Disclaimer: The characters within the following story are not mine, their dialogue is mine though. The plot itself is not entirely mine either due to it being loosely based off of the Treaty of Saint-Germain-en-Laye.
A/N: The characters are referred to by their human names (Elisa being the shortened version of Hungary's).
"Elisa!" The only answer I receive is the echo of my own voice off the paneled walls. I've looked everywhere; she isn't anywhere to be found. My eyes drift over the face of the grandfather clock as I pass it on my way through the upper halls, the third time I've checked this wing. I've been through this blasted mansion three times in the past six hours, confirming again and again what I already know: my wife isn't here. I woke this morning to find her absent, which isn't unusual. What is strange is that I haven't heard from her in the past eight hours.
I don't even know where to begin looking in the grounds. Perhaps the stables. At least then I'll know if she took a horse, or is on foot. The smooth wood of the curving banister is cool under my hand, my steps muffled by the dark red runner underfoot. I'm halfway down the stairs, still considering the best way to search the property on my own (the servants have the day off while Elisa and I decide which ones will have to be let go), when an imperious knock comes at the front door. The authority it carries makes me pause. Hesitating to check my appearance in the mirror—no need for whoever it is to see my worry—I straighten my cravat and smooth down my dark hair as best I can. Stepping away from the mirror I turn and face the suddenly foreboding door.
My hand rests on the curving metal handle for nearly a full minute without motion. The edelweiss, my family's flower, carved in it is reassuring in its solidity. I open the door—hoping that it's Elisa, but the next instant I dismiss that thought as ludicrous. This is her house as much as it is mine—she would have no reason for knocking.
Standing on my front step are two men I never expected to see together: Arthur Kirkland, a distant cousin on my mother's side, and Francis Bonnefoy, an egotistical rakehell who Arthur spends much of his time fighting with. Neither is dressed for a social visit.
Francis looks as though he has just rolled out of some woman's bed, likely to avoid her husband. His clothes are rumpled and his blond hair hangs to his shoulders, not even pulled back in a messy queue. He has a rose in his buttonhole that looks like…my gaze strays to the rose bush by the door. Of course. Leave it to Francis to steal someone else's flowers for a boutonniere. The cocky smile he's wearing, surrounded by a shadowing of stubble, is far too victorious for my liking.
Arthur, looking no more prepared for social visits than Francis, is dressed in tweed of all things. He looks as though he's just come from bird hunting; a thistle caught on his sleeve appears to confirm that. His eyebrows, I'm certain they're actually caterpillars of some sort, are drawn together in a frown, which bodes slightly better than Francis' smirk—it's an expression less likely to herald mischief.
I suppose it's only right that I determine if there's a reason these two have arrived on my front step before insisting they leave. Brushing back a stubborn lock of hair from in front of my eyes, using it as an excuse to make sure my mask in impervious to their scrutiny, I finally speak. "May I help you, Gentlemen?"
My hand, resting on the inside of the door, is receiving direct orders to begin closing the portal, courtesy be hanged, when Arthur's voice stops me. "We need to speak with you regarding your wife."
My arm stops in its motion without a conscious thought. Opening the door I step aside to allow the two men passage. What on earth could they have to say about Elisa? Do they know where she is? Good Lord, surely they can see how anxious I am. A brief glance in the mirror on my way past assures me that the mask remains solidly in place. Before I realize it I've lead them into the parlor.
Of all the rooms in the mansion the parlor is the one I am most comfortable in. My grand piano stands sentry near the large windows on the east side of the room. The south-facing windows lend themselves to much light catching when the drapes are pulled back. Across the room in the north wall is the large fireplace, my family crest carved on either side—a large eagle, a powerful bird—the hearth itself has small edelweiss etched into the stonework. Francis and Arthur sit down on the furthest most points of the red velvet settee while I take the matching chair across from them. I can almost feel the instrument behind me and out of the corner of my eye I see my violin. With this reassurance I finally manage to speak calmly. "Now, what's this about Elisa?"
They exchange a long look; apparently whatever they have to say is bad news, although Francis' expression suggests otherwise. Arthur finally answers my question. "She has requested that we see to her interests in this matter."
She's spoken with them? What on earth are they talking about? Where's my wife? The only servant still on the grounds, one of the maids, slips in quietly and sets down a tea tray before exiting as quietly as she came. To gain time to gather my thoughts and better calm my confusion, I pour three cups, picking up one and taking a small sip before speaking, one eyebrow carefully arched. "What matter?"
