The Accidental Empress (48 page)

“Elisa, please!”

“I am only joking. I shall be friendly. Just for the night.” Sisi cocked her head, smiling at her husband as they climbed the front stairs. Two roaring lions, frozen in white stone, welcomed them at the top of the stairway.

“Is there a Madame Andrássy?” Sisi asked, adjusting her loose bun one final time so that the sapphires that dripped from her earlobes were visible. They stood before the broad front door.

“Andrássy is married to the cause of Hungarian autonomy. Other than that, I have never known him to mention a woman.”

“He sounds terribly dull.” Sisi smirked.

A stiff-backed footman pushed open the door and they entered the grand front hall of the Andrássy mansion. There they stood, waiting to be announced. Sisi’s eyes darted around the bright, open layout of the first floor, taking it in. The home seemed to sprout out from a centrally located stairway that wound its way up toward a second floor. Veering off from the front hall were four open doorways. To the front right was a spacious drawing room, where clusters of well-dressed men and women stood in small circles, smoking, laughing, and sipping champagne. The floor-to-ceiling windows were open, bringing in a cool breeze that disrupted the heavy aromatic canopy of cigarettes, pipes, and ladies’ perfume. Behind this room was a dark and fully stocked library, where smaller, more intimate conversations were occurring, somewhat removed from the violins that played across the hall, in a large conservatory. And to the front left was a dining room, in which servants buzzed about, coming and going from the hidden kitchen with platters of food that would soon be served.

Andrássy’s home was pleasant, tastefully decorated, Sisi had to concede that. It certainly did not have the look of a hapless bachelor. Sisi wondered if Andrássy himself had picked out the patterned carpets, the stately grandfather clock and crystal chandeliers, the portraits of mustached, stern-looking men that clung to the walls.

Just then, she and Franz were announced, a clear-voiced attendant silencing all side conversations. “Their Imperial Majesties, Emperor Franz Joseph of Austria, King of Hungary. And Her Majesty, the Empress Consort, Elisabeth of Austria, Queen of Hungary.”

All around the ground floor the violins fell silent and side conversations ceased. Each set of eyes fixed on the emperor and empress, two figures unfamiliar to Budapest society. As was required, the entire crowd bowed. Was Sisi imagining it, or were their bows less enthusiastic—more reluctant—than those in Vienna? After a moment, Sisi could detect the hint of faint whispers, hesitant, like new buds after the freeze of winter.

“Well?” Franz looked to Sisi, mouthing it through tight lips, hoping for some cue. They remained at the front of the entrance hall. “What now?”

Franz was always the host, Sisi realized. People came to him, forming lines to be blessed by his acknowledgment; he did not attend dinner parties as a guest. Sisi smiled, tossing her head so that her sapphires and curls bounced as she whispered into Franz’s ear. “Where is Andrássy?”

But that question was answered for her.

“Your Majesties.” The tall, dark-haired man, dressed in a tuxedo with a coat and tails, swept toward them. Under a dark mustache, his lips curled up into a smile, but it was not the carefree, warm smile that a host offers a guest he truly loves. It was a polite, courteous smile, and nothing more. He bowed before them. “Forgive my guests. You must feel as if you are actors on the stage.” Franz bristled at the remark, his figure stiffening noticeably beside Sisi’s; not often was the emperor of Austria compared to as lowly a set as actors. “We Hungarians do not often lay eyes on our Habsburg kings and queens. Good of you to come, Your Majesties. Emperor.”

“Andrássy, good to see you.” Franz stepped forward, nodding at him.

“And Your Majesty, Empress Elisabeth.” Andrássy bowed once more, now fixing his dark eyes on her as he did so, and Sisi caught the scent of cigar smoke on his breath. “It is our honor to have you here.”

“Indeed,” Franz gently directed his wife forward. “You remember the empress from the opera. In Vienna.”

“But how could I ever forget?”

“Count Andrássy, it is a pleasure to see you once more.” Sisi looked at him with a half smile, making her best effort at haughty formality. It was something she had seen her mother-in-law do so many times.

“Empress Elisabeth, if I may say so, the legends of your beauty have spread throughout our entire country. And yet, they do not do you justice as I see you this evening.”

Sisi averted her eyes, irritated with herself for blushing at the flattery of her husband’s rival. She had prepared herself for his rudeness, even antagonism; charm was entirely unexpected.

