‘Oh God, Andrea, what have you done to yourself?’ Louis muttered, appalled by her hair crimped in the latest Marcel wave and her pale pink lipstick. He leaned back and tried to relax. It was nothing to him if she made mistakes, he assured himself, nor was her lack of fashion sense; he had come to listen to her debut.
By the end of the concert Louis felt light-headed with pride. Andrea’s playing had been inspired; not faultless, far from it, but brilliant in her emotional interpretation and delicacy. Louis rushed out of the hall, bought a basket of flowers from the vendor and retraced his footsteps, stiff-legged with tension. No one challenged him as he entered the stage door and made his way to the dressing-rooms. Andrea, surrounded by her family and friends, was laughing with joy. But when she saw Louis in the mirror, her expression changed to shock, then anger. Louis placed the flowers on the dressing-table and bent over her. ‘I have never enjoyed the concerto so much before. Tonight I realised what it’s all about. I have you to thank for that,’ he finished awkwardly.
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ Andrea muttered. ‘Why can’t you keep away?’
‘Why can’t you trust me?’ he said, tight-lipped and furious.
‘It’s not a question of trust . . .’
‘Andrea, forget what Father said. He’s out of tune with the times. Listen to me,’ he snapped as she turned away, leaning forward impulsively, catching hold of her shoulder, forcing her to face him.
‘Damn you, Louis.’ In one violent gesture, she swept the flowers to the floor and shook off his hand.
Andrea’s mother came forward, her face twisted with curiosity and embarrassment. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend, Andrea?’ She turned to Louis. ‘I’m Frau Soltys and this is my husband, Charles.’
Louis was about to speak but Andrea interrupted. ‘He’s not a friend,’ she said too loudly. ‘As a matter of fact he’s slumming it tonight. Have you met Count Louis Burgheim, Father? Didn’t you conduct concerts at Sokol Castle for Princess Lobkowitz, his late grandmother? He’s studying music at Munich University because he has nothing better to do.’
Her mother gasped. ‘Andrea! How could you be so rude?’ She turned to Louis and curtsied.
Louis cringed.
Her father stepped forward and bowed apologetically. ‘She’s not like this usually, believe you me. She’s the kindest girl. This was her first solo and she’s feeling the strain. We’d be honoured if you would join us at home in a small celebration. I was very impressed by her performance. What did you think?’ Herr Soltys prattled on, assuming acceptance of his invitation, diplomatically gathering the party together.
In the darkness of the corridor, as they all filed out, Andrea whispered fiercely in Louis’ ear: ‘Don’t you dare to come. I can’t bear to see them fawning. Oh, I hate you. I’ll never forgive you for coming.’ Then she grabbed hold of a young man and went off on his arm. Feeling hurt, but determined, Louis ushered six members of the Soltys party into his car and followed the convoy home.
The house was elegant, modern, and devoted to the musical careers of the family. It seemed miraculous that they all fitted into the tiny rooms around the grand piano, the conservatory, the statues of Mozart, Beethoven and Bach, and the various musical instruments lying here and there.
Her father was a short thin man with a great intensity of movement and gesture. Beneath his nervous posturing, he was a kind and pleasant man. He had pale eyes and blond hair which kept falling over his forehead, while his thin white hands kept smoothing it back again.
His wife was overawed by Louis’ visit. She was tall and thin and appeared surprisingly young. Louis thought she looked elegant and fashionable, watching her trim figure dart amongst her guests, ensuring everyone had food and wine.
As Andrea studiously avoided Louis, her mother fussed over him. She told Louis about Andrea’s gypsy grandmother, her husband’s mother she emphasized, who had been a famous dancer and singer in Prague. Andrea’s grandfather, a pianist from Budapest, had fallen madly in love with her and married her against his family’s wishes. It was clear that Frau Soltys was not altogether happy with her late mother-in-law. Louis also learned from Madame Soltys that her husband was still waiting to achieve fame and fortune through the pieces he had composed, mainly concertos based on Czech folk-songs.