Francis answers before Arthur can, a mocking laugh ill-concealed in his baritone voice. "The divorce."
That cannot be what he just said. I must have heard him wrong. "The what?"
Arthur calmly withdraws a pipe, striking a matchstick on the bottom of his shoe, and attempts to light that vile thing as he answers. "The divorce. In lieu of that an official annulment."
This can't be happening. I can't lose her. She can't honestly be leaving. What reason could she have for this? I manage, barely, to gather myself. A reassuring glance toward my violin and I speak. "On what grounds?"
Arthur, still busy trying to light his bloody pipe, nods to Francis who willingly answers me. "Neglect. If it comes to an annulment it will be on the grounds of coercion."
The mask slips and I'm on my feet in an instant, indignation lacing my tone. "Coercion! How dare you come in here with these accusations? I've been nothing but devoted to her and I certainly didn't coerce her into marriage!" The fact that the two men most notorious for their constant disagreement have both decided that I am in the wrong and are the bearers of this news is a well calculated insult. I know Arthur never approved of my marriage, but to stoop as low as to come with Francis? I always thought that if it came to this I would be the one with the greater number of allies. After all, she came to my house as a servant when her father died and his lands passed to my father. She remained in the working class for years. Gradually she grew into a trusted worker and from there into a friend. When I'd offered to bring her out of that position into marriage she'd agreed, though few of my friends did.
Arthur, that damned pipe clenched in his teeth, withdraws a packet of papers, extending them to me as Francis rises, moving off to my left, toward the windows and my violin stand. My attention following him, I barely hear Arthur's biting comment: "After the Incident can you honestly tell us you have her interest at heart?"
The force with which I take the papers from him startles us both. The Incident, with a capital "I," cost Elisa and I almost everything. It was a foolish investment that I wish with all my being I hadn't made, but there's no changing the past. My gaze scans over the papers as I flip through them: an affidavit in Elisa's handwriting affirming my supposed neglect, a statement of the requirements for each party, and an agreement to the dissolution of the marriage that only awaits my signature to make it legal. I turn back to the requirements, making sure it's not a fault with my glasses as I re-read them. My eyes rise to meet Arthur's green ones. "That land is mine."
"It's not in your name." I turn to look at Francis, finding him a little too close to my Stradivarius.
"Don't touch that." My instinctive response regards my violin before my mind returns to the matter at hand. "The land was part of her father's debt to my family."
"But it was never signed into your name." He meets my eyes challengingly as he plucks the E string, the note sounding pure in contrast to his vicious smirk.
I'm by his side, my fingers closing around the neck of the violin abruptly. Removing it from its stand I step away from Francis, the better to keep my instrument from his grip. My argument remains adamant, my eyes lock on him, daring him to counter it. "It's not in her name either. It was payment for a debt and so belongs to me."
To my surprise it is not he, but Arthur who speaks. "Do you have the papers to prove that?"
I turn. There's something ironic in the position that Arthur now holds. He stands in front of the mantelpiece, before my family crest, and it appears to lend him strength. I face not only the two men who cannot agree, but now even my own house stands for Elisa. I have no choice but to answer him honestly. "No. I do not." It was foolish of my family not to obtain deeds for all the land, but it was never expected that such a problem would arise.
"Then as her father's heir, the land goes to her."
Damn Arthur. Damn Francis. Would that they would leave. "Not all of it. I hold the deed to a portion of that land."
"If you will look over the papers again you'll see that that is provided for."
Moving back to the low table I look over the requirements one more time. I will lose much of my land, what hasn't already been sold off for the debts incurred by the Incident. I am also to pay the acting attorneys in this situation; I suppose that explains why Arthur and Francis are willing to work together with such enthusiasm. Ah, here it is. The three fields on the westernmost part of Elisa's land are to remain in my hands. Good, a small victory out of this whole bloody mess. I hear my voice before I realize I've opened my mouth. "I need to speak with her."
"She doesn't wish to see you." Arthur's tenor echoes around the room—a death knell to my hopes of repairing this mess.
He can't honestly mean what he said. Elisa and I have fought, but not badly enough that she wouldn't even want to speak with me one last time. Just to see if we could reach a more amicable settlement. "Why?" The question holds so much more in it: why won't she see me, why did she send them, why is this happening in the first place?
