Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
It was most awkward, Pippa decided, to stand outside the Archduke’s chamber door the very next morning, as if nothing at all had happened between them the day before. She had once again tried to persuade Frau Benedikt to let her clean the corridors instead, but Frau Benedikt had been adamant.
“You must do your duty as is required of you. If you come to me one more time with this request, I shall cancel your next free day.” With this, she’d shut down all argument, since Pippa very much wanted to take advantage of her next free day to leave the palace.
She hadn’t left the palace in weeks, and she was feeling suffocated.
As for her daily duties, she would have to muddle through them as best as she could.
She held the pitcher with the hot water in one hand, and the towels in the other, and, drawing in a big breath, entered the dark room.
She could navigate herself around in the darkness slightly better than the previous day. And she also knew now to avoid the creaking floorboard, to head straight for the dressing table and not to bump into the bed on the way.
Halfway through the room she paused, and listened. In the darkness she could see the bump in the bed, which meant he was there, lying on the bed. Sleeping.
Biting her lip, she crept forward, reached the washstand, poured the water carefully into the bowl.
She paused and listened again.
He was breathing regularly.
He was clearly asleep, and entirely unaware that she was there, right beside him.
Except—was it her imagination, or did his breathing appear somewhat laboured?
There! Now, a groan.
Pippa froze.
Unless he was having a nightmare, it did not sound normal.
Another groan.
Was he drunk, maybe? They said that the Tsar had hosted a soiree in his chambers, which had developed into full-fledged debauchery, the result of which her fellow maids had to clean up this morning.
She assumed Klemens must have attended as well.
Except Klemens did not drink. He never did; not even when he’d been a student and her father had offered a glass of champagne in celebration of his birthday.
“I never touch alcohol,” he’d retorted. “Because I dislike the effect it has over my senses, and I prefer to stay in control of my actions at all times.” Both she and her father had lauded him for that.
It was therefore unlikely that he’d thrown his principles overboard and was drunk.
She hesitated, then tiptoed to the bedside and stood there, uncertain. She leaned forward, extending her hand to where she supposed the head was.
His forehead was burning beneath her fingertips.
Her fingers stumbled in the darkness to light the oil lamp on the nightstand.
In the pale glow of the light, she could see his face was as white as his pillow, and his lips cracked and pale. His eyes fluttered open.
“I’m having a lovely dream.” His voice was cracked and hoarse. “My little dove is here.” He wanted to say more, but then he started coughing.
“Oh dear. That doesn’t sound good.” She helped him sit up and steadied his shoulders as he was coughing. “You appear to have a fever. I’ll fetch the physician.”
“No. Stay.” He held her hand and reclined on his pillow, closing his eyes. “It’s just a cold. It’ll pass.”
“Let me fetch you a mustard plaster and a hot foot bath—”
He shook his head. “I want none of that.”
Pippa picked up the eiderdown duvet that had slipped from the bed and covered him with it, pulling it up to his chin. “You must remain warm. I’ll go fetch some tea.”
He caught her hand and held her back. “Stay here while I sleep.”
“But...”
“It is an imperial order,” he mumbled as he closed his eyes.
Pippa stayed by his bedside the entire morning. When Drimmel came in to shave him, he found her leaning against the bedpost, her hand in the Archduke’s. Both his eyebrows shot up.
“He is ill and requested me to stay,” she informed him quietly.
“Some tea or hot soup would be good for him after he wakes.” She attempted to pull her hand away gently.
But he grabbed her sleeve and held her back.
“I have not given you leave to depart,” he mumbled.
“Drimmel, she isn’t to set a foot outside of this room until I’m well again. ”
Drimmel stared at Pippa with a puzzled frown.
“Kovacz is to cancel all the meetings for this day.”
“Yes, Your Imperial Highness. I’ll call a physician.”
Klemens dismissed the suggestion with a wave of his hand. “No physician.”
“Very well, Highness. I’ll bring some willow bark tea, and then soup,” Drimmel announced and withdrew.
After tea and soup, he seemed to improve. Colour returned to his cheeks, and his spirits lifted.
“You must relinquish my hand, otherwise I can’t attend to you,” Pippa informed him, after Drimmel had brought the soup, but he refused to let go. “In that case, feed yourself.”
“Very well,” he grumbled, and released her hand.
“Are these very important meetings you’ll be missing today?” Pippa enquired between two spoonfuls of soup.
“Nothing of importance. Lunch with the King of Denmark, tea at the British Embassy with Castlereagh and a soiree with some musical entertainment in the Metternich salon.”
“That sounds awfully important.” She lifted a napkin to dab at his chin.
“Trust me, they won’t be happy to have me sneezing and coughing all over the place. There, I’ve finished the soup. Won’t you tell me I was good?”
