A Grave Celebration

by Christine Trent

  Louise-Hélène felt the heat creeping up her neck, knowing that the empress was surely patronizing her. Now Isabelle’s hand was at her back again. “Thank you, Your Majesty. You are most kind. My fiancé says we should be in Ismailia soon.” Maybe reminding the empress that Louise-Hélène did possess status as de Lesseps’s betrothed would make her feel less inferior.

  No such luck.

  “Yes, won’t it be sensationnel? I was talking to him earlier, and he described for me the grand platforms that will be there, along with the music and fireworks. I just hope it will not be too chilly. Why, there he is now. Monsieur de Lesseps!” Eugénie called out, taking her leave of Louise-Hélène and gliding to where Ferdinand stood, arguing with the ship’s captain about something, probably the timing of their entry into Ismailia. Ferdinand was very precise in all that he did.

  In moments, Eugénie was on Ferdinand’s arm, having whisked him away from the captain, and was chatting animatedly with him about whatever it was monarchs chattered about, while Julie followed respectfully in their wake. No doubt Eugénie was commiserating with him about the British arrogance in sneaking their ship to the front of the flotilla. In that internal warring of factions, Louise-Hélène was swelled with pride that the empress of France thought so much of her husband-to-be, yet she also wanted to take scissors to the woman’s dress and scatter the pieces in the canal.

  Perhaps just this once Louise-Hélène’s scowl really was the result of annoyance.

  “Look, madame,” Isabelle said, pointing and drawing Louise-Hélène’s attention away from Ferdinand’s and Eugénie’s close conversation. “I believe we are almost there.”

  Isabelle was another provision made for her by God. Seven years older than Louise-Hélène, she had been lady’s maid to the directrice of Louise-Hélène’s school. When Isabelle discovered that Louise-Hélène was to be married to Ferdinand, the maid had come to her in secret, begging to be taken into the new de Lesseps household. Isabelle desperately needed an opportunity to shed her old existence, and Louise-Hélène was in serious need of assistance in many areas. The fact that Isabelle had dangerous secrets didn’t bother Louise-Hélène in the least, as long as Isabelle remained her friend and confidante.

  The ship slowed and, within minutes, Ismailia came into sight. Despite her desire to seem sophisticated, Louise-Hélène let out an awestruck “Ohhhh.” For even at this distance, two great platforms were visible on shore, with wide steps leading to a massive stage on each. Poles had been erected on the four corners of each platform, and red draperies were artfully hung so that the structures resembled elevated theaters. The French flag was hoisted over one platform, the Egyptian flag over the other.

  Other, smaller platforms surrounded the two main stages, presumably for the delegation or entertainments, but they were lower and not as richly decorated. It was easy to see off in the distance that much of the embankment next to the canal was still rugged and disheveled, as though equipment had been hastily moved out a few minutes prior. For all she knew, it had.

  There were also throngs of people in brightly patterned robes and headwear gathering along the rough embankments as they had in Port Said. No doubt the European flotilla would garner even more adulation here than it had along the Nile, where it seemed people came out at all hours to wave and cheer at the ships sailing past them.

  As L’Aigle slowed, sailors began scrambling around her and Isabelle. Ropes were unwound and sails were furled as the men shouted furious instructions to one another. Louise-Hélène grasped the smooth, polished oak rail that ran along the edge of the deck. It was funny how she needed nothing to balance her while they were sailing at top speed, but once they slowed, the waters began slapping up against the boat and rocking it mercilessly.

  “Shall I retrieve your fennel seeds, mademoiselle?” Isabelle said quietly.

  “Non, I will be well,” Louise-Hélène said. She turned her gaze from the fascinating activity on shore to Isabelle, and noticed out of the corner of her eye that Eugénie had disappeared but Ferdinand remained, smiling and waving to people on the ground.

  Surely, she thought, this country is a second home to him.

  And just as surely she hoped he would not expect her to make her home anywhere but France. She reached into her dress pocket and rubbed her rosary beads again for comfort.

