The Stockholm Octavo (18 page)

Chapter Twenty-Five
Thin Ice

Sources: Various, primarily: M. Nordén, Louisa G.

THREE NORDÉNS AND TWO PLOMGRENS
squeezed into the hired sleigh for the trip to Gullenborg. The sky was crystalline blue, and a new layer of powdery white blanketed the landscape. The weather had snapped frigid a fortnight past and the ice was now a horse's head thick, but Christian begged to take the land route all the same. This winter habit of travel by frozen waterways was alarming to him, but the ladies' toilette in preparation for this event had caused them to be late, and the lake was the swiftest route. The horses reared once when the ice gave a ghastly screech from an unseen heaving below the surface, causing Christian and the ladies to call out in fear. Lars laughed. The coachman's story of last winter's icy drownings, horses and all, did not help. Margot held Christian's hand in hers, and they distracted themselves by singing songs that caught the rhythm of the harness bells. When that failed, Anna Maria spoke up.

“Mr. Nordén, why don't you practice your lecture on us?” she asked.

“Yes, perhaps I should,” Christian answered, his eyes squeezed shut. “It is an overview of the geometric elements of the fan, beginning with the circle, and requires a mathematical—”

“Mr. Nordén, with all due respect, young ladies are not interested in mathematics,” Anna Maria said.

Margot was taken aback by Anna Maria's brashness but kept her face serene. “And what subject would you suggest, Miss Plomgren?”

“There is only one when it comes to the use of the folding fan,” she said.

“You mean love?” Margot said.

“No, Mrs. Nordén. I mean entrapment.”

“And what of beauty?” Christian said, forgetting the ice for a moment. “What of happiness, and art?”

“Those are elements of the fan, but not its purpose,” Anna Maria answered.

“I thought it was meant to keep the flies away,” Lars said.

Mother Plomgren pretended to cuff him across the head. “You're the only practical one in this whole lot.”

The sleigh slid to a halt before the humbling magnificence of Gullenborg. The stone posts that flanked the steps rising out of the lake to the estate were topped with torches, and lanterns sunk into the snowbanks glowed along the edge of the path, which had been cleared of every trace of winter and laid with newly raked pink gravel.

“You best go to the front entrance, Mr. Nordén, as you are the guest of honor. We the uninvited must make our ways to the back and hope that we will be given seats. Come, my plum, come, but watch the ice,” Mother Plomgren said cheerily, gesturing for the others to follow.

Christian followed the trail of lanterns to the front entrance and hesitated for a moment before lifting the brass knocker. He patted his satchel and gave a prayer of thanks for his lodge brother Master Fredrik. Not only had he made this visit possible, Master Fredrik had inspired the formal note of introduction and thanks to his hostess. This will perform many tasks, Master Fredrik had instructed: it will honor Madame Uzanne, who desires homage above all things; it will give some interesting facts to those ladies who may sleep or talk throughout; and it will give the location of your establishment and drive custom to your door. Master Fredrik, it seemed, was practical and artistic, a dual nature seldom found in ordinary men. He had written two dozen notes in a simple masculine hand on plain white paper.

 

A L
ECTURE

 

The Geometry of the Fan

Christian Nordén

Cook's Alley, North Island, Stockholm

 

D
ECEMBER
16, 1791

 

Dedicated to Baroness Kristina Elizabet Louisa Uzanne

Inspired by the Order of the Fan,

Founded by Her Royal Majesty Louisa Ulrika in the year 1744,

 

Dearest Ladies,

The present company is fortunate to be the beneficiaries

of the incomparable Madame Uzanne's expertise through

private instruction. Fortunate indeed!

Charming hostess, elegant beauty, esteemed Lady of the Court,

and one of the world's great scholars and collectors of folding fans.

I endeavor to be a worthy instructor.

C. N., Fan Maker

 

Christian lifted the doorknocker and let it fall.

 

“THIS ROOM IS POSITIVELY SEPULCHRAL.”
The Uzanne's words echoed in the empty salon, and Louisa, the maid, went to light the sconces and ceramic stoves at once. The Uzanne had timed her class so that the light would pour in exactly when she needed it, but at this moment, the sun had not yet moved around the house, and every exhalation of breath made a small frosty cloud. The Uzanne surveyed the ten white lacquered tables with graceful carved legs, each with four round-backed chairs. There were additional chairs and cushioned benches that ringed the room, allowing for the inevitable extras that would be eager to attend. This setting would accommodate the guests for the lecture and then move seamlessly into service for refreshments and the games of faro and Boston whist that might follow should the lecture be too boring or the young ladies too stupid. The household staff had noticed the intense upswing in Madame's interest in cards since the summer—endless games and private lessons with questionable characters lasting late into the night. “It's good for the girls, for cards must be handled just as carefully as any fan,” The Uzanne had said to Johanna.

