Most of the train was deserted. She passed only two people in the corridor, both of whom reeked of spirits and looked like they were headed to bed. The library was empty save for the librarian on duty. He wore a plain suit, not any sort of official train uniform, and looked barely awake, scarcely paying her any mind as he read some German magazine. But Rosalind was in no mood for conversation, either. She went to the English language shelves and selected a volume of Dickens. That would be the thing.
“May I take this to my compartment?” she asked the librarian.
He glanced up at her and didn’t even try to smile. His eyes were puffy. He stifled a yawn. “You will have to sign for it,” he said, pointing to a ledger on his desk. “Only I’m out of ink. I’ll have to fetch more.”
Rosalind exhaled slowly, annoyed by his attitude. She was half tempted to tell him that she was Alexander Wallace’s daughter. She suspected that he wouldn’t treat her so dismissively if he knew that, or if she were older, or a man. But it was hardly worth arguing with the staff over such a small slight.
“I’ll read it here, thank you,” she said.
“Very good, Miss.” He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair.
What sort of people was Father employing? Rosalind sincerely hoped that the daytime librarian had a better command of his manners. And his wardrobe. Perhaps they had put this fellow on at night assuming that no one would come looking for a book . . . As she stared at his suit, she realized that its drabness was familiar. Hadn’t he been the man with Inspector Bauer in the dining car? But no, that was a silly thought. Why would a librarian be chasing after the chief of security? Maybe nondescript dress was preferred, or even mandated, for those who weren’t porters or conductors or waitstaff.
Shaking her head to herself, Rosalind settled into one of the armchairs to read a few chapters of Little Dorrit. But she couldn’t concentrate, and the words swam before her on the pages. She wasn’t drowsy in the least.
Presently she felt that she was being watched. At first she scarcely noticed, chalking it up to fantasy or exhaustion. But the prickling feeling wouldn’t go away. Soon she became quite certain that she and the librarian weren’t alone.
She glanced up from her book. The librarian was at his desk, reading his magazine and ignoring her. Otherwise the room was deserted. She pushed herself out of the chair and marched for the exit, pulled the door sideways, and stepped out into the corridor. But the corridor was empty as well.
“Hmph,” Rosalind said aloud. At long last, she was feeling tired again. She hurried back to her room, and only when she arrived did she realize she still held the book in her hands.
I ought to return it, she thought. Before there’s trouble.
Then again, she could bring it back the following morning. She doubted the librarian would notice. And besides, if he did, she could claim that she was just making sure he was doing his job, on orders from her father. That would teach him not to be so rude and dismissive.
Chapter Seven
The next morning, Rosalind awoke late. She couldn’t even remember what time she had finally gone to sleep. Her bleary eyes fell on the Dickens on her nightstand. Indeed, without the arrival of Doris, Cecily’s maid, she may well have slept right through until lunchtime.
“Sorry to bother you, Miss,” Doris kept apologizing, vainly trying to mask her Cockney accent. “But I’m here at Lady de Vere’s request.”
With Doris’s help, Rosalind rose, washed, and dressed. Not that she required any assistance, but Cecily had apparently demanded that Doris do so, and it seemed to make the girl happy, or at least less uncomfortable. However hard Mother had tried to instill proper values in her, Rosalind simply could not understand having someone else put on her clothes for her. That was her greatest vice, in Mother’s eyes: self-reliance. Of course, it was extremely difficult putting on a corset by oneself, but that only made figuring out a better option all the more appealing.
Poor Doris was appropriately horrified to see Rosalind’s choice of undergarments—notably the soft cotton bodice, firm in structure but without even a hint of boning. She gaped for a few moments before remembering her place and snapping her mouth shut.
Rosalind almost laughed. “Don’t tell me you’ve never seen an emancipation waist before, Doris.”
“Course, Miss,” Doris replied with a nervous glance toward the door, as if she was afraid they might be overheard.
“I suspect it’s rather like what you wear,” Rosalind added as she put on her blouse.
That would be the real cause of Doris’s distress: the violation of class differences. It was all so silly, really.
Doris nodded quickly. “Yes, Miss. Right you are, Miss.” She hesitated and took a step toward Rosalind, reaching out with one hand. “Miss, are you certain you’d not prefer me to—”
“I . . . would . . . not,” Rosalind interrupted, punctuating each word with the fastening of a button. She studied herself in the mirror for a moment. “You see, the marvelous thing about the emancipation waist is that one can put it on all by oneself, without needing help. But of course, you already know that.”
“Yes, Miss,” Doris said sheepishly, as if she’d entered some grand conspiracy and was about to get into trouble for it.
Rosalind then selected a narrow purple necktie from her illicit supply. She suspected that Cecily would have words with her on the matter, but this was precisely the look she wanted for the day. After all, the jacket she had selected—purple and white with narrow stripes—was cut with the collar open, so it would be simply absurd not to wear something around the neck.
