Tasha Alexander - A Fatal Waltz

“Warm, Lady Ashton?” The countess glared at me as she came into the room.

“Terribly. I don’t know how you bear it.” I snapped open the fan and began waving it.

“Why are you here, Lady Ashton? I’m not bored enough to have even the slightest inclination to pretend to be your friend.”

“Do you love Colin?”

Her eyes flashed. “Why don’t you ask him?”

I stared at her a moment before continuing. “I suppose love is irrelevant. You still long for him. That’s obvious.”

“I have a connection with him that will never fade.”

“What precisely is your relationship with Schröder?” I asked.

“That’s none of your business.”

“Harrison has hired him to kill Colin.”

“He told me. Thought I’d find it amusing,” she said.

“Did you?”

She met my stare. “I did not.”

“I’ve already admitted that I don’t like you,” I said. “When I’m near you I feel awkward, inept, and inexperienced. I look at you and wonder how he could have loved both of us.”

“We’re not so different,” she said.

“Your sophistication puts me to shame.”

“Colin’s had more than his share of beauty, and it never made him happy. I was always able to offer him more, as are you.” She lit a cigarette. “Not that I take any pleasure in saying that. I’d hoped to find you nothing more than pretty and vapid.”

“I’d hoped never to find you at all.”

She blew smoke towards me and laughed, then drew deeply on her cigarette. “Your naïveté is almost touching.”

“You’re Schröder’s lover, aren’t you?”

“Sometimes. He tells me you’re providing him with information that’s making it worth his while to delay completing the job.”

“Yes, but I may have to return to England soon. And if I do, I need to know that there’s someone here in a position to influence him.”

“You would trust me to do that?”

“I trust that you don’t want Colin harmed. Can I count on you? For this, at least?” I asked.

“Ja. But not for anything else.”

“I’m not so naïve as you think,” I said.

“Perhaps not.”

I stood to leave, but before I’d crossed to the door I stopped and turned back to her. “Why didn’t you marry him?”

“Because I knew that the responsibility of having a wife would weigh on him, and the distraction might make him careless in his work. I didn’t want to lose him, but I couldn’t let him know that I loved him. He would have kept proposing if I’d given him any hope of that. And so you see, Lady Ashton, that is the difference between us. My love for him is selfless. Yours will kill him.”

“Kallista, chérie ! Why have you kept this from me all this time?” I’d found Cécile in Klimt’s studio and pulled her into a quiet corner while he mixed paint.

“I don’t know. I feel so insecure and hopeless and foolish.”

“There’s nothing foolish about it. Tell me about this Kristiana. You are not truly concerned that she could pull Monsieur Hargreaves away from you?”

“No, it’s not that. I just worry that after loving a woman like her—so sophisticated and experienced, with so much knowledge of the world—he’ll find me lacking.”

“He would never have proposed to you if that were the case. He knows you better than anyone, Kallista.”

“Yes, but—”

“I know what you are worrying about.” She looked at me, her gray eyes serious. “I have no doubt that he will be pleased. It is not a difficult thing. But you already know this.”

“To a very small degree.”

“That is enough. Your passion will take care of the rest.”

“I wish I knew why he stopped wanting her,” I said, tugging on my bottom lip with a nervous hand. “Can emotions be so fickle?”

“They almost always are, chérie. ”

“He proposed to her, Cécile. She turned him down.”

“That was years ago.”

“Turned down whom?” Klimt had finished with his paints and come over to us.

“No one,” I said.

“Kristiana and your fiancée?” he asked.

“Does everyone in Vienna know their history?” I asked, petulant.

“Ja , pretty much. It was quite a story at the time.”

“All that matters is that he’s with you now,” Cécile said.

“More or less,” Klimt said.

“You’re not exactly inspiring confidence,” I said.

“Love is not a static thing.” He rolled a paintbrush between his hands. “You have him now, and that should be enough. Don’t worry about what came before or what will come after.”

“I can’t imagine something coming after. I can’t imagine not loving him,” I said. “Or feeling it with less intensity, regardless of our circumstances, regardless of how much time goes by.”

“Hold on to that,” Cécile said. “Don’t let it slip away from you.”

“Is it something over which we have control?” I asked.

“I don’t know, chérie. I don’t know.”

“There’s no controlling love,” Klimt said. “It comes when it comes and goes when it goes.”

“I don’t want to believe that,” I said.

“Then close your eyes, Fräulein. You’ll need to.”

28 December 1891

Berkeley Square, London

Madam:

I felt I should inform you that the difficulties Mrs. Brandon faces are increasing daily. Newspaper reporters are hovering on the front steps day and night, daunted only slightly by the footmen emptying buckets of dirty water directly above them. They follow Miss Seward and Mrs. Brandon whenever the ladies leave the house. Miss Seward and I have developed any number of complicated schemes to throw them off, but unfortunately we’ve met with something less than success. Tomorrow she plans to wear a maid’s uniform and exit through the servants’ entrance.

It is an admirable plan, but I’m afraid that even a newspaperman can tell the difference between a maid and a lady. I find that I don’t have the heart to tell Miss Seward this. She’s quite consumed with excitement.

Mrs. Ockley has informed me that Odette has a tendency to suffer in cold weather and suggests that she take a tincture—recipe enclosed—before bed every night. I should hate for Mrs. du Lac to lose the services of so capable a maid even for a short time.

Berry Bros. & Rudd have delivered the port you ordered and I wonder if you would prefer that I send it directly on to Park Lane. I cannot imagine any circumstances in which you and Mr. Hargreaves would not be married before it is ready to drink.

I am your most humble and devoted servant,

—Davis

Cécile finished sitting for her portrait the next day. I wondered if she would continue to see Klimt, but she had very little to say on the subject. We spent the afternoon at the Imperial, hosting Friedrich and Anna, and I must say that being in the proximity of such eager love made me feel nearly as cynical as the Countess von Lange. I turned my back to our guests (who weren’t paying us the slightest attention anyway) and read my mail, laughing when I came to Davis’s letter.

“You’re quite diverted,” Cécile said.

“My butler is concerned that your maid will suffer in the cold weather.”

“It is essential we keep them apart, or one of us is going to lose a servant.”

“You could move to London,” I said, bending down to scratch Brutus’s head.

“I’ve already been away from Paris longer than I can bear.”

“But you’re providing so many valuable services in Vienna,” I said. “Look how happy Friedrich and Anna are. Do you think her parents will ever come around to accepting him?”