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

by Petra Durst-Benning

  “When I popped off to the kitchen earlier, did Konstantin Sokerov happen to come by?” Flora asked.

  “No. He hasn’t been here since Friday. It’s almost insane how much money he spends on flowers.”

  “Then he probably went away with friends over the weekend,” said Flora, with feigned indifference. “Although he normally tells me if he’s doing something like that.”

  “The man doesn’t owe you any explanations, you know,” said Sabine.

  “I know that. And I’ll see him on Wednesday at Irina Komatschova’s reception or Thursday at the Gagarins’ garden party. Konstantin is a welcome guest wherever he goes, but that’s no surprise. He’s so charming.”

  “And you are still just the woman who brings the flowers. You’re not one of them!” said Sabine grumpily. She did not like the way Flora talked about the man one little bit, nor did she like the way he seemed to haunt Flora’s thoughts. Was she in love with him? Good heavens, anything but that!

  “Sabine, don’t start acting like my governess,” Flora said irritably. “There’s really nothing wrong if I exchange a few pleasantries with Konstantin at one of the parties. That’s all there is to it. Nothing has happened since that one kiss when we were out walking. He’s an honorable man, after all.” When Sabine continued to look skeptically at her, Flora muttered, “I knew I shouldn’t have told you anything about the kiss.” But her face brightened a moment later. “You should see how the women latch on to Konstantin at those parties! Sometimes it’s almost impossible for him to get free just to come and have a chat with me, and yet he’s always in a good mood. Sometimes he gives me a wink over the heads of the others, or he screws up his face like he’s sucked on a lemon. Oh, he’s so funny!” Flora sighed deeply.

  She sounded so wistful. Even worse than Minka, who was head over heels in love with the head chef at the Englischer Hof. Sabine could hardly put up with their ravings anymore, particularly because she no longer had anything of her own to rave about. Moritz, the apprentice at the gentlemen’s tailor, had gone back to the family farm after the death of his father, and instead of wielding needles and a tape measure, he was wielding a pitchfork in the Black Forest. So much for their future together.

  Men! Sabine glared at her washrag. The way things looked, she’d be cleaning for strangers for the rest of her life.

  Flora, however, had a good husband, a lovely home, and a successful shop. What more could she want? Sabine felt like giving her a good talking-to. She would bet everything she had that Flora had fallen for that . . . good-for-nothing, even if she denied it a thousand times.

  But Sabine did not trust herself to do it. Friendship aside, Flora was the woman of the house these days, and she was the one who paid Sabine. It was not necessary to tell her what she thought.

  “Should I change the water in all the buckets, or just for the peonies?” she asked.

  “What kind of question is that? All the flowers get fresh water, of course!” Flora looked at the freshly mopped floor with narrowed eyes. “Back in the corner there . . . run the washrag over that again. And then fill up the basket with the binding things.”

  “With cord? Or do you want the heavy string?”

  “Some of everything, so I can choose. And where’s the binding wire gone now? Why must you all make my work so hard?” Flora dipped her pen back into the inkwell. A fat drop of ink splattered onto the letter paper. She hastily dabbed at it with a cloth. “Damn it. Everything’s going wrong today.”

  Sabine rolled her eyes. Lately, Flora had often berated those closest to her, only to feel sorry a short time later and apologize for taking out her bad mood on someone else.

  When Flora finally spoke again, Sabine was counting on another apology, but Flora said, “You know, Konstantin really doesn’t have an easy time of it. All those nights spent awake at Püppi’s side, nights filled with pain and tears. The princess’s fears are draining him completely. I would like so much to help him.”

  “What are you talking about? It’s not as if he’s with her just for fun,” Sabine said, planting her hands on her hips and glaring at Flora. “The old lady pays for everything, right? That makes Konstantin no more than a paid laborer, which is no reason to feel sorry for him. Do you feel sorry for me because I’m your maid?”

  “What kind of comparison is that? As if we’d put the same kind of demands on you that the old princess makes of Konstantin. She’s almost certainly the reason that he still hasn’t been in today. I’d like to go and give her a piece of my mind.”

