The House by the Lake (8 page)

But until now, Max had always assumed things would be the same. Traditions would remain in place, and life would go on as it had for hundreds of years—in spite of the losses of the last war. But now everything he held most dear was suddenly under threat.

“Shall we go for a walk?” Max asked.

He stood up, brushing off his cream trousers. He had allowed his shirt to become untucked.

Isabelle called to Virginia, telling her that she and Max wouldn’t stray too far. Didi and Jo’s whoops resounded along the beach. Nadja had gone shopping for the day with Sascha.

Max was silent as they strolled along the rocky cove. They headed toward the end of the beach, where there was no chance their conversation would be overheard. Max stopped when they reached the large, flat rocks that sat before a bank of high cliffs. The beach had curved, and they were safely out of sight of the others.

Isabelle was slightly ahead of Max now. She leaned down to pick up an unusual-shaped stone that had lodged in a rock pool.

Max stopped beside her, turning her to face him as he looked down into her eyes. “What is it?”

Isabelle hesitated. Now was not the time to tell Max the truth about Marthe.

“Are you worried about the future, about what’s going to happen after the summer’s over?” he asked.

Isabelle hugged her arms around herself.

“We need to sort out how we’re going to meet, and when,” Max said, taking a strand of her hair and tucking it behind her ear.

Isabelle sighed. Every part of her lived for the moments she spent with Max now. She felt more alive when she was with him, talking to him, than when she was doing anything else.

“We need to talk to your grandmother, but we should come up with a plan first,” Max went on. He took a step closer again. “I’ve been thinking, would you and Virginia like . . . do you think your grandmother could spare you both for Christmas this year? I won’t have to work then, the Schloss is beautiful in the wintertime, and all my family will be there.”

“I would love to ask my grandmother, and I think Virginia would love to come too, if I can pull her away from Paris and what she sees as glamour and excitement and thrills. None of that matters to me, you know.”

“I know,” Max said, cupping her chin in his hand.

Isabelle leaned in toward him.

“I don’t like you worrying,” he said. Max’s voice was just a murmur now, but it was as clear to Isabelle as if he were talking at full pitch. “Let’s sort things out for Christmas.”

After a few moments, he moved down to the water. He picked up a flat stone and threw it into the lake, sending it bouncing across the surface several times.

Isabelle stayed where she was.

Max continued staring at the smooth lake. “I hope these will not be the last few Christmases that we get to spend in the way we are used to—at Siegel.”

Isabelle felt indignation rising like a snake. “I hope not. Surely it isn’t as bad as that?”

“My parents want me to . . . commit.” Max frowned. The way he held himself was proud, so dignified. Isabelle hated to think of his having to fight alongside the Nazi army. She hated the thought of another war. Anybody could see that he was an upstanding young man who wanted to do what was right, that he had strong convictions. It was one of the things she adored about him.

“I know.” Isabelle went to stand beside him. The water’s serenity seemed to mock the fact that Isabelle was about to be separated from the man she loved. There. She had admitted her feelings to herself.

“Just think about those millions of Germans who were unemployed last year. It’s more confusing than you might think—after all, the Nazis are doing a great deal to reduce unemployment and give people work and a reason to feel hopeful for the future. They are doing far more than the Weimar Republic did. And they are achieving results.”

Isabelle’s throat went dry. “But their actions . . .”

Max sounded matter-of-fact. “We have three problems in Germany—first, guilt about the war; second, the enormous reparations that we are forced to pay; and third, the severe limitations to our military that were forced upon us at the Treaty of Versailles. And we need a government that is willing to address these things.”

“How bad is it, being there?” Isabelle sensed a shift in her own feelings, sensed, somehow, that this relationship was becoming more mature. Right now, here by the lake.

Max shook his head. “People were starving after the Kaiser fled. There was a lot of hatred directed towards the new government for signing the armistice. Violent uprisings were the result—then terrorist assassinations of government politicians, including our foreign minister, a general strike, hyperinflation, threats from Communists.”

Isabelle nodded. But now, all protests had been banned.

