Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
It was easier for any Sepp, Hans and Peter to have an audience with his father than for him, his own flesh and blood, Klemens thought with irritation as he took a seat on the crimson cushioned chair in the antechamber, which was filled with other courtiers, diplomats, ambassadors, ministers and a select number of petitioners who stood around in their formal uniforms in small groups, talking to each other in hushed voices as they waited for their turn to meet the Emperor.
Some of them recognised him, and walked up to him with a short formal bow and greeting.
Klemens nodded back curtly. Others, most notably foreign dignitaries with higher status than he, threw him a swift side look and staunchly ignored him. Which was perfectly fine with him, as was pretending to ignore the Russian ambassador, a German prince and the Dutch emissary.
Certainly, Klemens had seen his father almost daily, but that had been at balls, gala suppers, concerts and receptions, where he himself had to stand in attendance.
Since he preferred to forego the family breakfasts with his father and stepmother, for they were too early for his taste, and therefore rarely had an opportunity to talk to his father privately, this seemed to be his only recourse: to approach the Emperor during a formal audience as if he himself were a petitioner.
Klemens suppressed a sigh, stretched out his long legs in front of him, crossed them at his ankles, and folded his arms across his chest.
“The Emperor’s youngest son,” he heard in a French whisper from one corner, where a French delegation stood. “They call him the Blonde Lucifer.”
Klemens grinned to himself. He was rather fond of the name and, until recently, had tried his best to do it justice. After all, one would not want to disappoint the public that thrived on the gossip that he provided.
The Viennese court, with the strict Spanish protocol that was exceptionally conservative and traditional with all its minute rules and regulations, frequently made him feel as if it was squeezing all the air out of his chest. There were only so many rules and regulations he could take.
So he had made it a habit, once a year, to escape from it all.
To slip into the disguise of the simple student Klemens, to retreat into the countryside, deep into the Austrian Alps, where he could follow his genuine passion that he had kept hidden from everyone.
What would they say, the good Viennese, if they knew that their lascivious Prince Lucifer was not quite as degenerate as they believed?
That it was merely a mask he liked to uphold.
And that in reality he was rather fond of studying mathematics, logic, philosophy and the natural sciences, and that he would like nothing more than to follow in his revered professor’s footsteps.
And live in a lonely hut on the mountains.
There would be alpenglow, the peaceful lowing of the cows, and the antics of one particular girl with big eyes and a head full of wild curls.
It was because of her that he was here today.
His hand crept to his throat, feeling the need to tug at the stiff collar of his uniform that barely allowed him to turn his head. Curse it, he could not breathe properly.
He had debated for a long time whether to put it on, but then decided that since his father was fond of pomp and uniforms, he would please the old pater and wear the thing.
Klemens sighed.
His chin dropped to his chest, and he closed his eyes. This would still take several hours, as the room was clearing only slowly.
He must have nodded off, for he only opened his eyes some time later at the sound of someone clearing his throat.
He saw a pair of boots, legs in an elaborately embroidered uniform, followed by a staff. The chamberlain.
“If your Imperial Highness would please follow me to the audience room,” he said in a dignified voice.
He opened the tall, white and gilt door that led to the audience chamber.
“Seine Kaiserliche Hoheit, Erzherzog Leopold.”
His father stood behind a lectern, looking white-haired and frail, and older than he really was.
Yet Klemens knew that impression was deceptive.
Rarely had he known a man who had willpower as strong as an iron rod, and an unyielding stubbornness that was even greater than his own.
Klemens swallowed as a sudden wave of nervousness overcame him. He strolled into the room, clasped his hands nonchalantly behind his back and placed a cocky grin on his face.
“Good morning, Your Majesty. Or rather, good afternoon?”
He had already broken the protocol, for etiquette required him to wait until his father spoke first.
His father acknowledged this with a grimace on his face and a fleeting glance at his son.
“I missed your presence yesterday after the gala banquet. Your absence was noted by several dignitaries as well. The Grand Duchess was particularly disappointed that you never put in an appearance at either the post-supper concert nor the following entertainments.”
“Beethoven is not to my taste, nor the tableaux vivants, which they said took a good four hours.” Klemens shuddered.
The Emperor slammed a hand onto the lectern, tearing Klemens out of his memories. “Still, you should at least have made an appearance, if only to greet the Grand Duchess!”
Klemens cleared his throat. “Well, as a matter of fact, it is because of her I am here today to speak with you.”
His father gave a curt nod. “Excellent. The plan is to announce the engagement after the ball this coming Saturday.”
Klemens froze. “With all due respect, Majesty, no.”
His father’s fingers froze in the process of turning a page. He lifted his pale eyes to his son’s. “No?”
Klemens shook his head. “Call it off. This engagement will not happen. The official marriage negotiations have not begun yet; we have not made any promises, no documents have been signed, so it is not too late.”
He observed a redness creep up his father’s neck, which was the telltale sign he was about to lose his temper.
