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Authors: Carrie Lofty
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legs to lift her to a standing position. Uncle Thaddeus was doing it again. He was selling another painting. She wondered if she could get to a washroom before that wonderful torte emerged once again into the world. Only the servant’s anxious expression and his extended slip of paper grounded her. To anyone else she must appear the strangest creature.
“Excuse me,” she said.
Taking the paper, she nodded for the man to accompany her. The long corridor felt especially chilly after having spent the previous hour in the solarium. Here there were no windows to let in the late summer sun, only paintings that chided the effort she had expended.
When she was out of sight of her cousins, she dared open the slip of paper. Pieter Casteels’ Peacocks in a Green Landscape. Her steps faltered. The man with the flat cap took her elbow and steadied her before releasing his grip.
No flicker of warmth. No spark. Greta took some comfort in that observation. At least she was not so bored or depraved as to find all servants arousing. Just Oliver.
But this…
Hurried steps came to a stop when she reached Peacocks. Here she had managed to get the color exactly right—turquoise and azure, emerald and a lush, beautiful crimson. The only problem had been with form. Her peacocks were fantastic creatures but without a semblance of weight. They looked flat. Bored, even.
“He’s selling this one, isn’t he?”
The man made a noise in his throat.
“Did he mention to whom?”
“No, Fräulein Zweig.” He would not meet her eyes.
“Were you told to keep this information from me?”
“That’s right. But…” He swallowed. “But I cannot read, ma’am.”
“There’s no shame in that.” She handed back the slip of paper. “What is your name?”
“Thomas, ma’am. Thomas Beltzer.”
“Thank you, Thomas. You needn’t mention any of this to His Lordship. Go about your business, bitte. ”
He bowed but Greta was already turning away. The gesso on her latest canvas would be dry soon. She could start work once more. But for the first time in her life, the prospect of beginning a new painting held no joy.
Oliver rolled his shoulders as much as he could manage without appearing improper. The briefing with Grand Duke Ferdinand’s representatives was taking far longer than anyone had predicted. Additional security measures had been proposed, revised and ultimately discarded in favor of new ideas. Since the assassination attempt, the grand duke, his mistress, Maria Lucca, and his children had fled under heavy guard to a retreat in nearby Berchtesgaden. Changes would need to be approved and implemented before he returned.
Christoph had once said that all politics was about territory. Physical territory such as kingdoms and castles, wives and cattle—obvious enough. This slothful, well-mannered discussion, however, was about the territory of duty and favor. The palace guard, city managers and even the outlying barons wanted their say, and all wanted to blame someone else for the breach in security.
And underneath their posturing and bickering remained a stark yet unnamed fear. None of these petty concerns would amount to a blessed thing if Napoleon marched through.
Four hours into the endless rounds of talk, Oliver’s feet were numb from standing along the wall with the other aides. He could concentrate on little else, not even the enigmas of Greta Zweig and Karl Schulz. His eagerness to once again see his friend had of yet come to naught. Karl, or Baron Hoffer, kept no known address in the city, which niggled Oliver with another bout of suspicion. He was going to have to dig a little deeper.
But later.
Catching Christoph’s eye across the huge oval table, he almost grinned. His stalwart brother was the soul of patience, but even he was in the midst of stifling a yawn.
Forty-five minutes later they emerged from the stately splendor of the Residenz, the duke’s palatial home. Like boys ready to make mischief at the end
“Excuse me,” she said.
Taking the paper, she nodded for the man to accompany her. The long corridor felt especially chilly after having spent the previous hour in the solarium. Here there were no windows to let in the late summer sun, only paintings that chided the effort she had expended.
When she was out of sight of her cousins, she dared open the slip of paper. Pieter Casteels’ Peacocks in a Green Landscape. Her steps faltered. The man with the flat cap took her elbow and steadied her before releasing his grip.
No flicker of warmth. No spark. Greta took some comfort in that observation. At least she was not so bored or depraved as to find all servants arousing. Just Oliver.
But this…
Hurried steps came to a stop when she reached Peacocks. Here she had managed to get the color exactly right—turquoise and azure, emerald and a lush, beautiful crimson. The only problem had been with form. Her peacocks were fantastic creatures but without a semblance of weight. They looked flat. Bored, even.
“He’s selling this one, isn’t he?”
The man made a noise in his throat.
“Did he mention to whom?”
“No, Fräulein Zweig.” He would not meet her eyes.
“Were you told to keep this information from me?”
“That’s right. But…” He swallowed. “But I cannot read, ma’am.”
“There’s no shame in that.” She handed back the slip of paper. “What is your name?”
“Thomas, ma’am. Thomas Beltzer.”
“Thank you, Thomas. You needn’t mention any of this to His Lordship. Go about your business, bitte. ”
He bowed but Greta was already turning away. The gesso on her latest canvas would be dry soon. She could start work once more. But for the first time in her life, the prospect of beginning a new painting held no joy.
Oliver rolled his shoulders as much as he could manage without appearing improper. The briefing with Grand Duke Ferdinand’s representatives was taking far longer than anyone had predicted. Additional security measures had been proposed, revised and ultimately discarded in favor of new ideas. Since the assassination attempt, the grand duke, his mistress, Maria Lucca, and his children had fled under heavy guard to a retreat in nearby Berchtesgaden. Changes would need to be approved and implemented before he returned.
Christoph had once said that all politics was about territory. Physical territory such as kingdoms and castles, wives and cattle—obvious enough. This slothful, well-mannered discussion, however, was about the territory of duty and favor. The palace guard, city managers and even the outlying barons wanted their say, and all wanted to blame someone else for the breach in security.
And underneath their posturing and bickering remained a stark yet unnamed fear. None of these petty concerns would amount to a blessed thing if Napoleon marched through.
Four hours into the endless rounds of talk, Oliver’s feet were numb from standing along the wall with the other aides. He could concentrate on little else, not even the enigmas of Greta Zweig and Karl Schulz. His eagerness to once again see his friend had of yet come to naught. Karl, or Baron Hoffer, kept no known address in the city, which niggled Oliver with another bout of suspicion. He was going to have to dig a little deeper.
But later.
Catching Christoph’s eye across the huge oval table, he almost grinned. His stalwart brother was the soul of patience, but even he was in the midst of stifling a yawn.
Forty-five minutes later they emerged from the stately splendor of the Residenz, the duke’s palatial home. Like boys ready to make mischief at the end
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