The Flower Shop (The Seed Traders' Saga Book 2) Read online

  “I’m happy to hear it.” Flora took a good mouthful of the wine. “But—” She broke off, because the waitress had just brought two plates of the finest-looking bread she had ever seen: slivers of hard-boiled egg delicately garnished with a pink mayonnaise covered two slices of bread with the crusts trimmed off, and on the side were tiny flowers carved from radishes.

  “My goodness, this is the ‘light lunch’?” Flora whispered when the waitress had left again. “This is very different from a slice of bread topped with a bit of sausage or Speck,” she said. “Even the bread is special in Baden-Baden . . .”

  “Try it!”

  Flora followed his lead and bit hungrily into the bread.

  “What do you mean by special?” Friedrich mumbled, his mouth half-full.

  “From what I’ve seen today, it seems to me that there are two worlds here. There’s our world, where the people do their daily work and eat bread and Speck,” or bread with no Speck at all, she thought to herself. “And then there’s the world of the rich, who give their horses baths and eat fancy light lunches.” Flora shook her head.

  As she spoke, Friedrich picked up his napkin and dabbed mayonnaise from one corner of his mouth.

  “You’re absolutely right. And I believe that in other spa towns, like Karlsbad and Marienbad, the visitors and the locals also lead very different lives.” He picked up his glass and looked at her over the rim. “Would you prefer it if a few of the people around us came to our front room at home every evening and played cards?”

  “That would be something new, wouldn’t it?” said Flora with a laugh. “But they could at least find their way to the shop.”

  Friedrich sniffed. “They’ve got eyes for nothing but Maison Kuttner with all its pomp and—”

  “Maison Kuttner! I can’t hear that name anymore,” she said so loudly that a lady at the next table frowned and turned toward them. Flora gave her an apologetic smile and went on more quietly, but with no less insistence.

  “Our shop is nothing for them to turn their noses up at! It’s roomy, it’s bright—if only the location were a little better. There are just a few hundred steps separating us from . . . from wealth.”

  Friedrich’s brow furrowed. “You’re right, of course, but what can we do about it? And besides, it isn’t so bad. Father says that business was good last week, and his customers have been very happy with their meadow flowers. And when the flowers from the garden come in summer, all the better.”

  All well and good, but what the shop brings in is far from enough to live a decent life, Flora thought. Then her mother’s words came back to her: “In Reutlingen, your enthusiasm did not just make you friends . . . And even if the way they do things is not always to your taste, well, keep that to yourself.”

  “I’m sorry. Forget what I said,” she murmured with an embarrassed shrug. But then she blurted, “It just makes me mad that all the spa guests run to Maison Kuttner and your own father has no well-to-do customers at all.”

  Friedrich reached between the bread plates and wineglasses for Flora’s hand. “I don’t have the slightest idea what we could do to change that. Perhaps I could ask if I could put up an advertisement for the shop at the Trinkhalle? I must say I would feel a little uncomfortable with it, but . . .”

  Flora was surprised when he held her hand, but she found his grasp pleasantly warm. “That’s not a bad idea at all. Though even if we succeeded in getting the spa visitors into the shop, I don’t know what rich people want. I realized that very clearly today. Since I’ve seen all of this”—Flora looked left and right, acknowledging everything around them—“I feel like more of a stranger than ever. The Englischer Hof, the Holländer Hof, the Französische Hof—Baden-Baden has just the right place for any traveler to feel at home. The Russians have their favorite places, the English too; every group has its idiosyncrasies.”

  “Is our Swabian girl feeling apprehensive?”

  “You’re making fun of me!” she snapped.

  “Not in the slightest,” Friedrich said with a smile. He held her hand more firmly. “But I wonder if we shouldn’t at least try to find out what our honored guests might like? I mean, it doesn’t matter where you buy them, flowers are flowers, aren’t they? There can’t be that much difference.”