“As for what it’s been like, living there,” Max went on, “I have a friend from our village, someone with whom I grew up, who cannot find work in Germany. I hate to think what will become of him, and I wonder if he’ll ever be able to come home. Another family friend, a man in his forties, has not been able to support his four children since losing his job in a nearby town. It wasn’t until he had spent all his savings and was facing starvation that he came to us for help. But where does that cycle end? Millions of people living like that? I am in a position to make a difference, Isabelle. I can’t stand by and do nothing. Do you see?”

“Yes.” Isabelle felt something heavy settle in her chest.

Max was silent again for a moment before he spoke. “I have to believe in something. My parents are right. I have a responsibility to my family, my village, and Germany. No more sitting on the fence. If the Nazis are the only way to bring hope to my country and assure a stable future for my family and my village, then how can I say no?”

Isabelle folded her arms around herself. He was right. He did have to do something. He had to take a stand. But . . .

Max spoke in a low voice now. If the afternoon hadn’t been so still, his words might have gotten lost in the smallest breeze. “Hitler promises that the nervous years have ended, that with him, the German way of life will be determined for the next thousand years. He promises national health care, government schooling, partnerships between the government and businesses. He says he will inject government funds into social welfare and the industrial sector, as well as the military. And he says that he will not bring war to Europe, that the only way it would happen would be if the Communists began a conflict. He says he will protect us and our need for peace—he will bring us out of our deep national crisis. We need strength.”

Isabelle had to say something. “I agree that a strong leader in a time of crisis is crucial,” she said. She took a few steps toward the water, then turned back to Max. She had to have this out with him. “But there are rumors circulating throughout Europe about his treatment of the Jews—how do you deal with that, Max?”

“I’ve told you that my decision was not easy. But when it comes to my family—I have to think of their future first. I have to work with my parents to make things better for everyone around us. If I turn against them, then it will cause chaos for my family and all the people whom we support. Should I turn my back on my parents and our government just because of some unsubstantiated rumors?”

Isabelle wanted to reach out and take him in her arms.

“My parents want me to go to the Nuremberg rallies. I think that at least I should go and hear Hitler speak. Does that make sense, Isabelle?”

She moved to stand next to him. And he reached out, taking her hand in his own and holding it, close to his heart. She leaned in toward him, and she felt more at home there than anywhere else in the world.

Three days later, Isabelle stood with Virginia at the water’s edge, their packed suitcases surrounding them on the landing. The paddle steamer that would take them to the train station in Geneva made its stately way toward them.

“You are good at keeping secrets,” she said to Virginia, out of the blue.

“I’ve learned to keep my own counsel.” Virginia looked especially radiant today. Her blond hair was swept back into a neat chignon underneath her small hat, and she wore a powder-blue, high-waisted suit that showed off her slim figure.

“I admire your independence.” Isabelle tugged at her white gloves.

“But it’s not what you want for yourself.” Virginia stared straight ahead.

“Surely a family and independent thought shouldn’t be mutually exclusive. Not if you are with the man who loves you and whom you love back.” Isabelle watched the steamer approaching.

Virginia held out a hand. “I love your idealism. And the funny thing is that on top of that, you don’t want to shock your grandmother with your hopes for a perfect family life. It is all so out of the ordinary.”

“I suppose it is,” Isabelle said. She had not confided in Virginia about her conversation with Max—out of the ordinary was one way to describe the world in which they lived now.

“You want to pretend that the Albrechts are just German friends where Marthe is concerned,” Virginia went on. “But do you honestly think you have kept your secret from her?”

“I don’t want to hurt Grand-mère. If you come with me to Siegel this winter, it will look quite sensible, Virginia. After all, we have been out with the Albrechts nearly every day this summer. Most of what has happened between Max and me has taken place away from this hotel. We have behaved ourselves perfectly while Grand-mère has been watching.”

Virginia smiled and shook her head. “You, Isabelle de Florian, run deeper than most people realize. Of course I’ll keep your secret.”

“It is necessary for now. She would never understand.”

Marthe was approaching.

“I cannot wait to see Paris,” Virginia said, leaning in to kiss the older woman’s cheek.

Marthe patted Virginia on the arm. “And we cannot wait to show it to you,” she said.

