House of Gold

by Natasha Solomons

  ‘Please help me,’ he said. ‘I need to tell you about the laundry baskets.’

  HAMPSHIRE, DECEMBER

  A list had been drawn up pertaining to Clement’s failed investments, but the details of his other creditors remained in the baskets, along with their correspondence and all Clement’s bills from the last year. It seemed that, once overwhelmed, Clement had turned his face to the wall and had neglected to pay a single tailor’s chit or settle the rather impressive bill from his club. Otto persuaded Albert to let Greta help. She was discreet, competent with figures and not easily shocked. Greta was extremely fond of Clement, and was relieved to be useful. Lord Goldbaum wished to be informed only of the final figure for the debt and of the names of the creditors. He did not desire to spend a month trawling through the pathetic affairs of his son and to be constantly confronted with evidence of his ignominy.

  They confided only what was essential to Lady Goldbaum, who instructed Clement to take a holiday in Switzerland while his affairs were brought to order. Irena listened with equal dismay and, to his astonishment, sympathy. She worried that, alone, Clement would be tempted into further disaster, and declared that she would put aside her sense of betrayal and accompany him. He quit England in equal shame and relief.

  The others commandeered the library to pore through Clement’s papers, sorting the correspondence into various piles. It was a peculiar task, and although the accumulated sums involved soon became dizzying, Greta found an odd sort of satisfaction in attempting to pull order from the chaos. The men were frequently enraged at Clement’s naivety and pathological inability to confront his troubles – the thing had spiralled into such a labyrinthine mess since he had refused to do so. Yet as she read through the often cruel and mocking correspondence, which here and there skirted awfully close to blackmail, Greta felt herself tracing the journey of another human being’s frailty and despondency. She was frustrated by Clement, but she also pitied him. Goodness knew how he had managed to continue for so long with such a burden upon his conscience.

  The newspapers sensed a scandal and there were scurrilous mentions in the press, and gleeful descriptions of a large debt. The Daily Express suggested a sum of one million pounds, and wondered whether Lord Goldbaum would be forced to offer up for sale a dozen portraits of his beautiful Gentile women.

  ‘Whenever they sense blood, all their natural prejudice comes out,’ said Albert with revulsion, on reading this latest story.

  ‘It does,’ agreed Otto. ‘But when the dust settles and they need a loan, it’ll recede again like the tide.’

  Albert made some last calculations in the ledger. ‘I make the final account to be three hundred and sixty-eight thousand pounds.’

  They fell silent, considering the stupendous sum. Greta paid Enid Witherick for her position as head gardener at Fontmell eighty pounds a year, plus a cottage and logs from the estate. She envisioned Clement’s debt as a series of Enid Withericks stretched out across the estate, and estimated nearly five thousand of them.

  Her reverie was interrupted by a footman announcing the arrival of a courier. The young man stepped forward and murmured something quietly to Albert, who nodded.

  ‘Tell them,’ he said, gesturing to Otto and Greta.

  ‘Yesterday afternoon the jury in Nyiregyhaza District declared Lajos Werkner not guilty of two counts of murder,’ announced the courier.

  Greta clapped her hands, relieved and jubilant.

  Albert dismissed the courier and produced a decanter of brandy, pouring glasses for himself and Otto. ‘It is a victory, nonetheless, of logic and reason over fear and prejudice.’

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ said Greta, pointing to her lack of brandy. ‘I should like to toast.’

  With only the smallest show of reluctance, Albert poured her half a glass.

  ‘To reason,’ declared Otto.

  But as they drank, each of them privately wondered whether they should rather be toasting money. It was the family’s wealth that provided them with the influence to persuade philosophers, dukes and popes to intervene on the side of reason. In this instance, reason had the glitter of gold.

  Otto sighed. ‘It’s a melancholy triumph. A battle that we should not have had to fight. If a fellow takes against me, I’d like it to be personal rather than on account of my race.’

  ‘My dislike of you was entirely personal, darling,’ said Greta, blowing Albert a kiss.

