Tempting Fate (81 page)

“It is only my concern for you,” Natter protested unctuously. “You have no one to guide you now, and someone must be willing to protect you from yourself.”

Gudrun felt tears in her eyes, not from sorrow but from anger. “And you have decided that you—
you
—have an obligation to watch over me? I am an adult, Herr Natter. I have taken care of my life for almost a decade, and during that time all you offered me was insults!” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Now, you presume an authority that I would never allow you!”

Natter’s face became solicitous. “I did not mean to distress you, my dear. You are overset because of my severity—”

“No! I am not overset! I am
furious!
” she shouted at him. “Listen to you! You pompous, lecherous fool!”

“Gudrun!” Natter exclaimed harshly. “You forget yourself.”

“Not I, Mein Herr. You have had your chance to bully me, and I have listened to you with more patience than you deserve, but now I am telling you that I wish you to leave Wolkighügel. I will tell you when you are welcome here again.” She trembled with rage, and wondered at her reckless nerve that sustained her against this man.

“I see.” Natter bowed to her with cold formality. “You have made a great error, my dear. I was prepared to give you my advice and protection, but you will have none of it. You tell me that I am not welcome here. Very well. But there will come a time when you will beg me to return to you, and I doubt I will answer your summons, not after what I have heard from you today.” He clicked his heels together and nodded in her direction. “I will let myself out.”

She followed him to the door. “You will forgive me, but I wish to assure myself that you have left,” she said coldly as he went down the hall.

“You’re a foolish woman, Gudrun,” Natter said to her as he pulled the door open. “You have let that foreigner blind you to your birthright, and you will have to pay for that stupidity.”

“Good day, Herr Natter,” Gudrun told him, staring at him as if he were a stranger.

Natter made an impatient gesture, then stepped out into the sunlight. He slammed the door closed behind him.

Gudrun wandered back to the dining room, thinking that her lunch was quite ruined. She could not stand to eat another bite now, and she was quite fatigued. Twenty minutes with Konrad Natter and she felt as if she had been up for thirty-six hours in the middle of a storm. She sat down, putting her head in her hands. He had the gall to speak to her as if she were a recalcitrant child and not a woman nearing middle age. No one had the right to upbraid her as he had done. She tore off her thumbnail with her teeth, glad at the hurt of it. With a sigh she rubbed at her eyes, pleased that she had stopped crying. How dared he think that he had reduced her to tears! Certainly she had wept, but he could not believe she was angry. She got up from the table and walked the length of the dining room. Someone in her household had been talking about her, and because of that she had endured the last half-hour. She hated the idea that her servants gossiped, and could not imagine any of them saying things about her that would bring forth Natter’s righteous indignation. She smoothed the front of her blue dress automatically, unconsciously preparing herself to deal with the three members of her household. Obviously the one who had been speaking about her would have to be dismissed, but she dreaded that. How could she manage without Frau Bürste or Miroslav or Otto? She thought again that it might be as well to give up Wolkighügel and find herself a small house nearer to München, where she could fend for herself, with only a housekeeper. Her father would be ashamed of her cowardly thoughts, and her mother, if she were alive to see what had become of the magnificent Schloss, would have nothing but scorn for her. All her life she had been taught to uphold her family traditions, and now she could not break with her past. This was where she had been a child, the one place she regarded as safe. She and Maximillian had grown up here, and it was all that remained of her early life, now that her brother was dead.

She paused, remembering how he had looked when Otto had brought her to the gamekeeper’s cottage, his old face drawn with emotion. Maximillian was dangling from one of the beams, his once-handsome face dark, as blue as plums, his blackened tongue protruding and huge, his eyes, the whites suffused with blood and bursting from their sockets. What had he stood on, she wondered again, to do this to himself? The police had decided that he had crawled out on the beam and dropped over it, but at the same time they admitted to her that it was strange that Maximillian had died of strangulation and not a broken neck. Such a drop, they explained very carefully to her, usually broke the neck. And no man would prefer slow death to a quick one. Gudrun trembled, rigorously suppressing a notion that had been with her since she had read Maximillian’s farewell note to her: that he had not committed suicide, but had been murdered. When she had asked the police, they had dismissed the idea, but Gudrun could not rid herself of the suspicion.

