“I don’t know. Maybe. It’s this stupid flower. It’s supposed to be a tulip but it looks more like a bloodstain. It’s gross.”
Emilie wants to reassure her that the small bouquet of red, yellow, and blue flowers is pretty, but it’s not. It looks as though a cat has gotten hold of three balls of yarn while high on catnip. The cross-stitch is a disaster. It cannot be salvaged. Emilie pries the hoop from Irene’s tense fist and drops to her knees before the girl. She holds the hoop steady and urges Irene to continue.
When Irene’s hand has stopped shaking in anger, Emilie leans forward and whispers, “Can I tell you a secret?”
The girl nods.
“I don’t know how to cross-stitch. So you’re already better than I am.”
It’s only a small thing, but to a girl of fourteen, being superior to a grown woman in any area is a very big deal. Irene sniffs, lifts her chin, and turns her attention back to the hoop. “Your mother really should have taught you.”
Emilie suppresses the urge to laugh. It feels good, this sudden mirth, but she shows nothing more than a twitching smile. The stewardess has long since mastered the art of restraint. One day Irene Doehner will learn that restraint trumps superiority every time. But the poor girl has many years to go before she will be open to such a lesson.
After several long moments Emilie can sense that Matilde Doehner is watching her. When she looks up, the mother winks and mutters something about herculean efforts and the patience of saints. It feels good to be part of this small domestic scene.
Little Werner chooses this moment to roll out of his chair and flop around on the carpet like a dying bird. “I’m bored!” he begins to squawk over and over again. Emilie has to admit that his thin, piercing voice is eerily avian. His siblings, however, do not see the humor in his actions. Walter kicks him and tells him to shut up. Irene begs her mother to make him stop.
“Werner,” Matilde says, her voice low, almost disinterested, “get control of yourself.”
Perhaps the children have run out of coping skills as well, because the boy decides to test his mother. He continues thrashing around, arms and legs akimbo. “Bored, bored, bored. So bored!”
Matilde sighs. “Irene, go get your father.”
Before Emilie can draw her next breath, Werner is on his feet begging and pleading and promising to behave.
“You made your choice,” his mother says. “Sit on your hands and wait.”
Hermann Doehner isn’t all that tall for a man, but he has a kind and handsome face. He is mostly bald, but his blue eyes and dark brows make up for this. He enters the promenade, hands on hips. Lips pressed together. Irene trails behind him, trying not to look triumphant.
“Come with me,” Hermann says.
Little Werner shakes his head. “I don’t want to.”
He leans over his son. Whispers. “I expect better of you.”
Hermann sets a hand on Werner’s shoulder and smiles at his wife. It’s a look that says boys will be boys. But it also says that he will take care of this and she needn’t trouble herself. He plants a kiss on Matilde’s forehead, looks at Emilie, then says to his wife, “Have you asked her yet?”
“I was just getting to that.”
“If she says no we’ll blame it on this little rascal.” Hermann leads a white-faced Werner out of the room.
Matilde watches her husband go with a calculating expression but doesn’t explain his comment. Instead she says, “Just think, this time tomorrow we will be touring New York City. Hermann has booked us a suite at the Astor Hotel in Times Square. I hear they have copper bathtubs and room service. We’re only in New York for two days, but we’ll be going to Carnegie Hall and Broadway and the Central Park Zoo. On Saturday we’re boarding an ocean liner for Havana where we’ll have a week on the beach. Palm trees and pineapple juice. Can you imagine?”
No. Emilie cannot. But she smiles politely anyway.
“It’s one day from Havana to the port in Veracruz. Plus another day or so to travel inland, and then it’s Mexico City and home to our cool, tiled house and windows that don’t need glass, only shutters. We have a terrace and a garden and fifteen banana trees in the yard. There is no winter in Mexico, did you know that? It is warm and beautiful all year long.”
“It sounds absolutely lovely.”
If Emilie had been paying attention she would have realized that Matilde has been working up to this all along. “You could come with us, you know?”
A long, uncertain pause. “I beg your pardon?”
“You’re very good with the children. They like you.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“It was Hermann’s idea. Not that I oppose, mind you. But it’s just the way businessmen think. Acquiring assets and such.”
She understands now, or at least she thinks she does, but Emilie wants Matilde to spell it out because she is tired of false hope. “What are you asking?”
“I’m offering you a job, Fr?ulein Imhof. We would like you to come to Mexico with us and be our governess.”