A maid hurrying by with a bucket and brush to scrub the entry hall one last time stopped and curtsied, but was waved on. The Uzanne spotted a man, fidgeting with his ill-fitting but elegant coat, approaching the front entrance. She knew the rented clothes and stumbling rush to attend the wealthy very well. “The door, Louisa. The fan maker has arrived,” she called out. She smoothed her hair in the mirror's uneven glass, plucked one silvery strand from midscalp, then flicked open her fan and composed herself in the most impressive point of the room.

Christian gave a deep bow to hide the flush on his cheeks. The Uzanne's dark hair was full, curled across the crown and held with one glittering comb that looked as though it might come loose. Her gown was a rare pale green that is sometimes seen on the horizon at sunset, a silk trimmed with brocade rosettes, the bodice cut low and tight, edged with rows of lace tinted to a dusky gray. The three-quarter sleeves showed her slender arms to advantage, the same gray lace reaching nearly to her wrists. Her hands were perfect, nails pink and buffed, the fingers extended just so. In her left hand, she toyed with the open fan, which meant that he could come and speak to her.

“Madame, I am honored to be in your presence.” Christian tried to kiss her hand but just as he applied his dry lips she pulled it gently from his grasp. He straightened. “I felt sure only you could command the gold half-circle fan with such remarkable finesse.”

The Uzanne gave a pleased nod. “It was the perfect gift, Mr. Nordén. I love a short gorge and the broad leaf with embossed roses reminds me of a luxurious garden. She is a fan made for summer, but she will heat a room in winter, too. I have given her a name that I am reluctant to say aloud.” Christian opened his mouth to speak. “Now, Mr. Nordén, if you would please wait in the servants' corridor until the young ladies have arrived.” Christian felt his face go hot and bowed until his nose practically touched his knees. He held this position until her footsteps were a distant click.

Louisa motioned him through a panel door in the wall to the servants' corridor with its one narrow wooden chair. The air smelled of pine tar and dead mouse, and for the next half an hour, the great house was quiet but for hurrying footsteps.

Chapter Twenty-Six
The Geometry of the Body

Sources: E. L., various guests and servants at Gullenborg, M. Nordén, L. Nordén, Bloom, Lt. R. J., Mr. V***, M. F. L., Mrs. Beech

MASTER FREDRIK AND I
arrived punctually at one o'clock. He claimed business to attend to but assured me he would know the perfect time to make the introduction. I told him he was not to inconvenience himself on my behalf, and made my way to a corner to observe. I admit: Gullenborg was an intimidating backdrop. The sunlight made languorous rectangles across the parquet floor from the north and west windows. The candlelight glittered in the mirrored sconces and on the large crystal chandelier that dripped into the center of the room. In a few brief minutes, the room went from a subdued gray to a dizzying garden as groups of young ladies swirled into the salon, their demure gowns an artful pastel bouquet, the heady scent of their light perfumes and young bodies filling the air. They chattered and whispered and showed off their dresses. All of them but one. She was dressed in a sophisticated verdigris brocade gown trimmed with wine red ribbon. The dress was slightly large, as if hurriedly borrowed from an older sister, but her form was lithe and fine. Standing slightly apart and speaking to none but keenly observing the whirling debutantes, all of who seemed naive by comparison, she was alluring. She turned in my direction; her alabaster skin was the stuff of paintings and poems. But when a pink blush rose on those pale cheeks, and her eyes widened at the sight of me, I was quite sure that I had met her before. I found Master Fredrik, engaged in some intrigue about the guests' calling cards, and asked him if he knew her name. “She bears a remarkable resemblance to someone I met last spring. In a tavern on Skeppsholmen.”

“Impossible, Mr. Larsson,” he said, pocketing a handful of said cards. “She hails from the distant north, a noble family with a significant lineage. This is Miss Johanna Bloom.”

“Miss Bloom? Are you certain?”

“Do you doubt me?” Master Fredrik shot me a look of warning. “Miss Bloom is Madame's newest protégée. I have procured the young lady myself.”

“Then I have seen her on King's Island, near Government Street. I am sure.”

“Well, possibly.” Master Fredrik lowered his voice a notch. “Madame occasionally sends her to the Town to mingle with the citizenry; Madame is grooming the girl for some special purpose. I am not surprised that you are drawn to her: Old Cook believes she is a sorceress, and it is clear that Madame is enchanted.”

The sense that I knew this girl, combined with her proximity to my Companion, created a tingle at the back of my neck. “Perhaps you might introduce us,” I said.

He put a fatherly arm around my shoulder and led me in the opposite direction of Johanna. “I will inquire, but Madame is most protective of her companions. Takes pains to match them well, if that is what you are thinking. And a good thought it is, Mr. Larsson. I like your ambition,” he said, squeezing me a bit too hard. “But without Madame's consent you cannot tempt Miss Bloom to wander. Woe to her! There was a girl here not too long ago, a delicious creature, who fell into . . . . ah, Madame calls. I will deliver the salacious details later.”

