‘That may be. But installing a telephone and buying half a dozen typewriters doesn’t sound as if it should take long,’ said Greta, puzzled.
‘Well, Albert and I have discussed it, and there are several manufacturers of typewriter to choose from. And the clerks will need persuading, and they do not like to be rushed. So I think I have a reprieve for at least a few months before I must return to Vienna. I like England.’
It seemed that her father had not even mentioned New York. Perhaps Albert was right, and the scheme had already been abandoned. For the first time that day, Greta felt some of the heaviness in her soul lift. She glanced around the drawing room and, on spying Albert, smiled at him with absolute gratitude. He acknowledged her with a single nod and returned to his conversation.
Later that evening there was a gentle knock on her bedroom door, and Albert appeared in his dressing gown. She tapped at the empty space on the bed beside her and he sat down carefully, before lying down, pleased but not at ease.
‘I’m glad you came,’ she said, firmly.
He relaxed a little and took her hand, brushing his lips along her knuckles. He hesitated, then said, ‘Baron Jacques wants me to talk to Henri about the possibility of my cousin Margaret for his wife. Do you think that’s a good idea?’
‘No. It’s a very bad one. Particularly for poor Margaret.’
She leaned over and kissed him, forgetting briefly the unpleasantness of her day.
‘I don’t have to work tomorrow. Spend the afternoon with me,’ he said as she pulled away.
‘In bed?’ she asked, teasing.
‘No, in Paris.’
After Albert returned to his own room, Greta could not sleep. She lay awake thinking of Claire, alone and frantic in her beautiful, lonely apartment with its view of the Seine.
They had a splendid afternoon. The sun shone, and Albert and Greta lunched in a very pleasant restaurant, where they shared an excellent bottle of wine and then Albert bought her a painting. He steered her into a private gallery on the rue La Boétie, where the proprietor, a slim young man with a high forehead, greeted Albert warmly.
‘Monsieur Goldbaum.’
‘Bonjour, Monsieur Rosenberg. Do you have it?’
‘Oui. I do.’
Monsieur Rosenberg led them through to a bright, plainly decorated room, where on one wall hung a Klimt painting of a woman in a rose garden. The woman was a small figure amongst the profusion of roses and the dark greens of the grass and trees.
‘She’s wearing your dress,’ said Albert. ‘We must have it.’
‘But you don’t like the dress,’ said Greta.
‘I didn’t like it.’
‘Oh, you do now?’
Albert prevaricated. ‘I like it in the painting. And the painting will fit perfectly on the staircase at Fontmell.’
Greta laughed, aware that she was exhilarated by the sunshine and the wine. She went up on tiptoe and kissed him, and even though they were under the earnest gaze of Monsieur Rosenberg, for once Albert did not object.
Greta was glad that she could visit Claire, because otherwise during the long days while the men were busy at the bank she would have been bored. The nurse who came in the mornings was kind and efficient, and Claire seemed to improve under her care. She had more colour and seized Greta’s hand, pressing it onto her belly and saying, ‘Feel him kick!’ with a little gasp of pleasure. Greta read to her and they played cards, or else she told Claire about when she, Henri and Otto had been children: the afternoons spent lazing on a rowing boat on Lake Geneva during summer holidays, lighting firecrackers in the gardens at the Esther Château, and once setting a potting shed ablaze. Early on Friday afternoon, when Greta was in the midst of such a story, there was a knock, and the maid opened the door to Otto and Henri.
‘We were allowed out early, for good behaviour,’ said Henri, striding over and kissing Claire on the forehead.
‘What a treat! How delightful,’ said Claire, sitting up, her cheeks flushed with joy.
The men had brought pastries and cheese and grapes and a bottle of champagne, and they set out a picnic on the low table in the drawing room. Henri sat on the floor at Claire’s feet, feeding her morsels with his fingers.
‘We need only music,’ said Greta.
‘It is a little hard for me to sing, I don’t have much room to breathe, with the baby,’ said Claire. ‘But I shall try.’
