Flora sipped courageously at the water in the glass—and it tasted disgusting! Hot and oily and salty. Sabine had really been right.
The other visitors to the Trinkhalle—primarily pale-looking women of advanced age—seemed to find the water quite palatable. Some, she noticed, were going back for a fresh glass.
I suspect the “leisure” part is not for me, Flora was about to say when, behind her, she heard a loud woman’s voice.
“Mr. Sunshine! How nice to see you!” A tall woman with broad shoulders came striding toward them in an unladylike fashion. She wore a rather austere-looking blouse over a black skirt, and her unadorned gray hair swung in a single braid over her shoulder.
“Lady Lucretia—the pleasure is all mine.” A smile lit up Friedrich’s face as he took the woman’s proffered hand and shook it vigorously. “You arrived yesterday, didn’t you? I read your name in the Badeblatt,” he said. “And as I can see, you have found your way back to the daily routine without any trouble at all.” He indicated the oversized glass that the woman held in her hand.
While the woman drank a large swig of the medicinal water, with Friedrich benevolently looking on, Flora used the moment to empty her glass unseen behind her back. How could anyone voluntarily swallow so much of the stuff?
“My dear Mr. Sunshine, you would not believe how happy I am to be back here after the miserable English winter,” the woman said, and her red-veined cheeks grew a shade redder as she spoke.
Mr. Sunshine—it sounded so funny that Flora had to bite her lip to stop herself from giggling. The woman was from England, then. Friedrich could introduce us, couldn’t he? Flora thought to herself. But he was just standing there, listening to the woman as if spellbound.
“My day begins with a robust march,” the woman was saying. “That is followed by a number of exercises designed to promote one’s physical well-being. After breakfast comes my daily visit here to the Trinkhalle, then it’s back to the bathhouse at my hotel, then—”
“And the Kneipp hydrotherapy?” Friedrich interrupted her. “Have you decided to do without those this year?”
“Oh, no! I save that for the end of the day, along with a decent glass of brandy. You’ll see—by the end of the summer, I’ll be practically reborn,” she said, and they both laughed.
Feeling rather confused, Flora joined in their laughter. What were they talking about?
“Lady Lucretia O’Donegal is one of the Trinkhalle’s long-standing visitors,” Friedrich explained when they were outside and alone. “She has a weak heart, for which her doctor long ago prescribed her a course of hydrotherapy. She has been coming to Baden-Baden every year since. And unlike most of the others here, her therapy really is all about her health. Some years ago, she asked for an analysis of our spring, and once she was convinced of the quality of our medicinal water, her drinking regime became a fixed part of her daily life at the spa. Lady Lucretia is a wonderful example of just how beneficial our waters are.”
They were walking along one of the gravel paths, and Friedrich plucked a few leaves from a bush and absentmindedly rubbed them between his fingers.
A weak heart? Flora’s impression had been of an exceptionally robust woman.
Friedrich abruptly tossed the crushed leaves aside. “We need more guests like her! But most of the people who would benefit from a course of treatment here can’t afford it. Poor factory workers who tend a machine for twelve hours at a time. Or miners whose lungs have been damaged.”
Flora looked sideways at Friedrich. She had never heard him sound so bitter. Poor factory workers . . . she could not imagine people like that at the Trinkhalle at all.
“There are some seats free just now,” she said, and she pointed to the chairs that were arranged in a semicircle around a small stage outside the Conversationshaus. Friedrich had told her that, several times a day, open-air concerts for the spa guests took place, and Flora, walking with Sabine in the evenings, had passed by several times when a concert was under way, but the young women had not found the courage to sit down with the paying guests. Now, a band was playing a march, and they sat and listened for a few minutes, during which Flora covertly used her handkerchief and a little spit to try to remove the white rim around her shoes caused by the dusty paths. She would have liked to sit a little longer, but Friedrich was already on his feet again—there was so much more he wanted to show her.
“It looks as if the people who come here still have money to throw away.” Friedrich nodded in the direction of the street cafés, their tables all occupied now, at midday.
She had wanted to ask Friedrich if they might stop and enjoy a cup of coffee, but after his last remark she did not dare. The disparaging undertone in his voice was clear.
Was he fundamentally against such pleasure? Or could he simply not afford it?
Since her arrival in the Sonnenschein house, she had not seen an open bottle of wine, or any other delicious distractions. Sabine had enough trouble just filling the family’s bellies with the money she had for groceries.
Flora glanced at Friedrich. He looked pale, perhaps even a little ill. It seemed his “medicinal waters” did little to stave off hunger.
By contrast, life back home was far more luxurious. Her father was always bringing fine things home from his travels—nougat, honey, candied violets, and more. No one had to fear going hungry in their house, that was certain.
The aroma of fresh coffee wafted across the gravel path they were walking along. And the cakes that the serving girls brought out on white plates looked delicious. Flora’s mouth watered.
While Friedrich led her onward, Flora turned her head back for a final, almost envious, look. On the outermost edge of the many tables, she noticed one party of guests at a single long table. Three waitresses bustled around the group, carrying heavily laden trays. The women at the table wore brightly colored garments and raised their glasses with bejeweled hands for a toast to the gentlemen. One elderly woman was feeding her little dog a spoonful of whipped cream—how unpleasant!
Flora touched Friedrich’s arm and drew his attention to the group. “Where are those people from? They seem to be speaking several different languages.”
“Russians, most likely. Many of them speak excellent French,” he said.
Flora raised her eyebrows. Her guide really seemed to have an answer to everything.
Her parents would have felt at home among all the vibrant activity. Flora pictured her father sitting beneath one of the huge chestnut trees, drinking beer, while her mother sipped a glass of wine. Her parents would not have begrudged themselves that.
“Your visitors all seem so cheerful—it makes you want to talk and laugh along with them. And they’re all so beautifully dressed. Just look!” Flora pointed toward three little girls trotting along clumsily beside their governess. Their dresses were made of layers of lace, with countless colorful glass beads sewn on. But in such elaborate outfits, they could not jump puddles, shoot marbles, or even dance in a circle properly.
Flora was still caught up in that thought when the smallest of the three girls suddenly pulled free of the governess’s hand and charged off toward one of the swans that had settled on the grass some distance away.
“Lebed! Lebed! Lebed!” the child cried over and over while the governess seemed rooted to the spot in sudden fright. She had both hands pressed over her mouth and watched wide-eyed as the other two girls joined in the chorus of “Lebed!” and ran toward the swans.
Why didn’t the governess run after them? She must know that swans could easily turn aggressive. Flora quickly moved to block the two other girls while the swan suddenly rose to its feet and hissed anxiously.
“Friedrich, the swan has cygnets!” Flora pointed urgently in the direction of the small flock that had appeared from beneath the swan’s spread wings.