He shook his head. “No. I don’t understand that at all. We’re just going for a walk. There’s nothing indecent about that!” Unfortunately, he added silently. He stopped, one hand holding her sleeve. He lifted her chin so that she had to look him in the eye. “Flora, now don’t be so terribly stern. Enjoy the moment.”
“Enjoy . . . but it isn’t about enjoyment!” she replied. “It is about doing your daily work. About attending to one’s duties, and about being someone that others can rely on. Isn’t it?”
Konstantin dropped the branches and flowers and all his reservations about married women.
He took Flora in his arms and kissed her. Kissed her and kissed her and kissed her.
Chapter Forty-Six
As soon as Friedrich returned from Bad Ems, he threw himself back into his work at the Trinkhalle, making repairs and tending the property from first thing in the morning until late in the evening. Friedrich was still holding the broom he used to clear away cobwebs from the walls when the first spa guests came strolling along the paths.
What everyone in Baden-Baden had hoped for—but few believed would happen after the closure of the casino—came to pass: the streets filled with visitors, and the 1873 season began.
On the one hand, everything seemed as it always had been. But on the other, nothing was.
“It’s the middle of May already, and I still can’t find many familiar names in the guest lists. Where are my customers?” Flora leafed frantically through the Badeblatt, then looked over at Friedrich. “No sign of Matriona Schikanova. And it doesn’t look as if Piotr Vjazemskij has turned up, either.”
“Vjazemskij was only here for the casino—Baden-Baden isn’t interesting for someone like him anymore,” said Friedrich, dipping his spoon into the marmalade pot.
It was a rainy morning with low-hanging clouds and an unpleasant, gusty wind. The guests would mostly still be in bed, so he allowed himself the rare luxury of a leisurely start to the day.
The evening before, they had heated the dining room, and a little of the warmth remained. Even Alexander was sleeping soundly, although he usually woke very early—a tendency that he had indisputably inherited from his mother. Friedrich looked over to the cradle by the window and smiled. Ernestine stepped into the room.
“What a miserable day!” Cocooned in a heavy knitted cardigan, she joined them at the table. When Sabine had poured her coffee, she wrapped her hands around the cup as tightly as if her life depended on it. “Flora, am I mistaken, or did I hear you rumbling through the house before it was even light?”
“I . . . yes, I was out picking flowers,” said Flora, trying to concentrate on the guest lists. “Finally! Princess Irina Komatschova, Count Popo, and there are the Gagarins and the Menshikovs! Konstantin was right: almost all of them have come back.”
Friedrich laughed. “I could have told you they’d be back. With their International Club, no doubt they have big plans for the Iffezheim racetrack this season. Who knows, maybe you’ll get to make the laurel wreath for a winning horse.”
Flora smiled, but it was a pained smile.
“You were out picking flowers so early? It was hardly even light!” Ernestine said.
Flora frowned at her mother-in-law. “Now that spring is here, I find it easy to get up early. Besides, I can get a lot more done during the day this way.”
Was she supposed to say that it was Konstantin who made her get out of bed so early every morning? That is was because of him that she went creeping through the meadows and fields in the dawn twilight? That she did not want to run the risk of meeting him outside ever again?
Flora stared absently at her hands. That kiss . . . what a sheer delight! She had flushed hot and cold, tremors running through her, warm, exciting—
Done. A slip, one time, never to be repeated. She would make sure of that.
Of course Konstantin had apologized to her. He had been carried away by the radiance of the morning, by the bounty of nature around them, by the feeling of having discovered in Flora a kind of kindred soul.
Kindred souls—what a lovely notion.
Flora pulled herself together and tapped on the list of names of newly arrived guests. “I don’t know most of the names here. Who are these people?”
Friedrich leaned over the Badeblatt, and for a moment she thought she smelled not his scent, but Konstantin’s. Leather and tobacco and cognac and . . . but it was just the odor of the tincture that Friedrich applied to the small nicks when he shaved.
“Most of the men and women here are connected to the music world or some other side of cultural life. Really, Flora, you must know some of them from last year.”
She shrugged. Last year? She was having enough trouble with this year, with trying to act as if everything were normal, with living every day as if it were everyday.
And all the while, deep inside, an unease roiled. She often found herself unable to concentrate on her work. When was Konstantin coming? Would he come to buy flowers at all? And then she scolded herself for thinking about him so much.
“But what’s this?” Friedrich’s eyes widened. “There are also the names of several high-ranking statesmen here, from Karlsruhe and Stuttgart, even Berlin. Baron von Schimmel from Schwedhausen with his family, Count Volkhard von Fürstenweiler and his wife. And that one, too! Look at that—it’s a veritable gaggle of nobles and diplomats.” He shook his head. “It’s one of fate’s ironies, I think, that the men who had a hand in the war with France—the same men who are to blame for the French not being here—are now coming here themselves.”
“Maybe they’re trying to make up for some of Baden-Baden’s lost trade,” said Ernestine.
Friedrich snorted. “You don’t believe that. These men are coming here for the same reason as all the other guests: because Baden-Baden has something to offer them!” He nodded toward the sideboard, where a small pile of freshly printed programs for the new season lay.
Flora’s own eyes turned automatically to the stack of programs, each of which listed the attractions organized by the spa committee under the leadership of their newly appointed director. There were chamber music soirees, matinees, military concerts, galas, and symphonies—and the town’s own orchestra was playing three times a day with more than forty musicians. The Grand-Ducal Court Theater of Karlsruhe was appearing in the theater, and other German ensembles were coming to perform.
Konstantin had said that the Baden-Baden theater could stand up to the most splendid in Europe, and that she should absolutely go with him to see a performance. It would be his treat, and after the show he would take her for hot chocolate with a shot of rum. He made it sound so easy—the two of them, in public, in Baden-Baden.
He’d crept back into her thoughts again, when she should really have her mind on Friedrich, her husband, the father of her son, to whom she had sworn herself until death did them part.
“So many wonderful performances—wouldn’t you like to take me out to the theater or a concert, too?” she asked with deliberate gaiety. “Why should we leave all the nice things to the tourists?”
Friedrich drank a swig of coffee. “Because all the nice things are put on for them?” His voice was heavy with irony. “Frankly, I think the program is too much. When are the guests supposed to take the waters or bathe? Between performances?”
That was so typical of Friedrich. All he ever thought about was his precious water! Flora didn’t know whether to feel sad or angry.
“Don’t you think, Flora?” said Ernestine. Then she shook Flora’s arm. “Child, are you even listening to me? I said that theater people would certainly have a sense for flowers. With your ABC, you might be able to win over some of them as customers.”
Flora looked at her mother-in-law uncomprehendingly.