The Accidental Empress (64 page)

“Not your wife?” Sisi asked. Andrássy shook his head.

The blond woman Sisi had seen him with in the gardens, perhaps? Without understanding why, Sisi felt jealous again. Yet she forced herself to smile and ask, politely: “And what is her story?”

Andrássy bit his lip, thinking before he answered. “Well, she is beautiful. And kind. And every time I speak with her I am left with my mind awhirl. She gives me much to think about.”

Sisi looked away, plucking a piece of grass from the earth, which she then released into the breeze. “She sounds lovely. Why did you not fall in love with her, in that case?”

“Because she was not free to be mine. Unfortunately, another man had gotten to her first.”

Sisi returned his gaze now, noticing how his brown eyes caught a glint of the golden sunlight overhead. “This is too sad, Andrássy.”

“I suppose it is quite sad.” He nodded.

“So what is her name—this perfect being, this unattainable lady you admire?”

“The name of the lady bears no relevance,” he said, looking away from Sisi, breaking the charge that had passed, a moment earlier, between their eyes. “As she will never be mine.”

Sisi nodded, words evading her. For a brief moment, her mind wandered back to the night in Budapest, years earlier. The night she had danced with him, Andrássy. She had done so in front of Franz and a roomful of others: a blameless action, devoid of any meaning or significance. And yet, here, on the grass beside Andrássy, she felt as if there was more meaning. Here, even though they didn’t touch. They sat, apart, only speaking. Speaking was a harmless action, was it not? And yet, for a reason she could not quite utter, Sisi would never have wanted Franz to witness this moment.

Finally, she blinked, clearing her mind of the fog that had collected. “It will be dark soon. We should return to the palace.”

“You should.” He nodded. “I am not going that way.”

“No? Where are you going?”

“I will rest in the next town this evening and await my servants. We are returning to Budapest for the summer.”

“Oh,” Sisi said. He had not told her about his departure until now. “To see your wife?”

Andrássy shook his head. “She will remain up north. She loathes my city in the summer as much as I loathe her isolated and secluded retreat.”

“Why must you go?” Sisi asked.

Andrássy sighed, running his fingers through his dark hair. “There is some discontent at home. It seems greater liberties and rights only go so far. They still resent the rule of a foreign emperor. Deák has demanded that I return and help him sort this out.”

Andrássy’s point of view made sense to Sisi in a way it had not, years earlier, when her husband had griped to her about Hungarian antagonism. “How long until they start to demand their independence again?”

“You must remember it is not ‘they’ to me, Empress. It is ‘we.’ ”

“Oh . . . yes, of course.”

Andrássy sighed. “I hope to quell the disruption, for now. To tell Deák to advocate for harmony, rather than discord. Though I do not know how long I can keep peace for your husband.”

Sisi thought about this. “I couldn’t bear to think of you as an enemy again. I hope you remain our friend.”

“As do I.”

“And I shall miss seeing you here.” It seemed a horribly selfish thing to say when he was returning to plead her family’s cause to an unhappy populace. And terribly bold.

He looked up at her, his eyes creasing in a faint smile. “May I write to you while I’m away?”

Writing in itself was harmless; she wrote to hundreds of people a week. Nevertheless, Sisi suspected that this was the point at which she ought to say no. Perhaps it was her last chance to say no. If Andrássy began to write to her, would she come to crave his correspondence? Here was her chance to halt that need for him before it took hold of her. Knowing this, she opened her mouth to answer. As she did so, she smiled and said: “I hope you will.”

XV.

Outside, sun pours down over a summer day in Budapest, the Danube shimmering its way around the base of the hillside. The new
Széchenyi Lánchíd
, the Chain Bridge, stretches across the river like cast iron lace.

They stand atop the hill. The crowds surround them, waving flags and dancing to the Gypsy bands that pop up in small clusters. The people clamor so loudly that Sisi swears she sees the buildings tremble around her. A crash of cannonfire sounds.

“ 
Éljen Erzsébet!
Long live Elisabeth!”

One man approaches, his steps ushered through the hordes by a minister. He has long brown hair tinged with silver, parted in the middle to reveal a serious face. He alone in this entire multitude does not wear a smile.

“Empress.” The minister directs the man forward, but he appears bashful, too timid to step any closer. “Please, allow me to introduce you to our most beloved national composer, a man who—”

“Franz Liszt.” Sisi nods, finishing the sentence, beckoning the composer closer. “A man who needs no introduction. Why, Master Liszt, how can we thank you for composing our Coronation Mass?”

She stares into his eyes, momentarily struck by his presence. How she would love to shake his hand, to touch the fingers that play the piano with unparalleled virtuosity. But when he looks up, returns her gaze, she notices. Franz Liszt, the world’s most beloved musician, has tears in his eyes. His lips part, and he speaks quietly. In Hungarian, his native tongue. “ 
Éljen Erzsébet.
Long live Elisabeth.”

Chapter Fifteen

BAD KISSINGEN SPA, BAVARIA

JUNE 1866

Sisi received two
letters at breakfast that morning: one from her husband, the other from Andrássy.

