The Stockholm Octavo

by Karen Engelmann

  She smiled warmly. “I thank you, Sekretaire, for your dear words. You are an unusual gentleman for the Town, which is beautiful but . . . a long way from the life I knew.” She shrugged again and closed the group of autumn fans. “I sincerely thank you for your kindness,” she said, looking straight into my eyes. “It is a happiness for me, and helps me to believe that I may one day find myself at home.”

  I stood and bowed clumsily, my satchel dropping from my lap, and then I took her hand. “I am at your service, Mrs. Nordén, and can begin to show my sincerity by purchasing a fan. It will give happiness to both of us and to the recipient, of course.” This seemed at once the height of folly and the noblest act I could perform. I rationalized this profligacy with the knowledge that I would soon be heading into a roomful of eager young ladies, and the gift of a French fan would open one of them nicely.

  “How could we forget your lady friend?” Margot said, seeming flustered by my gallantry. “These autumn beauties on the table are quite dark, as is the fashion, but a lighter personality might better suit her. Perhaps something with blue. I have a feeling your lady is fair.”

  “Indeed, she has extraordinary . . . blue eyes,” I said looking into Margot’s blue eyes. “Perhaps you can choose one for me; I think that would guarantee my success.”

  “I wish you all success, Mr. . . . I apologize I have forgotten.”

  “Larsson.” I said. “Emil.”

  “Emil. A lovely name,” she said, then chose a fan with carved sandalwood sticks that gave off a mysterious perfume. The face of the white silk blade was covered with butterflies, in shades of off-white and tints of blue. In the center was one large specimen in pale yellow. The reverse was a painting of a single blue butterfly, about to flutter off the top edge of the fan. “These are the colors of your country. And the image is one of change and transformation. I am sure that your friend will find her most inspiring.”

  I nodded my approval, a mere formality at this point. Margot pulled a midnight blue box from the bottom drawer of the cabinet. She slid the Butterfly carefully inside, day into night, and placed the fan box on the desk. The lid was graced with a single tiny seed of crystal, Polaris, shining above a receding bank of cumulus clouds. It seemed they wished to leave their French troubles behind and embrace the North Star completely.

  Margot sat and wrote the price on a slip of paper and handed it to me, a number I could never have imagined and will never reveal. Realizing I hadn’t a fraction of this sum in my pockets, I paused for a moment to collect my thoughts and allow the blood beating through my ears to quiet. It took all of my card-playing skills to hold my face, and thankfully the clock at Jakob’s Church was chiming the hour. “Is it two o’clock already? Oh, Mrs. Nordén, I am embarrassed to say I have forgotten the time altogether and was to meet a colleague for an exchange of documents. I will return in a quarter of an hour, half at most. Will you excuse me, please?” I saw the look of barely disguised dismay; she took me for a bolter, and any other time she would be correct. “You need not take her from the box,” I said gently.

  She blushed and looked away. “You are quick to read a face, Monsieur. Business has been slow, and the clientele we hoped for have not appeared. Those that do come are not inclined to want the artistry that we produce. The fans are costly, true, but it is not only that. We are not . . . connected. Perhaps we are too French.”

  I shook my head in disagreement. “One cannot be too French in King Gustav’s Stockholm. You will see.” I stood and took on my cloak, being careful not to rush, and in this moment of calm remembered why I had come. “I confess I am here with more than one errand, and while I’m pleased with this exquisite fan and the message it will send to my intended, I was in fact directed to deliver this.” I pulled the letter, addressed simply to M. Nordén, and placed it on the desk beside my new purchase.

  Margot looked at me curiously and fingered the letter but did not pick it up. “Monsieur Nordén will be back later today.”

  “I hope he is here on my return. I would be honored to meet such an artist,” I said, bowing and exiting. I stopped two shops away to take in several deep breaths of cold air; the intimate atmosphere of the shop had befuddled me somehow. The sun was making a brave attempt to shine, and then through the glare I thought I saw the Grey girl from The Pig. She was standing twenty paces away, and it seemed as though she was watching me. If indeed it was the serving girl, she was much improved, filled out with better rations, her hair done in a fashionable style. Her clothing, while not extravagant, was a far cry from her original miserable costume. I raised one hand in greeting and the other to shade my eyes and catch a better glimpse, but she turned quickly away and climbed into a waiting carriage that bore a baronial crest. “Small keys open large doors indeed!” I called after her, wondering what she had opened to claim such a fine seat.

