“Here, in the fourteen frescoes along the arcade, you see depictions of the legends and stories woven around our lovely Baden-Baden.” Friedrich went from one picture to the next, rattling off his usual presentation without going into any details about the stories themselves. He was listening with one ear to the tolling of the church bell . . . nine, ten, eleven. Thank God. Just one hour until he could take a break. With any luck, the visiting group from Heilbronn would be gone. He had no intention of missing his midday nap for the sake of a few old women. And there would be trouble if his mother came at him with her words of wisdom again.
Friedrich managed to force a cramped smile. A few of the women held elaborate glasses at the ready, so he said, “You will find the drinking fountain inside the Trinkhalle.” He indicated to the group that they should go into the hall, then nodded, turned, and walked away.
Just then, he saw Lady O’Donegal striding toward him.
Oh, wonderful. The last thing he wanted to talk about were her plans for the Hotel Marie-Eluise. According to Gustav Körner, they were on the verge of signing a contract of sale. The man had once again thanked Friedrich effusively for putting him in touch with the Englishwoman. Friedrich could still hardly believe that Lady O’Donegal was going ahead with it. Just because someone liked Baden-Baden was no reason to buy a hotel there. Some people in town thought she was not right in the head.
Far worse, however, was the fact that she wanted to persuade him to be the director. What was he supposed to do in the Marie-Eluise by himself? She knew the reason that Gustav Körner had been forced to sell the place, and she also knew about Friedrich’s own family situation. She had, after all, been present on the day when his entire world fell apart out at the Forellenhof. He had been utterly stunned when, sometime later, she had suggested it to him again. She could buy ten hotels if she wanted, but she should leave him in peace.
If he’d been able, he would have ducked away and pretended he had not seen her, but the next moment, she was on him.
“Mr. Sunshine! Have you already heard that I—” She fell silent instantly when she saw his face. “My God, you are a sight! Pale as death warmed up and ready to drop. Simply terrible, if I may say so.”
A pained smile crept across Friedrich’s face. Lady Lucretia certainly was not the kind to beat around the bush. He shrugged. “One tires toward the end of the season.”
“You can’t fool me. Your cares come from somewhere else entirely.” She peered at him intently for a moment, then let out a deep sigh. “My dear Mr. Sunshine, I believe you and I need to have a chat, and the sooner the better. Come with me!”
“I can’t just leave. I’m needed here!” he protested.
“The way you look right now, you are certainly not needed here,” she replied, and she pushed Friedrich in the direction of the Conversationshaus, ignoring his protests.
They took seats at one of the small tables in front of the Conversationshaus. A waiter came, and the Englishwoman ordered tea and brandy for them.
As soon as the waiter was gone, Lady Lucretia picked up where she’d left off. “Do you imagine you’re the only man in the world whose wife ran off and left him? It happens all the time, I’m sad to say. I may be getting on, but I’ve learned a thing or two in my time, and I can tell you this: a rift like this in a marriage is never the fault of just one.”
Friedrich let out a harsh laugh. “Now you sound like my mother. In her eyes, I should have saved Flora from that bastard. She acts as if he’s the devil incarnate and Flora is at his mercy. When I saw her in the Forellenhof, she looked anything but helpless.” He pushed his chair back to stand up, but Lady Lucretia grabbed his wrist.
“Now pull yourself together! I haven’t done anything to hurt you, so you’ve no cause to attack me like that. I harbor no ill will toward you. So sit.” She released his hand.
Friedrich chewed his lip for a moment before speaking. “Excuse me. I don’t know what came over me.” The argument with his mother that morning, and now this. He seemed to have forgotten who his friends were.
The waiter brought their drinks, and Lady Lucretia lifted her brandy glass. “Let’s drink. Cheers!”
The red-gold liquid trickled warmly down Friedrich’s throat and settled in his stomach. Chastened, he looked across at the Englishwoman. “Sometimes, I don’t know who I am anymore. The whole affair with Flora . . . I feel as if someone has jerked a rug out from under my feet. I still can’t really believe what’s happened. We were so happy! She with her flowers and I . . .” He waved vaguely in the direction of the Trinkhalle. “When Alexander was born, my happiness was complete. Where did we go wrong?” A despairing sob escaped his breast.