  ‘Thank you, I’m not entirely reassured,’ replied Albert and left Otto and Greta to continue sifting through the contents of Clement’s final laundry basket.

  ‘You and Albert seem happier with one another,’ Otto said to his sister.

  ‘Do we?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Greta stopped opening envelopes and sat back in her chair. ‘I find Albert attractive enough and not unintelligent, but he is so serious. In private he can be domineering, and in public he considers me flamboyant. I like him a good deal more than I did, and that, brother dearest, must be sufficient for the present. You may put that in a letter for Mama. I’m sure she is pressing you for details.’

  Since this was exactly true, Otto said nothing more.

  Albert and Greta moved into Fontmell shortly before Christmas. Greta wondered what the hall would look like with a blue Norway spruce felled from among the specimens in the arboretum, hung with lights and paper angels. Dutifully she placed a silver menorah in the bay window of the drawing room.

  Fontmell Abbey was the smallest house in which Greta had ever lived. There were a mere eight bedrooms. Hardly anyone would be able to come and stay, Greta concluded with relief. She had pressed Albert to resist the usual furnishing style of the Goldbaums – the crowded, overheated rooms stuffed with treasures. There were no Persian carpets on the exquisitely restored seventeenth-century oak floors, only rush matting, which softened the echo and in the warmth gave out a sweet, hay-like scent so that it smelled perpetually of summer. Most of the walls were plastered and lime-washed with chalk. At the heart of the house was the large skylit hall. Cool winter sunshine poured in from the round glass window cut into the thatch two storeys above, spilling onto the blackened Jacobean panelling in the great hall beneath so that it brimmed with light. Leading off the hall were the reception rooms: a cheerful dining room able to seat just twenty; a bright morning room, a billiard room, a small library mostly containing books on entomology and gardening, all the volumes rebound in Goldbaum yellow vellum; and, lastly, a sunny south-facing drawing room with French windows opening onto a wide terrace with views of the gardens beyond.

  On the other side of the hall, through the green baize door, were the kitchen and a servants’ hall with a vaulted ceiling fashioned from oak from the Temple Court estate. The under-butler slept on a bed in the gun room, between the store containing all the silver plate and a large china closet holding Greta and Albert’s wedding gifts of Sèvres porcelain, crystal and Meissen. The female servants had bedrooms in the attics under the eaves, containing the epitome of luxury: a washbasin with hot and cold running water and a radiator. Below the servants’ rooms was the nursery suite, which had been left strictly unfurnished and unpainted.

  Greta’s own bedroom was situated on the first floor, with large southerly windows framed by a Clematis montana and the waxy leaves of an ancient magnolia, which knocked against the glass during high winds as though seeking shelter. The room was decorated with absolute simplicity, the walls lime-washed and the woodwork rubbed with beeswax. There was only a single painting, a large canvas hanging above the fireplace by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, depicting one of his flame-haired women, a green-eyed beauty with pale skin, her plump bosom spilling out of a gauzy dress. The woman’s shock of crimson hair was the only flash of colour in the room. The painting had been a wedding gift from Henri, and Greta thought it both gaudy and glorious and decided that it, along with the view, was what she wished to wake up to each morning.

  Some weeks ago, after inspecting Greta’s bedroom, Albert had declared to her s
urprise that he admired her taste, and she should decorate the rest of the house in the same style. She had accepted the task with pleasure, papering the drawing room in William Morris’s ‘Honeysuckle’ design, as it seemed to tone so beautifully with the myrtle, lavender and rosemary growing on the terrace just outside. Greta selected only furniture that was elegant and, equally important, comfortable. She liked Chippendale, but had it mixed with new commissions from local carpenters, all simply upholstered in bold, clashing silks and velvets – cerise, emerald and vermilion. The paintings were an unusual mixture of Pre-Raphaelites and Renaissance masterpieces, the honey-scented and light-filled rooms setting off the lapis blue of the Madonna’s robes. Over the main staircase stood a large and empty space. Greta had found no painting that she both loved and that fitted, and she preferred to have nothing than to hang a mistake.

