Claude nodded. “She came nosing around here, too, saying I should try to talk Madame Feininger into selling. She says there’ll always be a good job waiting for me with her.”
Micheline looked at the overseer skeptically. “And what did you tell her?”
Claude shrugged. “Nothing. I haven’t seen madame for weeks now.” He lowered the currycomb and looked past Micheline, out of the stable window. “Sometimes I wonder if Madame Feininger wouldn’t truly be better off if she sold. Madame is letting her grief eat her away, and the place is slowly falling apart.”
Micheline could see that Claude felt at least as helpless as she did. With a sigh, she said, “You’re right. Isabelle is disappearing. Whenever I take her something to eat, she turns away. Apart from the bowl of soup that Ghislaine brings her every evening, she eats almost nothing. And she should be eating for two!” Micheline sat down on one of the bales of straw stacked along the stable wall. “Does my food taste worse than Ghislaine’s?” she asked, sounding rather put out.
Claude looked at Micheline over the back of the horse. “You wouldn’t be jealous of their friendship, would you? Be happy that Ghislaine has stopped being so unfriendly to Madame Feininger! Isabelle can use all the sympathy she can get. And another thing: that she’s expecting is only something the two of you suspect. I can’t say that she should be eating for two.”
“You haven’t seen her for too long,” Micheline replied. And it’s good that you haven’t, she thought. Claude would probably drop dead from shock at the sight of Madame Feininger. Her stringy, unwashed hair, the flowered dress she’d had on for so long that it was stiff with sweat and dirt . . .
For a moment, they were lost in their own thoughts.
When Micheline looked up, her eyes flashed angrily. “It really gets my goat that Henriette is trying to exploit Isabelle like that. Now, in her hour of need! And you know what else makes me see red? That lazy bastard Gustave Grosse still hasn’t returned from his ‘well-earned’ vacation! Ha, he’s probably taken a job somewhere else, and good riddance.”
“Did you ever think that our good Gustave might have been paid to go away?” Claude asked grimly.
Micheline held her tongue. She wouldn’t put anything past Henriette.
“The harvest is going to start in just a few weeks. So far, I’ve managed to keep this place going, more or less. But organizing and supervising a complete harvest? On top of everything?” Claude shook his head.
Micheline nodded. “Even Marie and I approach every new harvest with respect, and we’re old hands.”
“If there’s any chance at all of getting this estate over the hump, then we need a new cellar master, and the sooner the better,” said Claude.
Micheline shook her head. “What Isabelle needs more than anything else right now is someone who can take the reins until she can take them back herself. Whoever it is will need authority with the workers. An experienced foreman. Or an old vintner who’s sold his own place but still knows the craft. That’s what we need!”
“I couldn’t have put it any better. With someone here who really knows how to keep things organized, a lot of things would be easier. I’d be there to help, of course. Wherever I could.” Claude knocked his currycomb against the wall. “I can’t understand why Leon’s father didn’t come to the funeral. A vintner from the Palatinate—he’d be just what we need! And what about Madame Feininger’s own parents? Isn’t her father supposed to be some sort of successful businessman? Berlin isn’t all that far, and any man in his right mind would stand by his daughter if she needed him. If it’s a factory or a wine estate he’s organizing, the principle is the same. Isabelle is the sole heir of this place now. Is it all just going to fall apart?”
“She once told me that her parents didn’t accept Leon as her husband and that she broke from them because of it. Terrible, what people do to each other, isn’t it? Isabelle only stays in touch with one friend in Berlin. Clara’s her name.”
Chapter Twenty
The letter had arrived the day before. In a woman’s hand, on thin, translucent paper. Clara had never seen the delicate handwriting before. Across the top of the envelope was a watermark, two letters: C and G, intertwined. Only later did Clara recognize that this was the emblem of the Champagne Guenin winery.
When she first had seen the letter, she was completely taken aback. A letter for her? She hardly ever received any mail. All the envelopes and packages the postman brought on his twice-daily deliveries were addressed to her husband, Dr. Gerhard Gropius. But this one was not. Micheline Guenin, a French woman and, it seemed, one of Isabelle’s neighbors, had written directly to her.
