came to prefer either of them he would press his suit vigorously. Meanwhile he hoped neither of them minded that he considered them equally charming. They did not mind a bit. Ludwig was rather a charmer himself.

  The baroness regarded her daughters with a smile. Anne looked as if the sun had kissed her. Sophie looked exquisite. They had been out in the four-wheeler, jaunting gaily with a variety of other carriages along the Hauptallee in the Prater.

  ‘Did you enjoy yourselves?’ asked the baroness.

  ‘It was lovely,’ said Anne, to whom the most unimportant of outings was an excursion into the excitements of life. ‘Just everyone was there.’

  ‘Although riding out in a carriage isn’t quite the last word in cultural bliss,’ said Sophie, ‘it can be very stimulating. Horses are so rhythmic, aren’t they? I was inspired to begin the composition of an adorable poem. I shall finish it in my mind in a moment. Then I shall recite it.’

  ‘Sometimes, Mama,’ said Anne, ‘do you have the feeling that even in the bosom of our family we’re spared nothing?’

  ‘Do you also have the feeling, Mama, that my sister is a philistine?’ said Sophie, removing her little white tip-on hat.

  There were questions from daughters that wise mothers passed by. The baroness in her wisdom said, ‘Did you meet Ludwig?’ She entertained hopes for Sophie there.

  ‘Yes, I think we exchanged a word or two with Ludwig,’ said Anne. ‘Oh, and we saw Carl. He wishes you to exc
use him lunch.’ Her father came in then. She put her arm through his and he kissed her. He had spent this Saturday morning at his office in the Ballhausplatz. He was tall, thin and had a mass of iron-grey hair. He greeted his wife, who lifted her face for his kiss.

  ‘How nice you are home in good time, Ernst,’ she said. ‘Anne, what was that about Carl?’

  ‘Oh, you’ll excuse him lunch, won’t you?’ said Anne. ‘He and Ludwig are looking at motor cars. Ludwig is almost the expert, you know, now that he has one of his own.’

  ‘You’ll have to buy a motor car for us, Papa,’ said Sophie, walking about in thoughtful pursuit of metre and rhyme, ‘Carl insists we’re incomplete without one.’

  ‘We are not incomplete,’ said the baroness, ‘but we are certainly quieter.’

  ‘Hm,’ said the baron non-committally.

  ‘With a motor car, you know,’ said Sophie, ‘we could drive all the way to Ilidze next month. It would be very adventurous.’

  ‘Never,’ said her mother, ‘not while there are trains. I should shudder every metre of the way in a motor car. You will not even think about it, Ernst. I beg you will not.’

  ‘Naturally,’ said the baron, ‘I’d not allow thoughts of the finest motor car to promote disharmony, my dear, nor would I make you ride to Ilidze in one.’

  The family owned a house in Ilidze, a small attractive inland resort in Bosnia. The baron was fond of shooting and fishing, and both sports could be enjoyed to the full in the area around Ilidze. The family always spent a few weeks there in June.

  ‘Mama,’ said Anne, ‘I hope it isn’t disharmonious to tell you Ludwig is taking Sophie and me out in his new car this afternoon.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the baroness, torn between her dislike of automobiles and her hopes for Sophie.

  ‘I promise you, Mama,’ smiled Sophie, ‘that if it’s a truly shuddering experience I’ll confess it so. Now, while there’s still time before lunch, I wish you to hear my new poem. Papa, don’t you dare sneak out.’