Francis' baritone answers me, "She claimed she didn't want to make this harder on you and that she said everything she needed to already."
My fingers tighten around the neck of the violin; Francis is fiddling with the bow now that I've removed the instrument from his reach. The strings bite into the flesh of my hand and I barely manage to form a coherent sentence from the whirling thoughts I can no longer process quickly enough. "Is this truly what she wishes?"
Arthur responds, knowing me well enough to understand that I will believe him more than Francis. "Yes, Roderich, it is."
There's no way to win this. My grip on the Stradivarius loosens and I set it gently down, seeking a pen and inkwell. My posture is still correct, no need for them to know the level of defeat I feel. I've lost the battle and the war. I finally locate the pen and ink on one of the shelves along the west wall of the room. "There isn't any way to negotiate a different settlement?" I'm grasping at smoke now, and we all know it.
"That depends on how much more you wish to pay for our services." I turn from the shelves to meet Francis' eyes. A strange sort of pity echoes in his words and reflects in his blue gaze.
It's time to sort out the final confusion I have. Looking to Arthur as I return to the papers I speak softly. "Why, Arthur? Him delivering this I can understand: we've always been at odds. But you—my own cousin and a friend for years—why would you do this?"
He can't even meet my eyes as he replies. "I've watched the choices you've made recently, Roderich, and I can't support them. Elisa made her decision and it's a wise one."
Complete precision. He's rehearsed that answer. He knew I'd ask, and he was prepared. Whether it's the truth I don't know. At the moment I don't care. It hurts. Almost more than losing Elisa. Her betrayal is a deep ache, but the loss of a trusted friend? Right when I need them? I shake my head, calming myself so that my hand doesn't shake. If this is what Elisa wants, and it will make her happiest then I'll do it. For her. For her and for no other.
The pen dips into the ink, the excess shaken off. It hovers over the inkwell for a moment before the tip touches the paper and my name forms. Roderich Edelstein. No going back now. The ink is dusted and blotted before the papers are given to Arthur.
I cannot bring myself to meet his eyes as he takes the documents from my hand. I should say something—send some token that this didn't hurt me. "Tell her I wish her luck." I suppose that will have to do.
Apparently my cousin knows how empty my words are for he responds with the equally hollow statement of "I will." With those two words the doors close behind him and Francis, the sound echoing around my empty mansion.
I reach for the violin, unsure of whether I intend to play it or return it to its stand. When I pick up the bow and place it against the strings I find my hands are shaking too much. The music I need to play will not come on this instrument. Gently, the Strad is returned to its proper place. I turn to the piano—perhaps that will do?
As I approach the grand, my eyes land on the flowers. The bouquet is the same as all the rest in this empty shell of a house: tulips, her family flower, surrounded and supported by my edelweiss, resting in an elegant cut glass vase. It's the same arrangement as the one she carried on our wedding day. It represents everything that is now gone: the blending of our households, the blending of our lives.
Before I process what I'm doing, my musician's hand has closed around the vase, sending it, and the arrangement, crashing against the stone eagle on the mantelpiece. The water splashes across the thick, expensive carpeting, petals and leaves falling, side by side with glass shards, to scatter across the edelweiss-engraved hearth. It's all I can do not to swear aloud.
What was I thinking? The servants aren't here, except for Maria, but she's gone home by now. I don't even know where, but—stepping from the parlor—I find a rag and return to begin cleaning up the mess I've made of things. Would that it was so easy to repair the disaster in my life as well…
The water was nearly gone to begin with, thank heaven, but there are numerous flower remains scattered across the stone. It looks like some mythical battle took place here.
Damn! What was that? I pull back to look at my hand, carefully withdrawing the tiny shard of glass caught in the heel of my palm. I have to finish cleaning this. Ignoring the continued pain, and the gradually increasing number of cuts on my hands, I complete the job.
Rocking back on my heels to survey my work I find that I haven't the energy to try again. The stone edelweiss on the hearth and the white petals from the arrangement are now spattered, not with glistening shards and iridescent droplets but with small specks of red from my hands.
Running the rag over the hearth one more time cleans most of the blood away. I drop the cloth onto the small pile of glass shards and flower pieces before retreating from this echoing catacomb and out into the sunset over my gardens.