Disclaimer: The characters of Charlotte Olafsson/Malcolm, Carl-Magnus Malcolm and Marta Olafsson do not belong to me. They are from the musical “A Little Night Music” by Stephen Sondheim (music/lyrics) and Hugh Wheeler (book). The musical is in turn based on the Ingmar Bergman film “Smiles of a Summer Night,” which is where these characters first appeared. I did come up with the characters of Lieutenant Brandin, Alrik Malcolm, Rikard Olafsson and Antonetta Olafsson. This work is written purely for enjoyment and not for any monetary gain whatsoever.

Chapter Two: The Tiger

[She is so strong and independent. No one can master her—not even Carl-Magnus. That’s why he’s obsessed with her.” – Charlotte, “Smiles of a Summer Night”

“Carl-Magnus? Carl-Magnus, we’re ready to go!” The voice of Lieutenant Brandin rang through the regiment’s tent barracks. Many of the officer’s tents stood empty, their occupants having already joined a rowdy procession on its way out of the camp. It was the tradition of the officers to begin their leave with a trip to a nearby pub, and the men were chomping at the bit to go. Brandin grinned good-naturedly as he was nearly jostled off his feet in the mass exodus. “Well, if you get left behind, don’t complain about it to me!” he hollered to his absent friend. “Count or no, they’re not going to wait for long!”

He found his fellow officer inside his tent, trimming his moustache in the reflection of a small hanging mirror. Brandin’s smile widened. Battle plans for the greatest wars in history could not have been studied with more intensity than Carl-Magnus Malcolm paid his own reflection. He trimmed with exacting precision, stopping often to get a magnified view through the monocle that hung around his neck. The monocle was a new fancy of his, though no one knew why. The Count Carl-Magnus was only twenty-four years old, and the accessory seemed appropriate for a much older man. Even so, no one dared question him about the fashion. Few people, in fact, dared question him about much of anything.

Brandin received only a cursory nod of greeting as he entered the tent. Immediately he spotted the regimental jacket laid over a nearby chair, complete with full regalia. This was a bit much for the local tavern, even for Carl-Magnus.

“You must have other plans,” he noted. “Sash and medals—not exactly pub attire.”

Carl-Magnus didn’t turn his eyes from the mirror as he answered.

“That’s right, I haven’t told you.” The past weeks had been spent in exhausting training with their separate companies, and he and Brandin had hardly had time to stand about exchanging pleasantries. “I’ve been invited to stay the week with a friend of my father’s—a Mr. Rikard Olafsson, to be exact. I’m expected tonight. Obligations, you know.” He moved to put on his jacket, swirling it over his shoulders in inimitable dramatic fashion.

“Obligations?” Brandin laughed. “Since when is being under the same roof with beautiful women an obligation?”

“What do you mean?” asked Carl-Magnus with a tinge of annoyance. His eyes were firmly fixed to the mirror again as he began to apply a stiff brush to his coat. “I’ve just told you, I’m staying with--”

“With Rikard Olafsson, I know. You obviously haven’t heard of his daughters.” Brandin shook his head in amused disbelief. “Obligations. Any man in the regiment would be so obliged!”

There was a sudden harsh expletive, followed by the crash of the hand brush as it hit a nearby crate of supplies. Brandin started slightly, taken aback. Of all the reactions he could have imagined from his friend, this wasnot one of them! He’d expected a pleased smile, an expression of piqued interest. Now, as he watched, Carl-Magnus began to pace furiously—a tiger in too small a cage.

“What the devil’s gotten into you?” he questioned, brow creased.

Carl-Magnus shot a brief glance over his shoulder at the other man. Brandin was obviously confused by his reaction. And why shouldn’t he be? Though a gentleman soldier like himself, Brandin was not of titled stock—and he was only a second son, at that. He couldn’t possibly understand the pressure both title and succession brought to bear. Carl-Magnus was not only the first son of Count Alrik Malcolm, but also the only son. The only heir, in fact. He understood the pressure all too well, and it grew heavier by the day. Brandin had no idea how fortunate he was. What good was a title and inheritance, after all, when your family constantly sought to shackle you in irons? For that was how Carl-Magnus viewed the institution of marriage, and marriage—no doubt—was what his father had in mind with this upcoming stay.

