“Heavens above,” the woman gasped. “How is this possible?”
And before Lena could blink, she found herself enveloped in a cloud of perfume, cashmere, and silk as the lady burst into tears.
Lena tried to pull away, but the lady sobbed into her neck and clung to her like ivy. She babbled rapidly in English.
It was clear that this woman had mistaken her for someone else. That kind of thing could happen; it was simple human error, a misunderstanding. In fact, something like that had happened to her just the other day, when a child in the crowded market square had mistaken Lena for his mother and had hugged her legs before realising his mistake. He too had burst into tears, but she had gently wiped his cheeks and waited with him until his mother came running. No doubt this must be a similar situation.
She blew away a feather from her lips that must have fallen from the woman’s opulent headdress.
“Catherine, it really is you! Is this a miracle? How—how is it that you are here? After all this time? How is it that you are…alive?” The lady's mouth wobbled dangerously, as if she was about to burst into a fresh flood of tears.
Lena pulled away, alarmed. “I’m sorry. I don’t know you. You’ve made a mistake.” Her English was a little stilted. She usually had little contact with English speakers and therefore hadn’t spoken English for a long time.
The woman's mouth fell open and a look of doubt crept into her eyes. “Catherine? It is you, isn't it?”
“I'm afraid not. My name is Helena Arenheim. Please, excuse me?—”
“But…you are definitely Catherine!” She reached out and tilted Lena’s face to the side. “You must be. You even have that heart-shaped birthmark on your cheek. There! Only Catherine had that. Of course you are Catherine!”
Lena stared at her with her mouth agape. The lady was dainty and very pretty with wild brown curls falling over a heart-shaped face, a wide mouth, and big dark eyes swimming in tears. The hands that still gripped her arm were gloved, her feet were in satin slippers, and she was wearing a fashionable pastel pink redingote and an extravagant feathered headdress that Lena couldn’t afford even in her dreams. She felt awkward and self-conscious in her threadbare, simple blue cotton dress and mud-spattered coat, reeking of manure.
“I am sorry.” She tried again to pull her arm away.
The lady frowned. “You have not changed at all, Catherine.”
Lena huffed, partly annoyed, partly amused. Was the lady mad? She must be, for she simply refused to accept that she wasn't this Catherine. With a firm tug, Lena removed her hand from her arm. “My name is Helena, not Catherine. Now, I must go. My children are waiting. I wish you a good evening.”
The woman dropped her hands. “Children? You have children?”
Lena’s face lit up with pride, as it always did when discussing her children. “Yes. I have four children.”
“Did you say four?”
“Yes, four.” Never mind that three of them were actually her stepchildren, for they were as dear to her as her own flesh and blood, and she loved them all equally.
“Good heavens.” The woman's mouth fell open in either admiration or dismay, Lena couldn’t decide. Whatever it was, she had no time to chat with the mad Englishwoman. She felt the policeman stare at her. Lena shuffled uneasily. The lamplighters were already lighting the street lamps. It was late. The children were waiting. She had to go.
Lena took advantage of the woman’s surprise, clutched the dirty papers and her violin to her chest, and made her escape by skilfully stepping around her. She could feel the woman’s gaze piercing between her shoulder blades as she hurried down the street.
She arrived at the market square hot and out of breath, where Karl Bauer was waiting with his cart, pipe in mouth, reading a newspaper. Karl was her neighbour and had kindly offered to drive her home.
“There you are,” he said jovially as he folded up the newspaper. He was a corpulent man with sparse, greasy hair meticulously combed over his bald spot, and he was dressed in patchy trousers and a waistcoat. Despite his scruffy appearance, which often led people to mistake him for a street peddler, he was surprisingly well-read and knowledgeable about politics and current affairs. He had a heart of gold, and he and his wife Emma had been Lena’s biggest support in the difficult years after Simon’s death. Karl and Emma were almost family to her. Lena would have been lost without them.
“Thank you for waiting for me, Karl.” She dropped onto the seat next to him and fanned herself with her music. “You’re an angel.”
“Rough day?”
“Terrible.”
Karl grunted. “Did you get anything done?”
Lena just sighed.
He nodded and refrained from prodding her further. “The roads are congested,” he merely commented. “It’s terrible.” He clucked his tongue and set the carriage in motion.
“Unbearable,” Lena agreed. “The streets have become downright dangerous for pedestrians.” Her mind wandered back to the crazy Englishwoman and wondered what that had been about.
“It's never been this bad. Now that the Congress has started, the streets are clogged with foreign carriages. Mark my words, it will only get worse. Look at that,” he said in disgust, pointing to the carriages crowding in the narrow streets. “I just read in the papers that the French delegation arrived yesterday. What’s the name of that legendary Frenchman? Monsieur de Talleyrand.” Karl pronounced every single letter of his name in true German fashion. “They say he dresses as in the last century, with wigs and satin breeches, and walks with a limp. The British delegation has also arrived. Viscount what’s-his-name. Castleraw? Castlereach? Bah. One doesn't know how to pronounce these strange foreign names.”
