If she were able to make it back to town without stopping . . .
Please, dear God. Please.
The closer she got to Baden-Baden, the darker the sky overhead became. The last of the sunlight faded away, and thunder roared.
Flora was just turning into Stephanienstrasse when the first raindrops splattered onto the cobblestones. When the flower shop came in sight, the heavens opened their floodgates as if the storm were following some secret dramaturgy.
The house door was bolted from inside; Flora’s key rattled in the lock in vain. She stared uncomprehendingly at the mountain of bags and bundles tossed like trash outside the door. The rain had soaked through everything, and the beige linen of her seed sack had darkened to a muddy brown.
“Friedrich! Please, I’m begging you!” She pounded her fist on the door over and over, wailing and screaming. Shadows appeared behind the curtains in neighboring houses, and here and there a curious head popped out of a window to watch the spectacle.
Flora was drenched, and her dress hung heavily. She sat on the sidewalk outside the shop, exhausted, drew her shaking knees up to her chest, wrapped her arms around them, and laid her head there. Just then, a window opened above her.
“Friedrich.” Flora, her neck stiff, looked up. The next moment, a bundle smacked her heavily on the head.
“Take your damned ABCs! To hell with them. And to hell with you!” Friedrich shouted at her before slamming the window shut again with all his strength.
Mad weather! The storm had come from nowhere. Konstantin pulled his hat deeper over his eyes while Matriona Schikanova’s pony cart turned off Lichtenthaler Allee toward town. The fat pony snuffled and puffed and, despite the streaming rain, stopped every few leisurely steps to tear off a tuft of juicy grass. Matriona, who was never one to expend energy unnecessarily, did not try even once to inspire the beast to go any faster.
Konstantin sighed. He knew how miserly Irina could be and should have known that not all the guests would have a decent means of transport at their disposal. While Matriona went on at length about the engagement party and about how everything looked so cheap and shabby, Konstantin put on his most interested face and made appropriate comments in the appropriate places. In reality, his mind was miles away.
Poor Flora. Caught in flagrante by her husband—he would much rather have spared her a scene like that. He did not like to think what awaited her at home.
How had her husband even been able to find her? Who the devil had talked? Who even knew about their little rendezvous? He and Flora had been exceptionally discreet. Had it simply been an accident? Konstantin shook his head. He could not imagine that that was possible.
Of course, Irina and several of her guests had noticed the incident with Flora’s husband: the man had run out through the ballroom as if a horde of howling Cossacks were after him.
“A furious husband and a distraught wife. Count yourself lucky that the man’s a coward. Another would have challenged you to a duel,” Irina had hissed at him afterward. “Konstantin, you are and will always be a rogue.” She had slapped him on the back of his head as if he were a recalcitrant schoolboy, but the next moment had hooked one hand in the crook of his elbow and said that after a shock like that, they could both do with a good glass of schnapps. Popo—who had, in fact, seen nothing of the incident—was more than happy to join them for a drink.
After half a bottle of plum brandy, Konstantin could no longer see why he had broken his old and fundamental rule, never to get involved with a married woman.
“Will you be at Iwan’s tonight?” Matriona asked as the pony cart finally pulled up in front of Konstantin’s hotel. “He tells me it’s about time he finally teaches us how to play cards. Funny man . . .”
“Probably later,” Konstantin replied. He yawned lavishly. “Somehow, the afternoon’s events have made me very tired.” He grabbed the bottle of champagne he’d picked up before leaving the Forellenhof and jumped down from the cart.
What a day. Grinning to himself, Konstantin took the stairs up to his room two at a time. Maybe he’d go to bed, drink the champagne, and fall asleep. On the other hand, a round or two of cards with Iwan was not something to scoff at. The players there were all experienced old foxes, and the vodka flowed freely. The bets, however, were high, so he—
“Flora! What are you doing here?” He stopped in the doorway, shocked.
