façade inlaid with plaques featuring woodland scenes. The door was flanked with classical columns, and the grounds were neat and compact.
Richter was expecting them—well, Robert Negus, at least. He glanced at the letter of introduction which Somerset Maugham had provided Rowland, and welcomed them all warmly. Richter himself was an interesting figure. Small and slim, he greeted them wearing a deep green, shawl-collared smoking jacket and a purple fez. The hair visible at the base of the fez was improbably black and the skin around his eyes was creased with years and laughter. He carried a black Scottish terrier in his arms, which made shaking hands a little difficult.
Rowland addressed him in High German at first, but Richter spoke English, and graciously elected to do so. He complimented Milton on the cummerbund-cum-cravat the poet had once againchosen to wear. He gushed over Edna in both English and German and demanded they all come in, showing them into an elegant sitting room, furnished in a florid Victorian style. There he placed the Scottish terrier onto the silk-upholstered couch and made sure the creature was comfortable.
“Tea, Frau Schuler, we must have tea,” Richter shouted into a hallway.
He turned, beaming, his smile fading as his eyes moved systematically over each of the men. He walked slowly around Rowland, who was beginning to feel quite awkward. Finally Richter snorted. “English tailors,” he said, peering closely at Rowland’s lapel. “One of the better ones, of course, but still unimaginative, conservative. With your height you could wear the double-breasted jacket … Why is a young man like you wearing a waistcoat?”
Milton grinned, delighted. Clyde fiddled nervously with his tie.
“Are you a tailor, Mr. Richter?” Edna asked, walking across the room to an old manual sewing machine displayed in the corner.
“My first machine,” Richter said proudly. “Just a relic now, of course, but she has been with me since the beginning.”
A greying matron with an operatic bearing entered, wheeling a traymobile laden with tea and cake, which she set out on the low marble-topped table in the centre of the room.
“Sit, sit …” Richter invited, motioning them towards chairs. “Frau Schuler has been with me from the beginning too … she has looked after this poor widower since the war.”
“Your wife died during the war?” Edna asked softly.
Richter’s voice thickened. “ Gott hab sie selig. I was the soldier but it was my darling wife and our beautiful daughter who died.”
“Oh how dreadful, how very sad …”
Richter smiled at the sculptress.
“He who has not tasted bitter does not know what is sweet,” he said, with resigned sorrow. “It was a long time ago now, Leibchen . Fourteen years … I began again. Poured my grief into every stitch, every seam. Now I have five factories, over a hundred workers.” Richter paused to feed a bit of cake to the terrier, crooning as it gagged on the cream.
“You have done rather well,” Edna said quietly, deciding to pour the tea as Frau Schuler had left and Richter’s hands were full. She found a little room on the end of the couch occupied by the terrier and perched there as she poured. “You must be a very fine tailor, Mr. Richter.”
He waved away the compliment. “The tailoring is my business, its success is God’s.” He heaved the terrier onto his lap and sat beside Edna, inviting her to stroke his dog. “But Dankechön, Fräulein,” he added, “for that acknowledgment, which, sadly, I do not get from my peers.”
“Jealousy and quivering strife therein a portion claim,” Milton contributed, nodding knowingly.
“You speak like a poet, Mr. Greenway,” Richter said delighted.
“Wordsworth, to be precise,” Rowland muttered.
Richter misheard him. “Yes, your words have worth and insight, Mr. Greenway. The clothing industry can be very vicious and unkind.”
Milton smiled, accepting the accolade
Richter was expecting them—well, Robert Negus, at least. He glanced at the letter of introduction which Somerset Maugham had provided Rowland, and welcomed them all warmly. Richter himself was an interesting figure. Small and slim, he greeted them wearing a deep green, shawl-collared smoking jacket and a purple fez. The hair visible at the base of the fez was improbably black and the skin around his eyes was creased with years and laughter. He carried a black Scottish terrier in his arms, which made shaking hands a little difficult.
Rowland addressed him in High German at first, but Richter spoke English, and graciously elected to do so. He complimented Milton on the cummerbund-cum-cravat the poet had once againchosen to wear. He gushed over Edna in both English and German and demanded they all come in, showing them into an elegant sitting room, furnished in a florid Victorian style. There he placed the Scottish terrier onto the silk-upholstered couch and made sure the creature was comfortable.
“Tea, Frau Schuler, we must have tea,” Richter shouted into a hallway.
He turned, beaming, his smile fading as his eyes moved systematically over each of the men. He walked slowly around Rowland, who was beginning to feel quite awkward. Finally Richter snorted. “English tailors,” he said, peering closely at Rowland’s lapel. “One of the better ones, of course, but still unimaginative, conservative. With your height you could wear the double-breasted jacket … Why is a young man like you wearing a waistcoat?”
Milton grinned, delighted. Clyde fiddled nervously with his tie.
“Are you a tailor, Mr. Richter?” Edna asked, walking across the room to an old manual sewing machine displayed in the corner.
“My first machine,” Richter said proudly. “Just a relic now, of course, but she has been with me since the beginning.”
A greying matron with an operatic bearing entered, wheeling a traymobile laden with tea and cake, which she set out on the low marble-topped table in the centre of the room.
“Sit, sit …” Richter invited, motioning them towards chairs. “Frau Schuler has been with me from the beginning too … she has looked after this poor widower since the war.”
“Your wife died during the war?” Edna asked softly.
Richter’s voice thickened. “ Gott hab sie selig. I was the soldier but it was my darling wife and our beautiful daughter who died.”
“Oh how dreadful, how very sad …”
Richter smiled at the sculptress.
“He who has not tasted bitter does not know what is sweet,” he said, with resigned sorrow. “It was a long time ago now, Leibchen . Fourteen years … I began again. Poured my grief into every stitch, every seam. Now I have five factories, over a hundred workers.” Richter paused to feed a bit of cake to the terrier, crooning as it gagged on the cream.
“You have done rather well,” Edna said quietly, deciding to pour the tea as Frau Schuler had left and Richter’s hands were full. She found a little room on the end of the couch occupied by the terrier and perched there as she poured. “You must be a very fine tailor, Mr. Richter.”
He waved away the compliment. “The tailoring is my business, its success is God’s.” He heaved the terrier onto his lap and sat beside Edna, inviting her to stroke his dog. “But Dankechön, Fräulein,” he added, “for that acknowledgment, which, sadly, I do not get from my peers.”
“Jealousy and quivering strife therein a portion claim,” Milton contributed, nodding knowingly.
“You speak like a poet, Mr. Greenway,” Richter said delighted.
“Wordsworth, to be precise,” Rowland muttered.
Richter misheard him. “Yes, your words have worth and insight, Mr. Greenway. The clothing industry can be very vicious and unkind.”
Milton smiled, accepting the accolade
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