Spring in Bad Kissingen had proven a difficult time for Sisi. She missed Rudy terribly. And yet the thought of returning to court filled her with anxiety, and, lately, skull-splitting headaches. Her mother-in-law, though often bedridden with coughs and aches these days, had tightened her grip over the education of the grandchildren, specifically the crown prince. Rather than being allowed to enjoy a longer childhood, as Sisi had advocated, and pursue a well-rounded education including languages, poetry, and arts, Rudy now spent long days studying history, military strategy, and Habsburg protocol. Already his tiny arms and legs were stuffed into the stiff uniform of the Austrian officer, as if he were playing dress-up in some game from which he would never escape.

Franz’s notes spoke of the boy’s “difficulties” adjusting to his new military tutor, an unforgiving general by the name of Leopold Gondrecourt. Sisi ached to hold and comfort her sensitive little boy. But, knowing that that was an impossibility whether she remained at court or traveled, Sisi had heeded Doctor Fischer’s advice and had agreed to spend the winter away from Vienna, in the resort town of Bad Kissingen.

Tucked away in the pristine Bavarian forest, at the base of the pine-and snow-capped Rhön Mountains, Bad Kissingen had been, at first, an ideal place for Sisi to recover her energy and lift her flagging spirits. The air was crisp and clear, the scenery wild, and her schedule free of the official appearances expected of her at court. Having left behind Herr Lobkowitz, Countess Frederika, and Lady Ilse in Vienna, Sisi spent her days now with just the companionship of Marie, Ida the new maid, and the hairdresser Franziska. There, away from the crowds and the protocol that worsened her anxiety and increased her discomfort, Sisi was allowed to rest and take in the mild, therapeutic waters of the nearby Franconian Saale River.

And yet, her poor health persisted. While Marie applauded the talents of their Bavarian cook, Sisi found the food unpleasing, and complained daily that she had no appetite or interest in food. Headaches often accompanied her throughout her long, monotonous days in the rented villa. At night she felt weary, yet sleep evaded her. Restless, yet unable to concentrate on any given task, she rode any time that her head pains were not incapacitating.

The letters from Andrássy were the one bright spot that winter and spring. He wrote her often, describing his time in Budapest, where he and Ferenc Deák were attempting to mollify an agitated and impatient populace. His letters always mentioned politics—he regularly sought her opinion on political matters—but they carried so much more than those updates. He inquired about her health, seeking her reassurance that she was taking care to eat and rest. And he always ended his letter with a piece of poetry or favorite quote.

“Is that all the mail this morning, Ida?” Sisi pushed aside her breakfast plate, having barely nibbled on a piece of dry toast.

“And the new dresses you’ve ordered have arrived, Empress.” The maid answered in Hungarian, as Sisi had instructed her to. Between her correspondence with Andrássy and her daily conversations with Marie and Ida, Sisi now felt as comfortable in Hungarian as German.

“How about my creams?”

“Not yet, Majesty.”

Sisi frowned. “I’m almost out.” The thought of passing a night without first embalming herself with ointments and rose-flavored oils frightened Sisi; that was how women invited wrinkles.

“Perhaps your ointments will arrive tomorrow, Empress,” Ida answered, always tactful.

Sisi took Andrássy’s letter to a chair by the window. There, in a puddle of April sunshine, she sat and opened the envelope.

“Sisi.”
She smiled as she read his greeting. She had urged him in her most recent letter to call her by her favorite nickname, and he had obeyed, addressing her with the same informal title his Hungarian people had adopted. Nevertheless, she noted, the address came without description. She was not
“Dear Sisi.”
Just as he was never
“Dear Andrássy”
in her letters to him. They did nothing wrong; they were simply friends communicating by letter. She continued to read:

Spring has bloomed throughout our city like the opening buds of a tulip. How I wish you could see it: the children fold their school papers into little boats and float them along the Danube. Their thoughts are on birds and sunshine, not school. And how could their minds dwell anywhere else? All around us burst signs of new life. Even now, as I write, my window is open and I smell the perfume of wildflowers, a nearby café serving fried potatoes, and the river. You shall have to plan a visit to this part of your kingdom next spring. There is nothing quite like springtime in Budapest.

Deák and I continue to advocate for a more measured, pragmatic solution to the strained relationship. I know that I have told you, in the past, that it will be independence or subjugation for my people. But I believe that the people begin to see our more moderate side; perhaps not all ties with Austria need be severed. If only we could have some acknowledgment from the emperor that our rights are sovereign and equal, so that the union between our two nations might be more akin to a respectful partnership than a relationship of master and subject.

But enough ink spilled on politics. I read your last letter with relish. I imagine the hills, covered in snow and ice, as they begin to thaw; the first signs of green might now be appearing on the boughs as you, bundled in fox fur, traipse along the wooded paths. Perhaps the ice has melted into a chilly, determined brook that begins its descent down the mountain slope. Do you walk through those wooded hills? I hope so. The air must be good for your lungs, and the views good for your soul.