  I’m starting to think you’ve taken leave of your senses, Sabine thought. Just then, she noticed a shadow by the back door—Ernestine and Alexander.

  Flora jumped up, took the child from Ernestine’s arms, and kissed and hugged him. “My little darling.”

  Sabine and Ernestine had to smile at the endearing scene. “I’m off now,” said Ernestine. “I’m meeting Gretel in the café. Alexander can stay with you until I’m back.”

  Flora abruptly pushed her son back into his grandmother’s arms. “No. I slave away in here all day—is it too much to ask you to look after the child?”

  “A baby needs his mother!”

  Flora sniffed. “Tell it to the Gönninger seed women! When they go off traveling in autumn, they leave their children with a grandmother or great-aunt. No one cares if it makes their heart break.”

  Flora, what is going on? Sabine asked herself silently, while Ernestine slunk away like a whipped dog, holding the baby.

  “Do you know our little country place behind the Conversationshaus?” Princess Markova fanned herself gracefully as she spoke. A thunderstorm had struck at midday—now the streets were steaming and it was almost tropically humid.

  “Not yet, I’m afraid, but I will stop by this afternoon when I go for a walk,” said Flora. When someone like Princess Sophia Markova talked about a “little country place,” then it was probably an enormous villa.

  “There will certainly be some questions asked about why we are not celebrating our daughter’s engagement in one of the hotels.” The princess lowered her fan. “But Elena has expressly requested a more subdued affair. No formal six-course dinner for her, oh no. And we’ll only be serving two or three wines. If it had been up to me . . .”

  Flora glanced surreptitiously to Sabine, who rolled her eyes. As the princess droned on about how “meager” the planned engagement party would be, Flora looked out along the street, where passersby dodged the deep puddles.

  Still no sign of Konstantin. And it was already three in the afternoon.

  “And no red roses, not under any circumstances! Elena’s first fiancé died tragically in a fall from a horse. He crashed into a rose hedge—can you believe it!—and the roses were bright red, the same color as his blood. So it’s no wonder that Elena avoids even the sight of red roses whenever she can.” The princess’s voice, which was already high-pitched, had become shrill as she spoke her last sentences.

  The next moment, the shop door was thrown open with such force that the little bell above the door tinkled wildly.

  “Konstantin!” As she called his name, a wave of warm joy broke over Flora. She returned her attention quickly to the princess, took her by the hand, and maneuvered her toward the exit. “Let me surprise you. I will come up with something extra special for your daughter’s engagement.”

  “My dear Sophia, what’s that I hear?” Konstantin sighed. “The prettiest of all young girls is getting married? Sometimes I wonder what purpose life still has.”

  Flora frowned.

  “Well, Konstantin Sokerov, you are quite the Prince Charming, aren’t you? But you are right, of course. A pearl like our Elena is truly one of a kind. I hope I’ll be seeing you and Püppi next Sunday, too?”

  Konstantin shrugged. “The princess is not at her best. I don’t know if she—”

  Sophia Markova patted his hand. “In your good hands, I’m sure Püppi will be up and about again in no time.” Satisfied with herself and her world, the
princess strutted out of the shop and away.

  Konstantin watched after her for a moment. Then he murmured, “Elena’s dowry must be remarkably high if it keeps her fiancé distracted from her long, pointy nose.”

  “Konstantin!” Flora let out an almost hysterical laugh, and instantly felt Sabine’s glare. There was nothing unseemly about a little chat, for God’s sake. Flora really did not understand what Sabine was constantly inferring. She was probably just jealous—especially since her Moritz had left town—because a man like Konstantin had no interest in her.

  Who did Sabine think she was? Was she paid for her work, or to stand around gawking?

  “Nothing to do?” Flora snapped at her. “Are you just going to let the trash overflow? On the compost heap with it, and make it fast!”