“They planned this!” he fumed. “My father and this Olafsson fellow!”

“Planned what?”

“A week in a country house with marriageable daughters?” Carl-Magnus pronounced the adjective as if it were the most contemptible insult he could conjure. He halted his pacing, glaring at the floor. “I never thought he would sink to this.”

“I see. And there’s no chance it could be an… unhappy coincidence?”

“None.” Carl-Magnus knew there was no such chance. His father was behind this, and he should have seen it coming. He’d walked right into a snare that had been neatly laid out for him, without so much as a whiff of suspicion! Still, he refused to berate himself for the oversight in judgment. What reason had he to suspect his own flesh and blood of such underhanded trickery? Was it not right and natural to expect honesty from one’s own family? Carl-Magnus himself would never behave in such a deplorable manner. He scarcely knew which made him more angry—the sense of betrayal, or the fact that his leave would now be occupied in evading yet another of his father’s “prospects.”

It was the means that had taken him off guard, not the end objective. Indeed, his father and uncle, in particular, had been introducing him to “suitable marriage prospects” for years. There had been innumerable receptions, dinner parties, balls… inane, endless, interchangeable. Interchangeable—just like the girls they paraded before him.

It was a never-ending battle between them, but not the sort of battle that Carl-Magnus enjoyed. There was constant talk of duty and responsibility, of inheritance and bloodlines. The crux of the matter—that he must marry and begin siring heirs. To hear his father and uncle speak of it, marriage would be entirely to his advantage. He need not give up his current lifestyle, they said. He could still carry out his duties as a dragoon, still keep his mistresses just as he liked. Noble women, they explained, were quite amenable to the practice, so long as it was reasonably kept from the public eye, and so long as excessive funds weren’t squandered on the other woman. And the benefits of a wife—why, the list reached the skies! While she would naturally require a portion of his time and energy, she would repay it by running a comfortable and efficient household for him. She would entertain and build vital social connections. She would produce sons to carry on the proud family name.

Their praises of the marriage institution did little to convince Carl-Magnus. He was willing to concede that an heir was a necessity, but there were plenty of years ahead to fulfill the obligation. Could he not get a woman with child just as easily twenty years from now as he could at present? As of yet he had no interest in a household of his own, either. He was rarely home as it was, and the staff at any one of his family’s estates had always seen to his comfort perfectly well. When it was necessary for him to hold regimental dinners, his mother stepped in as hostess. Why, then, would he want to saddle himself with a wife?

None of these perfectly rational arguments had ever deterred his family’s efforts. It was the duty of a nobleman, they said, to make an advantageous union. Carl-Magnus wondered what “advantage” his father wished to gain from an alliance with the Olafssons. From what he had been told, Rikard Olafsson was a man of great wealth, high social standing and considerable property—but he was not titled. His father and uncle had always selected their prospects from other noble families. What had changed? The Olafssons, however wealthy, could offer nothing that the Malcolms did not already have in abundance. It was true that the nobility was not what it once was, especially in terms of political privileges. Did his father seek to bolster the family’s fortune and social connections, should more restrictions follow? It was a possibility. It was also a possibility that they’d finally run out of noblewomen. Despite his ire, a self-satisfied smirk crossed Carl-Magnus’s face.

“I don’t know what you’re in such a lather about,” Brandin broke in. “A week won’t kill you. And when your father finds out that you didn’t propose marriage to one of the Misses Olafsson according to plan, what can he do to you? There’s no one else to inherit. Anyway, you might be surprised. I’ve met with the Misses Olafsson on a few occasions, and they’re… charming.” He gave a reminiscent smile.

Carl-Magnus shot him a withering look. “I have no intention of marrying. Not until I’m too old to avoid it.”

“That’s unfortunate news for Miss Svensson, then. They say she’s still holding out hope. No plans to make an honest woman of her, eh?”

