“Fan the winds of change, Master Fredrik,” she said and smiled. “There are some who might protest that a bit of skin and sticks in the hands of a pampered lady could hardly accomplish such a feat, but consider the impact of a parchment nailed to a door by Martin Luther. The smallest gesture can, in time, turn the world.”
“In your hands, that breeze will turn to tempest,” Fredrik said, “but I do hope that it does not involve a moral reformation of any kind.”
“Never, Master Fredrik.” The Uzanne smiled and leaned back on the gray-and-white-striped silk of the settee. “Tell me, what do you know of Duke Karl’s current mistress?”
Chapter Fourteen
About to Bloom
Sources: M. F. L., J. Bloom, Mrs. Lind, The Skeleton, Father Berg, Louisa G., various staff at Gullenborg
SOME WEEKS AFTER I MET HER at The Pig, Johanna stood at the end of a narrow alley leading into Merchant’s Square. She had long ago memorized the address but put down her valise and checked the worn calling card once more. She scanned the buildings, blurring together in their golden hues. Once when she was younger, her father had taken her to Stockholm on his yearly sojourn to buy rare medicines for the apothecary. Johanna’s most indelible memory of this trip was of the brilliantly colored clothing that the people of the Town wore, so seductive that it was all she could do to keep herself from touching, smelling, or even tasting the frothy cream laces, smoky chestnut velvets, raspberry satins. This banquet of fashion knew no social bounds—even the sellers in the trinket stalls were dressed in a rainbow of silks.
When Johanna finally found her way, when she set herself up as an apothicaire, she would change everything about herself: her clothes would be of fine cloth drenched with color and perfume. She would eat enough to have curves. She would speak with the inflections of one born and raised in the Town and perfect her French, improve her Latin, learn English. She would change her name, but not in the way her parents had intended.
In late spring she was abruptly replaced in the apothecary and bound in a marriage agreement with Jakob Stenhammar, a widower near to forty-seven years who owned the only mill in Gefle. He had five children under the age of seven, including a nursing baby who had sent Mrs. Stenhammar to the grave. But there were whispers that Jakob Stenhammar had contributed to her departure with his hairy red fists. Mrs. Grey saw this sorry family as an opportunity for Johanna to do Good Works in the World. Johanna had seen it as the End of the World. She prayed for redemption, for release, for a sign. And God delivered it in the form of a man from the Town named Master Fredrik Lind.
There might be one or two outliers who were still planning on dancing at her wedding, but by now most knew she had fled with her dowry. Johanna forged a travel pass, which she knew most soldiers could not read, walked four days to Uppsala, then bought passage on a coach to the Town. She planned to make certain that no one would find her, and the Town was the perfect place to disappear completely, for though a hundred people might see your face on any given day, no one saw you at all. Johanna hurried past shops selling porcelain goods and fabrics; vendors with food, brooms, birds, pots and pans; an apothecary, which caused a momentary spasm of homesickness; at least six taverns roaring with customers; and a second-floor coffeehouse, the murmur of conversation and aroma of roasted beans wafting down to the square. Then, she spied it: a five-story house the color of goldenrod, a mere two rooms wide. Number 11. She put down her valise and apothicaire’s case, smoothed her gray cape, and tucked a lock of hair into her cap—futile gestures of neatness after a night spent in the Great Church.
A pale man with a long somber face answered her knock. He scanned her from head to toe through the barely open door and half whispered, “Servants to the back,” before slamming it shut in her face. She hastened down a narrow passageway that led to the rear of the building. The same servant was waiting for her, a look of annoyance trying to overtake his face; he could not know whose errand she was running. He was so thin that the white wrists sticking out of his coat sleeves might have been fine ivory spindles. “How may I assist the young lady?” he asked. She mutely handed Master Fredrik’s card to this specter. “Indeed. But may I say who is calling?” he asked.
Johanna gave a practiced curtsey. “The apothicaire Miss Grey.”
