With a headscarf pulled low over her eyes, Flora hurried from the hotel in the direction of Lichtenthaler Allee. Although it was only the end of August, the first chill of autumn was in the air. It had rained in the night and the streets gleamed wetly. One had to take care not to slip.
Flora looked stubbornly at the ground. She did not want to see anyone, or be seen. Still, she did not fail to notice a large shadow slide past her. She raised her eyes and saw the pair of storks from the nest atop the church tower. They circled overhead, their wings pounding the air loudly.
Flora watched the birds wistfully. Where did their travels take them? Wasn’t it true that many birds flew off to warmer places to spend the winter?
The storks would be the first to go. Soon, however, the tourists and spa guests would follow. To Nice, Monte Carlo, Paris.
And then?
What would become of her and Konstantin?
He still had not said a word about his plans for the winter, and Flora did not want to ask him. Would he take her with him? Or would she end up on the street like a wretched tramp, homeless?
Flora ripped all thoughts from her mind like weeds from a flower bed. Woe betide her if weeds like that once began to thrive . . .
Sabine had not even brought the baby carriage to a standstill when Flora darted out from her hiding place behind a rosebush. “My boy! My dear, darling Alexander! My one-and-only.” She lifted her son from the carriage and cuddled and kissed him, barely keeping back the tears of joy that sprang to her eyes. Lord, that one person could miss another so much.
“Is it just me, or has our little man grown a bit just since last week?” Motherly pride shone in Flora’s eyes. For a moment, she forgot everything else around her.
“I don’t know.” Sabine looked around uneasily, then pushed the baby carriage a short way into the meadow. “Let’s get a little off the path.”
“There’s hardly a soul out this early. In this weather, they’ll all be lying in bed or dawdling over breakfast,” Flora murmured. She had noticed Sabine’s uneasiness.
“Well, you’d know about that. I don’t have time to dawdle over anything. We’ve got a pile of wood coming soon, and I’ll be stacking it all morning. I can’t stay long.”
Flora nodded ruefully. “I’ll never forget you bringing Alexander out here every week like this.” A lump formed in her throat, but she swallowed it down.
“I don’t mind, but we should be cautious. If someone sees me with you and tells your husband about it, then God have mercy on me.”
Flora instinctively pulled her headscarf a little lower over her eyes. She felt like an outcast, a leper. Someone no one wanted to be seen with.
The meadows along Lichtenthaler Allee were covered with tens of thousands of glittering cobwebs, and the grass was so wet that there was nowhere they could spread a blanket and sit. Sabine turned the carriage toward a bench beneath a weeping willow. “We’ll be safe from any curious eyes here,” she said, sitting down. “So? How’s the sweet life now?”
“The sweet life . . .” Flora laughed joylessly.
What was she supposed to say? That she was almost dying of boredom? That every passing day felt like a year? That she spent most of her time sitting in a hotel room, hidden away like something to be ashamed of? Even among Konstantin’s Russian friends.
From the start Konstantin had told her his friends would not accept it if they came out as a couple so soon after Püppi’s death. “Besides,” he added, “as enlightened as they might seem, deep in their hearts they still cling to the belief that marriage is sacred, and that a man and woman can only be together under its protections. How do you think they will look at us as two adulterers? They’d hound us out of town like rabid dogs.”
Flora could not believe what she was hearing. “But . . . your friend Irina . . . wasn’t she involved with Count Popo for months before their engagement? And didn’t you tell me that Matriona Schikanova was always off trysting with Sergej Lubelev? And—”
Konstantin had interrupted her objections with a laugh. “You are so naïve sometimes. Do you really think you can put yourself on the same level as society women like them? The rules that apply to them certainly don’t apply to you. Believe me, there’s nothing I’d like more than to show up at a party with you and announce to the whole world: this is my flower girl, my Flora! But for now it is really for the best if we aren’t seen together in public.” Of course, he promised he would tell her at length about every party he attended. And he suggested more than once that some peace and quiet would help her forget that little incident in the Forellenhof.
