Page 83 of Peril in Piccadilly
“My father—” I said, and it must have been enough of a departure from the conversation that Wolfgang looked surprised, or perhaps discomfited, for a moment.
It was only for a moment, though, and then he smiled. “What about your father,Liebling?”
I ignored the blandishment, even though it was more familiar than what he usually called me. “You said you knew my parents. The first time we met, in the tearoom, you recognized me.”
“You were only five or six years old the last time I saw you,” Wolfgang agreed, “but I would know you anywhere. You look like your mother, but with your father’s eyes.”
Yes, I did. And as Christopher and I had decided at the time—because Germans didn’t appear out of nowhere to claim kinship every day—he must have been telling the truth, because only people who knew my family would know which of my features I had inherited from which parent.
“We’re related, you said.”
He nodded, and this time I was fairly certain that I saw a flash of discomfort, or something very like it, in his eyes.
“Was my father your uncle, the brother who was disinherited?”
Wolfgang hesitated. I kept my eyes on him, and I suppose he came to realize that not saying anything was, for all intents and purposes, the same as saying yes. Only a resounding denial would have worked in this scenario, and for one reason or another, he was unwilling, or perhaps unable, to lie.
“He was,” I said, “wasn’t he?” It explained the Mensur scar—not because commoners had them too, as Christopher had postulated, but because my father hadn’t actually been a commoner—and it also explained why my German, what little I could remember of it, had always been on the formal side. “Does that mean that I’m aGräfin?”
“Your father was disowned,” Wolfgang said stiffly.
Yes, of course he had been. I had grown up in a small flat, not a castle, and I had no memory of having met anyone in my father’s family. Including Wolfgang himself, on that occasion he had told me about.
“Did we actually meet?” I asked. “You told me we had done, but I don’t remember it.”
“As a matter of fact,” Wolfgang said, “we didn’t. My father and mother were forbidden from associating with yours. I recognized you from having you pointed out to me on the street in Heidelberg when I was small, but not from spending time with you. I wasn’t allowed.”
“And all because my father wanted to make furniture?”
“That,” Wolfgang said, “and because he didn’t believe in the class distinctions that existed thirty years ago. Class distinctions are important to my—to our—Opa.”
“Do they not exist anymore? The class distinctions?”
“The Weimar Republic abolished the class system,” Wolfgang said, “and the aristocracy.”
“But you’re still aGraf.” And so was his—or our—grandfather.
He nodded. “But being aGrafdoesn’t mean much in Germany anymore. Not like it does in England. Everyone in Germany is poor these days.”
Oh, really? “That’s not much incentive to get me to marry you, you know,” I pointed out, only half-jokingly, and he chuckled.
“Don’t worry,mein Schatz. Grandfather has plenty of money. We won’t starve.”
No? “That presumes that your grandfather—or my grandfather too, I suppose—would accept me as your future wife. And if my father was disowned, I don’t see him approving. Do you?”
There was a beat, and then— “Opa wants me to be happy,” Wolfgang said.
That was nice. Whether he would allow that to happen with the daughter of a man he had disinherited, remained to be seen.
“Is it even legal for first cousins to marry in Germany? When you proposed, I had no idea we were so closely related.” It didn’t bode well for the next generation, I’d have to say. One does want ones children to grow up without hereditary issues, ideally.
“Of course,” Wolfgang said. “It is legal here, as well, is it not?”
It was, actually. Not that I would ever consider it. When I had joked about marrying Christopher, if we were both single at thirty, having children of our own had not been part of that plan. The fact that we are first cousins by blood was only a small part of the problem, of course. The fact that we’re closer to siblings emotionally was a big one, and so was the fact that Christopher doesn’t like girls.
And after finding out that Wolfgang and I were more closely related than I had realized, there was no way that I would ever seriously consider marrying him, either. So at this point, I might as well move forward with my other questions.
“You’ve moved out of the Savoy,” I said, “haven’t you?”