A man in uniform announced that the steamer was ready for boarding. Isabelle moved toward it without looking back at the hotel. She suspected that this summer had been a beautiful diversion, but it was not something that she would ever get back.

CHAPTER SIX

Paris, 1934

Isabelle was prepared for Virginia’s reaction to her grandmother’s apartment. Some people knew about
les demimondaines
—those women who were the very highest of courtesans in Belle Époque Paris—but few seemed to understand how all-encompassing the role really was.

No one seemed to realize that her grandmother had lived every single aspect of her life as someone other than herself. Yes, she had performed in the most famous dance halls in Paris. Yes, she had entertained the most distinguished of men at the most elegant of places. But this meant that she could never go back to the person she had been before she became the famous “Marthe de Florian,” and that she could never get away from the forgery she had made of herself—not even, and especially not, at home.

Even though she was in her seventies, Marthe had let go of precisely nothing that had been given to her during her time as a courtesan. Her entire apartment was a perfectly preserved remnant from the Belle Époque. Was she afraid that if she sold one piece of furniture, one fading, gilt-edged gift—if she burned one decades-old love letter or disposed of even one of her fabulously dated evening dresses—that her carefully curated persona would crumble? Did she believe that, like Cinderella, she would return home from the ball with her clothes in tatters? Would she simply be Mathilde Heloise Beaugiron once again?

Marthe insisted on not only keeping but also using
that
chaise longue. Even Isabelle knew that the singular piece of furniture had been the subject of an infinite number of whispered conversations at dinner tables during the 1890s.

A stuffed ostrich greeted visitors on their arrival in the salon. Countless sets of elaborate crystal vases and glasses filled every cupboard in the room, while the silverware on display in cabinets was grand enough for royalty. Hundreds of delicate creations in the finest porcelain had been given to Marthe by her illustrious clients—apparently they had competed with each other both for the beautiful young woman’s attention and in spoiling her. Only part of the collection was on display on the walls in her sitting room. The rest of the pieces were crammed onto side tables, mantelpieces, anywhere they could be seen, and more importantly, where Marthe’s admirers could see their own gifts on display. It was the way that Marthe secured these men’s loyalty and made use of their pride.

Isabelle watched as Virginia walked into the salon. She looked dumbstruck by it all. Virginia stood by the window, where she took off her gloves, handing them to Marthe’s maid, Camille. Then she unpinned her hat with one hand and ran the other over the gauzy green curtains that hung to the floor.

After a while, Isabelle took her friend to see the rest of the apartment. Virginia seemed entranced with Marthe’s sitting room. She clutched at Isabelle’s hand, exclaiming at the French wallpaper covered in tiny pink and green roses, their leaves intertwined like so many lovers dancing in pretty patterns on the wall. She appeared to want to touch everything. The silky black grand piano was covered not with family photographs, as one would have found in most people’s homes, but with the most perfect of tiny gifts, engraved cigarette cases, and an entire lady’s travel set made of silver and glass, with a golden handle. The silver brushes that sat nearby were engraved with the initials
MdeF.
There were silk purses on display and embroidered handkerchiefs, old perfume bottles, and silver jewelry cases, now empty of their wares. Marthe kept her many precious jewels locked away in a safe in the depths of her dressing room.

Isabelle led Virginia into Marthe’s bedroom. The room was fit for a princess. The four-poster bed—its cover an ostentatious deep red—was bedecked with a mountain of pillows and soft cushions in amber, gold, and deep mahogany. On either side of the enormous bed, ornate fringed lamps sat atop fantastical bedside tables—their feet fashioned into the shape of some imaginary animal’s paws. These tables also held Marthe’s collection of exquisite silver bells from the very best silversmiths in Europe.

But Isabelle knew what was going to elicit the sharpest reaction from her friend. She waited in silence until Virginia’s eyes alighted on the portrait of Marthe as a young woman that hung on the wall opposite her bed. The painting was by some famous artist or another—Marthe would never say whether he had been one of her many lovers. Marthe’s head was turned to the side, one hand on her décolletage, her fingers resting lightly on that part of her that so many men had touched.

