The Stockholm Octavo (4 page)

Chapter Five
A Game of Chance

Sources: E. L., Mrs. S., Katarina E., Lady C. Kallingbad, Porter E., A. Nordell, med mera

IT CAN BE FAIRLY STATED
that everyone loses at cards. What is interesting is how and what they lose, and what happens as a result. Count Oxenstierna behaved a perfect gentleman when he lost two huge parcels of land while playing La Belle. The company was stunned by his civility, but the storm that followed at home was a juicy topic of conversation for months. Apparently it involved his wife, his grown children, a number of the household staff, and the Irish wolfhounds. But innuendo and hearsay are meager refreshments compared to the thrilling feast of a significant loss in the flesh. So it was when I watched two wealthy women wager their most valuable folding fans. I distinctly heard the sound of a card player, baiting a trap, and at that moment I began to pay attention to the game instead of focusing all of my being on the beautiful breasts of Carlotta Vingström. The player engaged in this hazard was the baroness, known to everyone as The Uzanne, a woman who never lost.

 

LET ME TELL YOU
about The Uzanne. She had been baptized Kristina Elizabet Louisa Gyllenpalm, and while all those names had regal implications, they were never used. As a child she was addressed as Young Mistress. After her marriage: Madame. But in conversation she was called The Uzanne—perhaps because there could only be one. The Uzanne was a collector of folding fans. She had first become fascinated with fans at the age of fifteen, when she witnessed a cousin exactly her age but neither as rich nor beautiful captivate an entire salon with her artful fluttering. The Uzanne, still Young Mistress then, convinced the cousin to instruct her in this arresting language. These signals were known to men and women alike, and as with any language, the more you practiced the more you could express. Soon the student's skills exceeded those of her teacher. Snaps, drops, turns of the wrist, taps, flutters, and long languorous strokes all filled the gap left by the unspeakable words of desire. The Uzanne knew which angle to hold the fan over her breasts if she did or did not want to be thought a courtesan, and how a certain look cast over a half-folded fan could bring any man to her side. Society clamored for The Uzanne's presence at salons and balls. The jealous cousin attempted revenge, pairing The Uzanne with a common dolt at the spring cotillion. So The Uzanne took on the persona of tender matchmaker, and signaled her cousin's status as eager virgin to an epileptic Finnish earl ready to fill the empty trough of his marriage bed. The Uzanne shed the prettiest of crocodile tears as she waved good-bye to her cousin, sailing for Åbo—a hideous village that served as Finland's capital city.

The Uzanne had found her weapon. For several years, she practiced without ceasing, traveling to Paris and Vienna to learn from the mistresses and queens who ruled from behind the throne, visiting the fan makers and requesting tips and tricks. At nineteen, she had her greatest triumph: waving the wealthy young Baron Henrik Uzanne into her arms and then into her bed. Within three months, they were wed. Only her older sister, who had been engaged to this nobleman, was crushed. Young Mistress proudly took on the old French surname, which had come to Sweden a century before. She never spoke of the fact that the Uzanne name arrived with an ambitious mercenary who hacked his way up the ranks.

Henrik was the perfect conquest: highly sought after, aristocratic, good-looking, pleasant company, and with enough money of his own to let her do as she pleased. Over time, she found that Henrik was more than just a trophy of her exemplary skills. He loved her, and she found the passion of her life in him. Henrik was deeply engaged in politics, and introduced The Uzanne to the games of government, which were more intriguing than those of romance and court. He first humored her interest, then found she was an astute observer and analyst. The Uzanne and her Henrik plotted with the Patriots for the return to a government ruled by the nobility, with a figurehead king in Duke Karl. Their scheming drew them closer than most married couples; no one could understand their lack of casual trysts. Henrik did sigh at their childlessness, but The Uzanne had no ambitions to motherhood right away. Besides vanity and the risks of childbirth, she thought children to be the greatest inconvenience imaginable. She allowed Henrik free rein with her maids, with whom he fathered several adorable bastards, and that small friction was removed. Unfortunately when she decided it would be wise to produce an heir, it was too late.