  IT WAS JUST A FEW BLOCKS up Government Street to the offices of a banker I knew. He was sympathetic to my situation and wrote out a promissory note for the total, calling it Aphrodite’s Folly and the Ransom of Venus. It was a day for women, that much is certain, for when I returned to Cook’s Alley, two lively ladies outside the Nordén shop arrested my attention. They were mother and daughter, dressed in colors a bit too loud, the fabric a touch too shiny, their voices a pitch too sharp to be visiting such a refined establishment. Still, they were two beauties, the mother faded and the daughter in full bloom if perhaps just a day beyond—my favorite sort of flower. I hurried toward them, planning to gallantly open the door. “I have just had the pleasure of doing business here,” I said, feeling the pull of the lovely daughter. She was studying me with some interest, and I swear that her lips parted, as if she meant to greet me, but then the mother interfered, her lips smacking with excitement as she spoke.

  “Is the young Mr. Nordén in today?” she asked.

  “Not until later, but Mrs. Nordén is available and a charming proprietress,” I offered. They did not look at all pleased with this news and hovered several steps from the entrance, consulting together in whispers. Just as they were about to turn and go, they spotted a handsome fellow strolling toward the shop from Garden Street. An excited whooshing sound came from the ladies as they adjusted their shawls and skirts, pulled out their fans, and began to create a veritable cyclone.

  “Here is Mr. Nordén now,” the older one spoke reverently. “And is he not the very image of a cavalier?” I had to admit he was the portrait of fashion, striding purposefully up the block in his chestnut brown cape and tall black boots. He bowed and removed his hat, revealing not a wig or coiffeur, but a fine head of dark brown hair worn down around his shoulders in the new, revolutionary style. This made my head, curled and full of powder, feel as though it were topped with a dead animal, and I vowed to speak to my hairdresser about updating my appearance as much as possible for a government sekretaire.

  “Mr. Nordén, I so admire the work of your establishment. I have just done some business with Mrs. Nordén and am here to complete the transaction.” I offered my hand, but the older of the ladies plowed her way between us before he could reply.

  “So honored to meet you, sir. I am Mrs. Plomgren. And my daughter, Miss Anna Maria Plomgren. We are here from the Opera atelier to inquire about the purchase of several fans.” Nordén made an elaborate show of kissing their hands and remarking on their colorful attire. Clearly, new business took precedence over money already made. Nordén offered his arm, and Mother Plomgren gave her daughter a little shove so she would take it. I felt a pang of jealousy, but this was quickly replaced by confidence: I had the Octavo, and the connections forming between The Uzanne and this confluence of ladies gave me the upper hand. “Mr. Nordén, I have left a letter for you,” I called out, more to catch Anna Maria’s attention. She paused and looked at me before she was escorted inside; her eyes were blue as well! I heard impatient huffing and turned to see Mother Plomgren waiting for me to take her arm, but just as I did, the door of the shop swung open and Margot stepped outside, packag
e in hand.

  “Sekretaire!” she called. “Your anticipation has flustered you, or the lovely ladies have posed a temptation.” I turned a little too quickly and released Mother Plomgren, who nearly tumbled to the pavement. Margot handed me a dark blue box and wagged her finger at me in jest. “Your lady friend would have been sorely disappointed. But then, perhaps I am anxious to excess. A Customs’ official like you would never miss the real prize.”

  I blushed and bowed and thanked her, apologizing for my stupidity, and put the fan box into my satchel, handing Margot the banknote. She pushed it discreetly into her bodice and turned to Mother Plomgren, addressing her in French. Mother Plomgren, caught off guard, pushed her lips together in dismay and shook her head. “You will find the shop enchanting,” I said to Mother Plomgren. “And Mrs. Nordén’s Swedish is excellent, but you might help her better learn the accent of the Town. I heard you mention the Opera, which no doubt means you are adept at elocution.” I bowed and then watched as Margot led Mother Plomgren, her pride intact, inside to purchase fans.