When Louis said he would like to hear them, Frau Soltys obligingly put on some records at high volume in the music room. Louis sank into an armchair listening as he observed the many aunts, uncles, cousins and friends in the pleasant but small house on the outskirts of Prague. He felt himself both an outsider and also at home with everyone there, bound by their love of music.
The compositions came to an end at last and Louis knew he should go, but could not bring himself to do so. He tried to prolong his stay by discussing the music with Herr Soltys. Anything to stay longer, when he heard excited chattering and a crowd of young people waved goodnight as they passed. Andrea’s parents hurried after them and moments later he heard voices at the front door raised in farewell. Andrea stood in the doorway, hand on hip, brown eyes smouldering balefully.
‘Go,’ she said, striding across the room to grab his wrist and pull him towards the door. ‘Go home, Louis. Go home and never come back.’
He tilted his head, churning with fury. ‘Who’s the boyfriend you’ve been hanging on to all evening?’
‘It’s nothing to do with you.’
‘Yes, it is. You were mine from the moment we met and you know it.’ His words were an angry growl.
Her eyes filled with tears. ‘How dare you be so possessive! No one will ever own me, and there are plenty of better men in the world. Xavier could teach you a thing or two about manners for a start, you arrogant . . .’ she spluttered in outrage and half-pushed him down the corridor towards the door, showing amazing strength.
‘Which one was Xavier?’ he wondered looking over her shoulder at the three men left in the living-room. One was staring at Andrea, quivering with anger, but her mother had him pinned in the corner beside her.
He caught hold of her, shaking her roughly. ‘Listen,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Swear to me by all you hold sacred that you feel nothing for me and I’ll never trouble you again. But don’t lie to me, because it’s too important.’
‘Why should I? Why should I lie . . .? To make you feel better about your stupidity and selfishness . . . you and your sister . . . you never thought how others might get hurt. And what was it all for? Just to prove you two could survive without your bloody chauffeur . . . and fifty thousand uniformed flunkies for a month or two? Get out!’ She gave him a sharp push and he staggered back, taken by surprise.
Suddenly Xavier was bounding towards him, fists clenched and held high in front of his chest – a stupid stance. Louis kicked his feet from under him and punched his jaw as he lurched off balance. He fell awkwardly, and remained prone on the floor, blocking the tiny passage.
Everything seemed to be happening in deathly silence. Andrea was backed against the wall looking furious. Her father’s expression changed from mild incredulity to menace, and even Madam Soltys looked offended.
There was a pregnant silence. Manfully, Louis threw all he had into it. Three magic words: ‘Marry me, Andrea.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
Surprisingly, Father gave in without much of a fight. Louis went straight back to Plechy Palace to confront the Count. He found him nervously pacing his study, a glass of brandy in his hand, a notebook and pencil on the desk where he had been jotting down his thoughts.
‘I’ll marry Andrea whether you like it or not,’ Louis began without much preamble. Father looked surprised, but not angry.
‘I’m prepared to leave all this . . .’ he gestured around vaguely. ‘I can earn a living . . .’
‘You won’t get far as a concert pianist, my boy,’ his father said gently.
‘No, you took care of that for me. I couldn’t practise, I was too busy being “brought up”.’
The Count crumpled
. His face seemed to droop and his lazy eye wandered away as if to avoid this confrontation. Then he reached out towards Louis. ‘Forgive me, Louis. You were born into the wrong family.’
‘Look Father,’ Louis said, stepping away from his father’s groping arms. ‘I’m prepared to face family and State duties, but only with Andrea as my wife. That’s final. She’s strong and beautiful and good and brave. . . . If I searched the world I wouldn’t find better, but all that is beside the point. The fact is, I’ve chosen her.’
‘Yes!’ The Count looked distracted. ‘Very well.’ He swung forward the portrait on the wall behind his desk and fumbled with the combination of his safe. For a few moments he fumbled amongst its contents, then he withdrew a small box and handed it to his son.
‘Here you are Louis. I accept your choice, and not only because I have no alternative. The truth is, I like Andrea. I felt very sorry . . .’