“I look forward to it,” I said. He was speaking of Carlotta, of course, and I felt my hands clench and then go slack; the time was long past when I might defend her honor, and word had arrived that she was blissfully happy and had fallen in love. In Finland! Though it was clear Carlotta had no part in my Octavo, my thoughts jumped to the eight; I had places to fill, and a significant event to push. Mrs. Sparrow had said that they would gather around The Uzanne, and scores of the Town's elite now filled the room. Mingling among the swirl of eligible young ladies were a number of mothers and chaperones dressed in more somber hues, at least a dozen gentlemen, and an equal number of young officers “borrowed” from Duke Karl's regiment to entice the young ladies. The Uzanne added a coterie of French actors from the Bollhus Theater who could be counted on for enthusiasm and charming conversation, and several Russian diplomats, so she might learn the latest plans the Empress Catherine had for Sweden.

Standing apart, near the farthest doorway to the hall, were a handful of people looking unsure what they should do next. It took a few moments to recognize them, like seeing the fishmonger's family at the ballet: Margot Nordén, the handsome brother, and the Plomgrens. Margot looked tired and nervous; there was no sign of her husband. The handsome brother, on the other hand, resembled a strutting rooster with his red jacket and glittering eyes. Master Fredrik had no doubt tossed this meaty bone to the Nordéns, but the Plomgrens' presence was a mystery. The exquisite Anna Maria seemed shy and lost in this heady company, held in check at every turn by her mother. I felt a little fillip in my chest: the Prisoner. Here was my Octavo, gathering.

There was a sharp snap of a fan being opened. All eyes were drawn to The Uzanne, her silhouette a slim green stroke against the gray walls. “You are most welcome, students, honored guests. Please sit.” The crowd streamed toward the seating, the more ambitious jockeying for position toward the front. The Nordén claque wisely took a bench near the French doors and left the tables to the invited guests. Master Fredrik returned to my side, and we found a spot among the actors at a table reserved for gentlemen. The room fell silent but for the steady flutter of dozens of fans. The Uzanne's voice poured over us like warm honey, noting the young ladies from all stations of society, complimenting their chaperones, honoring the brave officers and distinguished gentlemen. Then she thanked the “surprise” guests, who would add piquancy to the gathering. It was clear from Margot's shrinking posture that the Nordén group had been unexpected. “I am especially honored to see General Pechlin among us,” she said. The chaperones and soldiers nodded and clapped, pleased at the presence of this legendary politician; the girls did not even glance his way; they had no idea why they should. “I hope the general will not find our lesson . . . tedious. You made it clear to me that you find women's weapons lacking.”

“Our mutual friend Duke Karl insists I reconsider,” Pechlin said.

“Let us begin, then.” The Uzanne closed her fan into a wand of gold. “The first movement you must understand is the importance of the release.”

The atmosphere in the room brightened as the young ladies stood to practice opening and closing their fans. There were stifled giggles and frustrated exclamations as The Uzanne circled them—adjusting, complimenting, observing. The girls were lovely and came in all shapes and shades, like the coronation day display in the confectioner's window. I noted Johanna mingling among the girls, practicing her release none too smoothly. Poor Anna Maria remained stuck to her mother's side, guarded by the Nordén brother, and had not released her fan at all. The Uzanne stopped to talk with the chaperones, their faces glowing in the warmth of her attentions. During this exercise, beverages were served at the gentlemen's tables along with lively conversation, which revolved around the upcoming Parliament and the dreadful state of the nation. Another clap brought the room back to order.

“Be seated, ladies.” The Uzanne appeared pleased with their instant obedience, but not so pleased as to let her students relax. “You must learn that every movement creates a form, every form creates a meaning. To be mindful of these details is the first step toward mastery. And so, Mr. Christian Nordén and today's lecture.”

The word
lecture
made faces fall, the subtle slapping of fans and sighs created a low tide of protest that ran just above the floorboards, barely audible under the smattering of applause. A maid opened a panel door in the far wall of the salon with a sudden swoosh of air and gestured to someone inside. A fine-looking man in his prime emerged, walked to the front of the room, and placed a stack of papers on the seat of a nearby chair. I could see the back of his bottle green jacket was splotched with sweat. He waited for Madame to give the signal to begin. Instead, she turned to him with a frown.

“I was just engaged in a heated conversation, Mr. Nordén, and was hoping you might arbitrate the dispute.” Christian bowed and waited. “I believe the use of a fan requires knowledge and rigorous study. Even the basic language of the fan consists of strictly established movements, so both ladies and gentlemen might understand it. But my friend Mrs. Beech suggests that one might just as easily wield a fan using the fluid principles of inspiration. What is your opinion?”

