His thoughts were interrupted by a group of elegantly dressed gentlemen when they sat down at the only available table. Chairs scraped across the floor, the table shifted . . . They were speaking Italian. Stefano felt fear run through his body. What if someone recognized him, the runaway caviè? Instinctively, he lowered his head so that no one could look him in the face. But even as he did so, he told himself that his fear was completely unfounded. After all, even if they were Italians, why should they have anything to do with the hair trade?
The men ordered their food. Stefano ordered another glass of wine. He took a deep breath and exhaled. It calmed him; no, he would not run from the restaurant like a criminal.
“She will be arriving in two days,” said one of the men in Italian. “Are her lodgings prepared?”
“Sì, Signor Battista. The villa has been rented for the entire summer and has been cleaned from top to bottom. All the guest rooms have been fully outfitted. Her Highness and her retinue will have nothing to complain about.”
Her Highness? Her retinue? Stefano almost choked on his wine.
“And the arch? And what about the lemon trees and orange trees?”
“A dozen have already been set out on each of the terraces, on the lake side and in the courtyard. And a magnificent archway has been constructed at the entrance of the villa.”
Stefano could hardly contain his excitement. He knew which house they were talking about! On his daily walks, he had been watching the elaborate preparations taking place at one of the last houses on the lakeshore, just a few hundred yards from the Hotel Residenz. Stefano had stopped several times to chat with various workers, but none of them had known who was moving into the villa.
Stefano gave a little cough and shifted his chair so that he could hear the men better.
“And what about the palm trees that are supposed to line the road?”
“That, admittedly, was more of a problem,” said the second man. “The mayor had to be convinced of the need for such an extravagance. We managed to obtain his approval in the end.”
Stefano saw the man shrug casually. The third man said nothing, but took copious notes in a small book. That reminded Stefano to act like he, too, was busy writing down important information. He didn’t want to be spotted as an eavesdropper, after all. But he was growing more excited with every word he overheard. Damn it, who were they talking about?
“Our honored guest will feel like she’s in Rome.”
Rome? A high-ranking guest from Rome. Stefano relaxed. The men had absolutely nothing do with Elva.
“Our honored guest is not meant to feel like she’s in Rome, but as if she is in her own home,” the first man admonished his counterpart. “Is an automobile at her disposal? And if so, what kind? I hope very much that it is one of the newest and best. Our guest is well known for her exceptional love of automobiles. It would be unforgivable to present her with something that smokes and rattles.”
Why did the men keep using “honored guest” instead of calling this woman by her name? What—or whose—secret were they hiding?
“Rest assured that we could not have organized a more luxurious automobile for our honored guest than what is right this moment standing in the garage of the Palazzo Margherita,” replied the second man coolly.
Palazzo Margherita. The answer hit Stefano like a blow to the head. Suddenly, he knew exactly who they were talking about. He flipped his notebook closed and put it away, threw a few coins on the table, and rushed away.
Clara yawned. Because she was alone, she didn’t make the effort to hold one hand politely over her mouth. Instead, she stretched both arms up over her head. She was tired: her bones ached, her eyes were burning. It had been a long day, but she had achieved a lot. At the Bel Étage–Residenzia, everything was going according to plan, and she was looking forward to opening in two days. Her two young assistants were coming along nicely, the orange blossom water was finished, and tomorrow morning she and Sophie would fill the new, elegant bottles she had ordered especially for it.
Another yawn, and she looked at the notes, bills, and papers scattered across her desk. She had no desire to tackle the bookkeeping so late, but then a reminder from Mr. Eckard, the painter, caught her eye. Strange. Hadn’t Stefano paid the man on the spot? It must just be an oversight, she thought, and put the reminder to one side. But then she changed her mind. It was best not to postpone anything when there was so much to do, so she looked over the bills that had come in the last two days. Window sealing compound, 2 marks and 50 pfennigs, paid cash. Clara shook her head. She didn’t have any windows. Both rooms in the new beauty shop were in the interior of Lilo’s hotel! Was the sealing compound used for some other repair? That must be it. She put the bill on top of the painter’s reminder.
