“My children will be playing their recorders. We’ve been rehearsing three songs: ‘Silent Night,’ ‘O Christmas Tree,’ and ‘From Heaven on High the Angels Sing.’ Do you know them?”
Clara nodded. Of course she knew them. Just three years earlier, she’d practiced exactly the same melodies with Matthias. Although he had never much enjoyed playing the recorder, the prospect of nice Christmas presents had encouraged him to practice.
“You’re not saying anything,” the customer mumbled while Clara applied more cream. “Of course, as a young widow, you can’t know how lovely Christmastime with children can be. When the little ones sing so beautifully, and when their eyes light up with so much joy . . .”
With every sentence the woman babbled, Clara felt her own hands growing colder. Every word felt like the stab of a knife. Shut up! she shouted silently at the woman. Don’t torture me so. Dizziness overcame her, and she heard the woman’s voice as if it were coming through a heavy wall of fog. A moment later—
Stefano was just walking down the hallway when he heard a loud scream. A robbery? An accident? He broke into a run.
Clara was lying on the floor. Beside her, wringing her hands, stood a woman with a thick layer of cream covering her face. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re here! She just keeled over. And here I am with all this cream on my face. What am I supposed to do now?”
Stefano pushed the woman aside. “Leave, please! You can see that Mrs. Berg is not well.” As he spoke, he dropped into a crouch. “Clara. Darling . . . Wake up, mia cara.” He shook her gently, then anxiously laid his right ear to her breast. Her heart was beating strongly. With a relieved sigh, he took a washcloth from a small table beside the treatment chair, dunked it into the basin of cold water, and held it to Clara’s forehead and cheeks. She groaned, but did not wake fully. Had she fainted? Was it something else . . . her heart?
Should he call for a doctor? Or was it enough to carry Clara into her room where she could get the rest she so obviously needed? Stefano decided on the latter.
He loosened her dress where it was tied together at the back, then raised her legs on a pillow and fanned her face. After a little while, which seemed to him endless, she finally opened her eyes.
“What . . . Where . . . ?” Confused, Clara tried to sit up, but Stefano gently held her back.
“Clara, darling, it’s me. Everything is good,” he whispered in her ear, rocking her in his arms. “You fainted while you were working. It’s lucky I got there when I did. The woman you were treating was very upset, so I sent her home. Then I brought you here.”
Night had already settled over the lake. It was dark inside the room, too, the only light the golden glow of two candles. “You’re safe. Everything is all right.”
“Nothing is all right,” Clara whimpered, exhausted. “I miss my children so much that my heart feels as if it’s infected. I can’t keep on like this. Oh, Stefano, everything is so terrible.” She broke into tears. “I hate Christmas!”
“Clara, my heart, your children are well. And one day, a Christmas will come when you will be with them again. In the meantime, I am here for you, mia cara . . .” As he rocked her in his arms, he showered feather-light kisses on her hair, her cheeks, her forehead. The children, the children! Always the same old song.
“If I didn’t have you,” she whispered, and she buried her face deeper his chest. “You smell so good. I don’t know any man who smells as good as you.” She pressed her breasts against him. “Kiss me!”
What’s gotten into her now? Stefano wondered, and he felt himself becoming aroused. His arms closed around her tightly, and his lips trembled with desire, with lust. “Finally, mia cara,” he said with a moan, and his mouth stretched into a smile. Finally.
They spent half the night making love, and it was the first time Clara had ever experienced such bliss. She had never felt as beautiful and feminine as she did in Stefano’s arms. She sobbed, moaned, and laughed, all at the same time. So this was what love felt like!
At some point, Stefano got out of bed and began to get dressed. “Surely the Christmas party was over long ago,” Clara said.
“As if I care about the Christmas party!” Stefano looked at her tenderly. “I’m just going to get us something to eat. I don’t want you to faint again. They say you can live from love and air, but to be honest, my stomach is growling.” With his hand on the doorknob, he blew Clara a kiss. When he opened the door, music and laughter found their way into the room.
