House of Gold

by Natasha Solomons

  Herzfeld passed her a pair of slender forceps. ‘Shall we take her up to Mr Goldbaum’s library and mount her there?’

  Greta had not ventured into Albert’s library since her first and only unfortunate visit. She repressed a shudder.

  ‘You may do all that, Herzfeld. I think I’ve reached my limit. I’ll stay here and look for butterfly eggs.’

  ‘Very good, madam. I shall inform Mr Goldbaum that you were instrumental. He will be profoundly grateful.’

  To Greta’s great regret, the explorers did not come to dinner in their pith hats but in perfectly ordinary evening dress, with the same dull winged collars as less well-travelled gentlemen. After dinner Julian Stein would present his findings: he promised something revelatory about the reproductive cycle of the rhododendron at high altitude. Lady Goldbaum was pink-cheeked in her enthusiasm at the prospect.

  The Goldbaum men were late. The sinking of the Titanic continued to cause unease in the money markets. The reassurance of Lord Goldbaum’s presence, as well as his capital, was required. They telegraphed their apologies; they would arrive as soon as they could. The two hostesses, Greta and Lady Goldbaum, sipped champagne and made small talk with their guests beneath the ferns, the palms competing with the ladies’ elaborate fascinators. For the first time in many months, Greta wore her butterfly necklace. Anna had fastened it around her neck before she could object, and then claimed that the catch was stuck when Greta asked her to remove it. She was dressed in an emerald silk evening gown, extremely fitted around her waist, which she hoped would prevent the other women scrutinising her figure to see if she was expecting. Sometimes she felt rather as if it were a detailed photograph of her own body projected onto the screen, for the assembled company to dissect and discuss.

  Before she’d dressed for dinner, Herzfeld had sent to her rooms the High Brown Fritillary, pinned and set and beautifully mounted against white blotting paper inside a small glass box, which Anna had in turn carefully wrapped.

  A footman glided past with canapés, and Greta speared a quail’s egg and dipped it into a well of caviar. She circulated with the regularity of one of the West Gallery clocks, greeting the ladies and receiving their compliments in turn with grace. ‘Such a pretty dress, Mrs Goldbaum – may I call you Greta? It brings out the green of your eyes. Oh, it’s so kind of you to remember little Harold. Yes, he’s quite recovered. And it was so thoughtful of you to send the calf’s-foot jelly and the basket of raspberries. Temple Court fruit is the best in all the world! Now, Mrs Goldbaum, that waist is looking so terribly slim; when is it going to swell? Yes, my dear Greta. I’m afraid darling Hermione is right – we’re all waiting. I’ve heard that eating cucumbers is quite the thing. And there’s a wonderful spa in Switzerland that helps us ladies to get in the family way.’

  Greta could think of nothing but escape. She excused herself and hurried away, lingering beside the French windows and opening them to take a few breaths of cool air. Turning, she noticed Lady Goldbaum at her elbow. Perhaps it was the wash of champagne and the effect of the heat and the arrows of chitter-chatter that made her turn to her mother-in-law and say in German, ‘Adelheid, how did you bear it?’

  Lady Goldbaum considered her for a moment, and Greta wondered if she was about to be rebuked; and then Lady Goldbaum unpeeled a black evening glove and placed her bare hand in Greta’s, displaying her upturned palm. Greta glanced down and saw that the skin was riddled with tiny white scars, the shape of fingernail half-moons. Adelheid balled her hands into tight fists, her nails digging deep into the flesh.

  ‘It’s an old habit. At dinner, I would smile and ask after their awful children, and beneath the table I’d clench my fists until my nails made my skin bleed,’ she said.

  Greta stared at her, uncertain.

  ‘Now I invite the people I like to my parties, along with those I’m obliged to ask.’

  A moment later Lady Goldbaum pulled on her jewelled evening glove, hiding the scars. As Greta watched her return and mingle with her guests, laughing at a joke from Julian Stein, she thought of her mother-in-law’s marked hands and felt a little less alone.

