House of Gold

by Natasha Solomons

  ‘I hope you are feeding poor Mama tureens of soup.’

  ‘We are taking good care of her. If it had only been a little warmer, she would have come. By spring I’m sure she shall be her usual self, complaining happily about everything.’

  ‘Give her a hundred kisses from me. Oh, for a spring in Vienna! To see the tulips erupt in the Imperial Palace gardens. You can smell the spring for a good week before you see it,’ said Greta, lost in reverie.

  ‘Well then, we must all breathe in deeply,’ said the Baron. ‘There are no tulips yet.’

  ‘And I miss the Kipferl served in the Sacher Hotel. Lady Goldbaum had the pastry chef try to make it, but it simply isn’t the same.’

  Charmed as he was by this easy talk of old times, the Baron had been commissioned by his wife to find out how his daughter, and the marriage, was faring.

  ‘I must congratulate your husband on his success in the by-election. How does it feel to be the wife of an MP?’

  Greta smiled, the stoic and well-practised smile of a campaign wife. The election had been undramatic, considering the uncertainty of the times. The only sticky moment had come when Albert was dragged off his horse during the hunt by several men from the ranks of the unemployed. He had been shaken, if unhurt.

  ‘Now he is elected, I am not sure that I really feel the difference. I’m hoping that on some afternoons, when he is supposedly in the House, he can slip away to the Natural History Museum and gaze at moths and African beetles. But he is so terribly conscientious, I doubt that he ever will,’ she said.

  ‘Very good,’ said her father. ‘I am glad that you have Albert, because soon Otto must leave England.’

  The pleasure of luncheon drained away. ‘How soon?’

  The Baron shook his head, uncertain. ‘His apprenticeship in London is nearly complete… ’

  ‘But you have been running our affairs at home for years. You can’t need him.’

  ‘One always needs the considered opinion of a sensible man. But the cousins are discussing New York.’

  ‘Again? I thought it had been decided years ago. We are the bankers of Europe, not America.’

  The Baron nodded. ‘That is true. But the New World is not so new any more. The partners are wondering if our decision not to open a House of Goldbaum in New York was a mistake. A wise man can make a mistake, but only a fool fails to correct it.’

  Greta sighed. Her father had resorted to his old habit of speaking in adages, so that every conversation felt like a lesson from Aesop.

  ‘I like having Otto in England,’ she said, resisting the impulse to bang her soup spoon.

  ‘And I liked having him – and you – in Austria. But we all do what is best for the family.’

  Greta turned to her father in exasperation. ‘But, Father, a family is made up of individuals. What is good for the family as a whole isn’t always good for us as people.’

  The Baron raised his glass. ‘Wise words, Greta. Marriage agrees with you.’

  She bit her lip in frustration. ‘I’m not playing proverbs, Father. I don’t think Otto should go to New York.’

  ‘No. You don’t wish for him to go. That is not the same thing. And nothing is decided yet.’

  Even though they returned to easier topics – the engagement of Johanna Schwartzschild, a new statue in the Stadtpark – for Greta, lunch was spoilt.

  A grand ball was held that evening. The Esther Château shone out across Paris, lit up like a second moon. An orchestra played music from the cities of the Goldbaums – Viennese waltzes, Handel, Mozart and Ravel and, as the hours grew longer and the champagne glasses drained, furious flights of Offenbach. Albert sought Greta’s hand for a lugubrious foxtrot.

  ‘You’re quiet,’ he said, concerned.

  ‘Am I? Father says they want to send Otto to New York.’

  Albert steered her past the banks of great-aunts, lined up on the gilt chairs at the edge of the ballroom, their floral fascinators like entries at a county show.

  ‘They’ve been talking about New York for years. I’m sure it will come to nothing. Besides, he can’t leave yet. The Kaiser’s visit is arranged for April. My father wants your brother, as one of the continental Goldbaums, to be present.’

  ‘And after the spring? When the Kaiser’s visit is finished?’ Greta looked at him with frank unhappiness.

  Albert was quiet for a moment, considering. ‘I shall need his help on a project in London for at least another couple more months. I’ll talk to your father.’