  ‘You asked me whether I should like living here,’ said Albert to her one evening before they went upstairs to dress for dinner, ‘and the answer is that I do.’

  Greta smiled. She sat curled on the new elm window seat in the drawing room and gazed out across the garden at the sun that was sinking in the west, the sky already fading from pink to grey to black. Living closely with Albert was informative. She had learned more about him in the last few weeks than she had during all the previous months of their marriage. His habits were regular: he went to bed late and rose early, shortly after dawn. He had his loose change washed every morning, before it was placed in a wooden dish on his bureau. He dressed himself without the assistance of his valet and even shaved himself. This, she understood, was because Albert did not like to be touched. The one person he did not flinch from was her – but then only during intimate encounters. A casual brush of the hand or knee and he would stiffen, before self-consciously relaxing with a force of will. He liked order and cleanliness in all things. The spare furnishings of the house suited him. Mess and changes to his routine alarmed him. Albert might not say so, but he became ill-tempered with the servants and at night she could hear him pacing in his rooms.

  He was imperfect, full of strange habits, and yet she liked him. He knew a great deal about a great many topics, but he also liked to listen, and he paid quiet attention while she spoke, always interested in her opinion even when he disagreed. Despite the tranquillity in their new home, Greta had the odd sensation that she was simply playing house. That none of this was quite real, or else that the serene and pleasant life with Albert was only fleeting. This, she concluded, was because she was happy, or very close to it. And when one feels happiness, one starts to fear its loss.

  Finally, after a slow beginning, they discovered a mutual interest in the bedroom. Albert did his best to make sure that he did not plant a seed in her womb, while reminding her of the difficulty and inaccuracy of the method. To her surprise, Greta discovered that her mother’s advice was not entirely wrong. Albert knocked on her bedroom door slightly more frequently than she wished to receive him, and every now and again she locked her door. Whether it was one time in six or once in ten, she could not say. On the odd night, however, she sat up in bed waiting for his knock, straining to hear his footstep outside, and he did not come. She remained alone, unaccountably cross and sleepless. In regard to those occasions, the baroness had furnished her with no advice.

  That evening Lord and Lady Goldbaum were dining at Fontmell for the first time. As she checked the arrangements in the dining room once again, Greta found herself cheerfully anticipating their arrival. This was the first occasion on which she had received guests in her own home. The winter roses in the Fontmell glasshouse had bloomed that morning and Greta had them placed in the centre of the table. In the dining room she insisted on the softest of lighting: the electric light was only for the convenience of the servants; the family would dine by candlelight.

  Lord and Lady Goldbaum complimented Greta on all her preparations. The menu was simple, comprising four courses: a clear duck consommé; smoked-salmon mousse with melba toast and chives; beef fillet with a sauce whisked with lemon, watercress and Parmesan; and pears and walnuts from the estate for dessert. Albert accepted the tributes on his wife’s behalf with gratification, and as she sat in the warmth of the dining room, watching the long shadows flit upon the walls, Greta was content.

  After they had finished she stood ready to lead her mother-in-law to the drawing room and leave the men to talk over their port, but Lord Goldbaum held out his hand.

  ‘Sit a while, my dear, Adelheid and I wish to talk to you both.’

  Taken aback, Greta sat. She glanced across at Albert, who studied his father with some concern. Lord Goldbaum closed his eyes, and when he spoke it was evident that he had been rehearsing his words for some time.

  ‘Clement has been the great disappointment of my life. I had hoped that, given time and patience, he would mature and, even if finance was not his natural inclination, he would prove to be a competent and tactful head of the British Goldbaums and, in time, senior partner in the London House of Goldbaum. It is not to be. This latest debacle, regrettable as it is, has at least served to shake me out of my own delusions. Clement has neither the temperament nor the skill to be trusted with the partnership. He shall inherit the title; there is nothing to be done about that. But on my death, everything else will come to you, Albert. All the properties, the capital, shares and the senior partnership of the firm will be yours.’

  Albert was very quiet. ‘What is to happen to Clement?’