It had been a long time since she had learned French in school, and it had taken Clara awhile to decipher the French. Several times, she had to resort to the dictionary, and even when she had transcribed it, word by word, into German, she could barely absorb what it said. Leon Feininger was dead? That happy-go-lucky man who’d managed to turn Isabelle’s head so much that she had simply run away with him? Poor Isabelle . . . Tears came to Clara’s eyes, and it took a long time for them to subside.
What Clara found at least as shocking as the terrible news was that someone was asking her for help. Her, of all people. Someone too stupid for even the simplest of tasks, as Gerhard never tired of reminding her. How was she supposed to help anyone? Certainly, she and Isabelle had known each other since kindergarten, and they had grown up on the same street, Isabelle in the fancy villa beside her own father’s factory and Clara herself just down the street from her parents’ pharmacy. Josephine, the smith’s daughter, was the third member of their little band. Despite their social differences, they had been good friends. Isabelle had never flaunted her wealth but rather shared her chocolates and fashion magazines and even her coveted bicycle with her friends.
How had the French woman known about their old friendship, and how did she get Clara’s address? From Isabelle herself? While Clara had thought about these things, she had carefully hidden the letter behind the mirror in the hallway, where Gerhard wouldn’t discover it.
Now, the day after the letter arrived, as she checked to make sure that not the slightest corner showed beneath the broad, gilded frame, she took a long, critical look at herself in the mirror. Although she would be celebrating her twenty-fifth birthday on December 24, her doe-brown eyes gleamed, her lips were full, and her figure was still youthful. Her dark-brown hair gleamed like chestnuts fresh from their spiky shells, and her skin was flawless.
“Marriage seems to suit you. You are more beautiful every year,” her mother had told her only recently. Clara hadn’t replied. What could she have said? That Gerhard only pinched her in places where the bruises wouldn’t show? That he didn’t actually hit her anymore but made up for it by pulling her across the room by her hair?
You and your burden to bear! she taunted herself, as she stepped into the dining room, where her husband was already sitting at the table. If Gerhard gets a little rough with you, it’s because you’ve provoked him with some silly little mistake or other. Apart from that, he’s a good man, and a good provider. Besides—your son, Matthias, is the true joy of your life. You live in a beautiful house. And as a doctor’s wife, you’re welcome everywhere. What else do you want?
She sat down on her chair and gazed listlessly out the window. Rain pattered against the windowpanes, and water splashed from the gutter down onto the sidewalk below. The pale blooms of the dog-rose drooped to the ground under the weight of the rain.
“Professor Hackestorm is coming to dinner tonight. He’s bringing his wife with him.” Gerhard spoke so suddenly that Clara flinched.
As a rule, breakfast was a silent affair; Gerhard preferred the newspaper to a conversation with her. She had once pleaded with him to talk to her, but now she liked the silence. Silence was predictable. And it didn’t hurt.
“I hope you didn’t forget about it. It is immensely important for me.” He was scrutinizing her over the edge of his newspaper.
When he first announced the Hackestorms’ visit, she had immediately written herself a note. He could be very unpleasant if she forgot something like that.
“A three-course meal, then coffee, brandy, and sweets—isn’t that what you want for this evening?” Clara recited like a schoolgirl who had dutifully learned her lesson by heart. “I’m off to Kramer’s after breakfast to buy everything.” And after that, she would have to go clear across the city, but Gerhard didn’t need to know that. He didn’t like her to be out by herself.
“I wouldn’t be in your shoes if the soup is as thin tonight as it was yesterday. Or if you overcook the meat again. A good repast should put Hackestorm in the right frame of mind. But poor fare could destroy everything I have worked for in recent months. Is that clear to you, Clara?”
