The city, so busy only weeks before, thrumming with parades, performances, concerts and balls, was gradually emptying of its visitors. The streets below, once chokedwith carriages, fell quiet; the noise and clamour ceased and where the street performers previously filled the city with life and music, there was merely the mournful scrape of a lone violin. This, too, eventually ceased.
The monarchs, princes and diplomats had departed. Wellington left for Brussels. The Austrian field marshals rejoined their regiments in Italy and the Rhine.
Georg had left for his headquarters a fortnight ago.
Once more there would be war.
And there had been no wedding night to speak of.
He’d given her a quick kiss on the cheek, and an embrace, and then he’d left, leaving her behind with the wedding guests and the uncut wedding cake.
This, she decided, as she jabbed her sewing needle into her embroidery, was the main reason why she was so vexed.
Instead of departing for Wolfsthal, she had returned to Hartenberg’s town house, surprising the servants, who had not expected her to arrive alone. They had scrambled to pull off the Holland covers from the bed and chairs, and kindle the fire in the main bedroom. For the greater part of the evening, she’d sat on the floor, staring into the guttering flames, turning down a bath and a light supper. The remainder of the night, she’d spent tossing and turning between the sheets in the big bed, waking up in a cold sweat from nightmares, where she saw him lie dead in a sea of blood.
This had been her wedding night.
She was only half-married. What kind of state was that? There was no name for it. She was no longer a spinster; there had been two wedding ceremonies, after all, and it was all signed on paper. There had even been a wedding breakfast. But that had been all. Her husband had departedimmediately and she had not seen him since the day that cursed rider announced that Bonaparte had returned.
Who knew when he would return (her husband, that was; Bonaparte be hanged for having interfered in her married life so rudely), and it was quite likely she would be a widow before the marriage even had a chance to be consummated. Evie stabbed the needle through the fabric right into her thumb.
“Oww.” She’d forgotten to put on a thimble and popped the finger into her mouth to suck on it. Now she’d smeared blood on the fabric, too. She cast the embroidery aside with a sigh.
She now lived alone in her husband’s town house, with far too much time on her hands, and no idea what to do. What did a half-married wife do when she had no husband to speak of? She’d pretended to play house on her own the first few days, wandering through the many rooms of the house, tugging at the lace doilies on the sideboards, pretending to arrange flowers in vases that were already perfectly arranged, and re-planning the menu (for one person) that was already perfectly planned. She’d taken up embroidery again, because apparently that was what married ladies did. And written pretty notes of thanks to the wedding guests, but that had taken up a mere few hours of the morning. What else was there to do?
She had not seen much of her brother Julius, for his duties had suddenly tripled. With both Castlereagh and Wellington gone, driving congress matters to a satisfying close for the British had become a matter of utmost urgency. Her friend and sister-in-law Catherine was with child and much occupied with her own family affairs these days, so she did not see much of her, either.
It was truly sad.
Just as she angrily rubbed away a fat tear that had trickled down her cheek, the footman behind her cleared his throat. “The Countess Lindenstein is here.”
Evie whirled around with a squeal. “What?”
Her old childhood friend, who had married an Austrian archduke, had been painfully absent these past few months since she had been on an extended honeymoon with her husband.
A lithe, dark-haired young woman stepped into the room. “Evie. Or should I say, Frau Feldmarschall Gräfin von Hartenberg?” She opened her arms, laughing.
Evie rushed into them hugging her friend tightly to her. “Pippa, Pippa, Pippa! You, here? But how? And why? Aren’t you in Italy?”
“Indeed. We had the most splendid time in Venice, Klemens and I, when the news reached us of the monster’s return. It upset our plans, for we were to travel to England afterwards. I suppose this plan will now have to be postponed. Klemens barely had time to change his clothes and is now on the way to his regiment. Did you know that your husband is his superior and he has to answer to him in the field? He says Hartenberg is absolutely terrifying when he is in his official field marshal role. He exacts absolute obedience from his men without question. It must be very odd, them being so close.”
Evie shook her head. “I have no idea of how to even imagine what their relationship is like since I have not seen them together much.”
“And you? How are you, dear Evie? Can you ever forgive me for having missed your wedding?”
Evie sighed. “I am hardly married and already half widowed.”
Pippa slapped her arm. “Don’t say that. Don’t even mention it.”
“Yet widows appear to be all the rage here these days.” Evie’s humour was determined to be black. “Did you know there is an entire organisation dedicated to them? They are quite vile.”
“What on earth do you mean? I have never heard of such nonsense.”
Evie gave her an update of past months’ events, up to the point of her wedding and Hartenberg’s sudden departure.
“What an adventure you’ve had, indeed! It is unlike you to be sitting here, all alone, moping.” Pippa pointed at the embroidery that she’d cast carelessly onto the sofa. “Embroidering, too? Since when?”
Evie grimaced. “I thought that was what a proper wife did, but I confess I simply can’t warm to the activity.”
