The Empress Chronicles (9 page)

When Dr. Greta comes back in she’s visibly distressed. “I apologize,” she says. “There is a young woman in crisis out there, and it’s best that we conclude.”

She’s completely preoccupied, I can see, and I when I hand the old journal to her, she sloppily shoves it back in the cabinet, turning the key with a thoughtless twist before showing me the door.

“See you next week, then,” I say.

“Next
veek
,” she murmurs.

And I stride past the next patient, out of the waiting room, leaving whatever the crisis was behind me, original diary pages from a famous empress sealed between the covers of my food diary.

Gackl was so furious with me for embarrassing him that he committed the ultimate sin and betrayed me to Baroness Wilhelmine. Luckily our long-suffering governess had such a bad case of intestinal autointoxication that she’d taken to her bed until her bowels let loose their poisons. Nevertheless, Papa was persuaded to house the blackamoor boys in another part of the palace, and my kissing practice ceased.

With Nené preoccupied and Gackl in a snit and Mummi at odds with the world and the governess indisposed and angry mobs all over Munich causing the palace staff much extra work, I had a reprieve. For the first time in several weeks, no one was lecturing me about lessons and bleeding. But I had yet to write a full letter to Archduke Karl requiting his deep interest in me. What was missing, I realized, was a sense of wonder. Perhaps declarations of love for someone who lived so far away needed a push. Something to spark their origin. And nothing sparked my feelings of love more than an invigorating ride through the English Garden. A ride on horseback would loosen my throttled spirit, I was certain. I always brought my journal with me, tucked in the saddlebag, for riding brought out the poetess in me. Unlike in the bedchambers, verse sprung unbidden from the trees and the sky and the wind. My pony’s snort, its canter through a field at dusk—I’d yearned for this.

If I did not get some sun on my face soon, I was sure that my skin would gray up and turn to dust, like that of my governess. No wonder her bowels had backed toxins into her vitals. She never went outside. She wandered the halls of our castle sullen and moody. Occasionally, she would train her eye on me, leaving it there for longer than necessary, as if scrutinizing or appraising a vase or a portrait. It was unsettling. Though I did feel guilty wishing for a reprieve from her watch—especially hearing her bellyache groans behind her bedroom door as I slipped away from the nursery.

Cupid and Psyche were quite happy to see me and the pockets of my riding coat, which I’d stuffed with turnips. The stable hands were all abed, taking the post-midday meal lie-down in the harness room. I could hear their range of snoring: the old one loud as a boar, the two younger men whistling through their noses. I should have no trouble unseating the lady’s saddle from the horn, and the hackamore beneath it, without awakening them. I was even more assured of this once I saw the jug of blackberry schnapps beside them on the saddlery floor.

Ah, but which of my ponies? Cupid the piebald was fat and sassy. Given to occasional bouts of prance, shying at imagined sprites and demons, he was unpredictably sly. Despite his skittish ways, my outings with Cupid left me feeling adventurous and free. His willfulness and speed I understood, and beneath me his body and my mind merged into one beast. Tales of far-off kingdoms, of handsome dukes and princes, sprang loose. What was around us—the everyday tipping of hats, the geese flying to Italy—transformed to the fantastic. When Cupid hopped over a fallen linden branch, we were leaping over a Cyprus stand in Greece. But one had to be somewhat mindful, for Cupid had an enormous appetite. Should a mare be in season anywhere within a heptacre, his nostrils would flare, his tail would rise, and off he would gallop, head down, haunches gathered. A hackamore was not nearly enough to contain him. Dear Cupid, you see, had not been successfully gelded. He had but one seed sac and the horse doctor could not coax the other from his body, so his stallion tendencies persisted.

“Do not take the ridgling out by yourself,” Papa often warned (and Papa was quite liberal with my whims). “Should the old boy get the fever, well, you’ll be smeared against a tree. A puddle of Sisi.”

