The Flower Shop (The Seed Traders' Saga Book 2)

by Petra Durst-Benning

  How could she have made a mistake like that? The princess had said something about red roses. She remembered that. But she had utterly forgotten the “under no circumstances” part. Why hadn’t she written herself a note at the time?

  She left the handcart standing and ran away from the path, out into the meadows, the same meadows where she picked flowers every morning. She wanted to be alone, somewhere no one would find her. Her skirt caught in the high grass, and low-hanging branches whipped her face. Once, she tripped over a root. But Flora felt none of it. Beneath an ancient oak, she finally sank to the ground wailing.

  She had never in her life been so muddled. She lamented ever meeting Konstantin, because meeting him meant she thought of him constantly, wherever she was. Being in love like that was dreadful, just dreadful!

  Flora’s body heaved with her crying, and behind her hands thrown over her face, her tears would not stop.

  “Flora! For God’s sake! What’s the matter? I saw your cart over on the path.”

  She looked up in astonishment and squinted against the sun. She had not heard anyone approach.

  “You? Why you?” she cried when she realized she was looking at Konstantin. “What do you want?” She let out a sob. “I . . . I want to be alone. Leave! Go away!” When he did not do as she said, she lashed out at him with her fists. “You . . . you terrible man! If only I’d never met you, you . . . you bring me nothing but trouble and more trouble.” With every word, drops of spittle hit Konstantin’s face. Flora did not care. “You don’t show your face for a week, so why now? I hate you!”

  “Püppi is dead.”

  Flora stopped crying in a heartbeat.

  Konstantin sat down beside her in the grass. “I’ve been sitting with her since early this morning, keeping vigil. I came out briefly because I needed some fresh air.”

  “When . . . when did it happen? Oh, not—” Flora, who knew about Püppi’s fear of dying at night, broke off at the look in Konstantin’s eyes. “Oh no.”

  “Püppi feared nothing more than the reaper coming for her at night. If only I’d been there with her! But I was away, at a card game. When I returned, she was in the armchair. Dead.” Konstantin’s eyes were wet with tears. “I was taken completely unawares. I never would have thought that she could just . . . die, just like that. She was weak, but we all thought that after her bath treatment she would start to improve. She wanted to go to Elena’s party.”

  Elena’s party . . . Flora bit down on her lip. Set beside Konstantin’s grief, her own disaster counted for little.

  “I’m so sorry . . .” She stroked his cheek, but he took hold of her hand, kissed it. His eyes peered into hers, hungry, avid, yearning.

  “Flora, don’t send me away now. You and I . . .” He drew her to him, and his words caught in her hair. “I have never needed anyone as much as I need you now.”

  And then she was lying in his arms. His full lips found hers and he kissed her deeply, nibbling, tasting. She responded with small, frantic kisses as she pressed against his chest. She felt his tongue in her mouth, started, then opened her lips wider, wanting more from him, everything from him, wanted to feel him deep inside her.

  A loud clinking beside Konstantin’s leg startled them both.

  Konstantin lifted the linen sack that had fallen out of his pocket. It was clearly heavy. “Püppi’s jewelry,” he said. “And some of her money. I had to secure both before I left the room. The staff steal like ravens, you know,” he said. He dropped the sack on the grass beside him.

  Flora nodded, and lifted her skirts.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Looking back, Flora could not have said how she made it home that evening. Or how she managed to lie down next to Friedrich in bed as if nothing had happened.

  Konstantin . . .

  Early the next morning, she woke to Alexander’s happy babbling. She wandered into the kitchen like a sleepwalker, made some milky porridge, and fed her son. Friedrich had already left, and had left a note for her saying that he had been invited to a sitting of the spa committee that evening. Thank God.

