House of Gold

by Natasha Solomons

Greta retreated to Fontmell to dress for dinner, relieved to escape the frenzy. She climbed the stairs, pausing as she always did to admire the Klimt hanging midway. It fitted perfectly, as though the entire staircase had been constructed to accommodate it, the glass window in the thatch specially commissioned so that the light could fall on the woman’s face, illuminating it just so. The painting, although closely associated with Paris, did not depress her. Instead, it reminded her of the fleetingness of happiness. How contentment in marriage is a matter of chance, uncertain and inconstant. She did not need every moment with Albert to be blissful; the fact that there were moments, and hours and days, when she enjoyed his company more than that of anyone else was sufficient and she was glad. Perhaps this was love, perhaps not, but after witnessing the catastrophe between Claire and Henri, it seemed unwise to want anything more.

  Greta wrote to Henri, but his replies were full of false bonhomie and accounts of the theatre and concerts, with asides of ‘Alas, poor Claire would have so loved the show’ and ‘If our little one had lived’, as though mother and baby had expired during childbirth. Greta could not bear this sudden re-imagining of Claire as a Madonna, complaining about it to Otto, who entreated her to have patience with Henri. He argued that Henri had to rewrite it, to forgive Claire and find some peace. Greta felt only indignation at such a lie. Yesterday morning she had risen while it was still dark and, wrapping a woollen shawl around her nightdress, had walked out to the river. In her hand she had held the pistol Otto had given her. In the ruddy dawn light she had cast it into the water. The pistol was no longer a joke, but an obscenity. She was relieved it was no longer in her possession.

  Albert had not yet returned to dress and the door to his bedroom was ajar. Greta pushed it open and entered his room. She rarely ventured inside. It was inevitably Albert who knocked on her door at night, unless he chose to sleep alone in his dressing room. It simply was not done for her to come tiptoeing to him.

  Albert’s closet was as immaculate as his person: rows of perfectly pressed trousers and shelves of brushed hats. It smelled of him – cedarwood and the distinctive sweet odour of the ether that he used in his collecting jars. She pulled down a bowler hat and tried it on, tilting her head in the mirror to inspect herself. The door opened and Albert entered. He leaned against the wall, studying her and registering no surprise on finding her in his dressing room perusing his hats.

  ‘I think it very fetching,’ said Greta, adjusting the brim.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘I want to watch you dress,’ said Greta, moving to lie on the single bed, propping herself up on her elbow.

  Albert made no objection and proceeded to unfasten his cravat and remove the studs from his shirt, quickly and with no hint of self-consciousness. In a minute he was naked, but as she glanced at the black hair that drifted down from his chest to below his navel, Greta felt as if it were she who was at a disadvantage. Even in his bare feet, he was extremely tall. He studied her with amusement.

  ‘If you want marital relations, Greta, you can simply ask. You don’t have to wait for me to come to you, as it were. I take it that’s why you’re here?’

  ‘Yes, I believe it is.’

  ‘Are you going to undress?’

  She hesitated. ‘No, I don’t think I shall.’

  ‘Very well – but the removal of some undergarments might be necessary, for convenience.’

  Biting her lip with a flush of embarrassment, Greta started to slide out of her knickers.

  ‘Much as I enjoy your discomfort, it isn’t necessary,’ said Albert. ‘I know it has been fashionable to express that only men are habitually troubled by sexual feelings, but I believe that to be quite untrue. In nature, the females of the species are often eager to copulate. Especially mammals.’

  ‘Dear God, Albert. Do shut up. In a moment I’m going to put my knickers back on.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  For once he looked quite abashed, and Greta seized her advantage.

  ‘Lie back on the bed, Albert. And please don’t talk.’

  ‘Yes, madam.’

  He obeyed with enthusiasm.

  A little time afterwards, when Anna had buttoned Greta into her evening dress and wrapped her fur around her shoulders, Greta thought of the indecent interlude with some satisfaction. Surprisingly, asking Albert to give her pleasure seemed to increase her influence over him rather than lessen it. She had not known that there was power in surrender.

