Chapter Forty Six
Cat Amongst The Pigeons
Pensione Lucchesi, Florence, July 1932.
"And that, my darling, I suppose, is about the sum of it," ended Edith quietly. She looked cautiously at Friedrich and nervously bit her lower lip.
Having made love, now bathed and washed and with her damp hair piled loosely atop her head, wrapped in a pale floral patterned, silk kimono,she was seated on the sofa in the sitting room of their third floor suite at the Pensione Lucchesi here on the Lungarno delle Grazie, downstream of the Ponte alle Grazie from which it took its name, overlooking the River Arno, while, through the open window, the myriad sounds of a Florentine summer's evening drifted up to her from below; the painfully discordant notes of someone playing a violin and badly too, the strident cries of sellers of gelato, sweets, and flowers hawking their wares in the street and the shouts of the gondoliers down on the river. A moment later, clad only in a loose fitting towel, freshly shaven, his skin flushed and glowing, Friedrich came out of the bathroom and sat himself down beside her.
Having flown back to Genoa from Alexandria courtesy of Imperial Airways and in the process following the route Edith herself had taken, Friedrich had arrived in Florence on the four o'clock train from Genoa and they had duly met, as they had arranged previously, here at the pensione, scarcely but a couple of hours ago. Of course, Friedrich had been more than a little surprised to see that young Max was not with her. After all, as he knew only too well, Edith scarcely ever let him out of her sight for an instant. Then, when she had explained to him why it was that she had felt able to leave their young son up at the villa, principally on account of the fact that Max was completely worn out after meeting up with his cousins and from the exertions of the journey; that in any case he was in the safe keeping of Nanny Bridges, he had understood perfectly. Friedrich always did.
He had been absolutely astounded to learn of what had happened on the express but then extremely relieved to learn that as far as she could tell no harm had befallen young Max during his adventures whilst off the train and that principally on account of the loving care which had been taken of him by both Danny and Robert and to whom Friedrich said he now found himself most indebted. Given the nature of both his parents, Tom who was so deeply loving, Sybil who, with her sweet nature, was kindness itself, that young Danny had come to the aid of Max was of no real surprise to Edith. But that Robert too had played his part in this, well that had been a little unexpected and Edith could only assume that this was down to one simple fact: that Robert had a very great deal of his father in him. After all, Matthew was kindness itself, akin to the Good Samaritan, whereas as far as Mary was concerned, someone who never put herself out for anyone, Edith was quite firmly of the opinion that her elder sister who she had once called a bitch, would have been well cast as the Sadducee or Levite in the parable; only all too ready to pass by on the other side of the road from someone who was in desperate need.
"Well, I think we should let things be".
"You really think so?"
"I do. I'll speak to him tomorrow morning. There'll be time enough for all of that before the symposium starts at the Uffizi. I'll be sure to tell darling Max that we are placing our complete trust in him and to take the greatest care. After all, you said it yourself, just how much he loves being with his cousins. So it seems such a shame to deprive him of their company".
"But aren't we taking an awful..."
"But nothing. Come here, my darling". Friedrich smiled and deftly loosening the sash of her kimono, drew Edith forward, unresisting, and into the comforting circle of his arms. Moments later and Edith had forgotten about everything, even her fears for Max, with no thought other than for the sheer physical sensations now possessing her entire body.
Villa San Callisto, Fiesole, July 1932.
It was odd, thought Mary.
Singularly so.
But the remembrance of it had only come fully to her earlier tonight.
Up until then, after all the many trials and tribulations of the train journey across France and down here into Italy, now that the misunderstanding on her part over the comtesse de Roquebrune had, she hoped, finally been laid to rest, it had proved to be a deliciously enjoyable evening, making her peace with Matthew. Something in which he had proved himself to be an adept, attentive and expert lover, far more so than after some of their previous disagreements and quarrels; solicitous for her welfare, taking more time to attend to her physical needs and wants. Perhaps it was something to do with being here in Italy!
As to what was now troubling her, it had been afterwards, while she and Matthew were bathing together, luxuriating in the splendours of their palatial bathroom, that the thought had come to her. It continued to vex her after Matthew had gone to his own dressing room and while Hodge was helping her to dress and it continued to do so now.