That little incident . . .
Stop! Don’t think about it!
Alexander began to squirm restlessly on her lap.
“If you don’t want to say anything, then don’t.” Sabine took out a bag of large wooden balls, and all three of them rolled them around together on the damp bench.
In any case, Flora did not understand why Konstantin was constantly out and about. He had her now!
“Should I pick you flowers?” she said to her son, holding out a pale-blue bellflower that Alexander immediately reached for. “How is Friedrich?” she asked then, and held her breath. At the same time, she had no idea what she wanted to hear—that he was well? That he missed her terribly?
Sabine looked away. “He hardly talks, not with his mother, never with me. What can I tell you? He comes home, bounces Alexander on his lap for a minute or two, then vanishes into his room. Next morning, I get to clear away the empty schnapps bottles.”
“He’s drinking? He never touched schnapps before,” said Flora.
“It’s horrible stuff. I tried the last few sips from a bottle, once, and even that little bit made me dizzy. I’d like to know who turned him onto that stuff.” Sabine shuddered.
“You’re impossible!” Flora dug her friend in the ribs.
Sabine’s joking mood had already passed. “You can’t imagine how much you’re missed. Madam hardly leaves the front room anymore. It’s like the time after Kuno died. Remember that? It troubles her terribly that we’ve had to close the shop. She never smiles. Just gloom and sighing, all the time. I’ve caught myself sighing out loud like your mother-in-law, but it’s really no surprise. The household money is tight again, and I’m having a hard job making it stretch.”
Money was running short? Hadn’t they had enough in reserve? She’d earned so much through the flower shop.
“I’d like to start looking for a new position,” Sabine went on, “but if I go now, madam will probably be lost once and for all. And she can’t look after Alexander by herself.” She smiled sadly and stroked Alexander’s hair.
“Thank you,” said Flora. She laid her arm across Sabine’s shoulders, but Sabine moved away and cleared her throat. “There’s another thing I wanted to mention. There’s been a woman coming to the house quite a lot lately. A foreigner. I don’t know where she’s from, but she’s certainly not Russian. Not very good-looking, either. Tall and as skinny as a starving goat. When she laughs, it’s like a donkey braying.”
Flora smiled. “That sounds like Lady Lucretia. She’s an old friend of Friedrich’s. She’s from England, and she’s been coming to Baden-Baden for years.” Flora absently plucked a few more bellflowers. Wet from the rain, they felt so delicate. With a few blades of grass, they made a nice little bouquet . . .
“You know her? In any case, whenever she comes, the young master pulls himself together, and sometimes I even hear them laughing. They talk about curative waters and chemical stuff. Don’t you think that’s strange?”
“Sabine, you really are impossible. Do you honestly think the Englishwoman has her eye on Friedrich? No, you’re imagining things again.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Haven’t I almost always been right in the past?”
Flora shrugged. “And even if she did have her eye on him, Friedrich has every right in the world to find himself a new, better woman. I can be happy that he hasn’t already file
d for divorce . . . or had me thrown in jail. He’s a good man. Maybe he’ll find a wife who makes him as happy as he deserves to be. It doesn’t look as if I was the right one.” As glibly as the words tripped off her tongue, her heart felt as heavy as lead.
Try as she might to banish all thoughts of her and Friedrich’s life together in Stephanienstrasse, they roiled up again and again. She missed Friedrich.
His serious eyes whenever she announced another idea for the shop. His skeptical questions. His grumbling about how she was never satisfied, about how she always wanted more. But in the end, he had always supported her. He had trusted her, and trusted that she would make it all work.
And what had she done in return? She had destroyed the lives of everyone in the Sonnenschein family. Oh, Friedrich. Forgive me. I was so foolish . . .
The two women sat in silence for a long moment while Alexander crawled around on Flora’s lap, babbling away.