Lady Lucretia raised an eyebrow while she poured the tea.
God, what had gotten into him? Airing his troubles to a complete stranger. As embarrassed as Friedrich was, he could not stop. The words welled up inside him and overflowed. “I’ve asked myself the same questions a thousand times: When did our marriage go wrong? Why didn’t I notice anything? I mean, Flora is not naturally a scheming liar. There must have been signs of what she was doing, but I did not see them. Nor did my mother. She didn’t have the slightest idea, either, not even when—” He broke off. Enough. What sense did it make to burden Lady Lucretia with Sybille’s letter?
Lady Lucretia shrugged. “When it comes to oneself or one’s own family, it is not hard to be blind. But we see the mistakes of others so much more easily for that.”
Friedrich’s eyes widened. Had the Englishwoman also been deceived, as he had?
He lifted his hands helplessly. “What am I saying? Why am I blaming myself at all? I certainly haven’t made any mistakes.”
The older woman sighed. “One does not necessarily have to make mistakes to court disaster. Sometimes it’s enough to do nothing at all. Or, to put it another way, to refrain from doing something.”
“What am I supposed to have refrained from doing? Ach, this talk makes no sense. I repeat: Flora is an adulteress! And a mother who abandoned her son.” Friedrich looked in disgust at the tea the Englishwoman had poured for him. He would have preferred another brandy.
Lady Lucretia turned her head slightly and looked at him sideways. “Wait just a moment. Didn’t you say that you had thrown your wife out of the house?”
Friedrich glared at her angrily. “What if I did? What difference does it make? She should have reckoned with that! Was I supposed to forgive her?”
Lady Lucretia held his gaze. “Only you can answer that.”
Chapter Fifty-Eight
The woman stood on tiptoe and peered over the heads of the waiting crowds along Lichtenthaler Allee.
“Not a high-society face in sight.” She turned around to her husband in annoyance, and seemed not to notice that she elbowed Flora in the ribs as she did so. “I don’t care if it’s the last hunt of the season, if they don’t show up soon, I’m going home and getting started with the cooking. Seppi, stop that!” She reached down and slapped the hand of her little boy, maybe three years old, who was tugging wildly at her skirt. The little boy let out an outraged howl.
Her husband smiled. “Maybe you’re right. So what are you putting on the table today?” He lifted the boy onto his shoulders, and the howling ceased.
Flora smiled at the boy, who had his hands clenched tightly in his father’s tangled curls.
“Steak, mashed potatoes, and gravy.”
“With onions?”
“Of course with onions. I know how much you like them.” The woman looked fondly at her husband.
Flora turned away abruptly.
Was Friedrich perhaps standing there somewhere with Alexander? Or were they at home with his mother, already tucking into the Sunday lunch that Sabine had cooked?
Flora felt herself on the verge of tears, as she always did when she thought of her son. But she forced herself to push the thought aside, and craned her neck with all the others there to catch a glimpse of the hunting party.
Oh, Konstanti
n, you always leave me alone.
In truth, Flora had not wanted to come out here today at all, but sheer boredom had driven her out of their hotel room. When she finally reached Lichtenthaler Allee, the best viewing spots had already been taken. The Sunday hunts in autumn were a spectacle, and many came to see the hunters riding by.
With her headscarf pulled low over her eyes, Flora moved into the middle of the crowd.
A leaf drifted down and settled on Flora’s shoulder. She picked it off and held it delicately in her hand.
Autumn leaves . . . The sight of the first colored leaves of autumn had always made her heart leap. As a child, she had loved to collect the largest and most colorful leaves with her brothers. Later, she had incorporated the leaves into her autumn bouquets. The year before, she had even decorated their front window with them—much to Ernestine’s displeasure! “Child, it looks as if the wind blew the leaves into the store and you’re too lazy to sweep them out again,” she had said.
