But something—a kind of unyielding shell, like a cocoon—protected Clara from falling apart with pain and disappointment. Maybe she had grown this protective shell during her journey to Stuttgart. Then again, she may have grown the same impenetrable armor if she had returned home directly from Baden-Baden. Clara did not know. But what she did know was that she was prepared to face the bitter truth that for the second time in her life she had been wrong about a man. She would think about the consequences of that truth later. When she found the courage.
“Thank you for your frankness. Nothing like this will happen again. I will make sure of that,” she told Klaus and Laszlo. “I can only hope that my ignorance does not mean that I have lost your trust.” Both men immediately assured her that that was not the case, and that they were on her side.
It was with a heavy heart that Clara left them and went to her office, where she wanted to examine the books that Stefan, to her astonishment, had in fact laid out neatly for her on the desk they shared. Clara had expected him to be present and to have a matching fairy tale at the ready for every dubious document. But the office was empty. Did he sense that she was no longer prepared to believe his lies?
She began with the file marked “Miscellaneous Business Expenses” and found invoices for bars, restaurants, and tailors. Invoices for the rental of expensive yachts and visits to the racetrack in Munich, hotel bills and Baden-Baden bistros.
“Miscellaneous Business Expenses”—Stefan might as well have written “Stefan Berg’s Entertainment” on the file.
Next came the “Suppliers” folder. Orders placed, invoices. She was shocked to find that apart from the mold-casting company that made her soap forms, she did not know even one of these suppliers personally. What had happened to Meinrad Kornbichler? Or to Valentin Gross, who specialized in cocoa butter? When had Stefan abandoned them? And why? It could not have been for cheaper prices, because the invoices from the new wholesalers who supplied them now were no cheaper at all! Prices like that for low quality goods—was there other money changing hands? Clara felt more and more anger gathering inside her.
What an idiot she’d been. She had handed over the ordering process and all the accounts. She had been convinced that Stefan would take care of everything. After all, didn’t he love the Bel Étage just as she had set it up? That mistaken belief had been enough to lull her into a passivity bordering on neglect.
Clara sniffed contemptuously when she found a bill for three bottles of perfume. Fleur Exotique—she could not stand the stuff! It was pungent and smelled cheap. She would never use it in her production. How careless of Stefan, she thought bitterly. He should have filed that under “Miscellaneous Business Expenses” . . . She swept the file off the desk in anger. How stupid Klaus must think she was. And what an impression Laszlo must have gotten of her! Surely he was regretting ever deciding to follow her to Meersburg.
She had begun to think she could stand on a pedestal with businesswomen like Lilo, Isabelle, and Josephine. But all along, she’d been an ignorant, blind fool. Clara’s shame was bitter and painful. With her head in her hands, she stared down at her desk.
“Oh, thank God! I thought I’d never see you again! It’s a catastrophe . . .”
Clara looked up. Therese was standing in front of her desk. She had not even heard her come in.
“What is it?” she asked tiredly.
The hairdresser pulled up a chair and sat across the desk from Clara. “You know that Benno von Nordmannsleben and I have been a couple since last September. At least, that’s what I thought. But now that I—”
“Therese,” Clara interrupted her. “Can’t you see what’s going on here?” She pointed to the mountain of documents on her desk. “I feel like the ground has fallen out from under my feet. If we’re talking about catastrophes, I’m quite sure I can keep up.” She stood up and walked around the desk.
“But you don’t even know what the matter is!” Therese looked at Clara with hurt in her eyes.
Clara sighed loudly. “Don’t think badly of me, but I really don’t have time right now for another story about one of your men. Let’s have coffee in a few days, then you can tell me all about it in peace and quiet.”
