Chapter 4
4
The first thing Inga did after arriving at the Port of Hamburg was to indulge in a leisurely lunch with the Gerards at a café overlooking the Planten un Blomen, a famed park tucked inside Hamburg’s old city walls. How wonderful to be on solid ground again! They found a table with a view of the lake, where a fountain sprayed arcs of water into the air. Mr. Gerard insisted on schnitzel and stuffed cabbage for lunch because this was the same place he and Mary shared a meal on their honeymoon, and he wanted to recapture the memory. Inga gladly listened to them wax poetic about their honeymoon and wondered if she would ever get married. The Gerards made it seem so wonderful, but she had yet to meet a man who could hold her interest more than a few months.
For dessert, Mr. Gerard ordered a large platter of vanilla-drenched spritzkuchen , which were a little like American doughnuts. “These are even better than I remembered,” Inga said as she broke off another sweet, perfectly golden wedge of dough.
“Let’s have another round,” Mr. Gerard boomed.
It didn’t take long for a second platter to arrive, along with another pot of tea. They lingered so long over dessert that they missed their train to Berlin.
They didn’t mind. It was easy to book another train that would leave three hours later, which gave them time to browse in delightful gourmet shops, where the aromas and flavors seemed wonderfully familiar. Mary insisted on buying a jar of brandied cherries so that Inga could have a Black Forest cake. She also bought Inga a new hat with a floppy brim and a spray of silk sunflowers on the side. They ended up trying on so many hats that they almost missed their second train, then ended up laughing about their adventures during the entire ride to Berlin.
It was late by the time they pulled into their train station, and past midnight when their carriage rolled up the drive to Alton House.
It was hard to see much of the darkened house. While it would be nicer to live with the Gerards at the embassy, she mustn’t forget that her primary job was to lower the tension between the ambassador and his staff. That was best done here at the Alton House.
It was too late to wake the staff, so Mr. Gerard unlocked the door to let them inside. He lugged her trunk up the stairs while she and Mary quietly tiptoed up the darkened staircase and into her very own bedroom.
How darling it was! The single brass bed was tucked beneath a slanted roofline. The other side of the room had a wardrobe and a quaint little vanity table with an oval mirror. An electric lamp cast an amber glow that looked even warmer because of the pale wallpaper covered with tiny mauve flowers.
“It’s humble, but comfortable, yes?” Mary asked.
“Oh yes,” Inga breathed, still amazed she actually had such a cozy room all to herself. The oak wardrobe had little trailing vines hand-carved along the top cornice. The cabinet doors opened and closed without a single squeak, and her new clothes fit perfectly inside it.
Excitement made it hard to sleep that night. She hugged a pillow to herself, hoping she had made the right choice by coming back to Germany. She would learn tomorrow if the embassy staff were as terrible as the Gerards believed.
Inga awoke to sunlight streaming through white, filmy curtains. She hadn’t been able to see much of the neighborhood last night and so eagerly hopped out of bed and drew the curtains aside.
Her room overlooked the backyard garden. Greenery and shrubs surrounded a flagstone patio, a green haven in the middle of the residential neighborhood.
Old paint on the window sash scraped as she lifted it a few inches to hear a bird chirping nearby. The twittery birdsong was familiar, something she hadn’t heard in ages. It felt like a greeting from long ago, calling out to welcome her home.
A scrape and a bump sounded from the side yard.
Inga slid behind the drapes because she wore nothing but a flimsy nightgown. A man dressed in a riding jacket and tall boots wrestled with the door of a carriage house. He rolled the sliding wooden door to the side, then disappeared into the interior. He emerged a few moments later, leading a horse from the stables.
Something deep inside tugged, an instinctive feminine appreciation for an attractive man. He had the lanky, lean build of a European aristocrat, though if he lived at Alton House, surely he was American. He saddled the horse with competence. At one point the horse shifted and nickered, and the stranger ran a soothing hand over its flank until the horse was calm again. A moment later, he swung his tall frame into the saddle with impressive ease. He flicked the reins, and the horse trotted off, its iron horseshoes striking the cobblestones in that familiar clatter as they headed toward the street.
