The Memorist

Chapter 13

Vienna, Austria

September 22^nd, 1814

As the music began, Major Archer Wells, resplendent in his crisp blue uniform with his rows of gold medals and insignia, extended his hand to Margaux and she allowed him to escort her onto the overcrowded dance floor. Waltzing was the last thing on her mind but Caspar would be disappointed if she sat at home and worried. You can do this, she could hear him say in his deep voice that always seemed to reach out and embrace her. You can do anything.

Looking around the ballroom it seemed as if all of Europe was in Vienna for the Congress and that most of them were at this gala affair being given by Austria’s foreign minister, Prince Klemens Lothar Wenzel von Metternich. Reapportioning Europe after Napoleon’s devastating wars was hard work but it was also an excuse for Vienna’s hosts and hostesses to show off to the sixteen thousand dignitaries and delegates who’d taken up residence in the city, bringing not just their wives, mistresses and servants but their own spies as well. Surely with so many people here, she could find a way to raise the money she needed to put together a search party to find and save her husband. There had to be a way. Her heart had been frozen until yesterday, and now there was hope. She was finally living again because of that hope.

“I’m pleased to see your mourning period is over,” the British officer said as he expertly led her in a dance.

Tonight, for the first time in nine months, Margaux Neidermier wore her emerald-green ball gown. Yesterday’s news had caused her to fold up the black frocks and put them away.

“You’ve been misinformed, Major. I’m not a widow.”

“Forgive me but even in England we followed your husband’s explorations. We all heard about his tragic death in the Himalayas.”

Margaux hesitated, wondering if there was any reason to keep her news a secret. “That was what I also believed but just yesterday I received correspondence that’s convinced me Caspar is very much alive and being nursed back to health by a group of monks in the mountains. I’m determined to raise funds to send a search party to bring him home. That’s why I’m here tonight.”

“How wonderful. Congratulations, Madame. While you’re working so hard you will need some distraction. Let me seduce you.”

“I’m afraid I’m old-fashioned about faithfulness.”

“Faithfulness is no more valuable a currency these days than the coins Napoleon had minted.”

Despite herself she smiled; there was no denying Archer was charming but for Margaux, a liaison was out of the question. He was right; taking a lover was no more serious a diversion than a game of whist and of course she was free to do what she wished. She always had been. Caspar had taught her about free will: a woman’s not a possession. His ideas were revolutionary, a word that was tarnished in these post-war days. When they’d traveled across the continent after their wedding, during the worst of the Wars, he’d insisted that for safety’s sake she dress as a young man in his employ and then had been delighted when the freedom exhilarated her. Margaux was in the unfortunate position of being very much in love with her husband. That’s why it didn’t matter that the British major held her too close as they waltzed. If with each one, two, three, one, two, three, memories of what it was like to be a woman in a man’s arms returned, it was only because she was imagining her husband’s hand on her back.

Caspar, hold on, I’m coming.

She had to close her eyes lest the major see them filling up with tears.

“If you won’t let me seduce you, then perhaps you’ll allow me to help you raise the funds you need. If what I’ve heard is correct, there may be something that belongs to you that would be of value to some friends of mine. It’s rumored that while in India your husband found an ancient flute, is that true?”

“Meer?”

Whose name was that? Whose voice?

“Meer?”

She looked around in the shimmering air and found the face. A different face, a different time. The metallic taste dissipated. She wasn’t as cold anymore. But the sadness…the sadness was unbearable.

“Meer?”

Meer knew what had just happened to her: she’d experienced a detailed but false memory her mind had manufactured to cope with the stress of her father’s disappearance. It was similar to the way the unconscious translates actual incidents into symbols and far-fetched actions in dreams. Except if that was all it was, how could the grief and passion some unknown woman felt be lodged so deeply in Meer’s own heart?