Pechlin took the duke by the arm and turned him away from The Uzanne. “An excellent corner table, where we might discuss this vision of two crowns in serious company. My men will see that we are completely uninterrupted.”
“I must relate the good news of this vision to the Little Duchess . . . and to my mistress of course. Good thing I shall have two crowns, eh?” Duke Karl said to Pechlin.
“I think perhaps we should keep the specifics to ourselves, until we have a plan.” The Uzanne watched them walk away arm in arm, her fan opening to half and closing again, over and over. “Enjoy the sport, Madame,” Pechlin called over his shoulder.
Carlotta waited until the duke was a respectful distance. “I thought he would be taller,” she said.
“The crown adds height to any man,” The Uzanne said. “Even the toady that hangs on his arm is lifted.”
I took a moment to relay these conversations to Mrs. Sparrow, who was directing a houseboy unloading a crate of wine in the back stairwell. She turned with a start, brushing the straw from her skirt. “Can you sit with the duke?”
“Out of the question,” I said.
“No, of course not. And they will notice if you hover.” She pressed her lips together, thinking. “Then you are to stick close to The Uzanne and watch for a sign.”
“A sign of what?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said, frustration in her voice. “Meet me in the upper room when all the guests have gone.”
“But I have plans to—”
“We have our third card tonight—even if it must be laid well after eleven. Now go, Mr. Larsson, go!”
I did not argue further; I would simply bring Carlotta along. She would be thrilled to meet Duke Karl’s new oracle.
A calm demeanor is the professional’s first rule of thumb, so I took my time and had just a half-glass of punch before heading to the gaming rooms. Carlotta and The Uzanne were navigating their dresses through the clusters of green-topped tables and heavy chairs. The Uzanne was trailing Carlotta, letting her cut a path through the throng, but the Uzanne’s eyes were on the duke’s table and those nearby, which had already filled with players. She approached and spoke briefly to Duke Karl, but was not asked to sit down. She returned to follow Carlotta to the opposite side of the room, her fan fluttering close to one ear, bringing the duke’s words with her as far as she was able.
Carlotta had taken her refreshment too quickly, and her cheeks were flushed. “Madame, I have the perfect table: we can observe and be observed by all, not too close to the music, but close to the buffet which, oh Madame, is set with the most lovely Bavarian china, and strawberries mounded to the ceiling in crystal bowls, Russian caviar, raspberries, poached salmon in aspic, white asparagus, spiced peaches and—”
“In the future try to place us with your head or at least your heart, Carlotta, and not with your stomach.”
Carlotta gave a sideways curtsy to acknowledge this jab. “Ah, here is our gaming table. And . . . our dear friend Mrs. von Hälsen.” Carlotta stopped to adjust her trajectory at this unexpected object in her path. “How lovely you can join us at cards, Mrs. von Hälsen, you see there is my sash spread over the chairs to reserve our places, and of course we certainly hope you will remain here with us for a friendly game,” Carlotta said with faultless insincerity. Her knowledge of Mrs. von Hälsen was based on several paragraphs of sordid gossip that had appeared in What News? under the headline A SPORTING LIFE. “Madame?” Carlotta turned to The Uzanne for the definitive word.
It was clear from Mrs. von Hälsen’s eyebrows that it was not her intention to share the table with Carlotta and The Uzanne, but now she was trapped; it would be a severe breech in manners to go, but she must also ask if she might stay. The Uzanne, as social superior, nodded and sat in the chair to Mrs. von Hälsen’s right, then engaged her with the expected pleasantries. But The Uzanne’s face took on a curious intensity when Mrs. von Hälsen opened her fan.
“What an exquisite beauty, Mrs. von Hälsen. Tell me,” The Uzanne said, her voice soft and warm.
Mrs. von Hälsen laid her fan gently on the table. “Her name is Eva.” Eva was made with gilded ebony sticks, and her blade was of the finest white swanskin, exquisitely painted with a large cartouche that framed a sumptuous garden. Dense tropical trees hanging with ripe fruit in reds and purples shaded beds of flowers in a multitude of colors. The sky was a cloudless, gleaming blue. A peacock stood off center, its tail unfurled to reveal a multitude of eyes. In the shadow of the grove, the silhouette of a woman was barely visible, standing next to a branch from which hung a tangle of thick vines. Not only was Eva a beautiful specimen of midcentury Parisian workmanship, she had a character that a connoisseur might define as Temptation. The Uzanne had no fan of this exact nature in her vast collection.
