“I’ve got an idea. Here’s what you do.” Sabine sprang to her feet and rummaged through Flora’s wooden jewelry box. “Put on the dark-brown dress. That’s at least reasonably all right. And with your F brooch you pin a little nosegay to the collar as an eye-catcher.”
Flora let out a relieved sigh. “Oh, Sabine. What would I do if I didn’t have you?”
“You’d find someone else,” Sabine replied drily, but she was smiling broadly.
Flora stood and took her by the hands and turned her in a circle. “You know what? When I have the money for this job in my hand, we’ll go out shopping.”
The family, of course, was speechless when Flora told them about the visit from the Russian princess.
Five hundred lilies of the valley? For an exhibition of paintings?
For a moment, Ernestine had looked as if she were going to pass out. “Well, that’s the Russians for you,” she said in the tone of someone who would know. Then she fixed her son with a sideways gaze and added that the woman would certainly not have come to the shop at all without Flora’s ABC.
“Then you can pay your parents back the borrowed money right away. I’m not comfortable being in debt,” Friedrich had said.
Flora had nodded absently. Her parents would not be knocking at the poorhouse door if she took some time to pay them back. But first and foremost, she had to make sure the princess was satisfied. And then . . . could such miracles happen more often?
Flora toyed with her provisional corsage as she stood just inside the back door of the exhibition hall at the Europäischer Hof. As long as no one was bothered by her presence or threw her out, she had no intention of giving up her place. Oh no! She wanted to remember every detail so she could tell Friedrich and Ernestine all about it later.
Pictures and guests admiring them—that was as far as she had envisioned a vernissage. But all the rest . . .
Just the pictures! Flora had imagined enormous oil paintings, perhaps impressive, life-size portraits of noblewomen or arresting landscapes painted in saturated hues.
But here, the pictures on show were rather pale watercolors, painted almost childishly she thought. People, landscapes, houses—it seemed the painter took as his subject whatever was in front of him. The pictures of houses were very pretty, and Flora thought she recognized one or two.
Reluctantly, and with much grumbling, one of the servants at the Europäischer Hof had set out small tables beneath each of the paintings of houses. Flora positioned her lilies of the valley on each table so that it looked as if the flowers were growing in the front garden of each house. The effect seemed to be well received by the guests; at least, most of the people were standing at those paintings.
Flora would not have said that any of the pictures were outstanding. For her taste, Seraphine did a much better job. She had also been unable to spot the artist himself, and did not know if that mattered to her or not.
She could hardly take her eyes off the guests, all dressed as if they had been invited to a royal wedding. The men wore tailcoats sewn from gleaming cloth, or uniform jackets heavy with gold braid and epaulets, and their trousers were decorated with piping in contrasting colors. While the men went no further than heavy gold watch chains and signet rings, the women glittered in tiaras, necklaces, and elaborately beaded jewelry. The dresses they wore were stunning, each lovelier than the next, lined with lace and studded with pearls and precious stones, and fashioned from countless layers of the finest fabrics. Flora also noted some made of gleaming velvet, and realized that she had not known that one could use the heavy material to fashion such artfully conceived clothing as what she saw in front of her.
If only Ernestine could see this, Flora thought with excitement. Just then, she saw the Russian woman who had commissioned her coming in her direction with another woman at her side.
Suddenly, her excitement gave way to anxiety and worry. She hoped the princess was happy with the flowers.
As she had when she visited the shop, the Russian was wearing a bright-pink silk dress. Now, her hair was pinned up into an artful tower atop her head, the hairpins themselves gleaming with precious stones. Across her arm lay a small dog that panted loudly and drooled strings of saliva onto the pink fabric.
“Here is my flower girl!” said Princess Stropolski to her companion. “Flora Sonnenschein. Isn’t she just a wonder, darling?”
“A wonder, indeed.” The other woman smiled.
Flora had no idea how one was supposed to greet such women—or even if one was supposed to—but she tried a small curtsy.
“That ABC of Flowers is from her. You must have received one as well, Irina?”
“Utterly delightful!” said the woman, who seemed a little friendlier now. “Yes, I’ve glanced through it.”
“If madam has anything floral in mind, the language of flowers is exceptionally versatile,” Flora said.
The woman named Irina leaned conspiratorially close to Flora. “Is there a flower that will take away all a person’s worries?”
Flora’s brow creased. The woman seemed to have misunderstood the point of her ABC of Flowers completely.
When Flora did not answer immediately, Irina turned back to the princess. “Do you still remember that wise man that Anna brought along to meet us last year?”
“Wasn’t he able to read the future in pieces of bark? There was something strange about that whole business, if you ask me. The way he sat and stared at his bits of wood . . .” Princess Stropolski gestured as if wanting to wipe away the memory—after her own death had been foretold, she did not take kindly to fortune-telling.
“I found him amusing. Do you still remember? He predicted that Matriona would get pregnant again when she gets old!” Irina’s laugh rang out loudly.
The princess shook her head. “No, no, I prefer to follow the advice of my flower girl. Her white blooms do show off Kostia’s pictures to their best advantage, don’t you think? And the vernissage seems to be quite the sensation among my guests.”