With a curt gesture she banished this speculation, knowing she was using it as a way to avoid dealing with the unpleasantness that confronted her now. She would have to question her staff, and how much she disliked doing it! She sighed as she went through the door and started toward the kitchen, where she knew she would find Frau Bürste.

The housekeeper was stouter than she had been a year ago, becoming a bit more massive every year. She was sitting at the kitchen table, the household accounts spread around her, a deep frown on her pleasant features. As Gudrun came through the door, she looked up. “Oh.” Rising properly, she colored a little. “I did not realize, Frau Ostneige, that it was you. I expected Otto to—”

“It isn’t important,” Gudrun said quickly. “You need not keep to ceremony for my sake. If we had a complete household and there were scullery boys in the kitchen, that would be another matter, but with only the two of us, it’s not sensible to have so much formality.” She thought, as she smiled at Frau Bürste, that she had let too much distance develop between the two of them. A servant’s loyalty and discretion were not automatically bestowed, and if this woman had spoken to others about Ragoczy’s visits, it might well be that she did not have the same sense of household that Gudrun had. She resolved to be more concerned in future;

“It
is
a hard thing, getting up every time,” Frau Bürste allowed, relaxing back into the chair.

“And there are so many more important things than that,” Gudrun said, rather clumsily trying to introduce her inquiries.

“Such as the price of poultry. We’ll do well to buy more chickens, Frau Ostneige, and get our eggs and meat from them. Butter isn’t up to four billion marks, as it was before, but prices are creeping up again, and that’s a fact. If we brought in another dozen hens and half a dozen ducks, we’d be well-provisioned. The price of grain to feed them isn’t nearly as high as the cost of eggs.” All the while she tapped her pencil on a sheet of paper before her. “Miroslav said he will purchase two cows for us, which will take care of the milk problem, and if we have one of them bred, we’ll have veal—”

Gudrun’s burst of laughter was more alarmed than amused. “You’ll have me a farmwife, Frau Bürste!”

“And why not? There are those who would want to be farmwives in these times.” The housekeeper folded her meaty arms. “Meine Frau, I have seen you consumed with worry, and I have watched your resources dwindle and disappear. I know that you have only one pearl necklace left, and that your last diamond went to pay for your unfortunate brother’s funeral. You say that you sold his automobile because you had no use for it, but I know it was to get the money from it. It’s shameful that you should be in such a state. I’ve urged you before to farm here, and you have not done so.”

“But this is a hunting lodge,” Gudrun protested. “I thought I’d made that plain.” Her family would be horrified if she converted it, becoming little better than the farmers around her. Her concessions so far were half-hearted.

“There,” Frau Bürste soothed as she put the paper aside. “It will wait for another day. It’s waited a long time already.”

“But we have a cow,” Gudrun protested as she tried to sort out what her housekeeper had told her.

“Only one, Frau Ostneige, and she does not provide adequately. Sheep could be grazed here, but there really isn’t enough open field for them. A few more pigs, on the other hand, should do very well.” She said this cautiously but with real enthusiasm, as if pleased for this first sign of real attention on Gudrun’s part.

Gudrun shook her head. “I … I can’t talk about this just now, Frau Bürste.” She took a turn about the kitchen under the housekeeper’s puzzled eye. “I have learned something. It troubles me.”

“Not more debts from your brother?” Frau Bürste made no effort to hide her disgust. “It was bad enough that he never aided you, but to see you placing yourself in worse circumstances because of that wastrel … I won’t alter my opinion of him, Meine Frau, so don’t give me a reprimand.”

How could such sympathy be criticized? Gudrun asked herself. A few words at her sister’s house, and rumors might easily spread. She had to be delicate in what she said, knowing that Frau Bürste might not understand that her words had been repeated. “I did not know you felt such loyalty to me.”

“Someone must, Meine Frau, and I don’t see others doing so.” She was at once protective and belligerent, her round face turning rosy.

Gudrun gave her a wan smile. “I’m afraid your championing me has led to some … awkwardness.”

Frau Bürste blinked. “How?”

“From what Herr Natter has just said to me—”

“Him!” Frau Bürste said with scorn.

“It’s all very well to be dissatisfied with him, Frau Bürste,” Gudrun said stiffly, “but when it is your own talk that gives rise to his complaints—”

“Complaints? About what?” The housekeeper was on her feet now, her voice turned gruff. “If there is anything said against you, I will know how to deal with it.”