But Andrássy continued his assault, his dark eyes staring at her intently from what Sisi begrudgingly admitted was a strong, attractive face. “Empress Elisabeth, I hear that you are taking Hungarian lessons. How are you finding our language?”

All side conversations had ceased, so that every eye in the room observed this exchange. Now Sisi had to answer, though she was a bit stunned by Andrássy’s preparedness for this meeting. How had he gleaned such palace gossip?

“I love the Hungarian people, and their language, Count Andrássy. It strikes me as beautiful and nuanced, as they themselves are.”

“And they love you, Empress.” Andrássy nodded, running a white-gloved hand through a head of wavy, dark hair. “Why, you know that all the women in the city are now wearing their hair in plaits? They call it
à la
Sisi.”

Sisi lowered her eyes, stumped as to how to respond. Part of her wanted to smile, part of her wanted to stomp her foot at Andrássy’s cool and commanding demeanor.

He continued: “As any shrewd monarch knows, the best way to win a people’s heart is with the softer forms of power: love, words, bread. Not the sword.”

“Of course,” Sisi answered, wondering, as she did so, if that was a veiled criticism of her husband. A commentary on his brutal response, espoused by Sophie, to the rebellions of 1848.

Andrássy leaned forward, toward her. “In that case, Empress, let me be the first to say it to you in my mother tongue:
Jó estét, felség.
”

“What does that mean?” Franz interjected.

“It means ‘Good evening, Your Majesty,’ ” Sisi said, translating the Hungarian for her husband.

“Very good, Imperial Majesty.” Andrássy smiled, a mischievous glimmer in his dark eyes. Sisi could not tell if he was being earnest or if he was mocking her—using her title that he, no doubt, deeply resented. Hungary wanted no part of the “imperial” affiliation. Either way, he made her very ill at ease and she confirmed her intention to feel no fondness for this man.

Sisi stood up tall, tossing her head back with haughty determination, and answered, “
Jó estét, gróf Andrássy
.” Turning to her husband she repeated it in German. “I said: ‘Good evening, Count Andrássy.’ ”

“Bravo!” Again, that mischievous, quizzical smile of Andrássy’s. “My only critique, if I may be so presumptuous as to offer one to Your Highness, would be that you speak Hungarian with a German accent.”

“And you speak German with a Hungarian accent, Count.”

Andrássy erupted in a peal of hearty laughter, the type of laugh that prompts everyone in a room to look in its direction, certain that, of all the conversations being conducted, the one that prompted such a laugh must surely be the most enjoyable.

“Please, Your Majesties, you must have wine.” With a flick of Andrássy’s wrist, a footman appeared, delivering three flutes, chilled and filled with an amber-colored drink.

“It is
tokaji
, our national sweet wine.” Andrássy served them and then held his glass aloft, gently clinking it against Sisi’s.

“To your daughters, the Habsburg princesses. I hear they have already won the heart of our nation.” It might have been a perfectly good-natured toast. Or, Sisi mused, a subtle jab at Franz—the man who had produced two daughters, but not yet a male heir. But perhaps now she was ascribing unjustified villainy to the man.

“Thank you, Andrássy.” Franz nodded, apparently assured of Andrássy’s well-meant hospitality.

“And to the beautiful mother whom they resemble.” Andrássy turned his dark eyes on Sisi once more.

“Thank you, Count.” Sisi was furious with herself for blushing at this. “But actually, my eldest is the image of her father.”

“Emperor Franz Joseph, as a little girl? What a thought.” Again, Andrássy erupted into laughter. She had set him up for that one, Sisi grumbled to herself, clenching her teeth. Franz, meanwhile, laughed stiffly as he sipped his wine. Several other partygoers had moved closer to Andrássy, angling to overhear the source of his merriment.

Sisi understood then just how formidable Andrássy would be in negotiations. This was not a cantankerous man who advanced his side with threats or cajoling. This was a man who won people over. He led because people loved him, they demanded it of him.

He was younger, too, than Sisi had expected. To be a count with such a position of prominence in his homeland, she had expected to find him gray, wrinkled, or at least a man of middle age. But Andrássy was energetic and youthful. Perhaps even close to her own age. He would be a thorn in Franz’s side for a long time, if they could not bring him over to their allegiance.

A gong sounded, announcing the start of dinner, and Andrássy led the small gathering into the dining room. There, a spread of traditional Hungarian fare awaited, heaped on platters and overspilling large porcelain bowls and tureens.