“Clara! I’m so glad you’re still here!” Stefano came charging in.
Did he miss her so much that he couldn’t wait until the next morning? She felt a pleasant warmth spread through her. “How nice of you to—”
“Clara,” he interrupted her. He crouched until he was on eye level with her, then he took her hands in his. “You have to listen to me very carefully. What I’m about to say to you could change our lives forever.”
“Yes,” Clara breathed, and her heart was pounding. A proposal! In the middle of the night.
Stefano had already tried several times to find his way to a proposal. And every time she had quickly turned their talk to another subject. She was in love with Stefano, but was she ready to commit herself forever? Maybe today . . .
“I’ve discovered something sensational,” Stefano said, his exhilaration making his voice shaky.
“Yes?” Clara breathed again. Not a proposal?
“The mother of the Italian king is coming to Meersburg! She always travels with an entourage of ladies-in-waiting.” Stefano swallowed again. “Clara, this is the chance! Weren’t you just saying that you wanted more customers from the nobility? Well, there’s no woman in the world more noble than Margherita of Savoy-Genoa.”
“Stefano.” Clara blinked. Was she dreaming? “That’s . . . that’s fantastic. But what makes you think that, of all things, the king’s mother needs my services?” she asked. She was having difficulty recovering from her previous thoughts, but Stefano was back on his feet and looking around frantically.
“Where is your orange blossom water?”
“In the other shop, at the lab,” said Clara.
He nodded. “Then let’s go there. Margherita loves oranges and lemons above anything else. We’ll prepare welcome packages for her and her court ladies and add an invitation to the opening of the Residenzia. That’s how you get the nobility as clients.” There was triumph in his voice.
“But I don’t speak any Italian at all!” Clara suddenly cried out, infected by his excitement.
“But I do,” said Stefano with a laugh. He kissed Clara on the lips before she knew it.
We are pleased to welcome our Italian summer guests from the lakeside villa to the Bel Étage–Residenzia. On 15 June from 5 p.m. onward, our beauty shop will be at your disposal—we guarantee absolute discretion. After such a long journey, treat yourself to a few relaxing hours and let yourself be pampered by my staff and me.
Your beauty expert,
Clara Berg
Clara had written the text by hand on heavy cream-colored handmade paper. No recipient names were mentioned anywhere, a point that Stefano considered paramount. And Clara followed his stipulations, although “beauty expert” sounded a little forced. She was appeased, however, when Stefano told her that the expression in Italian sounded particularly beautiful: esperta di bellezza.
At Stefano’s suggestion, Clara also filled a dozen small baskets with a selection of her products. “Expensive advertising,” said Clara. What if Stefano had got it wrong and someone else had moved into the villa?
But Stefano was absolutely sure he was right.
“I don’t know how these things work in German countries, but if you wan
t to get the Italian nobility on your side, you have to offer them something.”
Clara nodded vaguely. She did not have the slightest idea how it worked with the German nobility, or any other kind, for that matter. But suddenly, Isabelle’s voice came to her. “Nothing tempts the rich like a free gift!”
“All right. Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” she said. She gave him the small baskets so that he could hand them over personally at the gate of the villa.
“Orange blossom water, a beautifully packaged bar of soap, and a jar of lavender cream. Very good, Clara! But what’s this—an orange?” said Stefano, and he looked with a frown from the basket to Clara.
Clara laughed. “That’s called a scented pomander!” She picked out one of the oranges—it was spiked all over with cloves; she had added the pomanders to the baskets on a whim—and held it under Stefano’s nose. “Smell it. It’s wonderful.”
“But you’re not selling oranges, are you? You’re selling soaps and creams.” Stefano shook his head disapprovingly, but Clara would not let herself be swayed.