“Ah, Lilo’s party is still going. We’ve got a better chance of finding something to eat.” Stefano’s eyes shone with anticipation as he closed the door behind him.
He’s so thoughtful! Clara thought as he left. Although it was cold in the room, she felt as if her entire body was on fire! She would never have believed that making love could be something so beautiful. With Gerhard, the act of love was usually over within a very few minutes, and it did not deserve its name, for there was no love in it. It was cold, coarse, and unfeeling. Stefano was tender and passionate, challenging and generous, all at the same time. Stefano Santo was a gift. He had drifted into her life suddenly, unhoped for, and on the very day that Josephine’s letter reached her with the news of Gerhard’s marriage. At their very first meeting, he had made her laugh, had made her think of other things . . . She remembered that clearly.
No man had ever done as much for her. And he had done all of it without ever asking for anything in return. And today, Christmas Eve, he had been there for her again. Stefano Santo. Her lifeline. What would she do without him? The very thought made her so anxious that she quickly buried it again.
A short time later, Stefano returned with a tray loaded with food.
“Canapés with smoked salmon, deviled eggs, ham in aspic—I even managed to grab a bottle of champagne.” He set the tray down on Clara’s bed.
“Stefano, I—” She wanted to tell him she loved him.
“Don’t speak, mia cara,” he said. “There is a time for everything. Now you have to eat. You have to get your strength back.” Clara did as he said, and she washed down the salmon and ham with champagne. She had not realized that she was famished to the very core. Starved for love and life, for trust and togetherness. With every bite she ate, not only did her hunger fade, but also all the doubts she had been carrying about Stefano and herself.
The plates were empty, the bottle of champagne drained when she said, “Stefano, stay with me. Forever. Let’s get married!”
He let out a confused laugh. “But, Clara . . . you . . . you’re proposing to me? Isn’t that what a man should be doing?”
Clara shrugged casually. “You’re always telling me what a modern woman I am. I’m quite happy to do the proposing.” Despite her courageous words, there was nothing she could do to hold down the nervous tremor rising inside her. What if he said no?
“You know I love you . . . ,” he began slowly and let out a long sigh.
His unspoken “but” sounded loudly in Clara’s ear. “I know you wanted to get a business up and running first,” she said quickly. “But you don’t have to prove anything to me. I’ve known for a long time that you are a good businessman, that we make a good team. And that won’t change in the future, not in our private lives and not in business. If I open a third shop in Baden-Baden, there will be more work to do than ever.”
“I will ease your burden wherever I can. You can rely on me. But there’s something else,” he said carefully. “Another reason I haven’t proposed to you before now, although everything in me wanted to.”
Clara frowned. Her heart beat anxiously. Was he about to make his big confession? Was there a wife waiting for him back in Elva?
“Somewhere, at some point in my travels, I must have lost my papers. Perhaps they were stolen; I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Whatever the cause, my passport is gone. And who knows what other documents I would need here to get married?”
“That’s it?!” Clara laughed, and she was so relieved that her laugh c
ame out a little shrill. “Papers can be replaced, can’t they? Maybe you’ll have to contact your parents back in Italy? Or you could go to the municipal office here, of course. I’m sure they could help.”
“The last thing I wanted was to have you lose sleep about this. Mia cara, I will take care of everything, I promise you,” he whispered, taking her in his arms again. “I love you . . .”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“BRITISH KING EDWARD VII MAKES OFFICIAL VISIT TO KAISER WILHELM II IN BERLIN,” announced all the newspapers in February 1909.
Dozens of articles were devoted to the details of the British monarch’s schedule.
But as frantic as Berlin became in anticipation of their royal visitor, far less attention was paid in the rest of the German Empire to the British king’s impending arrival. And in Meersburg, other matters were far more important . . .
Stefano looked at his reflection in the mirror in his room at the guesthouse. His black suit fit perfectly, and the dark-brown leather shoes he had had made by Meersburg’s shoemaker were exceedingly elegant and very comfortable.