  ‘Will you really?’ She beamed up at him, suspecting that this project had only just been invented, and experiencing a rush of gratitude towards him.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. For a moment it seemed like he might kiss her, but they were in company, and Albert disliked such displays.

  Just after eleven, Henri led Greta into supper. He was full of cheerful complaints.

  ‘Papa wouldn’t let me hire cancan dancers for the party,’ he said, tucking her arm into his.

  ‘Spoilsport.’

  ‘And he barred me from inviting Claire.’

  ‘Now, that was to be expected, Henri.’

  ‘She sends you her love. She would very much like to see you while you’re in town.’

  ‘Do send her my best. I should like to see her, too.’

  Henri stopped walking and turned to Greta. ‘Would you really?’

  Greta blushed, uncertain why this had provoked such a heartfelt response. ‘Of course.’

  A line of guests – Goldbaums mingling with the Parisian great and good – had formed behind them, but Henri lingered, oblivious. Greta tugged him into the dining room, where a bacchanalian feast had been laid out. Henri and his father had not concerned themselves with keeping kosher. There were oysters and lobsters, goblets of sorbet in a rainbow of colours, a dozen cheeses, fans of savoury biscuits and a baker’s shop of fresh bread. A towering croquembouche of profiteroles with a chocolate cascade formed the centrepiece of the dessert table, surrounded by a forest of elaborately carved pineapples grown at the Goldbaum estate in Saint-Pierre. Henri broke off two large pieces of bread, instructed the footmen to carve two marbled slices of beef and then placed them inside the bread, busying himself with various sauces and pickles. He seized a napkin with a flourish and then propelled Greta out of the dining room and onto the terrace beyond.

  ‘Here,’ he said, handing her the bread.

  ‘With all of that, you’ve made me a sandwich,’ she said.

  ‘A truly excellent sandwich. And look, I’ve champagne, too.’

  He produced a bottle from under his arm and two glasses from his pockets. They sat on the top step, picnicking. He draped a shawl around her shoulders.

  ‘I don’t know if this is yours.’

  ‘It isn’t,’ said Greta, wrapping it tightly.

  A low mist wreathed the statuary and Grecian urns like smoke, so that they appeared otherworldly, their strict symmetry distorted.

  ‘You’re in love,’ said Henri.

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘Certainly. You have a buffer of serenity around you that only a woman in love possesses.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you told me,’ said Greta, annoyed. ‘“Love” is such a lazy word. I’m afraid it’s very overused in England. We currently live in a haze of superlatives. An evening is never pleasant, it is only a magnificent triumph or deathly dull. Society ladies adore or despise. I suppose I’m not permitted to be attached to Albert. To be growing terribly fond of him. I must either love or abhor him.’

  Henri chuckled. A moment later his face clouded. ‘Claire’s pregnant. She wants me to marry her.’

  ‘You can’t.’

  ‘I know.’

  Having no comfort to offer him, Greta reached out and took his hand.

  ‘How far along is she?’

  ‘Five months or so. She’s only just starting to show. A neat little bump. She says it’s a boy, because she’s been craving steak tartare.’

  His voice glowed with affec
tion, but his brow was creased with anxiety.

  ‘Father doesn’t know. That I’m sure of, as he keeps parading all these simpering Goldbaum cousins before me, suggesting that Rachel or Hannah or Sophie would make a charming wife. How can I possibly marry? Have two families. Keep Claire and my son in some apartment in the Eighteenth Arrondissement and see them on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and my legitimate family on Wednesdays and Fridays?’

  ‘And what would you do on Saturdays and Sundays, shoot grouse?’ asked Greta.

  ‘Oh, don’t make jokes, Greta. It’s too awful.’

  ‘I know, but there is really nothing for me to say.’

  ‘Will you see her?’

  Greta hesitated. Albert and the British Goldbaums would not approve. ‘Of course. Although I’m not sure what I can do.’

  Henri kissed her hand. ‘Thank you. It means more than I can say.’

