House of Gold

by Natasha Solomons

  ‘You have no idea about any of it. Don’t you dare tell me this is make-believe, Otto. The garden is the only thing that is real. I’m only real when I’m here. In the rest of it I’m an automaton, a woman version of the clockwork swan at home, wound up when guests appear. I play at being a wife, a daughter-in-law, a Goldbaum.’

  Otto felt the force of her unhappiness and had no solace to offer. He put a hand on Greta’s shoulder, but she pushed him away.

  LONDON, APRIL

  Otto visited the London Stock Exchange and was introduced to three dozen whiskered gentlemen whose names he could not remember, before returning to the partners’ room for luncheon. Lord Goldbaum sat at the head of the table, his sons and Otto on either side. A large game pie was brought in along with a jug of water. Lord Goldbaum never drank wine at lunchtime.

  ‘The Foreign Secretary wants to persuade the Kaiser to call off the arms race,’ announced Lord Goldbaum, wiping gravy from his chin. ‘He’d like our assistance in arranging a conference. Otto, I need you to write to our cousins in Berlin.’

  Otto smiled, thinking at first that his lordship was making a joke. ‘But the Kaiser intends to win the arms race. He thinks it’s his only way of gaining an empire.’

  Lord Goldbaum waggled a finger at Otto. ‘Quite right. And the British will never let him.’

  ‘So any conference will be a failure.’

  ‘It will, inevitably. But our assistance has been requested by His Majesty’s Government and we must oblige. They are turning to us once again. And,’ here Lord Goldbaum paused and studied the faces of the younger men, ‘remember that failure can be useful.’

  He smiled and rang the bell for the car to take him to the House of Lords.

  Otto watched him leave, certain that the old fox had a plan, but unable for the life of him to fathom what it might be.

  That evening Lord Goldbaum did not return for dinner. Clement dined in his club, leaving Albert and Otto alone, in what might have been an awkward tête-à-tête. Otto had worried that he might discover Albert’s character to be flawed, that he was guilty of some hideous failing, to justify Greta’s aversion. But as far as he could tell, there was none. From the time when he and Greta were very young, he discovered that to persuade Greta to like something, he only had to show interest in it himself. As children, this included midnight star-gazing, train sets and visits downstairs to luncheon with their parents (until Otto convinced her of his pleasure at the excursions, Greta hid in the nursery closet). When they were older, Greta’s basic ability in arithmetic was entirely due to Otto’s own devoted acumen, and she invariably liked his friends, paying rapt attention even to those scientists whom Otto suspected held little appeal, save to their colleagues. He was not sure that the principle would still hold concerning husbands, but he felt that he was duty-bound to pretend to find Albert an engaging and interesting fellow, in the hope that Greta might be persuaded to soften her avowed dislike of him. In the end, no pretence was necessary.

  He found Albert taciturn and serious, but also interested and interesting, quizzing Otto closely on matters of astronomy. Albert, like Otto, was a gifted but reluctant financier whose real talents lay elsewhere. Over brandy, Albert explained how some moths hatched only during certain phases of the moon. He wanted to hear all about Otto’s adventures in the Imperial Observatory, and his experiences on the Russian border.

  ‘Did you see the Cossacks? And the Eastern Jews?’

  Otto laughed. ‘Do you know, your wife wanted to know the same thing.’

  Albert refilled their brandies, but made no remark.

  ‘We did indeed see the Cossacks,’ continued Otto. ‘They would gallop their horses right along the border, racing our imperial dragoons. It was all bravado and display, shouts and kicking up dust and smashing bottles, but quite a thing to see all the same. Where we were stationed at the Observatory, we heard the odd report of a pogrom, but they were always much further east.’

  ‘Such misery and violence.’

  ‘Less at present. Your father stopping loans to Russia has made them more cautious.’

  ‘You don’t sound as if you believe it will last.’

  ‘I don’t. I think funds ought to be made available for those Jews who wish to emigrate to America.’

  ‘While my father wants a permanent resolution in Russia,’ said Albert, leaning back in his chair. ‘You can see his point, Otto. Five million Jews can’t emigrate.’