  “Well, we’re not going to impress the rich with the wildflowers I pick. They’re more likely to be interested in unusual flowers,” Flora said. “But that aside, your father would be horrified to hear us talking like this. It’s his shop.”

  Friedrich was still holding her hand. Isn’t it unbecoming, him doing that among all these people? Flora wondered. She pulled her hand free and reached for her wineglass.

  Friedrich exhaled loudly. “It’s important to me, too, that Mother and Father earn a better livelihood than they have so far. Mother would be a lot happier if she didn’t have to count every kreuzer twice. She doesn’t complain about it, but . . .” He waved it off. “It’s certainly worth a try, don’t you think?”

  Flora felt a light flutter in her belly. Could they really get new customers into the shop in the short time she would still be there? Or to put it another way: What did they have to lose?

  And Friedrich would help her . . . The fluttering in her belly grew a little more intense.

  She set her wineglass down, reached across the table, and took Friedrich’s hand in hers. “All right, it’s worth a try!”

  Chapter Nineteen

  As much as Friedrich enjoyed the time he spent with Flora, he could not clear his mind of all the worries that beset him during the summer of 1871. Though the streets and cafés of the town were still very lively, it was easy to see that since the war, there were fewer visitors to the spa complex, and that meant less income. And while the guests might not notice that cuts were already being made, Friedrich, who was intimately familiar with the town, saw the signs: here a moldering park bench that had not been replaced, and there, flower beds that were not being planted. The leaseholder of the casino had also reduced Friedrich’s budget for the maintenance of the Trinkhalle for the season. He could still get by, but what if, one day, someone decided the Trinkhalle was no longer viable and simply closed it?

  Friedrich’s anxiety only increased when a rumor started circulating that the new government in Berlin was planning to close all the gaming houses in the empire. He silently regarded everyone who threw their money away at the gaming tables with cynicism, but what would Baden-Baden be without its casino? Some claimed that it would be just another forgotten Black Forest village, but others believed it would become a town on its way to becoming a true spa destination. With sick people, too—or rather, with their hopes for a cure—there was also good money to be made.

  Friedrich had not yet formed his own opinion on the matter. If there was no more leaseholder for the casino—and therefore also for the Trinkhalle—then what would become of him? Would he really go onto the town payroll now that municipal funds were so short? Questions were already being raised about how the fund that had supported the spa since 1850 would be replenished in the future.

  Many of the big names in German politics also stayed away that year, although the artists still came, at least: painters, writers, and musicians, even Johann Strauss, “the Waltz King” himself, gave concerts in Baden-Baden that year.

  Still, anyone whose livelihood depended on the town’s spa and casino spent the summer worried that their jobs might suddenly disappear.

  Although he did not normally get out of the Trinkhalle before eight, Friedrich and Flora had gotten into the habit of going for a walk in the evenings.

  “Are you really sure you’re not too tired?” Flora asked the first few times. “I could go out with Sabine, too.”

  But Friedrich insisted that it would be a great pleasure for him to go out with her for a stroll, and thus began a ritual that, soon, neither of them wanted to do without.

  As the summer advanced, instead of the activity of the tourist areas, they sought the quiet of the small area
of parkland behind the Trinkhalle, where the birds in the sequoias twittered their evening songs, the bees buzzed, and they felt as if they were far out in the countryside.

  In the evening hours, everything there had a special radiance. The wooden backs of the park benches still held the warmth of the day. The air carried the fresh scent of forgotten laundry hanging on a line in a garden, which mixed with the perfume of the well-dressed women out for their own evening strolls. And Friedrich put his arm around Flora and told her the names of the more exotic trees and bushes in the park.

  Flora would have liked to go to the Conversationshaus with Friedrich and drink a glass of wine, or go to one of the open-air concerts more often. How was she supposed to find out more about the wealthy visitors and what they might be looking for if she was never able to get close to them?

