The snow was falling more thickly now, and she blinked it from her eyelashes. She left the cluster of trees and walked down to Lady Goldbaum’s hothouses, illuminated amongst the snow like a fleet of glass ships in a storm. Palm trees and velvet orchids bloomed contentedly, oblivious to the weather outside. She passed the kitchen glasshouses, filled with fruit trees, and for a moment thought the roof must have broken, as the trees were tossed with snow. Then she realised that the cherry trees were covered not with snow, but with blossom. Unable to resist, she opened the door and let herself inside. The air was thick with bees, their hum loud and insistent. Inside it was a warm spring day, and she felt like Persephone released from the Underworld. She unbuttoned her coat and paced the walkways between the trees. On the bark of a wild cherry presided a fat stag beetle. She bent down to examine its polished shell, the black feathered horns. The beetle’s glossy case cracked open and Greta had an obscene glimpse of the lips of its wings beneath. For once she understood Albert’s fascination – the creature did possess a repellent magnificence.
She pressed her forehead against the window, inhaling the floral scent of spring and watching the snow fall. Her reflection was pale in the glass. She looked thin and unhappy, hardly here at all. It took her a moment to realise that there was another face looking back at her. Had he heard her plea and, in tenderness, agreed to haunt her? Longing for someone is a hunger never sated, she supposed. It makes one imagine things that aren’t there. I see Albert because I want to. Or he’s dead, and I’m seeing a ghost that I don’t believe in. She blinked and, sure enough, the face had gone.
She did not hear the door of the glasshouse open. The hand she felt on her arm a moment later did not seem ghost-like at all, but warm and solid and damp from the snow.
‘Greta?’
Albert stood before her amongst the cherry trees. Thinner, his beard a little grey, but it was Albert. They stood for a minute, neither daring to touch the other in case this glorious phantasm disappeared. What did he say? Everything and nothing at all. He apologised for not sending a wire, but he wanted to tell her himself. He told her of the infant he had saved. He did not mention the one who was lost.
Greta tried to speak, but found she could not. She reached for his hand, and it was warm, the skin rough and chapped. She rubbed her fingertips across his knuckles.
She shook her head. He pulled her close, and she breathed in the smell of damp wool and journeys.
She pushed free from his arms and stepped back so that she could scrutinise him against the image she’d held in her imagination. The real flesh-and-blood Albert quickly painted over the other, ephemeral one. He was grey with fatigue and, now that she looked, she could see a deep cut beneath one eye. He looked older, sadder, but then so was she.
Her head was giddy, whether with relief or the damp heat of the glasshouse, she couldn’t tell. She slipped her hand in his, and he squeezed it so hard she felt the bones in her fingers crack. They walked together amongst the orchard, listening to the purr of the bees and the steady patter of snow against the glass. Greta felt as if they were figurines inside the bubble of a child’s snow-globe.
She stood up on tiptoe to kiss him. His cheeks were rough and unevenly shaven and grazed her skin. It made him more real. Eventually, reluctantly, she pulled away. Taking his hand, she rubbed it against her cheek. She felt as if she had had a limb amputated, and now awoke to find it stitched back on. ‘If I close my eyes, will you disappear?’
Albert shook his head. Greta bit her lip to stop herself from crying. If she started, she wasn’t sure she would ever stop. They sat down on the damp earth beneath a tree, the bruised and browning blossoms catching like spoiled confetti in her hair. The ground itself was warm, heated by a labyrinth of hot-water pipes. One day she would relearn how to feel happiness. This was too raw, the relief reflexive and overwhelming. She needed to learn to take Albert for granted again.
They lay back, hand-in-hand, and Greta gazed upwards through the lacework of blossoms and spinning flakes.
‘We must go back to the house. Tell the others you’re home,’ she said.
‘Not yet,’ said Albert. ‘Not yet.’
In an hour, they would return, so that the relief at Albert’s homecoming could be shared, champagne uncorked and tears of joy shed. A quarter-hour after that, the Goldbaum couriers would be dispatched, telegrams sent, so that the message of Albert’s survival could be spread to the Houses across Europe: the son and heir to the British House of Goldbaum lives. But for a little while at least, a man and a woman lay in silence under the cherry trees. The Goldbaums lacked the power to bring the war to an end, but they could still conjure spring amid the snow.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There is an adage that it takes a village to raise a child, but I have also discovered that it takes a village to research a book when the author has two small children. Thanks to my mother, Carol, for both babysitting and being willing to come on research trips up and down the UK with baby in tow – armed with earplugs when all three generations were squeezed into a single room. My father, Clive, for his help on British history, and my father-in-law, Bernard, for reading many vintage financial articles so that we could discuss them together. My sister, Dr Jo Garstang, for her knowledge on maternal and child mortality. Thanks to garden historian Christine Stones, who gave me both advice on the imaginary planning of Greta’s garden schemes and access to her library. Thanks as always to my agent, Stan, and also to Catherine Oldfield at Tall Story Pictures.
The bibliography for this book is too long to list but I must particularly thank Niall Ferguson for his remarkable books on banking and the financial history of the Rothschilds in his two-volume The House of Rothschild. Norman Stone’s The Eastern Front, Miriam Rothschild’s beautifully illustrated book, The Rothschild Gardens, and Richard J. Evans’ The Pursuit of Power: Europe 1815–1914 were also especially helpful.
I wouldn’t have written this book without my editor and friend, Jocasta Hamilton. Her confidence and enthusiasm that I not only could, but should write this book never wavered. She always knows when to wield the big red pen, and when to send sugared almonds or to apply gin. I am hugely indebted to both Jocasta and to the lovely Tara Singh Carlson for all their patience and kindness while editing this novel – together they have undoubtedly helped me make this a much better book and for that I am incredibly grateful.
And almost last, but definitely not least, thanks to my husband and collaborator, David, who during the writing of this novel decided that he’d had enough of sharing a studio and wanted his own. I blame Greta. And lastly, thanks to my children – as far as they’re concerned, I’ve been writing this book their whole lives. The tiny baby who was asleep in a Moses basket at my feet when I began is now running around with a dinosaur in each hand shouting, ‘Have you finished yet?’ And yes, darling, now I have.
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Epub ISBN: 9781473537033
Version 1.0
Published by Hutchinson 2018
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Copyright © Natasha Solomons, May 2018
Cover design: Emma Grey Gelder
Natasha Solomons has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
First published in the United Kingdom by Hutchinson in 2018
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ISBN 9781786330086
House of Gold Page 41