It was just before ten in the morning. The civil ceremony was set for eleven at the town hall, and before that Stefano had to pick up his bride and her friends, who had traveled to Meersburg with their husbands and were staying in Lilo’s hotel. An automobile salesman and a winemaker—probably arrogant snobs, both of them, he thought. But who cared? He had learned how to deal with arrogant snobs. Perhaps he was one himself? No, he didn’t look like a snob. He looked like a starry-eyed bridegroom.
Stefano laughed. For weeks—no, months—he had been trying to figure out how he could propose to Clara. He had never dreamed that she would ask him. In the end, it had been so easy.
Time was getting on, but Stefano remained in front of the mirror a moment longer. The fog-dulled daylight that filtered through the lace curtains did not exactly illuminate the room. But what he saw pleased him. Despite the sun-hungry winter, he still had the remnants of a tan, and his skin was smooth and unblemished. Since he’d started going to the Meersburg barber, his once straw-like mop had transformed into a glossy mane. Today he looked even better than he ever had. Stefano grinned.
The beard he had been growing since the beginning of the year made him look older than his twenty-nine years. Why hadn’t he had an earlier birth date entered into his new and expensively obtained passport? It made no difference. His dignified appearance perfectly matched his thirty-five-year-old bride. No one today would see the few years between them. And tomorrow or in the days that followed, he would be getting new papers anyway. Stefano Santo would transform into Stefan Berg.
Both changes—the Germanizing of his first name and his adoption of Clara’s surname—had been his idea.
“In business, things are easier if you have a German name,” he explained to Clara. “If you were suddenly Clara Santo, it would only confuse your customers. They know Clara Berg as the woman who runs the Bel Étage, and that’s the way it should stay. I’ve already made some inquiries at the registry office, and they will give us a special license.” The “special license” had also cost him an exorbitant fee. The last of the money he had made from selling the hair had gone into the envelope that was to discreetly change hands before the ceremony. It didn’t matter. From that day onward, he would be a well-heeled man. And from that day onward, he would be the one in charge, so he would only get richer.
Clara, apparently still feeling very modern and daring after proposing to him, had agreed to both suggestions regarding his name and had complimented him on the ideas. “Not that I don’t like your name. I actually think it’s much nicer than clunky old Berg. But from a business perspective, I would have trouble giving it up.” She had been just as enthusiastic about his plans for their wedding reception to take place in the Hotel Residenz. Poached salmon, foie gras, black truffles—nothing but the best for them and their guests! he had told Lilo, who had been only too happy to oblige.
Stefano straightened his tailcoat and smoothed his hair one last time. He smiled. Clara would probably get a fright when she saw what it all cost . . .
Before going to the hotel, he stopped by the florist to pick up the bouquet of white lilies he had ordered. Fabienne Alber had recommended moss roses or delicate carnations, but he had insisted on the lilies.
“But lilies are funeral flowers!” Fabienne had said. “Why would you choose them for Clara’s bouquet?”
“Because I can!”
Stefano was no longer sure if he had just thought the words or spoken them aloud.
Josephine sat through the wedding ceremony in the wood-paneled chamber at the town hall with an almost motherly pride. Stefan and Clara were seated side by side. Isabelle was next to Clara, and Josephine sat between Isabelle and Adrian. The women both served as witnesses for their dear friend. Josephine had never seen Clara so elegant, so beautiful, or so happy. She had always looked after her appearance, even after her divorce, when she had lived with Josephine in their house in the city and had been at the lowest point in her life. Josephine had often admired her for that, especially since she thought she herself always looked a little disheveled, despite expensive visits to the hairdresser and elegant clothes. “Like the devil you are!” said her husband, Adrian, stroking her unruly hair, which only made it more unruly.
“A pretty couple, don’t you think?” she whispered to him then. Adrian nodded, but said nothing.
Isabelle whispered to Josephine, “What a pity Gerhard can’t see this! Surely he thinks Clara is lost without him. It would drive him around the bend to see the successful and self-confident woman she’s become.” The two friends giggled with malicious glee. Their husbands gave them a reprimanding look, and the two women smiled apologetically and turned their attention to the front of the room.
