Chapter 29

Seating was assigned as usual, and I found myself between the baroness and the newest addition to the party, Malcolm Ault. Bruni, Johnny, and the baron were seated opposite, with John Senior and Anne at either end. I managed to do pretty well with my partners by saying little. Dagmar’s culinary skills left little room for conversation, allowing my mind’s higher faculties to slowly reengage. I noticed Johnny and Bruni inspecting me surreptitiously on several occasions as they talked to each other. Perhaps they expected me to topple over. They had moved to the opposite side of the table with reluctance and only after carefully seating me in my chair and, by their expressions, willing me to stay put and not slide beneath the table. I appreciated their concern, but they need not have worried. I have always stood by the assertion that Dagmar’s cooking could cure just about anything, and my faith was confirmed once again. There was magic in her food.

Perhaps to titillate the baron’s penchant for fois gras, Dagmar had created a small pâté ball surrounded by watercress. Chicken soup with egg-lemon sauce followed and then a delightful cube of salmon surrounded by a lemon jelly and blackened leeks. By the time I had consumed the first few dishes, the room had stabilized on its axis, and I could feel my lips and the tip of my nose. The main course was beef tenderloin served rare. I weighed continued sobriety against the deep ruby color of a French Bordeaux. Stanley allowed me to peek at the label as he offered to fill my glass, and my decision was instantaneous. The wine was a Château la Mission Haut-Brion. Johnny and Bruni looked like they would have leaped across the table had propriety not prevented them. They shook their heads with a determined ferocity, but they should have known that resistance was futile against the jewels tucked away in the cellar down below. It may have been the beef, the dreamy mashed potatoes, the brussels sprouts in browned butter with garlic pecans, or the combination of the three, but I was feeling lucky. I thought I’d start to know more about the creator of my distress by going to the source.

There is a saying that if you want to know what a woman will look like given time, observe her mother. If there was any truth in this, then anyone who managed to live with Bruni for any length would be amply rewarded. The baroness was of indeterminate age, but by whatever measure, she was the real deal. Her blond hair was styled somewhat short, cut and colored by someone who had exquisite skill. Her daughter had inherited the same luminescent blue eyes, but her mother’s were set in a slightly darker face of such intelligent elfin perfection, I almost asked her what face cream she used, but managed to check myself. Up close, I think the two women were evenly matched. The baroness’s diamonds were larger and finer. I am drawn to those of FL and IF clarity with a D on the color scale like a moth to a flame, particularly if they are more than three carats. The baroness was sporting several that flashed in the candlelight and stood out against her flawless skin and her black designer evening dress. I was putty in her hands.

“Baroness, how are you enjoying your visit?”

“Wonderful, I love this house. The ambiance…” She had a slight German accent, but what was most intriguing was the quality of her voice when she spoke, and the extraordinary focus of her attention when she listened. She managed to effortlessly instill in the speaker the sensation that whatever was said was important and required her earnest and wholehearted consideration. She had a gift and was far more formidable in every way than I had thought. As if to emphasize that realization, she reached over, took my hand, and said, “Call me, Elsa…please.”

Nervously, I glanced about to see what the baron was up to, but he and John Senior were deep in conversation as usual. Bruni, observing her mother’s touch, gave me a frosty glance and looked away, while Johnny savored the wine like it was a gift from the gods, which indeed it was. I took another sip to fortify myself and moved my hand.

I said in German, “Elsa, I know little about you other than that you are married to the baron and have a beautiful daughter.”

Switching to German, she replied, “I acknowledge your indirect compliment. Daughters often reflect their mother’s charm…”

Elsa complimented me on my language skill, and gradually my nervousness passed. We talked like old friends. I was intrigued. The wine added to the richness of the setting, the register of her voice, and the sparkle of her character. I sipped and listened to her story. She had grown up in Germany. Her parents were wealthy and had presciently parked the majority of their assets in Switzerland, where she had been educated. Afterward, they had invested heavily in the construction business. Her beauty had been renowned even from an early age and had caught the attention of the baron’s family. After the disaster with my parents, they were eager to get Hugo’s attention on someone of good lineage whose looks alone would attract him, whose mind might keep him enthralled, but regardless, who would ensure the continuation of the family by producing an heir. Hugo’s foray into matrimony proved a glorious success. There was a son still in Europe, who had the same steely resolve and overbearing personality of the father, refined by the gentility of the mother. These traits were also passed to the daughter, who had acquired in addition her mother’s brilliance and communication skills. Elsa was wonderfully frank. She told me that whoever would win her daughter would have to be supremely skilled to not only handle Brunhilde’s prickly personality, her intricate mind, and her tendency to dominate those around her but have the sexual appetite to satisfy her physically — a point mentioned only in passing by Elsa, but which caused me to choke on my dessert, a wonderful puree of berries, whipped cream, meringue, and handmade vanilla ice cream. Elsa rose to the occasion by smacking me firmly on the back.

“Did I surprise you, Liebchen?”

By now we were on a liebchen, or sweetheart, familiarity. “Yes.”

“Sexual appetite is a family trait on both sides, so it’s natural to discuss it. You are familiar with the Freikörperkultur?”

“The German naturism movement. I believe that had to do with nudity as opposed to sexuality.”

“Just so. You are remarkably well informed. I trust I’m not being too frank when I say that nudity, sexuality, and deviancy are not the same, although naturism can lead to an exploration of sexuality that might not occur otherwise, yes?”

“Indeed,” I said tentatively, wondering how I might steer the conversation away from where it was headed.

Luckily, Mr. and Mrs. Dodge stood to inform us that coffee would be served in the drawing room, while brandy and cigars would be available in the library. Relieved, I stood as well.

The baroness looked up at me, amused. “Saved by our hosts. I so enjoyed our conversation. You are an excellent listener. I hope we’ll have a chance to talk again soon.”

I pulled out her chair. She stood and moved smoothly into my arms and hugged me with a sensual pleasure that left nothing to my imagination. She did it so artfully and in such a relaxed manner, I decided to not allow myself to push her away. Still in her embrace, I thanked her with what I hoped was the spirit with which the embrace was given, but I couldn’t be sure. Such things can be remarkably delicate. We moved apart and wandered out of the dining room following the others. I left her in the drawing room.

Pausing in the front hallway on the way to the library, I congratulated myself. I thought I had handled her rather well. To reject a gift is to accept its opposite. The baroness, I was certain, would make a terrible and frightening enemy. The females of many species are far more dangerous than the males, and I felt in this case that I had made a friend. She was a remarkable woman. I wondered if her daughter had received, perhaps, too much of her father’s domineering personality. Living with her would be a perilous business. Had the balance come out more like her mother, I could have cared less if Bruni was married or not.

“Smitten?”

I turned and looked into the same crystal-blue eyes I had gazed into during dinner, only they belonged to Bruni. “Completely.”

“Many are. She can be quite the troublemaker. Have a care.”

She turned and walked into the drawing room. I wondered why she had said that, only to realize that I’d been so captivated by Elsa that I’d forgotten to ask her whether Bruni was really married or not. It had completely slipped my mind. Bruni was probably correct in her assessment. I made my way to the library.