The Flower Shop (The Seed Traders' Saga Book 2)

by Petra Durst-Benning

  Minka nodded. “The poor thing! I’m sure she’s inconsolable not to have her love returned—”

  “Her love? Don’t be ridiculous! Flora acts as if none of it has anything to do with her. I asked her whether the young master had already kissed her, and she just about throttled me. If you think she’d go out of her way to win him as a husband, then you’d better think twice. She hasn’t got even an ounce of coquette in her, that one. Doesn’t even bother to dress herself up when the young master takes her out. She does my hair up beautifully whenever I meet Moritz, but she doesn’t go to any trouble with her own.”

  As expected, Minka shared Sabine’s disapproval. “Well, I for one would be making eyes at him all day if I had half a chance, I’ll tell you that. And I’d do it until he had no choice but to fall in love with me.”

  “But if Friedrich was serious about Flora, he would have to court her at least a little, wouldn’t he? Bring her a little gift now and then, like Moritz does for me. Look, he sewed together this flower for me.” Sabine proudly puffed out her chest, where a flower made of leftover shirt silk was pinned to her dress.

  When Minka had admired it sufficiently, Sabine went on with her litany. “But Flora has never received a thing from Friedrich. When he takes her out, all they do is walk through town. Or sit in the garden. Flora said just yesterday that she can practically greet every blade of grass out there by name. If it were up to her, the young master would at least invite her out for an occasional glass of wine. Or maybe for a dance. And she wants to visit the casino, too, before she goes home.”

  “The casino?” asked Minka in disbelief. “And dancing? Is she completely mad? That’s for the finer types around here.”

  “Oh, Flora has no fear of the rich. A few weeks ago, she had a squabble with the snobby witches at Maison Kuttner, and left them looking very dazed indeed, apparently.”

  Minka giggled. “That just makes me like your Flora more. I’d love to get to know her. Why didn’t you bring her along?”

  Sabine shook her head. “I asked her if she wanted to come tonight, but she said she had other plans. She’s got a bee in her bonnet about getting more distinguished customers into the shop,” she said, and the two friends laughed loudly at that bit of lunacy. “Flora is currently going around visiting one distinguished shop after the other, and she went out again tonight, too. She’s been to the parfumerie, the glovemaker’s, and even to the hat shop beside the Palais Hamilton. Everyone knows that the saleswomen in those shops think they’re better than us just because of where they work.”

  Minka nodded. “They’ll shoo you away if you so much as look in their window for too long. But how can Flora afford to go to all those expensive places? Does she have a donkey that craps ducats for her?”

  “Oh, she doesn’t buy anything. She just wants to see how other businesses deal with their customers, for ideas for the flower shop.” Sabine shrugged. “That’s just the way Flora is. Whatever she does, all she has in mind is the business.”

  “Then she shouldn’t be surprised if nothing ever comes of finding a husband,” Minka said. It was a thought that had crossed Sabine’s mind, as well.

  “It’s strange. I really can’t imagine that Flora won’t be here anymore in just a few weeks.” Kuno rustled the newspaper loudly as he lowered it.

  “Neither can I. I’ve grown very used to having her around,” Ernestine agreed without looking up from her embroidery at Kuno. She eyed the basket of thread critically—should she do the next tendril in a lighter green or a somewhat darker tone?

  “Schierstiefel talked me into going for a beer with him at lunchtime. When I shilly-shallied a little, he told me the shop was in good hands with Flora.”

  Now Ernestine looked up. “You, drinking at lunchtime?”

  Kuno shrugged. “Why not? It was very interesting in The Gilded Rose, too. You would not believe how excited some of the people there get when they talk about Bismarck and the emperor. Flora says her father would go off for a drink like that all the time. And also that, now that the war is over, one has to enjoy life a little bit.” He reassembled his newspaper elaborately.

  Ernestine reached for the bowl of raspberries that Flora had picked that morning. The fruit was deliciously sweet and a real treat. Oh!—despite all her care, a drop of raspberry juice landed on the handkerchief she was embroidering for Flora.