“The Englishwoman . . . Friedrich might be able to talk to her about curative waters and such,” Sabine said slowly. “But he certainly doesn’t seem happier for it.”
Konstantin had already had breakfast when Flora returned to the hotel. He sat at the dressing table, tying his long hair back into a tight braid.
He’s so handsome, Flora thought. A tray with empty plates and bowls caught her eye. It stood on the small table by the window and smelled of caviar and onion.
“Did you have something brought in from the épicerie again? Starting the day with caviar . . . that’s not a proper breakfast.” Flora’s own stomach growled; she’d assumed that they would have breakfast together.
“Who’s to say what a proper breakfast is? You, my dear?” Konstantin murmured as he plucked nose hairs in front of the mirror.
Flora stepped up behind him and tickled him on the nose with her makeshift bellflower bouquet, still damp from the meadows.
“Wouldn’t today be a good day to start painting again? If you like, I’ll model for you. Perhaps naked, with nothing but the flowers in my hand?” The idea was enough to put a blush into her cheeks.
He pushed the hand holding the bouquet away roughly. “Do you know how late I was up last night?”
“No one forced you to stay out late playing cards,” she replied archly, and she sat on the bed. She would pick flowers, and Konstantin would paint them—that was how she had daydreamed their life together.
“One has to be in the right mood to paint. It certainly doesn’t help to have you pushing me all the time,” he said as he polished his cuff links.
For a moment the previous night, her fingers had suddenly been so eager to try painting that she had been on the verge of taking out Konstantin’s supplies. Oh, to finally do something with her own hands again! Add red to white, swirl together some shades of blue, and be happy with whatever came out. But painting was his art form, not hers. She had forfeited hers, along with everything else.
“When Püppi was still alive, you were always complaining about how much you missed painting. Now that you have the time, you’re no longer interested,” she said, her voice cool. “You’ve always got a thousand reasons not to get started, and yet it’s a gift to dedicate yourself to something so beautiful.”
“I honestly don’t know why you’re getting so worked up about it.” Konstantin kissed her lips fleetingly, then peered around the room, looking for something. “My hat?” he asked.
Creases appeared on Flora’s forehead. “You’re going off again? Weren’t we going to go up to the Altes Schloss? The weather would be perfect today.”
“I’m sure it would be, but the Altes Schloss isn’t going anywhere,” he replied. “In Iffezheim, however, there’s a very special horse race on today—a race just for German officers. Not that I’m particularly interested in horses, but Popo persuaded me to come along. He says it will be interesting to see how good the German horses are.”
“When are you coming back?” Flora could do nothing about the disappointment in her voice.
“I don’t know yet. Why don’t you get yourself dressed up and go to a café or take a stroll along the Promenade?” He pressed some money into her hand. “What do you think? Should we go back to that little wine bar this evening?” Without waiting for Flora to reply, he tapped his hat and blew her a farewell kiss from the door. “Go out and have some fun! I promise I’ll do the same.”
“I don’t doubt it for a second,” Flora murmured to herself. Go to a café? Take a stroll? Did Konstantin have any idea what he was suggesting? Either one would be like running the gauntlet.
Listlessly, she went down to the kitchen, where she could at least talk the cook into a cup of coffee and a sweet roll.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Work like that is not seemly for a woman!
With trembling hands, Ernestine wiped the sweat from her brow. Had there really been a time in which she had believed that to be true? Foolishness, that’s all it was. And was it not done for one to keep their things in order? For one to take care of what was necessary? What other choice did she have, when Friedrich chose to hide away and perpetually lick his wounds? She had asked him at least three times to turn the compost heap, and what had happened? Nothing. She felt sorry for her one-and-only, of course, but she was starting to sense another emotion rising in her. Was it annoyance? Disillusion? Anger? Ernestine did not know.
Anger at her son . . . no, that was not possible. Not with him suffering. But good heavens, what was she supposed to do to ease his misery? She had Sabine prepare his favorite meals, opened the newspaper for him when he got home from work, endeavored to keep a merry tone in her voice when she told him about her day with Alexander. Friedrich didn’t seem to appreciate her efforts in the slightest.