  As on every Monday morning, the street was filled with wagons, all of them in a hurry. Pedestrians had their work cut out trying to navigate among the horses and drays. In front of the printer’s shop stood one particularly large wagon stacked high with boxes. Flora wound her way past it and along the crowded footpath, careful not to bump anything or anyone with the bouquet of sunflowers she was carrying. As she walked past the Promenade boutiques, she glanced covertly across to Maison Kuttner, as she normally would. Today the flower shop did not interest her, and the other pretty shops just as little. She wanted nothing more than to deliver her bouquet as quickly as possible and then to be alone. So far, she had managed to suppress every thought that had entered her head. She did not know how long that would continue to be possible, or what would happen when it was not.

  Don’t think. Don’t feel. Don’t think. Don’t feel.

  Normally, Flora would have looked forward to a visit to the Mallebrein family. She would be met by Marie Mallebrein and invited in for a cup of coffee. After a little gossip, Flora’s bouquets would be praised. Sometimes, Flora would even talk with the senior judge himself. Franz Mallebrein was an amiable man who spoke wisely and also radiated a human warmth that Flora would not have expected in someone of his profession. He respected the fine arts at least as much as he did the law, he once confided to Flora. He used the little free time that his profession and his ever-growing family allowed him to delve into the mythology surrounding Baden-Baden. He wrote poetry and short stories, and had once recited a few of his own verses for Flora.

  On that Monday morning, Flora was relieved to find that no one besides the maid who answered the door seemed to be at home. Marie would be at the market, most likely, and the children probably off playing. Flora sighed with relief. Gossip was the last thing she felt like sharing just then.

  “The sunflowers for the lady of the house,” she said, handing the large bouquet to the maid. “And here is the bill. Mrs. Mallebrein can—” Flora broke off abruptly when a door on her right opened.

  “The flower girl! My ears do not deceive me.” With ruddy cheeks and a piece of paper in his hand, the judge stood in front of her. “What a beautiful bouquet! You are a true artist.”

  Flora gave him a small curtsy. “Judge Mallebrein, you are too kind.”

  The judge took a step toward her and pointed to the paper in his hand. “It occurs to me that just recently you were happy to listen to some of my verses. This is my latest attempt. Would you like to hear it?”

  Flora had no choice but to nod.

  “Do you know the legend of Merline, the nymph of the pond? I’ve been trying to put the story into verse. Listen:

  By the lake in the woods so high,

  the nymph ’mongst the mosses abides

  her golden lyre by her side,

  her deer a-frolic nearby.

  Oh Mother, let me go to her.

  Trust her I never will do,

  I will watch from afar and be true

  but can no longer bear to stay here . . .”

  Flora staggered back a step as if she’d been slapped in the face. Merline, the nymph! The personification of temptation, today of all days. She pressed herself against the wood-paneled wall of the stairwell and sighed deeply.

  The judge lowered the page. “What do you think?”

  Flora felt the man’s expectant gaze on her. Say something! Something friendly and harmless, you can do that. Just don’t start bawling! she told herself.

  She felt tears rising and fluttered her hands in front of her face as if she had to sneeze at any moment. But the judge was not to be deceived.

  “Young lady, why are you crying?”

  Flora turned and ran out the door.

  “Why are you running away?” he called after her. “Stay, please. I still have to pay for the flowers and . . .” Perplexed, the judge looked at the paper in his hand. “The poem was
n’t that bad, I’m sure.”

  Out! Out of town! Away from the staring people. Flora took the first bridge she came to that crossed the Oos. But she had not considered that her route would take her past the Trinkhalle.

  At the sight of its columns, she burst out sobbing again.

  Merline, the embodiment of temptation.

  What had she done?

  When she had first come to Baden-Baden, Friedrich had been quick to take her to visit his sacred place. Flora remembered it as if it were yesterday—the sun on her back, his laughter in her ear. He had enjoyed playing the city guide for her. And what had she said to him, when he told her the legend of the nymph in the pond?

  “Merline wouldn’t get anywhere with us.”

  What a joke! What had she done?

  She had given in to temptation more easily than any goatherd, had given herself over to desires that she had not even known existed.