  “When Flora’s gone, I can forget about taking my midday naps, though they’ve done wonders for my health,” said Kuno.

  “You’ll still be able to take your naps. Just close up the shop, like you used to,” said Ernestine, and glared at the damaged piece in her hands. Should she try to wash it out right away or finish embroidering the flower first?

  “But I can’t just close up the shop anymore.” Kuno gave his wife a reproachful look, which she did not see because she was concentrating on embroidering a pink flower over the spot of raspberry juice.

  “People really do seem to be getting over the war, gradually,” Kuno added. “My own spirits are very good! And I hope the people around here manage to hold on to their taste for beautiful things for a while.”

  “You can mostly thank Flora for that ‘taste for beautiful things,’ you know,” Ernestine replied. “When I look at how she’s transformed your old junk room out front . . . I just think about the porcelain.” She held her breath. Would Kuno finally find the words of praise she had hoped for? Many of the vases, bowls, and figurines had been sold, after all, and at good prices, too.

  Kuno proved himself full of praise, in fact, but not for Ernestine. “The girl certainly has a wonderful imagination, though I’m not saying I like everything she comes up with. A little more reserve would certainly be more appropriate now and then. But I can’t understand her parents’ fears that she might embarrass herself in front of her Reutlinger master. She’s a natural talent. I just hope the people there know to appreciate it.” He paused for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice had a somewhat abashed tone.

  “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask . . . Do you think that Flora likes it here, in our family?”

  If she likes it? In the family? What was Kuno going on about? “Of course she does,” said Ernestine. “Just today I let her borrow my favorite painting from the dining room. She wanted to re-create the still life of flowers and fruit for the front window of the shop. Has she done that?”

  Kuno nodded. “Friedrich thinks it’s a little overwrought.”

  Ernestine’s brow furrowed as she put her needle and thread aside. “Well, now, if it had been me who came up with an idea like that, you would have packed me off to an asylum. But that girl can do whatever she likes with you.” She shrugged. “Our Friedrich is sometimes more old-fashioned than you.”

  They both laughed. Kuno then asked, “What is going on with Friedrich and Flora?” He now had the bowl of raspberries on his lap and was popping them into his mouth with gusto.

  “If you’re afraid that Friedrich would behave at all disrespectfully toward Flora, I can put your mind at ease,” said Ernestine. “I admit I had certain fears myself, at the start. All those long walks, his helping out in the garden . . . Luise and Gretel have been teasing me constantly about church bells ringing soon. But I think they’re wrong.”

  There was a touch of disappointment in her voice. If she were to be honest with herself, the thought of her son tying the knot with Kuno’s apprentice was far less unsettling than it once had been. On the contrary . . . Of course, one had to make sure that common decency was preserved, but the one did not preclude the other, did it?

  She took the bowl of raspberries that Kuno held out to her and sought out a particularly delicious-looking specimen. “The boy’s been the very picture of respectability.”

  Kuno’s expression darkened noticeably at Ernestine’s last words.

  “The picture of respectability—I think I’d find another way to put it. If Friedrich lets that girl go, he’s a damn fool!”

  “My beloved Flora!” Frie
drich’s voice was no more than a croak. He opened the top button of his shirt—it felt as if something was cutting off his air. He cleared his throat. Start again.

  “My dear, esteemed Miss Kerner.” No, that sounded far too stilted. He took a deep breath and opened the left door of the wardrobe, where a mirror was affixed. With one hand on his chest, he lowered himself onto one knee.

  “Dearest Flora . . .” No, going down on one knee felt contrived. He sighed and stood up again.

  Standing, then. “Dear Flora . . .” Yes, that would work. “You and I . . .” He bit his bottom lip. What came next?

  Blast it, why was it so difficult to admit his feelings to Flora? He found her delightful beyond measure, but why could he not simply tell her that? She was so pretty and natural and almost always had a smile on her lips. Of course, she could get quite furious at times, too, but he was enthralled by her even in those moments . . . and the way her brow furrowed when she was concentrating on something!