“Oh, definitely. We will be so grateful for every little bit of distraction this season. Baden-Baden has become such a crashing bore,” said Irina, with a thin-lipped smile. “Perhaps the flower girl can tell us more about talking flowers one day?”
Flora looked from one woman to the other in confusion. They were talking about her as if she were not even there!
Princess Stropolski suddenly turned and peered across the room toward the door. “Oh, look, Konstantin has finally arrived.” Her wrinkled face stretched into a smile that only made it more wrinkled.
Flora’s gaze followed the princess’s.
That tall young man who was making his way slowly through the throng of guests was the artist? If that was so, then he was considerably better looking than his pictures.
In contrast to most of the other men, he wore neither uniform nor tails, but a slim-cut, peplumed jacket of the style one saw more often among hunters. His hair was long and tied back loosely with a black velvet band. Flora had never seen hair like that on a man before, though she thought it looked very masculine and dashing.
Flora looked down at herself and her plain brown dress, and took a step backward.
Chapter Thirty-Six
When Konstantin first heard that Püppi had organized an exhibition of his pictures, he would have liked nothing more than to slap her face. Instead, he had acted surprised and put on his most modest smile. An exhibition? For him? But he had not yet matured as an artist, not at all . . . and in his mind, he called down fire and brimstone on Püppi’s head. He had been doing so well as a “would-be artist,” but where would he stand after this exhibition?
In the end, he had no choice but to put on a brave face, because the portfolio containing his pictures was already at the framer’s, after which the hotel concierge would get to work hanging his works in the ballroom.
Anyone witnessing Konstantin’s charming smile at the vernissage would never have suspected just how much the event disgusted him.
“As is so often the case with true art, we laymen do not have to understand everything that we see . . .”
He tilted his head almost reverently in the direction of the speaker—Count Popo—as if the man’s words were the most moving he had ever heard.
“As these white flowers are the herald of a new age, so will the painter of these works proclaim a new age to us, and . . .”
What an old windbag Popo could be! Konstantin had no intention of proclaiming anything to anyone, because this damned exhibition had not been his idea at all.
“And the transience of nature moves us much as does the transience of glorious art.”
Glorious art? His hastily splashed watercolors had never been intended to go before any kind of audience. And why was Popo rattling on about flowers and nature?
Konstantin turned and looked toward the back door of the ballroom. The flower girl, admittedly, was a pretty thing, and she probably found the whole affair terribly exciting. Maybe he would exchange a few words with her later. She’d probably turn pale with awe at being able to talk to the artist in person.
Konstantin smiled. Perhaps his vernissage might be amusing after all.
Püppi nodded at Popo’s words, visibly moved, along with the rest of them. Even Piotr Vjazemskij acted as if he were listening to the count, although in spirit he had more likely wandered off to the casino long before. Matriona, who had been at a party all through the previous night with Püppi and him, tried to stifle a yawn behind her hand, and Konstantin noted that she was swaying with weariness.
The sight abruptly made him laugh out loud.
What a mad crowd he was part of! They would do anything for a bit of fun and distraction. They were even willing to see him as an artist and were not above applauding his “work.”
So why should he spoil their fun? Who was he to curse Püppi for her crazy impulse? His job here was to play along, with a solid dose of self-mockery and humor, not to turn tail and run like a thief caught in the act.
He waved over one of the serving girls and plucked a glass of champagne from the tray she carried.
“My friends!” he called loudly, with a sweeping gesture to take in everybody around him. The guests all turned from Popo to him. “Let us drink to the health of our speechmaker, who is able to compare my pictures to art like no other man on earth!” Accompanied by the assenting murmur from the crowd, Konstantin drained his glass and immediately accepted another. “And a toast to you all, dear friends, for taking note of my amateurish attempts with such benevolence.” Those standing around him laughed and lifted their glasses to him, and he returned the gesture in kind.
“And I would like to propose another toast to our most beloved Püppi, to whom alone all credit must go for the idea for this exhibition—I would never have dared to bore you with my pictures.” Konstantin noted with satisfaction that not one single person there seemed bored. On the contrary—they all seemed to find the event extremely entertaining. “Unfortunately, I have been neglecting my painting of late, which I am sure everyone in this room can attest to.” He shrugged nonchalantly, then kissed Püppi’s hand for a provocatively long time. “But what does one’s own career matter when one has been given the love of a wonderful woman?”
His words were met by a storm of applause. Konstantin smiled.
An artist? Oh, he was certainly that. But in which métier, he wondered . . .
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Konstantin Sokerov’s vernissage was the start. While Flora’s lilies of the valley were not exactly the talking point of Baden-Baden, word about the clever placement of the flowers in front of the pictures—Count Popo had even mentioned it in his speech—certainly did get around. Afterward, those who had heedlessly put their copy of Flora’s ABC of Flowers aside rediscovered the little booklet. Word quickly spread to spa visitors who were not on Püppi’s guest list, and soon everyone had heard about the “talking flowers.” Many were taken with the idea—Seraphine was right that it appealed to the Romantic nature of the Russian soul.
