He lifted his hands helplessly. “What am I saying? Why am I blaming myself at all? I certainly haven’t made any mistakes.”
The older woman sighed. “One does not necessarily have to make mistakes to court disaster. Sometimes it’s enough to do nothing at all. Or, to put it another way, to refrain from doing something.”
“What am I supposed to have refrained from doing? Ach, this talk makes no sense. I repeat: Flora is an adulteress! And a mother who abandoned her son.” Friedrich looked in disgust at the tea the Englishwoman had poured for him. He would have preferred another brandy.
Lady Lucretia turned her head slightly and looked at him sideways. “Wait just a moment. Didn’t you say that you had thrown your wife out of the house?”
Friedrich glared at her angrily. “What if I did? What difference does it make? She should have reckoned with that! Was I supposed to forgive her?”
Lady Lucretia held his gaze. “Only you can answer that.”
Chapter Fifty-Eight
The woman stood on tiptoe and peered over the heads of the waiting crowds along Lichtenthaler Allee.
“Not a high-society face in sight.” She turned around to her husband in annoyance, and seemed not to notice that she elbowed Flora in the ribs as she did so. “I don’t care if it’s the last hunt of the season, if they don’t show up soon, I’m going home and getting started with the cooking. Seppi, stop that!” She reached down and slapped the hand of her little boy, maybe three years old, who was tugging wildly at her skirt. The little boy let out an outraged howl.
Her husband smiled. “Maybe you’re right. So what are you putting on the table today?” He lifted the boy onto his shoulders, and the howling ceased.
Flora smiled at the boy, who had his hands clenched tightly in his father’s tangled curls.
“Steak, mashed potatoes, and gravy.”
“With onions?”
“Of course with onions. I know how much you like them.” The woman looked fondly at her husband.
Flora turned away abruptly.
Was Friedrich perhaps standing there somewhere with Alexander? Or were they at home with his mother, already tucking into the Sunday lunch that Sabine had cooked?
Flora felt herself on the verge of tears, as she always did when she thought of her son. But she forced herself to push the thought aside, and craned her neck with all the others there to catch a glimpse of the hunting party.
Oh, Konstantin, you always leave me alone.
In truth, Flora had not wanted to come out here today at all, but sheer boredom had driven her out of their hotel room. When she finally reached Lichtenthaler Allee, the best viewing spots had already been taken. The Sunday hunts in autumn were a spectacle, and many came to see the hunters riding by.
With her headscarf pulled low over her eyes, Flora moved into the middle of the crowd.
A leaf drifted down and settled on Flora’s shoulder. She picked it off and held it delicately in her hand.
Autumn leaves . . . The sight of the first colored leaves of autumn had always made her heart leap. As a child, she had loved to collect the largest and most colorful leaves with her brothers. Later, she had incorporated the leaves into her autumn bouquets. The year before, she had even decorated their front window with them—much to Ernestine’s displeasure! “Child, it looks as if the wind blew the leaves into the store and you’re too lazy to sweep them out again,” she had said.
Ernestine, I miss you so much. You and Mother and everyone else.
Flora closed her eyes, as if like that she could flee from her memories. She had not written home to G?nningen for months. What was she supposed to put into a letter? Lies? Or the truth, one so terrible that Flora preferred to say nothing at all? She imagined her parents’ hand-wringing if they knew . . . But then, maybe they already did know. Maybe Friedrich had written to them. Or Ernestine. Perhaps that was it; otherwise, wouldn’t her mother at least have come for her?
Flora inhaled the clear air deeply. It smelled of leaves and horse manure, of the wood of freshly felled birches, of the fires burning in the potato fields.
Intoxicated by the spicy mix of aromas, Flora tore off her headscarf and turned her face up to the autumn sun, falling in streams of light through the colorful canopy of leaves. If someone recognized her, she no longer cared.
What a gorgeous day it was!
The perfect day to gather chestnuts, or to tie a wreath. To dry flowers and weave garlands. A day for purple bouquets and aromatic herb bundles, for silver thistles and the first sprigs of fir. And—
Over! Done! Don’t cry, don’t cry . . .
Konstantin would come soon, and then she would smile. He hated it when she was feeling weepy. He did not want to carry the burden of her sadness; he wanted things to celebrate, wanted gaiety and high spirits.
Flora had become a good actress. Hardly a sigh escaped her anymore, nor did her eyes brim with tears. She could laugh out loud when she felt like nothing more than bawling.
Shielding her eyes from the sun with one hand, Flora looked off into the distance. Maybe Konstantin would go out for a walk with her later? If they walked a short way off the paths, they could go hand in hand, collect leaves, fashion pipes from acorns and twigs, as she had as a child in G?nningen.
Flora’s spirits brightened at the thought. She was sure that such a playful idea would appeal to Konstantin.
Yes, Konstantin liked her cheerfulness. He would not have asked her to go with him otherwise. “Paris is an exciting city,” he’d said when he’d told her about his plan to leave at the end of the coming week. He had not asked about what she might like to do.
An exciting city. Was that reason enough to leave behind everything one held dear? A shadow crossed Flora’s face. She could not leave. Whatever happened, she had to stay close to her son.
But Konstantin never considered things like that. He’d been so excited when he’d said to her, “Come with me and we’ll spend a glorious time together! Dear Anna tells me there is more than enough entertainment in Paris right now.”
For whom? she had thought about asking. For you and “dear Anna”? While I get left behind in some hotel room like a forgotten toy? I’m good enough for you at night, but during the day you’d rather adorn yourself with Russian royalty.
Flora could not imagine that Konstantin would be any more willing to show himself in public with her in Paris than he was in Baden-Baden. From what he’d told her, almost the entire Russian circle of friends was planning to spend the winter there.
“Dear Anna . . .” Her name had come up more and more, lately. Did she have her eye on Konstantin? Was she the one who paid his bills now, the one who found a horse for him to ride today?
It struck Flora as strange that she felt no fear or worry at the thought. Strange, too, that she hardly cared at all with whom he spent his time when he was not with her. She could not change anything about it in any case. Besides, Konstantin assured her constantly that he would only ever love her, Flora.
Love . . . Flora knew less than ever what that was.
Suddenly, a tremor of unrest ran through the crowd around her.
“Look! There they are!”
“What a beautiful coach.”
“Look at the wonderful horses!” Fingers pointed, necks stretched. Flora received another jab in the ribs, and someone trod painfully on her right foot.
The twenty-member orchestra specially assembled to mark the occasion broke into a brisk marching tune when the first carriage—an open landau decorated with garlands of fir—rolled past. Count Popo held the reins of the two black horses that slung strands of saliva with every snort onto the crowds that lined the way. Behind him on the wagon, on a bed of greenery, lay the body of a huge wild boar, a bright-red apple wedged between its jaws. The dead beast drew admiring comments from the crowd.