Inga never learned to ride. Riding was a rich person’s sport, not something for a shoemaker’s daughter who lived in a city with a perfectly fine subway system. How far away New York suddenly seemed.
No more wallowing in memories! It was time to get dressed and head downstairs to meet the embassy staff. She was prepared to give them all the benefit of the doubt despite their callous treatment of the Gerards.
She chose one of her new outfits, a bottle-green skirt paired with an ivory blouse. It had a portrait collar and looked professional yet still feminine and pretty. On impulse, she grabbed the large jar of brandied cherries to share with the others. The Black Forest cake could wait. What better way to liven up boring oatmeal or waffles than with a splash of syrupy cherries?
The hall outside her door showed plenty of closed bedroom doors. A staircase divided the middle of the hall, and she trailed a hand along the carved banister on the way downstairs. The same dark, carved woodwork was everywhere, from the crown moldings all the way down to the baseboards. She headed toward the sound of clattering dishes and female voices down a hallway and into a brightly lit kitchen. Two women turned to look at her, surprise on their faces.
“Good morning,” she greeted. “I’m Inga Klein, Mr. Gerard’s new secretary.”
A doughy-faced woman mixing batter set down her spoon. She was middle-aged with frown lines along the sides of her mouth.
“Welcome,” the older lady said. “I’m Mrs. Barnes, the cook here at Alton House. This is Nellie Chapman, who helps me out. Nellie, set the kettle on for tea.”
“Coffee, if you don’t mind,” Inga said, which caused a glower from the cook. Had she said something wrong? Didn’t everyone have coffee in the mornings?
“Here,” Inga said, setting the jar of cherries on the scarred wooden counter, a peace offering to the scowling cook. “I brought brandied cherries. If that batter you’re mixing is for pancakes or waffles, the cherries will make it an extra-special treat.”
“I should say so,” the cook said, making no move to touch the cherries as she continued mixing batter. “Why does the ambassador need another secretary? I thought Larry Milton was going to take that role.”
According to Mr. Gerard, Larry was a whiny man who idolized Benedict Kincaid, the chief troublemaker at the embassy. Neither Gerard wanted anything to do with Larry, so she chose her words delicately.
“My understanding is that Larry’s duties supporting Benedict Kincaid are very demanding, and sometimes the ambassador is called away on business. I’ll be able to help with secretarial duties while he’s traveling.”
The cook’s frown deepened. “That doesn’t exactly seem proper.”
“Ambassador Gerard always travels with his wife, so everything will be very proper,” Inga replied. “And he needs his own secretary. I’m looking forward to meeting Larry so we can work things out however will best serve the needs of the embassy.”
Mrs. Barnes grunted in reply, then proceeded to outline the house rules. Staff were to help themselves to breakfast each morning and eat at the table in the kitchen nook. The cozy table had stacks of crockery and a basket of silverware in the center, along with a pitcher of cream, a bowl of sugar cubes, and a dish of butter.
Following instructions, Inga helped herself to toast while Mrs. Barnes continued thrashing out more rules, mostly emphasizing that Inga shouldn’t ask for special requests or expect maid service. The house had a formal dining room, but Mrs. Barnes refused to use it because it was too much trouble.
“Are you frightening the new secretary, Mrs. Barnes?” A masculine voice sounded from the doorway, where a stocky young man with light brown hair entered the kitchen and introduced himself as Andrew Dolan, the second deputy assistant at the embassy.
He seemed friendlier than the kitchen staff, and Inga stood to greet him. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Dolan.”
“Andrew,” he corrected. “We’re on a first-name basis here at Alton House. None of that German formality here.” His teasing expression shifted into wonder as he stepped farther into the kitchen and sniffed.