Gerhard was such a disgusting specimen, Josephine thought. There was not a person on earth who revolted her more. She could not imagine what his new wife saw in him.
She and Marianne Gropius had become close acquaintances. At first, she had sought out Marianne’s company so she could learn more about Sophie and Matthias to report to Clara. But something close to a real friendship had developed, a fact that she kept from Isabelle and Clara. The two would probably consider it high treason. But Marianne was well read, funny, and never at a loss for words. For Josephine, it was inexplicable that Gerhard had found a wife in a woman as modern as Marianne. She was not shy about expressing her opinions on politics, social ills, or cultural events. And to top it off, she loved sports! When the Olympic Games had taken place in London the previous year, she had practically breathed in every article about it. Marianne did not participate in any sport herself, but Josephine was impressed by her interest in the subject, and it made for some fascinating discussions between them. And how Gerhard had once railed against women riding bicycles! He had even tried to forbid Clara from having anything to do with Isabelle and her—the cycling harpies! But at least in that, Clara had defied him. And now he had a wife who was a sports fan. People were sometimes hard to understand! Josephine dragged herself out of her thoughts as the registry official finished reviewing the bride’s and groom’s papers. Then he stood up and delivered a speech about fate and its often baffling but serendipitous turns.
Stefan took Clara’s hand, placed it over his knee, and then covered her hand with his own, squeezing tightly. The gesture was meant to be loving, but Josephine found it strangely possessive. She hoped more than anything that Clara would truly find happiness now, but at the same time she had to acknowledge a vague sense of unease.
The fog lifted just as the champagne corks popped. The lake, which had been all but invisible for weeks, gleamed a kingfisher blue, and on the Swiss side the snow-covered peak of Säntis was in clear view. The sun bathed the elegant dining room in a warm yellow glow. What a panorama and what a beautiful day, thought Isabelle. When she thought about her own two weddings . . . Leon and she had gotten married on the way to visit his parents in the Rhinelan
d-Palatinate region. The ceremony had taken place in a shabby registry office in Jena after they eloped. They had signed the necessary papers, marrying without a single witness present.
And she and Daniel Lambert had tied the knot in the small town hall in Hautvillers in June 1899. They had simply set aside the work in the vineyards for an afternoon, put on good clothes, and walked down to the village, pushing little Margie’s carriage in front of them. Daniel’s sister, Ghislaine, had cooked for the small wedding party, which included Isabelle’s neighbors and a handful of friends. Of course, the champagne corks had popped for them, too, but her wedding had been far less grand, far less imposing than Clara and Stefan’s reception.
Stefan. Isabelle screwed up her mouth. She found his change of name very strange indeed.
“What’s the matter? You look like you ate a sour grape,” Josephine said.
Isabelle forced a smile. “You know I wish Clara all the happiness in the world. And I can’t say where this strange feeling in my stomach comes from, but . . .” She swept her arm wide, taking in the dining room and the bride and groom, surrounded by a throng of Meersburg citizens. “As lovely as all this is, it scares me a little. Not everything that glitters turns out to be gold. I can tell you that from grim experience.”
“Oh, don’t be such a sourpuss,” said Josephine. “Be happy that Clara has so many new friends in her life. I think Fabienne from the flower shop is very nice, and Therese and Elisabeth, too. Besides, Clara has Lilo here. She can always go to her if she needs a sympathetic ear. With good friends like that, things work out, right?” But Isabelle heard the trace of concern in Josephine’s voice, and noticed her friend’s wrinkled forehead. Isabelle looked intently at Josephine. Did her friend simply not want to admit to a distrust of Stefano—Stefan—either?
“You’re probably right. Good friends are there to help, wherever you are in life,” she said. “Still, I’d be happier if we’d been able to talk Clara into arranging a marriage contract in advance. That would make her the sole owner of her company, regardless of what else happens in her life.”
The Queen of Beauty (The Century Trilogy Book 3) Page 27