“Come in, and wait here please.” With that he turned and disappeared through a pale blue door that seemed to swing shut on its own, leaving Johanna in a hallway between two open rooms as spotless and organized as an apothecary—large locked cabinets and shelves full of jars, boxes, and crocks lined opposite walls. The dark blue bottles were neatly labeled: CERULEAN, VERMILLION, OCHRE, VIRIDIAN. This treasury of colors caused Johanna a moment of dizziness, and she leaned against a wall until she heard footsteps in the hall. Johanna straightened her posture and waited to greet the man who had promised to help her.
“Miss Grey! What divinity has sent you?” Master Fredrik called out as he burst through the blue door. “I am plagued with a three-story headache, my stomach is churning like a whirlpool, and my hands are shaking so that I cannot hold a glass to my lips. Last evening was a fiery bacchanal, and the last of your tonic long ago consumed.”
Johanna stood with her mouth ajar for a moment, then hurriedly opened the apothicaire’s traveling case she had taken from her father and removed a bottle of her Overindulgence Tonic. Master Fredrik took a knife and cut the wax from the top, pulled the cork stopper, and drank directly from the bottle. “A miracle,” he said, with a smile that diminished as swiftly as the afternoon light of September. “Such miracles often come with suffering attached.” He looked at her, one eye closed. “You do not appear to be enceinte. Are you or no?”
Johanna shook her head violently, blushing an angry red. “I am not pregnant. I am here on business, not charity, Master Lind.”
“Dear Miss, when a young girl I can hardly claim to know shows up alone at my door with a satchel of belongings and my calling card, one begins to speculate. Perhaps you will tell me briefly what business has brought you here, for my duties press.” Johanna did not tell him that she had fled her September nuptials, but rather that she hoped to better herself in the Town, inspired by Master Fredrik’s visit to her father’s apothecary this past spring.
IT HAD BEEN A FRESH SATURDAY in early April, just past noon, and all the shops were locking up for the day. Mrs. Grey was off at church. Mr. Grey had an urgent call to deliver a digitalis compound, and left in a rush. Johanna sighed with relief when she heard the door of the apothecary close behind her father. It was the blessed hour of her weekly bath. The kettle was hissing on the hearth and hot water filled the large copper tub set up in the officin. Johanna sank into the warm water gratefully; her arms and legs still stinging from the nettles she had been gathering that morning. She closed her eyes, and in the steaming comfort, fell into a light sleep. She dreamed that she heard a voice, a pleasant baritone, far in the distance, singing a merry summer song.
The gentleman entered the dim shop and the bawdy song he had been warbling faded. The apothecary was permeated with an odor of exotic spices that induced a calm, and the rows of drawers and porcelain canisters on the walnut shelves behind the counter, each inscribed with the Latin names of their contents, distracted him for a moment. But after a few breaths of this serious air, he cleared his throat several times, and when no one came, he called out, “Halloa! Here is a devotee of Bacchus in dire straits!” Johanna started from her floating reverie and tried to stand as quietly as possible, but the water splashed noisily to the floor. “What’s that? The fountain of youth, perhaps, being bottled in secret,” the gentleman cried. Before Johanna could call out, he had come behind the counter and opened the door of the officin and saw her standing in the tub, her blue-white buttocks turned a bright red from the heat of the bath.
“My God! A baboon rising from a bath! Hail, Baboon Goddess, for I see by your shape that you are female.” Johanna pulled the soaking bath sheet around her, not knowing whether to run, scream, or sit ba
ck down. Only the dripping of the water could be heard until the gentleman cleared his throat once more and spoke. “Your scarlet buttocks against the white of the sheet—a blotch of passion’s ink spilled in a lover’s haste on fine linen paper. Goddess, you inspire a few measures of Bellman.
An Angel’s hue, two lips and a breast
So perilously showing . . .
He bowed and turned away. “But I haven’t come to sing poesy to a dripping nymph. I have come to be cured and will wait for you at the counter.”
With that he exited, and Johanna, hastily drying herself, wondered what exactly a baboon was, and if it meant that the gentleman thought her attractive. She dressed and hurried out front.
“Master Fredrik Lind of the Town,” he said. He was a large man in midlife, well dressed, with a soft, splotched face that told of time in the taverns. “Please forgive the nature of our first meeting, but the church bell was chiming noon and desperation took hold of my senses. I was told that here I would find the famous Crown Apothecary Overindulgence Tonic,” he said.