“Coffee?” Andrew asked. “What fairy godmother worked her magic to conjure up a pot of coffee?”
“I asked for coffee,” she admitted. “Was that overstepping?”
Andrew reached for a cup. “Ma’am, you worked a miracle. We’ve been wanting to switch to coffee for ages, but Mrs. Barnes says it’s too expensive for every day.”
“Don’t expect favors in the future,” Mrs. Barnes said, then went back to pouring batter into a waffle griddle. Inga intended to pass the comment about coffee to Mr. Gerard, who’d gladly spring for coffee if it bought him goodwill.
Soon others began gathering for breakfast. A growly man whose flushed face matched his ginger hair and simply went by McFee was the embassy chauffeur. Colonel Reyes, with neatly clipped blond hair, was the military attaché. Inga could spot Larry Milton even without an introduction. He was exactly as Mary described: thin, sickly, and whiny.
To Inga’s delight, plenty of the staff helped themselves to coffee, and the cherries were disappearing fast. “Should we save some of the cherries for Mr. Kincaid?” she suggested.
“He’s already had breakfast,” Nellie chimed in. “Cold oats. It’s what he has every day before his morning ride. It has something to do with the scary boarding school he attended.”
Anyone would be grim on a diet of nothing but cold oats. “Maybe he rode off to indulge in something scandalous,” Inga teased. “Like eggs with bacon and a huge cheese Danish I’ll bet he eats all by himself.”
“Not likely,” Nellie said. “Benedict lives like a monk. He never goes to any of the street fairs with us. He’d rather stay home and read the Encyclopedia Britannica .”
The cook shot Nellie a glare. “That’s enough,” Mrs. Barnes cautioned, then turned to Inga. “Now listen up, Miss Klein. We all like Benedict, but he’s got his quirks, and whatever you do, don’t touch his Encyclopedia Britannica . He’s got all those volumes dog-eared and marked with notes in the margins. He underlines and circles things, and I think he loves those books more than his firstborn child. Not that he has a child, mind you, but if he did, the poor mite would be a distant second in his affections to that set of books.”
“He’s reading them from cover to cover,” Andrew said. “I think he’s somewhere in the P’s by now.”
The slamming of a door from down the hall signaled a new arrival. A moment later, the tall man she’d seen down at the carriage house strode into the kitchen, still wearing his riding clothes. Up close he was even more imposing, with fine features and an air of brooding vitality. His dark hair was windblown, and he immediately honed his gaze on her. The intensity of his stare was disconcerting as he tugged off his riding gloves.
“Benedict!” Andrew said, pushing back his chair. “Come meet the ambassador’s new secretary. Inga brought us drunken cherries.”
“Drunken cherries?” Benedict asked. The two words were laden with disdain, and his appalled expression made her instinctively defensive. She cleared her throat and stood.
“Brandied cherries,” she clarified. “I bought them in Hamburg, and they’re delightful on waffles or porridge. I’m Inga Klein. I’ll be working for Mr. Gerard as his new secretary.”
She offered her hand, but he made no move to accept it. His gaze sharpened as he scrutinized her, and he tilted his head a little closer as though listening for something. “Do you have an accent ?”
She smiled. She’d been told she spoke English so well that she barely had an accent at all anymore, but he obviously spotted it. “Yes,” she said brightly. “I’m originally from right here in Germany. A little village in Bavaria that’s famous for its shoes.”
Benedict’s face went very still, and yet she sensed a cyclone of disapproval whirling behind his cold, stone mask.
“Hmph” was all he said. It was amazing how he packed so much censure into a single syllable. No wonder Mr. Gerard didn’t like him. She’d been prepared to grant him the benefit of the doubt, but how could she warm up to a man who brought an arctic blast into their cozy little breakfast? It wasn’t her imagination. Everyone else in the room sensed his disapproval, and the air crackled with tension.