  The Goldbaum gentlemen arrived in time for dinner. Albert nodded at her from the far end of the room, but made no move to come and speak with her, escorting another lady guest into the dining room. The table brimmed with vast arrangements of narcissi, freesias and carnations on the sideboards, all in the softest shades of white, and with rings of miniature daffodils looped around the candlesticks. The scent was sweet but pungent, and one of Julian Stein’s fellow explorers began to sneeze volcanically into his handkerchief. Greta wondered how on earth he survived the tropics, when the dining room appeared to be testing him to the limit. She saw with some regret that both Otto and Clement were seated at the far end of the table from her. To her surprise, she found herself being helped into her chair by Albert, who then sat down beside her. She tutted at him.

  ‘We’ve been married nearly a year. Sitting next to your wife at dinner really isn’t the thing. Lady Hermione will not approve.’

  ‘Yes, well. Unfortunately, one of Mama’s voyagers thoughtlessly succumbed to malaria at the last moment and ruined her table order. This was the least disruptive solution.’

  ‘How tactless of him,’ said Greta, smiling, mostly from astonishment that Albert was attempting humour.

  ‘You look very… You’re wearing the necklace,’ said Albert, trying for a compliment and finishing instead with an observation.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘It looks… ’

  ‘And you are as neat as ever,’ said Greta.

  ‘Good,’ said Albert, glancing at her sideways to see if she was teasing him.

  Greta reached out for her napkin, to discover the neatly wrapped box containing the butterfly concealed beneath. She slid it to Albert.

  ‘I found a High Brown Fritillary hiding on a tiger in the conservatory. Anna and Herzfeld want me to tell you that I trapped and mounted it for you, so that you’ll forgive me all my neglect and impertinence and we can spontaneously make a go of things.’

  Albert unwrapped the box and surveyed Greta and the butterfly with equal surprise.

  ‘Did you set the butterfly for me?’

  ‘No. I caught it, and then the shudders and Herzfeld did the rest.’

  ‘All the same, I’m most obliged.’ He examined it closely, drawing a magnifying glass out of his pocket. ‘And I think you’re right.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘That Herzfeld wanted me to believe that you set the butterfly. He’s set ten thousand of them for me and I’ve never known him so much as crush a clubfoot antenna. And, look here, there’s a tiny crease on the wing where the paper used to stretch it has snagged. A common amateur mistake.’

  ‘The sort of error you would expect me to make?’

  ‘Quite so.’

  ‘Goodness! I never knew that a dead butterfly could be made to fib.’ Greta laughed and, after a moment’s hesitation, Albert smiled.

  Before the first course was carried in, Greta carefully placed her napkin on her lap and, beneath it, began to remove her gloves, quietly and slowly. Albert had never really paid attention as she did this before, but now found himself watching as the napkin slid to one side, and white evening gloves gave way to soft bare skin.

  After dinner, the guests were brought back to the conservatory to listen to Julian Stein recount the story of his expedition and present his slides and findings. He was due to give the same presentation to the Royal Society the following week, but it was a condition of Lady Goldbaum’s patronage that she should hear about his discoveries first at Temple Court. Once again, Greta saw that the seat next to Otto was taken. Albert gestured to the empty chair next to him, and she sat beside him amongst the potted ferns and tried to attend as Stein pounded his fist, describing how he and his fellow travellers were plagued by mosquitoes and natives, poisoned by food and water; but, he insisted, the collection of rare and exotic plants, the discovery of new species
and sub-species made it all worthwhile.

  ‘Hear, hear!’ cried Lady Goldbaum, rising from her chair at the front to applaud.

  ‘In general I prefer the softer, native species,’ said Greta quietly to Albert beside her. ‘But I would like to grow some of those irises. True blue is so rare in nature.’

  Unthinkingly, her hand went up to the butterfly choker around her throat and when she touched the diamond, she realised it was not pinching her skin as it had.

