House of Gold

by Natasha Solomons

  In case you ever want to miss some partridge again. And, after all I’ve been reading in the papers, in case the furious hordes descend on you at Temple Court, so that you can miss them, too. Vienna is quiet without you. And dull. Your loving brother, etc.

  Greta smiled, wrapping the pistol back up and slipping it into her pocket. Only Otto would send her a gun as a joke. It was something else to conceal from Albert, who would certainly not approve. With an intake of breath, she wondered whether there was anything about her that he valued.

  Feeling deflated, she walked slowly back towards the house – her house, she reminded herself – and realised that she was becoming light-headed from the heat and that a dull throb thrummed behind her eye. She cast about for a tempting shady spot. In the centre of one of the lawns stood a towering cedar tree, higher than the roof, its branches reaching out across the garden wall. She stretched out in relief, kicked off her shoes and then her stockings and, with a surge of exhilaration, unfastened her skirt and wriggled out of it. Discarding her blouse and folding it into a makeshift pillow, she lay down in her underwear and slip. But the temptation was too great. She could not resist. She unclasped her stays and discarded her petticoat and knickers and lay back on her bed of moss, perfectly naked. The velveteen moss cooled her hot skin and smelled deliciously of fresh earth and leaf mould. A miniature forest of green ferns flourished at the base of the cedar tree, and she could taste their metallic odour on her tongue. A woodlouse embarked upon an expedition across her stomach, and she watched as it tickled its way along the fine down leading to her naval, before flicking it away. Through half-closed lids she observed an iridescent dragonfly investigate a clump of day-lilies. For a heavenly moment she did not think about Albert and the failure of her marriage, the heaviness of the treasure-stuffed house or her life as a clockwork doll instead of a person, trundled out to make visitors smile. There was only the sound of the leaves, the heat and the pleasure of her own skin on the damp ground. Then she was asleep.

  In her dream she was in the garden still, but the one that she imagined. The lawns were speckled with a confetti of white daisies. The old brick wall formed the back of a large herbaceous border filled with tree-peonies in yellow and white, and sculpted peaks of ice-cream-pink hydrangeas. A host of golden butterflies alighted on honey-scented buddleia, each thorax shaped from a single glittering diamond. The house had been restored, and blue pools of heather and lavender flourished beneath the ground-floor windows, which had been thrown open. Curtains of roses, clematis and wisteria covered the entire front with a galaxy of flowers. Glancing upwards, she saw that the roof was thatched. She’d never seen a thatched manor before, only cottages, and the result was original and enchanting. She watched the path, certain that someone was about to walk towards her.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Greta! Put some bloody clothes on.’

  She woke to find Albert standing over her. Instinctively she covered herself with her hands, and then, decisively, took them away again, deliberately placing her arms behind her head, so that her breasts were exposed. They had been married for several months and it was high time he saw her naked. She stretched out to the tips of her toes and gazed up at Albert.

  ‘Lovely weather,’ she said.

  ‘Anyone could see you,’ he hissed, trying valiantly not to look.

  ‘And yet no one did. Only you. And, after all, we are married.’

  ‘Put your clothes back on,’ repeated Albert.

  ‘Why? I’m the most comfortable I’ve been all day. You should join me.’

  He coughed in irritation. Colour rose around the back of his neck.

  ‘It’s very kind of you to come and find me.’

  Greta knew that she was teasing him, but she felt a little drunk on the scent of the garden, the sleepy heat of the afternoon and the unexpected power she presently wielded over Albert.

  ‘I can’t talk to you, Greta, until you’re dressed.’

  ‘In that case,’ she said, closing her eyes and pretending to go back to sleep. Through the slits of her lids, she saw Albert eyeing her. He looked deeply irritated, but Greta perceived the outline of a large erection in the confine of his trousers. The thought of his discomfort made her want to laugh. And perhaps even have him kiss her, which was interesting, since she disliked him.

  ‘Will you at least sit up?’ asked Albert, defeated.

  Greta sighed and raised herself on her elbows, removing a twig and an earwig from her hair.

