“Honestly, sometimes you’re more absentminded than me. You know what? I’m going to go to the theater myself and ask the dressing-room girls if they’d be prepared to hand out your little booklet to the guests.” Smiling kindly, she patted Flora’s hand.
“You could also count the smaller hotels this year when you print more of the ABC, and not only the big, fancy places,” Friedrich added. “The big hotels spare no effort as it is in making their guests’ stay as comfortable as possible, and the smaller places have a very hard time competing. Gustav K?rner, for example—the owner of the Hotel Marie-Eluise—was complaining to me about it just yesterday. Your ABC would be a small gift he could pass on to his guests.”
Flora frowned. “What guests? Princess Stropolski, whom I advised to take her curative baths at the Marie-Eluise, mentioned that when she went she was almost always the only guest there. My booklets would not be seen.”
“No guests? I’m not surprised,” Ernestine said. “Gustav K?rner’s wife ran off with a man from Milan, you know!” She opened her eyes wide at the horror of it.
“I haven’t heard that story yet,” said Flora as she lifted Alexander, who had just woken up, from his crib.
Friedrich nodded. “It happened last autumn. And without a woman in the house, Gustav probably won’t be able to run the hotel much longer. Marie-Eluise was the one who took care of everything. When she was there, the place was always spic-and-span. It’s a shame that the hotel is going downhill. Especially because the spring that flows through its cellars is one of the best in town. You should see the water analysis I had done for Gustav. It—”
“Everyone has their burden to bear,” Flora interrupted him. If she listened to Friedrich’s water stories one moment longer, she would go mad. She folded the Badeblatt together with her free hand and looked across the table at Friedrich and Ernestine. “Theater people, writers, politicians—it seems to me the guests who’ve come this year are as mixed a crowd as we had before. And the stage itself hasn’t changed . . .”
Chapter Forty-Seven
Baden-Baden, June 9, 1873
Dearest Mama, dearest Papa,
I hope my letter finds you well. The new season is in full swing here. Does that count as an excuse for not writing to you in so long? Mama, Papa, though I may not write as often as I should, I think of you all the time.
The days are busy here. I have a lot of new customers, mostly people who work in the theater: actors, dancers, and I’ve even got a real opera diva who comes in. She only ever wants orchids, as if those are easy to come by!
All the prominent statesmen from Berlin that Friedrich is so happy to see here, on the other hand, are rather thrifty gentlemen when it comes to flowers. But what is it Father always says? Every little bit helps.
“Is too much information about the business in a letter boring?”
Sabine finished mopping the floor, then looked up. Flora had put down her pen. “No idea. I’m not the one to ask.” Sabine tipped the sudsy water down the drain. The shop floor practically gleamed, and now she could tackle the next task. The Monday morning rush of customers had abated, and before the next ones came in the early afternoon, she wanted to get things cleaned up.
Flora had also wanted to make the most of the brief respite to write her letter to G?nningen. But instead of continuing to write, she gazed absentmindedly out the window, as she had so often recently.
Sabine sighed. Where was her friend’s mind wandering? She hoped it wasn’t to—
“When I popped off to the kitchen earlier, did Konstantin Sokerov happen to come by?” Flora asked.
“No. He hasn’t been here since Friday. It’s almost insane how much money he spends on flowers.”
“Then he probably went away with friends over the weekend,” said Flora, with feigned indifference. “Although he normally tells me if he’s doing something like that.”
“The man doesn’t owe you any explanations, you know,” said Sabine.
“I know that. And I’ll see him on Wednesday at Irina Komatschova’s reception or Thursday at the Gagarins’ garden party. Konstantin is a welcome guest wherever he goes, but that’s no surprise. He’s so charming.”
“And you are still just the woman who brings the flowers. You’re not one of them!” said Sabine grumpily. She did not like the way Flora talked about the man one little bit, nor did she like the way he seemed to haunt Flora’s thoughts. Was she in love with him? Good heavens, anything but that!
“Sabine, don’t start acting like my governess,” Flora said irritably. “There’s really nothing wrong if I exchange a few pleasantries with Konstantin at one of the parties. That’s all there is to it. Nothing has happened since that one kiss when we were out walking. He’s an honorable man, after all.” When Sabine continued to look skeptically at her, Flora muttered, “I knew I shouldn’t have told you anything about the kiss.” But her face brightened a moment later. “You should see how the women latch on to Konstantin at those parties! Sometimes it’s almost impossible for him to get free just to come and have a chat with me, and yet he’s always in a good mood. Sometimes he gives me a wink over the heads of the others, or he screws up his face like he’s sucked on a lemon. Oh, he’s so funny!” Flora sighed deeply.
She sounded so wistful. Even worse than Minka, who was head over heels in love with the head chef at the Englischer Hof. Sabine could hardly put up with their ravings anymore, particularly because she no longer had anything of her own to rave about. Moritz, the apprentice at the gentlemen’s tailor, had gone back to the family farm after the death of his father, and instead of wielding needles and a tape measure, he was wielding a pitchfork in the Black Forest. So much for their future together.
Men! Sabine glared at her washrag. The way things looked, she’d be cleaning for strangers for the rest of her life.
Flora, however, had a good husband, a lovely home, and a successful shop. What more could she want? Sabine felt like giving her a good talking-to. She would bet everything she had that Flora had fallen for that . . . good-for-nothing, even if she denied it a thousand times.
But Sabine did not trust herself to do it. Friendship aside, Flora was the woman of the house these days, and she was the one who paid Sabine. It was not necessary to tell her what she thought.
“Should I change the water in all the buckets, or just for the peonies?” she asked.
“What kind of question is that? All the flowers get fresh water, of course!” Flora looked at the freshly mopped floor with narrowed eyes. “Back in the corner there . . . run the washrag over that again. And then fill up the basket with the binding things.”
“With cord? Or do you want the heavy string?”
“Some of everything, so I can choose. And where’s the binding wire gone now? Why must you all make my work so hard?” Flora dipped her pen back into the inkwell. A fat drop of ink splattered onto the letter paper. She hastily dabbed at it with a cloth. “Damn it. Everything’s going wrong today.”
Sabine rolled her eyes. Lately, Flora had often berated those closest to her, only to feel sorry a short time later and apologize for taking out her bad mood on someone else.
When Flora finally spoke again, Sabine was counting on another apology, but Flora said, “You know, Konstantin really doesn’t have an easy time of it. All those nights spent awake at Püppi’s side, nights filled with pain and tears. The princess’s fears are draining him completely. I would like so much to help him.”
“What are you talking about? It’s not as if he’s with her just for fun,” Sabine said, planting her hands on her hips and glaring at Flora. “The old lady pays for everything, right? That makes Konstantin no more than a paid laborer, which is no reason to feel sorry for him. Do you feel sorry for me because I’m your maid?”