by Thad Carhart
Theresa sat at a round table at the end of the room, playing solitaire, while Baptiste reclined on a chaise longue. She turned the cards absentmindedly, listening to what he was saying.
“You told me once, ‘Every theater has its wings,’ ” Baptiste said. “There is a lot to learn from what goes on backstage. Especially,” he added, “when nobody knows you’re there.”
“Ah, there are no mysteries left for you then,” Theresa said, flipping a card without looking up.
“There are a few. When you were in Russia, you missed a big court ceremony. The king, the court, and all the ambassadors came up from Stuttgart for the signing of a treaty,” Baptiste told her. “Everyone made speeches and bowed a lot, covered in medals and elaborate uniforms. It was an impressive sight, but I wondered when the terms were actually negotiated.”
“The real work goes on long beforehand,” Theresa said, “when the king’s minister sits down with each ambassador and fashions an understanding between their states. They don’t wear their plumage for that.”
Baptiste nodded. “Captain Clark once called a council in St. Louis for the fur-company owners, the army officers, and six tribal delegations. They were all in their fanciest costumes. One of the old Omaha chiefs said, ‘Their clothes are wearing them.’ ”
Theresa considered the words for a moment. “That’s very well put.” Then, in a quieter tone, she added, “It is a world I have tried to move away from.”
“Is that why you travel?”
“Yes. My mother always said that travel opens the door to chance, and I savor that. You might meet anyone, even”—she gestured toward Baptiste stretched out on the chaise—“a young prince from a faraway land.” He smiled, and Theresa continued. “It would be indecent to complain about a life of privilege. One needn’t look far to see how miserable one’s daily existence could be. But if the most that can be said is that things could be worse, there is already a surrender, a long waiting for the end that is the opposite of life, don’t you think?”
The conductor in the pit raised his baton, waited for quiet to descend, and then the orchestra began a slow, sinuous melody in the strings, like a river meandering gently through the plains. The three singers onstage joined in, their harmonies intertwining and growing louder or softer as the feeling within the words seemed to demand. Theresa and Baptiste sat in one of the front boxes on the first balcony of the palace’s theater. Baptiste had never heard anything so sumptuous or so pure, and he closed his eyes to enjoy the sound. Suddenly a cry came from below and all the beautiful music stopped abruptly.
“Non, non, non! C’est terrible!” The conductor, an Italian, yelled in heavily accented French at two of the singers, and a general confusion enveloped the stage and the orchestra pit.
“It sounded good to me,” Baptiste said.
Theresa agreed. “But we do not have Signor Russo’s knowledge.” Order had been restored and the ensemble prepared to begin again. “A Mozart opera performed before the king must be as near to perfection as possible.” In two weeks, Wilhelm would be bringing the court up from Stuttgart for this musical offering.
Baptiste enjoyed sitting in on rehearsals. The satisfaction of seeing and hearing how all the different players assembled the various parts was immense, like watching the secrets of an elaborate puzzle slowly reveal themselves. He particularly appreciated the fiery emotions of the singers: already that afternoon there had been shouting, a fit of laughter, tears, and now this outburst. The conductor had seemed like an excitable tyrant, but Baptiste was beginning to understand how effective his methods were. He managed to soothe strong feelings and channel them back to the performance.
They were singing about the wind, Baptiste realized, il vento, in undulating rhythms that soared and gradually subsided. As if to give substance to the word, the candles in the theater flickered. Someone had opened a door that Baptiste now heard close. He saw a small group making its way toward the box where he sat with Theresa. Paul’s towering form appeared at the back of the balcony, flanked by JeanFrançois Hennesy. Between them was Maura.
Baptiste stood as Paul made the introductions. Maura extended her hand to Theresa with a demure smile. Her face caught the candlelight, giving her skin a radiance despite the theater’s gloom. When their eyes met, he felt a tenderness fill his heart in a way he had never known. He was captivated by her. Paul said his name and he understood that he was expected to respond. He blushed to the roots of his hair, hoping that the darkness would hide his embarrassment.