  ‘The women gardeners you’ve engaged,’ said Albert, ‘they’re not to wear breeches while they’re working here. It simply isn’t nice.’

  Greta laughed. ‘Oh dear. I’m causing nothing but trouble. My gardeners are wearing the wrong thing, and I’m wearing nothing at all.’

  ‘Well, do you agree?’ demanded Albert, trying desperately to preserve his dignity. He shifted from foot to foot, profoundly uncomfortable. ‘You will arrange for an alternate uniform. If you must hire women, they shall at least be properly attired.’

  Greta couldn’t help laughing again. ‘Oh, do sit down, Albert.’

  Beaten, he sat beside her on the moss. She reached out with a bare leg and stroked along his trouser leg, venturing beneath to flick the garter of his sock with her toe. He let out a little gasp. There were small beads of perspiration around his throat. She edged closer and, pulling his face towards hers, kissed him, slowly at first, more out of curiosity than desire, then longer and with interest. He made no move to touch her, his hands rigid at his sides as she curled around him, sliding into his lap. She loosened his cravat, feeling the bump of his Adam’s apple with her tongue.

  ‘I could make love to you now, Albert. But I think I’d like it better if I liked you more. And you did say that you were willing to wait until I was absolutely certain of my feelings.’

  He groaned and swore softly under his breath, but made no other objection.

  She moved off his lap, stretching out beside him. She had absolutely no desire to put on her clothes. This sway she held over Albert was delightful.

  ‘Your father seems to be intent on starting a fight with the Russians.’

  Albert stared at her for a moment, unable to focus.

  ‘We are going to discuss this now, with you… ?’ He gestured at her nakedness.

  ‘We are,’ said Greta firmly. ‘For once, I seem to have your attention.’

  Albert sighed before answering. ‘The Goldbaums are trying to persuade the Russian government that protecting the Jews is in their financial interest. The Tsar wants a loan. A very large one. Unless he vows to protect the Jewish population, he’s going to find it very hard to raise the money. Every Goldbaum House will refuse him.’

  ‘Won’t he simply try somewhere else?’

  ‘Yes. But no Jewish bank will lend to him. We have written to them all. He’ll get his money eventually, but it will be difficult and extremely expensive. There’s a chance the Russian government will go bankrupt while waiting.’

  ‘If that happens, won’t they blame it on the Russian Jews?’

  Albert was silent for a moment, considering. ‘That is a risk. But we are hoping that the Tsar will take our loan at a low rate, in exchange for stopping the pogroms. That is in everyone’s best interest.’

  ‘I’m glad we’re using our money to buy something useful.’

  Reluctantly she stood and began to dress herself as Albert watched, pulling on her slip and then her stockings, muttering as she found a tear in the silk.

  ‘Blast! Will you pass me my shoe?’

  He stared at her for a moment as if unable to hear and then, blinking heavily, reached for the stray shoe. Handing it to her, he turned away in silence and resolutely did not look at her. He waited until she was completely clothed, and when he finally turned back to her and resumed the conversation, it was as if he had merely stumbled upon her fully dressed and inspecting the begonias.

  ‘Greta, I didn’t come here to discuss Russia. Will your gardeners be appropriately attired? Or ar
e you going to defy me?’

  Greta glanced at her wristwatch. ‘Oh dear, it’s later than I thought. We’d better hurry back or we’ll be late dressing for dinner.’

  Albert stood and looked at her, unsmiling. They started back to Temple Court together, as Greta cleared her throat.

  ‘The women who work for me may wear what they like. Breeches are simply more practical for outside work,’ she said slowly.

  ‘It is not kind, Greta. I have asked very little of you.’

  In irritation, he picked up his pace and she had to hurry to keep up.

  ‘I shall defy you, Albert, but only in my garden. In all other ways I’ll try my best to be a useful sort of wife. But in my garden I shall do as I please.’