  The following day the ladies and gentlemen separated, the men departing in a series of motor cars to undertake business at the bank on rue Saint-Antoine and the ladies assembling in the Grey Salon after breakfast. Glancing out of the window, Greta watched several photographers snap pictures of the Goldbaum men as they hurried away – a gathering of Goldbaums on this scale was newsworthy, or so it seemed. Henri had left no instructions for Greta on how to meet Claire, and she vaguely hoped that his request had been a spontaneous whim, forgotten the next morning. The gentlemen returned to the château for luncheon, and Greta found herself pulled aside by Otto before they could step into the dining room.

  ‘Henri has told me that you are to see Claire this afternoon.’

  ‘I am? I’m pleased that someone told me.’

  Otto sighed in relief. ‘Good. I’m glad you are not going. I’m not without sympathy. But it’s Henri’s own mess and I don’t want you dragged into it.’

  ‘I simply meant that I wasn’t aware there was any arrangement. I was going to visit the Louvre, but I shall call on Claire instead.’

  Otto stared at his sister with frank concern. Greta smiled and elbowed him gently.

  ‘Come on, Otto. I’m a married woman visiting an old friend. There’s no harm.’

  ‘So you’ll tell Albert, then?’

  Greta frowned. ‘Of course not. And neither shall you.’

  Otto coughed in irritation. ‘Sometimes I get tired of keeping secrets for you, Greta.’

  ‘Then tell on me,’ she said.

  They both knew he would not.

  After luncheon, when the gentlemen had returned to the bank and the ladies broke up into small groups to visit a museum or to call upon the milliner or furrier, Greta visited Claire. She was living in a sunlit apartment, not in the Eighteenth Arrondissement but in the Fourth, with a charming view of the Seine. She received Greta with genuine pleasure, taking both hands and kissing her warmly on each cheek.

  ‘It is so kind of you. But you are Henri’s favourite cousin.’

  ‘We are all Henri’s favourite when we do what he wants. You look well, Claire.’

  This wasn’t true. Claire’s skin was paper-white, as though she had not ventured out in weeks, and although she was no longer corseted to create the grotesquely small waist that had been her signature as an actress, she looked thin and ill. Greta could only just discern the smallest bulge beneath her dress. A maid carried in a tray laid with coffee and macaroons.

  ‘Sit, please – eat,’ said Claire.

  ‘I will if you will,’ replied Greta.

  They sat opposite one another on matching sofas with a silk stripe. Greta detected the hand of Henri in the decor. It was blue and white and bright, feminine but not blowsy. It was the perfect apartment for a mistress, the sort of place where a man would feel at ease. There was a leather armchair in the choicest spot beside the fire, which Greta knew must be Henri’s, for even in his absence it suggested his presence. A vase of scarlet roses rested on the windowsill. Another sat on the piano.

  ‘Henri,’ said Claire. ‘He sends me roses twice each week. It used to be every day, but I told him to stop as I had nowhere to put them.’

  She poured Greta coffee and piled a plate with macaroons.

  ‘You must eat, too, Claire. I hope you are looking after yourself properly.’

  Claire laughed and patted her belly. ‘I am, see how fat I have grown.’

  Greta couldn’t see at all, but said nothing. To her relief, at her insistence, Claire did eat – half a dozen macaroons and a jug of creamy milk, which she tipped into her coffee cup. When she had finished, she placed her small hand on Greta’s knee, saying, ‘And you will help us, won’t you, Madame Goldbaum? You will talk to your father-in-law and Henri’s father and persuade them to let us marry.’

  Greta set down her cup in dismay.

  ‘Oh, Claire, I can’t do that. I mean, even if I speak to them, it wouldn’t do any good. No one would listen to me. Is that what Henri said I would do?’

  Claire nodded through her tears, racking sobs that shook her whole tiny body.

  ‘Blasted Henri,’ muttered Greta.

  She knelt and attempted to help Claire dry her tears, but the woman remained distraught. Greta rang for the maid, and told her to bring her mistress a hot-water bottle and a blanket. Together they tucked her up on the sofa. Greta held Claire’s hand and tried to offer consolatory nothings, while inwardly seething at Henri. At worst, he’d sent her in to break news to Claire that he was too cowardly to confess; at best, he knew Claire was fooling herself and had dispatched Greta, without warning her of what to expect. Mostly she felt sorry for Claire.

