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Vienna, summer of 1730
What the hell is he doing here?
Austria watches from across the room as England is patted down by the guards at the door. They have already removed several weapons on his person, and England looks not-at-all contrite when they recover another hidden blade from inside his sleeve. He looks as if he’d just crawled out of the depths of the Caribbean. Someone has pressed him into a cream waistcoat, but he is wearing a red coat in a deeply unfashionable cut, and instead of stockings from the knee down he sports worn leather boots. Several piercings glint in his ears. He has a black tricorne hat as is proper, but it looks battered with wear. More egregiously, however, Arthur has committed a social faux pas by wearing his natural hair instead of a powdered wig, the blonde bleached with sun and salt and gathered into a scruffy tail at his nape, and by keeping a faint stubble of facial hair. Surely, he could have found a razor somewhere, Austria thinks to himself. Or used that Portuguese sword England had begrudgingly surrendered.
“I see your new alliance is coming to fruition,” Prussia says gleefully beside him, all teeth.
Austria cannot resist the urge to roll his eyes. “Nothing has been signed yet. I don’t know why he’s here.”
“Speaking of your guest list, I notice Spain wasn’t invited.”
Spain’s absence from the evening’s entertainment is an uncomfortable reminder of recent events. Spain’s defeat at the siege of Gibraltar just last year at Scotland’s command had been particularly humiliating for such a proud man, but Roderich had seen the writing on the wall long before Antonio had.
Spain’s time as a dominant power in Europe is over. The two British brothers and France have been for a while—shockingly—allies against him. The trio have worked together over the last decade, France and Scotland in Europe and England scuttling around the Caribbean, to systematically strip the Spanish Empire of his influence. No doubt England’s absence from the continent had permitted the short term of peace, because Scotland is a far better and more level-headed negotiator than he is. With the recent treaty of Seville Europe is formally at peace, but Spain’s reputation and influence is in tatters. He hasn’t spoken to Austria in months, and for good reason. Austria had not sent any troops to aid his siege of Gibraltar, and the treaty negotiations had been punctuated by ugly screaming matches between the two of them. Austria had accused him—rightly so—of grasping too far and too greedily. Spain had called him a Judas and vowed never to forgive his betrayal of the highest order.
But Austria feels stronger than he has done in a long time. He’d crushed the Ottomans, Hungary’s territories were his, and following Spain’s defeat he has the Burgundian Netherlands in his grasp (the Dutch Republic had also declined to appear tonight). Romano is clearly unhappy to be under Habsburg rule, but the kingdom of Naples has given Austria’s Archduke a vital foothold in the Italian peninsula. The breakup of his partnership with Spain had been difficult, but with his Charles VI as the Holy Roman Emperor Austria holds half of Europe under his direct rule or within his periphery. If he concentrates, he can feel the tendrils of his influence and power throughout the room and beyond.
Prussia is the wildcard. Last time Austria had seen him he’d been of the clergy. The Lutheran Pietists had supervised the creation of many schools, medical institutes, and bureaucratic offices in Prussia, and last Austria knew Prussia had been bogged down in paperwork, prayer, and the pulpit. But now, in the low light of the Viennese ballroom, he looks every inch the general. His plain black chaplain’s cassock has been replaced with a luxurious dark blue justaucorps coat in velvet brocade with yellow hems. A tricorne is tilted fashionably on his head, atop a plain powdered wig of white hair a shade darker than his natural colour, tied at the nape with a black ribbon. His king is here tonight too, mingling somewhere in the crowd, and that is another new development for the ex-duchy.
“And speaking of old friends, where is Brandenburg tonight?” Austria returns, with a pointed look around the room.
The Kingdom of Prussia tilts his head like an eager pointer with a grouse in its mouth. “Oh, he couldn’t make it.”
Austria has a sudden flash of insight. In a few years’ time Prussia will devour Brandenburg in great heaving fistfuls of old dark meat, tears streaking through the gore on his cheeks.
“Pity.”
“Not at all, I’m actually quite looking forward to seeing more of your new ally,” Gilbert gestures across the room, where England has finally been allowed entry. Arthur looks so completely out of place in the opulence surrounding him that he has attracted stares and hushed coquettish whispers behind fans from the eligible daughters and duchesses in the room.
The ladies to Prussia’s left are gossiping loudly enough that Austria can hear them.
“I heard that he was marooned…” One woman is clearly leading the rumour mill, dazzled by her own storytelling.
“Oh, how ghastly!”
“On a spit of land hardly larger than this room.”
“Oh, how dreadful! How did he escape?”