He had been unexpectedly good. He could have, if he’d wanted to, made things difficult, like he had previously—complained about the temperature of the soup, the taste, and that it was too little or too salted. But he’d allowed her almost docilely to feed him.
“You were.” She plumped up his pillow and arranged it behind his back.
“I’ll be sick for a while longer,” he said contentedly, “for I rather enjoy being fussed over by you.”
She placed her hand on his forehead. “Your temperature appears to have gone down somewhat, so I daresay you are not on your deathbed after all.”
“You are mistaken. I must have high temperature as I feel rather hot. My head hurts like a thousand blacksmiths are hammering on my skull. My entire body hurts, including my teeth. And look, I’m coughing something ferocious.
” He coughed, and it sounded dry. “It might even be a lung disease. I need you to stay by my side and nurse me back to health.”
“You have a mere head cold, Your Imperial Highness, not the measles.”
“In that case, I’ll get up as I appear to be well enough to go about my duties.” He pushed back the blankets.
Pippa pushed him back. “I didn’t say you’re well enough to get up. I agree that some bed rest is in order. But you hardly need a nurse. I daresay by tomorrow you’ll be recovered.”
He shook his head emphatically. “No. I shall not make it through the night if you leave.”
“It’s barely afternoon, Your Imperial Highness.” She pulled the curtains aside, and the sunlight flooded through the windows. “I have many duties to attend to.”
He sighed. “How cruel you are. I am bedridden, suffering most terribly, yet, as you so cruelly claim, not ill enough to warrant a nurse. You’d rather leave me to attend to your duties, which, no doubt, must be something as important as sweeping the floor and dusting the chandeliers.”
She placed her hands on her hips. “It is important. I can’t let Henni do it all on her own.”
He massaged his temples. “Henni? Who is she? Ah, I remember. That timid-looking creature who is to help you clean. Is she sufficient help to you? Should I demand more? It’s terribly strenuous work to sweep floors and dust chandeliers,” he mused.
“In fact, it’s outright dangerous. You truly ought not to do it on your own.
In fact, I prohibit you from doing either of the activities. ”
“But as your chambermaid, I must sweep the floors!” Never mind about the chandelier.
“I disapprove.” He shook his head. “No, no. This Henni henceforth shall sweep the floors and dust everything else in the room.”
It seemed he’d pivoted from his standpoint of making her do everything on her own to not wanting her to lift a finger.
“Then what am I supposed to do?”
“Whatever else is left.” He leaned forward with an impish glint. “Like tending to me.”
“For that you have a valet. Besides, maids may not appear in the presence of Your Imperial Highnesses. It is strictly prohibited. It is the protocol.”
He waved an airy hand. “Then I shall change the protocol. Remember that in my chambers, only my own protocol applies.”
He was really in a quixotic, unreasonable mood. But because he was ill, Pippa could not bear to scold him. It was best to humour him for the time being, and to see whether one could reach a compromise.
“Very well. Seeing that you are still ill, I shall remain here, but only if you remain in bed.”
“But it is so infernally boring!”
“I could read you a book.”
He considered her offer. “Very well. Which book will you choose? It should be entertaining.”
She went to his study and looked at the books on the shelf.
They were mostly classics and works on natural sciences and mathematics.
Euclid. Aristoteles. Her fingers trailed the leather spines.
There were German works and English ones.
Her finger paused at a slim volume. Aha!
Byron. The Corsair. She’d heard of this.
It was a newly published narrative poem by a highly intriguing English poet and a sensation.
She pulled out the slim volume and returned to the bedroom.
“I’ve already read it,” Klemens promptly informed her.
“But I haven’t.” Pippa sat on the chair and opened the volume.
“It’s brooding, dramatic, and the hero is a pirate. The entire story is emotion-driven and departs entirely from logic.”
“Nonetheless, it might be amusing. Let’s try it.”
Pippa read. After half an hour, she pulled a face and closed the book. “You’re right. The hero is becoming somewhat tiresome with his unpredictable passions. His actions seem to be irrational, motivated by self-destruction rather than strategy.”
“Told you so,” Klemens mumbled. He appeared to be half asleep.
Pippa set the book aside. “Why don’t you sleep now? It would do you good.”
She leaned forward to arrange his blanket.
He reached out and touched the necklace that dangled from her neck.
A satisfied smile crossed his face. “There it is. I feared you’d lost it, or worse, removed it.”
It was the little golden ring he’d given her.
Pippa clutched it. She hadn’t been able to bring it over herself to take it off.
“Keep it safe, Pippa. I will find a way. I promise.”
She should have taken it off there and then. Returned it to him. Told him that there was no way, and that he should not make promises he could not keep.
But she kept clutching the ring in her hand, as a whisper of an irrational hope stirred in her heart.
No doubt Lord Byron was to blame, she thought as she slipped out of the chamber.
All this romantic nonsense led to pain and heartache.
She shouldn’t indulge in it.