The Accidental Empress (70 page)

“Welcome to Vienna, Count Andrássy.” Sisi greeted him in the receiving line at the back of the Spiegelsaal. It was one of Schönbrunn’s grandest halls, opulent with gold gilt and rows of glittery mirrors. Every candelabra was lit, so that the dancing candles illuminated the frescoes that swirled overhead. But Sisi cared about none of the grandeur of the room. Standing there, staring at Andrássy after such a long absence, she longed to smile. Longed to inquire about his arduous, soggy journey. To revel in their joint progress on behalf of Hungary. But she was aware that Sophie stood beside her, listening.

Sophie had worn a scowl on her face ever since Franz had announced his intention to invite Andrássy and Deák for negotiations:
“Don’t you remember what they did to us in ’48? And don’t you remember, it was a Hungarian who tried to stab you to death?”
But Sisi had prevailed, perhaps because Franz now saw the painted image of his wife’s bare shoulder, her loose and glossy tresses, every time he stepped into his study to consider his foreign policy.

“Thank you, Empress Elisabeth.” Andrássy bowed to Sisi now in the receiving line, his dark eyes twinkling as he said her name. The appreciative way in which he studied her appearance filled Sisi with satisfaction.

“It is good to have you in Vienna, Count.” Sisi tried to keep her facial expression calm as she beheld him. Inside, her heart clamored, beating so violently that she feared it was louder than the nearby violins.

“The palace feels welcoming and warm after our days on the road, Empress.” Andrássy looked as handsome as she had remembered, and in spite of her better judgment, she smiled.

“I understand that the journey was a tiring one, Count Andrássy. I hope you have recovered?”

“I am quite comfortable now, Your Majesty.” Andrássy lingered before her, his eyes holding hers, smooth and rich as dark silk.

“Count Andrássy.” Sophie stepped forward, impatient in the receiving line.

“Archduchess Sophie, it is splendid to see you.” Andrássy peeled his gaze from Sisi to turn and pay his respects to her mother-in-law. And like that, their reunion was over. At dinner, Andrássy was seated beside Franz, at the far end of the table from Sisi. Throughout the meal, they exchanged brief, fleeting looks. Sisi, for her part, chatted with Deák through most of the dinner. Though she longed to let her eyes wander to the far side of the table, she forced herself not to. She could not stare, Sisi knew. Someone would surely notice the pull between the two of them—if they hadn’t already.

The following day marked the beginning of negotiations—discussions to which Sisi was not invited. Sisi passed the morning with the children, attempting to remain distracted as she helped Rudolf study his French. In the afternoon, even though the heavy rain persisted, she rode—a long, strenuous ride that she hoped would tire her out and beat back the restlessness that gnawed at her.

That evening, Franz took his supper in his suite and ordered no visitors. Sisi, chilled from her outing and frantic to hear how the day’s meetings had gone, felt edgy and without an appetite. Unsettled, she paced her apartment, barking orders at Ida and dismissing Franziska when sitting still to have her hair brushed proved too tedious. At dusk she decided to set out for another walk.

“But, my lady, it’s raining out.” Ida, who was turning down the bed for the evening, eyed Sisi disapprovingly.

“Then fetch my cloak.” Sisi paused at the doorway, allowing herself to be bundled into the hooded cloak.

“It is nearly dark out, Empress.”

“I will stay on the terraces.”

“Why don’t I prepare you a bath instead?”

“I am too restless tonight. I can’t stay here.” And with that, Sisi set out into the waterlogged gardens. She ordered her guards to leave her, promising them that she would remain within the private grounds. She was too on edge to have to listen to the sounds of their boots pattering behind her, like the echoes of the phantoms that already visited her at night.

The trees shivered as a clap of thunder ripped across the sky. Sisi made her way out onto the colonnade, opting for the covered stone walkways rather than the drenched and muddy lawns. She pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders, grateful for Ida’s insistence that she take it.

How could she find an update on how the day’s discussions had gone? she wondered. Franz’s abrupt retreat to his chamber seemed to indicate that the day had not been successful. But when would she hear from Andrássy?

Pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders and head, Sisi quit the pathway and made for the hill. She climbed the sodden slope, pausing only when she reached the top and stood before the Gloriette, the series of archways that boasted, triumphant, across the summit. Out of breath and soaked, she paused, sitting down on a covered stone ledge. There she peered down the hill, at the rain that splashed the endless grounds below her. That all of this existed for one man, and for her, struck her as somehow ludicrous, even after all of these years in her role. She sat—she didn’t know for how long—as the gardens sank deeper into darkness.

A shadow of mist appeared just a few feet away. At first, Sisi thought it nothing more than the rain. But then, she smelled its scent: cigarette smoke.

“Hello?” She called out, her voice barely rising above the thrum of the rain that slapped the stone archways around her.

“Hello?” Sisi repeated her call.

Just then, a tall figure emerged from the other side of the arch.

“Andrássy?” The delight in Sisi’s voice was apparent, even to her, as she stood up.

“Sisi?” He sounded equally pleased. He walked toward her, reaching her in two long strides. He kissed her cold, ungloved hand.

“Andrássy.” She stared at him. “This is a surprise.”

“Indeed. It’s good to see you.”

“And you.”

“Please.” He helped her back to a seated position on the stone ledge, and he sat beside her. “Or is it too cold out here? Would you prefer to go indoors?”

“I came out here of my own accord,” she said, smiling.

“Well then, please, allow me.” He removed his stiff white coat and draped it over her shoulders.

“Thank you.”