Ernestine looked up to the second floor. The shutters were closed over his window, which meant he was probably sleeping off last night’s indulgences, as he did so often. The only thing that surprised Ernestine was that his late appearance at the Trinkhalle morning after morning had not had consequences. My God, what if he loses his job on top of everything else?
Although her arms were sore from the unaccustomed work, Ernestine went on with it. All her neighbors were busy that early in the morning, so it was unlikely that any of them would see her slaving away in her garden like a common farm girl.
So what if they did see! Ernestine snorted contemptuously. She didn’t really care what her neighbors thought anymore.
What Sabine had seen, however, mattered far more. Sabine believed she had seen a rat on the compost heap, which was why she refused to do the job herself. Neither cajoling nor threats had been able to change her mind.
Ernestine kept peering at the mountain of kitchen waste, decaying flowers, leaves, and earth. She hoped Sabine had been mistaken and that the alleged rat was a little mouse.
Had Flora had any fear of rodents when she worked in the garden? Ernestine had never asked her. When it came down to it, no one had ever asked Flora how she was.
And what had she herself done to help Flora with the thousand tasks she did? It was not the first time the question had appeared in Ernestine’s head, and the answer was invariably devastating: not very much at all.
No, for Ernestine it had always been Friedrich this, Friedrich that. Always her one-and-only son.
“Every third thing you say is about your son and his heroic deeds at the Trinkhalle,” Gretel Grün once had chided her. “I have to say, his work there isn’t really that interesting.” Ernestine had been horrified. Why could her friends not understand that Friedrich’s happiness and contentment were her heart?
Friedrich this, Friedrich that. Just as it always had been Kuno this, Kuno that in the years before he passed away. And what thanks had he given her for that?
If only she had paid a little more attention to Flora. Maybe then she would have noticed that someone else had lured the girl astray, and maybe then she could have saved Flora from this terrible turn of events.
“Mother?” she heard directly behind her. Ernes
tine wheeled around and let out a cry.
“Good heavens, Friedrich, do you have to creep up like that?” He looked so grim and dismal: dark shadows around his eyes, empty gaze, stooped posture.
“Mother, what are you doing here?”
“I’m doing your job and turning the compost heap,” she snapped. Was he blind?
Friedrich frowned. “I would have taken care of the garden, but it looks as if you could not wait.” He shrugged. “You should stop. This work isn’t for you—you’re already red in the face.”
Ernestine was momentarily struck speechless. She had a red face? Is that all that occurred to Friedrich to say?
She was seized by such a fit of anger that she almost slapped her son’s face.
“Nothing matters to you anymore! How much longer are you going to continue like this?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said cautiously.
“Oh, you do, my boy. It’s been almost two months since Flora left us. Eight weeks in which you’ve barely taken part in the life of this household. Do you really think you’re the only one who’s suffering? Do you really believe Alexander doesn’t miss his mother? Do you think I don’t miss her? Flora was like a daughter to me. I can’t stop thinking about her . . .” Ernestine’s anger dissipated. She blinked several times, and a muscle beneath her right eye began to twitch nervously. “I want to know how she is.”
“How nice of you to think about her,” Friedrich replied drily. “Just to remind you: she’s an adulteress.”
“Oh, Friedrich. Of course I know that Flora is guilty of a great deal. But does that make the rest of us innocent?” Ernestine leaned heavily on the rake. Sadness ran through her like poison, robbing her suddenly of her strength.
Friedrich let out a bitter laugh. “Your wise words come a little late. If you’d told me about Sybille’s letter when it came and not just recently, then things might never have come this far.” He turned on his heel and marched away.
Ernestine stayed behind, trembling and cold. It was all she could do to stay on her feet.
The Flower Shop (The Seed Traders' Saga Book 2) Page 33