  Otto considered his cousin. ‘In England, you always seem to be surprised by hostility towards Jews. In Austria, we expect hostility and are only surprised when we find goodwill.’

  ‘So is your way better?’

  ‘It is only that, with lower expectations, we are less often disappointed.’ He was silent for a moment before asking, ‘Albert, what is your father’s plan regarding the Kaiser? We know the Germans won’t stop building dreadnoughts. Any peace conference is pointless.’

  ‘I don’t know. And there is no use in asking. Father likes us to work it out ourselves.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘Me and Clement.’

  Otto repressed a smile. ‘Has Clement ever unravelled one of your father’s financial schemes?’

  It was Albert’s turn to smile. ‘No.’

  ‘Perhaps Lord Goldbaum feels that your government needs reminding of the Kaiser’s intractable character.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Albert, unconvinced.

  ‘The Kaiser is an odd fellow. I mean, I think all emperors have delusions of holiness – it does rather go with the territory. But the Kaiser is a special case. You know he has a withered arm?’

  Albert shrugged. ‘What of it?’

  ‘When he was a small boy, his parents used to make him bathe it in the entrails of freshly killed lambs, in the hope it would grow.’

  ‘How perfectly revolting.’

  ‘Yes. I don’t think it helped him in the development of a pleasant disposition. He’s known for tormenting his ministers. He made one of his courtiers dress up as a poodle and howl. Apparently the man’s crime was to be fat. According to Edgar Goldbaum, who claims he was there, the Kaiser spanked the King of Bulgaria on the behind. You should make sure that you read everything the couriers bring from the German cousins, for it is always interesting, if disturbing.’

  ‘Our king seems almost dull in comparison.’

  ‘And safer. I think we would all sleep a little easier if the monarchs of Europe were modelled upon King George.’

  The two men lapsed into thoughtful silence. It was much easier to discuss politics than women – particularly the one woman with whom they were both so closely allied. Otto shifted, acutely embarrassed, but determined to raise the subject.

  ‘I would never presume to know what has happened between you and my sister.’ Otto saw Albert stiffen with displeasure, but pushed on regardless. ‘I know she is irritable, stubborn and displays a wanton disregard for convention. But she is also tremendously loyal and she’s fun.’

  Albert frowned. ‘And is that a valuable quality in a wife?’

  Otto held up his hands in surrender. ‘Never having had one, I wouldn’t know. But it’s a valuable quality in a friend. Makes life a bit more bearable.’

  Albert coughed and was silent for a moment. ‘The thing is, Otto, everyone else seems acutely aware of my wife’s virtues. It only serves to remind me of my own failure to appreciate them.’

  Otto was considered, reflecting.

  ‘I suspect that you think her frivolous. She isn’t. She has a sense of mischief and takes delight in the absurd. It’s only when an argument is started that she has to win, no matter the consequence.’

  Albert sighed and looked at Otto, his face full of frank unhappiness. ‘There are no winners here. What would you have me do?’ he asked, exasperated.

  Otto had little advice to offer. ‘Talk to her,’ he said at last. ‘And while you do, pretend to yourself that you don’t dislike her.’

  Otto resolved to return to the matter the next day
, however difficult it might be. But the following morning he awoke to discover that the Titanic had struck an iceberg in the Atlantic, and no one could speak of anything else.

  To the nation’s relief, there was thought to be no loss of life. The only loss was to shipping and national pride. To the family’s profound distaste, Lord Goldbaum was complimented on his uncanny prescience in declining to insure the vessel. Editorials wondered slyly whether it was a Semitic skill. The day after the sinking, it was revealed that the initial reports were mistaken, and the loss of life was catastrophic. The Goldbaum men convened in the morning room after breakfast. Stanton brought Lord Goldbaum and Albert a stream of telegrams, while Clement studied the first-class passenger lists to see whether there was anyone of their acquaintance on board. Otto felt at a loss, with nothing useful to contribute.

  ‘The Astors were sailing,’ said Clement.

  ‘Then the richest man in the world is drowned,’ said Lord Goldbaum. ‘We are all equal in the end. Even gold sinks.’

  No one spoke for a moment or two.

  ‘At least something good came of the strikes,’ said Albert at last. ‘The coal shortage meant that hundreds cancelled their passage. The ship was half-empty.’