“Konstantin, finally!” Drenched and shivering, Flora threw herself into his arms, burst into tears, and was not to be consoled at all. Konstantin looked over her head at the bags piled beside the bed. That did not look good . . . Was this the bill for a bit of fun?
Damn it, what was the porter thinking, letting her into his room?
The way she clung to him and expected him to make everything right again, blathering on so fast that he had trouble following her words!
“The door was locked . . . not even allowed to see Alexander . . . so angry . . . how did he even find us? . . . never felt so miserable . . .”
“My poor little flower girl.” Konstantin tried to look sympathetic as he held Flora in his arms. “Easy now. Your husband is sure to calm down soon. Everything will be all right. But you need to get out of those wet things. It won’t help anyone if you come down with pneumonia now, on top of everything else.” With experienced hands, he went to work on the tight knots holding her skirt in place. Beneath the cold, wet fabric, Flora’s body was encouragingly warm. Like a ripe peach. Her nipples were pink and firm, her body pressing against his . . .
Suddenly, the game of cards was forgotten.
Chapter Fifty-Five
On Tuesday, Siegfried Flumm’s wagon pulled up as usual in front of the store. He had known, of course, that Flora would not be there. Gossip and rumors spread on the wind in Baden-Baden, as they always had, but he preferred to feign obliviousness. The Sonnenscheins were good customers, and he would do what he could not to ruin his relationship with the family by talking badly about Flora in her absence. In the end, everything would probably straighten itself out, and anyone who’d grumbled about husband or wife would end up the fool. He arranged his flowers prettily in their buckets and prepared to extol them profusely. Ernestine Sonnenschein and the housemaid were already standing around the wagon, looking rather lost.
Sabine frowned. Calendula, rudbeckia, phlox . . . what was Mr. Flumm talking about? And why didn’t Mrs. Sonnenschein simply send the nurseryman away again? She shifted Alexander from her left hip to her right. What did Mrs. Sonnenschein think she was doing? Did she want to take over Flora’s work? Before she could answer her own questions, the first customers marched into the store.
The nurseryman, who had followed Sabine’s gaze, cleared his throat. “I’d recommend some of the early asters and a dozen or two of these gorgeous sunflowers and a few bundles of greenery. Nothing complicated.”
“I don’t know . . . Maybe we should fetch Friedrich and ask his advice?” Ernestine looked wide-eyed from the gardener to Sabine, while Else Walbusch stood in the doorway and tried to catch their attention, which they studiously ignored. “Sabine?”
“The master . . .” has been lying in bed dead drunk since Sunday afternoon, Sabine came very close to saying. “The master has another commitment, I’m afraid,” she said instead. “Madam, do you really think we should try to run the store in Flora’s absence? I mean, we really have no idea . . .”
“I don’t know,” Ernestine said nervously. “I don’t know anything at all.” Her voice was on the verge of cracking, and her eyes were suspiciously moist. “Things have to go on somehow, don’t they? And don’t we owe it to Flora to at least try?”
Sabine shrugged noncommittally.
“Excuse me? Could I perhaps get my flowers here, or do I have to go to the market?” said a voice from the front of the shop. Else Walbusch, of course. Sabine was certain a little bird had twittered in Else’s ear about things going on in the Sonnenschein house, and now she’d come to delight in the misery of others.
Sabine glared angrily at her.
“Would madam not like at least to try?” said Mr. Flumm. “I’d be glad to put my own modest expertise at your disposal.”
“Sabine?” Ernestine looked at the maid uncertainly. “What do you think?”
Sabine sighed. “How hard can it be? I think we’ll muddle through.”
Ernestine smiled bravely at Mr. Flumm. “Let me have a bucket of each kind, and as much greenery as you think necessary.”
“But you’ll have to give us especially good prices today,” Sabine added quickly, ignoring the nurseryman’s look of disapproval.
“I also have these beautiful sunflowers. Or would you prefer the asters?” Ernestine held up both varieties for comparison.
“The sunflowers, yes,” said Else Walbusch. Then she leaned over the counter and acted as though she did not want Sabine to hear, though her voice was as loud as a siren. “Is it true, what they’re saying out on the streets? That your Friedrich threw his wife out of the house?”
