the light that shone about her it had penetrated his very soul and dazzled him to the point that he was aware only of her presence and of his desperate need to have her. So he had built a small theatre with crimson velvet curtains and glittering chandeliers, commissioning the best craftsmen in Vienna to mould the ceiling with golden roses and swans, then knelt down on one knee and asked her to marry him. That was before he lost his fortune in 1918, when the empire fell apart leaving his mines in the newly independent Czechoslovakia. As a little boy, Max had loved hearing stories of his mother’s celebrity, how she had been the toast of Vienna. Great figures from Court had graced the gilded boxes to admire her, but none had given her as much pleasure as seeing her husband every night in the small, private box he had furnished for himself, not even the Prince of Wales who had insisted on attending to witness with his own eyes the legendary beauty of Vienna’s secret jewel.
Max pulled his coat tightly about his chest and gazed up the beach. Shallow pools shone silver in the moonlight for the tide was out and the sleeping birds of the sea were now silent. The breeze was strong and fresh and smelt of marshland. He cast his eyes to the sky, to the vast glowing sphere that hung suspended among glimmering stars, and thought how often he must have looked up as a child to see the same display of wonder. His heart ached for Rita. He couldn’t tell Primrose or Ruth of his secret; all he could do was read his mother’s poetry and try to derive comfort from others who had suffered as he did the pain of unrequited love.
Trees slept soundly, unaware of the anxiety that kept his wife up, sculpting in her small studio to the reassuring notes of Strauss’s Alpine Symphony . Her hands worked away at the clay, moulding and smoothing, but her mind churned, worrying about her son, unable to bear the thought of him leaving her again. She couldn’t help but resent her husband for his ability to rise above domestic strife. The only things that animated him these days were his walnut trees. Her thoughts drifted to Thadeus Walizhewski.
People in the village dismissed Thadeus as eccentric. He kept himself to himself, went about his own business, never spoke about himself. But he had invited Faye into his secret world and she had discovered a man of education, poise and dignity. He played the violin with the sensitivity of a man who has loved and lost and survived terrible times. He read Voltaire, the plays of Molière and the erotica of Count Mirabeau, and cried over the stanzas of his countryman, the great Polish poet, Adam Mickiewicz.
Thadeus had fled to England in 1939 when the Russians arrived at his ancestral home, and had drifted on the wind of Fate to this sleepy corner of Devon. He had always vowed he’d return one day to reclaim his home, but he was older than his sixty-two years and had suffered enough. In Faye he found a soul mate, a woman who understood him, and slowly love had flowered between them. He had captivated her with his pale, liquid eyes and unrestrained passion. Together they played music, read books and talked. Unlike Trees, Thadeus listened. He didn’t just listen with his ears but with his whole body, touching her hand every now and then to show compassion, understanding or when he laughed, which he did in loud, infectious guffaws. At first it had been an affair of the mind. She hadn’t contemplated sleeping with him. But one afternoon he had told her of the horrors suffered by his family at the hands of the Russians and she had given herself to him for comfort. Their lovemaking had been both tender and ardent, like the music they played together or the poetry he read to her. It enabled him to escape his past and she the war and her fears for her son. But since George had been back she hadn’t visited him.
Faye’s fingers worked away as if by remote control while she wondered what advice Thadeus would give her.
Max pulled his coat tightly about his chest and gazed up the beach. Shallow pools shone silver in the moonlight for the tide was out and the sleeping birds of the sea were now silent. The breeze was strong and fresh and smelt of marshland. He cast his eyes to the sky, to the vast glowing sphere that hung suspended among glimmering stars, and thought how often he must have looked up as a child to see the same display of wonder. His heart ached for Rita. He couldn’t tell Primrose or Ruth of his secret; all he could do was read his mother’s poetry and try to derive comfort from others who had suffered as he did the pain of unrequited love.
Trees slept soundly, unaware of the anxiety that kept his wife up, sculpting in her small studio to the reassuring notes of Strauss’s Alpine Symphony . Her hands worked away at the clay, moulding and smoothing, but her mind churned, worrying about her son, unable to bear the thought of him leaving her again. She couldn’t help but resent her husband for his ability to rise above domestic strife. The only things that animated him these days were his walnut trees. Her thoughts drifted to Thadeus Walizhewski.
People in the village dismissed Thadeus as eccentric. He kept himself to himself, went about his own business, never spoke about himself. But he had invited Faye into his secret world and she had discovered a man of education, poise and dignity. He played the violin with the sensitivity of a man who has loved and lost and survived terrible times. He read Voltaire, the plays of Molière and the erotica of Count Mirabeau, and cried over the stanzas of his countryman, the great Polish poet, Adam Mickiewicz.
Thadeus had fled to England in 1939 when the Russians arrived at his ancestral home, and had drifted on the wind of Fate to this sleepy corner of Devon. He had always vowed he’d return one day to reclaim his home, but he was older than his sixty-two years and had suffered enough. In Faye he found a soul mate, a woman who understood him, and slowly love had flowered between them. He had captivated her with his pale, liquid eyes and unrestrained passion. Together they played music, read books and talked. Unlike Trees, Thadeus listened. He didn’t just listen with his ears but with his whole body, touching her hand every now and then to show compassion, understanding or when he laughed, which he did in loud, infectious guffaws. At first it had been an affair of the mind. She hadn’t contemplated sleeping with him. But one afternoon he had told her of the horrors suffered by his family at the hands of the Russians and she had given herself to him for comfort. Their lovemaking had been both tender and ardent, like the music they played together or the poetry he read to her. It enabled him to escape his past and she the war and her fears for her son. But since George had been back she hadn’t visited him.
Faye’s fingers worked away as if by remote control while she wondered what advice Thadeus would give her.
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