‘You had no right.’
‘Yes, yes, perhaps. I’ll be honest with you. Once, in my false pride, I thought there were only twenty men sufficiently eligible to marry Marietta and that you would have to choose from amongst the Habsburg women. I brought you both up with that belief, too. It’s too late to change the past, but fortunately you and Marietta have more sense than I, and take account of the future. Life never neglects to teach its bitter lessons.
‘Lately, I’ve been thinking about this obsession to be the favoured few, the superior or the élite, the Master Race, the world’s aristocracy, the richest or the best. This desire has always trapped mankind and the path leads downhill straight to evil. It’s a simple choice we have to make: on the one hand the brotherhood of man, on the other the creed of elevating the powerful few above the remainder. It doesn’t seem like a choice between good or evil, does it? But it is. Step on this path and there’s no turning back. I shudder for humanity.’
Louis was only half-listening. In his hand was the von Burgheim betrothal ring – a huge emerald surrounded by sapphires. It had been in the family for centuries. His stepmother had always worn it, and presumably his own mother before then. It hadn’t brought either of them much joy, he reflected and was tempted to hand it back, but instinctively he felt that such a ring would symbolise family acceptance of Andrea.
‘I’m rambling,’ Father was saying. ‘Forgive me. That’s one of my biggest faults. Louis, listen to me. You must go now. I have a guest arriving. Things are happening . . . matters which I cannot discuss with you. There are many people in Germany who hate the Nazis and I am one of them. I have never made a secret of it.’ He broke off and clapped Louis on the shoulder.
Louis felt astonished as he walked out. What did Father mean? Was he involved in a conspiracy against the Third Reich? But no, of course not. The nearest he would ever get to subversive activity would be writing a letter to the newspaper. Even then it would be so erudite as to be incomprehensible, silly old fool, he mused affectionately. Despite their deep differences he loved the old man. The thought came unbidden and it was strangely shocking.
*
Ingrid hardly left the palace after Bill’s sickbed confession. She gave in to the despair and rejection that was gnawing at her. What would become of her? Who would want to marry her? In one brief conversation, Bill had taken away her love, her future home, her security, her feeling of self-worth . . . everything!
Bill loved Marietta. He always had. He had only used Ingrid to keep in with the family. How dare he play with her, lead her on and let her believe that she was the reason for his visits to the palace? How could he be so manipulative? While she, like an idiot, had worn her heart on her sleeve.
Autumn came and Ingrid became increasingly bitter and vengeful. She lost weight, her hair hung lank and dull, her skin erupted in blemishes and her eyes looked haggard. Worry gnawed at her. She’d wasted her first season on Bill. Now she was twenty and penniless. She was practically an old maid. Eventually it was Hugo who came to her rescue, persuading her to meet him for lunch.
‘You’ve been avoiding me, or so it seemed. Perhaps I have offended you?’ He made a show of affection and complimented her on her appearance when she arrived promptly at one.
Hugo had chosen a discreet, Italian restaurant where they were unlikely to meet anyone they knew. In his grey suit with navy shirt and Paisley tie, he looked distinguished and fit. His hooded eyes gleamed with suppressed amusement as he examined Ingrid’s face.
She had dressed with care. In her navy classic Chanel suit and white straw hat she felt that she looked sophisticated and beautiful. Closer inspection, she knew, would reveal her chewed fingernails, the shadows under her eyes and her pale face, which she had made an effort to hide with rouge and lipstick.
‘So it is Marietta Roth loves, after all,’ Hugo said, without any pretence at subtlety. ‘He used you to be with her. Marietta’s just as guilty, she was playing games. All your life you’ve been used. Poor little Ingrid.’
Ingrid flushed and bent her head. ‘Ancient history, Hugo,’ she said with a touch of bravado. ‘What was, was.’