“I would give a great deal to have such a fan,” The Uzanne said.
“I have given a great deal for her already myself,” Mrs. von Hälsen said, slowly closing Eva and placing the fan in her lap.
“What game do you prefer, Mrs. von Hälsen?” The Uzanne asked politely.
“Boston, Madame. Is there any other?” Mrs. von Hälsen asked, picking up one of the two decks on the table and handing the cards to The Uzanne. “Madame deals.”
“Do we have our fourth?” Carlotta asked, turning to look at me. I had claimed a spot in a nearby window seat from which to watch the play and shook my head no. I did not wish to draw attention to my status as interloper.
“My young niece, Miss Fläder.” Mrs. von Hälsen waved to a pretty, flaxen-haired girl with a round face flushed pink with heat and punch who joined the table, sitting opposite The Uzanne. She never opened her mouth beyond a slit, or if she did, held a hand up to block the view—perhaps she was missing some teeth.
All fifty-two cards were dealt, making four hands of thirteen. The player to the left of the dealer would open; the rest had to follow suit. High card would take the trick; the player winning the most tricks won the game. Although the etiquette of Boston whist demanded that no utterance be made during play, it was laughable how many people had a face that was a surrogate tongue. Carlotta was a perfect example: her nostrils would twitch in the most beguiling fashion when she thought she had excellent cards, and while this was seldom the case, she was a hopeless optimist. Mrs. von Hälsen’s eyebrows were signal pennants accentuated by the line of charcoal that she applied for the evening. Miss Fläder had a terrible case of inebriated giggling combined with hiccups that she tried to suppress by squeezing her lips together. She lost a decent sum of money and did not seem to care a whit. But when The Uzanne placed the final card of her original thirteen on the table, she held her lovely face as still as a Grecian marble. “I am trumped yet again.” She sighed. The Uzanne was losing steadily—not enormous sums, but enough to make sure that Mrs. von Hälsen was feeling confident of her good fortune, and I realized The Uzanne was a genuine player setting up her win.
The Uzanne had a mind for the tables to begin with, as all gaming is political. Her skill with folding fans meant she handled the cards with dexterity and grace. She meant to bring all her talents to the table, for in this moment, she desired only Mrs. von Hälsen’s fan. And she would take it. The ladies stopped only once to take refreshments, and Mrs. von Hälsen would not hear of a change of players or dismantling the game. She said it had been some time since she felt Fortuna so warm and near.
By ten o’clock each table was in its own world. Mrs. Sparrow circulated among them as she usually did, a silent observer bringing fresh boxes of cards or signaling for a bottle. She did not get close to Duke Karl’s table; the players shooed away anyone who came close. But she circled The Uzanne’s table frequently and caught the drift of a ruse in progress.
The Uzanne pushed her pile of cards away. “You have done me in, Mrs. von Hälsen. I will end up in the Spinning House Prison on Långholmen if I wager another penny.”
Mrs. von Hälsen looked crestfallen, her eyebrows trying to reach each oth
er for consolation. She tapped the end of the beautiful Eva on the table. “Surely one more game . . .”
The Uzanne drummed her fingers, then brightened. “It’s not without precedent to put other stakes on the table. We could wager our fans. Mine is so very old-fashioned—look how long she is—the losers can gain consolation from a new one.”
“Oh, Madame, I should love a new fan,” Carlotta said, placing a mediocre Italian souvenir fan on the table. Miss Fläder, carrying a third-rate English fan with a printed-paper blade, clapped her hands and rapped her fan down near the Italian. Mrs. von Hälsen, however, looked down and frowned. “Place a value on your goods, ladies, and I will offer cash instead. My fan is old-fashioned, but I am attached to her.”