  They drifted down the river in a flotilla of gondolas, the lines of flares spilling out into the dusk. It was a small, informal gathering of a mere fifty guests. The Kaiser was travelling in a relaxed style without his court. Greta held onto Albert’s arm, feeling both unsteady and seasick. The air was laden with the scent of larch, pine and river mud. The family orchestra played on a boat beside them, the slap of the oars and the knock of water against the wooden hull adding an extra note to the percussion. The Kaiser waved at a clump of cedar trees that were momentarily obscuring the view back up to Temple Court.

  ‘Those must be felled,’ he said, in his perfect and unaccented English.

  ‘Alas, Your Imperial and Royal Majesty, we cannot,’ said Lady Goldbaum. ‘They were planted by Agatha, my husband’s aunt, in the shape of Hebrew letters. It would be sacrilege to cut them.’

  ‘I can’t see any letters,’ objected the Kaiser.

  ‘No, Your Imperial and Royal Majesty, they can only be seen from above, by God himself.’

  ‘Charming but pointless,’ said the Kaiser. ‘What you need is an aeroplane, then man can share God’s view.’

  After their trip along the river, they returned to the house. Footmen waited on the steps with trays of champagne and warming brandies. Lord Goldbaum ushered the Kaiser into the East Gallery, where the orchestra had hastily reassembled.

  ‘My revered grandmother spoke with admiration of the remarkable collections at Temple Court. Tomorrow let us take this into the sunlight to see it,’ said the Kaiser, holding up an early-nineteenth-century Beauvais tapestry cushion.

  Lord Goldbaum coughed. ‘I regret not, Your Imperial and Royal Majesty. It is frightfully bad for the textiles, as they’re extremely fragile.’

  There was an uneasy pause and the assembled company held its breath, then the Kaiser threw back his head and laughed.

  ‘I was simply testing. I remember my grandmother saying the same thing. That she had asked for all the curtains to be opened, and was refused. Your father said, “Not even for Your Majesty.” Now,’ he went on, waggling his finger, ‘if you had opened the curtains for my little cousin King George and not for me, then I might have made a tiny fuss.’ He grinned broadly. The others did not.

  The Kaiser was an unsettling presence: when he spoke in English, he appeared almost the perfect country squire. Greta reminded herself that, after all, his mother was English, his summers spent with his royal cousins on the Isle of Wight, not far from Temple Court itself. He alluded to his late grandmother, great Queen Victoria, as often as possible. Yet with his damaged arm concealed Napoleonic-style beneath a sumptuous lynx-fur coat, apparently cool despite the intense heat of the East Gallery, and with his extravagant moustache and his sharp, watchful eyes, he was also the epitome of the Prussian prince. Perhaps that was why he was so disconcerting: he was at once perfectly English and German. He switched constantly between the two languages, and the Goldbaums answered effortlessly in whichever language they had been addressed. He admired the Renaissance jewellery with relish, marvelling at the delicacy of the pearls, and pretended to drop a seventeenth-century rock-crystal cup, with great hilarity.

  After a time he declared himself bored, and Lady Goldbaum led him through to dinner, to everyone’s considerable relief. Greta took the arm of the German Ambassador, Prince Karl Max von Lichnowsky, a charming Anglophile. He patted her arm conspiratorially.

  ‘It is going well, Mrs Goldbaum.’

  ‘Is it?’ she asked. ‘I’m glad you told me.’

  The Kaiser was sea
ted at the head of the table, but as his page pulled out the chair, he hesitated before sitting down.

  ‘The ivory throne belonging to the Maharaja of Travancore. I should like to sit on that during dinner. It only seems right, after all. A chair fit for a king. And,’ he added with a look at Lord Goldbaum, ‘it is nicely dark in here and I shall do my best not to spill my dinner.’

  Lord Goldbaum nodded at Stanton, and the butler hurried from the room. The assembled guests stood awkwardly, no one able to sit until the Kaiser did so. Prince Karl Max chatted amiably and valiantly: the splendid fishing to be had in the river, and his admiration for Lady Goldbaum’s rhododendrons.

  ‘I do not wish to hear about flowers. They aren’t fun,’ interrupted the Kaiser.

  Seamlessly Prince Karl began to discuss the easy and pleasant sail between Temple Court and the Isle of Wight.

  ‘I had enjoyable summers there as a boy,’ said the Kaiser. ‘I learned my skill as a sailor on the Solent. I am an extremely capable sailor. A wonderful thing, in the Chief Admiral of an imperial naval fleet.’