  She blushed with shame when she thought about how she had pressed herself to Konstantin. She had practically thrown herself at him! She was no better than the cocottes for whom Friedrich had nothing but contempt.

  And there had been no need for it to happen. For weeks, she had sensed the threat that Konstantin Sokerov represented for her. Every accidental touch, every feather-light kiss of her hand by Konstantin had burned on her skin. Even Sabine had suspected something, and had tried to warn her. But Flora had preferred to close her eyes and ears and give in to the pleasant tingling in her belly.

  Flora came to a standstill and gazed at the elongated building, toward which—now, late in the morning—more and more people were making their way on foot. Should she go to Friedrich and confess everything to him, now, on the spot?

  The terrible scene in Villa Markov, and then the news of Püppi’s death—she had not been in her right mind the day before. She had not been herself at all.

  How was she supposed to explain to Friedrich something that was unexplainable even to herself? What did she hope a confession would bring? That the burden on her heart would ease? That Friedrich would forgive her? What kind of man would ever forgive something like that? And if she were not mistaken, adultery carried a prison sentence, didn’t it? Ha! She could have asked the judge about that just now. People would point their fingers at her, and would ostracize her as they had Marie-Eluise, the wife of the hotelier that Friedrich had told her about.

  Flora walked stiffly alongside the river. She breathed deeply, wiped the tears and snot away, swept the hair out of her face.

  She could never, ever breathe a word to anyone about what had happened the day before. She had to blot it from her memory forever. Deep inside, deep in her heart, she would carry this sin with her. And the memory . . .

  Konstantin whistled over one of the carriages for hire waiting for passengers at the Baden-Baden train station, and a minute later he leaned back in the plush upholstery. Now that he had returned, he would do all he could to stay in Baden-Baden until the end of the season.

  Karlsruhe had been an impressive city, but he found all the hustle and bustle of the place too strenuous. He was obviously not used to that kind of turmoil anymore.

  He patted the leather bag on the seat beside him. At least the journey had been worth it. The jeweler had paid well for Püppi’s strings of pearls, sapphire rings, and emerald necklaces. His mouth had watered at the sight of several of the pieces, and small bubbles of spittle had appeared at the corners of his mouth. Konstantin knew such signs of greed well and had pushed the price higher accordingly.

  The money that he had gotten for the baubles would make his remaining weeks in the summer capital of Europe particularly comfortable. He did not need to worry about the ensuing months, either. Monte Carlo? Paris? Or perhaps a cruise across to America? He could go wherever he pleased.

  He had never in his life had so much money at his disposal. Perhaps he should try his luck at the racetrack in Iffezheim? And he would certainly do his best to increase his pot at card tables—he was a good player, after all.

  The carriage turned in the direction of the Europäischer Hof hotel, and for a moment Konstantin felt a pang of regret that the drive would soon be over. It had been so nice just to sit and think such delicious thoughts.

  Püppi’s funeral would take place in two days. She had no close relatives, so Konstantin had managed all the arrangements. Nadeshda Stropolski—like so many other Russians—would be laid to rest in Baden-Baden, the place she had spent so many happy hours on earth. After the funeral, there would be a small reception. Irina and Count Popo had both nodded their agreement when he told them of his plans.

  Two more days and he would finally be free!

  Today, he would leave the Europäischer Hof. He had had enough of that gilded cage. A cheap hotel would meet his needs—life was far too exciting to spend it in a room.

  The move would proceed quickly. He had packed most of his things the evening before in Püppi’s luggage. Of her things he would take the valuable furs and the box of hand-painted fans. The silver cutlery was also too valuable to leave to the chambermaid. He would pack the gold toiletries kit away with the furs—for a rainy day, so to speak. A rainy day he hoped would never come.

  He did not care who would take care of the rest of her things.

  Konstantin tipped the driver well. For the rest of his life, the poor man would be dependent on passengers, good weather, and healthy horses. But from that day forward, he, Konstantin Sokerov, would no longer depend on anyone.