So Psyche it would be. Psyche, my fine-boned filly. The delicate chestnut upon whom I’d nearly overtaken Count S. on that fateful hunt. I settled my new leaping horn saddle on my filly, and she bloated as I cinched the girth. I could tell by her flattened ears and swishing tail that this afternoon’s ride would not go well. As I mounted her, slipped my diary and pen in the saddlebag, adjusted my skirts round the horn of bunny ears that kept me from falling over the edge, she spun her head and snapped at me, getting a mouthful of petticoat for her troubles. I swatted her ears. She snapped again, this time catching a sliver of flesh between her teeth. I boxed her nose. She tossed a hind leg high into the air behind her. I spanked her rump. “What has you so high and mighty, mare?” I yelled.

I heard the grooms begin to stir in the tack room. Sweat beads gathered under my arms. We needed to be on our way, but Psyche was having none of it.

“All right.” I sighed. “You win.”

I led her back to the stall, and for my troubles, she kicked at me once more. “Fine.” I snorted, slamming the heavy stall door closed.

Cupid raised his head from the hay bin. I could have sworn he winked.

“Looks like it will be you and me, Cupid,” I said, slapping his halter over his head. His bridle and a man’s saddle were thrown sloppily over the partition. I turned away from Cupid and back to the angry Psyche to uncinch my own lady’s saddle, but again she snapped and kicked, and it was at that moment that I heard stirring from the tack room. Men coughing, laughing. A long whistle of a fart. No time for cajoling my filly back to good spirits, so I flung the man’s saddle onto Cupid’s back and in a heartbeat led him out the back of the stable to the English Garden’s rear entrance. From there, I vaulted onto my piebald, lowered myself into the stirrups, and off we galloped.

It felt odd to ride astride after so many years anchored in a woman’s saddle. Thank goodness I was back into my normal pantalettes, having suffered through the end of the bloody woman’s time, and as we galloped along, I forgot entirely that I was cross, boxed up and annoyed with the world. The air was absolutely splendid, with leaves just beginning to color and the sun at such a reasonable angle, not even Mummi would have scolded about freckling.

Under the clear sky and warm sun, I forgave my filly for her difficultness. Such a sensitive creature, she probably fed off my ill temper; who could blame her for snappiness when her mistress stalked angrily about as though the world were at her bidding and not performing to snuff?

I didn’t mean to be so cross always. So nasty to my governess and the others. As Cupid slowed to a trot, I took in some breath, and gazed between the tops of trees, spying Munich’s grander houses and palaces. I lived in beauty, and for this, I should be grateful. Cupid was in fine spirits as well. He frothed from the mouth, biting his bit and pulling at the reins. With both legs around him, a riding crop at my boot, I encouraged his haunches and he lifted his gait to the elegance of the Lipizzaner stallions at the Spanish Riding School in Vienna.

Vienna. Ah, and Karl Ludwig, my archduke admirer. Perhaps Karl and I would one day ride those fine steeds together. I fantasized an extended trot through the Vienna Woods, my Karl and I in our velvet habits, stride for stride, a
pas de deux
through the forest, along the banks of the Danube.

But, as was happening more often these days, my fantasy was cut short by the truth; there would be no chance of riding,
pas de deux
or otherwise, if I ever became a Habsburg. Baroness Wilhelmine, upon my last birthday, had handed me a colorless tome written by a stuffy Mr. Walker. The title,
Exercise for Ladies
, seemed at first full of promise, but my governess had preempted any happy expectation by right away gloating, “Your Grace, you will see in these pages that if you continue your pleasure rides, you will become so deformed that your womb will never house a proper monarch.” So self-pleased was she that she’d actually feigned the act of washing in air, her hands like two serpents intertwining. Lo, how I wished she could see me now, the governess and her toxic bowels, how I wished she could see me straddling my dear Cupid.

Just thinking of never riding again had me back to my agitated state. This sudden shift in moods, from whimsical to cloudy in a heartbeat, left me utterly forlorn. I was always such a “sunny child,” according to Mummi.

Just yesterday Mummi had inquired, “Sisi, whatever has caused your temper to rear so?”

If Cupid felt the shift, he did not show it. He was so gay, light as one of my canaries underneath me. Perhaps riding astride was the answer? Really feeling the spirit, the center, of an animal, rather than simply sensing it. I nudged my piebald, closing my knees in slightly. All the material of my dress was bunched up in front and behind me, and the passersby were staring; I could feel the odd chill of their disapproval as we picked up the pace, cantering now, along the path of the Garden. Under my coat and my dress and my underclothes, Karl’s winged timepiece locket slapped against my chest. It grazed me in the same cadence as my pony’s canter. One-two-three, one-two-three. Like a waltz.

