‘Maxi, I can’t. We’ve got a costume fitting at one and then the publicity people are coming.’

‘Well, if you can’t,’ said Maxi, flushing slightly, ‘do you think your little friend would come? Heidi Schlum-berger?’

‘Oh, yes! What a good idea. You’ll find her in the chorus dressing-room. It will do her good to have a treat; she’s been looking a bit peaky lately.’

An hour later, therefore, Maxi sat opposite the Littlest Heidi at a white-painted table beneath a golden lime tree in the Prater. Not, however, the Hauptprater, with its fashionable chestnut allées and formally tended beds, but the Wurscht’lprater — that lusty, noisy, bustling fun-fair with its shooting booths and roundabouts and the famous giant wheel which Maxi particularly adored. How he had yearned to ride up there when he was a little boy, compelled to sit stiffly between his parents in their embossed, gold-wheeled carriage as it rolled relentlessly away from the high hedge behind which the ‘hoi polloi’ disported themselves.

The late September day was gentle: a golden leaf floated down and landed on Heidi’s adorable blonde head adorned by a pink satin bow which matched her blouse. Heidi, like Tessa, had been delighted by Maxi’s news, and now said shyly that she was sure Tessa would soon change her mind and become mistress of Spittau. ‘She must do… I mean, one couldn’t not…’ she said, looking worshipfully at Maxi out of her huge blue eyes.

Maxi patted her hand. ‘Have some more sauerbra-ten,’ he suggested.

But Heidi, who usually loved her food, made a little moué and said, ‘No, thank you, you’re very kind, but I couldn’t. And no more wine either, thank you.’

But though she felt so queasy, Heidi did not feel in the least like cutting short the meal. While they sat here quietly in the open air, she could manage without disgracing herself. True, the smell of hot engine-oil coming from the roundabouts was bad, as were the occasional disgusting whiffs of frying faschingskrapfen which once, incredibly, had been her favourite food. But here, under the trees, there was also a fresher, reviving breeze which came from the adjoining park and carried only the scent of moist earth and autumn leaves.

For the reprieve would not be for long. That Maxi would want to take her on the giant wheel was inevitable. He was in a festive mood and had already won her a fluffy blue rabbit in a shooting booth. Gentlemen always wanted to go on the giant wheel and Heidi knew just how to make it enjoyable for them: when to say, ‘Ooh!’ and ‘Aah!’; when to be so frightened (about three jerks before their carriage got to the very top) that they had to put their arms round her. And at the moment when the wheel seemed to be stuck, on the way down, she had learned to give a little, terrified scream — though everyone knew, of course, that the man who worked the wheel did it on purpose and that they were not really stuck at all. It had given great pleasure, that scream; Heidi would have been foolish not to be aware of that.

Looking down at the amber wine which she could not have drunk for a year’s wages, Heidi Schlumberger thought of all the satisfied gentlemen in whose arms she had gazed at the blue and golden panorama of her native city. Aldermen and councillors, industrialists and officers — ever since she was fifteen years old, she had not been without protectors. And now, all that was in the past. Since she had met Maxi at Pfaffenstein, she had not felt able to oblige a single gentleman. It was madness, of course, for there was the future to think of and the rent to pay.

But the future was best not thought of at the moment. Even the most obscure of the cleaning ladies knew that the writing was on the wall for Witzler’s company. Tessa’s small finger might be resolutely plugging the dyke, but the waves were breaking over the top. ‘And anyway,’ thought Heidi, managing at the same time to smile enchantingly at one of Maxi’s jokes, ‘who would go on employing me now?’

The moment had come. Maxi had summoned the waiter and was paying the bill.

‘I thought we’d go on the giant wheel, eh?’ he said happily. ‘It’s just the day for it, nice and clear and not too many people.’

‘Yes.’ She gathered up her blue rabbit, her handbag.

‘You want to, katzerl, don’t you?’ asked Maxi anxiously, caught by something listless and apathetic in Heidi’s usually quick movements.

‘Of course I want to. Of course!’

She took Maxi’s arm and together they walked towards the carriages of the great wheel, now swaying ominously in the freshening breeze.

Oh, Saint Theresa of the Little Flowers, Protector of the Poor and the Sorrowful, please don’t let me be sick, prayed the Littlest Heidi — discovering as the Princess of Pfaffenstein had done before her, how really awful love can be.

17

At the beginning of October, Guy left for Geneva. If all went as he hoped with the loan, Austria would find herself on the road to financial stability, and his task completed. After which he would return to Pfaffenstein to finalize the plans for his wedding.