Johanna curtsied again and fetched one of the clear glass bottles, glowing red-gold on the window ledge. She cut the wax seal from the top, pulled the cork, and carefully poured a measure into a porcelain medicine cup. He drank it down, shuddered, and then smiled. “Astonishing. I feel better already.” He peered at the array of bottles. “I will take the bottle and a half dozen extra. Preparation in life is everything.”
Johanna felt the heat of pleasure rise in her face, and went to fetch the bottles. As she placed the flasks into a wooden box and packed them with straw, Master Fredrik stared intently at her fingertips. “Good Lord, girl, are you crimson here as well?”
Johanna clasped her hands together and murmured that they were stained from dried field lily stamens she had been grinding for pigments.
“I am the Town’s preeminent calligrapher and known for the colors of my ink. If the crimson pigment you make is as good as your red tonic, I should like to buy some.”
Johanna’s hands trembled as she took a vial used for medicinal powders, filled it with the pigment, stoppered it with a cork, and placed it on the counter. Master Fredrik put down the open bottle of tonic he was holding and took one of her hands. He pulled open her curled fingers and kissed the tips reverently. “That Gefle holds such treasures would never have occurred to a single soul in the Town. You must come! A woman in the Hippocratic role would be revolutionary, and the population would clamor for your skills.” He placed a cream calling card on the counter and pressed a banknote into her hand. “If you should decide to better your circumstances and come to Stockholm, Mrs. Lind and I are at your service.” He bowed to her and left the shop. He was doubtless mistaken about the generous banknote, but Johanna did not call out. She stared into her palm at the fortune there, and knew that she had been given a sign.
“HAVE YOU JUST ARRIVED, Miss Grey?” Johanna was startled from her reverie by Master Fredrik’s voice.
“I have,” she answered, for it was true she had just entered the Lind House. She did not say she had been in the Town since June, and found work at The Pig’s Tail. She used the time to learn the dialect and observe the manners of the Town, and spent some of her earnings on a decent market stall dress in cornflower and cream stripes and a proper lace bonnet. She did not want to appear as a peasant when she called upon Master Fredrik. The work at The Pig had been simple at first, but soon enough the owner had wanted more than just dinner served up. Realizing that she had traded one prison for another, she put a handful of thorn apple seeds into his half-cask of rum, and left for Master Lind’s. The seeds would not cause death but might cause dimness of sight and a frightful mania in The Pig’s clientele, causing the place to lose what little custom it had. Now sanctuary with Master Fredrik was crucial. “I have come in search of employment.”
He studied Joanna for a moment, an index finger pressed against his lips. “A young lady, not too tempting or prone to temptation . . . Have you knowledge of French?”
“Oui, Monsieur. Some Latin, too. I have been trained in Botany and compounding medicines. I should like to work as an apothicaire, as you suggested to me, sir.”
His eyes opened wide and a sly smile pulled at the corners of his lips. “The timing of your arrival could not have been more auspicious, Miss Grey.” He went into the hall and called out, “Mrs. Lind, my dove, unlock the special wardrobe. We have a young lady in need of new clothes.”
Mrs. Lind cooed and petted. By afternoon, Johanna had been given cakes and tea, and was washed and clothed and coiffed in a manner that suited a young lady of breeding if not of wealth. Master Fredrik, who had left the ladies alone for this transformation, returned in a new suit of clothes—a striped jacket of dark blue and green silk, black breeches, and a black vest embroidered with creamy ivory peonies that climbed up the front and around the silver buttons. He closed one eye and peered at her. “Miss Grey . . . You cannot be Miss Grey. You are now and forever Miss . . . Bloom, the daughter of impoverished nobility from the northern provinces, and a rare Upland flower indeed.” He took a hat and cloak that hung on a peg and called for his skeletal manservant to take up Johanna’s valises. “Place some emphasis on your northern dialect, Miss Bloom. Be awed by the splendor we will soon meet, as any country girl would be, even one with your pedigree.”
“Are we leaving?” Johanna said, suddenly ill at ease. She had imagined that she would be taken in by Master Fredrik and his kindly wife.
