The Queen of Beauty (The Century Trilogy Book 3)

by Petra Durst-Benning

  “You were just gathering up your courage . . .”

  Clara looked up and saw that Laszlo was trying hard to hold in a laugh. If he made fun of her, well, she deserved that.

  “I said this wasn’t easy for me,” she said, flaring up. “Anyway, what I wanted to say . . .” She swallowed her fears and doubt a final time. Then she took his hands in hers and pressed them firmly. “Please don’t go, dear Laszlo. It breaks my heart to think that I could lose you.”

  Finally, finally, Laszlo’s face softened. “Now? With your ankle already broken? I really can’t allow that.”

  He leaned down to her, and their lips met as if they had always been destined to.

  Two weeks later, at ten o’clock on a Friday morning, the doorbell at the Villa Bel Étage sounded melodically. The guests! Clara hobbled to the door on her crutches, excited to see who would be arriving first. As she passed the coatrack, she glanced quickly at herself in the mirror hanging there. Her new peony-pink ensemble fit like a glove, and the chignon that she had fastened in place with a diamond comb complemented it perfectly. She looked good and, more importantly, she felt good!

  “Countess Zuzanna! How lovely to see you.” Clara leaned her crutches against the wall and held out her hand to the countess, but the noblewoman threw her arms around Clara and crushed her to her ample bosom.

  “Thank you for inviting me! I’ve been looking forward to this day for weeks. I can hardly wait to have a good look at your house. But, my dear, you don’t have to call me Countess. Zuzanna will do nicely.”

  Clara smiled. Would she dare speak so informally to the countess? The doorbell rang again.

  “Excuse me, Coun . . . Zuzanna?” With a laugh she freed herself from the countess’s embrace.

  “Isabelle!” With a cry of joy, the two friends fell into each other’s arms.

  “My suitcases are still outside—all three of them! I fear I’ve overpacked again,” said Isabelle when they finally let go of each other. Her copper locks were tousled, her eyes shining like two emeralds.

  “You could have saved yourself the packing completely. As long as you’re here, all you’ll need is a few day dresses, a nightgown, and a dressing gown,” Clara laughed. She surreptitiously signaled to one of the chambermaids Klaus had hired in her absence to get Isabelle’s luggage.

  “And I’ve brought you a few crates of champagne, too. A gift for the hostess,” said Isabelle, but she was already turning in the direction of the drawing room, sun washed and looking as if it had been dipped in pale gold. “Oh, how beautiful . . .” She left Clara standing at the door and, as if hypnotized, moved toward the large windows of the drawing room.

  Clara, who was already well aware of the allure of the stunning view, stayed behind, smiling.

  “Speaking of gifts: wait until you’ve seen mine!” Zuzanna cried enthusiastically, but the doorbell was already ringing again, and Clara opened the door to the next guest.

  “Where could Josephine be?” Clara asked Isabelle when, a little later, they were sitting and drinking champagne with Beate Birgen and Zuzanna.

  “Her train has probably been delayed. If something serious had come up, she would have sent a telegram or called.” Isabelle frowned. “Your telephone is working now, isn’t it?”

  Clara nodded. “I got that ugly black thing for your sake, you know. But it’s not here in the villa. I have it at the manufactory.” She thought for a moment, then clapped her hands together. “Why don’t I show you all the house now? Then you can get settled in your rooms and take a rest, if you like. We still have a lot ahead of us today, after all.” Clara’s eyes were shining with anticipation.

  “Here on the second floor, we have six guest rooms. My dear Zuzanna, I’ve chosen this one for you.” Isabelle had helped Clara up the stairs, and Clara now swept her hand wide, displaying the first room on the right of the long corridor.

  “How gorgeous!” the countess exclaimed as she stepped inside. Clara proudly stepped aside to let Beate Birgen and Isabelle enter, too.