Henrik also indulged The Uzanne's passion for folding fans, and in time her collection was without equal. It embraced all colors, all countries, all kinds. Italian sandalwood, Spanish lace, Russian vellum, English silver, Japanese silk, and anything French. But The Uzanne would go to great lengths for fans that she labeled Character and Novelty. The Character fans carried a unique emotion, and her collection included Longing, Melancholy, Fury, Ennui, Lust, Romance, and several forms of Madness. The Novelty fans included telescopic,
double-entente
fans that opened in either direction and revealed two different faces (Henrik especially liked the pornographic variety), articulated leaf, puzzle fans, blades with peepholes of all sorts, sticks with clocks, guards with thermometers, and even one fan whose rivet gem hid a pinch of snuff or arsenic. When Henrik gave her Cassiopeia as an anniversary gift, she saw it as the crown jewel of her collection. Cassiopeia combined the Character of Irresistible Authority and the Novelty of a secret shaft along the center stick with exquisite workmanship, beauty, and the mysterious connection between an artist and their instrument. The Uzanne and Cassiopeia fit together like lovers on a too-small settee, knowing just how to move for maximum effect.

Over time, the ladies of The Town begged The Uzanne to reveal her secrets, but she knew that knowledge was valuable. Soon all the aristocratic daughters from near and far paid dearly for The Uzanne's instruction. Under her tutelage, the mothers of these debutantes saw their daughters become refined and clever, able to shine in even the brightest company on the Continent, and often engaged to be wed. The girls themselves saw a long line of suitors, officers pressing their dark blue uniforms against them and smelling of cologne, diplomats whispering untranslatable words in their ears, noblemen daring to touch their hands, their breasts, their thighs, part their lips with their tongues, open them up like a fan handled by an expert: slowly, slowly until she is spread so wide she might break. But a battalion of suitors was a trifle. The Uzanne knew the fan had far greater powers.

The Uzanne, after many years of study and practice, could direct the flow of information in any given room with her fan. She could send words to an unintended ear, bring them to her own, and guide the attention of one or many through the ether with a slight adjustment of angle, velocity, and intention. It was a dazzling combination of art and craft that served as a calling card, social tie, and status indicator. But it was also the perfect tool for a woman who wished to participate in the games usually reserved for powerful men. And a fan would never be suspected as a weapon.

By 1789, The Uzanne and Henrik felt their political goals within reach: Sweden was crippled by Gustav's disastrous war with Russia, his council was suspected of financial crimes, and fear of revolution fueled a widespread desire for a return of tradition. But she and Henrik did not foresee the Act of Unity and Security, a coup d'état and bloodless revolution all in one. When Gustav imprisoned the Patriot leaders, all was lost. Henrik never recovered from the ordeal, despite the civility of his confinement in Fredrikshovs castle. When he died in November of that year from pneumonia, The Uzanne believed her life was over. For nearly a month she remained in her bed, until Duke Karl convinced her to attend Christmas service with him and the Little Duchess. For the next year, she wore only black, received few visitors, refused to attend court, and canceled her class for young ladies forever. But a growing frustration with Gustav's seeming invincibility, Duke Karl's continual ambivalence toward his brother, and a sudden unquenchable desire for revenge caused her to rise out of isolation in the service of her nation.

By 1791, The Uzanne was once again part of the Town's many intrigues and events. On June 20 of that year—midsummer—The Uzanne and her Cassiopeia attended an impromptu party that promised politics as well as the usual cards, gossip, and revelry. It was, for The Uzanne, the perfect blend, and she insisted her newest protégée, Carlotta Vingström, accompany her. Carlotta and I exchanged a series of urgent notes regarding the evening, for we had made plans for an outing already. But Carlotta's placement with the baroness was an unimpeachable honor and obligation. And it was precisely the opening I needed. Carlotta and I had been daily correspondents for nearly two weeks, and I visited the wine shop often, but we had not touched upon serious topics at all. I silenced the Superior's nagging with an excellent bottle of Tempranillo, promising it was the first of many from my soon-to-be in-laws' cellars: on midsummer's night I would express my intentions and press for a reply.

I proposed a daring plan to breach the door as interloper—all to be with her. I knew getting into the party would be simple, although I did not tell this to Carlotta, for the address on the invitation was 35 Gray Friars Alley. I was expected at eleven to lay the third card in my Octavo, and Mrs. Sparrow would never ask me to break my oath.

