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“Oh, dear…” Aunt Margaret said. She clucked her tongue and brought her hands over her plate, hovering. She spoke much louder towards Laura, as though the loudness would do its part to connect their languages. “Darling, would you like me to have the cook prepare you something else?”
Marta sighed and turned back towards Laura. She spoke in perfect, articulate German—not that Baldwin would have any idea what that sounded like. In response, Laura looked absolutely shocked, miserable even, and shook her head wildly. It was clear that Aunt Margaret had embarrassed her a great deal. Baldwin felt annoyance, shame that they’d crafted such an environment for the poor girl.
Hurriedly, Laura returned words in German. In their wake, Marta said, “She says she’s felt a bit ill since our arrival. She doesn’t mean to be rude. Perhaps it would be better if she stepped back to her bedroom—which she thanks you for yet again—and rests for the day ahead?”
Before Aunt Margaret had time to respond, Laura popped up from her chair and rushed for the doorway. At the exit, she paused, turned, and curtsied so perfectly and yet so swiftly that Baldwin nearly missed it. She then headed into the hallway and scurried out of sight.
“What a strange person,” Aunt Margaret whispered towards her potatoes.
“What sort of food is she more accustomed to?” Baldwin heard himself ask.
At this, Marta’s face appeared to brighten. She tilted her head, as though she hadn’t expected anyone to take such interest. “She’s rather fond of sauerkraut,” she said.
“What sort of madness is that?” Aunt Margaret demanded.
“It’s a fermented cabbage,” Marta continued. “I really am fond of it, as well. And, oh goodness, in Austria, we’re quite fond of schnitzel and beer and, goodness, have you ever had a strudel? It’s a dessert from heaven above. I must admit, when I considered these next months in England, I didn’t envision myself without strudel.”
She spoke a bit too quickly, as though the ideas occurred to her and then rushed out of her mouth without pause.
“You must introduce us to the strudel, then,” Baldwin said. Again, he surprised himself. “I dare say this life of puddings and biscuits has me bored to tears. What a beautiful thing that you’re allowed a bit of both cultures.”
Marta seemed to look at him for the first time. Her eyes were enormous, glowing. “I sometimes can think of it that way. Other times, it seems just like an annoyance. What a wretched thing to think of it so negatively.”
These words wrapped themselves around Baldwin’s heart and squeezed hard. He sniffed and cast his eyes towards the plate, suddenly conscious that all eyes were upon him and only him. In the wake of this strange silence, Ewan cleared his throat and said, “Well, I do suppose my mother has a great number of plans for you, dear Marta. I hope you didn’t envision your life here to be all easy and free. You’re essentially a prisoner to my mother’s hopes and dreams.”
“And my mother’s, too,” Marta returned, grinning broadly.
“I suppose it’s nice for them, working conspiratorially across the continent as they have been,” Ewan said, chuckling.
“That’s enough,” Aunt Margaret said, although she kept her grin firmly planted. It was clear that this sort of arrangement was altogether true—and also, assuredly, that Aunt Margaret was pleased that she and her sister kept such close correspondence.
“It was a wretched thing for me when your mother left England,” Aunt Margaret said. “She was my dearest friend, my closest confidant. One day, I found myself preparing the flowers for her engagement party, gossiping away, and the next month—I found myself writing her a letter to Austria, unsure if I’d ever see her again. It nearly broke my heart. Luckily, I filled in the gaps with my rambunctious and rather horrendous child, Ewan—and my much nicer, much more proper, once-girl, now-lady—darling Tatiana.”
“I must see her soon,” Marta said, dotting her napkin across her lips tenderly. “Two young children already is that so?”
“And Mother absolutely dotes on them,” Ewan affirmed. “She cannot get enough.”
“I imagine that they’re the last grandchildren I’ll ever have,” Aunt Margaret said. “Unless, of course, Baldwin will allow me to share his children. They’re bound to be such sober, such good little creatures. I will dote on them until the day I die.”
“Mother, you’ve completely written me out of the concept of marriage and children, then?” Ewan said. His laughter boomed out across the table.
“Perhaps you’d find better luck in Austria?” Aunt Margaret said, her smile crooked.
“And now she’s kicked me from the country!” Ewan said. “No one can imagine the sort of abuse I take in this house. As God is my witness…”
“Oh, shush,” Aunt Margaret said, making everyone laugh.
Finally, goodwill swept over the table, crashing over them like a wave. Marta giggled incessantly, her drunkenness exacerbated only by the long journey she’d taken. Ewan’s father told several stories about his recent trek to London, and Ewan interjected several times to tease Marta about her upcoming season.
Each time Ewan did this, Baldwin couldn’t help sensing his cheeks grow red and blotchy. He prayed this was all in his imagination. But as he gazed at this beautiful creature, a woman he thanked God above he’d come to greet, he wouldn’t help envisioninga time with both of them seated alone, sharing stories—her voice lilting with the occasional reveal of her Austrian accent. His arms felt heavy with this sudden bout of want. In years, he hadn’t found himself privy to such an emotion. It felt rather dangerous and slippery in his hands—as though if he wasn’t careful, it could crash to the ground and shatter.
It didn’t matter, though. Aunt Margaret had multiple ideas for suitors. Marta didn’t seem to be amongst them. He forced his mind to tackle this new information, to shift it around himself, and understand it as the truth. Then, he brought yet another false smile over his lips and joined everyone in the garden once more for a nightcap. Marta had only just arrived, and already, he felt vaguely heartbroken at the idea of losing her.
What a mentalist he was.