She closed her eyes and sang a lullaby. As she sang, she took gulping breaths, her hand resting on her stomach while Henri gazed at her with such unabashed adoration that Greta began to feel uncomfortable. She glanced at Otto, who was similarly scrutinising the ceiling with apparent interest; he caught her eye and winked. When Claire finished, they all applauded, and the maid hurried in to close the curtains.
‘Leave them,’ called Claire. She turned to Henri. ‘I like to see the lights and the stars. They keep me company when you have gone.’
‘I really am sorry, but we must go,’ said Greta. ‘It’s dusk and we’re already late.’
‘A few minutes more won’t hurt,’ objected Henri, unwilling to break the spell.
‘There is to be a Shabbat dinner,’ Greta reminded them. ‘I ought to be there for the lighting of the candles.’
Claire sat up and clapped her hands. ‘I’ve always wanted to light a candle. To be part of the Shabbat rite, just once.’
Her face was bright with longing, and none of them had the heart to refuse. The maid brought candles and matches, and Greta set them on the table, kneeling on the rug. She lit the first candle and then, drawing her hands in circles before her face, recited the Hebrew prayer, ‘Barukh atah Adonai, Eloheinu, melekh ha’olam, / asher kidishanu b’mitz’votav v’tzivanu, / l’had’lik neir shel Shabbat.’
‘May I light one?’ asked Claire.
‘Of course,’ said Greta. ‘Would you like to say the words after me?’
She repeated the prayer slowly, allowing Claire to echo her. When they had finished, Claire beamed at Henri. ‘After all, our son is half a Jew.’
Unable to stay any longer, the others put on their coats. Claire stood to say goodbye.
‘How long does Shabbat last?’ she asked.
‘Until the first three stars appear in the sky tomorrow night,’ said Otto. ‘My first star-gazing was looking out of the nursery window for the end of Shabbat.’
‘I shall look tomorrow at this time and think of you,’ said Claire, turning to Henri. ‘Will you think of me?’
‘Always,’ said Henri and kissed her.
Greta found the constant declarations between the pair a little wearisome. She supposed that Claire had been an actress, and now perhaps expected her own life to conform to the extravagances of a moving picture. She admonished herself for being uncharitable; after all, these interludes were all they had. Perhaps she and Albert did not need roses and passionate avowals since they shared a house, a dining table and Monday mornings.
Otto enjoyed that evening’s dinner at the Esther Château immensely. Perhaps it was the relief of being surrounded by noise and children and chatter, after the stillness of Claire’s apartment. The new partnership agreements between the Houses had been signed. The House of Goldbaum was ready for a new generation of European collaboration, and there was an air of celebration. He was able to forget Claire’s ghostly existence; the way it felt as though she only came to life when Henri appeared, while the rest of the time she waited, suspended. There were no guests, only the family, but even that was nearly fifty people, including the assorted children. Wine was spilled, custard dropped and the tablecloths were sometimes beyond laundering. Everyone laughed at all the jokes, not caring if they were funny or not. Henri and Lord Goldbaum were engaged in a jovial spat across the table.
‘That space behind your head, Lord Goldbaum, was where I was going to hang the Rubens.’
‘The winsome Rubens Andromeda that is now in my study?’
‘The very same. I did ask you not to buy it. I wrote you a lette
r.’
‘I remember the letter. But, my dear young cousin, you asked me not to buy a painting that you were hoping to purchase. However, and this I’m afraid is key, you declined to give the specifics of the picture.’
‘Because I knew that then you’d buy it yourself.’
‘Well, it was an honest mistake. I’m terribly sorry.’
‘Sorry enough to sell it back to me?’
Lord Goldbaum laughed, his shoulders shaking. ‘No. Afraid not. It looks splendid in my study. Or, rather, she looks splendid. Andromeda is just the kind of comfortable woman I like to look at while doing my accounts.’