If Isabelle hadn’t known her friend as well as she did, she could have mistaken her silence for disapproval. But Isabelle knew better. She simply kept her fingers entwined in Virginia’s and moved on to the next room.

“It’s too much,” Virginia gasped.

She stopped dead at the entrance to the pretty, delicate dressing room. This was where Marthe had prepared herself before meeting her clientele in the salon. Through her friend’s eyes, Isabelle was reminded once again of Marthe’s extraordinary past. Marthe had been warm and genuine and loving with her always, while manipulating men and seeming so resolutely alone in the world.

Marthe had assured Isabelle that none of the men had been allowed to enter her bedroom. But Isabelle wondered whether any of the men had come to understand Marthe, or more to the point, whether Marthe had ever fallen for any of her lovers.

Isabelle opened the next door, taking Virginia into another room, a room that had been decorated only fourteen years earlier, when a confused little girl had arrived at her grandmother’s house. She had suffered the loss of both her parents to the Spanish flu epidemic that had swept through Europe.

Camille was unpacking Isabelle and Virginia’s suitcases when they entered the room. She had their summer dresses arranged on the two single beds, working quietly, smoothing the items out and hanging them with great care on padded hangers. Next she would put away the hats, gloves, and soft chiffon tops that went with the girls’ fashionable high-waisted skirts.

There was some comfort for Isabelle in returning to her own room, to her own space. She had always felt at peace here.

“I think it is time for tea.” Isabelle smiled. They were in Paris. They would eat patisseries.

Marthe was already sitting in one of the Louis XV chairs that were arranged in the salon, pouring the coffee that Camille had laid out before attending to her unpacking duties.

“You are part of a pilgrimage of Americans to Paris, Virginia,” Marthe said. She handed the girls a gilt-edged plate of delicate patisseries—from milky creations that wobbled, gelatinous, on the plate, to tiny chocolate gateaux and lush, deep-purple berry tarts. “Their presence here should make you feel quite at home.”

Virginia took a miniature tarte tatin and placed it on her plate.

After half an hour, Isabelle put her coffee cup down in its saucer. “Virginia, I think we shall go for a walk,” she said, leaning across and kissing her grandmother, who was clearly tired after the journey home.

“You never told me how much there was,” Virginia said, once they had put on their hats and were trotting down the stairs to the entrance lobby.

“I never know how much to say.” Isabelle shrugged.

Virginia took Isabelle’s arm and gazed at the elegant facade of Marthe’s building. Gleaming ironwork fanned out over the front door, and the curved windows were polished to a sheen.

Isabelle led her friend down Rue Blanche, turning onto Rue Saint-Lazare. Even to her, the bustle after Lake Geneva was something of a shock. A sandwich seller, who removed his cap in an effort to draw them in, immediately accosted the girls.

“No, thank you,” Isabelle said, dragging Virginia down the street.

But the noise stopped them from conducting much conversation. The air was filled with the sounds of one-man bands, the swish of a fire breather, and conjurers calling out for audiences to watch their tricks. Others begged anyone to buy their shoelaces or their ties, and some people even had displays in upturned umbrellas. Isabelle dodged a sword swallower while Virginia simply turned and stared.

When the sound of a procession filled the air, Isabelle rolled her eyes and pulled Virginia out of the way. “Students,” she said. “From the Latin Quarter. Letting off steam.”

“Oh, my,” Virginia said. Isabelle watched her friend meet the gaze of a handsome young student. Virginia grinned at the boy, completely unashamed.

“That’s more like it,” Isabelle giggled.

“Oh, it’s not this that’s floored me,” Virginia said. “It’s that darned apartment.” They walked a little farther, toward the Seine, arms linked.

“I know,” Isabelle said. “Do you mind if we don’t talk about it?”

Virginia stopped. “Surely you are not ashamed?”

“No, but I am resigned. It’s just that I am restricted by it. It has controlled my life, how I am perceived, where I am accepted, who will talk to me, acknowledge me, and accept me because of my name. You understand?”

“So she really was as famous as you say?”

“Yes,” Isabelle said. “One of the most celebrated in all of Paris.”

While it was clear that a smile had formed on Virginia’s lips, her grip on Isabelle’s arm tightened. “But you still haven’t told Max.”