I leaned over to Master Fredrik. “Who is Mrs. Beech?”

“She serves in the household of the Little Duchess, Duke Karl's wife,” he whispered knowingly. “That is Mrs. Beech's daughter, the pimply one in lavender.”

“Clearly the Beeches have some purpose other than adding grace and beauty.”

“Beech is a linchpin in the machinery of love. Keeps the Little Duchess out of the way,” he said winking. “Watch how Madame greases the wheel.”

I looked back at the delicate politics in play before us. The muscles in Christian's face twitched as he struggled with his thoughts; his answer might mean his advancement to purveyor to aristocrats, or his descent to the market stall trade. “I am afraid I must agree with you both,” he said. Madame closed her fan. Mrs. Beech wrinkled her nose. The garden of lovelies sat as still as a bed of roses on a hot summer night before a violent storm. “I think of the proper handling of a fan as a branch of mathematics. Geometry, to be precise,” Christian continued. The Uzanne slowly raised her fan and rested it gently upon her right cheek: yes. Christian's expression transformed from that of a nervous schoolboy's to the calm and solemn mask of the master craftsman he was. “Geometry is a course of mathematical study that has rules that must be adhered to”—he nodded to Madame—“but requires leaps of imagination.” Christian nodded to Mrs. Beech, whose chins waggled in appreciation. There was a flutter of air as fans were released and set in attentive motion. “Two basic shapes are at the heart of the fan: the square and the circle. This is the masculine and the feminine, the material and the eternal. With the circle and square, any form is possible: rectangle, triangle, octagon, spiral, and from these, an infinity of dazzling combinations.” I thought at once of Mrs. Sparrow and her Divine Geometry, wondering if Christian was a student of this science as well. It would be interesting to question him later about the octagon and the significance of the eight.

Christian continued. “I am fortunate to be engaged in the study of the secrets of ancient geometry. I have read the scholarly works of . . .” The girls' expectant looks were replaced with utter blankness. “As you may know, the great puzzle of squaring the circle has been pondered through the ages. There is a theory that procreation . . .” Giggling. Tittering. Sshhhsing. Christian was sweating profusely now, and took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow.

Only The Uzanne seemed to be truly focused on his words. “Perhaps you could explain this in a more elementary way for the young ladies?” She turned her body slowly toward her students, who quieted at once.

Christian looked out over the vacant faces of the girls, then at Margot, his face a mask of desperation. His wife gave him such a sweet look, so full of love, that even I remembered her philosophy: the fans were to bring happiness, beauty, and romance. Christian cleared his throat and forced himself to smile. “All of this theory leads only to the finished instrument, whose sole purpose is to bring happiness, beauty, and romance. Power lies with the lady who has mastered her use”—he bowed toward The Uzanne—“for this is the geometry that will build the Temple of Eros.” With this announcement, postures improved and dresses rustled in approval. “You will easily learn the movements that make up the language of the fan, but I believe that your real instruction will go much further: this is the geometry I speak of. It is not rigid, as geometry in the pages of a textbook, but it is amazingly correct, and as fluid as the reality around us. Those who practice this geometry learn to feel a perfect circle. They can draw a straight line from any A to any B with a gesture. Triangles of all sorts are easily and often arranged. Parallels, intersections, and complex figures—all of these are possible. This is the geometry of the body.”

“And what can this geometry make for us, Mr. Nordén?” The Uzanne asked.

“Madame Uzanne, I am of the belief that this geometry can create anything you can imagine. Anything,” he repeated. “In short, you may build an edifice of your choosing, a palace or a prison.”

The Uzanne smiled at him in such a way that a casual observer might think that a passionate love affair was imminent. “I plan to make one of each.” There was an awkward pause, and then the guests applauded with polite enthusiasm. Nordén seemed relieved beyond measure, bowing to every corner. But the moment of glory was fractured when one of the young ladies, a juicy apricot of a girl with flaxen hair twirled up into an impossible confection, raised her fan in the air.

“Madame Uzanne, please, when
are
we to learn the language of the fan?” There was a murmur of urgent assent from the girls.

Madame Uzanne closed her fan and drew it through her hand, causing several of the older ladies to gasp. This gesture was obviously not a compliment. “Forgive me if I have assumed you to be more advanced than you are. We will need to begin at the beginning. Surely there is one young lady who has mastered these basics and can join me in a demonstration.”

Not one of the girls moved. Then there came a stirring from the side of the room near the windows, more rustling of fabric, whispered encouragement, and then from the bench, the voice of Mother Plomgren, “Here is one to join you, Madame—a hand with a folding fan that has served the Royal Opera. Miss Anna Maria Plomgren, my daughter I am proud to say, and a treasure.” Anna Maria was already on her feet. Her face burned with excitement, her eyes bright under downcast lashes. I had underestimated her fire.