Benedict gave a brief nod of acknowledgment to the others in the kitchen, then turned and strode down the hallway, disappearing into a side room. The door slammed behind him.
“Don’t let it worry you,” Andrew said. “He doesn’t like anybody.”
“That was still rude,” Mrs. Barnes said. “Inga is new here, and there was no cause for that.”
It seemed Inga had managed to soften up the surly Mrs. Barnes. Perhaps she could make progress with Benedict Kincaid as well. She wanted to be on decent terms with the second-most powerful man at the embassy, but her sour feelings were already snowballing, and she needed to nip this in the bud.
“Excuse me,” she said to the others around the table, then hurried down the hall to follow Benedict. What a relief it smelled only of lemon polish and not brimstone.
She needed to quit thinking of Benedict as the enemy and somehow mend fences with him. Winning him over would be her first step toward helping soothe tensions at the embassy. She rapped quietly on the door.
“Come in,” Benedict said from the other side.
She entered the room, which was obviously a library. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covered one wall, while the rest of the room was furnished like a sitting room. Benedict sat at a desk, a hefty tome opened before him.
She drew closer to peek at the book, and it was exactly as Andrew said. He was reading the Encyclopedia Britannica , and a bubble of laughter escaped.
“I heard a rumor that you’re reading those books from cover to cover but didn’t believe it.”
“It’s true,” Benedict said dryly.
“Do you read the boring parts too?”
“There are no boring parts.”
Oh, good heavens, he really was allergic to fun, and he still hadn’t looked at her since she entered. Maybe bringing the brandied cherries on her first day had been a mistake. If it was a faux pas, she would apologize.
“Is there a rule against serving alcohol in this house? You seemed upset about the cherries.”
“Fruit steeped in liquor is not exactly a healthy start to the morning.”
“Not like cold oats.”
“Precisely.”
Still no thaw. “It won’t happen again. I believe Andrew has helped himself to a second round of waffles, so that will finish off the brandied cherries. Unless you want to supply the next round, Cold Oats.”
He swiveled to look at her. “Did you just call me Cold Oats?”
Cold Oats seemed the perfect nickname for this chilly, joyless man. She summoned a smile. “You haven’t introduced yourself,” she pointed out. “Shall we try again? I’m Inga Klein, and you are?”
“I’m reading,” he said. “Saturday mornings are one of the few times I have for recreational reading, which I look forward to all week, and which you are currently interrupting.”
She couldn’t imagine anything more tedious than reading an entire encyclopedia cover to cover. “Aren’t you ever tempted to skip ahead to the good parts?”
“And what would those be?”
She shrugged with a helpless grin. “Oh, you know, juicy scandals like Lucrezia Borgia or the Salem Witch Trials. But no, it seems you’d rather read about...” She leaned in to look at his current article. “Pollination behavior of insects.”
She said it in a deliberately teasing tone, and yet his voice was utterly serious when he replied, “One-third of the world’s food supply depends on insect pollination, but Miss Klein finds it beneath her. Interesting.”
She sighed. “It seems we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot, and I’d like to change that. I promise not to call you Cold Oats anymore if you’ll call me Inga.”
With great deliberation, Benedict placed a bookmark and closed the heavy volume with slow, deliberate motions. Then he stood to face her, and for the first time a hint of softening eased the sharp planes of his face. “Miss Klein, although it is no fault of yours, I don’t like the fact that you are German.”
It felt like a slap in the face, and she took a step back. “That sounds rather small-minded.”
“No, it’s called diplomacy. Right now, the whole of Europe is balancing on a knife’s edge. War between Germany and the Allied Powers is almost inevitable, and don’t believe the newspapers. The war won’t be a cakewalk that will be over before Christmas. My goal is to keep the United States out of this pointless, bloody war. To do that, our embassy needs to maintain a reputation for strict neutrality. Your presence endangers that.”