Ernestine, I miss you so much. You and Mother and everyone else.
Flora closed her eyes, as if like that she could flee from her memories. She had not written home to Gönningen for months. What was she supposed to put into a letter? Lies? Or the truth, one so terrible that Flora preferred to say nothing at all? She imagined her parents’ hand-wringing if they knew . . . But then, maybe they already did know. Maybe Friedrich had written to them. Or Ernestine. Perhaps that was it; otherwise, wouldn’t her mother at least have come for her?
Flora inhaled the clear air deeply. It smelled of leaves and horse manure, of the wood of freshly felled birches, of the fires burning in the potato fields.
Intoxicated by the spicy mix of aromas, Flora tore off her headscarf and turned her face up to the autumn sun, falling in streams of light through the colorful canopy of leaves. If someone recognized her, she no longer cared.
What a gorgeous day it was!
The perfect day to gather chestnuts, or to tie a wreath. To dry flowers and weave garlands. A day for purple bouquets and aromatic herb bundles, for silver thistles and the first sprigs of fir. And—
Over! Done! Don’t cry, don’t cry . . .
Konstantin would come soon, and then she would smile. He hated it when she was feeling weepy. He did not want to carry the burden of her sadness; he wanted things to celebrate, wanted gaiety and high spirits.
Flora had become a good actress. Hardly a sigh escaped her anymore, nor did her eyes brim with tears. She could laugh out loud when she felt like nothing more than bawling.
Shielding her eyes from the sun with one hand, Flora looked off into the distance. Maybe Konstantin would go out for a walk with her later? If they walked a short way off the paths, they could go hand in hand, collect leaves, fashion pipes from acorns and twigs, as she had as a child in Gönningen.
Flora’s spirits brightened at the thought. She was sure that such a playful idea would appeal to Konstantin.
Yes, Konstantin liked her cheerfulness. He would not have asked her to go with him otherwise. “Paris is an exciting city,” he’d said when he’d told her about his plan to leave at the end of the coming week. He had not asked about what she might like to do.
An exciting city. Was that reason enough to leave behind everything one held dear? A shadow crossed Flora’s face. She could not leave. Whatever happened, she had to stay close to her son.
But Konstantin never considered things like that. He’d been so excited when he’d said to her, “Come with me and we’ll spend a glorious time together! Dear Anna tells me there is more than enough entertainment in Paris right now.”
For whom? she had thought about asking. For you and “dear Anna”? While I get left behind in some hotel room like a forgotten toy? I’m good enough for you at night, but during the day you’d rather adorn yourself with Russian royalty.
Flora could not imagine that Konstantin would be any more willing to show himself in public with her in Paris than he was in Baden-Baden. From what he’d told her, almost the entire Russian circle of friends was planning to spend the winter there.
“Dear Anna . . .” Her name had come up more and more, lately. Did she have her eye on Konstantin? Was she the one who paid his bills now, the one who found a horse for him to ride today?
It struck Flora as strange that she felt no fear or worry at the thought. Strange, too, that she hardly cared at all with whom he spent his time when he was not with her. She could not change anything about it in any case. Besides, Konstantin assured her constantly that he would only ever love her, Flora.
Love . . . Flora knew less than ever what that was.
Suddenly, a tremor of unrest ran through the crowd around her.
“Look! There they are!”
“What a beautiful coach.”
“Look at the wonderful horses!” Fingers pointed, necks stretched. Flora received another jab in the ribs, and someone trod painfully on her right foot.
The twenty-member orchestra specially assembled to mark the occasion broke into a brisk marching tune when the first carriage—an open landau decorated with garlands of fir—rolled past. Count Popo held the reins of the two black horses that slung strands of saliva with every snort onto the crowds that lined the way. Behind him on the wagon, on a bed of greenery, lay the body of a huge wild boar, a bright-red apple wedged between its jaws. The dead beast drew admiring comments from the crowd.