He pushed on nonetheless. “I will not and I cannot marry the Grand Duchess. This is not only personal reluctance on my part, for I cannot abide the woman, but it is also political. Not now, not at the congress, not when there is so much at stake. It cannot have escaped your attention that such a union with Russia will upset the balance of power you and Metternich are trying so hard to achieve.”
Klemens liked to give the impression that he was politically illiterate when he was anything but. He knew better than anyone that Metternich, despite his insistence on maintaining a balance of power, intended to keep a back door open to Russia, using him.
And Klemens had a rather strong reluctance to being used.
“Personal reluctance? You cannot abide her?” his father rumbled, pointing a shaking finger at him.
When he was younger, that had always made his knees knock against each other in terror, but he was no longer a little boy and much was at stake.
His future, his entire life depended on the outcome of this talk.
Klemens attempted to appease him. “It is true I do not really know her, but very often all it takes is a single meeting for one to know whether or not one will suit. Trust me, Father, we do not suit. A union between us would be a disaster.”
“What will be a disaster is allowing you to run over every person ramshackle as you see fit! The scandalous stories that are spread throughout the country—shocking, I say, shocking! You are a good-for-nothing, and for once you will do as you are told.”
His father completely ignored any argument he had brought forth. It was as if he had not spoken at all.
Klemens drew in a breath to steady himself. “With all due respect, father, I will not,” he repeated. And he would repeat that sentence if it were the last thing he ever said.
“May I remind you it is your duty, as an archduke of Austria and an heir to this throne, to marry the woman that is selected for you. It is what you were born to do.”
Klemens clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white.
He could not bear another word of it. Austria had always used marriages as treaties, a game his great-grandmother Maria Theresia had played with ruthless skill.
Sixteen children, and every one of those who survived into adulthood was bartered for politics.
He and his siblings were expected to follow the same path.
A fate he would resist if it killed him.
“I am not, and never will be, heir to this throne!” he burst out. “There are three others ahead of me. So stop harping on about it.”
“Do you hear yourself?” his father thundered. “How dare you renounce the duty you were born to!”
“I do not care a whit for duty,” Klemens shouted back. “You know as well as I that I will never follow in your footsteps, so for heaven’s sake, Father, let me lead my own life!”
“Have you taken leave of your senses?” his father roared.
“I have never had a clearer head! And I refuse to be a pawn in this ruthless game of politics you are playing. I refuse to sacrifice my life and my happiness for it. And I will marry the woman I love and cherish. And that is certainly not the Grand Duchess.”
“You…you…” The finger he had pointed at him shook, and spittle sprayed over the lectern. “The devil you will!”
Too late, Klemens realised his outburst had not been the most diplomatic thing to do. He should not have mentioned Pippa at all. Not yet. Not with his father virtually bursting at all seams with fury. He struggled to pull himself together.
“I apologise, Your Majesty. My outburst was inappropriate. I suggest we repeat this conversation when both of us have calmed down somewhat.” He could not imagine ever having a conversation with his father that would not end in a shouting match, but devil take it, he had to try.
Since his father was still spluttering with fury, Klemens made a short, curt bow and walked back to the door, which swung open as he approached.
It closed behind him, and he found himself once more in the antechamber.
He drew out a handkerchief and wiped his brow, then froze.
Every head had turned; eyes were wide with wary shock.
Plainly, they had heard every word.
The French delegate standing nearest, poised to enter, regarded him with a worried look. “I gather the Emperor is not in the best of moods.”
Klemens lifted a weary hand. “There is nothing you can tell him that could possibly be worse than what he has just heard. In fact, after this, he will be positively relieved to discuss political decrees and regulations. Just make sure to never mention love. He can’t abide it.
” With that, he made a sweeping gesture toward the door.
“How did it go?” Kovacz asked when he returned to his rooms, stealing a quick look at Klemens’ face. “On second thought, you need not answer,” he added hastily.
Klemens tugged off his gloves and flung them onto the sofa, then crossed to the side table and poured himself a drink. “A disaster,” he said, draining the glass in one swallow. “Though hardly unexpected.”
“What are you going to do, Highness?”
Klemens stared darkly into his empty glass. “I have not the devil of an idea.”
“You must ready yourself for tonight’s entertainment. You are expected to escort the Grand Duchess.”
Klemens groaned.
That night, in the Redoutensaal, Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony thundered to the acclaim of the assembled court.
Though Klemens had professed a dislike for Beethoven, he found the grim majesty of the music suited his temper admirably.
He sat beside the Grand Duchess in a black humour, scowling straight ahead for the entire performance.
“You do not like the music?” she murmured, casting him an assessing look from beneath her white-blonde lashes.
Her face was serene and smooth, betraying not an inkling of emotion.
It was like conversing with a Venetian carnival mask: smooth, cold, and beautiful.
What Klemens disliked most was precisely this: that he could not gauge what she was thinking or feeling.
One might as well attempt to read the thoughts of a porcelain doll.
He merely shrugged in response, staring ahead with an equally stony expression, unaware that half of the assembly watched him rather than the orchestra.
For a new scandalous rumour was making the rounds: that the youngest archduke was willing to set aside his birthright, even his succession to the throne, for the love of a woman no one knew.