It was indeed odd that she hadn't considered it before.
After all, Edith had been quite candid, quite open about the identity of her fiancé. Von Schönborn. At the time the name had meant nothing to Mary. Why should it? And then... No, it couldn't possibly be the same man, surely? Or, could it? Although, come to think of it, he would be about the right age.
It was only when, for the second time, that Mary had dutifully viewed the album of photographs which Edith had produced for her and Sybil's mutual inspection on the train that memory itself had first begun to stir and even then but faintly. To be entirely truthful, Mary had still paid rather more attention to the magnificent jewellery Edith was wearing than to the undeniably handsome man of military bearing sitting beside her. When Edith had laughingly remarked that while he was talking Friedrich had the habit of stroking his right earlobe with his forefinger Mary remembered that the handsome military attaché she had met at the Austro-Hungarian embassy in London all those years ago had exactly the same mannerism. She now permitted herself the luxury of a wry smile. Whilst it was exceedingly unlikely that it was the same man, just supposing for the moment that it was, why, if things had turned out differently than they had, then she herself might well now be wearing those self same pieces of jewellery which Edith was wearing in that photograph.
However, the Great War, which had cost countless millions their lives, had served to blot out many other things that also might once have been. Now, all these years later, even if Mary had forgotten his name, she recalled that his manners had been absolutely impeccable; his English less so but certainly better than her German which was non existent and in any case all the right people spoke English. In the silence of the opulent bedroom here in the Villa San Callisto overlooking city of Florence, if she listened, she thought she could still hear the dying strains of the Blue Danube waltz as it drifted out through the open windows of the ballroom and into the garden which lay behind the magnificent building on Belgrave Square. Dressed in the height of fashion, coiffured immaculately and bejewelled fit to dazzle, having dismissed her lady's maid, Mary sat quietly; gazing intently at her reflection in the ornate mirror. It had, she recalled, been a warm night then too, exceptionally so, as now she found herself thinking back to a lifetime ago, to the long hot summer of 1914...
Austro-Hungarian Embassy, Belgrave Square, London, August 1914.
Mary knew that her disappearance from the ballroom that evening, along with her escort, the impossibly handsome military attaché on the staff of the Austro-Hungarian ambassador to the Court of St. James, Count von Mensdorff-Pouilly Dietrichstein, had been noticed; had produced unfavourable comment and tittle-tattle but for once, perhaps for the only time in her life, partly because she had refused to vouchsafe him her true identity, and which had given her a frisson of delight and lent an air of mystery to the whole episode, Lady Mary Crawley really didn't care. Just over three months earlier, following the appalling loss of the Titanic, her whole world had coming crashing down about her, for among the 1,500 souls who had perished in the icy cold waters of the North Atlantic had been her cousin Patrick and to whom she was secretly engaged.
It was Aunt Rosamund who, with the very best of intentions, had suggested it; this impromptu trip up to London, a well-meaning attempt to help lift her spirits with a seemingly never ending round of shopping at Derry and Toms and at Harrods both in Knightsbridge, at Liberty's on Regent Street, and finally at Swan and Edgar's in Piccadilly Circus; of a succession of house calls and a positive whirl of dances, parties and suppers, all as a means of lifting her eldest niece's spirits. In the continued furtherance of this, through a good friend, and it must be admitted the fortuitous indisposition of Mary's second cousin Margaret, Aunt Rosamund had secured for her niece a much prized invitation to the ball being held this evening at the Austro-Hungarian embassy in Belgrave Square. And now here she was, seated in the embassy's garden on a warm summer's night, being flattered and made love to by an undeniably handsome officer on the ambassador's staff. Perhaps there was more of the rebel in her than she cared to admit. Not that she considered herself to be a real rebel; that she knew was Sybil's undisputed territory, what with her interest in the Suffragette movement and her penchant for outrageous clothes such as those ghastly harem pants and which made her look as though she had strayed out of some seraglio. Darling Sybil who, if the rumours which had reached Mary's ears were true, was apparently taking an unusual interest in the family's new chauffeur; an Irishman by the name of Branson. That, thought Mary, needed to be nipped in the bud and she would see to it that it was. Not that she saw anything in the slightest hypocritical in her proposed course of action regarding her youngest sister's unhealthy interest in the new chauffeur and what, whilst up in London, she herself then did next.
