Poor Flora. Caught in flagrante by her husband—he would much rather have spared her a scene like that. He did not like to think what awaited her at home.
How had her husband even been able to find her? Who the devil had talked? Who even knew about their little rendezvous? He and Flora had been exceptionally discreet. Had it simply been an accident? Konstantin shook his head. He could not imagine that that was possible.
Of course, Irina and several of her guests had noticed the incident with Flora’s husband: the man had run out through the ballroom as if a horde of howling Cossacks were after him.
“A furious husband and a distraught wife. Count yourself lucky that the man’s a coward. Another would have challenged you to a duel,” Irina had hissed at him afterward. “Konstantin, you are and will always be a rogue.” She had slapped him on the back of his head as if he were a recalcitrant schoolboy, but the next moment had hooked one hand in the crook of his elbow and said that after a shock like that, they could both do with a good glass of schnapps. Popo—who had, in fact, seen nothing of the incident—was more than happy to join them for a drink.
After half a bottle of plum brandy, Konstantin could no longer see why he had broken his old and fundamental rule, never to get involved with a married woman.
“Will you be at Iwan’s tonight?” Matriona asked as the pony cart finally pulled up in front of Konstantin’s hotel. “He tells me it’s about time he finally teaches us how to play cards. Funny man . . .”
“Probably later,” Konstantin replied. He yawned lavishly. “Somehow, the afternoon’s events have made me very tired.” He grabbed the bottle of champagne he’d picked up before leaving the Forellenhof and jumped down from the cart.
What a day. Grinning to himself, Konstantin took the stairs up to his room two at a time. Maybe he’d go to bed, drink the champagne, and fall asleep. On the other hand, a round or two of cards with Iwan was not something to scoff at. The players there were all experienced old foxes, and the vodka flowed freely. The bets, however, were high, so he—
“Flora! What are you doing here?” He stopped in the doorway, shocked.
“Konstantin, finally!” Drenched and shivering, Flora threw herself into his arms, burst into tears, and was not to be consoled at all. Konstantin looked over her head at the bags piled beside the bed. That did not look good . . . Was this the bill for a bit of fun?
Damn it, what was the porter thinking, letting her into his room?
The way she clung to him and expected him to make everything right again, blathering on so fast that he had trouble following her words!
“The door was locked . . . not even allowed to see Alexander . . . so angry . . . how did he even find us? . . . never felt so miserable . . .”
“My poor little flower girl.” Konstantin tried to look sympathetic as he held Flora in his arms. “Easy now. Your husband is sure to calm down soon. Everything will be all right. But you need to get out of those wet things. It won’t help anyone if you come down with pneumonia now, on top of everything else.” With experienced hands, he went to work on the tight knots holding her skirt in place. Beneath the cold, wet fabric, Flora’s body was encouragingly warm. Like a ripe peach. Her nipples were pink and firm, her body pressing against his . . .
Suddenly, the game of cards was forgotten.
Chapter Fifty-Five
On Tuesday, Siegfried Flumm’s wagon pulled up as usual in front of the store. He had known, of course, that Flora would not be there. Gossip and rumors spread on the wind in Baden-Baden, as they always had, but he preferred to feign obliviousness. The Sonnenscheins were good customers, and he would do what he could not to ruin his relationship with the family by talking badly about Flora in her absence. In the end, everything would probably straighten itself out, and anyone who’d grumbled about husband or wife would end up the fool. He arranged his flowers prettily in their buckets and prepared to extol them profusely. Ernestine Sonnenschein and the housemaid were already standing around the wagon, looking rather lost.
Sabine frowned. Calendula, rudbeckia, phlox . . . what was Mr. Flumm talking about? And why didn’t Mrs. Sonnenschein simply send the nurseryman away again? She shifted Alexander from her left hip to her right. What did Mrs. Sonnenschein think she was doing? Did she want to take over Flora’s work? Before she could answer her own questions, the first customers marched into the store.
The nurseryman, who had followed Sabine’s gaze, cleared his throat. “I’d recommend some of the early asters and a dozen or two of these gorgeous sunflowers and a few bundles of greenery. Nothing complicated.”
“I don’t know . . . Maybe we should fetch Friedrich and ask his advice?” Ernestine looked wide-eyed from the gardener to Sabine, while Else Walbusch stood in the doorway and tried to catch their attention, which they studiously ignored. “Sabine?”
“The master . . .” has been lying in bed dead drunk since Sunday afternoon, Sabine came very close to saying. “The master has another commitment, I’m afraid,” she said instead. “Madam, do you really think we should try to run the store in Flora’s absence? I mean, we really have no idea . . .”
“I don’t know,” Ernestine said nervously. “I don’t know anything at all.” Her voice was on the verge of cracking, and her eyes were suspiciously moist. “Things have to go on somehow, don’t they? And don’t we owe it to Flora to at least try?”
Sabine shrugged noncommittally.
“Excuse me? Could I perhaps get my flowers here, or do I have to go to the market?” said a voice from the front of the shop. Else Walbusch, of course. Sabine was certain a little bird had twittered in Else’s ear about things going on in the Sonnenschein house, and now she’d come to delight in the misery of others.
Sabine glared angrily at her.
“Would madam not like at least to try?” said Mr. Flumm. “I’d be glad to put my own modest expertise at your disposal.”
“Sabine?” Ernestine looked at the maid uncertainly. “What do you think?”
Sabine sighed. “How hard can it be? I think we’ll muddle through.”
Ernestine smiled bravely at Mr. Flumm. “Let me have a bucket of each kind, and as much greenery as you think necessary.”
“But you’ll have to give us especially good prices today,” Sabine added quickly, ignoring the nurseryman’s look of disapproval.
“I also have these beautiful sunflowers. Or would you prefer the asters?” Ernestine held up both varieties for comparison.
“The sunflowers, yes,” said Else Walbusch. Then she leaned over the counter and acted as though she did not want Sabine to hear, though her voice was as loud as a siren. “Is it true, what they’re saying out on the streets? That your Friedrich threw his wife out of the house?”
Ernestine jumped back as if she’d been bitten.
Well, aren’t we off to a promising start, Sabine thought grimly.
“If anyone asks you about Flora, tell them she’s gone to G?nningen,” Ernestine had told her early on Monday. Sabine knew from the start that they would not get far with that tactic.
“My Otto’s asking whether Friedrich has already filed for divorce. You Lutherans can do that, can’t you?” Else asked.
Ernestine’s hand flew to her throat as if she were suddenly unable to catch her breath. “Heaven help us, I hadn’t even thought about that.”
Else nodded self-importantly. “Remember the old carpenter up past the market? When his Margret ran off with the son of Schwarz, the forest ranger, he swore out a complaint against his wife before you could blink. Your son’s probably planning something like that, too.
“I’ll say this much: the poor child!” Else looked at Alexander, who lay in a basket and chewed gummily at a twig. “I always suspected Flora was not to be trusted. I only have to think back to the incident with the poisonous plants—I almost died!” She looked around at Luise Schierstiefel, who had just come in. “You weren’t much better off than me, were you?”