  Everyone smiled weakly at this somewhat tactless allusion to the German and English naval race. Prince Karl opened his mouth as if to steer the conversation into safer waters, but he was too slow. He could not now speak without interrupting the Kaiser, who gave an impatient snort.

  ‘You English, you wince when I mention the German fleet. But England is not in the minds of those who are bent on creating a powerful navy. Germany is a young and growing empire, and we have an interest in the most distant seas. There is Japan and the problem of the Pacific. My fleet does not exist to cause a rumpus with the British, but to warn off the Japanese. You do not worry enough about the Yellow Peril.’

  Greta saw that Prince Karl Max was turning pale in horror. In his frenzy to deny his ambitions against British interests, the Kaiser was inciting the Japanese. But the Kaiser had not finished, and no one could be so rude as to interrupt the Emperor.

  ‘You English,’ he said, ‘are mad, mad, mad as March hares.’

  Lord Goldbaum coughed and reddened at the offence. Glancing between him and the pallor of the Ambassador, Greta imagined that all the blood had rushed from the cheeks of one to the other.

  Indifferent or oblivious to the cascade of insults that he was spewing forth, the Kaiser continued, ‘What has come over you, that you are so completely given over to suspicions quite unworthy of a great nation? My heart is set upon peace, and it is one of my dearest wishes to live on the best of terms with England. Falsehood and prevarication are alien to my nature. My actions ought to speak for themselves, but you listen not to them, but to those who misinterpret and distort them. That is a personal affront which I feel and resent.’

  The guests stared at him in silence and shock, but the Kaiser had warmed to his topic and could not stop.

  ‘France and Russia appealed to me to join them and humiliate England to the dust. I would not do it! You can read in the archives of Windsor Castle the telegram in which I informed the Sovereign of England of my answer. I have no wish to see England fall.’

  ‘Of course you are not suggesting, Your Imperial and Royal Majesty, that England’s allies plotted against her,’ said Prince Karl Max, with a tiny and desperate laugh, trying to dismiss the tirade as a bad joke.

  The Kaiser gave his Ambassador a look of absolute contempt. ‘I am stating it. You English choose to cavort in the gutter with those who despise you.’

  Prince Karl Max was now so white that Greta wondered if she ought to ring for brandy, but fortunately they were rescued from further diplomatic disaster by the return of Stanton and the Maharaja’s gold-and-ivory throne, carried in by eleven footmen, all struggling under its vast weight. The Kaiser clapped his hands in glee on seeing it. With a little help, he climbed up and sat.

  ‘It’s no use,’ he said. ‘I cannot reach my glass. Take it away.’

  When dinner was served, Greta glanced at Otto and Albert across the table, and saw that neither man had much appetite for the truffle dauphinoise.

  The following afternoon, after the Kaiser had been safely tucked back in the Rolls and borne off to a castle in Scotland, the Goldbaum men gathered in the library with Prince Karl Max. Stanton brought them a tray of coffee, but Lord Goldbaum took out a bottle of whisky.

  ‘Something a little stronger is called for, I believe.’

  ‘We shall of course be discreet,’ said Otto. ‘No one will breathe a word of what was said. No one shall hear of his insults.’

  Prince Karl said nothing, merely waved away the glass of Scotch and sipped his coffee. Lord Goldbaum studied the Ambassador closely and then frowned.

  ‘Perhaps His Excellency does not believe total discretion is desirable?’

  Prince Karl stood and said pointedly, ‘Gentlemen, if you would excuse me, I should very much like to see Lady Goldbaum’s remarkable glasshouses.’

  He left the room. Otto and Albert turned to Lord Goldbaum.

  ‘Why does he want the Kaiser’s idiocy made public? The British visit is supposed to engender better relations with Germany,’ said Otto.

  ‘The Kaiser is vain, volatile and odd. He is, as we’ve seen, a danger to international diplomacy. Before the salmon mousse was served he managed to insult the British, anticipate war with Japan and attempt to undermine relations between Britain and her French and Russian allies. If the German Reichstag had some leverage to rein him in… ’

  ‘… it would be a good thing for a peaceful Europe,’ said Albert.