  Albert watched her. He wondered how she would look wearing the butterfly and nothing else. He recalled her appearance as she had slept naked beneath the cedar tree, and realised that he could picture the prospect with some precision. His wife was wilful and impolite, but not unattractive. And, grudgingly, he admitted that he admired her dedication to her garden. Her interest in nature was something that he could understand, and her determination to learn all she could thoroughly and properly was something he would have respected in a man. In her sitting room he sometimes observed lists containing the Latin and common names of plants. He would very much have liked to test her on them. To have made a game of it. Perhaps he might still suggest it.

  As Julian began in hushed tones to reveal his grand discoveries about rhododendron reproduction, Albert nudged Greta and, leaning forward, whispered in her ear, ‘May I confess something truly dreadful?’

  ‘Oh yes, please.’

  ‘I abhor rhododendrons. Don’t like them. Never have.’

  Greta laughed aloud and Julian Stein faltered, his flow temporarily interrupted.

  ‘Neither do I,’ she whispered, as the lecture resumed.

  ‘We must never, ever tell Mama,’ said Albert, low and serious.

  ‘I swear, on the life of the titan arum,’ said Greta, offering him her hand.

  They shook.

  After Stein’s lecture and the rapturous applause that followed, the rest of the guests were ushered out to pay their respects to the titan tree. Albert nodded to Otto and started to follow him, but Greta held onto his arm. He turned back to her in surprise.

  ‘I’ve seen it and I’ve smelled it,’ said Greta. ‘I don’t wish to do so again.’

  Albert laughed. Greta realised it was the first time she could recall ever having made her husband laugh. She felt a tiny star-burst of exhilaration. In a minute they were quite alone in the conservatory. Greta could think of nothing else to say and searched desperately for topics, unwilling to let this moment of shared good humour pass.

  ‘Did you know that rhododendrons are poisonous to bees?’ said Albert, at last finding a topic of conversation. ‘The nectar is toxic to them. All the outdoor hives at Temple Court have to be kept closed during the flowering season and the bees fed on sugar syrup.’

  ‘But the garden is full of such riches in May!’ objected Greta. ‘Poor bees.’

  ‘I quite agree,’ said Albert warmly.

  ‘At Fontmell we shall have our own hives and absolutely no bloody rhododendrons.’

  ‘Shall we?’ said Albert, watching Greta closely.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, colouring under his scrutiny. She was silent for a moment, thinking. ‘You must treasure the High Brown Fritillary, for I am never catching you another butterfly. I’m too squeamish for killing jars – science or not. But I should like to create a butterfly garden at Fontmell. An entire four or five acres just for bees and butterflies.’ She hesitated. ‘Perhaps we can decide on the planting scheme together?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Albert. ‘I think we can agree on that. And Greta… ’

  She held up a hand. ‘Albert, don’t. At present let’s talk of nothing but the garden. Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed.’

  Greta considered – if they could share a single interest, might that be enough for a beginning? They spoke pleasantly for quarter of an hour on the plants that bees and butterflies like: buddleia, thistles, asters and globe artichokes; and the ones they didn’t: azaleas and oleander. When it was time to join the others for coffee in the Grey Salon, Greta wondered whether Albert might attempt to kiss her. He did not. But for the first time in nearly a year, she rather wished he had.

  HAMPSHIRE, JUNE

  Clement sat in his dressing gown and looked at the pile of letters on the silver tray with revulsion. Bills. Bills and angry letters demanding money. They’d ceased to politely enquire, but now demanded with loud and furious capital letters and scoring underlines. They threatened to tell his father, or go to the press. Or so Clement presumed. The letters had become so unpleasant that he’d ceased to open them some months ago. He pulled a laundry basket out of the back of his wardrobe and stuffed the latest post inside. There were now three baskets brimming with unopened letters. At night, unable to sleep, Clement thought about the baskets and their ghastly contents. He pictured the laundry maids finding them by mistake and hundreds of letters tumbling into the tubs with the washing, a sludge of ink and socks. He needed to raise some money as a matter of considerable urgency.

