His Majesty's Hope(51)

There were many silver-framed photographs of Clara over the years, including her as a young girl. Maggie picked up one. Clara, perhaps two years old, dressed for snow, perched in an ornate carriage with oversized, spindly wheels. From the clothes she realized it was probably from before the turn of the century. She was struck by how innocent Clara looked. How angelic. What had happened to change her?

“Oh, it’s lovely,” Maggie exclaimed, a lump in her throat.

“If you’re feeling better now, we should probably be getting back to the party.”

“You know, I’ve heard so much about your mother—from Herr Lehrer, of course—I’d love to see where she works. She’s such an inspiring woman and has accomplished so much.” She smiled. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

Elise hesitated, not wanting to continue the tour but unwilling to displease a guest. “Follow me,” she said, and Maggie did, through an interior door into a library with built-in bookcases and silk-covered walls, dominated by a desk. Here, too, were paintings of Hitler, as well as a reproduction of Rubens’s Council of the Gods.

Maggie knew what she had to do. “Oh,” she said, stopping abruptly and putting one hand to her forehead.

“Are you ill?” Elise asked.

“Oh, I’m sure I’m fine …” Maggie stumbled. “Oh, dear—I’m afraid I’m feeling a trifle faint again.”

“Sit down,” commanded Elise. “I’ll run and fetch the smelling salts.”

“And a glass of water?” Maggie asked, sitting on the tufted black leather sofa. That will buy me a few extra minutes.

“Of course. Just relax—take deep breaths—I’ll be right back,” said Elise before she left the room.

Not right back, I hope. Maggie dug in her purse for the microphone.

Nearest to the desk was the optimal place to conceal it; they’d taught her at Beaulieu. There was a photograph behind the desk, of a younger Clara, taking a curtain call with her conductor. Her husband? Maggie thought as she pulled over the desk chair. Well, technically, he would be her second husband, I suppose.

Still, her hands were shaking as she tried to secure the microphone and it fell. “Damn,” Maggie muttered, kneeling down to search for it. It must have bounced under the desk. She crawled on her hands and knees, trying to find where it had gone. She spotted a “Feldfu.f” field transmitter–receiver radio. Was Clara eavesdropping on military conversations?

She heard Elise’s voice. “Margareta?”

Mein Gott, Maggie thought.

“Margareta?”

“Here,” Maggie called weakly.

“Oh, my goodness!” Elise said, putting the smelling salts and water on the desk, then bending to help Maggie up.

“So sorry … I wanted to get a look at this beautiful photograph, and then I had another dizzy spell …”

She stood with Elise’s help, thinking when their hands touched that although they were strangers, they shared more or less fifty percent of their DNA. How very, very strange.

“Here,” Elise said, holding out the water glass. “Drink this.”

Maggie took a noisy gulp. “Thank you.”

Elise watched her face, then nodded. “Good, your color’s coming back.”

Maggie picked up a framed photograph. “Who’s that?”

“That’s my father. He’s a conductor for the Berlin State Opera. In this picture, he’s just conducted my mother’s first leading role, in Gounod’s Faust. She’s retired now, but he’s still a conductor. Quite famous, actually, if you follow opera.”

“Why did she retire?”

“She developed nodes on her vocal cords—lost part of her higher register. When she sings now, she picks her repertory very carefully, so that the ragged edges don’t show. The piece she picked for tonight is fairly low, and she can manage it, as long as she’s not projecting to an opera house.” Elise gave a crooked half smile. “And Ortrud’s perfect for her.”

Ortrud, in Wagner’s Lohengrin, was incapable of love. What’s Elise saying?

There were voices in the hall. Loud voices. A man and a woman. They were arguing. “I know I’m late!” the male voice boomed. “I told you I would come after the performance!”

“And so you’ve missed everything!” the female voice screeched back.

“Well, I’m here now, aren’t I, kitten?”

“Miles, I was humiliated. You deliberately missed my party, because you hate my friends.”

“Your Nazi cronies? Those common criminals? I despise them—that’s no secret.”