The question was meant lightly, but Carl-Magnus met it with great condescension. “Of course not. The type of woman a man keeps as his mistress and the type he marries are two entirely different things.”

“And what is this type of woman you’re holding out for?”

Carl-Magnus, not for the first time, found himself seriously pondering that question. It was not the type his father and uncle thrust at him, that was absolutely certain. Young, pleasant girls—age aside, one could hardly call them women. Many had their physical charms, to be sure, and many more were obviously taken with him. Carl-Magnus couldn’t name a man who didn’t enjoy being swooned over by some pretty young thing, and he was no exception.

Unlike many men, however, his enjoyment of such had its limits. In the first place, it wasn’t physical beauty that drew him the most. More often than not, he chose middle-aged women— women that some would call a bit faded—when he could have the freshest, most beautiful young women with a snap of his fingers. Desirability was what counted. These girls could swoon all they liked, but they had no inkling of what a real man was, or how one should behave. They expected a parlour-dandy, a man with soft hands and soft manners, to play with like a tame puppy. They were utterly ignorant and unaware besides—two traits that he most decidedly did not find desirable. All the physical charms in the world could not overcome this—not for long, anyway. Quite simply, most of them bored him to death.

There had been times when he’d been tempted to help a likelier prospect banish ignorance. Those times were rare, for the price was too high. There were too many unpleasant complications—forced marriage, for one. Though he liked to believe no one could force him into anything, he knew full well that, should they put their full effort into it, two angry families could make his life extremely unpleasant. Not that the marriage itself would be much better. This type of girl, in his experience, had an unattractive way of becoming possessive and clinging, prone to fits of histrionics when a man’s interests turned elsewhere. They were simpering girls who insisted on men making promises that were not in their nature to keep, then fell to pieces when the promises were quite rightly set by. The idea of marrying such a girl—insupportable! No dalliance, however briefly enjoyable, was worth that kind of life sentence.

Of course, he reasoned, he was probably spoiled by his mistresses. Now there—there were women! They were exactly the opposite—earthy, sensible, worldly. Desirable. They were women who knew the score, women who were not inclined to weep and cling. Courtesans, actresses, dancers, an heiress with a scandalous past… delicious… and hardly society’s idea of what a countess should be. In truth-- not his idea either. His mistresses, to a woman, were seasoned and experienced—fine traits indeed in a mistress, but not at all suitable in a wife. When it came to a wife and mother for his children, he didn’t want to plant seed in a field that had already been tilled time and time again. What man did?

No, a wife—a wife was something different entirely. She should be untouched, though he admitted to himself that that was hardly a fair requirement. Carl-Magnus prided himself on his modern sensibilities, which told him that it was as natural for an attractive young woman to enjoy herself as it was for a man. He told himself this—but his feelings revolted. Untouched, yes. There were practical considerations as well. She must have the right social connections, and have sufficient charm to build more. She must be able to manage a large household. She must be young and strong enough to birth an heir, plus one or two more.

Therein lay the problem. Why did the type of woman he wanted and the type of woman he must marry have to be at such odds with each other? Was there not some way to blend the traits? The youth and innocence of a dutiful wife, with the ginger and spark of a favorite mistress? Granted, there was no reason why he could not have both. His father and uncle made no secret of keeping mistresses, and Carl-Magnus knew he could do the same. Why not marry some pretty heiress to get his family off his back, enjoy her while he was home, and then go out again before she grew tiresome?

Could it be—no surely not—that he was waiting to see if she possibly existed—that ideal woman who was a combination of everything he desired and everything a proper countess ought to be? No—preposterous! He was not given to such starry-eyed romantic rubbish. Still, if married he must be, it would be exceedingly more… pleasant… if she were a woman he could truly want to come home to. A woman whose conversation he could enjoy and not merely suffer. Perhaps even a woman who could—in her own feminine way of course—share some of his interests and passions. Was it possible? His own parents were coolly pleasant for the hour a day they spent in each other’s company. His uncle and aunt were not much different, nor were dozens of noble couples he could name. Polite, shallow marriages, so… civil. They couldn’t possibly be happy together.

But then again—what did marriage have to do with happiness?