“Surely you remember Monsieur Hennesy and his daughter,” Paul prompted.
“Yes, of course I do,” he managed to say as he shook hands. “We met at Prince Franz’s in Paris.”
“Our guests arrived an hour ago with Uncle Franz,” Paul said. “I am giving them a quick look around.”
Theresa turned to Maura. “You must be very tired.”
“A little,” Maura replied. “We arrived in Stuttgart only yesterday.”
Theresa rose. “I suspect you would like some time to freshen up after your journey, before being obliged to be social. Come with me and we shall find a quiet place where you won’t be bothered until supper.” She put her arm around Maura’s waist and said, “Gentlemen, you will excuse us, I am sure,” and they left.
Baptiste’s delight at seeing Maura gave way to confusion and doubt. He had not thought about the particulars of these two women meeting.
“Your uncle and I have been up to our usual no good,” Mr. Hennesy told Paul. “We must talk about our plans after supper tonight.” Beneath Hennesy’s bluff demeanor Baptiste caught a glimpse of a calculating mind that could be all business in an instant. He was reminded of Captain Clark.
They were to stay at Ludwigsburg for two days before continuing to Italy and eventually to Palermo. Baptiste had heard Prince Franz tell Paul that the shipment would continue to Greece, “if it was safe to do so,” but beyond his general understanding that they were talking about guns as well as wine, he appreciated neither the politics of the matter nor the importance of the outcome.
He saw Maura alone the next morning. At dinner the night before, Theresa had proposed that the three of them take a walk in the forest, but at the last moment she sent word that she could not free herself. Maura and Baptiste set off without her. They would join her for lunch. It felt bold to be walking in the woods with Maura; it had become a private ritual for him and Theresa. The day was cold and clear.
Once the palace was out of sight, Baptiste put his arm around Maura and she leaned her shoulder against his. “Maura, I cannot believe you are here beside me!” he exclaimed.
She returned his smile. “Oh, Baptiste, it is like a dream to me, too. How long it has been since February.”
“I wish you could be here longer,” he said eagerly, but she shook her head.
“Just the two nights,” she said with regret.
They talked then, describing their lives since they had last seen each other. Baptiste’s travels with Paul had become less frequent, he told her, and he described the frustration of waiting for Paul to settle down so that they could work together seriously. “Since he has no home of his own, he has unpacked only a few of his things from the tribes,” he explained. “The search has begun for a wife who can solve that.”
Maura, too, talked of frustration; her attempts to study medicine were fruitless. “I observe autopsies when I can, and I have assisted a remarkable midwife several times, but the doors of the university remain closed. I traveled with my father over the summer, and I was glad to leave Paris this time, too.”
“Paul says you may be going to Greece,” Baptiste ventured.
“Yes, we may. This whole trip was very sudden. It depends on what news awaits us when we arrive in Palermo.”
“Why Greece? Aren’t the Greeks and the Turks fighting a war now?”
Maura turned to Baptiste, her cheeks crimson in the autumn air, her blue eyes fixed with concern. “Would it surprise you if I told you that there was more
to my father’s business than wine?”
“No,” he said. “Where I come from, the river traders deal in furs, but guns and whiskey are almost always part of the bargain, though that side of things is usually kept quiet.”
“In our case,” she said evenly, “you can take away the furs and substitute wine for whiskey. But guns, as you put it, are part of the bargain.”
“Isn’t it dangerous for you?”
“My father is a very prudent man, Baptiste, with excellent contacts wherever he does business. He is received everywhere and is an extraordinary negotiator whose friends do not forget a favor. And a woman’s presence can often ease tensions while an understanding is arrived at.” She turned then and took his arm as they continued walking.
