Sonnenby put a hand on Marshall’s and deftly twisted the other man’s grip from her arm. “I will put Fraulein Schluss in the car.”
The two men stared at each other for a heartbeat. Elsa was placed in the back seat and Sonnenby slid in beside her. “I want you to go back to Vienna, fraulein. Tell me you will go.”
Elsa turned to him in alarm. “What?”
“It is not safe for you to be near me. I want you to go back to your office in Vienna.”
She stared at him. He was being reasonable. This was a very sane thing to say. The sick feeling in her stomach did not mean she was frightened. She did not want to go back to Vienna.
She cleared her throat. “I understand your concern, Mr. Sinclair.” She looked at the back of the driver’s head for a few moments while she collected her thoughts.
Sonnenby did not have the authority to dismiss her, but Mr. Marshall could. She had no say in the matter. If her services were no longer required she must obey. But returning to Vienna meant that not only would she miss the opportunity to present at the conference, but she would have nothing to show for her efforts on this trip. She could not write up a case study for Lord Sonnenby without results. She looked sideways at him. Could she say he had recovered? Doctor Engel would see through any report she wrote. Four days of treatment could precipitate a cessation of symptoms only, and then nothing to show that anything she had done had relieved him of his behaviors.
Behaviors. She winced. In four days she had watched him kill three men. She watched him now. He was grim. He stared straight ahead and she could see his mind working. She got the distinct impression that he was more insulted that someone wanted him dead than worried that they might succeed. His face moved through various expressions as he thought. He ground his teeth, then his cheek twitched. His gaze hardened then relaxed as he puzzled through the events of the last few days. He turned to her when he felt her eyes on him.
“I will have Marshall see you off at the harbor. He thinks you are finished with me anyway. You can take a train back to Austria.”
“I’d prefer not to go.” She must not return tainted with failure.
One eyebrow went up. “Indeed? Twenty minutes ago you were babbling like a child. I thought I was going to have to slap you to bring you around.”
She narrowed her eyes. “A perfectly normal reaction to trauma, I assure you. And slapping is not an acceptable means of treatment for shock.” His face showed her he did not believe her. She tried another approach. “I am a nurse. I can be of service. Look what I did for your arm.”
He gave her a short laugh. “That is a feeble attempt. Try again.”
“Are you cured?”
This stopped his humor. “You cannot cure me, fraulein. The idea of a cure is Marshall’s folly.”
Her heart sank. He was probably correct. Probably. She swallowed hard and turned away. He was getting too close to the tender area of her own psyche. She had been very successful curing broken bodies, but had never has the satisfaction of knowing if her talking treatment had long term results with her subjects. Maybe I should go back. But not to Doctor Engel. She could not face him if Sonnenby and Marshall rejected her. She could always return to her family. Her father wanted her to keep the books in his brewery. Or she could work in the hospitals emptying bed pans and changing dressings and sewing up surgical wounds.
She wiped her cheek. I will not go back. “Scheiss. Zum Teufel”
He did laugh then, but his face became serious when she turned to glare at him. He said, “I don’t want you to be what we call ‘collateral damage’. I would never forgive myself. The guilt would be too much. You can understand that.” His eyes searched hers for confirmation. “Psychologists understand guilt, right?”
She did understand and softened her glare to mere disapproval. “But Mr. Sinclair—“
“Please call me ‘Henry’. Three days ago you were calling me ‘Henry’. I am terminating your contract as my therapist. We are merely friends now.”
“Oh,” she said, knowing he had no authority to terminate her contract. She thought about this for a moment. “If I return unsuccessful it will only reinforce my…” She tried to think of the English word. “…troubles.” She sighed. She didn’t know a better English word for Schwierigkeiten. “The shame would be too much. A military man can understand shame.”
He sat back and looked at her with a different expression. She couldn’t read this one. She tried. It was like he had never seen her before. Or perhaps he never thought that she might have lofty ambitions. Or that she must be taken seriously. She watched him, waiting for something that made sense. His mouth was a straight line and his eyes moved quickly over her body from head to her stocking feet. She watched him think. He rubbed his jaw and frowned.