Ernestine jumped back as if she’d been bitten.
Well, aren’t we off to a promising start, Sabine thought grimly.
“If anyone asks you about Flora, tell them she’s gone to Gönningen,” Ernestine had told her early on Monday. Sabine knew from the start that they would not get far with that tactic.
“My Otto’s asking whether Friedrich has already filed for divorce. You Lutherans can do that, can’t you?” Else asked.
Ernestine’s hand flew to her throat as if she were suddenly unable to catch her breath. “Heaven help us, I hadn’t even thought about that.”
Else nodded self-importantly. “Remember the old carpenter up past the market? When his Margret ran off with the son of Schwarz, the forest ranger, he swore out a complaint against his wife before you could blink. Your son’s probably planning something like that, too.
“I’ll say this much: the poor child!” Else looked at Alexander, who lay in a basket and chewed gummily at a twig. “I always suspected Flora was not to be trusted. I only have to think back to the incident with the poisonous plants—I almost died!” She looked around at Luise Schierstiefel, who had just come in. “You weren’t much better off than me, were you?”
“It wasn’t that bad, though, looking back,” said the tailor’s wife. “Personally, I thought Flora was very nice.”
“Nice, ha! Those Württembergers all think they’re a cut above the rest of us.”
What a terrible pair, thought Sabine in disgust. Sitting with Ernestine in the garden week after week, drinking coffee and eating cake until they were fit to burst, and now that madam could use a little help, just once, they had nothing better to do than come into the store and act like . . . like . . . Sabine could not even find the words she wanted.
“Did you come here to buy flowers, or not?” she barked at Else. “And what about you? Usually, it’s your husband who comes to get your carnations,” she said to Luise.
Both women gasped. They had never known a maid to snap at them like that.
Just then, the doorbell tinkled again.
“Gretel. You, too,” said Ernestine, her face deathly pale.
Sabine moved protectively in front of her mistress.
In her zeal, Else Walbusch’s cheeks had turned bright red. She looked around at the women. “The way that girl threw herself at your Friedrich certainly looked questionable to me. Not even two years have passed and she’s gone and cuckolded him.”
“So what I heard at the market just now is true,” said Gretel. “I hoped so much that it was just someone talking nonsense. You poor thing!” She stroked Ernestine’s hand. “Anyway, can I have a dozen of these pretty purple flowers? Asters, aren’t they, Ernestine?”
Ernestine let out a sob. She had given up hope of at least one of her friends standing by her.
“Of course, madam!” Sabine dipped in a hurried curtsy, then wrapped the flowers in newspaper.
“What are you staring at like dumbstruck geese?” the pharmacist’s wife growled at Else and Luise. “What happened to poor Friedrich could happen to anyone. Oh, it’s a terrible tragedy, certainly. A sin! But who can claim to be immune to the power of love?”
Her argument was lost in the general uproar that ensued.
In the days that followed, the doorbell tinkled constantly, but few of those who came in were there to buy flowers. Luise Schierstiefel had heard from someone that Flora had fled with her lover and that they were headed for Bulgaria. This was contradicted by another neighbor, whose sister was a chambermaid in one of the smaller hotels, who reported that Flora was living with the Bulgarian in “depraved circumstances” in a single room. The shoemaker’s wife, by contrast, claimed to have seen Flora wearing a dancing outfit and escorted by two men at once—and drunk!
It was only with a great effort that Sabine managed to choke back the tears of her anger, and she stayed even closer to Ernestine in support.
For a week, they did their best together to withstand the barrage of rumormongering and sensationalism.
Regardless of how other people vilified and censured her daughter-in-law, Ernestine never took part in their spiteful talk. Just once, when she was finally alone with Sabine as they were closing up after a particularly bad day, did she open up. “When I think what Flora did to my one-and-only boy, I feel so angry and let down I could burst into tears. I could slap her face, too. Left and right, left and right! But who would it help?” She slumped dejectedly onto the chair behind the counter.