Otto chuckled. Lord Goldbaum was making it quite clear to the others that, even after settling his son’s debts, he could still add treasures to his collections. The rivalry between the Houses extended beyond business to beautiful things. Each Goldbaum wanted a rarer, more remarkable item in his possession than his cousins. Outsiders believed that the Goldbaums wanted to surpass the legendary collections of those at Chatsworth or Blenheim, but they were mistaken. The Goldbaum rivalry was an internal affair; they wished only to outdo one another. Otto was not interested in this game; it amused him to watch the others, but he had little interest in objects without function. He was confident that he had the greatest array of telescopes in the family, but he was equally confident that the others would not be interested in besting him. His sister similarly was unconcerned about the smiling family rivalries. She had broken with tradition and built the smallest house amongst the Goldbaums, but in Otto’s view, it was easily the loveliest.
The following day there was a downpour, waterfalls sluicing from the roof and turning the paths into streams. No one left the château; they talked and they ate, and the rabbi hurried over from the synagogue to recite the morning service – there already being a minyan amongst the men. Mostly they sat before one of the fires blazing in every grate and talked of old friends and old times, glad that the rain prevented them from the obligatory post-luncheon walk. At dusk the rain lifted to reveal clear skies, and Otto retreated into the smoking room, waving at the maid not to bother with the lamp. He wanted to watch for the first three stars. They appeared one by one, popping shyly into view. He drew a chair to the window and sat watching for some time.
‘What are you doing, sitting here in the dark?’ asked Henri, joining him and fumbling in his pocket for a cigarette.
‘Looking at the stars. The visibility isn’t terribly good. But you can still make out the North Star, and that’s Venus, the Evening Star.’
Henri joined him at the window, squinting. ‘Yes. Very twinkly. Have you got a light?’
Otto shook his head and Henri started to rummage through drawers for matches. The maid reappeared and at first, thinking she had returned to light the lamp, Otto waved her away. Then he saw that she was showing in a policeman from the Sûreté Nationale.
A pall fell over the gathering. No one spoke of it except in whispers. Henri did not appear that evening or the following day. Greta found herself moving from room to room, unable to settle for more than a moment or attend to anything that was said to her. Albert was angry; furious that she had gone to see Claire, outraged that Henri and Otto had allowed it, knowing the fragile state the woman was in.
‘What if she had shot you, rather than herself?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Albert. She didn’t want to harm anyone else.’
Except that wasn’t true. Claire hadn’t only killed herself, but also her baby. For once, Greta wished that Otto hadn’t been such a stickler for the whole truth and had spared her a few of the details. She wished that she didn’t know that the gun Claire had used was an antique, and it had taken some time for her to die – a full twenty minutes or so, according to the poor maid, who had heard the shot. On rushing into the bedroom, she discovered her mistress bleeding profusely from the temple, a bullet lodged in her brain, her eyes fixed and open, but still alive. Greta wished that Otto had not confided details from the post-mortem: the bullet had lodged in her optic nerve and destroyed her speech centre, so Claire had died in the dark, mute. Greta felt desperately sorry for the maid. She had not run for help. Deciding it was hopeless, she stayed. ‘No one should die alone,’ she’d informed Henri, before she was dispatched with a hundred francs to her mother in Provence, to recover from the shock.
Greta tried not to think about the baby. Did it suffer in the womb, hear the mother’s heartbeat fall silent, alone for a minute before it too passed out of the world? She was too horrified and revolted to feel pity for Claire. There was a malevolence in the act. Claire’s existence was immured in wretchedness, apparently too much for her to bear. Yet, like the ripples from a pebble dropped into a pond, the consequences of her desperate act moved in ever-expanding circles blackly outwards.
The rain trapped them all inside under a siege of weather. Greta escaped to her rooms and sat in a chair beside the window, watching the constant deluge. Claire had seemingly waited for the Sabbath to end, and for the first three stars to appear, before she had raised the gun, perhaps in an attempt to prevent a worse sacrilege. Yet, Greta realised, what she had achieved was to create a ghastly memento. At the end of every Sabbath, Henri, Otto and she would think of Claire – the lifting of her hand, the blood and the two deaths, one of them so very small. Was it possible that Claire, a woman so fearful of being overlooked, had done it deliberately, ensuring such a grisly weekly remembrance?
