Chapter 1 Gödöllo Palace, Hungary Summer 1868 Sisi could have offered any number of explanations as to why it was so different. Had someone asked her, it would have been simple enough for her to provide an answer. But what was the truth? she wondered. Why was it that twilight here in Gödöllo, her country estate just outside of Budapest, felt so different from twilight in Vienna? She might have said that it was the view: the unruly, wild, perfectly inviting view. Here, in the soft light of the coming evening, the grounds rolled open before her, unfurling in waves of gentle green before meeting thousands of acres of virgin woodlands. Clusters of wildflowers dotted the meadows, so different from Vienna''s imperial grounds and gardens, where sensible, stately tulips intersected lawns so symmetrical and tight clipped that it looked as though mankind had heeled nature into complete submission. Which of course, in Vienna, it had. Or was it the sound of Gödöllo at dusk? Evenings out here echoed with the bark of her sheepdogs; the carefree laughter of the Hungarian stable boys as they scrubbed down her horses; the first stirrings of the crickets and frogs as they welcomed dusk from the overgrown fields, nature''s unrivaled orchestra tuning up for its nightly symphony.
It was a collection of sounds so entirely unlike those to be had in Vienna, where Sisi might hear the one-two of polished boots as the imperial guards paraded across the courtyards; the clatter of coaches rolling past the Hofburg gates; the cries of the Viennese mob gathered outside the palace at all hours, begging for her to give them a florin coin or a glimpse of her celebrated silhouette, her legendary hairstyles. Perhaps it was the aroma in the air. Here a medley of sweet scents traveled across the breeze: the faint trace of wild rose and acacia, the earthy musk of the stables, the heady perfume of overgrown grass and straw and mud. It was a lush bouquet of smells so natural and pleasing, entirely different from what she might breathe in back in Vienna, where she inhaled the cloying eau de parfum of obsequious courtiers; the stink of so many bodies and chamber pots jammed into the Hofburg Palace; the fear of the noble men and women who were always watching, calculating as to how they might raise their own status or knock down a rival''s. Yes, fear was something one could smell. Sisi knew that, after all of her years in Vienna. But no, it was not the view, or the sound, or the scent that made twilight in Hungary so different from twilight in Austria. It was not anything outside of her or around her; it was a sensation entirely inside of her.
It was how she felt each evening at dusk that made Gödöllo so different from the Hofburg. In Vienna, by this hour of the day, Sisi would feel withered. Her head would ache from the unpleasantness of an argument with her husband or his iron-willed mother. Sisi''s stomach would be coiled into a gnarled mess, her chest tight with anxiety from a day of sorting gossip and rumors from truth, of watching for and trying to address the judgment or disapproval that seemed to pass across every courtier''s face. She would be looking drearily ahead to a night spent with the Imperial Court--a tedious evening ensconced in the damask and gold gilt of the staterooms, the sound of the violins overpowered by the chatter about trivial scandals. Hours spent watching women fawn before her husband, forcing a weary smile while men paid her the same trite compliments they used night after night. Days in Vienna were long, but the nights were interminable--and Sisi would limp back to her room each evening feeling spent, depleted. So fatigued that she already dreaded the next day before that day even came.
Here in Gödöllo she felt spent, too, but in the best way possible. Like a vessel poured out, light and free of burdens. Today, like all days at her Hungarian estate, she''d been free. She''d been outdoors since five in the morning, having risen at four. In keeping with her daily routine, she''d ridden hard and returned to the palace just briefly for a light broth at midday. The afternoon found her atop her horse once more and back in the fields and woodlands, where she practiced jumps, galloped to the point of breathlessness, and joined her charming neighbor, Prince Nikolaus Esterházy, in chasing foxes and racing across the untamed landscape. That was why twilight in Gödöllo was always so different. By the time the sun began to sink over the western fields in the direction of Budapest, Sisi''s body would ache with a pleasant, well-earned fatigue.