  ‘That’s little comfort to the drowned,’ said Clement.

  A footman appeared with another telegram on a silver tray. Lord Goldbaum waved him away.

  ‘Enough. It might not be the usual thing, but under the circumstances, I would like to say Kaddish. Then we must go at once to the Stock Exchange. See if we can’t calm the markets.’

  They stood, heads bowed, with Lord Goldbaum reciting the familiar words. Otto looked out of the window – it was still raining. The golden Rolls-Royce Ghost idled outside in Park Lane, waiting to convey the Goldbaums into the City.

  HAMPSHIRE, APRIL

  ‘Perhaps we ought to cancel tonight’s dinner,’ said Lady Goldbaum for the third time on Friday afternoon. They sat in the Blue Sitting Room, lists of guests, menus and table orders spread out before them on Marie Antoinette’s former desk and spilling onto the floor. A maid silently picked up the fallen papers and set them back upon the bureau.

  ‘We don’t know anyone on board. We’re not in mourning,’ said Greta, knowing it was what her mother-in-law wished to hear.

  ‘The entire nation’s in mourning.’

  Greta sighed. She could say nothing right. ‘Well, then perhaps you’d better cancel.’

  ‘No. I don’t think that would do at all. We shall say a few words for the departed. A prayer perhaps.’

  ‘Yes, Adelheid.’

  ‘And after all, if I delay the dinner until next week, the titan arum won’t still be in flower, and everyone is simply desperate to see it.’

  Greta knew this was the real reason tonight’s dinner could not be called off. Lady Goldbaum usually adhered to social codes with absolute rigidity – as Jews, they had to behave with particular sensitivity. But social convention paled next to matters of horticultural significance. The pride of Lady Goldbaum’s exotic plant collection was a giant titan arum, and a specimen had unexpectedly, after twenty years of failure, erupted into flower. And, as Lady Goldbaum had announced with some awe after breakfast, it was the first time the species had ever been known to bloom in England. Greta believed that if she was ever to carry the heir to the British Goldbaums in her belly, his arrival could not be anticipated with more eagerness than the flowering of this bizarre and exotic plant.

  Until now, Greta had barely noticed the shrub. It merely looked like a vast and ungainly leek, sprouting several feet high and protruding unremarkably from its enormous terracotta pot. It was vaguely, unobtrusively ugly. Then yesterday, when one of the under-gardeners was feeding potash to the exotic species, he noticed that the greenhouse was filled with the rotting smell of death. On searching the glasshouse for the dead creature decaying surreptitiously in some corner, he discovered instead that the titan arum had unfurled, the pale-green leaf springing open to form a single red petal, the colour of fresh meat. It bloomed enormously and revoltingly. Exhilarated by her latest conquest of nature, Lady Goldbaum could think about little else. Greta found it oddly morbid. It was too close in name to the lost ship, and it had waited until she had sunk to produce a flower.

  ‘Will you check the floral arrangements in the conservatory?’ said Lady Goldbaum. ‘You have my list.’

  Greta nodded, and Lady Goldbaum bustled out to terrify the poor projectionist. That evening she was to host one of her famous explorers’ dinners. An expedition of plant-hunters that she had sponsored had recently returned from China and Tibet, including the great Julian Stein. Thank goodness Lady Goldbaum would have someone with whom to share her horticultural bliss. Greta’s list of superlatives was quite exhausted. She’d be glad never to look at the titan again. She knew Lady Goldbaum would consider it most irregular, but Greta was finding to her own surprise that her greatest satisfaction was often to be found in the smaller native species. Best of all, she adored wildflowers – cornflowers, meadow vetch and sweet alison; lady’s bedstraw, moon carrot and the nocturnal display of night-flowering catchfly.

  Drinks were to be held in the conservatory. Lady Goldbaum had naturally wanted them to be served in the glasshouse, but Greta pointed out that the foul smell of the titan tree might turn the stomachs of those with less vigorous constitutions. Greta viewed the conservatory as not so much a room as a jungle. Norfolk Island pine and banana plants provided architectural foliage, while a vast bed of calla lilies and white chrysanthemums, round and fluffed up as snowballs, flourished in indoor beds. Three tiger skins brought back from previous expeditions had been laid in the centre of the room so that, when they were glimpsed through the palms and ferns, Greta had the eerie sensation that she was being stalked from the undergrowth.