Therese had been holding her handbag on her lap, and she now pulled it up to her chest and pushed back her chair. “Drink your coffee with someone else. You’ve shown just how interested you really are in me,” said Therese, then stormed out of the office.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
It took three attempts for Stefan to get the key into the lock. Vodka cocktails! They might not get him drunk, but they certainly made him unsteady. He stumbled into the apartment. Everything was dark and quiet. He was relieved that he did not have to deal with Clara. Surely she would interrogate him about every little detail in the books, and he was not up for that right now. It was well past midnight, but he wasn’t tired in the slightest. Maybe a nightcap would remedy that.
He went into the living room and was feeling around for the light switch when the chandelier suddenly lit up. Stefan startled.
Clara was sitting in the gold-upholstered armchair by the window. No, she was enthroned in it. With her back as stiff as if she’d swallowed a broomstick, his wife stared straight at him.
“Why aren’t you asleep? You must be worn out after such a strenuous day,” he said.
“After everything I’ve had to go through today, I can’t sleep,” said Clara in a voice as cold as ice. “Sit!” She pointed to the second armchair.
Stefan glanced despairingly toward the silver tray with its glass carafes on the sideboard. If he poured himself a cognac now, he would be giving Clara more ammunition. And it looked like her rifles were already loaded. As obediently as a hound, he sat down. “What is it?”
As expected, a litany of complaints followed. Excessive spending. Questionable invoices for perfume and flowers. Falsely labeled deliveries . . . Stefan’s head was throbbing, and he had trouble following all of Clara’s allegations. Gripe, gripe, gripe. But even if he was not listening to every detail, he could hear clearly enough how serious it all was to his wife. This time, he would not get away with a flimsy excuse.
“Have you ever stopped to consider what it feels like for a man to get no more than pocket money, like a schoolboy?” he asked when she finally stopped. “Can you imagine how miserable I feel?”
Clara sniffed and shook her head. “If I drank as much alcohol as you do every evening, I’d feel miserable, too. And don’t talk to me about pocket money. You get a generous salary as manager. But I’m wondering if you come close to earning it, considering your proclivity for amusing yourself. Tomorrow morning, I will be writing a new contract for you; your authority will be substantially reduced. I’m sorry, but you brought this on yourself.”
Although she was working hard to maintain her composure, Stefan could see how upset she was. “I brought this on myself?” he repeated with exaggerated horror. “Isn’t it more that, in your eyes, I’m a hopeless failure? It doesn’t matter what I do; I can never do things well enough for you. I admit that not all my decisions in recent months have been smart or correct. But whose fault is it that I’m a bundle of nerves? Thanks to your perpetual complaints, my self-confidence is gone, utterly gone. Before we met, I was a successful hair trader. No, I was the best. And I gave that up for you. Because I believed that we could do great things together, and because I thought you would trust me as I trust you. I even took your name—could there be any greater proof of my trust? And what thanks do I get? None. Just never-ending suspicion.”
“Stefan, that isn’t true. I—”
“No! Now it’s my turn,” he interrupted her. He leaned forward and looked Clara straight in the eyes. “Did it ever occur to you that I might also have been taken in by the fraudulent wholesalers? How can you assume I’d collude with criminals like that? And how can you assume that I see other women behind your back, let alone give them gifts? If you found receipts for flowers and perfumes, it is because I bring
gifts for the hostesses at parties I attend, where I do my very best to promote Bel Étage! That you would assume anything else cuts me to the quick . . .” He rubbed his eyes until they first burned, then teared up. He let out a sob. “All I wanted was to do things right for you. I wanted you to look up to me the way I look up to you. I wanted you to be proud of me. Proud of us. You and me—we make such a wonderful team.”
Vodka doesn’t just make the Russians sentimental, he thought grimly. Abruptly, he buried his face in his hands. His shoulders heaved.
“Stefan, please.” Clara stroked his back gently. He sobbed louder. “Don’t cry, don’t. That’s so terrible, I . . .” She trailed off helplessly.