“I want to ask you a question…Elsa.”
She nodded.
“If I send you back to Vienna, what will happen to you?”
She took a deep breath. “I will most likely return to service as a nurse. Or I will work for my father in his office at his brewery. Doctor Engel has gently informed me that he has serious doubts about my readiness to present a convincing dissertation.” She twisted her hands in the fragments of her skirt. “I could work for years in his practice and he still might not consider me ready.” She glanced at him. “There are women doctors, Mr. Sinclair. But they tend to be older women with much more experience, and a much more formidable appearance.”
“I see.” He leaned back in the seat and looked up at the roof as the car took the final turn to enter the harbor road. “I am your dissertation.”
She nodded again. “Yes.”
“Yet your briefcase is still in the wrecked limousine.”
“Oh Gott.” This was the second time she had forgotten it.
He stared at her. “It never occurred to you to retrieve it?”
“Nein, no.” She put a hand to her forehead, going over those terrifying moments as the limousine rolled. She remembered being confused. She remembered being frightened. She remembered worrying that Sonnenby had been shot. She had not thought about her notes at all. Not even when she was sitting on the boulder as the two men examined the enemy’s sedan.
He continued, “I admit, I did not think of it either. Marshall should retrieve it when he gets the luggage. You will have your notes. Do not despair.”
“They are no use to me if I go back,” she said bitterly.
“But how can I permit you to continue?”
Elsa looked at her hands and said without thinking, “Maybe someone wants to kill me too, now. Maybe if you send me back alone someone will.”
His face blanched. “Good God,” he breathed and he seemed to wilt in the seat. His hands shook.
“Ach,” she muttered. She moved closer and took his arm. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for and I am ashamed I said it.”
He swallowed hard. “Stay then,” his voice was as unsteady as his hand was in hers.
They sat in silence on the road down the hill to the shore.
The car pulled up at the docks. Elsa looked out her window at the tall sides of the passenger ship, the Oriana. A man in uniform was there to open the door and escort them up the gangway. At the end of a corridor they were separated and Elsa was bowed into her room by a uniformed steward.
It was a first class cabin as Sonnenby had promised. The room was decorated in gold and white in a horrid Rococo style. Her Austrian sensibilities considered it done in bad taste, but the Rococo sumptuousness might be what the upper class passengers expected. A plump double bed sat snugly against one wall and an elaborate matching dressing table balanced the room. A small group of comfortable chairs and a door separated the bedroom from the sitting room and the door to the corridors. Her port looked out over the Mediterranean.
As the ship’s rumbling engines powered them through the straights, another steward arrived at her door with her luggage. As she tipped him she noticed there were too many bags. “Wait!” she called as he turned to go, �
�This one is not mine.”
He looked at a card in his gloved hand. “You are Fraulein Schluss? Travelling with Mr. Archibald Marshall and Mr. Henry Sinclair, Lord Sonnenby?” He glanced up at her and she saw him struggle to keep his face impassive. She knew she looked a sight in her torn clothing and bloodied hair.
She frowned. “Yes.”
“Then this is your bag, miss. It has your name on the ticket. See?” He tipped the case so she could see her name clearly written on the tag tied to the handle.
Elsa thanked him and after he had gone, lifted the bag to her bed. It opened to reveal that it was stuffed full of lovely silk stockings and white blouses and black skirts as well as two dresses in colored blue silk. Two white silk scarves to wear over her hair were folded near the bottom. On the bottom were three pairs of heeled shoes, two in black and one in a shining white satin. But on the top lay an exquisite gown in the finest blue silk damask folded in thirds. The exact blue of her eyes.
She lifted it high to see that it was formal evening wear. Sleeveless. Tiny pearls were sewn into the neckline and over the thin silk straps that went over the shoulders. Shining white beads were sewn in swirling patterns along the bodice to the waist, following the pattern of the damask. It had a short beaded fringe starting below the waist and in thick rows to the hemline that would swing and sparkle with every movement of her hips. It was cut full in the bosom with generous darts. She blushed, knowing whoever had bought it must have had to estimate the size of her breasts. She lowered the gown to the suitcase again. Who had bought it?