  He was probably approaching the whole thing wrong. It would be better to give her a few compliments instead of just blurting out what he felt.

  “Dear Flora, when I’m around you, I feel like the happiest man in the world.” That didn’t sound bad at all, and it was the truth.

  What if she just laughed at him? She hadn’t heard anything of that nature from him at all. For her, he was most likely just a good friend.

  But that had to change. He wanted to marry her, and before too long. He was twenty-five, after all. If he did not find the courage to admit his feelings to Flora soon, she would return to her village and all would be lost. No kisses and no embraces.

  Panic overcame Friedrich, and he paced back and forth in his room like a caged tiger. It was not only that he could not find the words, but also that he had no idea where he should propose to Flora. Women usually had a rather pronounced sense of romance, so . . . what would be romantic?

  Friedrich stopped his pacing and gazed out the window.

  Why was this so hard for him? Was it too early for a proposal of marriage—was that it? Wouldn’t he be better off just asking Flora if she would like to stay on awhile longer? Then, over time, everything would happen more or less by itself.

  And it was not as if he hadn’t already suggested that to her.

  They had been in the garden, and Flora had been pulling out weeds. He had watched her as he smoked his pipe. And somehow, their conversation—as so often—came back to the store. Flora had told him that she still had so many ideas flying around in her mind for decorating the front window, and that her time there was running out. And she had looked so sad that Friedrich had simply had to ask her, “Then why don’t you just stay? Write to your mother and tell her that my father is not completely back on his feet yet, and . . .” He had taken Flora’s hand in his and squeezed it as he spoke. “Wouldn’t that be a good idea?”

  “No.” Flora had shaken her head fiercely. “I won’t lie to my parents.”

  And Friedrich, embarrassed, withdrew his hand. “You’re right. Please excuse my stupid suggestion. What I actually wanted to say . . . well, I—”

  “Stupid?” Flora laughed hoarsely. “Do you think I haven’t already thought of doing just that a dozen times already? The thought of leaving almost breaks my heart.”

  It’s the same for me. I can’t imagine and don’t want to imagine a life without you in it! Friedrich had wanted to say, but all he had managed to get out was “It is not as if you’ll be gone forever. You’ll come back to our lovely town in the future, I’m sure. As a seed trader.”

  He slammed the wardrobe door, furious at himself. As if that was anything like the same thing! He did not want to have Flora in his memory as a brief acquaintance. He wanted to love her.

  In good times and in bad, forever and ever.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Princess Irina Komatschova gazed out the window of her suite at the Hotel Stéphanie les Bains.

  Three more days and August would be over. How the days flew past, faster than the horses at the racetrack.

  After the first cooler nights, the leaves of the enormous chestnut trees were slowly changing from green to yellow. Here and there, a single leaf was already sailing earthward. It had rained overnight. The small tables on the hotel terrace were abandoned, and she knew the proprietor of the restaurant would not be putting out tablecloths or cutlery that day. On mornings like these, the guests preferred to take breakfast inside, where it was warm. But Irina had no appetite, either for an omelet or anything else.

  She hated these days, no longer part of summer but not yet truly autumn. They spread a strange kind of melancholy that was not good for her. Irina shook herself like a bird shaking water from its feathers.

  At fifty-three, the princess was still an attractive woman. And she was shrewd and spirited, too—as a simple country girl, would she ever have landed the great Nikolajev Komatschov otherwise?

  It had, admittedly, been a loveless marriage. When it became clear that she was not able to give her husband any children, he had quickly lost all interest in her. Tokens of affection? Compliments? She had only ever received those from other men.

  Life at Nikolajev’s side had been hard. Her wealth helped, of course. Nikolajev’s death five years earlier and her inheritance of half the Crimean Peninsula had made her one of the richest women in Russia. At least in death he had been generous.