“I’m only a secretary ,” she pointed out.
“You’re someone who has the trust of the ambassador, and that puts the reputation of our embassy in jeopardy with the French and English, who will be suspicious of your influence at the embassy. Please don’t be offended, but I’m going to ask the ambassador to send you back to America. I don’t want you here.”
She exhaled sharply. No one had ever come after her so aggressively, and it rattled her. “Mr. Gerard won’t send me away. He needs me, and he obviously has no concerns with my being German.”
“That’s because he is still a novice in diplomacy. Mr. Gerard is the public face of the American Embassy, and his behavior needs to be flawless. If he stumbles, it’s my job to clean it up.”
“You answer to Mr. Gerard, not the other way around,” she pointed out, but it made no dent in the ironhard expression on Benedict’s face.
“Ambassadors come and go with each new administration,” Benedict said. “The diplomatic corps stays, and we’ll be here long after Gerard is gone. We know how to get things done, how to swim beneath the surface and leave no ripples in our wake. If you are to be part of that team, you need to understand the rules.”
“Fair enough. What are the rules?”
Benedict walked around the desk to stand before her. “Every person who lives at Alton House is part of the diplomatic corps. That means you must be patient, respectful, and resist taking sides. Right now most nations are forming their alliances, and they’ll attempt to persuade the United States to join their team. Don’t let them.”
“Of course not! Just because I was born in Germany doesn’t make me disloyal. I’m an American now.”
He looked at her for so long, a frisson of tension began gathering along her spine, and it was hard to resist shrinking beneath his scrutiny.
“None of this is going to be easy,” he cautioned, and for the first time his voice actually had a note of compassion. The unexpected dose of kindness sent a tiny shiver down her arms. “My goal is to have this embassy serve as a peace broker,” he continued. “Both sides will need to trust in America’s neutrality. If someone punches you in the jaw, you can’t lose your temper and retaliate or it endangers our neutrality. We won’t be able to fight with anything but our intellect, and one wrong foot can topple that. Miss Klein, you are a wrong foot.”
She took a moment to digest that statement before responding with equal resolve. “I am a wrong foot who is going to remain firmly planted at this post.”
“If I fail in convincing Mr. Gerard to send you home, you need to be aware that Berlin is filled with spies, and you must be on guard against that.”
“I repeat, I’m just a secretary—”
“Who has no idea what she’s stepping into, or you wouldn’t sound so baffled. Exactly one month ago today a crazed Serbian nationalist assassinated the Archduke of Austria. Most people can’t even find Serbia on a map, and yet that tiny country has triggered a worldwide catastrophe. Germany doesn’t want a war. Neither do the Russians or the French or the British, but ironclad agreements for mutual support are dragging all of them toward the precipice. As Americans, we’re lucky to be standing outside the quagmire. The neutral nations are trying to be a voice of sanity before time runs out.”
He walked to the window and beckoned her to join him. The view was partially obscured by green viburnum leaves as he pointed to a brick house next door.
“That’s where the staff of the Bulgarian Embassy lives,” he said. “We are next-door neighbors but cannot interact with them because Bulgaria has already lined up behind the kaiser. The French staff live across the street, and they’re off-limits to us as well because they’re on the Allied side. Colonel Reyes is good friends with a number of the French staff, but that’s over now because if he socializes with them, it opens the American Embassy up to charges of either favoritism, or worse, spying. Do you understand why you are the worst possible secretary for the American ambassador?”
She understood why the Gerards disliked Benedict.
The coffee in her stomach began to sour. She didn’t yet understand the diplomatic landscape but was smart enough not to wade into an argument she couldn’t hope to win with a seasoned diplomat like Benedict Kincaid. She glanced at his encyclopedia.
“Forgive me for interrupting your Saturday morning,” she said. “I’ll let you get back to the fascinating world of insect pollination.”
She couldn’t escape the room and Benedict’s disturbing presence fast enough.