Chapter Four
Max
From his vantage point, kneeling on the bench inside the salle d'attente, unobserved, or so at least he thought, through the grimy window, he had been watching all of them for some time. He had witnessed their encounter on the platform just outside; judged from their facial expressions that it had not gone especially well, but more than that he could not tell; dared not venture.
His mouth felt unaccountably dry; fear did that, or so he'd heard tell. But then naked fear was not an emotion to which he was accustomed, so it had to be something else, to account for the present dryness in his mouth. Perhaps... No; best not to think about that. After all, it served no useful purpose, least of all to himself.
He'd recognised all four of them of course, not only from the handful of photographs he'd recently been shown, but also from the descriptions he'd been given of them so very long ago: the tall, fair haired one, who seemed so apologetic, so courteous, so diffident, despite all appearances to the contrary, must be the Graf. He corrected himself: the earl. The imperious, dark haired woman, the one with the pale, angry face, with eyes like hard, dark brown pebbles, she must be his wife, the Gräfin. Yes, every inch a Gräfin! Again, mentally, he corrected himself: the countess.
The other two, the man with the blond hair and laughing eyes, der Jornalist - the newspaper man, and the other woman, the one with the grey blue eyes and the shoulder length hair - so different from how she appeared in the photograph - must be his wife, die Krankenschwester - the nurse. She was pretty, looked to be kind hearted, but then, as he knew to his cost, appearances could so often be deceptive. Well, he was a Schönborn and he was more than a match for any of them! He saw the door knob begin to turn, hurriedly slipped off the bench, and stood up. Well, this was it, no going back now. He stiffened, stood stock still, motionless, expressionless, and waited.
Here, inside the airy, light, high ceilinged salle d'attente it was both cool and quiet. Behind them, just beyond the now closed door, outside on the platform, the continuing hustle and bustle connected with the waiting train seemed suddenly to fade away.
It was now, on entering the salle d'attente, all of them together saw him for that very first time; standing at the far end of the room, an undeniably handsome, sandy haired, blue eyed boy, dressed in a white shirt, brown lederhosen, greyish-green knee socks, and brown boots.
She smiled at him and then walking slowly forward, turned to face them and stood behind him, placing her hands lightly upon his shoulders. She leant forward, whispered his name. He half turned his head, and smiled. He could smell the heady fragrance of her favourite perfume - Shalimar. He knew its name from the stylish, fluted, clear glass bottle which he'd seen so many times before, which contained the highly scented, amber coloured liquid, and which stood on her dressing table in her bedroom at Rosenburg, near Vienna, in Lower Austria.
"This, is Max" she said simply.
Author's Note:
Graf and Gräfin are titles of German nobility, approximating in rank to those of earl and countess in England.
Created by Jacques Guerlain, and first launched in 1921, Shalimar is "a refined oriental feminine fragrance with iris, vanilla, and rose" - or so I'm told! Guerlain took the name for this perfume from the Garden of Shalimar created, by the Mogul emperor Shah Jahan for his wife Mumtaz Mahal, for whom, as her final resting place, he built the Taj Mahal. Shalimar is an Arabian word and given, in this take, Edith's love of the Near East, it seemed rather appropriate.