Mary managed to convince herself, and with seeming consummate ease, that there really was no harm in the two brief assignations which they enjoyed and which had followed swiftly upon the ambassador's ball; a meeting, seemingly by chance, in Regent's Park to listen to a military band play. Then a candlelit supper in a Hungarian restaurant on Manette Street enlivened by the presence of a gypsy band, all zithers, violins, and cimbaloms and where the company, the music and the wine had proved intoxicating. Not that either of them lost their heads but they had said things and made each other the silly kind of promises that are often made in such circumstances and which both knew they could never ever keep, even if circumstances had been different and more propitious. In any event, by this time both Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his morganatic wife had been shot dead in Sarajevo and the Great Powers were preparing for war while keeping up the pretence of trying to seek a peaceful resolution to the present escalating European crisis; not of course that Mary had appreciated this at the time but Matthew had explained all of it to her years later long after they had been married and the handsome Austrian military attaché was but a distant memory.
In any case, early in August 1914, Mary had returned home to Downton.
So as not to attract attention, dressed in civilian clothing, he had come to King's Cross station to see her off and to say their final goodbyes. In their hearts each knew that for various reasons nothing could, and nothing would, ever come of their chance meeting. Remember it fondly, kindly, for what it had been; a summer's brief dalliance before the whole world went mad. Because, while for the present Austria-Hungary and Great Britain were still at peace, he and she both knew that it was only a matter of time before the rupture occurred. And in mid August, but a matter of days later it did, with Britain's declaration of war. Thereafter, the Austro-Hungarian embassy in Belgrave Square was closed for the duration of the conflict and, along with its aristocratic ambassador, all its diplomatic staff returned home to Vienna.
Villa San Callisto, Fiesole, July 1932.
Of course, dearest Matthew knew all about her earlier singular indiscretion with Pamuk and what had followed it thereafter; he had never once been judgemental of her, had been so utterly understanding and forgiving. However, Mary had no doubt at all, none whatsoever that was only because darling Matthew believed it to be her only lapse in this regard. Earlier tonight they had both consigned their… no, be truthful, her recent estrangement over the comtesse de Roquebrune in Geneva to the past; a falling-out which should never have occurred in the first place had Mary herself not been so lacking in understanding, so quick to condemn Matthew unheard in the matter. But, if he ever found out about this, would he now forgive her this too? Somehow, Mary very much doubted it. No, it couldn't possibly be the same man... could it?
Voices now drifted up to her from some where outside the villa.
Rising to her feet, Mary walked the short distance over to the open window and unseen looked down into the garden below; saw Tom, Sybil and young Danny, laughing and joking, making their way slowly back up towards the house. How she envied all of them their open familiarity and their easy repartee.
A moment later and there came a gentle knock on the bedroom door and she heard Matthew's quiet voice asking if she was ready to go down to await the arrival of Edith and her fiancé and to which, there was no other answer, than to say that, yes, indeed she was. Her mind still in a whirl, summoning up a smile, opening wide the door, Mary walked serenely out of the bedroom to where Matthew awaited her on the landing. Arm in arm, they descended the main staircase and walked outside onto the terrace just as Tom, Sybil and Danny came in sight of the flight of steps which led up to it from the lower gardens of the villa.
"Tom! You're absolutely incorrigible!"
Sybil smiled; shook her head, seemingly in disbelief at what it was he had just asked of her.
At the same time, young Danny looked from his father to his mother and back again; caught the amused glances that now passed between the two of them, as all three strolled slowly back up the broad swathe of manicured lawn between the cypresses trees and towards the distant villa. Glancing ahead, Danny saw his Uncle Matthew and Aunt Mary standing arm in arm at the top of the flight of steps which led down from the terrace; saw his uncle raise his hand in friendly greeting which upon the instant Da acknowledged.
"A shepherd's hut is a hut on wheels which a shepherd makes use of during springtime to look after newborn lambs," said Sybil through gritted teeth.
"Oh! That's what it is". Danny nodded his head sagely in understanding. He heard his father chuckle and, knowing his parents as he did, realised that it would be wise not to ask any more questions, at least about shepherds' huts. Realised too that he was privy to something which, despite Ma's grudgingly given explanation, he did not, as yet, fully understand and probably never would. Instead, he decided to ask his father about something else that he had been wondering about.