“I had to come see this,” he said, gesturing around at the architecture that enfolded them. “It looked to me like a giant wedding cake atop this hill.”

She laughed, burrowing into his coat as she looked out over the dark gardens, thrilled at how close he was. At the fact that they were alone. She lived for these stolen moments of intimacy. They were wrong, forbidden, and yet, they had somehow become the sustenance that helped her survive their long and painful separations.

“Trouble sleeping?”

She nodded.

“Me, as well. I doubt I shall be able to sleep at all tonight.”

Her glance slid sideways, to where he sat beside her. “How did it go today?”

Andrássy sighed, taking up the half-expired cigarette that he had been smoking prior to her appearance.

“That bad?”

“He seemed to come with his mind already decided against us.”

Sisi thought about this, frowning. “What did he say? Did he grow angry?”

“On the contrary. He was quiet. Almost disinterested at times.”

“Who was there?”

“He came with Beust. I brought Deák.”

“Surely Beust considered your side?”

“Indeed. He did try his best.” Andrássy took a long pull on his cigarette. “Things were not exactly amicable, but they were cordial, for most of the day. Until we came to the matter of separate governments.”

“What happened?”

“He thinks we are playing a stealthy trick to slowly strip him of his power.”

“He said that?”

“Indirectly.”

Sisi thought back to the conversations she’d had with Franz on the topic. “He has already lost so much land.”

“Through war. Something we are trying to avoid,” Andrássy said.

“I agree.” Sisi nodded. “War must be avoided at all costs. But he is hesitant to cede his control over the government in Budapest. He fears that it would give the appearance of weakness.”

“Yes, but we can’t truly be equal members of the empire if we can’t at least govern ourselves.”

Sisi shivered, pulling Andrássy’s coat closer around her neck. She breathed him in, his scent. Damp wool and cigarette smoke and a hint of something sweet—shaving cream?

Andrássy sighed, finishing off his cigarette and stomping it out beneath his boot.

“Is this an impassible difference?” she asked.

“I hope not.”

Sisi exhaled.
“Difficulties increase the nearer we get to the goal.”

Andrássy looked at her, his smile apparent in the murky, waterlogged moonlight. He had recognized the quote from Goethe.

“Who else would know what to say at such a time?”

He nodded appreciatively, taking her bare, cold hand in his; his skin felt impossibly warm against hers. This was indiscreet, she knew, but she could not resist his touch. They sat beside one another in silence, staring out at the rain for a long while, her hand unmoving in his.

For how long they sat like that, she didn’t know. Not long enough. Eventually, Andrássy turned to her. “I didn’t expect to find the empress of Austria sitting out here, after dark, in the rain.”

“My maid proposed that I take a bath, but I couldn’t imagine sitting still.” She blushed as soon as she said it, as soon as she realized how indecent a topic it was.

He lit another cigarette and stared at her, holding her with a thoughtful gaze. Exhaling, his eyes still on her, he asked: “Who do you think is the more restless soul of the two of us?”

She smiled, taking the cigarette from his fingers and inhaling a puff for herself. “Hard to tell.”

“You seem pretty restless.” He smiled at her, watching her smoke.

“I am.” She nodded, exhaling.

“I didn’t know you smoked.”

“I don’t,” she said, her mind still processing his question. “There was a while, right after I first married Franz, when I was content. Or at least, I thought I was. Other than that, I can’t really recall not ever being restless.
I’ve never found a horse that could run fast enough.”

Andrássy turned, looking through the veil of falling rain out over their dark surroundings. “I wonder if, after we settle the Hungarian question of independence—
if
we settle it—if I will find some peace. In Hungary. Perhaps I might be able to calm down then.”

“I was happy in Hungary,” Sisi said.

Andrássy turned to her. “Then you should come back.”

Her breath caught, suspended in her throat. “I would like that,” she said, after several moments. “Would you?”

He slid his body closer to her on the cold stone ledge. He did not speak, but the look on his face answered her.

“Sisi.” He was close to her now, taking her face in his hands. His fingers felt warm, almost as warm as the burn she now felt in her cheeks. He hovered before her, his face just inches from hers, their eyes locked. Sisi was hesitant to break the thread between them by speaking.

“Perhaps I don’t wish you to come, Sisi. Perhaps I would not be able to survive, if you did.” As he spoke, she smelled the cigarette on his breath. “Is this how it would be, I wonder? You, right in front of me. And yet, forever out of my reach?”

“Kiss me, Andrássy.” Her voice was pleading. It surprised even her.

The shake of his head was minuscule, barely perceptible. But enough to break her heart.

“No,” he said at last, his voice resolute. He dropped his fingers, letting go of her face.

She lowered her eyes, forcing herself to breathe as she fought back tears. He loved her, she felt almost sure of it. And she loved him, it was useless to go on denying it. Her insides clamored, her heart teemed with equal parts love and anger. How cruel a joke the fates had played on them!

“I must go.” Sisi rose, sliding herself out of his jacket and handing it back to him. Without it, the night felt unbearably cold, and she brought her arms around herself.

Andrássy stood, resting a hand on her bare, goose-pimpled arm. “May I walk you back?” He seemed hesitant to let her go.

“No, stay here.” Her voice had a frantic edge as she slid her arm from his grip.

“At least allow me to explain . . .” He reached for her once more.

“Please, stop. I beg you,” Sisi said, willing herself to remain strong. “I must go. Good night.” She excused herself, turning back toward the palace. But when she was back indoors, she did not turn toward her own bedroom.

XVII.