She nodded. Gerhard’s only interest at present was for Professor Hackestorm, chief physician in the Women’s Department at Berlin’s Charité hospital, to send him his patients for follow-up care. Of all the areas her husband could have decided to specialize in, he had chosen gynecology, and now he wanted to make a name for himself in the field. Precisely how the cauliflower soup she was planning to serve was supposed to influence Professor Hackestorm’s decision was not clear to Clara, but she would take care not to let any trenchant remarks slip. Such things did not become her.
“And put on some decent clothes. Hackestorm’s wife is a demon for the latest fashions, and she’ll be dressed to the nines. One can afford to be fashionable in the better circles, and that means that you can’t be running around like a kitchen maid. Take a look at yourself, hair all stringy and plain. And your shoes look like you were wearing them while digging in the garden.” His last words were spoken with even more disgust.
But I am the kitchen maid! The words were on the tip of Clara’s tongue. Gerhard believed that she could manage the household without the help of a cook or maid; the only thing he had agreed to was a nanny for Matthias, and now red-cheeked Christel took care of Matthias during the day. This was a good thing. Clara worked all day to keep the house in order and cook only to play the well-groomed wife in the evenings. She looked down at her shoes. She had been out in the garden to cut a few roses, but that was before the rain. And despite Gerhard’s claim, her shoes were spotless.
“I’ll wear the dark-blue outfit and pearls, if that’s all right with you. I could also—”
“Spare me the details! The least you might manage is to choose what to wear without my help,” he growled. “I’ll tell you this: if you don’t pull yourself together, then my patience is going to wear very thin indeed! Just thinking about the disgrace you subjected me to when we went to the Nordstroms’ is enough to drive me wild!”
Clara lowered her eyes in repentance.
The garden party at the Nordstroms’ house. It had been a magnificent summer afternoon, with the air full of the scent of roses and all the guests in a splendid mood. Her pink dress and matching hat, Clara saw with relief, fitted in well with what the other women were wearing. Gerhard had immediately immersed himself in a technical discussion with a group of physicians, and she was left with no choice but to stroll through the garden alone. Everybody knew everybody else, except for her. But then, over a cup of coffee and a slice of cake, she had gotten into a conversation with a nice couple. The woman knew Clara’s parents and had been a customer of their pharmacy for years. Clara was relieved to no longer feel like a fifth wheel. Suddenly, she, too, was infected by the pleasant mood of the party. She had chatted away, laughed and joked, and generally had a wonderful time. It was a nice feeling, she realized.
Afterward, she had thought she had done very well for herself. But the moment they got home, Gerhard started in on her. “What got into your head? Cavorting like that with Dr. Köhnemann, of all people?” he screamed at her. “I thought my eyes were deceiving me when I saw you prattling away with my biggest rival! Everyone is talking about his new practice on Landsberger Allee. They say it’s fully equipped with all the latest technical advances—whereas I have to do the best I can with my old shack. But my darling wife doesn’t think about that for a moment, oh no! Instead, she behaves like a common prostitute, without an ounce of decency or composure. Disgusting!”
He had kept it up for hours, and Clara had tried to protest a dozen times that it had all been quite harmless. But in the end, she had been forced to see that she had made a grave mistake. Yet again. At least Gerhard had not hit her.
“What’s more, I expect your conversation with the Hackestorms to be cultivated. No loud laughter, none of your stupid silences. The theater, anything new in the literary world—and I don’t mind if you talk about our trip to Norddeich. Then you must mention our visit to that expensive restaurant beside the Ludgeri church, where we had Paul von Hindenburg sitting at the next table. Things like that always tend to impress people.”
Clara nodded, although she could barely remember their visit to the restaurant. The sea breeze blowing in her hair, the tumbling waves, and the sand between her toes—all of those had left far more lasting impressions than a meal in a gloomy restaurant.
“And don’t even contemplate turning the conversation to Matthias again! To think for a second that people are interested in the development of a child—only you could be that witless.” Gerhard slurped his coffee noisily.
“But other women talk about their children,” Clara managed to say. “Raising children is our God-given task. You say so yourself.”
