Ernestine never had considered seriously that she might one day have to go on living without her husband. If she ever found herself drifting into such grim thoughts, she had always pictured Kuno at her grave: the way he laid flowers, and the way he used a small hoe to keep her last resting place free of weeds.
Kuno’s death, therefore, came as even more of a shock to her. He was not young, of course, and not in the best of health. And Kuno had always been somehow old. Even when he was courting her, there had been something wooden about him, and he had been sickly back then, too. At the start, she had been sympathetic toward him for his weak constitution, but at some point she had stopped paying it much attention. Instead, she ran his household as best she could.
And this was the thanks she got . . .
Ernestine bit her teeth together hard.
She was sitting in the dining room, as she did every morning. Not because she felt particularly at home in there. The opposite, in fact, was true. The sight of Kuno’s empty chair was almost more than she could bear. But it was no better in the bedroom, where it still smelled of him, or in the ironing room, where his suits hung beside the door.
Ernestine stroked her fingers tenderly over the arrangement of dried flowers. Even in these cold months, Flora thought to decorate the table with flowers. It was also Flora who tended Kuno’s grave—since the funeral, Ernestine had not been back to the graveyard. Others believed her grief was too great, and Ernestine let them believe it.
The truth was that her anger was too great. She did not want to lay eyes on Kuno ever again, not even on his grave.
How dare he leave her alone?
Ernestine glared in fury at the chair on which Kuno had sat for years.
He had not even left a will. The lawyer that she and Friedrich had visited, however, had told them that even without a will, not much would change for them.
Sneaking away like that, without a word—that was no way to behave!
When she thought about it, though, hadn’t he spent his life in much the same way? Always wanting his peace and quiet to read his newspaper. Bismarck and the emperor—oh, Kuno knew all about them. He could talk about all that with Schierstiefel for hours at a time. But other conversations were far less important to him. Couldn’t he have spoken to the manager of the Conversationshaus just once? Perhaps their flower shop could have been the one to decorate its halls.
When they were first married and had opened the shop, many ideas of that sort had gone through Ernestine’s mind. She would gladly have brought a little momentum into the new business. But all Kuno wanted, even then, was his peace and quiet.
“Don’t worry your head needlessly! Don’t interfere!” His words from that time still echoed in her ears.
And at some point, Ernestine had bowed to his will and spent the subsequent decades under the assumption that as a woman, it was only proper to stay in the background when it came to business matters. But when she had visited G?nningen, she had begun to have her doubts—Flora’s mother and the other women most definitely did worry about the business! They did interfere. They did not let their men drown in despair and apathy . . . as she had done.
Ernestine gave herself a shake, as if someone had dropped ice down her back. She had never had much interest in wealth, but a little more money would have been nice.
Her eyes automatically turned to the drawer in which she kept her housekeeping money. She did not need to open it to know how little was inside. But no, “don’t worry your head!”
How were things supposed to go on? What were they supposed to live on?
With her head propped on her hands, she watched Sabine come in to set the table for lunch. One soup bowl for each of them, no more.
She knew that Friedrich meant well, sitting with her for hours and holding her hand, but it was not helpful. He was a good son, but his salary was not enough to feed an entire family, a fact that he seemed unaware of, just as he seemed unaware that Flora was consumed with worry. She moved through the house like a shadow of herself.
It was not Flora’s fault that the business was doing so poorly. The blame for that lay squarely with Else Walbusch and the other women, all indifferent to their plight, none of them willing to trust the girl to tie a beautiful bouquet.
And all Friedrich had to say was “Things will turn for the better.”
Ernestine sniffed. That was the kind of talk she would have expected from Kuno.
If there was one thing she had learned in her life, it was that absolutely nothing would turn for the better if no one lent an active hand.
She had to speak to Friedrich. And to Flora and Sabine. Ernestine prayed to the Lord above that she would not start to rail against Kuno when she did.
As if to practice, she cleared her throat.
A short time later, the family sat together for lunch. Without warning, Flora blurted, “If something doesn’t change soon in the shop, we’ll be forced to close.”
Friedrich went on spooning his soup into his mouth without looking up.
Flora went on. “Now that Kuno’s regular customers have deserted us, we have only one chance. We must win the tourists as customers! And the only way to do that is with the language of flowers. I know Kuno had no interest in that because he was afraid he would just be confusing our customers. But—”
“And he was right, wasn’t he?” Friedrich interrupted her.
“Just listen to what I have in mind first. You know the notebook I’ve been keeping. I’ve got so much information in there now that it will be easy for me to go through and choose the loveliest symbolic meanings. If I write my own flower primer, so to speak, and have it printed . . .”
Friedrich slapped one hand against his forehead theatrically. “Now I understand. Today is April first!” He laughed out loud.
Ernestine looked at him reproachfully. Couldn’t he see how serious Flora was?
“Friedrich, this is not a joke!” Flora cried. “Not at all. I’ve already written home about it. Seraphine would be prepared to help me and would even come to Baden-Baden. Of course, it would not be a real book, but more of a booklet. But with Seraphine’s illustrations, it will certainly be very lovely. And it won’t be a problem to fund it. Uncle Valentin wants to pay for the printing. He says we should print more than I had in mind, because they would also be a useful aid for selling seeds. Friedrich, I’d finally have something special to offer the people who come here for the season.”
Friedrich laid his soup spoon aside with a loud clack. “You seem to have thought this through very carefully. But did it occur to you to talk your plans through with me before you started getting everyone else you know involved? And, if I may be so bold, I daresay that the language of flowers might not be as special as you seem to think. And that you are willing to hurl us into debt for it . . . well, I don’t think that’s good at all.”
Flora looked at her husband with embarrassment. “Debt? But—”
“Enough!” Ernestine shouted.
Flora’s and Friedrich’s heads jerked around.
Ernestine glared angrily at her son. “It’s shameful how little trust you put in your wife! If Flora thinks her flower booklet is the right thing to do, and if her family is willing to support her with it, then we will certainly not set any obstacles in her path. Or do you want to take over the running of the shop yourself?”
Friedrich shook his head in confusion. “That’s out of the question, of course. I just meant—”
“Then good,” Ernestine interrupted him. She turned to Flora. A smile played on her thin lips.
“Your aunt Seraphine is welcome here anytime, if she doesn’t mind that things are a little basic just now.”
“But, Mother! Father would never have wanted Flora—”
“Your father is dead! But we must go on,” Ernestine said, cutting him off again. “Flora, if your flower primer has to be ready for the start of the season, then you will have to hurry. Who knows? Maybe I might even be of some use to you and your aunt, at least a little?”
Chapter Thirty-Three