“Nobody knows. Perhaps you should dare to ask him…” the girls break out in a flurry of giggles, batting at each other like she-cats.
Frankly, Austria can’t see the appeal. All he feels looking at England is a faint hint of irritation and embarrassment about what he is shackling himself to. And a small ember of growing warmth in his gut which is both conflicting and aggravating. England embarrasses him further by drifting immediately to the table laden with tempting morsels of cold meats, miniature savoury pies, mouthfuls of fruit jelly, candied cakes, and huge bowls of spiced port. Austria watches out of the corner of his eye as the scoundrel stuffs food into his mouth with an enjoyment bordering on indecent.
Roderich will never understand why he willingly chooses to spend years at sea living meanly off hardtack, salt beef, and watered down rum. Just the thought of a rolling ship and an empty acidic belly makes him feel mildly seasick. Perhaps it is different for an island.
“You should go talk to him, if you’re so interested. Perhaps you can introduce the lovely ladies to your left?” Austria answers as smoothly as he can, making a face as he watches England knock back a glass of spiced port with the decorum of a beer house libertine. He’s a little in his cups himself, but at least he has had the decency to take all night to get there.
Prussia glances sideways at the girls and flushes under his high collar. Still governed by those clerical vows and cardinal virtues, it seems, despite his new secular lifestyle.
“I think I’ve been beaten to it,” he says crisply.
Austria spots France a moment later. It’s hard not to, even across the room. In contrast to England, France is dressed in the absolute finest tailoring money can buy. His flared coat is a delicate lilac, heavily brocaded with white and silver trims and large cuffs. Underneath it he wears a waistcoat in dusty pale pink and there are points of pink and lilac at his joints—at his knee where white stocking meets lilac breeches and at his ankles over the buckle of his low-heeled shoes. He has a cream tricorne with pink and silver accents—which Austria is sure has been custom made for him. The fashion in powdered wigs has trended towards sleeker, pulled back styles, and France’s choice for the night sits on the daring edge of fashion in terms of volume. Grey curls frame his face, which has been clean-shaven, powdered, and rouged. France’s lips are an enticing cherry red, to match the soles of his shoes. He looks like a mounted pink peacock. He looks beautiful.
It’s almost comical, when France floats towards England’s side with that frustrating grace he possesses. If England looked out of place before, he looks like a downright ruffian next to France. It’s indecent, for a country who—recently with the union of his elder brother—has started calling himself an empire.
England ignores France for as long as he can but is forced to acknowledge him when France graciously pours another ladleful of port into England’s glass. France says something to him, and England snaps something back in return, but Austria can’t make it out this far away over the sound of the music and dozens of conversations happening at once. France puts a hand up to England’s face, as if to touch his uncovered hair, and England smacks him away.
“It’s a miracle you’ve all kept that alliance going as long as you have,” Austria remarks dryly.
Prussia snorts and takes a gulp from his glass, making a face. His pale cheeks are ruddy. “England wasn’t here to ruin it. And anyway, it was never an alliance. It was a coalition to stop you and Spain seizing the rest of us by the balls. You and your husband were their only mutual interest.”
Roderich doesn’t rise to the marital bait Gilbert has dangled in front of his nose. “Then, of course, there is nothing holding them together anymore.”
“Yes, yes, and from what I’ve heard you’re most of the way to jumping into Arthur’s bed already.”
Kept warm by Portugal, Austria thinks.
“And you most of the way to Ivan’s.”
Prussia makes a face. “He’s so weird.”
Austria hums in agreement. “He is. Though we should be grateful. Short of them,” he nods at England and France, who are clearly having a strained conversation. “Falling out, we might be able to enjoy some peace for a few years.”
“You’re not worried about your husband running into France’s waiting arms?”
“Stop calling him that.”
“He called you that.”
“After I asked him many times not to,” Austria snaps. Prussia, perhaps realising he had pushed a line, holds one hand up in surrender. They settle into silence for a bit, watching England and France bicker. There is a call for a new dance, and couples start drifting towards the centre of the floor.
The cluster of young women next to them are looking across hopefully. Prussia cuts, Austria must admit, a strikingly handsome figure. And Roderich Edelstein is well-known enough as a major-general in the Viennese social circle that it will be expected of him to court the interests of at least one suitor tonight. Austria’s thoughts linger on the narrow dip of Prussia’s waist in his dark blue coat.
He clears his throat and places one hand on the small of Prussia’s back to rotate him to face the group of potential partners. He notes, with pleasure, that he is strong enough that he can force the movement, and Gilbert makes an aborted noise of surprise in his throat as he’s manhandled.