The Uzanne waited for a moment, then picked up her own fan, fingering the warm ivory guards. “Like you, I would be sorry to lose an old friend, but the duke commanded us to look to the future tonight,” she said, and pulled hers open with the little finger of her left hand, slowly revealing the painted silk face. “I offer you Cassiopeia,” she said softly. “She was a gift from my late husband, Henrik.” Cassiopeia was tall, the length of two hand spans. The guards and sticks were simple ivory, the rivet a silver stud set with a blue gemstone. The gorge was tight, and the face of the blade was painted with a mysterious landscape, the sky deep violet at the top, then cobalt fading to an orange sunset, wisps of cloud creating long red trails, an arc of departing birds. I leaned forward to get a better look at this strangely familiar scene. A black coach waited expectantly before a stately manor, ready to transport one to the realm of the senses.
Carlotta tilted her head to study the open fan. “Pardon me, Madame, but why is she called Cassiopeia? You should name her Traveler, or Sojourner, what with the coach.”
“I never change the name a fan already answers to, especially when she was christened by a woman of such skill and notoriety.”
“And who might that be?” Mrs. von Hälsen asked.
“Henrik swears . . . swore . . . that she belonged to Madame de Montespan, First Mistress of Louis XIV. The image on the face recalls an early rendezvous at the country château of her lover, the king.” The Uzanne turned the fan over, revealing a dyed indigo silk spattered with sequins and tiny bead crystals. “The constellations on the verso recall the mystery and pleasures of the night. And its many secrets. Madame de Montespan’s name is forever attached to love and great charm, but also to black magic and the Affaire des Poisons. Shall I tell you the secret of my fan?” The ladies nodded eagerly and leaned in close. “If you look very closely you will see that Cassiopeia has a sleeve of silk over the center stick on the verso side. Inside the sleeve is a quill that will hold a piece of paper containing a secret message, or a slender piece of wood saturated with intoxicating perfume, or something . . . well, perhaps something more dangerous.” The ladies laughed nervously. The Uzanne smiled at Mrs. von Hälsen and placed Cassiopeia faceup on the table. “Shall we?”
Mrs. von Hälsen felt the pressure of pleasing The Uzanne, but she also felt the false confidence of her winning streak lubricated with punch. She took up the second deck in her stubby hands and dealt. They played around the table only once, The Uzanne picking up the trick, when Miss Fläder became suddenly still and all the pink left her cheeks. She excused herself abruptly.
“Now what?” Carlotta said. “We’ve twelve more tricks to go and the bets have been placed!”
“I would hate to see your gaming end before it’s even begun.” Mrs. Sparrow stepped out from the shadows at the side of the room, and stood at the table’s edge. “May I?” It was not at all unusual for Mrs. Sparrow to play, but to sit with someone of The Uzanne’s station, who was also a political enemy, was bold. At first I thought that Mrs. Sparrow was simply trying to make her guests happy, but she was up to something else, for her hands grasped each other as though they feared for someone’s life.
“Our hostess,” intoned Mrs. von Hälsen with false enthusiasm. Carlotta became immediately sober and held her cards like a shield. Both ladies waited for The Uzanne, who glanced up briefly, expressionless.
Mrs. Sparrow reached into a pocket at her waist and pulled out an ivory brisé fan. She placed her, open, in the center of the table. The ivory had a soft yellow patina from many years of handling, and while the fan was so small she might have belonged to a child, the piercing was of a quality that would befit a princess, and the long red silk tassel was threaded with gold. “A treasure from the Orient. It will sweeten the stakes.”
The Uzanne’s face lit up with a kind of lust. Children’s fans were extremely rare. “Please, sit down.”
The players picked up their hands and prepared to resume. No one noticed the imperceptible sideways nod that Mrs. Sparrow gave to me over the heads of the other players. She was asking me to steer the game with a push. I watched Mrs. Sparrow’s fingers: the first two fingers on her left hand crossed the back of her cards. Two players around the table: she wanted The Uzanne to lose. The Uzanne had been losing steadily all night, but now there was a heat rising from her that a practiced player can sense: this was the game The Uzanne had been waiting to win. I rose from my seat and moved closer.
