The Accidental Empress (28 page)

“As loath as I am to think of your heart breaking . . . I
am
happy to hear that you felt that way.”

“Franz.” She rested a hand on his cheek, because looking at him wasn’t enough. She longed to feel him, to know that he was hers. “Was your mother very angry? When you opposed her, and picked me instead?”

His body stiffened beside hers; a small, barely perceptible movement, but Sisi felt it like a recoiling from the intimacy they had enjoyed just a moment earlier. Franz exhaled before answering. “All of that is in the past now. Where it belongs. I’m much more interested with the present, with the matter in front of me.” Franz kissed her neck, causing her to shut her eyes once more in surprised delight. She had never known that a kiss could be so powerful—mighty enough to knock the breath from her gut, and yet soft enough to slacken her coiled nerves, to slow her frantic thoughts. And just like that, she was entirely his, folded into his arms and powerless to resist him. But why had her mother told her how miserable this experience was to be?

Sisi had been warned that Franz would not come to their marital bed as a virgin; her mother had prepared her for this inevitability as well. Men had certain rites of passage to which they were entitled as young noblemen, especially a young man who happened to be the emperor. He had clearly done this before, as was evident in the skillful manner in which his hands knew where to rove under her shift. Part of her mind, a distant part, wondered, with a twinge of jealousy, who these women were. Would she meet them at court? Had some of them kissed her hand earlier that day in the state room? Would they smile at her, knowing that they had known her husband, too, in this most intimate of ways?

But at this moment, Sisi forced herself to push those troubling thoughts aside, to forget her jealousy at the fact that her husband had performed this act with other women. Clearly, she was the woman he now longed to be with, as he covered her skin with kisses. It was as if he longed to taste every inch of her.

“You know, as emperor, I’m not always as patient as I ought to be.” Franz’s lips now traced a course from her lips to her neck. Sisi sighed, encouraging his caresses.

“But I think I have been very patient. Yes, I think I have waited quite long enough.” His lips were now traveling down her neck, and he slid the strap of her nightdress off, kissing her shoulder. When he continued to slide the satin away, replacing its touch with his own soft lips, she gasped with pleasure, running her fingers through his hair.

“Franz,” she called his name out to the room, delighted that she could do so with no modesty or shame. Formal title be damned, she thought, laughing aloud. Countess Esterházy and Sophie and all your protocol be damned. Her mother, too, had been wrong. Her mother had clearly never known caresses like these. And Sisi found herself, for the first time all day, actually enjoying herself. Pleasantly surprised. He was her husband, and she abandoned herself entirely to him, every inch of her body crying out with the desire to be his wife.

But she didn’t become Franz Joseph’s wife that night. At least, not according to the strict definition. He had
seemed
amorous and impatient, and yet, he did not cross the threshold that she had been preparing for. Instead, he approached and then retreated, hopping out of bed and telling her that he wanted another drink. Then he scooted up beside her and—incomprehensibly—told her that he preferred to talk.

On the second night, after a day filled with banquets and meetings and an interminable parade, he asked if they might simply hold one another. Sisi complied, as she had been ordered to. And yet, as she lay there in his arms, feeling his desire for her like a charge between them, she couldn’t help but be perplexed. Frustrated. She was perfectly willing, even eager, to become his wife. What was she doing wrong? Was she disappointing to him?

“Please forgive me, Elisa.” His words broke the silence of the dark room, disrupting her ruminations on that second night. “I’m just so terribly . . . tired.” Franz sighed, stroking her arm with his index finger. And so, as her own thoughts raced and questioned—Was she not making her desire plain enough? Or was she making her desire so apparent as to put him off?—he slipped off into sleep.

The mornings were, as a result, terrible. They were woken and dressed by servants, then joined at breakfast by their mothers. During that time, Sophie would ask if the union had been consummated, and Sisi couldn’t help but feel the heat rise to her cheeks as she lowered her eyes and shook her head. The way Sophie stared at her, her eyes like two icy marbles, confirmed to Sisi that
she
was somehow failing. That she had clearly proven herself unqualified for the task she had been assigned. That Franz must surely be disappointed in his selection of a bride.

