She meets Kristina downstairs in the spacious hallway, amid its familiar array of fine seating and jardinière - and astonished at the transformation she beholds. How different the young girl appears. For a moment she almost walked past her, not realising at first that the beautiful young woman in the flowing skirts and smartly buttoned jacket is in fact her maid and companion, Kristina - now the very epitome of taste and fashion, with gloves and fan and extravagant sleeves - and yet with all of her promises of felicity and propriety fulfilled, for she has subdued her appearance just sufficiently so as not to outshine her mistress.
‘It is time, ma'am,’ she announces. ‘I shall ride out with you, if it please you, for your cab is due any moment.’
‘You shall, indeed, my lovely angel,’ Deborah replies, taking up her parasol. ‘For there is no one in all the whole world or in all the heavens I would desire more as my companion on such a morning as this.’
Deborah notices a sprig of blue sage with which the young woman has trimmed her own modest hat, and a few pieces of the same in her hands as she approaches.
‘Will you honour me, m'lady, that I may offer you this token of my esteem?’ she asks.
‘Gladly,’ Deborah replies - to which her companion reaches forward to secure a sprig of the same, fragrant purple-leafed flower to the margins of her bodice.
A harsh noise is heard outside then - the arrival of their vehicle indicated likewise by the dark silhouette drawing into view through the glass of the portico. And together, at last, they leave the building.
Outside, and though the sun is already well up, the moisture of the night still lingers in the shadows, keeping things pleasantly cool. It looks all so very colourful, too, Deborah thinks. A haze of lilac wisteria clings to the walls of some of the older buildings; the almond trees are in blossom and the air itself is full of birdsong and the humming of bees. Everything has a freshness and vibrancy to it she has rarely experienced before - though, there again, she reflects somewhat ruefully, she has rarely been up and about at such an unseemly hour. The seasons have turned. Spring has come at last - even to Vienna. And she catches herself wondering why she has never strived to experience such delights a little more often.
‘Are you sure the young lady wouldn’t like to step up and sit next to me?’ the driver, inquires with brazen impertinence, a splendid gentleman in smart livery and a top hat. ‘Just what I need to perk me up after a long night-shift,’ he adds with an obvious preening of his handlebar moustache, rejoicing in all the brashness of his fraternity.
‘Certainly not. The young lady rides inside with me,’ Deborah states, not minding the over-familiarity she always seems to elicit from men such as this. She has given up trying to fathom it. Most likely it is her code of dress that emboldens them: a little too high, the heel; a little too much ankle displayed; a shade too scarlet, the colour of her lips, and rather too tightly clinging, the fabric about her breast. They would recognise it all of course, all the telltale signs and her position as a woman of some flexibility in terms of conventional Viennese morals. She is inured to it.
At a gentle cantor, they take their route south along the Ringstraße, that exquisite wide boulevard where amid the equally broad pavements and intervals of green parks, the towering buildings stand as monuments to proportion and style - magnificent and yet never intimidating. The sight is so beautiful as she gazes out of the window that it is almost possible to forget the dark deed she is intent upon. How wonderful it all appears: the ladies in their long dresses and bright parasols, the gentlemen with their white collars and noble canes, and everyone gloved and hatted. Why, there is not a single person, rich or poor, young or old, who does not look the very picture of elegance out there in the sunshine - an entire city so perfect for just this one moment that surely time should be made to stand still and be preserved forever - an observation followed straight away by the inclination, despite all her companion had urged upon her, to abandon every thought of vengeance, after all.
Yes. How strange. Again it has returned, that all-powerful urge to find forgiveness in her heart - to somehow forgive everything and everyone who has ever harmed her or made her sad - accompanied by the most ardent desire to see her daughter again, and to embrace her.
‘I do believe your preferences would be elsewhere, m'lady. Am I correct?’ the maid enquires from across the carriage, her eyes regarding her mistress with a fresh intensity.
‘Indeed,’ Deborah replies. ‘On a morning such as this - why it is so delightful, so perfect. It is like the end of the world. The last day.’
‘It is - for one hateful person.’
‘The illustrious baron von Spiegler - yes, it will be.’
‘No, it is already,’ Kristina argues, cheerfully now. ‘It is done, ma'am. You have no need to be anxious. His foolish soul departed his body just a few moments ago. It was a heart attack. He has died in his bed. The discovery has already been made.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘I know.’
‘Yes … of course. And I have not the slightest doubt you are correct, whoever you are.’
‘Do you not yet understand, m'lady? Oh, I am sure you do. You have honoured me with your obedience and your faith, and that is sufficient. And now you are free.’
At which Deborah, in a moment of instant decision, lowers the glass of the moving vehicle and calls out to the driver that she would like to convey some fresh instructions. He draws the carriage to a halt the better to attend to her wishes and, leaning over and forward from his position above, allows Deborah to address him more directly. ‘I no longer need to go to The Imperial,’ she tells him with a smile born of immense joy and relief. ‘Take me instead, will you, to the railway station - Westbahnhof.’
It is only a short journey, a few minutes brisk canter along the fast Mariahilfer Straße, and once arrived and having climbed down to open the door for his passengers, the driver is surprised when it is Deborah alone who steps down onto the pavement, and she who settles the fare herself. ‘Thank you. That will be all,’ she states, accompanied by a generous tip.
‘And the young lady?’ the man remarks, looking across her shoulder with an obvious curiosity. ‘Would she like to step down, also, before I go?’
‘The young lady? Oh, I’m afraid you must be mistaken,’ Deborah replies merrily. ‘There is no one else in the carriage.’
The coachman, confused and perhaps slightly sceptical, takes a good look inside for himself, just to make sure. The carriage is indeed vacant, the door on the other side locked from within.
‘Right you are, then, ma'am,’ he states - for one does not dispute such matters. And really it is of no consequence anyway, because as he turns to bid the lady farewell, he discovers she has already gone - making her way towards the busy portico of the station, her modest portmanteau in hand, her tall figure with her open parasol casting shadows in the sun; so beautiful a scene, he cannot help thinking - what with the blossom and blue sky and all the bees buzzing about the trees and flowers: ‘like the end of the world,’ it could be. He is certain he heard someone say those very words inside the carriage just a few moments ago. But there again, it has been a long night. Maybe he just imagined that, as well. He watches her for a moment longer as she stops at a newsstand to buy a paper before vanishing into the crowd. Judging by the look on the boy’s face, she has tipped him fulsomely as well: as generous as she is beautiful. Wherever do women like that come from, he wonders? Wherever do they go?
Works by this author:
Georgian/Victorian-themed
‘WILDISH’ 2013 & ‘THE ARROW CHEST’ 2011
Tudor/Elizabethan-themed
‘ELIZABETH’ 2014 & VIRGIN AND THE CRAB’ 2009
Belle Epoque themed
‘THE HOURS BEFORE’ 2015
THE HOURS BEFORE: A Story of Mystery and Suspense from the Belle Époque Page 45