It had to be Mr. Marshall. Sonnenby and Davies had not been out of her sight for more than a few minutes since they left the train. Marshall had mentioned the bazaars.
She stiffened her back and closed the case. Of course she could not accept such a gift. One disobedient hand lifted the lid again and moved smoothly over the expensive silks inside. But oh, she certainly wanted to. I will think about it in the bath. Her stateroom had a bathroom with sink and toilet and a porcelain tub and hot and cold running water. She locked her door and shed her shredded clothing on her way to the tub. A long hot soak was what she wanted. Nothing else.
For the second time in two days she watched bloody water swirl down a drain. She shook her head at what had started as an assignment to further her career. Now as she sat dripping in the bottom of an empty tub she wondered what she was trying to accomplish. A knock at the stateroom door interrupted any insight that might have come to her. She climbed out and wrapped an oversized towel around her middle as she stepped to the door. She leaned close and called, “Who is there?”
A thin white envelope appeared under the door. She bent down, one hand on her towel and picked it up. She opened it and pulled a small card out and turned it over. It read, ‘Please dine with me at 8 o’clock. Archibald.’
Oh dear. She padded over to the dressing table and set the card down. She moved the towel to her hair and fluffed it up before using the comb. She stared at herself in the mirror while she worked the long ends. This assignment was growing more complicated. She felt completely lost in this situation. She pointed the comb at her reflection.
Her middle-class upbringing had not prepared her for this kind of society. She did not know the correct way to answer such a note. She did not know which gown in that new suitcase was correct for dinner in a first class dining room. The plain blue ones or the blue damask? She did not know how to fix her hair. She had no jewelry. She had no hat. Must one wear a hat in a formal dining room? She saw the color rise in her cheeks. Mr. Marshall had not packed a hat in that case, only the white scarves. She did not know. I am a brewer’s daughter, she reminded herself. Not a fine lady.
But her confusion made it easy to reply to the note. She picked it up and in her best handwriting wrote, “I am sorry, but I will be dining alone in my cabin.” She put on a dressing gown and rang the bell for the steward. She answered his knock and told him where to take the note and gave him a coin. There. All anxieties were extinguished. She breathed a great sigh of relief. How easy it is to solve problems by avoiding them, she smiled to herself.
Close to eight o’clock there was another knock at her door. She opened it slowly and only a few inches, as she was in her nightgown. Both Mr. Marshall and Sonnenby stood on the other side. In evening dress. She stood there staring at their tuxedo jackets and crisp white shirts and black ties. Sonnenby had been shaved and had a haircut. The swelling over his left eye was reduced to mere puffiness. Mr. Marshall’s tiny mustache was even neater and tidier than before.
They looked at her in surprise. Mr. Marshall cleared his throat. “I see you need a few more minutes, fraulein.”
“Did you not get my note?” She put a hand to her throat and fingered the ties to her gown.
“Yes. Very nice handwriting.”
She lifted her chin. “Then you know I do not plan to leave my cabin tonight.”
“Yes. We know. I have taken the liberty of bringing your dinner to you.” He stepped a little to the left so she could see two of the ship’s serving staff flanking a large wheeled trolley crowded with covered silver dishes. Bottles of wine and crystal glasses were interspersed among the silver domes as well as two vases filled with bouquets of mixed flowers and some squares of folded white linen.
“Ah…”
“Yes. Quite right,” Marshall said. “If you would retire to the dressing room, fraulein, I will have the staff set up in the parlor.”
“Ah.” Elsa backed up and fled to the bedroom. She closed the door between the two rooms and put a hand in her hair. She could hear them talking quietly and the clanking of the silver and glass as the stewards set up the table.