He took his hands from his face and looked at Clara through teary eyes. “Bella Clara, I love you more than anything in the world. I gave up my family for you, left everything I had behind. How can you kick me like a stray dog?” Because he had only drunk vodka, he hoped his breath didn’t smell of alcohol. He touched his lips to her cheek. A kiss as light as a feather. She let him. Then the other cheek, which Clara turned to him. Delicate kisses on her forehead, her eyelids, fluttering kisses, like a butterfly’s wings.
“Clara, mi amore . . .” His arms slipped around her; his kisses grew more urgent.
He heard her choking sigh, felt her resistance fall away. “Mi amore,” he breathed again. “Come, let me show you, let me prove how much I love you.”
It was ten in the morning when Stefan, freshly shaved and feeling confident, set off for the manufactory. The previous day’s thunderstorm had blown off toward Switzerland, and a bright sun shone from a polished sky; its rays lit a path for him to a brilliant future.
They had made love not once but twice the night before, and Clara, as expected, had melted into his arms along with all her hostility. That was the last he’d hear about a contract with reduced authority! After a night of lovemaking and with the coup he was planning that day, Clara would be eating out of his hand again.
Stefan took a deep, satisfied breath. He could count himself lucky that he had such a way with women.
He had learned one lesson from the whole affair: in the future, he would need to be more careful. Clara was not dumb, and she now had two watchdogs as allies, Klaus Kohlwitz and that man from Bohemia. The disdain with which Laszlo had looked at him—sheer impertinence! He would have to make sure that Clara’s two lackeys fell out of favor with her, and the sooner the better. Stefan rubbed his hands together. The manufactory came into sight, and he walked faster. There was a lot to do.
“Have you considered using the same name for your low-cost range as for your luxury line?”
Clara laughed. “Can you read minds, Mr. Kovac? In fact, I’ve been thinking about just that for quite some time, and I’ve concluded that a new name would allow the two to be clearly differentiated.” She smiled at the parfumier, then slowly said, “What do you think of the name . . . Belle Époque?”
“Belle Époque.” He spoke the two words, testing them aloud. “A beautiful era—it fits. Times have really changed for the better for women, haven’t they?”
How long is she just going to ignore me? Stefan thought angrily. He’d been standing in the doorway for what felt like five minutes. He cleared his throat loudly.
Clara and Laszlo moved apart like lovers caught in the act.
Stefan felt like nothing more than hounding the man out of the building and down the road. But Clara seemed to be crazy for the man, so he had to move cautiously. He forced himself to smile.
“Clara, my love, what’s this I hear about a ‘low-cost’ line? I thought you’d given up on that harebrained idea long ago.” A low-cost line! They were there to earn as much money as possible, not to make products cleaning women and waitresses could afford to smear on their faces.
“Oh, far from it,” said Clara gaily.
Was he mistaken, or was the smile she gave him less friendly than the one she had given her parfumier? And was that a trace of derision he heard in her voice?
“I think it’s wonderful that women of simpler means will soon be able to afford my products,” Clara went on.
Wonderful?! Stefan was growing more irritated, but he clenched his teeth and waved off the idea as casually as he could.
“Whatever you think is best. I’m here about something more important.” He looked intently at the parfumier, a clear signal that he was intruding on a conversation between husband and wife. But either the man was utterly insensitive or simply didn’t care that Stefan was disturbed by his presence.
“Have you heard that your friend Countess Zuzanna is selling her Villa Carese? The house would be ideal for us. Very impressive and with an excellent view over the lake. Many rooms, plenty of space for the chil . . . you know,” he corrected himself at the last moment. Very nice, he silently praised himself. Clara could do with a little reminder that he knew her secrets. “To get to the point—it is a dream house. But I don’t need to tell you that. You know your way around there far better than I do.”
“Zuzanna is selling her house?”