Ahead of us loomed my uncle’s castle, the Residenz, where grottoes and gardens full of marble statues had fascinated me since I could walk. My stuffy, strict cousin Maximilian now resided there, on the other side of the roiling moat, and Papa had said, “Pity our new king has a riding crop up his rear. He’s sure to turn the spirit of the place into a hall of gray dictate.”

Perhaps I could see for myself? The guards knew me, and certainly they would be amenable to our little foray into the vast hedgerow. There was a series of benches in there spaced perfectly for jumping, and Papa had schooled me on them when I was little.

“Come along, Cupid, let us have fun while we can,” I whispered into his nearside ear.

Fortune was with us as we entered the gates, for the kindly gatekeeper, Kasper, let us in with a bow. “Your Grace,” he bade us. “So good to see you again.”

I nodded ever so slightly, and in we strode. But right away I knew I’d made a mistake, for this was not the grotto of memory. Where once stood an enormous marble Pan, looking over avenues of mulberry trees, fountains, arcades, ornamental box hedges and fruit trees, there was now a tall figure hidden under a tarpaulin. The trees had been pruned back to stumps, the fountains now silent, shadowing empty, green slime-encrusted basins.

I turned back to Kasper (impressing myself with how easily Cupid responded to my signal to pivot, I must say), but his unblinking guard stature did not waver.

“What has happened?” I begged.

“Princess,” he said, still facing the outside, “there is Revolution all about. Did you ride here on your own?”

“And what of it?” My tone surprised even me. Another example of unbidden insolence, as Baroness Wilhelmine would declare.

“And the duke knows of this?”

I could not answer that, obviously.

“Your attendant?”

“I’m here alone, Herr Kasper. I wish only to clear my head—perhaps visit with my cousins. It is a lovely afternoon, is it not?”

The guard then moved from his station and came over to me, grabbing my pony’s reins, as though seizing the last piece of meat on a platter. “I must inform His Highness of your arrival,” he said.

Cupid’s ears flattened.

I thought quickly. A lie was my only escape. “Oh, no need, Herr Kasper. My house knows of my whereabouts.”

“All the same, Your Grace, please stay here while I fetch the messenger.”

Kasper turned and marched to the gate, where in a flash he would ring a bell, summoning a fleet soldier who would report my whereabouts to the Herzog staff. The list of disobediences was so long, I could only imagine my punishment. It might last until middle age.

With the gate closed and Herr Kasper’s head turned, I had no choice. I would put to test my abilities on astride saddlery. I backed my piebald, keeping the freshly clipped section of privet directly in front of me. I gathered Cupid between rein and seat, and he reared slightly before breaking into a full stride, heading straight for the hedge.

“Over,” I yelled, and in one mighty stride, we were up and sailing above the enormous privet at the front edge of the Residenz. Down we came, a good length away from its base, galloping toward the English Garden. The sound of my pony’s hoofs striking the cobblestones clattered my back teeth. I rose slightly in my stirrups and leaned forward, tapping Cupid with my crop. He stretched his stride. We were faster than the wind. This was how it was to ride like a man. Never had I felt so powerful, so free.

We raced across the central meadow, churning up the softening earth, galloping across the small hill, leaping a stand of flowering bush, spraying loose gravel from the walking path behind us. Oh, but what trouble I would be in. If it was inevitable, at least I would have one great ride. One memory upon which to light in the days, weeks, months and possibly years ahead.

I entered the great spray of trees before the garden, and we zigzagged, Cupid and I, creating new trails. My pony’s neck frothing sweat, the locket-watch tick, tick, ticking against my chest, and then suddenly, I felt Cupid’s weight shift onto his haunches. The front of him rising up, up, up. There, in the puckerbrush, was a caped form. A lady? A gentleman? It was impossible to discern. Praise Lord that I had my legs wrapped round the pony when he reared, for I would surely have landed in the leaves with my regular saddle.