“Rest assured, Miss Bloom, the accommodations at Madame’s will be more to your liking. And the potential for success a thousandfold.” He hustled Johanna out into the rear courtyard toward a chaise. Master Fredrik hopped in, shaking the frame with his formidable bulk, then held out a hand to assist Johanna. She touched his hand lightly, then pressed herself into the farthest corner of the seat. The horse jerked forward through the gate and into Merchant’s Square. Master Fredrik snapped the reins and began to sing.
Away we trot, soon ev’ryone
From this our noisy bacchanal,
When death calls out: ‘Good neighbor, come,
Thine hour-glass, friend, is full!’
Old fellow, let thy crutches be,
Thou youngster, too, my law obey,
The sweetest nymph who smiles on thee
Shall take thine arm today.
“Have you knowledge in the country of Bellman’s music?” he asked. Johanna shook her head and he halted their progress. “No? Oh, young lady, if you want to learn the Town, he is the true Master!” With that he cracked the whip and the horse jerked forward to the sound of another verse. They rode through the crowded central city, past church towers and lanes thronged with people and livestock, over a bridge to King’s Island and down a well-traveled road along Lake Mälaren. Green forest and field rolled out to one side, from new grass to deepest pine. On the other, the glistening blue surface of the lake dotted with whitecaps and birds. The air smelled of fir trees and sea, and Johanna felt a sharp pleasure from this perfume, the wind making gooseflesh on her arms.
“So then, Miss Bloom, what exactly propelled you from Gefle?” Master Fredrik broke the silence.
Johanna looked down at her hands then raised her head and met Master Fredrik’s gaze. “I have come for a future, sir, and would prefer that my past remain where I left it.”
Master Fredrik pulled the carriage to a stop. “We are driving this minute to your future, and mine, as well, if you are the prize I believe you to be: a modest but accomplished girl who can read and write, compound medicines . . . if you could play the cittern and sing I would keep you for Mrs. Lind and myself.” Johanna blushed at this compliment, being unaccustomed to praise of any sort. “Just remember that discretion is an admirable trait, Miss Bloom. Let me relate your story and smooth your way into the lady’s heart.” Master Fredrik snapped the reins, and the vehicle jerked forward. Over a final rise, two precise rows of black willow trees topped with shimmering green leaves formed an allée on a lane to the l
eft, flanked by fields of rape. Gullenborg revealed itself at the end of this road. “Behold the splendid house that beckons,” Master Fredrik said. Johanna sat taller in her seat and leaned forward to get a better look. “The welcoming golden hue, the trim a steely gray. And the gravel: pink. Pink gravel! Not the mud colors you see in the tundra, eh, Miss Bloom?” Master Fredrik turned down a narrow lane before they reached the main house and headed toward a white stucco stable. “We will call upon Madame in good time, but first we must be about my business,” he said, jerking the horse to a stop with an extra slap.
“I understood you were the Town’s preeminent calligrapher, sir,” Johanna said.
“Indeed. But Madame has asked for my assistance on another matter. She has ordered a new fan, and it seems the Parisian fan maker Monsieur Nordén finds the materials available in the Town to be inferior. I will demonstrate that this is not the case.” Master Fredrik stepped from the carriage and held his hand up to Johanna. “The lady insists on chicken skin. It is a sublime surface for paint: light, strong, translucent. A slightly nubbled texture, but so smooth that pen and brush move across it as if directed by God himself. And few besides God can afford it,” he added, nodding toward the house. “Have you ever owned a fan?”
“No, sir, I have not had the money for it,” Johanna said.
“You may soon enough.” Master Fredrik pulled his cloak back over his shoulders, and took a silver snuffbox from a pocket, inhaled a generous dose, and walked on. Johanna did not move. “Come, Miss Bloom, this is not a fan shop, but where the fan begins. Are you not curious?”
Johanna climbed down and asked if they would roast the chicken after they had taken the skin; she had not eaten well for a very long time. Master Fredrik laughed gleefully and opened the door to the stable with an exaggerated bow. A stable hand and a young boy greeted Master Fredrik, while casting furtive glances at Johanna. “I have brought Madame a clever girl today,” Master Fredrik said.
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