The arrival of the Duke of Skarsten and his daughter, Duchess Ingrid, in Copenhagen was the premier social event of the post-war season. The Duke was one of the most powerful landowners in Jutland, a man who had remained suspiciously neutral during Christian's political battles. This visit, sanctioned by the King, was universally understood to be a final act of unification for the Danish aristocracy—the old guard formally bending the knee to the new power.
Christian prepared for his first formal meeting with his intended bride as he would for a diplomatic negotiation. He reviewed the Duke's family history, his economic interests, and his political leanings. He was not preparing to meet a woman; he was preparing to acquire a strategic asset.
The meeting took place in the grand parlor of the Duke's Copenhagen residence. Duchess Ingrid was the very picture of disciplined aristocracy. Her posture was so perfectly erect it seemed sculpted from marble. Her pale blonde hair was not so much styled as it was architecturally arranged, a complex series of braids and coils that allowed not a single strand to fall out of place. She was beautiful, but it was the cold, flawless beauty of a masterwork painting, designed to be admired, not touched. She curtsied with a flawless grace, her expression a mask of polite, serene neutrality.
The conversation, chaperoned by the stern presence of her father, was a masterpiece of stilted formality. They spoke of the unusual warmth of the autumn, of a recent concert at the Royal Theater, of the health of the King. It was a conversation designed to reveal nothing, a dance of pleasantries.
Christian, playing his part, was the model of a charming, attentive suitor. He complimented her on her poise and inquired about her interests.
"I am fond of watercolors, my lord," she replied, her voice soft and melodic. "And I am the patroness of a charity for orphans in our district."
Her answers were perfect. They were the correct and proper interests for a lady of her station. Christian could find no fault in them, and yet, they felt hollow. He decided to test the waters, to see if there was any depth beneath the placid surface.
"A noble pursuit," he said. "Charity is essential. But I find myself more concerned with the root causes of poverty. For instance, my new land consolidation policies. They have been quite controversial, but our projections show they will increase agricultural yields enough to eliminate the threat of famine within five years. What are your thoughts on the matter, Duchess?"
He watched her carefully. It was a direct question on a complex, controversial political topic. A flicker of uncertainty, the first he had seen, crossed her face before being smoothed over by her impeccable training.
"It is a most complex issue, Count," she replied, her smile never wavering. "I confess, matters of agricultural economics are beyond my expertise. I have complete faith that you and my father will implement the policies that are best for the kingdom."
It was the perfect, and most damning, answer. She was not unintelligent. She was simply uninterested. Her world was one of social graces and domestic management, and she had no desire to look beyond it. She saw him not as a mind to be engaged, but as an authority to be deferred to. In that moment, Christian understood her completely. She would be a perfect political wife: beautiful, graceful, socially adept, and utterly uninvolved in the work that defined his entire existence. She would run his households with flawless efficiency, leaving him free to run the empire.
He contrasted her polite deflection with the memory of Amalie's sharp, probing questions, her direct and challenging gaze. The difference was a chasm.
The meeting concluded an hour later. It was deemed a resounding success by the Duke.
"A fine match," the Duke said, shaking Christian's hand firmly as he departed. "A union to strengthen Denmark. She will be a magnificent Countess, and a credit to your name."
Christian walked out into the cool evening air, the engagement now a settled fact. He had just secured the loyalty of the most powerful family in Jutland. He had acquired a beautiful, poised, and socially perfect fiancée. It was a total political victory.
And yet, as he rode back to his residence, he felt a profound and desolate sense of isolation. He had just met his future empress, the woman who would stand beside him, bear his children, and share his name. And she was a complete and total stranger, a beautiful statue who would never, could never, understand the man he truly is. The empire, it seemed, demanded every part of him, including the hope of ever having a partner to share its burdens.