The Book of Secrets

XXXVIII

Strassburg

The house reminded me of my father’s. That instantly deepened my discomfort. It stood near the wharves, where the streets echoed to the roll of barrels coming up from the barges. The square opposite looked like a rabbit warren: holes yawned outside every house where trapdoors stood open to the wine cellars beneath.

There was a trapdoor outside the widow Ellewibel’s house, but it was bolted shut. So were the shutters over the ground-floor windows. I knocked on the door and hoped no one would answer.

The door swung in. A servant in black admitted me and led me up to a room overlooking the square. My first impression was that it looked well enough. Rich wine-coloured fabrics draped the walls; a welcoming fire burned hot in the hearth. Though it was not yet dark outside, candles were lit. Four large chests positioned around the room announced they had no shortage of possessions.

Yet on second glance, the picture diminished. The floor around the chests was streaked with dust, as if they had only recently been dragged into place. The chandeliers had been scraped clean of old wax, but the candles within were little more than stubs. The cloths on the wall were scarred with many darnings; one of them looked like an old dress that had been recently pressed into service. Even I, who had spent half my life in hovels and attics, could see through the pretence. It was probably the first time in my life that anyone had tried to impress me.

A woman of about fifty rose as I entered. She wore a long black robe belted just below the breasts, with a white collar and a scarf carefully arranged to cover her thin grey hair. Her mouth turned down at the corners; her eyes were small and hard. But, like the room, she did what she could with what she had. She forced a smile and managed to hold it for as long as it took to usher me across the room. She put me in the place of honour, a high-backed chair that must have been her husband’s, and told the servant to bring the best wine in the best silver cups.

‘My daughter will join us presently,’ she told me. ‘I thought it best we acquainted ourselves first.’

The servant brought wine on a tray. I took the goblet and drank thirstily – far more than was respectable. Ellewibel looked surprised, but collected herself and sipped parsimoniously at her own.

‘I am told you are a goldsmith, Herr Gensfleisch.’

‘I served an apprenticeship.’

I did not volunteer any more information. I doubted the widow Ellewibel wanted to hear how it had ended.

‘My late husband was a wine merchant.’

I did not dispute it. ‘I have heard that Mainz is also renowned for its wines.’ She peered at me hopefully. ‘That is where you come from, is it not?’

‘It is.’

‘And your father: he was…?’

A brute? A pig? ‘He was in the cloth trade. He was also a companion of the mint.’

Hope rose in Ellewibel’s drawn face. ‘And your mother’s family?’

‘Grocers.’

She visibly deflated, as I knew she would. I enjoyed it. The wine and my misgivings put me in a cruel humour.

‘Tell me of your work here in Strassburg.’

‘Various ventures,’ I said vaguely. ‘Andreas Dritzehn tells me you instructed him in the art of gem polishing.’

‘I owed him money.’

She did not flinch. ‘But you have an income?’

‘A little.’

‘And a house?’

‘Rented. In St Argobast. You probably do not know it – it is some miles from Strassburg.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘I know it well. A pretty village, and no distance from the city at all.’

I was about to embark on a disagreeable anecdote about a woman who had been surprised by bandits and abducted on the road to St Argobast, when a knock sounded at the door. Ellewibel stood.

‘My daughter. She will be delighted to meet you.’

I had prepared myself for a monster. In fact, all that surprised me was her utter ordinariness. True, she was no beauty. Her face was flat and hard, like overbaked bread, its oval shape accentuated by her white wimple. Her nose was small, her teeth crooked (but no more than normal), her skin no longer smooth. With two hundred gulden attached to her name, there seemed no reason any man should not want to marry her. Except me.

She curtsied. We both stood there, neither knowing what to say. With a start, I realised she was examining me just as I had examined her. What did she see? A man in his middle age, sweating under the weight of the fur-trimmed hat and coat he had borrowed. My back was stooped, my face scarred by too many misadventures in the forge. Grey had begun to appear in my beard, though my fair hair disguised it. With a good name and an adequate income, why should she not want to marry me?

‘Of course, there is the matter of the dowry,’ I said.

‘My late husband – bless him – was an honest and thrifty man. When he died, his estate was valued at two hundred gulden. I am willing to endow my entire claim on Ennelin.’

There was something evasive in her manner. ‘That is very generous.’

‘A mother’s joy at seeing her daughter established in marriage is beyond price.’

I did not answer. My borrowed coat weighed on me like stone; the collar choked me. I could hardly bring myself to look at Ennelin. The worm twisted in my guts.

‘I will have to consider…’

Ennelin was well schooled. She watched me modestly, without betraying the least doubt. Her mother was more direct.

‘Herr Gensfleisch, do you want to marry my daughter?’