  Isabelle nodded. “If you will permit me, mademoiselle, I should like to carry the fennel with us as a precaution.”

  Louise-Hélène nodded and her maid disappeared as Ferdinand caught her eye. She smiled and walked toward him, her hand continuing to clutch the rail. He greeted her enthusiastically. “Is it not fantastique? I told the khedive to put on the finest celebrations imaginable. He has done well.”

  “He has,” Louise-Hélène agreed, blushing when Ferdinand took her hand, undid the top button of her glove, and laid a gentle kiss on the underside of her wrist before squeezing her hand and releasing it. The sensation of his mustache and lips against her skin left her breathless.

  “This ees nothing, though,” Ferdinand said, returning his gaze to the shore, as if unaware of how dazed Louise-Hélène had become in just a few seconds. “Tomorrow there will be speeches and prayers, a picnic, and a grand ball at the khedive’s palace. You will find your rooms inside my villa spacious and comfortable. After five years of planning and ten years of building, this ees the recognition I have waited for. The recognition of France as a mighty country, and of the great possibilities that exist for all of Europe. This canal changes everything, ma louloute, everything. The world will never be the same. Perhaps the canal opening can close the wounds of the Prussians and the Austrians after so much war between them. I just hope nothing else foolish happens beyond the obvious British chicanery.”

  “Foolish? What do you mean? Are you concerned about an accident of some sort?”

  He shook his head. “I’m sure it ees just the unsteady nerves of an old man.”

  “You aren’t old!” she cried. “You are most young to me. In your kind heart, and in your spirit.”

  Ferdinand smiled down on her. There was appreciation in his eyes, but something else, too. Fear? Hesitancy? The future Madame de Lesseps realized that she didn’t know her betrothed very well at all.

  He changed the subject entirely. “Ma louloute, where is your parasol?” Ferdinand asked. “All of the ladies will be carrying them. I believe it will be a most sunny day.”

  Naturally, Eugénie reappeared on deck with Julie, carrying an elegant ivory-colored parasol with what looked to be a bone handle. And yet, as if her own maid had heard Ferdinand, Isabelle emerged from below carrying Louise-Hélène’s umbrella. Louise-Hélène almost teared up in gratitude, silently whispering more thanks to Him above for her friend here below.

  Louise-Hélène’s greatest hope was that it would not be she committing the foolish act that Ferdinand so dreaded.

  Chapter 11

  Aboard the Russian ship Alexandrite

  Nikolay Pavlovich Ignatiev sat belowdecks, arms crossed in irritation as he waited endlessly for his chess partner to make a move. Ignatiev was tired of much that was happening around him.

  He was tired of sailing on this frigate, beautiful though she was. Russians proudly named many of their ships after precious gems, and this one was no different. He especially liked that the particular gem in question was named for their revered tsar, Alexander II, and that it was a stone that flashed unusual shades of red and blue, two of Russia’s national colors. The Alexandrite herself was a beauty, too. His Imperial Majesty must have thought the trip important, hence his decision to send such a luxurious ship for the delegation. Surely many in the flotilla had been impressed by Russia’s presence.

  That pleasure over his floating quarters and its impact had lasted mere days. Ignatiev, a general in the Imperial Russian army before starting his diplomatic career, preferred action to all of this pomp and frippery. However, his position as a negotiator at the Congress of Paris after the Crimean War, then his service
in dealing firmly with the Orientals during the Second Opium War, and now his role as ambassador to Constantinople had taught him to tamp down his ever-present irritation when talks stalled or when petty functionaries made petty demands.

  Or when a player spent all of his time with his finger on a bishop without ever moving it. An hour playing chess with the Grand Duke Michael Nikolaevich was as slow as a year in Siberian exile.