She moved quickly to the suitcase and lifted the blue damask. White stockings and the white satin pumps. Anything else in that case would not be fine enough to match the tuxedos. She put everything on as quickly as possible. There was not time to fix her hair properly. She ran the comb through it one last time, twisted it and rolled the long tube around her hand and pinned it folded to the back of her head in a quick chignon. That would have to do.
The blue eyes in her mirror were sad. She looked like a hausfrau holding up a fancy gown so the dressmaker could make the final touches. Her breasts mounded up out of the bodice. Even with a good eye, Marshall had underestimated this dress. She rounded her shoulders a little, hoping the mounds might squeeze back into the silk. She forced herself a little smile of encouragement. At least she would not have to walk among the glittering ladies in the first class dining room.
Once she heard the stateroom door open and close and she was fairly certain the stewards had gone, she opened her door.
Sonnenby and Marshall were leaning against the wall, each with a snifter of brandy in in their hands. They both stood up straight when she entered. Sonnenby gave her a warm smile and Mr. Marshall seemed embarrassed. Sonnenby pulled out a chair for her.
The table was laid out beautifully. It was all silver and white. The wine had been poured. Not wine, she noticed. Champagne. Graceful flutes held a golden liquid that moved with tiny shining bubbles. Elsa had seen champagne before but never tasted it. Sonnenby saw her looking at it and laughed softly. He sat across from her and Marshall seated himself to her left. Sonnenby lifted his champagne and raised the glass.
“A toast, Elsa Schluss. To you, my dear.”
Marshall lifted his glass and they both waited for her. She held the flute gingerly, trying to pinch the stem as she saw them do it. Sonnenby tilted his glass and took a long sip. She followed suit, tasting the bubbling wine with a small sip at first. Her eyes widened with pleasure. Perhaps she was supposed to merely sip it, but it was so good. She set an empty glass down in front of her as Sonnenby laughed. He stood a little to refill her glass.
“Do have some more, Elsa. There is plenty.”
There was polite conversation. The weather and the service on the ship were discussed. The first bottle of champagne was gone between them and another bottle opened with a pop. She gig
gled as she held her glass for more. Marshall and Sonnenby toasted the ship, then stood to toast their king, then sat again and toasted the end of the war. They toasted the unfortunate Mr. Jones and then they toasted her again. Even the absent Mr. Davies was warmly toasted and glasses upended in his honor. After another bottle had been emptied the more somber topics of politics and war and the recent events were discussed.
Elsa tasted some of the food on the plates. There was some flaky baked fish in a cream sauce and some steamed asparagus and some round rice cooked in a strange way almost like soup and beautiful baked rolls and creamy butter. She touched a strange square on a little plate and put her finger to her mouth, not wanting to fork something new that might taste horrible. She had not liked the caviar.
“By God, Elsa, you are beautiful.”
She looked up. Both men were looking at her. She did not know which one had spoken. She blinked at both of them and took her finger from her mouth. Marshall must have spoken because now Sonnenby was glaring at him.
“You look very….handsome tonight… as well, Mr. Marshall.” At least that is what she meant to say. The words that came out of her mouth sounded like she was saying them backwards. She giggled. Her champagne glass was empty. She glanced at it meaningfully and Marshall filled it again.
“That dress needs a diamond necklace.”
She swung her head. It was hard to know who was talking. That seemed to be Sonnenby because he was looking at her neck. Or close to her neck. She looked down where a diamond necklace would be if she had a diamond necklace. She saw only the round mounds of her unruly breasts trying to escape the blue damask.
Marshall set down his fork. He looked at Sonnenby. “She needs stability and a man who can take proper care of her.”
Sonnenby picked up his fork and gestured with it across a joint of capon, “And who better than a lord of the realm?”
“An agent of his majesty’s service. A practical man.”
Elsa tried to follow this. It seemed her ears had some kind of delay going with her brain. She had some more champagne in the hopes that it might clear her head. It had worked with the whisky the night the Turk broke into the train compartment with his long hunting knife. No. Apparently champagne did not work the same way as whiskey.
Blue Damask Page 8