  In Zuzanna’s room, as throughout the villa, the walls were painted a pale lime green and the high stucco ceiling in cream. A magnificent chandelier hung from the center of the ceiling, and on the all the walls, small twin lamps radiated their warm light. Instead of heavy carpets, Clara had chosen several smaller, narrow woolen carpets, handwoven and undyed, to spread across the walnut-parquet floors. They managed to look both airy and cozy, and the wool would feel good beneath her guests’ bare feet. On the walls, Clara had hung several pictures of flowers chosen from her own collection. Against the lime-green walls, the painted roses and violets looked almost freshly picked.

  “Everything looks so breezy and light. This is just the place to put aside all the headaches of home,” Isabelle breathed.

  Isabelle and headaches? Clara asked herself, but this was not the right moment to ask.

  Zuzanna plopped down on an ottoman that Clara had had arranged beneath the window. “I’ll be able to watch the sun go down every evening,” she said.

  “Sunsets from the terrace are also very beautiful,” said Clara with a smile. “But sometimes one simply enjoys being alone, so the guest rooms have to be as comfortable and welcoming as possible. For me, that also means having time to read, so I’ve made sure that every room has a bookshelf, too. I’ve taken the liberty of adding my own book to the others,” said Clara, a little abashed.

  “Your book?” Isabelle’s brow creased. “Have I missed something?” She was already at the bookshelf and running her fingers over the spines of the books. Her finger stopped at the second-last volume. “‘Beauty for Every Woman. By Clara Berg.’ Now you’ve turned into a writer, too. I can’t believe it.”

  “What, really? I’d like to see that!” Zuzanna cried, and even Beate peeped curiously at the book that Isabelle already seemed to have become absorbed in.

  Clara smiled. Then she cleared her throat. “Each of you will get a copy of your own. You can read it later—let’s continue with the tour of the house.” When Isabelle had put the book away again, Clara went on: “The nights here at Lake Constance can be rather chilly in May, so you will find extra blankets in the top of the wardrobe.” As she spoke, she took out a cream-colored woolen blanket and held it out to the others. “Sniff this.”

  “Lavender!” The women breathed in the calming fragrance appreciatively.

  Clara picked up her crutches again and grinned proudly. “Laszlo created a lavender scent especially for the villa. It’s in the atomizer you each have on your nightstand.” She pointed to an elegant glass bottle. “If you spray a little on your pillow, I guarantee a good night’s sleep.”

  Isabelle shook her head. “Clara, you amaze me more and more.”

  “It’s so beautiful here. I will never want to leave,” Beate sighed.

  “I think I’ll stay here forever, too,” said Zuzanna, who had returned to the ottoman and her view of the lake.

  “By the way, if you feel like a glass of champagne or fruit juice, all you need to do is ring. One of our girls will bring you whatever you need immediately.” Clara showed them a bell pull of lime-green silk that hung beside the bed. “And if you are overcome by a different need, every room has its own private ladies’ room. I simply don’t want any bedpans under the beds in this beautiful house.”

  The women liked this very much. Clara went on cheerfully. “As nice as it is here, there is still a lot to see in my Villa Bel Étage. The extension with the cosmetic and bathing section, the Kneipp pool, the garden . . . Would you be so kind as to follow me?”

  “Well? What did your first guests say about the house?” Laszlo asked her when they sat together over coffee on the terrace an hour later.

  “I think they are very pleased with it,” said Clara modestly, but she could not hide a mischievous grin. Her friends had loved it! She had not imagined in her wildest dreams that it would go as well as it had. The feeling of having done everything absolutely right spread inside her like the warmth of good cognac.


  Laszlo leaned over to her and gently lifted free a ladybug that had gotten caught in Clara’s hair. “For you, for luck and happiness,” he said with a smile and held it up for her to see.

  “It should fly off to wherever it wants to go. I am more than happy enough,” she whispered and blew gently on the beetle. It opened its wings, rose into the air, and flew away.

  Clara watched it go until it was out of sight. As a young girl, Sophie had loved ladybugs more than anything else in the world. In every picture, she smuggled in at least one of the little spotted creatures, whether she was painting a horse, a house, or a field of flowers.