  He had dismissed Püppi’s staff the previous day. She had made no provisions for them in case of her death, so why should they concern him? Still, he had given each of them a little money and wished them luck. He had also given Püppi’s maid all the bright-pink, lurid-green, and too-youthful-looking dresses, all of which smelled of Püppi.

  He shuddered. He still had the smell in his nose—the odor of fear and loneliness, of age and decay.

  She had a will, Popo informed him. Püppi had been a rich woman with extensive lands not far from Saint Petersburg. The count had promised to take care of those, and had added that it would probably take quite a while. Konstantin was indifferent to Püppi’s will. As far as he knew, Püppi had not seen a lawyer in the last one and a half years, so how was his name supposed to appear in her will?

  No, for him, the last Püppi chapter would come to an end with her funeral.

  No more dependency. No more flaccid skin, no more sagging breasts, no more sniveling old affections.

  From today, he could pick and choose women to suit his personal taste, and not because of how well supplied they were with money. And for the weeks and months ahead, all he had in mind was to enjoy himself.

  Of course, at some point, he would have to seek out a new benefactress. Why should he spend his own money if there was always a woman to be found who was willing to pay his bills for him? But that could wait—he would not let himself get tied down to another old widow right away.

  The flower girl, however, was a nice change, and he saw significance in the fact that he had taken her on the day of Püppi’s death. Hadn’t Püppi been the one to introduce them? If he looked at it like that, Flora was a “bequest” from Püppi in death . . .

  And how willingly she had given herself up to him! He had stopped believing that he would ever reach his goal with her, and he could not adequately explain to himself why he continued to visit Flora in her flower shop almost every day. It probably had to do with how very few young people he knew in Baden-Baden, and Flora not only was young and pretty, but had spirit, courage, and imagination. It was fun to talk to her! That, and Konstantin also envied her a little for how she threw herself into her work. After talking to her, he always felt full of energy, as if her own drive rubbed off on him.

  The eager little bouquet binder . . . he would never have guessed the passion she had in her. Konstantin smiled to himself.

  He would visit her later that day; he had to order flowers for Püppi’s funeral.

  Should he arrange an
other tryst? Why not? Once he was settled in his new hotel that afternoon, he would have time for a little love.

  Chapter Fifty

  “I was thinking of brightly colored flowers, many different kinds. Püppi loved variety.”

  “I know.” From the corner of her eye, Flora glanced toward the back door of the shop. Everything was quiet. Ernestine was taking a midday nap with Alexander, and Sabine and the kitchen maid were making strawberry marmalade.

  With trembling hands, she opened her order book and noted Konstantin’s request. As if she would have forgotten a single one of his words. But occupying herself with pencil and book gave her the moment she needed to gather herself.

  So far, Konstantin had not breathed a word about their encounter the previous day. Was he an honorable man, or did it simply show that he attached far less significance to it than she did?

  She cleared her throat, counted to three, and spoke aloud the sentence she had spent the entire morning practicing in her mind.

  “It is an honor for me to be able to provide the flowers for the princess’s funeral.” She flinched, however, when Konstantin took her hand and squeezed it gently. “Konstantin, why . . . why do you make this so hard for me? I am a married woman. What happened was a mistake, that’s all. It’s over. That it even happened is unforgivable.” Flora was surprised at the determination in her voice. It felt good. She took another breath. “Maybe it is for the best if you buy flowers elsewhere in the future.” She pulled her hand away from him and rubbed it as if she had just been burned by nettles.

  When Konstantin laughed, small lines appeared as they always did around his mouth. Flora managed to withstand her urge to smother them with a thousand kisses, but it was not easy.

  “And if I don’t want to buy my flowers somewhere else?” He gazed at her so insistently, so intimately, that she felt dizzy and had to hold on to the shop counter. Then he leaned across and whispered with his hot breath in her ear, “Flora, darling, in your arms I can forget my pain for a little while. I know I will never call you mine, but I beg you not to kick me away like some troublesome dog.” He took her hand again, kissed each finger, one at a time.