"Da?"
"Yes son?"
"You love Ma very much, don't you?"
"Yes son, I do".
Sybil smiled across at Tom.
"Da?"
"What's it like?"
"What?"
"Being in love?"
"Honestly?"
"Honestly, Da".
"Well..." Tom shot a glance at Sybil, saw that, as she often did, she was fingering the delicate, heart-shaped, gold pendant which she always wore and which he knew had engraved within it the same words as were inscribed on the back of his wristwatch:
"Every Waking Minute"
Saw too, that she was waiting just as eagerly for his response, hanging on his every word; intrigued as to what he would say. But in that she was to be disappointed, at least for the present, as her brother-in-law now hailed the three of them from the terrace.
"So he found the two of you, then?" called Matthew and with a nod in Danny's direction as they finally reached the foot of the terrace steps.
"For sure! And he told me to remember Hawkridge too!" Tom grinned up at Matthew who smiled then chuckled.
"Danny, I knew I could rely on you! Send a man... well almost... to do a man's job!" Matthew saw his nephew beam with pleasure at the praise being heaped upon him.
A few moments later, standing there on the terrace next to Ma, with his Da's arm placed affectionately about his shoulders, Danny knew that he was a very lucky boy indeed to have the parents that he did. Now, as he looked, first at his mother and then back at his father, he felt his skin begin to tingle, was conscious of a delicious warm glow spreading throughout his entire being and wondered if already he had the answer to the question which he had just asked of his father.
"Da?" he whispered.
"Yes son?" Tom lowered his voice.
"About what I asked you? You will tell me, won't you?"
"For sure but some other time, eh?". Tom hugged Danny to him and kissed the top of his head. And with that he, too, had to be content.
While many boys, especially at the age he was now would have fought shy of such physical contact with their parents, would have been embarrassed, not so Danny. After all, in the Branson family, the daily, open displays of love and physical affection were things which they all took for granted. In any event, something else now claimed Danny's attention. Glancing through the open doors of the dining room, his jaw almost dropped to the flagstones as he glimpsed within the highly polished chairs and the table set for dinner; where, atop a snow white linen cloth, midst a profusion of flowers, silver candelabra, cutlery, menu card holders, crystal glassware and fine porcelain glinted in the lamplight.
"Crikey, Da! Will you look at that!" Tom followed his son's astonished gaze.
"I know, son, I know. Just like back home in Dublin..." Tom chuckled then lowered his voice slightly; said in a mock conspiratorial tone "... but without your Ma's burnt purdies!" He pulled a mock grimace and Danny laughed.
"Purdies?" queried Matthew.
"Potatoes," chuckled Tom.
Listening to her two menfolk, Sybil raised her eyes heavenward and shook her head.
"Honestly, you two! When did I last burn the potatoes?"
"Truthfully? Now let me see... Danny, can you remember? Was it last Thursday or was it..." Tom scratched his head and pretended to think, at which point Sybil dug him hard in the ribs.
"Ouch! That hurt, woman!" He rubbed his side in dramatic fashion.
"Don't you woman me, Tom Branson! It was intended to!" laughed Sybil. Matthew smiled; while Mary was no longer quite as insisting of the proprieties and as formal as once had been the case, nonetheless, he still envied Tom and Sybil their easy informality.
Still grinning, Tom turned to his sister-in-law and smiled broadly.
"I suppose you do know that it's only a member of the Austrian nobility we're meeting; not your King George and Queen Mary?"
"And?" she asked.
Knowing Tom as she did, Mary's ever expressive eyebrows twitched; waited for her Irish brother-in-law's sense of humour which like that of her husband she found to be both unfathomable and unpredictable to manifest itself once again in the form of some barbed remark. But this time, in that she was to be mistaken.
"My compliments!"
Capturing Mary's right hand, Tom brought it swiftly up to his lips in a perfectly executed baise main. Then, releasing her hand, his blue eyes glinting with merriment, he now swept his aristocratic sister-in-law a deep bow that in its depth would have done justice to the late Dowager Empress of Russia. Tom straightened up.