Austria lets his hand drop as if scalded and plasters on his most charming smile. “Might we trouble you for a dance?”
*
France picking up a partner—a buxom margravine who Austria knows is married—is nothing strange. England though, is more of a surprise. He dances with one of the ladies from the group Austria and Prussia had propositioned, the one who Austria recognises had been most taken with the idea of a rakish good-for-nothing sweeping her off to the Caribbean. Captain Kirkland, for his part, looks faintly strained as he moves with what is clearly an out-of-practice kilter. As if his sea legs have not quite settled into being back on solid ground, which is frankly absurd for someone who is supposed to be a walking landmass.
The universe and whatever it is that animates their immortal bodies seems to find it amusing to play games sometimes, and so all four nations have through a series of prancing rotations become a set of four couples for the quadrille. The dance demands that two couples face each other like the points of a square, with the other two couples at their back in the same, mirrored position. Austria is facing France, who is doing a splendid job of completely ignoring him in favour of casting suggestive looks at Austria’s dance partner.
They swap partners for a four-beat then return to position. The two ladies meet in the middle of their arrangement, curtsey, and skip palm to palm before stepping back into place. With a sharp inhale to steel his nerves and bring his height up Austria steps into the centre and France matches him. Austria is just slightly taller. They bow, and France smiles like a cat that’s got the cream as they place their palms together and stride in a small circle. France’s hand is slightly curled around his to lead him in their rotation, and Austria can feel the power barely contained under his skin.
“I’m glad to see your new partner here tonight,” France murmurs, only for Austria’s ears.
“She’s a pleasant girl.”
“Oh, no,” France chuckles. “I wasn’t talking about her.”
Austria feels his ears turn slightly pink.
They return to their places in the dance before Austria can say something clever in return. His dance partner looks faintly concerned by Austria’s suddenly gritted teeth. They move through the steps until they are starting the count again, and now Austria is facing England and his partner.
When they meet at the centre they smile stiffly at each other and bow, then place their hands together. The firm weight matches his like a perfectly balanced scale.
“You are entirely indecent,” Austria mutters, looking pointedly at England’s boots which are a little too close for comfort to Austria’s toes as they step around each other.
“You would prefer I painted my face and rouged my cheeks like that fop behind you?”
“That ‘fop’ will ruin us all while you keep running off to drown a few poor men halfway across the world.”
England smirks, “That almost sounds like you need me.”
“Your ships are of some value. If only you could find enough men on your little island to put on them. Perhaps you could ask Prussia to man you.”
They separate before England can reply and Austria smiles to see his scowl. The next rotation of steps puts Austria opposite Prussia and his dance partner. Gilbert holds her hand with the lightest of touches. She is looking coyly up at him, but he is resolutely ignoring her.
Roderich and Gilbert meet in the middle and bow with an easier familiarity than the Prussian spares for his poor companion. When they put their hands together Prussia yields the space, seemingly unconsciously, and Austria reaches over the midpoint to lead them.
“You should come with me, next month, to see Russia,” Prussia says.
Roderich is genuinely surprised by the apparently earnest offer. “I thought you didn’t like him?”
“I don’t,” Prussia snaps. “But do you mean to suggest that you will rely entirely on England to keep France in check? He has the ships but not the men. And he will run off back to the Caribbean in a year when he gets bored.”
“You have the men,” Austria points out. Gilbert doesn’t look convinced. Prussia has tested his patience enough tonight that Austria feels he may return the favour. He allows a faint throb of his rising military might to bite at the edge of Prussia’s consciousness. He can feel Prussia’s own power, a snapping beast bound by clerical vows and caged in a reliquary. But still there.
“You were the Teutonic Order,” Austria murmurs. “Be the Teutonic Order.”
They separate and Prussia’s expression is blank, unreadable. The dance is winding up to its crescendo, and with a final squeal of the violin quartet the partners come to rest and bow or curtsey into the middle.
Austria glances to his left, at England and France. He thinks the other two had felt his and Prussia’s little internal face-off or engaged in their own, as the air around them is almost vibrating with their own cloying forces. There is a tension hanging between their bodies, some unsaid thing. Almost in sync the pair of them shift their gaze sideways at Austria and past him at Prussia.
Austria thinks he might be able to make something of England’s surprise appearance. It has been some time since they got to know each other. Austria looks meaningfully towards the doors with what he hopes is clear intent. Another quadrille?
An unspoken agreement seems to pass between all four of them. Perhaps the night is salvageable.