  It was now nearly three o’clock. I had missed the meeting with the Superior, and my colleagues were sure to be at coffee, so I made my way across the bridge, past a raucous crowd outside the palace entrance, and turned on West Long Street to the Black Cat, wondering what excuse I might make.

  One of three sekretaires present was moaning about the expensive habits of his wife, who insisted on staying current with fashion. “At least,” he offered, “until she begins to bloom.” He made a rounding motion over his own rather substantial belly, and everyone laughed. I told him that no matter the size of her belly, a lust for fashion might ruin him all the same. I did not admit the extent of my own extravagance but said I had made a visit to the Nordén shop, where the purchase of a single fan might rob him of a month’s salary. All of them expressed disdain for such French indulgence, but I mentioned that a fan shop was a place to meet fine ladies. This opened a discussion of the Nordéns and it was revealed that two Mr. Nordéns kept it. I set my cup down so fast that it spilled. The older brother was the artist. The younger was a dandy and the handsome salesman that the ladies flocked to meet. Perhaps, if they were brothers and partners in this enterprise, it would not matter who received Mrs. Sparrow’s letter. I had to trust in Margot’s judgment and would notify Mrs. Sparrow that her errand was complete.

  “The Nordén brothers make an excellent team,” Sekretaire Sandell said, “and probably a fine team with the pretty wife, a real Françoise.” There was loud hooting from the group; I blushed furiously. “What is this, Mr. Larsson, that we have caused you to resemble a rose hip? I thought that you had seen and heard the most of it, including the holy trinity.”

  I began to cough and signaled that a bit of pastry had gone down the wrong pipe, but this only increased the general teasing. I began to feel as though there were something caught in my throat, but it was not a piece of cake. “Mrs. Nordén is not a woman to be insulted. You are a crude group,” I said angrily, and stood to return to the office. They laughed me all the way to the door and down the street, but I walked like a captain of the Royal Guard to the office on Blackman Street. That I felt the need to defend Margot was absurd, but there was something pleasurable in it—even honorable. Mrs. Sparrow’s words came to mind: there would be an attraction of some kind, a magnetism that would indicate the presence of the eight. But I rubbed my face with my hands to erase the idea; I needed a wife not a mistress, and what would I do with a papist, however charming?

  Back at Customs, I sat at my desk to catch up with the morning’s neglected paperwork, but before I could settle in, the Superior appeared. He did not speak but his brow raised the question. I opened my satchel and pulled out the box from Nordén’s. “I have bought an engagement gift. I am nearly ruined by it,” I said. He nodded his approval and said he was happy to be spared the trouble of finding a replacement for me, adding that he looked forward to the announcement of banns in the Stockholm Post, as soon as possible. I sat fingering the box for some minutes after he left, wondering how I might find my way to Anna Maria, when I noticed it was larger and deeper than I remembered. Inside, nestled in a midnight velvet lining, was the Butterfly, a blue satin ribbon trailing from the silver ring at the rivet. Margot had added that festive touch—happiness, beauty, and romance. But Margot’s words came back to me: A Customs’ official like you would never miss the real prize. If I had not been privy to the ways of smugglers, I might not have thought to slip a letter opener from Sandell’s desk between the lining and the box. Beneath the Butterfly in her cocoon were Cassiopeia and a slip of paper with two lines in Mrs. Sparrow’s crabby hand:

  Keep her well hidden.

  I will tell you when to send her on her way.

  Chapter Twenty

  A Triangulation in the Fan Shop

  Sources: Various, including: M. Nordén, L. Nordén, Mrs. S., workers from the Fan Shop, Father Johan D••, RC

  THE DAYS WERE NOW TOO SHORT and oil lamps too costly to keep working much past six o’clock, so only Margot remained in the back of the shop. The ceiling was hung with wood half-circle forms, the mallets and presses neat on the tables, the stove in the corner glowing red through the grated door. The warm room was a bonus for the workers; the materials could not be worked in the cold. Margot looked up from the walnut blade press she was polishing when she heard the workroom door open.

  “You may congratulate me,” Lars said, straightening the pleated linen shirt cuffs that peeked out from the bottom of his coat sleeves. “I have made three sales to the Royal Opera and an artistic challenge for my brother all in the same afternoon.”