Hugo laughed. ‘You wouldn’t have liked living in America. Much better to stay here.’ He bent forward and whispered. ‘Listen to me carefully. Eastern Europe is destined to join the great German empire. One of my less important briefs is to investigate claims of those Germans who had their property stolen by the Bolsheviks. It is possible that some estates will be restored to the rightful owners by a grateful nation . . .’
‘Grateful?’
‘For services rendered to the Führer.’
Ingrid tried to look unconcerned, but her mouth was pulled taut and her fingers were white as they gripped her glass. He’s lying, she thought. Nothing has ever worked out for me. Why should this plum fall into my lap?
‘Join us, Ingrid,’ Hugo said urgently, ‘and help our heroic armies to restore to you what is properly yours.’
She said coldly: ‘I don’t believe you, Hugo.’
‘Why not?’
He could be vicious, Ingrid realised, noting the raised eyebrow, the narrowed eyes, the tenseness of the man.
‘Hitler is intent on despoiling the aristocracy, not reimbursing them. Why should your Aryan soldiers shed their blood to restore property to a Russian-born princess?’
‘That’s my Ingrid,’ Hugo enthused. ‘Observant, courageous and shrewd. You’re also a survivor. That’s why I’ve had my eye on you for some time.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Order your food and we’ll talk,’ he said.
‘Let me be specific,’ Hugo began when the waiter had left. ‘I need the assistance of a clever and well-connected woman who can infiltrate anti-Nazi circles at the very highest level. You would be perfect. In return for passing on certain information I would pay you well.’
Ingrid began to believe him. All her life she’d had to fight and manipulate to get what she wanted, now Hugo was offering her the chance to do exactly that. ‘And how would I explain away my sudden wealth?’ She tried to hide her eagerness.
‘I’ll arrange for one of our banks to contact you about an inheritance. Our story would be that before his death, your father deposited certain funds in a Swiss bank, from which you will now receive interest.’
‘It’s a little late to find out about an inheritance, don’t you think?’
‘No! Parents often bequeath fortunes for their heirs to inherit when they reach twenty-one. You’re almost twenty-one, and with the new discretion laws no one can query such an arrangement.’
It all seemed so plausible, Ingrid thought as she sipped her wine. Hugo didn’t want much for his money, either. She sat in silence for a few moments. Marietta was obsessed with her philanthropic activities, the Count was too distracted to take much notice of the family nowadays, and Louis was seldom at home.
‘A spy?’ she said, testing the word.
‘No, not a spy. Never a spy! You’ll merely be helping me with my research.’
Ingrid was no fool, but if Hugo wanted to give her job a spurio
us title, she wouldn’t argue.
She smiled and said ‘yes’ and listened intently while Hugo explained how she must set about her task. He told her exactly what it was he wanted her to do.
She thought about his instructions as she ate her sorbet. Of course, Hugo had not mentioned the biggest payoff, which was the chance of avenging herself on Marietta and Bill.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Marietta opened the front door of her flat with a sense of relief. This was her first real home and she loved it. She was glad to be back in Munich for the autumn term. As she stepped inside, the heady scent of roses wafted down the passage. ‘Heavens!’ she gasped. A florist had emptied his van here. Was a new boyfriend hovering? The thought was strangely unwelcome, but Andrea had been so miserable this year and she deserved to be happy.
Andrea was sleeping. Marietta looked in and saw long dark hair tangled over the pillow. One hand was thrown over the duvet and as Andrea stirred Marietta saw a ring glittering on her engagement finger. She gaped in surprise and tiptoed closer. How many times had she watched that gigantic emerald glittering on her mother’s elegant hand? For a moment she was lost in wonder . . . Louis and Andrea! All her pre-conceived notions of birth and class and the rightness of things, which had been drummed into her since early childhood, surged into her mind. This wasn’t allowed! Louis must marry a Habsburg, mustn’t he? Yet there was Mother’s ring. Father must have agreed to their engagement, to hand over that betrothal ring.
Marietta dropped to her knees beside the bed and took Andrea’s hand in hers. Andrea stirred and opened her eyes. ‘What time is it?’ She smiled softly. She was all dewy-eyed and languid with love.
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