The following evening, after two nights of this unpredictable and incomprehensible evening routine, Franz came to Sisi’s room carrying a half-finished pitcher of wine.

“Hello, Franz.” Sisi lay in bed, her hair loose, her body exhausted and yet humming with jumpy nerves.

Franz didn’t say a word as he poured himself a glass, drank it in two gulps, and poured himself another. Finally, when the pitcher was emptied, he turned and climbed into bed. He smelled of the drink but his movements were fluid, without any of the lethargy that Sisi might have expected.

Sisi lay still, unsure of what to expect. Her heart clamored. Franz blew out the candle and slid toward her in complete darkness. His hands found her under the bedcovers and he pulled her toward him, his lips uttering no words as his body told her what to do. That night, on the third night of their marriage, Sisi became Franz Joseph’s wife.

The next morning, Sisi awoke triumphant. She yawned, looking out the windows at the splashes of sunshine that slipped in through fluttering curtains. She rose to dress, hoping that she would find her husband alone at the breakfast table. Instead, as she entered their small dining room, she saw that she was the fourth person to arrive at the meal. Sophie, Ludovika, and Franz already sat, drinking coffee and passing platters of pastries and cheeses between themselves.

Sisi’s cheeks burned as all three pairs of eyes landed on her. These communal breakfasts struck her as painfully embarrassing. Being plucked from bed and dressed by her ladies-in-waiting—a group of relative strangers—was difficult enough. But then to see her husband for the first time each day under the probing gaze of Sophie and the mortified glances of her mother proved even more intolerable.

“Good morning, everyone,” Sisi said quietly, her eyes slanting downward.

“Good morning, my darling.” Franz rose upon her entrance and smiled at her, his features bright and enlivened this morning. Meeting his eyes, Sisi was transported back to the previous night and her body flushed warm at the memory. If only they could be alone now to smile and whisper about the evening they had shared.

“Please, join us, Elisa.” Franz rose and extended a gloved hand—another one of the new court rules she had learned: gloves at all meals—toward the empty seat at the small, crowded table.

At Sisi’s place waited a leather pouch. She looked down at it as she was helped into her chair by a liveried footman. “What is this?”

No one answered her. Her mother’s eyes stayed fixed on the plate before her.

Sisi held the pouch aloft, peeking into it. It was filled with money. “Franz?” Her eyes widened in confusion.

Franz cleared his throat, chewing on a piece of toast. “It’s . . . a gift.”

“A gift?” Sisi looked from her husband to her mother, confused. “For what?”

“It’s your
Morgengabe
,” Franz said, offering little by way of clarification.

“My
morning gift
?” Sisi repeated the words, her brow crinkling.

“For your gallant efforts last night,” Sophie said, stuffing a piece of thickly buttered toast into her mouth. “The bedsheets have been examined and Countess Esterházy has confirmed what my son swears to me: that you were indeed a virgin. That is . . . before last night.”

Sisi let the pouch slip from her fingers, landing on the table with a clamor. She turned from the direct and immodest gaze of her aunt to the earnest blue of Franz’s eyes.
Franz, you fool!
She longed to scream at him. How could he have put her in this position? And how, she wondered, was it that her husband was so willing to include his mother in even this most intimate moment?

Sisi had come to this breakfast feeling joy and relief, confident in the knowledge that she had finally proven herself capable of her new role in at least one way. Why then, was it Sophie’s haughty smile that shone the most triumphant at the table that morning?

VII.

The walk to the altar takes an eternity, and Sisi reminds herself to keep her eyes down, her features composed. The image of humility, even if the people packed into this cathedral believe her to be, in some way, divine.

When they reach the front of the church, two thrones await them. There they will sit, side by side. Two flawed mortals forever memorialized, together, in this moment. How strange, she thinks, to be a part of what would surely become history, and yet still worry that she might trip on her heavy skirt.