“It is more than the loyalty that I owe to my father, though,” she told him, “and certainly more than the business. These trips are the only time I am truly alive. Perhaps it is because of the company I’ve kept, but I find it hard to take seriously the endless concern with respectability. To be de bonne famille is everything in this little world.” She sighed, then added, “Smugglers have their own sense of what is proper, their own kind of intelligence. You learn the meaning of real trust.”
Smugglers. The word surprised him, and then it fit in with the other pieces of the puzzle. He was grateful for her trust.
“What does your mother do while you and your father travel?” He thought of the women at home, left behind when their men went off hunting and trapping.
“She is with Mary now, making yet another pilgrimage. It is terrible of me to say, but much as I care for her, I cannot abide her growing devotion to the Church as she gets older.”
The mention of her mother had left Maura looking troubled. He extended his hand to her face, passing his fingers lightly across her eyes until the anxiety vanished. He drew her near, and they kissed passionately as she ran her hands through his hair. He felt her tears against his face before she drew back.
“If only you knew how often I have thought of you since you were last in Paris,” she said softly.
Baptiste held both her hands in his. “And I see your eyes, and hear your voice, and feel your touch when I read your letters,” he told her. Only the breeze stirring the branches overhead accented the long silence that followed.
“Come with me when I go,” Baptiste said impulsively, but with determination in his voice.
She saw in his eyes that he was serious. A wave of warmth passed across her face. She could scarcely breathe.
“There is nothing in this world I should like more, Baptiste,” she whispered, raising her hand to his chest. Her eyes glistened.
“Then we will talk about it again,” he told her, and she nodded her assent. “I’ll have plenty of time to convince you.” He took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the last of her tears. In that moment, Baptiste wanted to be with Maura more than anything he had ever wanted. The power of the feeling frightened him, but he accepted it with unhesitating sureness. He felt older, changed, ready to shape the life that lay ahead.
Maura and her father were to leave the next day. When Baptiste came down in the morning to say farewell, he saw the two of them out on the terrace, and watched them through the full-length windows. Her father went back inside to see about their luggage, and Maura and Baptiste had a few minutes on their own.
“I want to hold you and kiss you,” she told him as they leaned side by side against the balustrade, looking out to the gardens, “but I cannot. You must remember my embraces from yesterday. Will you do that?”
“I will,” Baptiste said. “And I will write when you have returned to Paris.”
Maura put her hand to her breast, where the eagle talon hung. Baptiste nodded in understanding. As Suber approached to tell them the carriage was ready, she covered Baptiste’s hand on the railing with her own, leaned on it for an instant, and turned to go.
Maura’s absence affected Baptiste deeply. He turned over in his mind the idea of her going with him to America. His words had not been empty, and he did not regret them. Maura could never be just a dutiful wife whose main purpose was responding to her husband’s needs. She wanted to do something for herself; they had that instinct in common. Baptiste did not find this unusual. Sacagawea, he knew, had organized his father’s fur trades. In this, too, Maura differed appreciably from the people in Paul’s world. It made her even more attractive to him.
Baptiste and Theresa arranged to be together the night after the others had left, and their lovemaking had a new edge, as if each were hungry for something only the other could provide. Late that night they sat talking before the fire in Theresa’s salon. Baptiste wanted to tell Theresa about his closeness to Maura, but he was unsure how to begin.
“Paul told me about your adventure with the cuckoo clocks,” she said with a mischievous tone. “Surely you aimed at the clock.”
Baptiste shrugged.
“What Paul doubtless did not tell you,” Theresa continued, “was that when all the cousins played that game as children, Wilhelm could not hit the tree, much less the cuckoo. He is the worst shot you can imagine, and Paul the best. I don’t think Wilhelm has ever forgiven him for that.”
She rose with her glass in hand to pour herself more brandy. “Your Mademoiselle Hennesy is delightful.”
Baptiste’s discomfort showed on his face and, mute with confusion, he looked darkly at Theresa. “Your” Mademoiselle Hennesy, she said. Has she guessed? Did she and Maura talk?