"And?" she asked again, though obviously flattered by his attention. He paused; eyed her curiously. His sister-in-law seemed somewhat distracted.
"And nothing. I mean it! Mary, you look absolutely magnificent!"
Which indeed, was true enough.
In her Chanel, bias cut, burgundy, silk evening gown which showed off her still slender form to perfection, worn with with long white gloves, and wearing atop her immaculately coiffured hair the exquisite Grantham tiara, with its matching ear rings and necklace which Tom knew had been bequeathed her by her late grandmother, Mary presented the epitome of British aristocratic elegance and poise. And yet, for all that, unless he was very much mistaken, something, thought Tom, was not quite right. What it was he couldn't say; at least not then. Somehow, it seemed to him that Mary was playing a part and playing it to perfection but then was that, on occasion, not true of most people?
Perhaps... perhaps he was mistaken.
After all, his sister-in-law had smiled with obvious pleasure at the compliment he had paid her but before she could make any form of reply, a moment later and clad in his flannel blue and white striped pyjamas, dressing gown and slippers, Robert stepped quietly through the French windows and came to stand beside his parents, uncle, aunt and cousin out on the terrace in the warm evening air.
"Robert! What on earth are you doing down here?" asked Mary somewhat peremptorily. Her son flushed red.
"Mama, I..."
"Aren't you supposed to be in bed, young man?" asked Matthew more kindly.
"Well I was. Only..."
"Only what?" chided Matthew gently.
"Well, I, er, heard voices. And..."
"And what?" asked Mary crisply.
Not that she would admit it to anyone, least of all to herself but the imminent prospect of meeting with Edith's fiancé was making her more than usually nervous on account of what she had recalled to mind earlier this evening.
Seeing Dan standing with his parents out on the terrace now gave Robert the confidence he needed.
"Father, Dan's down here, with Uncle Tom and Aunt Sybil, and our room's only just up there. So, I, er, thought I... " Robert indicated a shuttered window immediately above the terrace through the slats of which a gleam of lamplight glimmered and then turned to his mother.
"Mama, you look beautiful".
"Thank you, Robert". She smiled fondly at her son and, realising that she must have sounded unduly harsh, Mary now relented. Attempting to try and put her own troubles out of mind, slipping her arm about Robert's shoulders, unexpectedly, she drew him to her.
"Well, all right, darling. You may stay with us out here on the terrace but only until Daniel goes up to bed". She shot a pleading look at Sybil trying to convey that this should be sooner rather than later but Sybil, who was chatting to Tom, seemed not to notice.
"Thank you Mama".
"Mary? Is anything the matter?" It was now Matthew's turn to regard her quizzically much as Tom had done earlier.
"No, nothing, darling. What makes you ask?"
"You seemed a little... distrait, that's all".
"Well I'm not but thank you for your concern".
Instead, his wife forced a thin smile and still with her arm around her son's shoulders, along with the rest of the family, stood looking down across the gardens towards the city in the valley below. A moment later and the myriad twinkling lights of Florence were suddenly extinguished while behind them the lamps in the villa dimmed, flickered, and then went out altogether.
"What on earth's going on?" asked Matthew, like everyone else, bemused by the sudden, totally unexpected turn of events.
"Whatever it is, darling, have you forgotten?"
"Forgotten what?"
"That Edith and her fiancé will be here any minute!" Mary sounded aghast. As if things were not bad enough already. Now with this problem of the electricity, even before it had begun, this evening was turning into an unmitigated disaster. A moment later and Innocenti, the Ashingtons' butler, the singularly inappropriately named Italian equivalent, in more ways than one, of Thomas Barrow, appeared out on the terrace to tender, in broken English, his profuse apologies.
Apparently, here in Florence, for some unfathomable reason power cuts were all too common place. Nonetheless, Innocenti assured them all that the courses of this evening's dinner were already prepared and he had given immediate orders for alternative lighting to be found. Within the darkened dining room servants could be glimpsed lighting the candles in the cut glass chandelier hanging from the ceiling, in the silver candelabra on the table and the sconces on the walls and which all now assumed the use for which they had originally been fashioned as opposed to these days being but decorative relics of a bygone era.
"Shall we go inside?" asked Matthew.