Mrs. Sparrow caught my eye and inclined her head toward the fans that lay on the table. If possible, she would not only push The Uzanne to lose, but also push the stakes in a specific direction. She raised her cards to her lips. I had only seen the signal once before: Mrs. Sparrow wanted to win. This was doubly dangerous: in any game, foul play was suspect from her, but The Uzanne was sharp and sober. Mrs. Sparrow set her cards facedown on the table. “A player may view the last trick taken, so the rules say, is that not so?” The Uzanne handed her the four cards and Mrs. Sparrow studied them intently for a minute, then handed them back. “And may I see the stakes?” Mrs. Sparrow asked politely. She first looked at the English paper fan and handed it to Mrs. von Hälsen. “I have taken the place of your niece and replaced her wager with my own, so she is no longer in the game. These are house rules, and I hope you will agree to them.” Mrs. von Hälsen nodded. Mrs. Sparrow glanced at the Italian fan, then picked up Mrs. von Hälsen’s Eva. “Like the first warm evening of June in a secret garden. The loss of innocence,” she said. Mrs. von Hälsen nodded and a faint trace of worry furrowed her brow. Then Mrs. Sparrow took up Cassiopeia and stared at the image of the traveling coach. “I know this,” she said softly to herself.
“Do you?” said The Uzanne with disdainful skepticism. “She is old, and French.”
“Like me,” said Mrs. Sparrow lightly, carefully placing the open fan in the center with the others.
“Shall we continue?” Mrs. von Hälsen asked, eager to retrieve her Eva.
The game began anew. Mrs. Sparrow sat stone still, eyes half closed. Only her hands moved as she played her cards. She would need every bit of skill, as she had no chance to palm a card or trifle with the deck in the cut. The next two tricks went to The Uzanne, and the fourth to Mrs. Sparrow. Mrs. von Hälsen was damp with sweat, feeling her winning streak seep out. Her eyebrows worked a steady knit of worry. Two tricks went to Mrs. von Hälsen, but her face was still a picture of concern. The Uzanne maintained her emotionless gaze, secure in her superiority. Carlotta, meanwhile, tried to stifle her yawns and was waving her cards like a miniature fan; everyone could see them. She somehow managed to take one trick, but before long, Mrs. Sparrow and The Uzanne were tied four tricks each.
“Mrs. Sparrow, you play as if your future depended on it,” The Uzanne said with a hint of surprise, expecting her hostess to graciously lose to her superior.
Mrs. Sparrow did not meet her gaze but stared down at the open face of Cassiopeia. “Not just my future, Madame, but all of ours.”
“I thought the fortune-telling was finished for the evening,” The Uzanne said coolly. “Perhaps you are reading our cards, too.”
“Oooh, thish is so mysterious,” Carlotta slurred.
“Silence, you drunken cow,” The Uzanne ordered.
The sh
ock of this remark reverberated through the room and brought new spectators to the table. The horrified look on Carlotta’s face disappeared at once, knowing that there would be no point in a reply. I, however, determined that The Uzanne must not be allowed to win this game, whatever it took. With only two tricks remaining, there were few options. I wandered over to an empty table and picked up a spare deck, not at all sure if I would have time to find the card I needed, much less make the pass. Carefully circumnavigating the table, I focused on the cards that remained in the ladies’ hands. Carlotta had nothing. Mrs. von Hälsen might take one more, but The Uzanne could trump if the right cards fell, and she could throw a court card for the final trick. Mrs. Sparrow was not well positioned here. I would have to enlist Mrs. von Hälsen to help give a push and still hope to pass a card. I signaled to Mrs. Sparrow that she should lead with spades.
Mrs. Sparrow placed her best remaining card, the knave of spades. Carlotta placed the three of hearts. The Uzanne smiled and placed the spade queen. Mrs. von Hälsen sat back in her chair; I could see the struggle in her face. She could take the trick if she wished, but she could win favor by “accidentally” throwing a card out of suit and giving The Uzanne the game. I moved to the back of the room and began to sing (quite badly) some altered lines from Bellman’s “Elegy over the Fight at Gröna Lund Tavern” as a desperate signal to Mrs. von Hälsen to put The Uzanne and herself on equal footing as losers.
A game too hot disputed
Turns sisters oft to rue.
Toot toot toot my back is blue!
That blow is best eluded
There’s no occasion for.
The Stockholm Octavo Page 5