  But at the end of the day, Friedrich was often so tired that he wanted nothing more than to get away from all that turmoil, for which she could hardly blame him. She, too, some evenings, felt utterly exhausted, although at the start she had no idea why she was so tired. Every day, there were long periods when not a single customer came their way. It took some time for Flora to realize that it was those times when no one was there that were wearing her out so much. She would have been a thousand times happier if the shop was crowded and noisy as a dovecote. But so far, neither she nor Friedrich had had an idea about how to attract more doves.

  It was not only Flora’s closeness to Friedrich that grew from day to day, but also her attachment to Baden-Baden. Soon she felt very much at home in the town.

  Thanks to the seeds her father had sent along, the Sonnenscheins’ garden was in full midsummer bloom, and as a result the shop offered an abundance of flowers. Lavender-colored bellflowers, deep-purple zinnias, colorful coleus, petunias, and more—the Gönningen seeds had lived up to the promise made by the seed dealers to their customers.

  She could have made the most beautiful bouquets for the spa visitors, flower baskets for their children, and floral decorations for their magnificent coaches as well. But the spa visitors and their staff continued to go to Maison Kuttner, and Flora doubted they were aware that the Sonnenschein shop even existed.

  One hand pressed to her breast, Ernestine wandered through the house. Her heart was beating so hard that she thought it might burst out of her chest.

  Today was the big day. They would be arriving in an hour. One after the other.

  Heavens! What had she let herself in for? Didn’t she have enough to do already? She could no longer imagine at all that it had been her idea to invite some friends for an afternoon of coffee and cake.

  Gretel, Luise, and the other women were looking forward to it so much—because, of course, they did not have to do any of the work. For days, whenever she bumped into one or the other of them in Else Walbusch’s store or on the street, the talk was always about the coffee afternoon. Gretel had even asked if she could bring her sister, who was visiting Baden-Baden just then. And Luise’s newly married daughter wanted to come, too.

  Strangers. Two guests more than originally planned . . . and they all would walk through the main house. She had to sleep in the bed she had made.

  She had already been out to check the summerhouse. Sabine had set the table very nicely, and pitchers of lemonade were prepared. She would bring the coffee and cake from the kitchen once the women had taken their places around the table. That was how Ernestine had planned it.

  Now, in the front room of the main house, the flower arrangement on a lace doily in the center of the sideboard caught her eye. Blue cornflowers and some pink blooms she did not know the name of and white baby’s breath.

  More of Flora’s handiwork. Did Kuno have any idea how often the girl pilfered flowers from the shop for their house? Weren’t they losing sales like that?

  Ernestine’s nostrils flared. It smelled so good in here! And the sideboard looked lovely with the bouquet of flowers. But where did that vase come from? She did not recognize it at all . . .

  With a frown, Ernestine pushed the flowers aside a little. Flora had actually put the bouquet in a soup tureen—had anyone ever seen anything like it?

  It was the one with the chipped rim, probably the result of some inattention by Sabine. Ernestine had been quite annoyed when she had discovered the damage a few days before. The tureen was an old piece she had inherited from her mother.

  A smile crept over Ernestine’s face, and then she let out a little laugh. The mass of flowers that formed the bouquet hung over the edge of the tureen in such a way that the damage was out of sight.

  She relaxed a little. Everything looked somehow brighter and more welcoming than it usually did. Was it the tablecloth? Or the bouquet? Or was it the fragrance of verbena and mallow wafting in through the half-open window? Maybe it was just the beautiful weather.

  Ernestine let out a deep sigh. If she were to be honest with herself, she was looking forward a little to her coffee circle. Everyone was sure to like Sabine’s nut cake, and the little tartlets she had baked were lovely to look at.

  When her guests began to arrive, Ernestine’s heart once again began to beat a touch faster, but this time less from anxiety and restlessness, and more in anticipation.