  The head of the largest tiger was stuffed with the ears pricked up and mouth open mid-roar, haptic orange-and-black stripes along its back, and she reached down to stroke the pelt, experiencing initially a civilised ripple of regret at the death of such a magnificent wild thing, followed by an uncivilised shudder of fear. The yellow teeth of the open mouth were very large indeed, like polished daggers. Then she noticed a tiny blemish on the tiger’s eyebrow, above the amber bead of an eye. Peering closer, she realised it was not a blemish but a butterfly, a High Brown Fritillary, one of the few butterflies that she remembered, on account of it being so rare. Now, as she studied it, Greta realised that it wasn’t brown at all, but the same golden-orange as the tiger, and almost perfectly camouflaged. Perhaps that was why it was so rare; it needed a tiger skin to hide, and those were generally hard to find in Hampshire.

  Albert would like the butterfly for his collection. Greta knew that to catch the butterfly and set it for him would be a peace offering. But she disliked the habit, despite Albert insisting that, unlike the poor tiger, catching butterflies was all in the pursuit of science. There was a swirling tightness in her chest, a sensation so familiar and constant that it took her a minute to recognise it as a symptom of her unhappiness. If relations were better with Albert, was it possible that this feeling could pass? Greta tried to imagine a life without this dizzying numbness. Soon she would have endured an entire year of a marriage lacking intimacy, companionship and sometimes even civility. She had attempted to distract herself with her garden, but charming as it was, it was not enough. She couldn’t bear the prospect of another year of loneliness, of waking in the night, livid with resentment. If she did nothing, that was all she had to expect for the next year, and the one after that. She could not accept that gilded loneliness and disappointment were to be her lot for life. Perhaps Otto was right, she decided with a sigh; she must try harder with Albert, attempt to reach him once more. She rang the bell. A footman appeared.

  ‘Fetch Herzfeld,’ she said, speaking almost in a whisper. ‘Tell him to bring tools to catch and set a butterfly.’

  A few minutes later, a slight and balding man in early middle age appeared with a brown leather bag, ra
ther like that of a doctor. He nodded to Greta and knelt beside her on the tiger skin, as though this was his usual occupation after morning coffee.

  ‘Mrs Goldbaum.’

  ‘Look, a High Brown Fritillary,’ and she pointed to the butterfly poised upon the tiger skin.

  Paul Victor Herzfeld was her husband’s most-valued member of staff, the curator of his collections while Albert worked away in London, and his collaborator when he was at home. He was always scrupulously polite to Greta, but she viewed him with the same mild revulsion as she did Albert’s insect jars. She associated him with beetles and things with too many legs.

  ‘A female,’ said Herzfeld, looking at it closely. ‘Once we’ve pinned her, we must check the leaves in the conservatory to see if she’s laid any eggs. It’s so warm in here, she must have been tricked into thinking it’s summer.’ He spoke with hushed excitement.

  With a smooth movement he brought out a silken butterfly net and slipped it over the insect.

  ‘We don’t want her escaping now, do we?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  The butterfly caught, they stopped whispering. Herzfeld passed Greta a glass bottle.

  ‘Here, you do the honours. Slide the butterfly into the killing jar. Careful of her wings, and pinch the thorax between your fingers to stun her, or she might damage her wings hurling herself against the glass as she dies.’

  ‘I think I’ve changed my mind.’

  Herzfeld shrugged. ‘She won’t know anything about it, I assure you. It’s simply instinct. There’s a little rubbing alcohol on a piece of cotton wool in the jar. The butterfly will die very quickly. They can’t feel a thing. Then we can pin her and mount her on blotting paper so that she dries.’

  ‘For science?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Wondering how it was that she needed to kill a butterfly in order to save her marriage, Greta put her hand inside the net and gently squeezed its thorax, feeling it grow still in her hand, the wings ceasing to flutter. She eased it into the jar and watched as, after half a minute, it became quite still.