  ‘Prince Karl is a patriot, make no mistake,’ said Lord Goldbaum. ‘He wants the very best for Germany and that, as you see, means curbing the influence of the Kaiser. Sometimes an unexpected opportunity arrives and one must make the most of it.’

  Albert picked up the telephone. ‘Which newspaper?’

  ‘The Telegraph,’ said Lord Goldbaum.

  Lord Goldbaum brought the papers to his wife in her room while she was breakfasting in bed. The letters column ran to an entire page of fury, outrage and amusement.

  ‘I’m not sure who he’s offended most,’ said Lord Goldbaum, helping himself to a piece of marmalade toast, and elbowing his wife to make room beneath the covers. ‘The Japanese, the British, the French or his own people.’

  ‘It was a private conversation, Robert. However awful, it was not supposed to be public.’

  ‘He’s an emperor! His very farts are public.’

  Seeing his wife wince, Lord Goldbaum leaned forward and kissed her on the nose.

  ‘Apologies, Adelheid. But the man should have more sense. And since he doesn’t, it’s better that his power is kept in check. The Reichstag is making him sign a statement to acknowledge that he respects the constitution.’

  Lady Goldbaum sighed. ‘That’s something, I suppose. But don’t you think the article also confirmed to the British public their worst fears? That the Emperor is a despot and a fool, in pursuit of an empire. And that the German people view the English with contempt.’ She set down her teacup and looked at her husband. ‘I think sometimes, my dear, you forget that I was born a German.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dare.’ He kissed her cheek.

  HAMPSHIRE, JUNE

  Enid Witherick was arrested for breaking the window of the post office during a demonstration by the suffragettes. Greta paid her fine and summoned her to the library immediately upon her release.

  ‘I shan’t apologise, madam,’ said Withers, defiant and more than a little dishevelled.

  ‘Very well. But are you going to break any more windows?’ inquired Greta. ‘If you plan on getting arrested with any degree of frequency, it will interrupt our planting schedule. I’m sympathetic to your cause—’

  ‘Our cause,’ interrupted Enid.

  ‘No. It is not my cause. I do not condone violence and the breaking of property. I have written several letters to His Majesty’s Government regarding the matter myself. But I have not smashed poor Mr Manners’s shop front. You shall pay for the repair yourself out of you
r wages. He was terribly upset. He says he always voted exactly as Mrs Manners told him to, until her untimely demise.’

  ‘And now, with Mrs Manners unable to instruct him?’

  ‘He doesn’t vote at all, out of respect for her memory.’

  Enid Witherick gave a hiss of exasperation like a kettle letting off steam. ‘And such men have the vote before us.’

  Greta sat up very straight in her chair and looked the other woman directly in the eye.

  ‘Unjust as it may be, no further acts of vandalism – or you will be free to find another situation. My husband is an MP, Withers. How will it look if the newspapers decide to run a story that his wife employs a suffragette and a vandal?’

  Enid Witherick was silent and then nodded. ‘I shall refrain from any further violence, madam. You have my word.’

  Greta softened. ‘Very well. Now, have all the sweet peas been planted out?’

  ‘Yes, madam.’

  ‘Good. I shall be out shortly to inspect.’

  Released, Withers hurried away, while Greta stepped out onto the terrace, wishing for the umpteenth time that she could simply wear breeches like the other women gardeners, but Albert would not approve. She was learning to pick her battles. This one would come, but not yet.

  The garden was a blaze of June glory. The sweet-pea seedlings had been planted around a dozen wigwams in the cuttings garden. To the west, Greta was restoring the old kitchen gardens. Rather than relying on glasshouses, she had decreed that they would be planted according to the season. It was nicely sheltered, the repaired Victorian brick wall keeping out the wind, and Greta had it laid out in a vast circle, like a clock face, so that the winter vegetables were positioned in the prime place for winter sun, while strawberries basked at the summer solstice. To her surprise, it was almost her favourite part of the garden. The glossy heads of cabbage in January, the show of leeks with their feathered fronds on a cold morning: who knew you could paint on a landscape with vegetables? The courgette plants were spreading their dark umbrella-like leaves, the beans twirled around their poles, their tiny curved flowers like black beaks. Pinpricks of virulent orange tomatoes clashed joyously with gleaming strawberries Crimean-red.