Gerhard shook his head and glared at her. “Sometimes I think you deliberately try to make me angry. Yes, other women mention their brood from time to time, but none of them put on airs about it like you do. Do you think Mrs. Hackestorm sits all day in the nursery, playing silly games? A woman like her takes her representative obligations seriously. But you . . .” He gestured contemptuously. “Enough of this, or my mood will be spoiled before I’ve even finished my first cup of coffee.” Without another word, he returned to his newspaper.
Clara sighed.
The minute Gerhard left, Clara ran into the bedroom and slipped out her diary from beneath the mattress. She had not managed to come up with a better hiding place, and she prayed daily that Gerhard would never discover it. She sat down at the small round side table beneath the bedroom window and looked outside for a moment, her eyes scanning the street.
A curious letter arrived for me yesterday, she began.
Not long after she and Gerhard had married, Clara found that it did her good to commit her thoughts to paper. It was a way of organizing and evaluating them. Many times, when she wrote about an incident from her everyday life, it seemed less overwhelming. Gerhard’s often savage beliefs, his imperious tone when he spoke to her, his demands. Maybe she really was a little oversensitive. Was he right when he accused her of making a mountain out of every molehill? In her mind, she threw the same accusation back at him, but she would never actually say it.
She ended her entry for the day with a question: How am I supposed to react to this cry for help from Isabelle’s neighbor? She had not gained much clarity, but she did feel a little better and calmer.
Once she had stowed the little leather book away safely, she put together her shopping list for dinner that evening. Apart from the cauliflower soup, she wanted to do chicken braised in red wine and fresh peaches with cream for dessert—she hoped that her choices would meet with the approval of Gerhard and their guests. She would easily be able to find everything she needed in the local shop, which was good, because she really didn’t have much time for shopping and cooking that day. With her basket and the money allocated for the week’s groceries in her hand, she looked in briefly at the nursery. The nanny was just getting Matthias dressed for a walk along the Spree; they wanted to sail boats. Clara smiled as she observed how her son pressed the carefully folded paper boat so hard to his chest that the little vessel was crumpled and skewed out of shape; it would probably tip over and sink the moment it touched the water. She gave him a kiss on his cheek, then forced h
erself to leave.
The letter.
There was only one person on earth with whom she could discuss it.
“You sit here on the saddle, both hands on the handlebars. Then you put one foot on the pedal, here, and the second—no, wait!” Josephine exclaimed as her customer was about to ride away. “I still have to teach you how to stop.”
The woman, a housewife in her forties, waved dismissively. “Oh, I know all that. My neighbor bought exactly the same kind of bike from you two weeks ago and explained everything to me. She’s been very satisfied with it, too. We want to go out cycling together. May I try it out?”
Josephine smiled and said, “Of course. But be careful. After the rain, the roads can be quite slippery!” The woman, wobbling a little but pedaling single-mindedly, rode off down the street. As Josephine watched, Adrian stepped out of the warehouse for their bicycle shop. Josephine’s heart jumped, as it always did when she saw him. And as she had so many times, she said a silent prayer of thanks for the way her cards had fallen. Adrian. Her husband, her love. They shared their passion for not only bicycles, but also their lives.
He had a notebook in his hand and a pencil behind his ear, and when he saw her standing there, he came over. He still limped visibly with his left leg, although the robbery in America, during which he’d been shot in the knee by thieves, had happened almost two years ago. Every morning, in the hope of one day being able to walk normally again—and to ride a bicycle again—Adrian performed the exercises prescribed by his doctors. Josephine did them with him. Because of all the work in the shop, she only rarely had the chance to go riding, and she enjoyed the chance to exercise.
Adrian looked around. None of their staff was in sight, so he kissed her deeply and tenderly on the mouth. Josephine’s lips parted, and she enjoyed the play of his tongue in her mouth. She felt her desire flare, and she pressed closer to Adrian. But when, from the corner of her eye, she saw her customer pedaling back toward them, she freed herself from Adrian’s embrace.
The Champagne Queen (The Century Trilogy Book 2) Page 20