Carl-Magnus shook his head in defiance. One day he’d have to submit to the yoke, but that day was not today. He intended to be unyoked and unfettered for as long as he could make it last. Now there was the week ahead-- the latest attempt to clamp him in irons, and a hurdle he fully intended to clear. Thankfully, he had an advantage his father probably hadn’t anticipated. Brandin. During the course of his military training, Carl-Magnus had learned the vital importance of sizing up the opposition beforehand. His fellow officer was the key.

“Brandin, the type of woman I would or would not marry is irrelevant,” he said dismissively, changing tack. “I want you to tell me what you know about these daughters of Olafsson’s. You said you know them?”

Brandin’s mouth quirked. “So I’m the spy in the enemy camp now?” Carl-Magnus gave a curt nod. “Well, for a start, there’s three of them. But I don’t think you’ll have much to fear from the youngest. She’s only… oh, nine or ten.”

Carl-Magnus was not in the mood for jesting. “And the other two?”

“Completely marriageable, I’m afraid,” replied Brandin, who was nearly always in the mood for a jest. “If you count Charlotte as marriageable. Poor Olafsson—I imagine he’s just about given up hope. Antonetta, now, there’s an entirely different story. Very pretty and very agreeable.”

Those were two descriptions that Carl-Magnus had heard attached to nearly every one of his father’s prospects. He sighed in frustration. “Is she the oldest?”

“No, Charlotte is. The oldest of the family—there aren’t any sons.”

“Charlotte,” Carl-Magnus repeated. “What’s wrong with her? She must be absolutely hideous if no one’s overlooked her face to get her fortune.”

“Not at all. Not a ravishing beauty, but attractive. She might be a bit thin for your taste…” Brandin trailed off, reading his friend’s expression. Carl-Magnus looked deadly serious, and he sobered a bit. “But that’s not what scares off her suitors. It’s her sharp tongue. They say she ‘cuts men to ribbons and uses them to trim her hat.’”

“Very poetic, Brandin. Where did you come across that drivel?”

“Common talk.”

Carl-Magnus’s mouth tipped. “Not from personal experience?”

Brandin shifted in his chair. “Well, it was just once,” he admitted. “Every man has to have at least one go. It’s almost become a sport. At the last reception, there were bets going-- just to last five minutes without being put into place.”

Carl-Magnus met Brandin’s eye, new interest showing in his face. “Really.”

“It’s true.”

“You tried to play your hand and lost?”

“You could say that.”

“Was it just for the bet?”

“No.”

“No?” Carl-Magnus raised an eyebrow.

“Wait until you meet her, friend. I don’t know what it is, but she has…something.”

Carl-Magnus had come across women like this Charlotte Olafsson before, who prided themselves in cutting down men with their wit. He’d known why. They were so unattractive that they couldn’t get a decent man, and so lashed out as if they didn’t want one. Utter rubbish, all of it, though he supposed he understood. Poor things. But this one… Brandin had said she wasn’t unpleasant to the eye, and he trusted his friend’s taste. If she put off men, it must be for some other reason. Perhaps she’d been jilted by a former lover, and had sworn never to have another. Perhaps she simply hadn’t been courted properly. Some women took a strong hand. Like his.

Intriguing.

Even as Brandin watched, the scowl faded from his friend’s countenance, replaced by a sort of invigorated glow. He’d seen that expression before.

“I know what you’re thinking, and you won’t have any luck.”

This only added fuel to the fire. A rakish smile curved across the Count’s face.

“She’s a man-hater, I’m telling you.”

“Even better,” said Carl-Magnus slowly. He could all but hear a bugle call in the distance, and he felt his blood stir. A woman no man could court, let alone touch—what a challenge, there for the taking! All thoughts of his father’s deception were thrown aside in its wake. Charlotte Olafsson might well be a man-hater when he arrived, and she might still be a man-hater when he left. It wouldn’t matter, and he didn’t care.

Without another word to Brandin, Carl-Magnus burst from the tent, bellowing for his horse as he went.

Before the week was out, he swore, Charlotte Olafsson would be at his mercy.