  “Do you hear all that cackling?” Kuno jabbed his chin in the direction of the garden. “It’s always the same. You get two women together, and they natter on like you’ve never heard before.” He shook his head and laid aside his Die Gartenlaube, the magazine that the mailman had brought earlier. Once he had read the chapter of the serialized novel that he looked forward to every week, the other members of the family could read whatever they wanted.

  “It sounds as if the ladies are having a nice time. Your wife—” Flora stopped talking when the doorbell to the shop tinkled. It was Gretel Grün, the pharmacist’s wife.

  “Kuno—can you imagine?” Gretel began. “My sister called your garden a ‘wellspring of calm’! She was quite amazed at how stylishly we can do things here in Baden-Baden. Living in Stuttgart, she seems to think she’s the only one in the world with good taste.” She pursed her lips in an expression of such extreme disapproval that a thousand tiny creases formed above them.

  “I’m pleased to know everyone is enjoying it,” said Kuno.

  “I don’t remember your garden ever looking so lovely, to be frank. As I said to Ernestine earlier, we need to make this coffee afternoon a regular weekly thing. And now I’d like to have a bouquet just like the one you have in your summerhouse.” She was already taking out her purse.

  Kuno’s face lit up. “Flora tied that bouquet, you know. I’m sure she’d be glad—”

  “And it’s really very lovely,” Gretel interrupted him. “But I would still prefer you make my bouquet.”

  Although Ernestine was thoroughly worn out afterward and swore she would not be inviting anyone again soon, the women returned to the Sonnenscheins’ garden for coffee the very next week—her friends had simply talked her into doing it again!

  It was the end of July, and the garden looked gorgeous. The sun-warmed air was heavy with the scent of the different flowers. The almost aphrodisiac aroma of the phlox clusters mixed with the delicate perfume of the old rosebushes, while peppermint and thyme lent the air a slightly peppery note.

  Ernestine’s friends were intoxicated by it all. “This air!” they cried. “These colors! The abundance of it all!” Almost every one of them marched into the flower shop afterward and went home with a fat bouquet.

  For Flora, the stream of new customers had a bitter taste: hardly any of Ernestine’s friends were willing to let Flora bind a bouquet for them. How was she supposed to develop as a florist?

  At least Kuno let her get all the practice she wanted when they were alone. Spherical Biedermeier bouquets, decorative vases, posies—over time, she learned more and more techniques. Her finished works were then placed in water and sold. No one needed to know that Flora was the one who made them.

  Flora was overjoyed to see the paint
er’s maid, Greta, come to the store again. Her master, Mr. Winterhalter, had found the first bouquet quite lovely, and a picture commissioned by the noblewoman was taking shape, but until it was finished several bouquets were going to be required.

  Flora set to work eagerly each time the painter sent for a new one—if it had been up to her, his painting would have been a monumental work that would take decades to complete, for which dozens and dozens of bouquets would be needed.

  Chapter Twenty

  “I’m telling you, nothing will come of Flora and the young master . . .” Sabine sighed lavishly. Then she raised her beer glass and clinked it against her friend Minka’s.

  At eight in the evening, it was still unusually hot in the town, and the two young women had agreed spontaneously to treat themselves to a refreshing glass of beer at The Gilded Rose. They had spent the entire day sweating—Sabine in the kitchen at the Sonnenschein house and Minka in the laundry at the Englischer Hof—so they enjoyed even more the luxury of a free hour and a bit of gossip. Because the waiter at The Gilded Rose was an old friend of Minka’s, they had high hopes for a free refill of beer. But so far the proprietress had kept an eagle eye on the women and the waiter.

  “Really? You really think Flora and Friedrich won’t amount to anything? Can’t you already hear the wedding bells ringing?” Minka looked up from her glass with disappointment. “You can’t just rob me of all my illusions! I mean, that a fine young man like Friedrich Sonnenschein would take one of us as his wife, it’s what we all dream about, isn’t it?”

  Sabine nodded grumpily. “But it doesn’t look like that particular dream is going to be fulfilled. Flora always says that I read too much into their evening strolls, but . . .”