“Surely you’re not a religious man?” I asked, dropping to my knees next to him in front of Saint Valentine’s small altar.
“Not at all. You’re as likely to get results from sacrificing a goat as you are from praying here.”
“You shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Why not? Afraid we’ll be struck down?”
“Yes, actually,” I said, feeling prickles up and down my arms.
“It’s all mythology. Ours is just more modern.”
“I’m not here to debate religion. What do you have for me?”
He stared at me for a moment before answering. “You are a beautiful woman. It is unfortunate that you are caught up in any of this. You have not made a wise choice in deciding who to marry.”
I sighed. “Herr Schröder, I’ve no interest in being lectured on my romantic life. I’m perfectly capable—”
“You’ve no idea what misery your choice will bring you.”
“Is this about Kristiana?”
“No,” he said. “Although I wouldn’t discount the possibility of her heaping grief on you. He’s in great danger, Hargreaves. You know enough about his work to understand the risks he takes.”
“He’s perfectly capable of taking care of himself.”
“Is that what you believe?” He drummed his hands on the railing in front of us. “He’s good, I give you that. But no one in his situation is ever safe.”
“I know that.”
“I’ve been asked to kill him,” he said, and I felt as if the blood had stopped flowing through my body. “An easy enough assignment. He’s careful, but not invincible.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I’m feeling rather conflicted about the whole thing, actually.”
“Don’t be facetious,” I said, trying to keep my knees from shaking, my teeth from chattering.
“I’m not being facetious. I’m being straightforward. It’s a job, Kallista. He’s a threat to my goals and those of my partner in a certain matter.”
“Who is your partner? Harrison?”
“Very good.”
“I thought you didn’t trust him,” I said.
“I don’t.”
“And he’s the one who wants you to—”
“Yes.” He stood up and wandered over to the case of relics. “He’s paying me well. But if I eliminate Hargreaves, they’ll send someone else to take over his job. Someone to whom I will not have access via you.”
“So my ability to steal information from him can keep him alive?”
“As long as what you give me is worthwhile.”
“I’ll make sure it is.” I gripped the railing, steadying myself as a wave of dizziness overwhelmed me.
“There is one problem, though. You are here to help a friend, correct?”
“Yes.”
“The answers you seek are in England, not Austria. If you stay here, your friend will hang.”
“I’m certain that Harrison stole some documents from Beaumont Towers. I need to know what they say and if, among them, there was a letter that contained a specific threat against Lord Fortescue.”
“You’re not in a position to make demands,” he said.
“I will make demands when I think it necessary. You are asking terrible things of me. This is the least you can do for me.”
He smiled. “I’m not ready to divulge that information. Perhaps once my own plans are complete. Of course, the more quickly you supply me with what I need…”
“You’re abhorrent,” I said.
“Far from it. Any of my colleagues would have already completed the job. You’re lucky I’m sophisticated enough to see the value in keeping him alive.”
We went straight from the Stephansdom to Colin’s rooms, but he was not there. Without pausing to think, I looked everywhere I could: the Griensteidl, the Imperial, even the von Langes’ residence, but he was nowhere to be found. In the end, I returned to his apartment and bribed the Hausmeister to unlock the door for me, then insisted that Jeremy leave me alone. Rina was still with us, and I did not want her to see my emotions come completely undone. It was not easy to force Jeremy out, but sincere promises that I would not leave the house unaccompanied—I would either wait for Colin or send word to the Imperial that I needed an escort—eventually worked.
As soon as they had left, I began tearing about, searching for anything that might indicate where he’d gone. It was irrational to think that he had already come to harm; I believed Herr Schröder would not kill him. Not yet, anyway. But I was taking shallow half-breaths and wouldn’t be able to stop until I saw for myself that he was safe.
He had three rooms that seemed large enough when I’d first entered, but their walls grew closer and their ceilings lower as I felt an increasing sense of desperation. I found nothing of use in the sitting room and passed through his bedroom to a small chamber that contained a desk. Without hesitating, I began to rifle through the drawers, hoping to find a calendar, but stopping at the sight of a bundle of letters.
They were from me. He’d kept every word I’d written to him, even a note scribbled on a scrap of paper torn from an opera program. I’d passed it to him while we were watching La Traviata at Covent Garden. At once I was consumed with emotions: love, confusion, anger, and an undeniable desire to collapse in tears. Why could we not share an uncomplicated life together? Safe, dividing our time between England and the Continent. I returned the letters to the drawer and staggered back to the bedroom, where my strength left me. I dropped onto the bed and sobbed, vaguely aware of the sound of pealing church bells outside welcoming Christmas Eve.
I didn’t hear him open the door or step into the room, but gradually became aware of the smell of cinnamon and tobacco and a hint of shaving lotion. He was standing in front of the window, his figure a silhouette, light spilling around him.
“I hardly know what to say. Is there an appropriate response to finding you on my bed?”
“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 fac
e 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
Chapter 18
“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?”
“Anyone in the family might have done that.” Jeremy pulled out a cigar and lit it. “Standard operating procedure to protect his sister.”
“But there was no one left in the family,” I said. “His title reverted to the Crown.”
“There was no heir, but there were relatives through the female line,” Jeremy said. “Why does it matter?”
“I’m not sure.” I looked
at the articles again. “I wonder who Robert’s second was in the duel. Perhaps Margaret can find out, if only he’d agree to see her.”
“He’s a fool if he refuses to talk,” Colin said. “But I’m not convinced any of this is relevant to his current situation.”
“Perhaps not. But I wonder…” I grasped at the elusive strains of a thought trying to take cohesive shape in my head. “It’s easy to believe that Fortescue’s death was political. Who stood to lose more than Robert at Fortescue’s hand?”
“It’s time you return to England,” Colin said. “Harrison’s plans may have been set in motion in Vienna, but the answer to who killed Fortescue isn’t here. You’ve found what Robert wanted to learn, but there’s no testimony that Kristiana can offer that’s going to help him. It’s time to go home.”
“You know I can’t do that,” I said.
“You must.” His eyes met mine, but they were cold.
Sunlight poured over the streets on Boxing Day, but the cold air was too much for Cécile, and she insisted that we take a fiacre to the Hofburg, where Sissi had summoned us after reading my friend’s letter. She met us in a dark sitting room, the curtains drawn, hardly a lamp lit. She crossed directly to Cécile and they embraced, her thin, fragile body looking as if it might snap.
“I don’t know that I can be of any help to you,” she said, wafting to a papier-mâché chair inlaid with mother-of-pearl and sitting with the lightness of a dragonfly. “I’m not allowed to have useful information. They won’t even tell me how my son died.”
Cécile took her hand. “You know enough.”
“I don’t.” Her face, her shoulders, and her neck appeared perfectly placid, but her fists were clenched so tightly that her nails could have drawn blood from her palms. “My husband knows more.”
“And his knowledge will change nothing, chérie. You must not upset yourself.” Cécile bent close to her and whispered something in her ear. The tight fists relaxed.
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