"Come on, now, boys. Time you were both in bed," said Tom as, placing an arm about their shoulders, he gently shepherded both Danny and Robert into the villa.
Without turning her head, Edith nodded, concentrating instead on driving the Fiat down the length of the long drive and towards the honey coloured walls of the Villa San Callisto. The front façade of the house presented itself to them as a blaze of lights, lit up, thought Friedrich, like the gondolas of the Riesenrad at the entrance to the Prater in Leopoldstadt back in Vienna. Just then, ahead of the both of them, all the lights in the house suddenly went out.
"Was in aller Welt..." he began.
"I expect it's Mary. She's told the servants to put the lights out and to tell us that they're not at home to receive any guests," observed Edith tartly.
"Perhaps. Maybe... your sister hasn't paid the …" Friedrich fumbled for the word. "Die Rechnung". He laughed.
Edith nodded.
"The bill," she said helpfully. "For the electricity!" She laughed too.
Friedrich grinned, smiled faintly at her as, in the dimness of the interior of the car, he saw Edith now grip the steering wheel of the Fiat somewhat harder than she had done before, even while negotiating the traffic back down there in the darkened, narrow streets of Florence.
He was only all too well aware that there was no love lost between Edith and her elder sister; equally understanding of the fact however much she might try to mask it, despite the fact that he had told her repeatedly that she had nothing to fear, just how nervous Edith was about the forthcoming meeting between her family and himself.
Nonetheless, from what she had told him earlier, down at the pensione, despite Edith's misgivings, whilst they had all been on the train and unwittingly on their part the children seemed to have made what might otherwise have been a very difficult situation at least bearable. And, thought Friedrich once again, he found himself feeling very kindly disposed towards the two older boys, Danny and Robert, who between them had taken such very good care of young Max, and also to the girl, the one with the almost unpronounceable Irish name, and which he still could not trust himself to say properly.
As for the adults, as a erstwhile fighter pilot with the Austro-Hungarian air force he at least shared a form of common bond with Matthew Crawley, the Graf, who had served as a British infantry officer on the Western Front during the Great War.
And not only that.
Like Matthew Crawley, Friedrich von Schönborn believed passionately that there must never be another European war and considered Herr Dolfuss in Austria and Herr Hitler in Germany, let alone the bull necked, swaggering Mussolini here in Italy, to be jumped up little upstarts, nothing more than Volksverhetzerin, common rabble-rousers. He despised them all; knew both their Fascist policies and their militarism would lead only to confrontation and, in the end, to another war. And like Matthew, for all its imperfections, Friedrich believed wholeheartedly in the League of Nations, its aims and aspirations.
As for the journalist, Herr Branson who, until Edith had explained his true antecedents, Friedrich imagined to have married far above himself, and his wife, Lady Sybil, the nurse, Friedrich knew that Edith loved them both deeply and for that reason he was inclined to be well disposed towards them from the outset. But not only because of that. Herr Branson was a Catholic who had married a Protestant and who once had obviously found himself in the same predicament as Friedrich found himself now. And from what Edith had also told him, while Matthew Crawley was not a political man, it seemed that Friedrich and Tom Branson shared the same liberal politics too.
That just left Edith's elder sister, Mary, whom Friedrich knew Edith disliked intensely and from what he had heard of her with very good reason. At Rosenberg, while there was scattered through the rooms of the house a veritable clutch of photographs of the adult Bransons and their young family and yet others of the Crawleys, of the latter, only on one, taken some years ago, a family group of the earl and countess of Grantham and their children, did Mary herself appear and then not that clearly. Of rather more interest was what Friedrich had learned about the imperious Lady Mary Crawley, long before he and Edith ever met and that from a cousin who, at the outbreak of the Great War, was serving as part of an Austro-Hungarian military mission to the Ottoman government in distant Constantinople; from whom Friedrich had first heard the tale of Lady Mary Crawley and the decidedly late Kemal Pamuk, the veracity of which Edith unwittingly had confirmed to him some years later after they had first met in Luxor back in 1922.
"I don't think Mary's ever paid a bill in her entire life," said Edith flatly as having brought the Fiat to a prompt stop she pulled on the handbrake and turned off the ignition outside the imposing, albeit darkened, entrance to the Villa San Callisto, from where there now emerged servants bearing lighted flambeaux.