  Her life had been carefully planned on her behalf: she felt detached from it all, as though she was not so much living as watching herself in a play, one where she already knew the plot and it appalled and bored her. Yet she was starting to realise that she could endure it all, so long as she had freedom in this one place. Here, she would obey only herself. This, Greta resolved, was to be a garden of defiance.

  1912

  As long as you work with your brothers, not a House in the world will be able to compete with you or cause you harm, for together you can undertake more than any House in the world.

  Moses Salomon Goldbaum to his sons, 1867

  GOLDBAUM BANK, RINGSTRASSE, VIENNA, MARCH

  Otto waited in the partners’ room for the Goldbaum courier to arrive with the mail. The most important and private of correspondence was always delivered in this way. It was the method trusted not only by the Goldbaums, but by all of Europe’s monarchs and ministers. The Emperor himself, when he had something vital or of a personal nature to communicate, sent for the Goldbaum courier. The clock struck nine, and a minute later there was a knock on the door. Otto opened it, took his package from the courier and settled back at his desk to read.

  So, the Tsar had finally managed to raise one hundred million roubles through Barings Bank. Stearns and Lehman Brothers had joined with the Goldbaums in their refusal to underwrite the loan. They had forgone nearly three million pounds in profit, but a note from Henri suggested it had been worthwhile. The Tsar had issued an edict to the districts that if there were further pogroms, budgets would be cut. He wanted the next set of loans faster and cheaper. On the other hand, Henri wrote, the Russian Finance Minister had been forced to resign, not because of the loan debacle, but because his wife was a Jew. Otto harboured doubts as to how long the truce would last.

  He opened another letter, this time from Clement. Greta and Albert’s marriage was not a success, Clement confided. The entire household was disturbed by the tremors of unhappiness that emanated from the couple. Albert had turned to work, and he was in real danger of becoming a success. He spent some weekends in town, which wasn’t the thing at all. There were rumours of a mistress. Clement, knowing his brother, was quite certain they were only malicious whisperings, but still, if the marriage was in order, no one could spread such gossip. And Greta… well, Greta was lost in her garden. It was going to be a thing of magnificence, but her dedication to it was dogged and excluded almost all else. Goodness knows, Clement appreciated that Albert was not an easy man, but he worried that Greta had rather given up. She complained that she was simply too busy to pretend to be interested in bonds, or bugs or butterflies. Clement confessed to Otto that he was worried. About Greta. About his brother. About the family. There were only whispers at present, but what if the whispers grew into shouts? His father could not bear a scandal.

  Otto set the letter down. The strength of the family lay in its unity. The Houses across Europe were folded into one another again and again through marriage, kneaded together like dough. If a marriage should break apart, the effect it would have on the family would be devastating. The trust and concord between the Houses would be shaken. The shock would be felt in the money markets, the price of gold would falter. Otto cared little about this in itself, but he knew that his sister would be forced to suffer the consequences. He was concerned with her happiness, rather than with a scandal, but he understood in a way he feared she did not that she would not be allowed to be happy, if her marriage failed. Otto tried to remember if anyone in the family had ever divorced. If they had, they had been so efficiently removed from history that he had never even heard their name.

  He wondered if he ought to go to England. He knew nothing about marriage, but he did know Greta. He needed to understand why she was so set against Albert. Only then could he consider what was to be done.

  Having begun his trade at the home bank, it was now time to venture out to one of the other House of Goldbaum banks, before returning to Vienna as a full partner. Though he took no pleasure in it, Otto possessed the same shrewd judgement as his father. The Baron strongly favoured Berlin. The bullish young Kaiser, with his penchant for spending on the military and his consequent thirst for capital, provided great opportunities for Otto to learn the balance between business and political expediency. He wondered how he could make the case to his father for London instead.

  ‘You should leave at once,’ Baroness Emmeline told Otto, when he informed her of his plan.

  He looked at her in astonishment.

  ‘I don’t want you to leave Vienna. I shall miss you, and you must write with every post. But you will be able to see your sister.’

  The Baroness’s affection for her son was uncomplicated. He, unlike his sister, did not give her trouble. Although he had hobbies that did not fit with the family interest, as a good son, he repressed them. The fact that he considerately kept his discontent to himself was something the Baroness admired, while not being fooled by.