  Even more so, he was tired of pretending to lose at chess, draughts, and dominoes to the duke, his fellow delegation member. Of course, Ignatiev valued his own life and would never say so aloud. One did not insult the son of the old tsar, Nicholas, even if he was only a fourth son who held no hope of ever inheriting the throne from his brother. The consolation prize for a man like the duke was to be governor general of the Caucasus, a territory that Russia had been conquering and annexing in pieces for decades. Michael lived there with his children and his wife, who had just calved a sixth child for him. It would seem that the duke missed his wife and squalling offspring, for he spoke of little else but returning to them. Just another week left of this theatrical display and the duke could scurry back and cling to Olga’s skirts.

  Ignatiev was also tired of the atrocious vodka that had been brought aboard. Had he known, he would have brought along bottles of his own vino dvoynoe. He thought longingly of the special icehouse he had had built in Constantinople, which was currently packed with pregnant casks of the finest—and strongest—vodka made in his home country. Perhaps de Lesseps would suggest a binge at some point during the opening ceremonies. To drink to excess with a group of his newly made acquaintances would at last make the interminable past two weeks worthwhile. As his father always proclaimed, “It is good to drink; not to drink is a sin.”

  Finally, Ignatiev was fatigued from the constant touring and stopping on this foolish Nile trip. Smiling did not come easily to a man with chapped, thick lips that he attempted to disguise with an even thicker mustache that spread across his face like an unruly waterfall. The mustache was also designed to draw attention away from his badly receded hairline, which had caused his forehead to take a great blistering during the past two weeks of sauntering down the Nile. His temper had grown even shorter than it normally was, despite the relative mildness of the weather.

  There was such futility in all of the hand shaking and cheek kissing and cheering that occurred at every stop. Ignatiev had a very specific mission to accomplish here in Egypt; then he wanted to return to his ambassadorial post. And his vodka casks. At this rate, they would still be here next year.

  Ignatiev snapped to attention at the faint sound of wood scraping against wood. Was the duke actually completing a move? He unconsciously held his breath as he watched Michael move his bishop three diagonal spaces to the left, thus committing an amateurish blunder. Ignatiev realized instantly that the duke only saw two moves ahead, and believed he had the general’s queen on the run, but Ignatiev was poised to crush him.

  Once again, Ignatiev would have to make a move even more colossally stupid than the duke’s, and then they could end this game. Afterward, he could slip down to his cabin for a cup of putrid liquor before they performed the day’s back thumping, cheering, and gasping over every magnificence the khedive and de Lesseps had provided.

  Ignatiev expelled his breath and slumped back in his chair again. The duke had pulled his bishop back, removed his hand, and was now contemplating the board all over again. Dear God, if Ignatiev had his Baby Dragoon in his palm right now, he wasn’t sure if he would shoot Michael or himself.

  “I find it hard to concentrate under such difficult conditions, don’t you, General?” the duke said without looking up from the board. The duke was the same age as Ignatiev, thirty-seven, but the general had to admit that the duke wore his age much better. Of course, the duke had been blessed with dark good looks and a slim build. Even his mustache, worn in the same style as Ignatiev’s, seemed to be less about disguising an unfortunate upper lip and more about making him look exotic. The man could probably snap his fingers at any courtesan he wanted, but instead pined away for the sharp-tongued Olga Feodorovna, who ruled her family with an iron petticoat.

  “Pardon me, Your Highness, what conditions are those?” Ignatiev said with as much patience as he could muster.

  The duke looked up in surprise, as if it simply weren’t possible that Ignatiev didn’t know. “Without our wives and families with us. Trapped away at sea, just a couple of old warriors with no company but servants and each other.”

  Bah, the duke dared to call himself a warrior? In the spalnya with his wife, perhaps. As if Ignatiev needed to be reminded that even with his exalted position as both a general and an ambassador, few women wished to share his bed permanently. Instead, he was forced to seek company where it could be paid for in rubles or drink.

  “Yes, terrible,” Ignatiev responded shortly.

  The duke didn’t notice Ignatiev’s dour expression, as he was still gazing down at the board. “My brother insisted I come down to the canal opening. He did not care that Olga just bore my son a month ago and needs me desperately. She suffers without me. The Suez Canal ceremonies could have been easily managed by you, General, and did not require my esteemed presence.” A finger stretched out again and tapped the top of a rook, but Ignatiev was under no illusion that the piece was going anywhere.