Ha! That little snippet not only took her by surprise, but has thrown her train of thought completely, Stefan thought, sure of his ground. He straightened up. “I’ve already arranged a time for us to look at it. Of course, she’s asking an absolutely exorbitant price, and I have no plans to—”
“It’s good that you have no plans.” Clara interrupted him so suddenly that he was taken aback. Gently but firmly, she placed one hand on his shoulder and steered him toward the door. When they were out of the parfumier’s hearing, she whispered, “We have both made mistakes in recent months. I put too much burden on you. After all that has happened, it is best that I make all the important decisions alone for now. Your new contract is waiting in my office. I had it drafted early this morning. Take as much time as you need to read it and sign it.”
He looked at her in bewilderment. Had he heard her correctly? “What are you talking about? I thought we sorted out everything last night?”
“Please don’t worry. Contracts can always be changed again. For now, I think we should let some water pass under the bridge,” said Clara in her most conciliatory tone. She stroked his arm softly. “As for Zuzanna’s villa, I’ll think about it.”
So this was what true love felt like. Despairing, lost. Therese plucked one of the stalks of grass grown beside the park bench on which she sat. The sharp edge of the grass cut into the flesh of her finger, but she barely noticed. She looked far out across the lake, where the water dissolved into nothingness.
In the past, she had only toyed with men. She loved all of it: the flirtatious glances, the exuberant dancing, the erotic nights. Other, deeper feelings like love and trust were extras, like an embroidered handkerchief given as a bonus if you bought an elegant robe. Something she could easily have lived without. Something that was easily lost.
Then Benno von Nordmannsleben came into her life. And from the first time they met, she knew: with him, everything was different. She wanted him without hesitation, and she had believed that he would return the deep love she felt for him.
But now here she was. More lost than she had ever been in her life. Filled with feelings she could not even name.
“A child?” Benno had looked at her with utter disbelief. “It isn’t mine!” he immediately said, claiming that he had been careful every time. “If you think you can saddle me with your brat, then think again. You’re not the first to try that.” All his gallantry and elegance vanished in a second. Suddenly, she was facing an angry man with a contorted, beet-red face.
“I thought we were in love,” she had said helplessly. “I thought we had a future together.” She had held one hand protectively over her belly.
When her monthly bleeding did not come for the third month, she had been overjoyed. A child! A child from her beloved Benno. The most beautiful jewel in the crown of their love.
“You really have a vivid imagination!” he had said contemptuously. “I am an officer. My
first love is and always will be the Queen Olga regiment. And if you ever thought anything else, you were deluding yourself.” Without another word, he had stormed off. He had left her there without even trying to make the situation more bearable for her.
Therese sobbed. The little foaming caps of the waves on the lake blurred before her eyes. The story was repeating itself! Once again, she was pregnant and abandoned.
Wasn’t she worth it? To be loved? And the words that the men whispered in her ear . . . all lies? What had she done wrong?
She heard laughter as a group of tourists strolled past her along the lakeshore esplanade. Young women carried lacy parasols. Men swung their walking sticks as if drawing delirious patterns in the air. One woman led a small dog on a silver-studded leash.
Therese was reminded of Countess Zuzanna. Was the dog that Clara had once saved from drowning still alive?
What had happened to her would never happen to a woman like the countess. Women like Zuzanna, Clara, and Lilo were smart, and not only when it came to business, but in every respect. And she herself was nothing but a dumb, trusting little girl.
That realization made Therese cry again. Then she gulped for air and felt as if she could not breathe. How was she supposed to go on? Alone, with a child . . . the very thought of it made her dizzy with fear. She didn’t have her own life under control. How could she ever look after a child?
Mr. Stefan Berg’s position as manager is hereby discontinued, effective immediately.
Mr. Berg shall continue to act in his role as public representative of the company Bel Étage, and shall promote the company positively. For this, he will have at his disposal an allowance of 80 marks per month. All expenses over and above that amount are to be approved in advance by Clara Berg as the sole manager.
The Queen of Beauty (The Century Trilogy Book 3) Page 36