  She remembered the night she had given birth to Otto; too excited to sleep, she had lain awake all night gazing at the little wrapped figure in the cradle with his bruised blue eyes. When they had taken him away to give him to the wet-nurse, she had sobbed at the theft, knowing he would never truly be returned to her. Greta had stolen him further away, monopolising Otto the moment she joined him in the nursery. Try as she might, the Baroness could not penetrate the sealed unity of their twosome.

  She appreciated how, even as a boy, Otto sensed she was left out and, on spying her in the garden, would break away from pursuit of his ball and present her with a wild strawberry, like a secret. He always pressed Greta to include her in their games of charades (‘Too silly for Mama,’ she’d say) or picnics beside the river with Nurse (‘No, Mama won’t sit on grass’). Greta always won. But the Baroness never pushed – she did not know how to play charades and, indeed, did not wish to sit on wet grass, and would have needed great encouragement to try. Instead, Greta would fix her with a look of contempt and bewildered disappointment, and the Baroness would concede that she was not up to the task and withdraw. At six years old, in white knee-socks and pigtails, Greta had the power to devastate her mother, who felt herself wither under her disdain. She loved her daughter with exasperation and without understanding.

  And so missing Greta had come as a great surprise. She tried to enquire in her letters minutely after Greta’s health, anxious to know if she was pregnant. She fretted endlessly about English doctors – she’d heard of their reluctance to sanction chloroform during childbirth. The Baroness was outraged; how could a man understand the savagery of such pain? Greta answered her letters warmly, but never intimated that she was expecting. The Baroness herself had fallen pregnant by the end of her honeymoon. Greta did not invite her to visit, and the Baroness could not bring herself to ask. She consoled herself that, aware of her mother’s infamous dislike of travel, Greta did not wish to inconvenience her.

  ‘I’ve spent years complaining about your sister’s noise and untidiness, and now I spend each evening wishing there was a pile of novels on the floor and a trail of biscuits crumbs across the Louis XIV sofa.’

  Otto laughed.

  ‘I know something is wrong,’ said the Baroness softly, ‘but she won’t tell me w
hat it is.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘She is polite and solicitous and kind in her letters. Not once has she set out to provoke me. Something must be wrong.’

  Otto smiled, but the Baroness did not. ‘I’ll go to England, Mother. I’ll make sure Greta is all right.’

  The Baroness poured him coffee, adding a dash of plum liqueur and whisking in a little cream. Otto drank obediently. This had been their ritual for years, and he couldn’t bear to tell her that he disliked the sickly drink immensely. The Baroness smiled at her son with such frank love and admiration that Otto was forced to look away, embarrassed. She reached out and clasped his hand.

  ‘Every post you will write to me, yes?’

  ‘Yes, Mother. Every post.’

  JEWISH POOR BOYS’ HOME, VIENNA, MARCH

  Karl was no longer living in the canal beneath the Goldbaum Palace, but he was living under Goldbaum largesse. For three months he’d been in a school for poor boys provided for by one of the Baroness’s charities. He’d sickened from typhoid, and during his stay at one of the hospitals for the poor, a nurse had noticed his circumcision and whispered to matron that the child in bed number twelve was a Jew. This being a Goldbaum hospital, penniless Jewish boys were cared for with special interest. Karl accepted his diagnosis of Jew with the same weary resignation he’d accepted that of typhoid fever. Both seemed to come with disabilities and advantages; typhoid: agony and sweated fever, but regular meals during a generous convalescence; Jew: Karl knew that no one in Vienna much liked the Jews, but on the other hand he discovered they took good care of their own. After he was well enough to be released, instead of finding himself back on the streets, or indeed beneath them, he was found a place in a home for unfortunate boys and, for the first time in his life, was learning to read. Karl decided to acquiesce to his fate, at least for the present. If they said he was a Jew, then he’d be a Jew.

  He experienced his first Passover, eating the matzos only after he was assured that it did not contain the blood of Christians.