  Margot’s brows creased in annoyance; every fold of the fan was crucial, and a grain of dirt or a spot of oil might ruin a lovely blade. But then the good news brightened her visage. “Three sales? To the Royal Opera?!”

  Lars perched on the painter’s stool. “We will see if my brother can live up to the praise I have given him. Three new fans. Identical. What do you think, Mrs. Nordén?”

  Margot’s smile evaporated. “Christian does not make duplicates. And we have a cabinet filled with fans that must be sold!”

  “Indeed. But the triplets will help us to do so, for they will advertise our existence all the louder. I think these will be the first of many groups. In fact, our future lies in numbers: to produce fans the way factories produce china.”

  Margot squeezed the cleaning cloth, releasing the scent of lemon oil. “No woman of style will wear a hat or a dress that is the duplicate of her neighbor. Why would she carry such a fan?”

  Lars toyed with a slender paintbrush that held four sable hairs. “Copies are much less costly to make and to buy. But the chief reasons?” He gestured to the tiny painted face of a lady on the fan blade. “Fashion and her sister Envy. They inspire spending.”

  “The Nordéns strive for artistry, not envy.”

  “The Nordéns should strive for profit.” Lars put down the paintbrush and swung around to face Margot. “I know the shop is struggling, but it needn’t be so. We must adapt to the times: fans more quickly made, cheaper materials, duplicates. There is a new century coming. Do you think you can stop the march of progress?”

  “I have witnessed what men call the march of progress, dear brother.” Margot returned to her polishing with fury. “It should be stopped.”

  Lars walked slowly around the room until he stood beside Margot. “A gentleman in a red cloak, a sekretaire, stopped me outside the shop, but I was occupied with the Plomgren ladies. He said he left a letter for Mr. Nordén.”

  “The letter was for my husband,” she said, adjusting the lamp.

  Lars pressed closer to her. “I am Mr. Nordén.”

  Margot stood as tall as she could. “Non. My husband is the master of the shop. And you would not care for the client who wrote the letter; she is an old woman of little means whose fan has been repaired.”

  “You read it? How dare you!”

  “Of course I have read it. Chris
tian and I, we are married. We have no secrets.” Lars caught her wrist, but her eyes remained calm. “If you think you can read this letter, voilà.” Margot took the letter from the pocket of her skirt. Lars slowly opened the small square sheet of paper covered in spindly black writing. He studied it carefully, holding it close to his face, then placed the letter onto the counter with studied nonchalance and headed toward the courtyard exit.

  “Pity you never applied yourself to learning French, monsieur,” she said quietly to the back of his green velvet coat. Margot rubbed her hands on a clean rag, smoothed the letter out on the table where the light from the lamp made a warm circle.

  M. Nordén—

  The carrier of this letter, M. Larsson, is a friend and associate of mine who is sympathetic to our cause. He is to be given the constellation fan that you have so skillfully altered. Please include the enclosed note with the fan. It is imperative that this affair and the whereabouts of this fan remain completely private. Your artistry, discretion, and knowledge will not go unrewarded. As a measure of my gratitude, I have enclosed double the agreed-upon fee.

  —With greetings, S

  Margot folded the letter into a palm-size square and tucked it back inside her pocket, where it sat like a glowing ember. She loved Christian; she could not blame him for the march of folly that had landed them in the Town. His life unfolded around fans, which had taken him to France in his teens to serve as apprentice to the great master, Tellier. Christian understood refinement down to the exact tightness of the jeweled rivet that held the sticks in play. He would reject a piece of vellum for an inconsistency no other hand could discern. He could paint a miniature that was the envy of even the royal fan masters. But he did not have the charm crucial to their business. When in female company you would think that Christian was meeting long-lost friends—the fans, not the ladies. He would make the acquaintance of the fan’s owner, and his delight would come gushing forth, unfortunately directed at the fan. He might stop a conversation to jot down a formula for glue he was working on. In the middle of a card game he would stand and excuse himself to go and wait at the pier for an incoming shipment of ivory sticks from China. If at a dance, he would find the most unusual fan and press for an introduction, regardless of the age or marital status of the owner.