  Why, why couldn’t her children be with her? Sophie would most likely calmly examine everything in her room, while Matthias would probably go straight down to the lake and jump in for a swim. How lovely that would be . . .

  Clara sighed. Over the years, her yearning for her children had not lessened. It had gotten worse.

  “Don’t be sad on such a beautiful day,” Laszlo said quietly.

  Clara had been gazing off in the distance after the ladybug, but now she turned her eyes to the man she loved like no other before. “It scares me how well you know me,” she whispered. Laszlo . . . His love helped make the burden of the old, yearning pain a little lighter. She took his hand, kissed it, and nestled her cheek against his palm. She closed her eyes and for a moment enjoyed his nearness, his scent, his warmth.

  There was so much still unclear between them. Her year of mourning was only just over—would she risk marrying a third time? Or would they live together without the formality of a certificate? Then where would they live? In the small apartment under the roof of the villa? In the apartment in Unterstadtstrasse, where every piece of furniture carried Stefan’s signature? Clara could not really imagine either.

  So many questions, so many uncertainties. But she knew one thing. Laszlo was the man she had waited all her life to meet.

  The next moment, the loud horn of a pleasure steamer sounded from the lake, interrupting her silent moment.

  “What else is still on your program today, before the reception with the mayor?” Laszlo asked, refilling Clara’s coffee.

  A shadow passed over Clara’s face. The reception with the mayor! She had not planned anything of the sort for her opening weekend. It was supposed to be a treat reserved only for herself and her friends. But the town council had shown such an interest in the first “beauty hotel on Lake Constance” that Clara, on Lilo’s advice, had extended an invitation to the council as well. A dozen guests, a short speech—according to Lilo, the mayor also wanted to say a few words—a glass of champagne, and that was that. The rest of the evening would then just be for Clara and her friends.

  “We are meeting here on the terrace at three for a little something to eat. Then I’ll give Isabelle and the others a copy of the brochure describing the daily routine—Therese really outdid herself with that. No doubt there’ll be some questions, and I’ll do my best to answer whatever comes up.”

  Laszlo laughed. “Gymnastics, brush massages, facials—watch out that your guests don’t need a vacation to recover from this one.”

  “How dare you?” Clara laughed, slapping his arm playfully. Then she went on earnestly. “My program is pure relaxation, start to finish. For most women coming here, just doing something for themselves and not for others for a change will be a completely new experience. It will do them nothing but good. But to answer your question—the reception will follow at five. And once the councilmen have left, it will be time for dinner. I’m sure we will have earned it by then.” She looked toward the kitchen with concern. This evening would be a baptism by fire for the Swiss cook that Klaus had taken on. She was short and round and spoke a thick dialect that Clara could barely understand. Until now, they had managed to communicate more with their hands than with actual words. And suddenly, Clara was a little worried. She hoped against hope that it would all go well.

  “And you will definitely be back here at five?” she asked anxiously.

  Laszlo, who had something to take care of in the manufactory, nodded. “Klaus, Therese, Lilo, me—we will all be on time and we will all be there to stand by you.”

  “We will all be there . . .” Those words were so comforting to hear. She was no longer a lone warrior, but could rely on her comrades-in-arms in times of need.

  “But where is Josephine? I don’t know if I should be worried or annoyed. It would be such a shame if she misses much more of our opening weekend.”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  “A week just for me. Oh, Clara, this is like heaven on earth,” Isabelle sighed. They were waiting on the terrace for Zuzanna and Beate. When Isabelle had come downstairs, she had caught Clara and Laszlo in each other’s arms, kissing good-bye, and Isabelle had discreetly withdrawn back into the house.

  “But you have your heaven on earth in the Champagne region,” Clara replied.