“No.” Isabelle felt her mood sink. “I haven’t told Max.”

“How delicious,” Virginia said. “I can’t wait to see what his family makes of it.” But then she stopped again, looked straight into Isabelle’s eyes. “If there are any problems, they will have to deal with me, you know.”

Isabelle shook her head. How much had Max told his parents about her? “Excellent,” she muttered, and she tugged her friend right on down the street.

Germany, 2010

Wil Jager’s mood seemed quite the opposite of what it had been the day before. He didn’t meet Anna’s eye when she arrived in the lobby of his office building, and he was quiet as he ushered her into a car that was parked right outside the front doors of his swish building.

Anna fought every instinct that she had in order to remain silent herself—she wanted to ask questions and find out what he knew about Schloss Siegel. Why had the owners left it to ruin? Did they have plans for its future? If so, what were they?

The early-morning traffic had subsided, and it didn’t take long until they were on the Berliner Ring road and heading toward Siegel.

After they passed through two bigger towns, the land opened up into flat fields, replete with deep-green crops, and then gave way to thick forest. The road wound through several villages. When they passed a set of elaborate gates, their black iron curling in delicate patterns, Anna craned her neck to catch a glimpse of a turreted roofline—another Schloss, set in a flat, wooded landscape that was reminiscent of fairy tales. Anna could only hope that her ancestral home might have its own happy ending one day.

“I’m sorry, Anna. I’ve got a lot on my mind. You must think I’m terribly rude. How is your grandfather today?”

“He’s going to have an operation on his shoulder. I had a brief conversation with him early this morning. He didn’t sound too . . . down. In fact, he tried to divert the conversation away from himself. Typical Max.” Anna smiled. “He was all about reassuring me that he wanted me here in Germany, that I was in the right place.”

She glanced over at Wil. He kept his eyes on the road, but she saw a smile pass across his features.

“He sounds like he’s very special to you.”

“He is.” She had so many memories of her times with Max. Often, he would take her out after school for milkshakes. He had loved to chat with her about goings-on with her girlfriends, everything that was happening at school. And Anna had opened up to him as she had to no one else—she had been able to talk with him about the death of her mother, her distant father’s decision to start a new life in Canada with his second wife, and Anna’s decision to stay in San Francisco with her grandparents. Now Anna realized how hard it must have been for Max to swallow his past, never to talk about it, having left all of this behind. Would he ever tell her why?

Wil slowed down as they approached the Schloss, and Anna felt grateful they were nearly at their destination. The countryside was only sending further worrisome thoughts about Max into her tired mind. She had hardly slept the night before due to thinking about him.

When Wil stopped at the first set of gates that Anna had found and climbed out of the car, Anna followed him.

“Would you like a hand?” she asked, glad to get out of the car.

“Thank you,” Wil said, but he appeared to have retreated into himself even further. He unlocked the padlock that held the wrought iron together.

Anna pushed one of the heavy gates open while he took the other side. The gate stuck to the ground in places as she heaved it open. Once they were back in the car, they bumped along the potholed driveway.

As Wil continued along the main driveway that led to the palace, Anna gasped. The other end of the building from the one she had glimpsed the other day was visible, and to the right, the forest opened up into a vast park, studded with grand old trees.

“I’m taking you for a drive around the whole house,” Wil said. “The main entrance is on the other side of the Schloss. It was designed so that the formal living areas open up off the terrace that overlooks the lake.”

Anna feasted on everything outside the car window, in her own methodical way. First, there was the park to the right of the car. Remnants of an old garden were visible near the house. Ancient rose bushes still lined what looked like the remains of an ornamental garden. The old plants’ stems were gnarled, and the fat, apple-like rosehips still sat valiantly in place. Beyond this, trees dotted the vast lawn.

There were glimpses of an old path that wound down to the lake, which was fringed with reeds. Water lilies mooned about on the surface of the water. Anna found her imagination conjuring parties on the lake’s edge—women dressed in white, parasols, champagne. A venerable old ruin sat on the far side of the lake, covered in ivy, and a small jetty leaned into the water, balancing on rickety legs. An island sat right in the middle of the lake.