If she were Erda, wise and imperious, he was Hercules, strong and strapping. They made a handsome couple, her beauty and his height both seeming to have come from heaven rather than earth. They twirled through waltzes in ballrooms and stayed in cafés well past midnight arguing about politics. He missed none of her performances at the opera and hired the best photographer in Warsaw to make a cabinet picture of them. He called her Rosina until she reminded him of the sour turn taken in Rosina’s marriage to the count in The Marriage of Figaro, but she never refused his requests that she sing for him, back in his suite at the hotel. He soon found it impossible to imagine life without Irene. She adored him as no one else ever had, loving the man, not the prince. Nothing mattered more to him than possessing this woman who was a vision of strength and loveliness.
Only a sternly worded telegram from his father reminded him of his true purpose in Warsaw: to persuade a Prussian princess to turn over to him a series of embarrassing love letters written by the Bohemian king during, as his father explained, a lapse in moral judgment. The queen, Wilhelm’s mother, generally took this sort of thing in stride. What royal marriage did not benefit from the occasional lover? Unfortunately, however, this particular princess happened to be the queen’s bête noir, the daughter of the greatest rival of her youth, and the king, upon learning this, had no desire to further risk his tranquil domesticity. Wilhelm, who was close in age to the princess and had always got along well with her, could readily convince her to see reason—or so the king hoped. However, Princess Anna Elisabeth Victoria proved less pliable than the king had imagined, and on the very night the crown prince had met Irene, Wilhelm had all but given up the task. Ladies, it seemed, were loath to relinquish souvenirs of royal affairs.
“You appear most dejected, Sigi,” Irene said, gliding into the sitting room of his suite. The scent of attar of roses followed her, delicate and sweet. She perched on the arm of the settee where he sat.
“I am afraid I have failed my father. He is mercilessly disappointed in me.” She pressed him for details, and he held back nothing. The story finished, Irene sighed.
“I should expect better from the King of Bohemia. How foolish of him to stray so indelicately.”
“I cannot defend his actions,” the prince said, “but I do wish I could protect my mother from being hurt by his carelessness. Yet what more can I do? I begged Anna to see reason. She was unmoved.”
“Surely this does not surprise you?” Irene asked. “Cast-aside lovers are not known for their desire to help former paramours.”
“Perhaps I was foolish to address the matter so directly.”
“Some things, my love, are better dealt with lady to lady. Allow me to assist you.”
That afternoon, the Countess Xenia Troitskaya (Irene had always found herself unaccountably fond of the name Xenia) called on Princess Anna Elisabeth Victoria. The two exchanged pleasantries and warmed to each other immediately on discovering a shared adoration of Byron’s poetry, but it was the countless troubles stemming from wiry and untamable hair that brought them closest together.
“An absolute nightmare,” the countess said. “I know it all too well.”
“One would never guess it from looking at you,” the princess said. “However did you train your maid? Mine is hopeless.”
“Adèle is French and a genius. Are you attending the mayor’s ball this evening?”
“I shouldn’t dream of missing it.”
“I shall send Adèle to you without delay. You won’t know yourself—or your hair.”
“But how could you possibly know she would agree?” the crown prince asked later, when he met Irene at her rooms.
“My dear man, you do not understand ladies in the slightest,” she said, gently removing the Countess Xenia’s enormous wig from her head. “The moment I saw her I identified her hair as her weakness. The texture is difficult, as evidenced from the countless wayward bits sticking up from her scalp in every direction. The number of pins and combs employed told me she does all she can to tame it. Her manner of dress, so self-consciously fashionable, and the preponderance of jewels draped over her so early in the afternoon suggest both vanity and bad judgment. I knew she would not resist my offer of assistance.”
“Do put the wig back on,” Wilhelm said. “It rather suits you and I am most fond of Russians, Countess.”
Irene returned his kisses but then pushed him away. “There is no time for that now.”
Wilhelm watched as she disappeared into her dressing room, returning half an hour later utterly transformed. Something had dulled her rosy complexion, and dark smudges marred the smooth skin under her eyes, making her look tired and drawn. Her chestnut hair, pulled back into a severe and unflattering bun, did not shine. She wore an ill-fitting black gown with a stiffly starched apron tied over it and held in her hand a maid’s cap.
“You are to be the maid?” Wilhelm asked, startled, somewhere between shocked and bemused.
“Sigi, please do not say things that will put me off you,” Irene said. “I thought you to be in possession of more intelligence than that. The details of our scheme should have been evident to you hours ago.”
“I assumed you were going to send your actual maid to her.”
“And take the risk that she couldn’t locate the letters? Unthinkable. Be a good man, now, and give your Adèle a kiss. She is fast becoming one of my favorite roles. I shall see you later this evening at the ball.”
“Will I recognize you?” he asked.
Irene laughed. “That remains to be seen.”