She took her time filling her glass and returned to her chair. “There’s no point in glowering at me,” she said.
“No, of course not,” Baptiste stammered. “Maura . . .” He paused, then corrected himself. “Mademoiselle Hennesy and I have grown very close.”
“Such things are normal,” Theresa said without rancor, waving her arm before her in a wide arc, as if she were calming troubled waters. “Let us both acknowledge what should be obvious: she cannot be your lover, and I cannot be your wife.”
“I am in love with her,” Baptiste said suddenly, as if he were discovering it for himself.
“I am glad to hear it,” Theresa said. Then, pouring him more brandy, she continued. “In the spirit of friendship, it may be as well for me to remind you of an essential rule in this part of the world.” She clasped her hands and leaned forward in her chair, fixing him with a look of concern. “The two greatest calamities that can befall an unmarried young woman are to become pregnant and, almost as unfortunate, to be discovered in a compromising situation with a man. So always be aware, Baptiste, that no matter how great her passion, no matter how pressing her desire, a single woman must always stifle her feelings unless she is certain of a speedy marriage.”
He said, “Maybe Maura and I will marry one day.”
“Maybe you will,” Theresa said, “but not in Europe.”
THIRTY-THREE
OCTOBER 17, 1825
PALACE OF LUDWIGSBURG
Dear Captain Clark,
It has been quite a while since you have heard from me, but I have scarcely sat still these last six months and more. I thought by this spring we were going to settle down in Württemberg. But for many reasons—family problems, court politics, no place to organize all the things he collected from the tribes—Duke Paul decided to keep traveling, with stopovers at his brother’s castle in Silesia. If you look at a map of Europe, you’ll find a town called Carlsruhe due south from the shore of the Baltic Sea, not far from the Oder River. It is a very long way from here.
We have traveled all over the map of Europe—to Saint Petersburg, Stockholm, Amsterdam, even south to Italy. On every trip we pass through Paris. Duke Paul’s uncle puts us up in grand style whenever we like, so it feels like home. Paris is familiar to me now—I never thought I would be saying that!—and France is a place I am always glad to get back to. The people have a way of talking things over that makes you think, and they pay attention when you speak to them. They can argue all night, so you have to be ready to
stand up for what you believe for hours at a time. But the food and wine are very fine; every meal is like a celebration, a combination of serious discussion and entertainment. Duke Paul thinks the temperament of the French is a result of the Revolution, Napoleon, and all the wars and upheavals they have lived through. He says visitors, especially from America, become the center of attention until the French figure out what makes them tick. Duke Paul has similar ideas for what makes the Russians or the Swedes or anyone else the way they are.
You might be interested to know that, ten years after he was beaten, and four since he died in exile, Napoleon is still a presence wherever you go in Europe. It is peculiar to hear Duke Paul’s uncle talk about his love for the emperor among friends who served under him. They have a bond with their great leader that I can understand, but when they talk about “la nation” and “la patrie” and the importance of carrying it beyond their borders, I don’t follow. Sometimes they seem to be waiting for another Napoleon. No one here seems to like the current king.
When we first arrived I had trouble making myself understood. My accent stood out. I used a lot of words I learned from the voyageurs on the river, but they were unfamiliar here. But I am fluent now. Every court in Europe speaks French, all the discussions of the learned societies are conducted in French, and all the rich and educated people in every country speak it at home. I fit in a lot better than I did at first. My German is decent, too, though not nearly as good as my French. In fact, I hardly ever speak English. It even feels strange to be writing it.
Queen Charlotte, the widow of the former king (Duke Paul’s uncle) and stepmother of King Wilhelm (Paul’s cousin), lives in a wing of the palace here at Ludwigsburg. When she found out an American was visiting, she invited me to tea so that she could speak English. She is a nice old lady, but sickly. When I introduced myself she asked why I had a French surname. I told her that my father is a French trapper on the Missouri, born near Montréal.