“I’m afraid you already have.” Gudrun sighed. She had not intended to be so direct, but now the accusation was out, she thought it might be easier.

“I already have? What nonsense is this?” She went on without giving Gudrun the opportunity to reply. “If he has come here bearing tales and said that he had them from me, then he is more despicable than I believed. You find out who he’s been talking to, and I will deal with the person.”

“But … Oh, this is more difficult than I thought!” Gudrun put a hand to her forehead. “Frau Bürste, I know it is not always possible to keep your feelings to yourself, and it is only natural that you should discuss your life here when you visit your sister, but…” She faltered, reluctant to go on. “Whatever you say to your sister, you must realize, may be repeated. And this is a small world here, where there are few true secrets. Not that I would wish you to condone immorality or lend your support to a liaison you thought was clandestine”—which would be the opinion of most of the people around her, Gudrun thought—“but remarks may be misinterpreted and—”

“Do you tell me that there has been talk about you, Meine Frau?” the housekeeper demanded. “Is
that
what has happened to distress you?”

“In part,” she hedged. “I gather from what Herr Natter said that he had heard rumors and they disturbed him…”

“And he came here to talk about them with you? How dare he?” Frau Bürste came across the kitchen quite swiftly, considering her bulk.

“I asked him that myself,” Gudrun confessed shakily.

“I shouldn’t wonder,” Frau Bürste agreed. “What did he accuse you of?”

Gudrun shrugged. “For the most part he was objecting to my … friendship with Franchot Ragoczy. He believes I should…”

“Take a countryman for a lover?” Frau Bürste asked, so gently that Gudrun hardly recognized her voice. “Oh, I know he has been here, late at night. And I have seen the way you smile the next morning, as if you were made of light, and joy. You are so beautiful then, Meine Frau, like the world made new.”

As a flush stole up her cheeks, Gudrun did not know what caused her the greater embarrassment—knowing that Frau Bürste was aware of her meetings with Ragoczy or the emotion she revealed. “Frau Bürste…”

“He was here two nights ago,” the housekeeper went on. “His Schloss is closed, but he came back to see you. He left a little before dawn.”

Gudrun found she could not speak. She jumped a little when Frau Bürste put her hand on her shoulder.

“You were radiant that morning, and sad.”

“Yes,” Gudrun said, feeling breathless. “He did come. So that we could say good-bye to each other.”

“Did you want him to go?” Frau Bürste asked tenderly.

“Yes. Yes, I did. He is so full of mourning for his daughter, and there is nothing I can do…” She lifted her hands helplessly.

“Meine Frau,” the housekeeper said, “I have never discussed you with anyone. Not my sister, not the pastor, no one. I’ve been afraid that if I did, they would sense something and would…” Her plain round face creased with consternation. “I have said a little about your brother. My sister believes that I stay on here because I want to marry Miroslav.” Her laughter was more painful than any tears would have been. “I let her think that, because…” She broke off and with a visible effort moved away from Gudrun. “I should not have said anything. I never intended to. You must forgive me, Frau Ostneige.”

For several seconds Gudrun did not trust herself to speak, fearful that she would giggle, and bring more hurt to her housekeeper. How absurd it was for her to address her so formally and yet make such a declaration. “Mein Gott.” She closed her eyes.

“I did not intend … anything. I have been married, and I was content with my husband. Do not think otherwise. I am not one of those women who turn away from all men. He was kind to me, and we did well together. When he died, I mourned for him. But he was not the sunshine of my life, and there were no children, only those he had by his first wife.” She spoke urgently, in a low voice, as if she were afraid to stop.

“Frau Bürste…”

“I promise you I will not say anything of this again, but once, Meine Frau, just this once, let me tell you. I will not remind you of this later, and I will not change. But those years I watched you suffer and could do nothing but run the household so that it did not interfere with your life. I saw what became of your husband, and the marriage you did not have. I saw your brother lie and cheat and steal, as charming as a French actor in Berlin. You bore it all, and tried to live as if all was well with you, and it broke my heart. When Ragoczy came, for the first time you were happy. I wish it had been me that made you so, but how could I begrudge you your delights when you had endured as much as you had?”