Free Madensky Square by Eva Ibbotson Page A

daughter is entered for the Plotzenheimer Essay Prize in Anglo-Saxon studies,’ she continued, ‘so I would be grateful if you would keep her fittings as brief as possible. It is imperative that she wastes no time.’
    ‘Her fittings will be exactly as long as necessary, Frau Sultzer,’ I said.
    I then led Edith away, removing
Beowulf
from her nervous clasp, and while Nini measured her, I tried to think what I could do to make this unprepossessing lump into a pretty bridesmaid.
    The first step was obvious.
    ‘Fraulein Edith, if I am to dress you properly, one thing is essential. A proper corset.’
    She stared at me, her short-sighted eyes widening behind her spectacles. ‘Oh, no, I couldn’t! Mama would never permit it. She doesn’t approve of them. My underclothes are made by a lady who comes to mother’s Goethe readings.’
    ‘Yes, I can see that. But I really cannot sew for someone whose bosom has to be looked for every time they come. It needn’t be anything very tight or constricting. I’ll give you the name of an excellent woman in the Graben: she’s not expensive.’ I wrote a name on a piece of paper and handed it to Edith. ‘After all, there’s no need to trouble your mother; just mention to your father that I insisted on a foundation garment. I’m sure he’s aware of the existence of such things.’
    Edith shook her head despairingly. Her light brown hair was full of dandruff, but I refrained from suggesting a good shampoo and raw liver sandwiches for it was clear that the Bluestocking, at the moment, could take no more.
    ‘Anyway, no one will look at me,’ she said, ‘not with Magdalena as a bride.’
    ‘Anyone I dress gets looked at,’ I said firmly, but I was curious about Magdalena Winter and Edith answered my questions freely enough.
    Magdalena and Edith had attended the same school since they were seven years old. From the first it seemed Magdalena had been spared the traditional disasters of childhood: chicken pox, acne, braces on her teeth. Not only was she beautiful, she was exceedingly devout.
    ‘She always said she wanted to be a nun. Always. But of course when you look like that… All the same, we were very surprised when she accepted Herr Huber.’ Edith broke off, flushing. ‘I don’t mean… I mean, Herr Huber is very kind. He called on us and brought us a salami, but we’re vegetarians and Mother gave it to the poor. Only, Magdalena had a lot of offers and some of them were very grand – and she’d refused them all.’
    I tried to visualize this paragon. ‘Is she dark or fair ?’
    ‘Fair. Almost white. In the nativity play she was always the Virgin Mary and her hair sort of rippled out over her blue mantle. People just gasped.’
    ‘And you ?’ I asked the Bluestocking, ‘what were you in the nativity play?’
    ‘Oh, I was a sheep,’ said Edith. ‘I was always a sheep.’
    Back in the salon, Frau Sultzer was still bent over her Schopenhauer, occasionally pencilling a
Yes
! or an
Indeed
! into the margin.
    How sad for poor Schopenhauer to have died before he knew how absolutely Laura Sultzer agreed with him.

    I had intended to see the bride and the bridesmaid together but Herr Huber had sent a message to say that Fraulein Winter was unwell. She had a chest infection and the doctor had advised her to stay indoors. Since there was a great deal of work to be done on her trousseau I’d suggested that Nini and I go round to her house with some samples, and as soon as lunch was over, the butcher appeared in his new canary-yellow motor to drive us to where she lived.
    Magdalena’s mother was the daughter of an army officer who had fought at Koniggratz; her father was a taxidermist at the Naturhistorisches Museum who suffered from chronic asthma and had been retired early on a shockingly inadequate pension.
    ‘The elephant seal at the top of the main staircase is his work,’ said Herr Huber, steering his motor down the Wipplingerstrasse. ‘A very able