  Isabelle’s smile turned soft and warm, as it always did when she thought of her home. “I do. But sometimes I feel as if all the responsibility is weighing too heavily on me. Don’t worry, nothing bad has happened,” she said when she saw the concern on Clara’s face. “But there’s always something. Two of our north-facing vineyards froze during the Ice Saints, and Daniel has been in a state ever since. We will certainly feel the lost harvest. And I’m worried about Micheline. She’s been getting more confused and forgetful lately. And don’t get me started on my own little troupe of children.” Isabelle grimaced. “Unless Daniel takes care of it while I’m here, I will have to face the mayor as soon as I get back and hear a lecture about the twins.” The two little devils had really gone too far this time. All the benevolence in the world could not change the fact that breaking through a church window and stealing the money from the collection bag crossed the line between a childish prank and a crime. Where had she gone wrong with those two? “Let’s talk about something besides my day-to-day lunatic asylum. I am so happy to be here! Tell me about you and Laszlo. He’s the one, isn’t he?”

  Clara nodded. “I would never have expected God to send me such happiness. Me, of all people, the—”

  “The most untalented woman in the world in matters of the heart, I know,” Isabelle finished Clara’s sentence mockingly. Impulsively, she took Clara’s hand in hers and squeezed it. “Sometimes you have to take a more roundabout path to reach a goal. But isn’t it the most important thing of all, to keep giving love a chance? If you cease to love, you cease to live, n’est-ce pas?” She thought as highly of Laszlo as she did poorly of Stefan. Clara would be happy with him, of that she was certain.

  “You and your French pearls of wisdom,” Clara laughed. “But you’re right.”

  Isabelle folded her hands behind her head and stretched her tense neck a little. With a contented sigh, she looked out over the lake, glittering in the sunshine. “You, Josephine, and I—we did not always have it easy, but we each found our happiness in the end, didn’t we?” She placed one hand on Clara’s arm and said, “Thank you for your friendship. Without Jo and you—I don’t know where I would have ended up after Leon died.” Her voice suddenly sounded husky, and she struggled against a lump forming in her throat.

  “I feel just the same,” said Clara, her voice just as raw. “Without you and Jo to stand by me, I never would have got through the divorce. Then losing my children, and after Stefan was killed . . .” She inhaled pensively. “We have been through quite a bit, all three of us. And we’ve still got a long way to go,” she added with a laugh, with a nod toward the crutches lying beside the table.

  “If life weren’t a challenge, it would be as dull as dishwater,” said Isabelle sardonically. “And speaking of challenges, I’m beginning to wonder if Josephine is going to make it today at all.” Isabelle raised her eyebrows doubtfully. The last time she and Josephine had spoken by telephone, Josephine had assured her that everything was going according to plan. Had something come up after all?

  Clara bit her bottom lip. “
Up to now, I’ve been more annoyed than worried. But I know what you mean. I hope nothing’s happened.”

  Josephine could not remember the last time she had felt so worn out. Not at the motor show in Geneva, where she and Adrian had been run ragged the whole day. Not on the cycling tour to Vienna that the two of them had completed the previous autumn. And not even after Amelie’s appendix operation, when she had sat awake in the hospital for two days and two nights. The inner tension of the past few weeks, the knowledge that she couldn’t do anything more herself, and the nightly brooding on all the things that could go wrong—it had all been incredibly trying. She was a woman who liked to get things done; relying on others had never been her forte.

  She looked at her two traveling companions. After all the drama in Berlin, the delayed train, and the missed connection, they seemed positively chipper. They were chatting brightly, looking out the window of the coach that was finally going to get them to their destination, although quite a bit later than planned, while the sun was sinking slowly toward the water.

  They should have arrived hours earlier. It was already late afternoon, and Clara must have been wondering where they were. If only she’d been able to telephone her and let her know about the delay! But at the train station in Mannheim, where her train had been stranded with a broken axle, the operator had been unable to establish a connection to Clara’s telephone. Why then?

  “Look, you can see the lake shining. It’s tremendulous and boatyful!” said the girl.

  Josephine could not help herself, and laughed a little. Her Amelie could have said just that.

  “Why are you laughing? Don’t you think the lake is pretty?”

  “I do, I do. Tremendulous and boatyful,” Josephine replied, and she felt all the strain of recent weeks and days falling away. Everything would work out.