  The moment they were alone, Konstantin took Flora’s hand. “I’ve missed you so much! The weekend seemed endless without you.” As he spoke, he stroked the underside of her wrist with one finger. Flora felt her pulse quicken beneath his touch.

  “It was a boat cruise on the Rhine. Popo invited the usual crew. I all but died of boredom.” He twisted his face as if he were describing an excursion through hell itself.

  “What can I say?” Flora replied. “I spent all of Sunday dealing with my son’s stomachache.” She breathed in the scent of his shaving lotion, headier and spicier than all the flowers and herbs in the shop together.

  As usual, when Flora talked about her son and her family, a shadow crossed Konstantin’s face, as if it pained him that Flora lived in a world to which he had no access. Flora chastised herself silently for even mentioning Alexander.

  A moment later, Konstantin was beaming again. He took a scarf from his pocket; it was pink and white with long fringe and decorated with flowers.

  “The flowers reminded me of you . . . If I was not always thinking about you, my life would be easier.” He moved behind her and tied the scarf, and when he took his hands away, he let his fingers trail over her slender waist.

  “You mustn’t do that,” Flora said, her voice hoarse. She turned to face him and touched the silky fabric of the scarf.

  “Whether or not I give something to the most beautiful flower girl in the city is up to me,” Konstantin replied, his eyes flashing.

  They chatted while Flora tied a bouquet of peonies, and when Konstantin left the shop fifteen minutes later, Flora’s fingers roamed over the fringe of the scarf as she watched him go. For the rest of the day, she was in the best of moods.

  “I’m going to come up with something especially nice for Princess Markova,” she said to Sabine, when she returned from the garden. “Or did she already have something special in mind?”

  “She said something about red roses. I didn’t hear it exactly, because you shooed me out of the shop,” Sabine replied curtly.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Püppi’s leather-bound diary was in her line of sight. If she was reading the numbers correctly in the low light of the sitting room, today was June 15.

  Wasn’t Elena—Sophia and Tabor’s daughter—getting engaged later that day? Konstantin had said something about it.

  Püppi felt her head tipping to one side. Don’t fall asleep! She stood up and tottered out onto the balcony. It was three o’clock in the morning. It would not be much longer before the sky began to lighten, the nightingales began to sing, and she could finally go to bed. Püppi loved the summer months, when the nights were so short and the days long and filled with sunshine. She had already changed into her nightdress. Soon she would slide beneath the cool covers. She was so tired.

  The fifteenth of June. Wasn’t that one of the so-called “black” days? Dies atri she recalled her mother calling these ill-starred days—days on which one should not start anything new. No travel. No signing contracts. And certainly no doctors letting blood. Her mother’s superstition about those days was strong—she had gone so far as to hang dark curtains over the windows. “It was on one such day that Christ was nailed to the cross. Do we need any greater proof of how fateful these days can be?”

  A weak smile crept over Püppi’s face as she recalled her mother’s hands folded in prayer. Her mother had liked to pray. Often, long, and wherever the urge took her. But in the end it had not done her much good. Together with her husband, Püppi’s father, she was murdered in an attack on their isolated summer palace. Püppi and her siblings were away in Tsarskoje Selo at the time. Their parents were murdered on the first of April, the day on which Judas was born. Also a dies ater, as Püppi discovered much later.

  And Elena wanted to get engaged today, of all days. But days like today were more suited to farewells!

  Püppi’s eye fell on the bouquet, from which more and more petals had fallen. She had had to say farewell to so many, many people over the years . . .

  Her parents had been the first, then Josephina in the fire, then her sons. Both had perished in the war. Then Stepan had left her, although he had not been a bad husband. And her own youth had slipped away so mysteriously that Püppi had not even been able to give it a decent send-off. Then, slowly, day by day, year by year, her beauty had slunk off into the background. And now, last of all, her health was gone.

  Püppi tried in vain to take a deep breath, trying to break through the constricting ring that seemed coiled around her chest. She padded back into the room. She was not sure that all the therapeutic baths she took in that terribly hot water were as beneficial as Konstantin seemed to believe. They seemed, if anything, to make her weaker and more tired. But every day, he insisted on them. Why did she let him persuade her?