The day of the grand opening arrived. Almost all of Clara’s loyal customers came by, and Sophie and the other assistants served sparkling wine. “It looks just like our Bel Étage!” was the enthusiastic response. Clara smiled with satisfaction. It was exactly what she’d intended.
Lilo and most of the women staying at the hotel stopped by as well. Clara, Stefano, and the assistants performed one demonstration after another, and dabbed samples on the women’s wrists. Soon, the air was infused with the scents from Clara’s products, and the women, even any who had been skeptical, relaxed as they soaked up the products and the luxurious atmosphere that Clara created.
Skin consultations, hand massages, foot baths, and advice—Clara’s appointment book was completely filled for the days to come. Estelle Morgan came in with two young women in tow and strolled around as if it were the most natural thing in the world. It seemed that a beauty shop was nothing new to her, and she wanted an appointment for the following morning.
“I’m very sorry, but the first opening I have is the start of next week,” said Clara, and she exchanged a satisfied look with Stefano. They were off to a good start.
Late in the afternoon, the crowd began to thin, and only the occasional new customer stopped in. Clara took a moment to eat a little food and drink a cup of tea. She had been on her feet for ten hours. In the whirlwind of the opening, she had forgotten about Stefano’s Italian noblewoman, and her promise that at five o’clock she would close her shop to the general public.
When the door opened at five and an elegantly dressed older woman entered followed by a number of other women a few steps behind, Clara was not immediately aware of who she had in front of her. She greeted the new arrival with a shake of her hand as she had everyone before her, friendly and welcoming. Only when, from the corner of her eye, she noticed Stefano hurrying two remaining women out of the shop and closing the door behind them did she realize that she had just shaken the hand of the mother of the king of Italy.
“How nice that you . . . could come,” she croaked while she attempted to regain her composure. Wasn’t she supposed to say “Your Highness” at some point? She was glad when Stefano appeared at her side and greeted the women again, this time in Italian.
His greeting met with a torrent of Italian words in reply.
Stefano laid his right hand on his chest and, smiling, made a small bow.
“Our guest says that she and her ladies-in-waiting were very happy to receive your welcome gift,” Stefano translated. “She also says that she would very much like to learn how to decorate an orange in such an original way.” He seemed somewhat bewildered.
Decorate an orange? “Oh, the pomander!” She smiled at the king’s mother. How strange that it was the small gift that the woman liked so much, she thought. She went to the counter, where oranges and lemons were piled high in a silver tray as decoration. She picked an orange, then took a small linen bag of cloves out of a drawer.
“You can actually make a scented pomander very easily.” Under the interested eyes of the older woman, she pricked the cloves into the orange in the shape of a crown, as she had with the oranges in the gift baskets. “You can put the pomander on the windowsill during the day. It develops its scent especially well in the sun,” she added with a smile when she was done.
“Che carina! È permesso . . . ?” said the king’s mother effusively.
Clara looked questioningly at Stefano.
“She’d like to try it herself,” he said.
“But of course,” said Clara, and she handed the noblewoman another orange and the bag of cloves. “Please ask the other women if they might like a face massage or footbath while they’re waiting,” she said quietly to Stefan, who quickly translated. “They are welcome to try out more of the products, if they want to.”
They wanted to.
While the king’s mother eagerly decorated another orange with a snake of cloves, Clara ran to find Lilo, who was at the reception desk.
“Lilo, the champagne! Bring two bottles, or no, better make it three! And could you have them serve the bread with the marmalade right away? Thank you!”
Lilo stopped what she was doing immediately. “Champagne? What for? I thought Isabelle was bringing some with her?” she asked with a frown.
“Isabelle?” Clara, confused, shook her head. “What made you think of her? I need the champagne for an important guest!”
“I see . . . and can you tell me which important guest is in my hotel?”
But Clara shook her head again. “No names, I’m sorry. All anonymous.”
It was almost eight o’clock when Margherita of Savoy-Genoa and her retinue left, each of the ladies-in-waiting carrying a well-stuffed bag. They had all but emptied Clara’s shelves. The former queen, however, had chosen only a single hand cream for herself.
