With the African expedition a tentative success and his industrial machine grinding into motion, Christian turned his attention to another, more delicate front: the consolidation of his social and political power through the rite of marriage. His betrothal to Duchess Ingrid of Skarsten was not a matter of the heart; it was a strategic merger, and he planned its celebration as meticulously as he had planned the battle for Dybbøl.
The formal betrothal ceremony took place at Amalienborg Palace, a brief, formal affair presided over by a beaming King Christian IX. It was the grand ball held that evening at the Eskildsen city residence, however, that served as Christian's true statement. The ballroom glittered with the light of three thousand beeswax candles, a stunning extravagance that silenced even the most jaded members of the court. The newly formed National Symphony, funded by Fievé's bank, filled the air with a rousing waltz. Christian had commanded that this ball be a symbol, and every detail, from the French champagne to the liveried servants, was designed to broadcast a single message: the new Denmark was not just powerful, it was rich.
He stood in the receiving line beside Duchess Ingrid, a fixed, polite smile on his face as he greeted each guest. He was the center of this universe, the gracious host, the triumphant Count. Beside him, Ingrid was a pillar of serene composure in a gown of white silk that seemed as immaculate and cool as new marble. Together, they were the image of a perfect royal couple, he the dark, intense center of power, she his graceful, beautiful counterpart. He accepted congratulations from fawning ministers and merchants. He even received the formal, pained well-wishes of a humiliated Count Ahlefeldt, a moment which signaled the final, undisputed death of the old guard's influence.
The first dance belonged to them. As he led Ingrid onto the floor, he felt as though he were maneuvering a priceless, delicate automaton. Her movements were flawless, her smile serene, their conversation a meaningless stream of pleasantries about the music and the decorations. He looked at the woman who would be his wife and felt the vast, empty distance between them. There was no connection, no spark of intellect or emotion. There was only the smooth, frictionless execution of a political contract.
Later, he managed to find a moment of quiet. He saw Admiral Løvenskiold in deep conversation with a foreign naval attaché, and standing near him, observing the crowd with an intelligent, watchful gaze, was Amalie. She wore a simple, elegant gown of deep blue that stood out against the frivolous pastels favored by the other ladies of the court.
He approached her. "Miss Løvenskiold. I trust you are enjoying the celebration."
"It is a magnificent display, my lord," she replied, her tone perfectly polite but carrying a subtle, ironic edge. "All of Copenhagen is in awe of your… good fortune."
"It is Denmark's good fortune I am concerned with," he said, the words feeling rehearsed even to him.
"Of course," she said, her eyes meeting his. "The state must be served. It is a hungry creature. I see tonight that it feasts on champagne and celebration just as easily as it feasts on other things." Her words were a direct callback to their last conversation, a quiet accusation that he was allowing himself to be consumed.
Before he could respond, they were interrupted by the French Ambassador, a slick, smiling man named Marquis de Mornay.
"Count Eskildsen! A joyous occasion," the Marquis said, bowing slightly. "Paris sends its warmest congratulations on this powerful union." He turned his charming smile on Amalie, then back to Christian. "We in France are watching Denmark's resurgence with great interest. Fascinating reports of your new industries, your naval plans, and, of course, your… commercial ventures in Africa. Paris is most curious about your nation's expanding interests."
It was a polite, diplomatic dagger. A clear, unmistakable signal that the great powers were watching his every move.
"Denmark merely seeks to secure its own prosperity, Marquis," Christian replied smoothly. "A goal I am sure a great nation like France can appreciate."
The ambassador smiled again and moved on, having delivered his message. Christian was left with Amalie, the warmth of the ballroom suddenly feeling cold.
He left the party late, escaping to a deserted balcony, the frigid winter air a welcome shock after the stifling heat of the ballroom. The sounds of the celebration—his celebration—faded to a distant murmur. He had done it. The betrothal was a fact, the Duke of Skarsten's power now firmly welded to his own. The last vestiges of the old guard were broken.
But the chill he felt had little to do with the winter air. It was the memory of the French ambassador's polite, predatory smile, a promise of scrutiny from a power far greater than Count Ahlefeldt's faded faction. For every domestic enemy he subdued, a more dangerous foreign one took notice.
And then there was Amalie. Her perceptive words cut deeper than any diplomat's threat. She had seen the true nature of his sacrifice. He had secured a Duchess to be his Empress, a perfect political instrument, only to be reminded by Amalie of the man he was hollowing out to make room for the monarch he had to become.
He looked out at the frozen gardens, a perfect, beautiful, and lifeless landscape under the moon. A mirror, he thought, for the empire he was building. Every victory brought with it a new threat, and every strategic triumph left him more utterly and completely alone.