The evening began well: at seven o'clock, my landlady, Mrs. Murbeck, delivered a final note from Carlotta, acknowledging the great risk I was taking on her behalf, her belief that I would fit into this illustrious company with ease, and her eagerness to be with me once the party was over. With a newly pressed suit of fine clothes and a splash of cologne, I hurried to Gray Friars Alley. The bells of the Great Church were chiming eight o'clock but the sky was bright as midday. The streets and houses of the Town were decorated with birch branches and flowers twined into garlands. Here and there midsummer poles marked the day, topped with wreaths and wrapped with greenery and blossoms, the ribbons fluttering in the breeze that made its way up from the bay. The guests arrived noisily, the wheels of their carriages rattling on the stones, voices calling to one another in greeting. Then an especially fine black coach with a baronial crest pulled to a halt, and the clatter of hooves was accompanied by the unmistakable stream of chatter that only an excited Carlotta could produce.

“Madame, I have much to tell you of this house,” Carlotta burst forth in a froth of lemon silk, “but have waited until our arrival so you might experience the mystery firsthand. If you would, Madame, look at the keystone in the arch. Do you see the face? It is said to move.” The Uzanne peered out. “This, Madame, is a house of the spirits.”

“This is not useful information, Carlotta. I want to know why Duke Karl has brought us all to the center of nowhere,” The Uzanne said, her voice surprisingly melodic. I expected a lumbering matron who resembled a large, half-eaten cake from last night's fete. The Uzanne barely touched the footman's hand emerging from the carriage, her pale dress shimmering against the varnished black of the carriage door. The gown she wore was slim, in the new style
à l'anglaise
, and the sea green sash at her waist showed her figure to great advantage. Her dark hair was unpowdered and simply coiffed, and she touched it once, as if to make certain it remained in place. In the play of light and shadow she looked to be Carlotta's age.

“Duke Karl desires an audience with the oracle here.” Carlotta bit her lip but continued staring up at the stone face. “Madame, I have queried the most reliable sources, and they assured me this Seer is infallible.”

“No one is infallible, Carlotta, despite what the pope might wish.” The Uzanne flicked out a folding fan with such speed that I froze. “And why is Duke Karl taken in by this particular charlatan?”

“She is King Gustav's adviser.” The Uzanne stopped her fan midbeat, the silence of an arrogant dismissal. Carlotta continued. “Duke Karl shares many occult interests with his brother and seeks confirmation and guidance; who better than a source of his brother's good fortune? The duke insisted the Seer make herself and her rooms available on very short notice.”

“And Gustav is willing to share?”

“Oh no. Gustav has no idea. He is traveling.” Carlotta lowered her voice. “The woman is a fervent Royalist, Madame. She declined to see the duke. Naturally the duke's interest was only inflamed by her excuses, he made it clear he would not be refused.” The ladies passed into the stairwell. “What I cannot understand is why Duke Karl did not come alone? Why visit an oracle in the midst of a midsummer party?”

The Uzanne gave her fan a leisurely turn. “Duke Karl is a man who desires change but requires a large amount of reassurance. He needs company.”

I watched them climb the steps, skirts raised to reveal white stockings, satin shoes with curved heels, the soft turn of ankles illuminated by the tiny brass lanterns set on each tread. Carlotta was a luscious peach, but she had the bounce and skip of a girl. The Uzanne moved with a grace that is only acquired through years of aristocratic training, and this amplified her beauty—a woman you wanted to touch, knew you should not, but might be reckless enough to try. I followed at a respectful distance, watching Carlotta's exquisite backside rising majestically before me.

Katarina raised one eyebrow but did not keep me from joining the guests. In the foyer, The Uzanne stopped short, turning toward the paintings of the Swedish and French monarchs. “There is a royal portrait missing in this gallery of kings,” The Uzanne said. “That of Duke Karl. Unless this gallery only looks to those whose time has passed.” There was a beat of pure silence, then a smattering of applause and a buzz of commentary.

Mrs. Sparrow observed from the opposite end of the hallway. She was dressed in a light green dress and paisley shawl more suited for day. Her brown hair was pulled back into a roll at the nape of her neck, unpowdered, without a wig or a cap. Her face was a mask. Only her hands betrayed her anger, her fingers pressed red into fists at her side. Beside Mrs. Sparrow stood a slight man in a military uniform of the most elegant cut and fabric. He stepped forward with practiced grace and bestowed a lingering kiss on The Uzanne's gloved hand while glancing at Carlotta, who hovered several steps behind.