Her cheeks, brightened by the clean country air and the physical exertion, would glow a deep rose. Her heart would feel light, her spirits buoyant, and her body strong. And that was precisely how Sisi felt on this sultry late-summer evening, as she handed her horse off at the stables and thanked the Hungarian groom with an easy smile. She turned toward the palace, its red-domed roof cutting a fanciful outline against the fading sky. Even this structure, so whimsical and unpretentious, stood in contrast to the stately, solid form of Vienna''s imperial residence, the Hofburg. As Sisi looked now over the strawberry-pink and cream façade, her eyes moved to the second floor, finding the window on the eastern wing of the house. She smiled, picking up her pace. She had almost expected to see the tiny cherubic face peeking back at her from within a glow of early-evening candlelight; and suddenly she couldn''t wait to be back inside the palace, this place where she had made a home for herself, carving out a safe corner of domesticity and freedom away from the crushing hold of Vienna and the Imperial Court.
"Hello, Shadow." Sisi''s favorite dog, an oversized mound of wagging white fur, trotted up, lapping a sloppy greeting on her as she reached the front door. "You miss me today?" She stroked the massive hound a moment before nodding at the nearby footman and walking into the front hall, her dog trailing behind her in accordance with his name. "Empress Elisabeth." Ida Ferenczy, Sisi''s attendant and longtime friend, curtsied as the empress entered. Beside her snored the empress''s other dog, a heavy Saint Bernard named Brave. Her mother-in-law despised oversized dogs--the Archduchess Sophie only ever kept dogs small enough to sit in her lap. Perhaps that was why here, in Gödöllo, Sisi surrounded herself with the enormous, lovable beasts.
"Hello, Ida." Sisi tossed her riding gloves onto a nearby chair as she crossed the spacious, high-ceilinged front hall toward her attendant. "I will change quickly out of these riding clothes. I miss my little one. Is everything as it should be in the nursery?" "The Archduchess Valerie is in perfectly good health this evening, thanks be to God." "Has she cried today?" "Only the normal fretting of any small baby. But the nurse reports that the little archduchess has had her milk without incident, and she should be in good spirits for Your Majesty''s visit to the nursery." "Good.
I''ll change and then go straight to her." "Of course. And was Your Majesty''s ride pleasing today?" "Yes." Sisi nodded, making her way to the broad, curving staircase that led upstairs toward her suite of private rooms. "It was a wonderful day. The fox thought he had found a safe haven in the southern woodlands, but Nicky rooted him out, and we nearly--" Sisi paused on the steps, her mind pulled in several directions at once. "That reminds me, Ida, we shall be four for dinner tonight instead of three. Nicky--rather, Prince Esterházy--practically begged me for an invitation, and I hadn''t the heart to refuse him.
He''ll join the two of us and Countess Marie." "In that case, Madame, I believe that we shall be five instead of four." Ida''s lips curled upward in a sheepish smile, but she offered nothing more by way of explanation. "Who?" Sisi asked, her hand bracing on the stairway''s carved balustrade. "Who else is coming?" Had Franz decided to plan a last-minute visit? Sisi''s stomach coiled--the emperor''s presence, as rare as it was out here, had a way of disrupting the fragile, carefree peace she fought so hard to cultivate in this household. As an answer, Ida held forth the small golden mail dish, piled with papers. "Your Imperial Majesty''s personal correspondences." "Thank you.
" Sisi took the dish, riffling through the pile. "You''ve forwarded all of the official petitions and letters on to my secretary in Vienna?" Ida nodded. Sisi''s eyes landed on the one calling card, its lettering long and graceful--and familiar. No, this was not news of the emperor. This was a sight so longed for that Sisi felt her heart lurch in her breast, aching now with the first kindling of hope. Andrássy! But could it be? Was Andrássy back in Hungary? Sisi fixed a questioning gaze on her attendant, aware of how her eager tone betrayed her as she asked: "Did he . did Count Andrássy come by today?" Leaning forward, her voice low, Ida whispered: "Count Andrássy came calling while you were riding. He said he''d return for dinner.
" Sisi clutched the banister, her heart feeling like it might trip down the carpeted stairs even as she stood frozen in place. "Well, that''s a surprise. A most pleasant surprise. Come, I must dress at once." As she dressed for the evening, Sisi made her way through the remaining pile of letters, her mind wandering every few moments back to Andrássy. Had he missed her these past months as she had missed him? How long would he stay? Would all be the same betw.