remiss as a mother, I’m afraid,” she said, her eyes focused on my middle region. “So consumed with affairs of state, your father’s antics, my brother’s folly, that I have neglected my prime duty.”
Mummi’s hand cream smelled of lavender and the same lard and slug juice Nené had plastered on her face earlier in the day. The greasy, soft skin of my mother’s palms slipped around my own, like a newborn pup before the bitch licks it clean. She walked me to the dressing table, and we two sat side by each, like sisters, as she began to enumerate the long list of events, remedies and consequences that lay ahead.
Not only might I look forward to issuing blood from my personal body each cycle of the moon, but now I would need to clean myself inside . And each day I must take a vial of calf’s blood with my midday meal. And rub a tincture of sticky jelly onto my hips. And, worst of all, sit still and do nothing for three days around this time of the blood. No riding. No running. No wandering. No playing. No swimming. And absolutely no circus tricks with Papa or anyone else. At all. Ever. I must be escorted by an older male member of the family on walks to the English Garden. I must veil my face or hide behind an Oriental fan. No longer could I laugh in public. At the balls now, I would be amongst the young ladies, not the children. And worse still, I must learn to play the piano.
Mummi continued to tick off the do’s and the do not’s, and the spaniels leapt up into her lap, weaving figure eights around one another before settling, finally, into her ample skirts. My stomach cramps continued, and Mummi registered the pain in my face and reached the dressing table bell, giving the five-peal ring for the governess to return.
“Your Graciousness,” said Baroness Wilhelmine once she reached us.
“The hot water bottle and more hygiene garments,” Mummi said. “And perhaps a compress of chamomile and hemlock.”
Baroness nodded. “The nurse is gathering these things now.” And then she smiled before saying, “Perhaps this would be a good time for the duchess to reengage with her needlepoint lessons?”
Needlepoint. If there was one thing more insufferable than piano, it was stitching little chickadees and bluebells onto handkerchiefs and pillowcases. If I were to be stuck in a room for three days, I would read Shakespeare. I would read Homer. I would write sonnets. No way would I deign to stick a pointy whalebone through cloth over and over again.
Baroness Wilhelmine turned to leave, but as an afterthought she spun round again, and from her black lace-covered pouch she extracted a missive and offered it to Mummi. The ink was full of flourishes, but even so, I could make out my name on the envelope. Mummi held it up to the sunlight and I could tell that the paper inside was very fine linen stationery. The Habsburg seal, it seemed.
“This must be a mistake,” said Mummi. “I am sure this was meant for your sister. It’s from Vienna.”
There was no mistaking the carefully crafted Elisabeth. Not even a blind man could calculate the misspelling of Helene to such a distortion. I tried to snatch it from Mummi’s hand and one of the dogs snapped my fingers. “Ouch.”
Mummi extracted a hatpin from the dressing table and pierced the glue, gliding the pin along the seam of the envelope. It made a stiff ripping sound. She pulled out the letter and read it aloud in one long gallop:
Dearest Elisabeth (Sisi),
I sincerely hope you do not find this note too forward. Ever since the summer Tegernsee holiday, I have thought of your vibrant grace each day. Please accept a gift of chocolate and a pretty little timepiece locket that has been in the Habsburg family for many a year. You will see that there is a wing built into its design (aged copper, which so reminded me of you and your green eyes), and I do pray that you will not be offended if I place my likeness opposite the time. As you are a lover of words (or so I
Mummi’s hand cream smelled of lavender and the same lard and slug juice Nené had plastered on her face earlier in the day. The greasy, soft skin of my mother’s palms slipped around my own, like a newborn pup before the bitch licks it clean. She walked me to the dressing table, and we two sat side by each, like sisters, as she began to enumerate the long list of events, remedies and consequences that lay ahead.
Not only might I look forward to issuing blood from my personal body each cycle of the moon, but now I would need to clean myself inside . And each day I must take a vial of calf’s blood with my midday meal. And rub a tincture of sticky jelly onto my hips. And, worst of all, sit still and do nothing for three days around this time of the blood. No riding. No running. No wandering. No playing. No swimming. And absolutely no circus tricks with Papa or anyone else. At all. Ever. I must be escorted by an older male member of the family on walks to the English Garden. I must veil my face or hide behind an Oriental fan. No longer could I laugh in public. At the balls now, I would be amongst the young ladies, not the children. And worse still, I must learn to play the piano.
Mummi continued to tick off the do’s and the do not’s, and the spaniels leapt up into her lap, weaving figure eights around one another before settling, finally, into her ample skirts. My stomach cramps continued, and Mummi registered the pain in my face and reached the dressing table bell, giving the five-peal ring for the governess to return.
“Your Graciousness,” said Baroness Wilhelmine once she reached us.
“The hot water bottle and more hygiene garments,” Mummi said. “And perhaps a compress of chamomile and hemlock.”
Baroness nodded. “The nurse is gathering these things now.” And then she smiled before saying, “Perhaps this would be a good time for the duchess to reengage with her needlepoint lessons?”
Needlepoint. If there was one thing more insufferable than piano, it was stitching little chickadees and bluebells onto handkerchiefs and pillowcases. If I were to be stuck in a room for three days, I would read Shakespeare. I would read Homer. I would write sonnets. No way would I deign to stick a pointy whalebone through cloth over and over again.
Baroness Wilhelmine turned to leave, but as an afterthought she spun round again, and from her black lace-covered pouch she extracted a missive and offered it to Mummi. The ink was full of flourishes, but even so, I could make out my name on the envelope. Mummi held it up to the sunlight and I could tell that the paper inside was very fine linen stationery. The Habsburg seal, it seemed.
“This must be a mistake,” said Mummi. “I am sure this was meant for your sister. It’s from Vienna.”
There was no mistaking the carefully crafted Elisabeth. Not even a blind man could calculate the misspelling of Helene to such a distortion. I tried to snatch it from Mummi’s hand and one of the dogs snapped my fingers. “Ouch.”
Mummi extracted a hatpin from the dressing table and pierced the glue, gliding the pin along the seam of the envelope. It made a stiff ripping sound. She pulled out the letter and read it aloud in one long gallop:
Dearest Elisabeth (Sisi),
I sincerely hope you do not find this note too forward. Ever since the summer Tegernsee holiday, I have thought of your vibrant grace each day. Please accept a gift of chocolate and a pretty little timepiece locket that has been in the Habsburg family for many a year. You will see that there is a wing built into its design (aged copper, which so reminded me of you and your green eyes), and I do pray that you will not be offended if I place my likeness opposite the time. As you are a lover of words (or so I
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