The door opened and Henri stood in the doorway to Greta’s bedroom. He lingered only for a moment and then rushed in; hurling himself down at Greta’s feet and burying his face in her lap, he began to sob, unrestrained and wretched. Greta stroked his head and cried with him. It was the least she could do. After a few minutes he stopped. He drew himself up and stood beside the window, carefully drying his eyes.
‘There,’ he said. ‘I have cried for them both. I shall not weep again.’
He was silent for a moment, and when he spoke his voice was even and measured.
‘I shall never marry, and I shall never have children. The Maison Gold stops with me.’
The priest of Sacré-Coeur, Claire’s favourite church, declined to conduct the funeral service or to bury her in the churchyard. The priests of seven other churches in Paris similarly declined. Finally, after Henri offered to contribute substantially to the repairs on the leadwork on the roof of the Saint-Gervais-et-Saint-Protais church, the priest relented. He was certain, he confided to Henri, that as she lay dying, unable to speak, Claire had repented of her mortal sin. She certainly had not said that she did not repent. The only concession the priest asked for was that the service be held after dusk. The newspapers had been circumspect in their reporting: a beloved actress had died in a tragic accident. Neither her condition nor her ‘friendship’ with the Goldbaum family was mentioned. But still, the priest demurred, there were whispers and he did not want a crowd. Henri agreed. It would be held after dusk on Thursday.
On hearing the news, Greta escaped outside to the rose garden. She couldn’t bear the oppressive atmosphere of the house any longer. It was still raining and the bushes were little more than pruned twigs battered by the weather, the earth around them sloppy. The metal railings were hung with raindrops like diamonds on a necklace. Greta stood in the rain, her mackintosh growing heavy and cold, her face slick from the downpour. She felt an odd numbness inside and out. She watched Albert hurrying across the parterre towards her, carrying an umbrella.
‘You’re wet,’ he said, holding it over her. ‘Please don’t go to the funeral. I understand that she was a friend of yours, but I really would prefer it if you didn’t.’
‘I don’t want to go,’ said Greta, seeing his eyes widen in surprise. ‘I don’t forgive her. Not yet. This was her choice, but I can’t help finding a vindictiveness in it. She killed herself, the baby and any possibility of Henri having a family. She’s made quite certain that, if she can’t marry him, no one shall.’
‘I know he says that now, but what a man says
and feels at such a moment might change over time,’ said Albert gently.
Greta shook her head. ‘You’re wrong. You don’t know Henri like I do. He’ll always be Claire’s now. What she couldn’t manage in life, she has secured in death.’ She paused, plunging her hands deep into her coat pockets and stifling a shiver. She turned to her husband, saying quietly, ‘I can’t go to her funeral hating her.’
She glanced back across the garden. A bedraggled thrush alighted on a statue of Diana and flew away. She could hear the traffic and hum of Paris through the clatter of rain.
‘Albert,’ she said, ‘can we please go home?’
HAMPSHIRE, APRIL
The household was preparing for the arrival of Kaiser Wilhelm. He had spent a week on a state visit with his cousin, King George, before embarking on a short tour of England. He had been undecided as to whether to call upon the Goldbaums, for he was not overly fond of Jews. But then, it seemed, curiosity overcame antipathy – presumably with the coaxing of his ambassador Prince Karl Max – and the visit was confirmed. At Temple Court, carpets were rolled up and dusted underneath, and a two-hundred-and-twenty-five-piece Sèvres dinner and dessert service (hand-decorated by Louis-Victor Gerverot) was readied for the evening banquet. A fleet of gondoliers had been imported from Venice so that His Imperial and Royal Majesty could enjoy the vista of Temple Court from the river. Ten thousand flares were hammered into the garden along the paths, and the glasshouses were emptied of roses, lilies and Japanese chrysanthemums. Lady Goldbaum, fearing these were still insufficient, ordered a further five hundred pounds’ worth of roses from the Channel Islands. The pair of Gobelins tapestries that had belonged to the French Sun King were carefully rehung in the royal bedchamber, while the toilet in the adjoining water closet was fitted with a new wooden seat (the imperial behind could not sit where a bare bottom had sat before). The preparations below stairs were mirrored by those above, as the servants crammed into shared bedrooms to make way for the Kaiser’s army of staff.
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