And so, in the 1872 spa season in Baden-Baden, Flora and her flowers were suddenly en vogue among the visitors to the beautiful town.
“I have a very special . . . concern,” a pimply young Russian man said to Flora one morning. He had introduced himself as Igor Salnikov after he came rushing into the store. Excitedly, he told Flora about the girl he was courting, a girl so arrogant that she did not even notice how intensely he was trying to court her.
“She simply ignores my existence! For her, I’m no more than air. How am I supposed to declare my love to her?” The young admirer ran his hands through his hair despairingly. “I’m afraid my situation is so hopeless that not even your famous language of flowers can help.”
Flora was amazed at how perfectly he spoke German. She had been worried, at first, that the meanings she had attached to the flowers in her ABC would not be understood by the foreign visitors, but Friedrich had reassured her. “Anyone with that much money can afford the most expensive schools and the best teachers. Believe me, they are exceptionally well educated.”
For the first time in her life, Flora was glad that she had studied English and French herself. “If you go out into the world, you have to speak its languages”—that was the motto of the seed traders.
Flora smiled as she addressed her new customer.
“One bouquet probably won’t be enough to make the young woman notice you. You will have to let the flowers speak for you several times.” She was already selecting flowers from the buckets. “We’ll start with amaryllis. That will go in the middle, because it will tell her that you admire her proud demeanor. The three white calla lilies express admiration for her beauty.” This is going to be rather an expensive bouquet, Flora thought. But one could not win a beautiful young woman for nothing.
“To that we’ll add a little wolfsbane. They say, ‘You are the personification of charm and beauty.’”
“That’s exactly what she is!” the young Russian exclaimed. “But she doesn’t see me like that . . .” He looked at Flora with concern. “And the flowers really speak for me? I would never dare address the young lady personally.”
Flora struggled not to smile. “I’m afraid you will have to take that risk, once you have won her favor. But for the moment, just give her this bouquet and a copy of my ABC of Flowers. This flower, the iris, is the most important of all—it tells the recipient that she has stolen away any peace your heart had otherwise. And we’ll go a step further and fill out the entire bouquet with chestnut.” She had broken off an armful of young chestnut twigs on her morning walk, fortunately.
Igor nodded, impressed. “What does chestnut say?”
“‘Gladly would I be with you!’”
Three days later, the young Russian returned.
Before Flora knew what had happened, he kissed her hand. A miracle had come to pass, he said, his eyes shining. The woman he was courting had smiled at him in the foyer of the theater! And there had been nothing arrogant about it at all. Now he needed more of Flora’s magical flowers.
Soon, the door of the flower shop hardly closed. The Russian visitors threw themselves wholeheartedly into the new floral fashion. They already knew, only too well, the dancers turning tiptoed pirouettes during the hors d’oeuvres, the wise women who deciphered the future in coffee grounds after dinner, and the sopranos trilling arias in the afternoon. But flowers that could “speak” were something new, and the hostesses of Baden-Baden always had one eye open for something fresh for their parties, after all. Nor did they consider themselves above seeking Flora out in her flower shop—for them, the stroll along the street of tradesmen and simple workers was like going on a small adventure. And then the eye-opening conversations with their “flower girl.” It all felt so très chic.
Kuno’s regulars suddenly returned, too: Ernestine’s friends, neighbors, acquaintances. As before, they bought mainly loose flowers and cheap bouquets, but they took a lot of pleasure in rubbing shoulders at the c
ounter with the rich customers.
Ernestine missed no opportunity to emphasize that Flora’s ABC had come to fruition only on her urging. Now, she sat behind the counter every day and watched in awe as works of art materialized beneath Flora’s skillful hands: bouquets both lavish and delicate, corsages and flower baskets, garlands to be affixed to landau carriages, flower and fruit still lifes intended as table decorations—Flora’s imagination was inexhaustible. Over time, her works grew more and more elaborate. And more expensive.
Her initial reluctance to charge high prices melted like ice cream in the sun. After the winter, with hunger knocking at the door, the family could use every mark. Finally, no more monotonous cabbage and turnip meals. No more thin soups or mushy oatmeal. Instead, they ate sausage, meats in aspic, pork, fish, eggs, and other delicacies.
The rich Russian visitors were certainly willing to pay a lot of money, but in return they demanded first-rate quality, as Flora discovered very quickly.
A single limp leaf in an arrangement, or a flower wilting in the heat from nearby candles, was all it took—then all goodwill ceased! Many of those who commissioned her work insisted that Flora be present at their festivities so that she could spray her handiwork with water whenever necessary, or tend to a drooping leaf or flower.
Flora was not bothered by the extra work she had to put in. For her, it was far more fun to watch over her floral decorations from a back door or a corner off to one side, and at the same time observe the festivities going on all around. She did her best to remember every detail so that she could tell Ernestine—who sucked up her stories like a sponge—about it the next morning.
Although Flora stayed in the background as inconspicuously as possible, it was common for a guest to come over and exchange a few words with her.
The Flower Shop (The Seed Traders' Saga Book 2) Page 21