Sabine, who was in the process of locking the front door, merely shrugged. A slap on the face never did anyone much damage, and Flora has certainly earned it, she thought. But she kept the thought to herself—as open as her madam might be in that moment, she certainly did not want to hear Sabine’s opinion.
“I keep asking myself how someone could be so stupid, so ungrateful,” Ernestine muttered. “She really had everything. A lovely home, a good husband, a healthy child. And then she throws it all away for a . . . a nobody who just happens along!”
Sabine jumped when Ernestine suddenly banged her fist on the counter.
“How is anyone supposed to understand that? My poor Friedrich.”
Sabine sighed. She asked herself constantly how Flora could ever have fallen for Sokerov. You could see from a mile away that he was a wolf. Hadn’t she tried to warn Flora about him many times?
Oh, Flora, what were you thinking?
Ernestine took a deep breath. “And still it isn’t right for people to talk about Flora the way they are. There’s a great deal she has to answer for, I know that as well as anyone. But what business is it of anyone else? Why is everyone suddenly acting like judge and jury?”
Sabine handed Ernestine the key to the store and said, “The women who are screaming the loudest are the same ones who giggled most at Sokerov’s jokes and compliments. There were customers here who would not leave when he was in the shop. I saw for myself how expertly he flirted. He probably had Flora so deeply under his spell that she couldn’t break free anymore.”
Ernestine’s face brightened a little. “So deeply under his spell, you say? I never thought of it like that before . . .” She threw her arms around Sabine tightly for a moment, then turned away again almost immediately, as if the gesture were embarrassing. “Heavens above, why did a mishap like this have to happen in my family? Everything had been going so well.”
In the second week, the neighborhood slowly began to calm down again. This, in turn, meant that many customers simply did not come to the store. Among the spa guests, too, word had quickly gotten around that Flora was no longer at the shop, and they went instead to the market or to Maison Kuttner for their flowers.
Sabine managed to keep the shop open for several hours a day, while Ernestine mostly hid herself away in the front room, where no one could talk to her about Friedrich, Flora, or “depraved circumstances.”
In the third week, the store stayed closed. Sabine saw no reason to sit in an empty shop when all the ho
usework was waiting to be done. The wilted flowers went onto the compost heap in the garden, the stale water in the flower buckets went down the drain, and the buckets themselves were stacked and stowed behind the counter.
No one thought to hang a “Closed” sign on the door. But anyone passing could tell at a glance that there were no flowers there anymore.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Konstantin’s hand slid along the inside of her thigh, pausing at the hem of her underwear. Flora sighed with pleasure and raised her body slightly. His hand moved on, gliding over her mons veneris, then caressing her most intimate bud, moist with her own nectar.
Flora responded to Konstantin’s touch with growing intensity. Her body lifted, writhed, pressed against his hand. She wanted to have him inside her, all of him.
She felt his hardness, but the next moment he pulled away again playfully, though her desire was like a whirlpool—she wanted to swirl herself around him, to hold him tight. She groaned loudly.
How could a woman want a man so much?
Flora leaped from the bed, reaching for a washcloth with one hand and her stockings with the other.
It’s almost time! She felt like laughing out loud in her anticipation.
“Flora, darling, what is it? Where are you going? Why don’t you stay with me?”
You know what I’ve got planned for today, Flora thought, but as she opened her mouth to reply, she heard a soft snore. Konstantin had fallen asleep again.
Flora rarely left the hotel so early in the morning, but when she did, she was enveloped in the smell of freshly baked bread from the bakery next door. Every time, she felt a pang in her belly.
But it was not hunger. It was Friedrich and herself at the breakfast table. Ernestine joining them, her hair disheveled, spilling her coffee when she sat down. Sabine bringing fresh marmalade to the table. Alexander, his mouth smeared with raspberries.
Don’t think! Over. Done . . .
The Flower Shop (The Seed Traders' Saga Book 2) Page 32