  And yet, while his quest for greater stakes had brought disaster, it had also brought him Irena. She was his one solace. She comforted him, cajoled him and, when all else failed, she beat him at chess. To his profound astonishment, losing at chess to his beautiful mistress was a pleasure almost as great as that of the flesh. It was nearly as exhilarating as gambling upon the outcome of a match. Clement discovered the pleasure of playing quite naked. Irena initially demurred, complaining that were she to join him, it would sway the already uneven odds further in her favour. Clement said he was willing to take the risk. The only money she accepted from him were those sums that she won from him. And, even then, she would not allow him to chance more than ten pounds on a game. But soon this could not satisfy Clement and he was forced to play elsewhere for higher stakes. The greater the stake, the greater the thrill. Facing the chessboard at the start of a game, he was never lonely, or a disappointment to his family. He did not tell Irena. She could have borne another mistress with greater equanimity than his playing chess elsewhere. The truth was that occasionally Clement liked to win.

  He began to speculate in the stock market. He had no cash, but more loans were taken out. His companies would flourish and the loans be amply repaid! He would, at last, reveal a talent for investment; and his father, far from being ashamed, would be proud. The companies Clement selected were not of the first rank – he chose ones that his father would not hear of, when Clement joined their boards. Few that he invested in were listed on the Stock Exchange. This did not concern him – the returns would be higher, the glory more heavily gilded. The first company failed. Then a second. Nothing flourished, it seemed, apart from his debts, which grew and grew like one of the abominable tropical plants in his mother’s glasshouse.

  At eleven o’clock the car took him to Temple Court Lane, where his brother, cousin and father had been at work since ten past nine. Clement mounted the steps to the family bank with ever-increasing dread. His father occasionally inspired a sprinkling of Schadenfreude in others, and this was entirely due to Clement: the pathetic and useless eldest son. Everyone knew it would have been better if Albert had been the heir. Yet they all continued with the façade that Clement would become head of the London House. It was perfectly hopeless. As his debt ballooned, he ate to console himself, swallowing eggs a dozen at a time like oysters. He puffed as he climbed the stairs to the partners’ room, his palms damp. No one looked up as he came in. Albert was reading through correspondence that had arrived from the family courier. A clerk took notes. The Goldbaum clerks were revered for their moral integrity and neat handwriting. Mistakes in the minutes and ledgers could not be erased, for risk of accusations of fraud.

  Clement settled himself at the partners’ table and listened to the others. The German and British peace conference in Berlin had ended in failure. The British had refused to agree to total neutrality in the event of a war with France, an event so unlikely and preposterous that the outraged Kaiser could not understand why the British would not concede. Now the German House in
tended to raise further capital for the Kaiser. Out of courtesy they invited the London House to participate. It was an offer that the British House promptly declined and with equal courtesy, as the Germans knew they would. It was unthinkable that the British Goldbaums would participate in a loan raised for the purpose of expanding the German army.

  ‘Family interest must give way to national interest,’ said Lord Goldbaum, with a definitive thump of his fist upon the table.

  And yet it seemed that out of the failure of the Berlin peace conference, something useful had arisen. Outraged at the failure of his Ambassador to persuade the British to agree to neutrality, the Kaiser had fired him. With a little persuasion from the earnest and good-natured Edgar Goldbaum in Berlin, and a hint of advantageous interest rates on the new loan, the Kaiser appointed as his new Ambassador to Britain Prince Karl Max von Lichnowsky, a man both intelligent and unafraid to stand up to the Kaiser, and a good friend of the Goldbaums.

  Otto was quiet for a moment, considering. He turned to Lord Goldbaum. ‘You knew the Kaiser would dismiss the German Ambassador after his failure at the conference?’

  Lord Goldbaum shrugged. ‘I only knew that the Kaiser would never agree to halt the arms race, and the British would never agree to neutrality.’ He paused. ‘The Kaiser is intolerant of failure. In this case, failure was useful.’

  ‘Knowledge is a currency as powerful as sterling,’ said Albert, echoing another of his father’s favourite maxims.

  Lord Goldbaum cleared his throat. ‘With a little persuasion from our cousins in Berlin and Prince Karl Max, we hope to arrange for the Kaiser himself to visit England. That would be the most significant way to improve relations between nations,’ he said. He glanced at Albert. ‘Any news from Paris?’