It was during his absence that Nerine’s relatives, escorted by her brother Arthur, arrived in force: Mrs Croft, Nerine’s mother, her Uncle Edgar, her Uncle Victor, her portly cousin Clarence and — preceded always by murmurs of obeisance and respect — her Aunt Dorothy, the aunt who was an Honourable.

The honour that Aunt Dorothy, the daughter of a textile manufacturer promoted to the peerage, had conferred by marrying Mrs Croft’s brother, had never dimmed. Now widowed and in her sixties, obese, opinionated and petty, she still held undisputed sway over the family.

More of Nerine’s relatives were due shortly, but even those who had arrived seemed to fill the castle. Speaking loudly in English on the assumption that foreigners were deaf, they gave orders to the servants, demanded mineral water and British newspapers and could be heard everywhere braying cheerily at their own jokes.

It was only when she was with her own kith and kin again that Nerine realized how much she had missed them, and their admiration of Pfaffenstein’s grandeur was balm to her soul. Yet her pleasure was tinged with regret, for they had brought distressing news.

Just two weeks before their departure, an English nobleman, Lord St Henry, his wife and both his young sons had been drowned in a tragic boating accident off the Isle of Wight. Mrs Croft had waited until there was no further doubt — in other words, until the bodies of all four victims had been recovered, undoubtedly dead — before writing an agitated letter of condolence to Lord Frith in his crenellated tower in the Grampians. Frith’s answer, received just before she left for Austria, had been suitably grief-stricken, but it had also been unequivocal. Yes, it was true that his elder brother, St Henry, had died, along with his two sons; the loss was one which had shattered not only himself, but his old father who had aged by ten years and was not expected to live much longer. And yes, Frith had added, it was true that he himself would now inherit his father’s title, but as she could imagine being the Duke of Aberfeldy would mean little when set against the tragic loss of his brother, his two nephews and his brother’s wife. He had ended, as always, with concerned enquiries about Nerine, whose stay abroad must surely soon be coming to an end?

‘You haven’t told him about your marriage?’

Nerine shook her head. ‘There seemed no point until afterwards.’

Mrs Croft frowned. She was in the state bedroom, inspecting her daughter’s trousseau. The full-length chinchilla, the Russian sable, the jacket of Canadian lynx were spread across the bed. The diamond necklace, the double row of pearls and a few other trinkets which Nerine had picked up in Vienna were displayed on the dressing-table.

‘And I’m getting this silver lily,’ said Nerine. ‘It’s a Pfaffenstein heirloom and absolutely priceless. Arthur found out that the Museum of Antiquities in New York offered fifty thousand dollars for it, and that was before the war!’

Mrs Croft nodded. She could not blame Nerine for her choice, but the blow dealt her by Frith’s news was hard to bear. ‘My daughter, the Duchess of Aberfeldy.’ How inevitable it sounded, how right.

‘You would have thought God could have managed it better,’ said Nerine, throwing open the wardrobe to her mother’s awed gaze. ‘Just when one’s really happy He sends along something like this to spoil it.’ She pulled out an ermine-lined theatre cape and held it against her body, watching the play of light on the gold brocade. Yes, she had made the right choice, but really life could be amazingly cruel!

If Aunt Dorothy was pleased with her first sight of Pfaffenstein, its liveried retainers and sumptuous rooms, she received a nasty shock at dinner on the first night.

‘It was a shock, Alice,’ she said to Nerine’s mother when they had retired to the blue salon. ‘I was not prepared for it, you see. Though how one could be prepared for such a thing…’

‘I can see that,’ Mrs Croft replied, and Uncle Victor, Cousin Clarence and Nerine’s brother Arthur all agreed that it had been a shock.

‘I know, but you see Guy is so fond of her,’ explained Nerine. ‘There’s really nothing I can do. He’s taken Mr Tremayne with him and the head steward makes all the seating arrangements now, but even when everybody was here it was the same.’

‘But right opposite me! At the head of the table!’ exclaimed Aunt Dorothy. ‘That accent! I could hardly understand a word she said!’

‘Nor I,’ said Uncle Edgar, who had been on Martha’s right at dinner. ‘I must say, Nerine, I think it’s most unwise of Guy to foist her on you socially. Of course, you wouldn’t expect him to forget her — that would be quite wrong. Money should be sent, and a hamper at Christmas. But I cannot help seeing it as an affront—’