The emperor was seated at the head of the long oak table, with his wife to one side and Andrássy’s political ally, a lawyer, at the other.

“My name is Ferenc Deák, Your Majesty,” the man said, bowing opposite Sisi. His coloring was dark like Andrássy’s, yet his hair was laced with threads of silver and white, speaking to his advanced age. “Welcome to Budapest, Empress Elisabeth.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Deák. I thank you.” Sisi put on her sweetest smile and reminded herself to keep it on all throughout dinner—this evening was, after all, about making overtures of goodwill.

It angered her, however, as she took her place, that Andrássy sat at the opposite head of the table, in a position of prominence almost equal to the emperor’s.
At least now perhaps we won’t have to talk to him throughout dinner,
she thought.

Toasts were made by both Andrássy and Deák. Both men commenced by welcoming the emperor and empress to Budapest before expressing their desires that many years of harmony might exist between the Austrian and Hungarian peoples. Always, Sisi noticed, the Hungarians and the Austrians were referred to as two
separate
and
unique
people—not the same, though both lived under the same Habsburg rule.

The dinner was entirely Hungarian cuisine. They began with
husleves
, a light broth with vegetables and thin noodles. Then came
hortobagyi palacsinta
, thin crepes filled with veal and vegetables, seasoned with Hungary’s favorite spice—paprikas, spicy chili peppers. The main entrée,
csirke paprikás
, made special use of these peppers. It was a chicken dish in a creamy, peppery stew over rice.

Each dish came with an accompanying Hungarian wine, and Deák, who proved to be softer spoken than Andrássy, turned out to be a perfectly charming conversationalist. By the time she had finished her meal, Sisi felt warm and full; even a little bit more at ease than she had expected to feel.

From the opposite end of the table Andrássy held up his hand and the music in the room stopped. His guests turned to him.

“How was the food?” He arched his dark eyebrows, glancing down the length of table and resting his gaze on Sisi. She averted her eyes, watching as the diners around the table nodded to Andrássy, offering their approval of the meal.

“Good, good. Glad you enjoyed yourselves.” Andrássy smiled, proffering a cigar, which a footman promptly lit for him. “And you, Emperor?”

“Compliments to the chef.” Franz nodded at his host, rapping the table with his hands.

“You are too kind, Majesty.” Andrássy exhaled a wreath of cigar smoke that encircled his dark, relaxed face.

The table was now silent. Several diners accepted cigars from footmen and the rest of his guests looked to Andrássy for some conversational cue. Andrássy sat, content, puffing his cigar. He had the air of a charismatic professor, Sisi decided, more than a political firebrand. He commanded attention. Even she, in spite of her own efforts, found herself wondering what he might say next.

“I’ve heard that Your Majesties are great appreciators of music.” Andrássy smiled, his dark eyes once again alert as he stared at Sisi. “Your new court composer, Master Strauss, makes Vienna the envy of the rest of Europe.”

“Indeed.” Franz rapped on the table once more, his body impossibly wooden and stiff opposite Andrássy’s relaxed posture.

“I think that, second to the empress, Master Strauss helps to make you the most envied man in Europe, Emperor Franz Joseph.” Andrássy held the cigar ever so loosely between his lips, his mischievous smirk darting back and forth between Sisi and Franz. Sisi fidgeted in her chair, uncomfortable with the directness of the remark, the directness of his gaze.

“I heard the
Elisabethklänge
, Your Majesty’s waltz.”

“That was a gift, from my husband,” Sisi said.

“Beautiful.” Andrássy nodded, the sound of his voice hanging in the air, suspended like the cigar smoke. “I can’t offer you Master Strauss’s equal, I’m afraid.” Andrássy paused, puffing again on his cigar. “But how about some music?”

“Splendid idea,” Deák said. The crowd concurred, delighted to find out what their host had planned. Andrássy clapped his hands and nodded. “Send them in.”

Just then, a small cluster of dancers filed in from the kitchen, a burst of color in their traditional peasant clothing. Red and green and black stitching popped from the women’s dresses, their hair pulled back behind jeweled headbands that stood upright atop their heads. The men wore vests with matching stitching. They looked like they could have been brothers, with Andrássy’s dark coloring and thick, handlebar mustache. But, unlike Andrássy, these men and women were dressed as if they had just arrived from one of Hungary’s remotest peasant villages.