  Stealthily, one day, her love of parties had also disappeared—Püppi no longer wanted to celebrate through the nights, as she had done for decades. She preferred to spend her time alone, as now.

  She turned her watch a little so that the glimmer of the candle fell on its mother-of-pearl face. Fifteen minutes past three. Konstantin would come back from his card game soon. She would ask him to take her to Sophia’s house late in the morning—perhaps the engagement planned for that evening could yet be postponed. No girl should get engaged on one of the black days.

  You and your superstitions, she heard Konstantin say in her mind, mocking her. Why don’t you just stay in the hotel and rest? A party at the Markovs would be too strenuous anyway, he would say. She would nod, and he would go without her.

  The mother-of-pearl watch face showed eighteen minutes past three.

  It was still dark outside.

  Püppi’s eyes closed.

  Flora had decorated the entire house. A dozen enormous flowerpots stood around the bronze statue beside the entrance to the Villa Markov, while in the house itself a veritable sea of flowers would greet the guests. The balustrade up to the second floor, the stairs and landing, the large portrait on the wall that depicted the master and mistress of the house—Flora had decorated all of it with her arrangements. On a table along one wall stood polished crystal glasses beside dozens of bottles of champagne in buckets of ice, and Flora had covered it with an embroidered tablecloth, while in the center of the table stood a magnificent porcelain jardinière overflowing with blooms.

  Although her hands were cut and sore from the arduous work on the garlands and spectacular arrangements, Flora was satisfied with what she had achieved. It would take a visitor hours to discover every single flower, if they were so inclined.

  The family and the guests were still out enjoying a walk along Lichtenthaler Allee. Until the first of them arrived, Flora had nothing to do. Later, if the princess wanted her to, she would help pour drinks for the guests.

  Flora stepped out the back door into the expansive gardens. They could just as well have served the champagne out there, she thought. Why hadn’t she noticed how picturesque the gardens were during her first visit?

  Because you haven’t been able to concentrate on anything at all this week, again!

  Konstantin had not shown his face in the shop for a week. What was so much more important than bein
g “kindred souls” that he simply forgot about her like this? Had she only imagined the bond between them? And why did it all affect her so deeply?

  Flora sighed and sat down on a stone bench. Maybe she would feel better if she could find a little time to rest.

  What is going on with me? she asked herself, not for the first time, as she absentmindedly picked a lonely daisy beside the bench. It was all she could do to get through her daily work. She was tetchy with Friedrich, and even Alexander had suffered her impatience that week.

  He’ll come, he won’t, he’ll come, he—

  Flora looked at the daisy in her hand, plucked bare.

  She had never in her life called on the power of the flower oracle for herself. She threw the remains of the flower away in disgust and wiped her hands on her skirt as if they were soiled.

  The woman on the floor was surrounded by a crowd of people. They were standing or kneeling, some on her dress, ignoring the quality of the fabric. One was waving a fan, another held a bottle of smelling salts under her nose, and a younger man—probably the fiancé—dabbed at her temples with chilled champagne. But Elena had fainted so deeply that nothing seemed able to wake her.

  “How could you?” Princess Markova shrieked at Flora. The bride-to-be’s mother was trembling with fury.

  “I . . . I don’t know how—” Flora began, but at the look on the princess’s face, she fell silent. All she saw was abhorrence and horror.

  “You could have brought anything, any flower in the world! Anything but red roses!” The princess looked as if she might spit on Flora at any moment. “I will never, never forgive you for this!”

  Flora’s apology was not accepted. Nor was her offer to somehow make good for her terrible error. Beneath an onslaught of Russian curses, she packed all the red roses onto the handcart, out of Sophia’s and Elena’s sight.

  Flora held her head high as she left the house, just as the doctor that had been called arrived. But the moment she was outside, the first tears came. And when she reached Lichtenthaler Allee, nothing could hold back the flood.