"Perhaps not, but I think..." began Friedrich as the door of the motor was opened for him and he climbed out.
"Think what?" asked Edith from across the roof of the Fiat.
But, oddly enough, Friedrich didn't answer her.
Instead, he turned and looked out across the darkened gardens and towards Florence where, down in the valley, below the villa, it was if the entire city had suddenly ceased to exist and with not the merest pinprick of light to be seen.
He turned back to her.
"I think it must be the power". He looked about him and sighed."Not here to greet us then". He inhaled deeply. So this was how it was to be.
"No doubt Mary wants to convey the impression of deigning to grant both of us the honour of an imperial audience," observed Edith tartly at which Friedrich laughed, snorting his obvious disapproval at the very idea of someone of Mary's status being possessed of such a delusion of grandeur.
"You forget, my darling, that I have already been accorded that august privilege and by someone actually entitled to afford me that honour. That is by His Imperial and Apostolic Majesty, the late Emperor Karl," he said softly and at the same time crossing himself fervently.
A moment later and Innocenti appeared at the front door of the villa, apologising profusely, explaining that he had been detained elsewhere dealing with the sudden loss of the electrical supply. Without further ado, he led both Edith and Friedrich through into the magnificent entrance hall of the mansion and to where, at the foot of the main staircase, both the Bransons and the Crawleys were waiting to receive their expected guests.
After they had said their goodnights to both their parents and to their aunt and uncle, the two boys had run upstairs seemingly to bed. However, with both of them intrigued beyond measure by the imminent arrival of Max's father, they had only made it as far as the uppermost landing; were now lying on their stomachs on the floor, gazing down through the bannisters, watching intently the scene taking place in the hall below and so witnessed the arrival of Aunt Edith and Max's father. Not of course that at the time they knew it, but in doing so, both Danny and Robert were now witness to a moment of high drama.
Like the dining room, the splendid hall of the villa was for the present lit only by candles, the flickering light of which glittered and flashed; reflected in the facets of the pair of pier glasses set within their ornately carved and gilded frames, in the sparkling crystal pendalogues and prisms of the temporarily redundant electrolier and in the burnished solid silver sconces adorning the walls. Listening intently, Danny and Robert heard Aunt Edith begin her introductions of Max's father to the assembled adult members of the family, firstly to Robert's own father, Matthew Crawley earl of Grantham. They saw the two men shake hands and heard the exchange of the other usual, polite, meaningless pleasantries which are uttered upon these occasions. Saw now that Friedrich von Schönborn had moved and was standing directly in front of Robert's mother; heard Aunt Edith's introduce her fiancé once again just as she had done moments ago to Robert's father but this time now to his mother; saw Max's father raise the countess of Grantham's gloved hand to his lips.
"Mary, this is Friedrich; Max's father. Friedrich, this is my sister, Mary," offered Edith in all innocence. Given the particular circumstances of which Edith was, as yet, blissfully and thankfully ignorant, even before it was made, the introduction of her fiancé to her elder sister was rendered singularly superfluous by a brief encounter which had taken place in London nearly twenty years before.
Now, as Friedrich took her hand in his and brought it up to his lips their eyes met and, for one brief, heart stopping moment, at least for Mary, time seemed to stand still as he smiled at her; just as he had done all those years ago, on a long gone afternoon, back in August 1914, standing on the platform by the open door to her compartment at King's Cross railway station.
Author's Note:
The Uffizi Gallery in Florence is one of the most famous art museums in the world.
In 1914, Count Albert Viktor Julius Joseph Michael von Mensdorff-Pouilly Dietrichstein (1861-1945) was indeed Austro-Hungarian ambassador to Great Britain. By a strange quirk of history, today's embassy of the Republic of Austria is housed in the very same building in Belgrave Square, London as its imperial predecessor.
The four London department stores mentioned need no introduction but while Harrods and Liberty's are still with us, Derry and Toms closed in 1973 and Swan and Edgar shut its doors for the last time in 1982. Manette Street too actually exists. Formerly called Rose Street, in 1895 it was renamed in honour of Dr. Alexandre Manette, a character from Charles Dickens' "A Tale of Two Cities" and whom in his novel the author has reside in Rose Street.