  Wealth bestowed security. Money was good against fear.

  And yet . . .

  If only there wasn’t the constant talk of rebellion in her homeland! Of rampaging serfs, of farmers who, instead of doing their work, demanded more money, more rights—who had ever heard of such a thing?

  Every day, Irina went to her mailbox in the hotel, and every time, she held her breath as she flicked through the letters and cards. She was able to relax only if she found no bad news from home, neither a fire in her gem mines nor a revolt on one of her estates.

  What if the seemingly endless river of money dried up one day? That was what instilled in her a fear of falling back into the poverty that she remembered only too well from her childhood.

  She stared as if numb at the pile of bills on the small table in front of her. So many! And the season was not even over.

  Some of them were silly, little bills from a restaurant here or there, a hairdresser, or the confectionery store with the wonderful pralines. There was a rather grimy invoice for the coach that she had rented for the entire season, and now the man, a farmer with a leering grin, wanted part of his payment in advance.

  “Poshel k chertu!” He could go to the devil! Irina sniffed with contempt. He could stand on one leg and dance and make his two old nags do the same, but he would get his money only at the start of October, when the season drew to an end.

  Irina was shocked to see how much money she had lavished this season on the excursions that she and Kostia had made in the Black Forest. And then there were the bills for the countless gifts they had taken along! When one was invited to visit Prince Menshikov, one could not merely take along a bonbonnière, oh no. One had to take a gift more appropriate to the prince’s station. The same was true for the visits to Matriona Schikanova, or dear Anna or the Gagarins—Princess Isabella appreciated receiving expensive French porcelain from her guests, though the cabinets at her villa in the city were already overflowing with the stuff.

  Invitations, naturally, also meant return invitations.

  For years, Irina had gotten into the habit of setting herself up as a hostess at the start of each new season. The last thing she wanted was a reputation as a sponger, happy enough to enjoy a party at someone else’s cost, but never arranging anything herself. Her summer party that year, in fact, had been celebrated in grand style on the terraces of the Hotel Stéphanie—Konstantin had persuaded her to hire a band, and that invoice, like all the rest, had not yet been paid.

  On the other hand—Irina scratched a wavy pattern into a misted window with one fingernail—it would be even worse not to g
et invitations at all anymore. To be cast out from the upper reaches of the Russian aristocracy. A nobody, unrecognizable.

  She and her charming young companion, however, were welcome wherever they went. Everyone liked Konstantin—his laugh, his mad ideas, his perpetual good mood.

  Irina frowned with confusion when she noticed a bill for her suite. Hadn’t she agreed with the hotelier to pay for everything at the end of the season? Were installment payments some kind of new fashion?

  “Durák!” The simpleton!

  There were rumors that the Hotel Stéphanie was not doing well at all. There was talk of a frantic search for a buyer to renovate and modernize the crumbling building. Irina could only hope that the rumors had no substance. The hotel was still affordable. She had to admit that, if one looked carefully, it was easy to find places that needed attention, and the water was almost always ice-cold from the spigot, although the hotelier boasted of being an adherent of the so-called curative baths—what a travesty!

  Irina’s hand flicked through the air as if she were chasing away an annoying insect. Who cared about such trivial things? When it came down to it, they were in the hotel only to sleep, and sometimes not even that. So why did she have to pay such horrendous sums?

  Yes, she brooded over everything she spent. But was it any wonder, with the constant fear that gnawed at her?

  It was a mystery to Irina how Püppi and the others could live for the moment. Almost every day she heard stories about Russian farmers who burned down their master’s barn, or ran off, or stole the livestock, and whose bad behavior was stirred up by political rabble-rousers—cretins who sat around in universities and came up with idiotic ideas just to keep the commoners from doing their work.

  “But that’s what we have our overseers for,” Püppi had said in bewilderment the one time that Irina had dared to air her fears. “That’s why we pay them to pull out their whip if they have to.”

  Irina laughed bitterly. And what happens if those overseers also start getting funny ideas in their heads?