Where is Princess Irina? Flora wondered. Had Popo wanted to go to the hunt alone? Ha! As if the princess would let anybody forbid her to ride with them. The thought was so comical that Flora had to smile.
More carriages followed, all magnificently polished and outfitted for the big day. Then, finally, the riders came into view.
There! There was Konstantin! Flora jumped high and cried out his name, waving her hand, trying to catch his attention from the tumult around her.
He looked so smart on his brown steed. Like a pirate on horseback. How admiringly the people around her looked at him, and how the women lowered their eyes, and yet covertly looked at his thighs, his broad shoulders, his broad smile.
Flora let out a short, sad laugh. People were so easily deceived. Did they really believe that a noble shell contained a noble soul? Or did they simply not care?
As she did not care?
Konstantin. Her adventurer. Wild and turbulent. And beneath his noble shell . . .
Now he had caught sight of her, and he waved his hat merrily, signaling to her that he would meet her farther ahead. Flora hurriedly attempted to break free of the crowd.
“Flora, dear Anna has invited me and a few others for a drink. You won’t be upset if I stop by for a glass or two, will you? I promise you I’ll be there tonight, just for you.” His smile was seductive, full of promise, but also unbending.
Flora sighed. Today it was a successful hunt that had to be celebrated. Tomorrow it would be something else, the day after that, something else again. As it probably always would be.
His horse had already started off again when Konstantin turned around in the saddle. “Think about tonight, just you and me.” He winked at her once more.
Flora nodded dumbly.
For that wink, I’ve thrown away everything I loved and held dear.
The realization soaked into Flora like a stain into cloth, deeper and deeper with every step that Konstantin’s horse took away from her.
Konstantin. A heartbreaker whose greatest possession was his smile. A noble shell with very little underneath.
Incapable of any other thought, Flora stood there among the apple cores, horse dung, and trash while the crowd around her dispersed.
Was she doing Konstantin an injustice, being angry at him because he constantly left her alone? He had, after all, never promised her anything, had never pretended to be anything other than he was.
All lost. For nothing. Not a damned thing.
If she peered deep down inside, all she found was infinite emptiness. Everything else was used up. Her great love, or what she thought
had been her great love, was a straw fire. Extinguished. Where had the rising breeze suddenly blown her yearning, her passions, her emotions?
All at once, she felt more powerless than she had ever felt in her life. Mechanically, she set one foot in front of the other and did her best to breathe calmly. But her throat felt tied closed.
Where now? Back to the hotel? Everything in her bristled at the thought. No! Never again! She did not want to wait any longer.
Then out of Baden-Baden? Back to Gönningen? They would have to take her in there. It was her home, even if she had brought shame on the family.
And what about Alexander, then? Could she bring herself to leave him behind? There were others here who loved him . . .
She needed to sit and think.
Flora had not reached the park bench when her legs failed and she collapsed on the grass.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
At five in the afternoon, Friedrich slipped on his jacket and took a final look around the Trinkhalle. Not a soul in sight. The spa guests were either off somewhere celebrating their departure or were already packing their bags.
Anybody who came in now could damn well fill their own glass.
What’s changed this year, apart from the loss of the casino? he wondered, threading a path through the throng of well-dressed people outside the Conversationshaus. Parties, outings, champagne—keeping the spa guests amused had come first, as it always had, and the Spa and Bath Administration had not gone to any great pains to change that.
“You’re too impatient. Our guests’ habits have developed over many years, and you can’t change them overnight. Be happy that they still come here. Once the Friedrichsbad opens its doors, the real spa guests will also arrive,” the director himself had told him just a few days before.
Friedrich snorted derisively. How many years would that still take?
He abruptly stopped. He had been so deeply buried in his ruminations that he had actually walked right past the turn into Stephanienstrasse.
Then again, no one was expecting him home so early anyway. Sabine had a day off, and hadn’t Mother mentioned that she wanted to make waffles herself that evening? For Alexander and him.
The Flower Shop (The Seed Traders' Saga Book 2) Page 34