  ‘Once his debts are cleared, I shall set up a trust for him. He shall be looked after like a child. Paid an allowance. After my death, it will be yours to administer.’

  Albert nodded once. Greta looked across to Lady Goldbaum, but she was staring into the fire, her face concealed.

  ‘Perhaps this is not the life you would have chosen for yourself, Albert, but I know that you will accept your responsibilities with fortitude,’ said Lord Goldbaum.

  ‘Yes, Father. I shall endeavour to fulfil your expectations,’ said Albert.

  ‘Of course you will,’ said Lady Goldbaum, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand.

  ‘This was not supposed to be your lot,’ said Lord Goldbaum. ‘But if your brother had died, it would have been thus. You shall find yourself the leader of the family, the head of the firm, but also something more. You are not a rabbi, or a king or a prince, but you shall be – I’m afraid whether you like it or not – the lay leader of the Jews. They will look to you for charity, for advice and to provide them with a voice. Your position enables you to speak for them to men who will be forced to listen.’

  As Greta attended to this, she was filled with a sense of ominous solemnity. She glanced across at Albert, who sat silent and serious, as though he were indeed a prince receiving news of his brother’s abdication. He swallowed and then looked at his mother, before turning to his father.

  ‘I shall try to be worthy of such responsibility.’ He spoke softly in a tone of absolute seriousness.

  His father smiled gravely. ‘You have a good wife, and she shall support you in all things, as is her duty.’

  Lord Goldbaum looked at Greta as he uttered this last part, and she felt the familiar dread seep back into her, like cold fog blowing into a warm room. She glanced at Albert and saw his jaw set with uneasy disquiet. That night she sat up in bed, waiting and hoping for his knock on her bedroom door. It did not come.

  1913

  I decide who’s a Jew.

  Karl Lueger, Mayor of Vienna

  ESTHER CHTEAU, PARIS, MARCH

  The erasure of Clement from the House of Goldbaum required new partnership agreements to be drawn up between all the Houses. The senior members of the cousinhood were all in favour of a gathering of the family. At the beginning of March, on a cold morning when even the snowdrops seemed to shiver together beneath the plane trees, the Goldbaums gathered in the Blue Salon at the Esther Château. They greeted one another with gusto, the older ladies holding court upon the sofas, the gentlemen paying their respects in
English, French, German and here and there a scattering of Yiddish.

  An assembly of the Goldbaums in such numbers only occurred once or twice in a generation, and everyone had been rehearsing one another’s names for some days. The men outnumbered the women by some margin. Wives attended only if they so wished and were not busy with their houses and their children. Sons who had graduated from the nursery were brought along, so they might observe the business that one day would be their lot. Greta considered the usefulness of this custom questionable, noting with amusement two boys no older than seven or eight, playing tiddlywinks in the corner and, on growing bored, firing the counters into unattended coffee cups. Daughters of marriageable age were brought so that they might see, and be seen by, prospective Goldbaum boys. Clement, alone of the men, had not been invited.

  Greta was glad to see Edgar from Berlin and his sons David and Saul, and even more gratified that she remembered their names when she introduced them to Albert, whom they had never met. Edgar was the eldest of her father’s cousins and the only one to still wear a yarmulke beneath his bowler hat. He was serious-minded, scrupulously fair and one of the few Jews to whom the Kaiser himself paid attention.

  The gentlemen laughed good-naturedly, and the women made pointed remarks on the trimness of Greta’s figure. If Greta had found the ladies of British society to be pushy, they were reticent compared to the Goldbaum women. The one relief was tinged with unexpected disappointment: her mother was unwell and had not come. She would have questioned Greta unflinchingly. Greta was relieved to avoid her mother’s inquisition, but found herself sad that the Baroness had been too ill to travel. The only recompense was seeing her father. He greeted her with a dry peck on her left cheek, and was taken aback when she pressed herself into his arms. He hesitated for a moment, before embracing her and patting her on the shoulder, pleased and awkward. She was seated beside him at luncheon, and they chattered in German, a treat in itself.