“I do not know from which mouth certain indiscretions escaped, but I do know that you know who I am,” she said to Clara before leaving, while Stefano translated.
Clara felt herself blushing. She searched feverishly for something to say, but the king’s mother held up her hand: no need to say anything.
“And I must say that I am extremely grateful for your discretion, and that you have treated me like any other guest. You know, at my age, beauty is no longer very important to me. But I had a lot of fun with the oranges and cloves, and I have every intention of showing it to my grandchildren.” She sighed deeply. “In another life, I would have loved very much to work with my hands. As you do, my dear Mrs. Berg.”
Clara laughed, abashed. “You are welcome to come back anytime,” she said. Spontaneously, she reached up to the shelf behind her and took down a small lace bag of dried lavender. “For you.”
Charmed, the older woman took the scented bag. “This also has such a lovely scent. Would you show me how to make these, too?”
Clara smiled and nodded eagerly. “And if you like, you can come to my laboratory when I make my soaps. That might be interesting to you,” she offered. She lowered her eyes and glanced at Stefano. No doubt he would accuse her later of giving away her knowledge for free. But she should make a king’s mother happy, shouldn’t she?
“Lei è una donna molto amabile.” Margherita of Savoy-Genoa embraced Clara spontaneously, and at the same moment there was a loud rattle on the glass door. Clara looked over the woman’s shoulder to the door. Then, with a squeal of joy, she freed herself from their embrace.
“Isabelle!”
“The specialist thinks that we can use some special exercises to increase Margie’s concentration. He gave me a list with all kinds of coordination games and puzzles.” Isabelle grimaced. “I can only hope I’m coordinated enough to do them.”
The church bells rang ten o’clock. After her long day, Clara should have been exhausted, but Isabelle’s surprise visit had banished all trace of weariness.
After a late dinner with Stefano and Lilo, Isabelle and Clara wer
e now sitting together on the bed in Clara’s room. Just like when we were girls, thought Clara. Isabelle’s daughter Marguerite, whom everybody called Margie, was asleep in the next room, and every fifteen minutes Isabelle jumped up to check on her.
“Of course you are. You do everything for your daughter.” Clara smiled. Margie had red-blond hair, pale, freckled skin, and a small rosebud mouth that looked as if it were always on the lookout for someone to kiss. At first glance, she looked like any other child, but when you looked closer, you could see that she was special. Not long after her birth, the doctors had diagnosed her with Down syndrome.
“My own Christ child. Just like you, born on Christmas Eve. Can you believe she’ll be ten this year?” Isabelle smiled blissfully. “I would do anything for her. I would cut out my own heart for her if I thought it would help. Margie is such a good child, and happy, too. You never hear a bad word from her, unlike from my devilish boys.” She rolled her eyes theatrically.
“Boys are just boys,” Clara said. The tricks that Isabelle’s twin sons, Norbert and Jean, got up to now filled half her letters. “Oh, Isabelle, I’m so happy to have you here,” she said, and squeezed her friend’s hand.
“It’s just a pity I couldn’t come any earlier in the day. I heard from Lilo that you were celebrating your big opening today, and I wanted to surprise you. But then the appointment with the doctor ran much later than expected. And . . .” She shrugged.
“Some things are just more important than others,” Clara said softly.
Isabelle nodded, then said resolutely, “Enough about me. Was that really the mother of the king of Italy earlier? And what about Stefano and you? And is there any news about your children? I want to know everything, my dear, so you’d better get started!”
They talked through half the night, jumping from one topic to the next as only the closest of friends can do: Isabelle’s children, Clara’s children, Josephine, the work in the vineyards and winery and in Clara’s shops in Meersburg, Lilo and her hotel, Clara’s wish to move into the apartment above the shop in Unterstadtstrasse as soon as she could . . . and naturally, Clara wanted to know what Isabelle thought of Stefano.
The Queen of Beauty (The Century Trilogy Book 3) Page 25