  “No, Your Highness.” It was all Ignatiev could do to maintain civility. While he agreed that the trip would have been easier without the mooning and carping of his fellow traveler, it did seem important that a member of the imperial family, even a lowly member, be present. And at least Michael was innocuous enough not to interfere with any of Ignatiev’s activities.

  “I have my responsibilities, too, as governor general. I cannot allow neglect of my territory to go on much longer.” The finger left the rook and swirled over a pawn like a sea eagle that had caught sight of a lamprey in shallow waters.

  “Yes, Your Highness.” Ignatiev finally reached a conclusion. Given a choice, he would definitely shoot the duke.

  Fortunately, shouts from the upper deck diverted them both, and presently the duke’s manservant picked his way down the stairs carefully, as he was clad in the impractical heels of his livery at all times. “Your Highness, we are arrivés,” he said.

  French was the language of the Russian court, and Michael insisted that his servants speak it to him, as well, to bolster a cultured image. Ignatiev himself spoke French and a smattering of German and English, but had never bothered to pick up the Turkish language. The former three had served him well in any situation he had ever found himself, although what he had to accomplish before leaving Egypt made him think that perhaps a bit of Arabic wouldn’t have been out of order.

  Once on deck with the duke, Ignatiev took in the great cheering along the docks, as well as the scarlet-draped pavilions and throngs of brightly clad Egyptians. There was de Lesseps’s yacht, the French flag snapping smartly on her mast, behind the British ship Newport, which had managed an arrogant usurpation of L’Aigle’s place in the flotilla line. Ah, and there were the British colors flying above a gunboat, with two escorting ships. They had not been in attendance during the Nile trip. Was this just a coincidence, or were the British making a statement?

  Ignatiev well knew the sorts of statements the British were capable of making, refusing to dwell upon his time as military attaché at the Russian embassy in London and the near disaster that had occurred there.

  Well then, it was time not only for the festivities to begin, but also for Ignatiev’s plans to commence. For too long, there had been an imbalance of power in a particular situation, and Ignatiev would see that the scales were brought back to level. If the khedive proved to be too intractable, well, Russia was a mighty nation and had other, less courteous means of getting her way.

  Ignatiev shrugged to himself. Diplomacy or brute force—it mattered little to him which method he had to use to bring Russia back to her rightful station. She deserved it,
and the general would see that it happened.

  Chapter 12

  Aboard the Austrian ship SMS Viribus Unitis

  Franz-Josef, emperor of Austria and king of Hungary, stood—darkly handsome, slim, and erect—with almost military precision as he waited for his chamberlain, Karl Dorn, to arrive to take his instructions regarding the disembarking ceremony at Ismailia in the afternoon. Many referred to the emperor as the “red-trousered lieutenant” for his deep fondness for the military, and although he was aware of this moniker, he also knew no one would dare speak it in his presence, lest the Vollkoffer be cast permanently from attending court.

  Franz-Josef was most comfortable in this rigid, upright position. His mind operated best when he stood with hands clasped behind his back. Sometimes he might add in a clipped, precise pacing back and forth, but only when he was seriously agitated. This was infrequent. Not even the death of his infant daughter Sophie had caused him to pace.

  His mind navigated now through a flood of thoughts. Franz-Josef had discovered in his thirty-nine years that too many thoughts at one time made one befuddled, so he always tried to narrow the turmoil down to the two most important topics at hand. In the last twenty minutes on his feet, he compressed it all down to two people: Ferdinand de Lesseps and Eugénie de Montijo.

  Both French. Neither one fathomable.

  He sighed in relief at having determined what he needed to be focused on today, as today would start all of the official diplomatic functions and he would have to be fully attentive for them. Ceremony and ritual marked the essence of the House of Habsburg, and Franz-Josef had never yet let his country down in this regard. This devotion to propriety was what made de Lesseps and Eugénie so damnably frustrating.