“Oh, don’t bother. I only wanted to thank you for your note this morning. You were very kind to answer me so quickly.”
His bristling black mustache lifts in a smile, and it transforms his face, which usually hangs below his large dark downturned eyes in an expression of natural dole. Violet knows he has a troubled marriage; his wife, rarely seen, is said to be quitting Berlin for Zurich with the children. Perhaps she’s already left. Walter says Einstein has a mistress, his own cousin: You see, my dear? Beasts, all of us. But Violet walks past Einstein’s handsome drooping face daily, and she thinks perhaps he has more in common with her than with Walter.
“You asked an excellent question, Frau Grant,” Einstein says. “I hope my answer was intelligible.”
“The handwriting or the equations?” Violet laughs, or rather the schnapps laughs for her, God bless it.
“Both!” He laughs with her.
“I’m only teasing. Your handwriting was no trouble. I transcribe all my husband’s work, and his writing is much worse, believe me.” Violet speaks without thinking, and gets her just deserts: a look of compassion.
“I’m sorry Dr. Grant couldn’t be with us tonight,” Herr Einstein says awkwardly.
“Oh, he doesn’t miss us a bit. He’s at a party in Leipzigerstrasse, very glamorous, loads of courtiers and officials.”
“And my mother.” Henry ranges up alongside. His bow dangles from his fingers. “No fashionable party would be complete without her.”
“At least you have each other, then.” Einstein looks between the two of them and smiles vaguely.
Violet feels a little pink. She opens her mouth to reply, but Herr Planck is already calling them to order for the Dvo?ák.
Afterward, as they’re gathering their music, Violet tries to think of some excuse to approach him again. The room is full of happy chatter, of the exuberant good feeling created from the chemical reaction between music and schnapps. Einstein is speaking to Lise, both of them smiling. Violet gathers herself and steps forward.
Herr Planck’s hand falls on her shoulder. “My dear, there’s a gentleman here for you and young Mr. Mortimer.”
She turns. “A gentleman?”
Planck steps aside.
Lionel Richardson. Dressed in formal blacks, a silk hat dangling from one hand, a cane dangling from the opposite elbow, silvery-gray eyes gazing quietly at them. His mighty soldier’s torso overflows the doorway.
“There you are,” he says.
“Yes, here we are.” Violet looks at him quizzically. Her hand moves unconsciously to her neck, to conceal the startled jump of her pulse. “Why are you here?”
The happy chatter dies away. Everyone turns to take in the sight of Lionel, brimming with outdoor energy, covered in night air and glamour. He leans against the door frame and crosses his arms. “To escort you home, of course. You and Henry.”
“Escort us home?”
“There’s a devil of a business in the streets tonight. The usual sort of Saturday revelry, I suppose, but hardly the sort of environment for a gently bred young lady and a chap of Mr. Mortimer’s tender years.” He tosses a smile at Henry.
Violet’s hands close around her leather satchel. “I am quite capable—”
“I’m sure you are, but I promised Madame de Saint-Honoré that I would see to her son’s safety personally.”
“I see.” Violet’s pulse calms. Behind her, the scientists have resumed talking, resolutely ignoring the two of them. She turns to Herr Planck and speaks in German. “Are we quite finished here, then?”
“Yes, yes! Go on, before it becomes late.”
“Well said, Herr Planck.” Lionel pushes himself away from the door frame and holds out his hand. “Have you a coat?”
“No.”
Henry draws next to her. “This is quite unnecessary, sir. We’d have been all right on our own.”
“No doubt, no doubt. But mothers will worry, won’t they?” Lionel winks at Henry, a soldier’s conspiratorial wink, man to man. Henry seems to read something in this wink. He straightens his shoulders and picks up his violin case.
“Ready, then, Mrs. Grant?” says Lionel.
“Yes, quite ready.” Violet says good-bye to the others, an especially warm handshake with Einstein, a kiss on the cheek from Lise. Her friends, she tells herself, and the word friends is so alien and thrilling, it tingles her bones with possibility.
Outside, the early June air is still warm, the sky still retaining a faint purple glow from the departed twilight. Distant shouts carry around the buildings, distant laughter, distant tinkling of music. Berlin is enjoying itself this evening, in all the usual ways. A motor-taxi waits at the curb, rumbling with impatience, and Lionel opens the door for them.
“I am quite happy walking,” says Violet.
“But I am not.” Lionel holds up his cane. “My operation was only a week ago, and strictly speaking I’m not supposed to be up at all.”
Violet slides into the rear seat after Henry, and Lionel shuts the door behind them and swings into the front, next to the driver. “Franz?sischestrasse, bitte,” he says quietly.