  ‘What am I to do?’ said Claire, gazing up at Greta with vast doll-like eyes. ‘After the baby is born? I can’t go back to work as an actress. I was already nearly too old, and now… ’ She lifted her hands helplessly, letting them fall to her lap.

  ‘Henri will take excellent care of you both. Of that, I have absolutely no doubt at all.’

  ‘But he will not live with us. He will visit us like the butcher’s boy, twice each week.’

  Greta thought it best not to reply. For a woman approaching forty, Claire seemed strikingly naive. The entire situation appeared to have caught her utterly by surprise. Greta thought that a baby must surely be considered an occupational hazard, on becoming a gentleman’s mistress. She thought of Albert and his insistence that a man can only do his best in such matters.

  ‘I did not think I could have children,’ said Claire, as if sensing her thoughts. She continued, her voice flat, ‘And I don’t know how to be a mother. My mother was a terrible woman. She sold me when I was twelve years old. The man she sold me to thought I was younger.’

  Greta felt nauseated by this confession. She wondered if Henri knew.

  ‘I’m terribly, terribly sorry. But of course you will be a good mother, Claire. You will love the baby, and Henri will make sure that you want for nothing. I promise you that.’

  ‘What if they take the baby away? Give him to some childless Goldbaum woman like you, or to Henri’s wife to raise as her own? Then I shall be all alone.’

  Claire had turned even whiter than before and she clung to the blanket with thin hands. Greta felt frightened.

  ‘No one will take your baby. And Henri does not have a wife.’

  ‘And he promised me he never will,’ said Claire, lying back down. ‘If he can’t marry me, then he shall marry no one.’

  When Greta left, it was nearly half-past six and she was terribly late dressing for dinner. There was no time for her to bathe or change her underthings before she was laced into an evening gown, diamonds fastened in her ears. On descending the stairs, already late, she realised that in her haste she had neglected to put on her gloves. She paused in the glittering hall and saw, in a dozen gilded mirrors, her face reflected back at her, anxious and drawn.

  All through dinner she was aware of Henri, Otto and Albert watching her. She realised that all three men were concerned for different reasons: Henri wanting to know how she had found Claire; Otto fretting about her involvement; and Alb
ert, aware of nothing, wanting only to know why his wife looked so pale and unhappy. Henri was the first of the men to re-join the ladies in the drawing room after dinner. He made a beeline for Greta, who waited at the far end of the room ready for him.

  ‘How could you?’ she whispered. ‘You let me go there quite unprepared.’

  Briefly, in a low voice, she told him what had happened. They stood together before the fire, heads bowed, their backs silently repulsing the efforts of others to join them.

  ‘She isn’t well,’ said Greta. ‘You need to hire a nurse, someone to take proper care of her until the baby is born. Claire clearly isn’t eating, and that isn’t helping her or the baby.’

  ‘You’re absolutely right. That’s an excellent idea. It shall be done tomorrow.’

  Otto joined them. ‘I don’t think you should see her again, Greta.’

  ‘That’s the least of my concerns,’ said Greta, irritated. ‘It’s the twentieth century. Whom I call upon is nobody’s business but my own.’

  Otto sighed, resigned. ‘I suppose everyone will know soon enough. These things never stay secret for long. I’ll go and see Claire in your place, tomorrow.’

  ‘Do, please. When the family notice her, she’s much happier,’ said Henri.

  ‘Very well. I shan’t go tomorrow. But have you spoken to Father?’ asked Greta, turning to Otto. ‘Are you having to leave England?’

  Otto smiled. ‘Not yet. Apparently there is a complicated modernisation programme that Albert wishes me to collaborate on. We’re to try it in London and then see if we can’t persuade the other Houses to follow suit.’

  ‘What is a modernisation programme?’ asked Greta.

  ‘Typewriters,’ said Otto. ‘And telephones.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound complicated,’ said Greta.

  ‘It sounds superb,’ said Henri. ‘I’ve absolutely had it with handwritten ledgers, and information arriving by couriers on horseback. It’s absurd.’