“Doris,” she said, catching a glimpse of the girl’s troubled expression in the mirror. “You needn’t worry so. No one is going to know that I dressed myself. I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.”
“Yes, Miss,” Doris said, bowing her head.
“I expect you’re wondering if I have a maid of my own.”
“Yes, I . . .” Doris glanced up and stopped herself. Looking down again, she said, “Not my place to wonder, Miss.”
Rosalind sighed, but kept cheerful. One day, women would dress themselves. One day, these class distinctions would be set on fire. Had her father not made his own fortune, he might very well be a manservant. There was dignity in service; he’d said so himself. It was one of the few points she and her father agreed upon, despite the hypocritical airs he now affected. Doris was simply doing a job, like a tradesman or a doctor. But it was just another reminder of what had irked her most during her stay in England: that she could not speak candidly to maids without fear of being “too familiar.”
“Well, I do have a maid,” she said. “Her name is Lucy and she is simply splendid. The two of you are going to get on wonderfully.”
Lucy had been with the family for the better part of five years, beginning as a housemaid. Later, she’d become Rosalind’s attendant more or less at Rosalind’s insistence, as Lucy shared a rebellious streak that she kept carefully hidden. They had a simple arrangement: when it came time to dress Rosalind—barring any circumstance in which she actually required assistance—Lucy would read magazines and chat about the servants’ hall gossip. Rosalind dreaded to think what would become of Lucy if she ever sought employment elsewhere.
“I ’spect so, Miss,” Doris said, smiling a little.
“Now then.” Rosalind pulled on her jacket and fussed over her skirt to be sure everything was properly in place. “Hats . . . hats . . . hats . . . So many to choose from.”
Doris, clearly relieved to be of help, rushed to fetch the hatboxes. She glanced back, confused.
“There’s only three, Miss,” she said.
Rosalind grinned. “Like I said, so many hats to choose from. I sometimes think I ought to reduce the number to one and simply change the feathers from time to time. Or! Or I could wear a bicycle suit . . . No, that’s a terrible idea.”
Doris blinked a few times and giggled. She clamped a hand over her mouth. “Pardon, Miss. As you say, Miss.”
Rosalind grinned at Doris, determined to reassure the girl. But before she could say anything, she heard a bell chime softly. She looked in the direction of the noise and saw a new cylinder sitting in the tray of the pneumatic post machine.
“Just a moment,” she told Doris as she hurried to retrieve the message.
“Course, Miss.”
Rosalind opened the cylinder and read the note inside. It was from Cecily, of course—who else would be sending her letters? It was an invitation to tea and possibly sandwiches in the Red Parlor at her earliest convenience.
“Doris,” she said, “as you can see, I have everything well in hand. Why don’t you go along and tell Cecily that I’ll meet her in the Red Parlor in, shall we say, an hour? I have a book that needs returning to the library.”
“Yes, Miss,” Doris said with a nod. She backed toward the door. “And will that be all, Miss?”
“Yes, absolutely,” Rosalind answered. “Thank you, Doris; you’ve been such a help. And remember . . .” She placed her fingertip to her lips. “I won’t tell if you don’t tell.”
Doris flashed a hesitant smile. “Yes, Miss,” she said. She hurried out of the room as if she couldn’t depart fast enough. Back to the dreary, formal servitude she at least knew and understood.
Rosalind turned back to the mirror and tested the look of her hat. No doubt this choice would bother Cecily, just as her behavior with Doris would have. But Cecily would never know about that, would she?
•••
An hour later, Rosalind found Cecily and Alix waiting for her in the Red Parlor, seated beside one of the long windows. They stared curiously at the water rushing past them. She was glad they had picked this spot. Everything in the compartment was done in crimson or burgundy, all of it accented with gold. It was a nice contrast to the blues found elsewhere in the train.
Cecily rose from her chair.
“Good morning, Rose.” After a perfunctory hug, she stepped back. “I trust you slept well. You look lovely. Doris has done a marvelous job with you . . .” Her eyes suddenly widened. “Good Lord, you’re wearing a tie.”
“Good morning to you, too,” Rosalind replied good-naturedly, leaning in again to kiss her friend on the cheek.
Cecily sank back into the velvety cushions. “Rose, why must you insist on dressing like a man? I thought I had broken you of that habit in London.”
“I am not dressing like a man,” Rosalind said, though she’d predicted Cecily would say precisely that. “I am wearing a skirt.”
“Lots of men wear skirts,” Cecily said matter-of-factly.
“Those are called kilts, Cecily,” Rose replied, sighing.
“Don’t you dare turn Scottish on me, Rosalind,” Cecily protested. “I won’t have it.”
Alix cleared her throat softly and leaned forward. “I think it looks very charming on you, Rose,” she said. “And it goes with your hat.”
“Thank you, Alix,” Rosalind replied, holding her chin up. She grinned at Cecily and motioned to Alix. “See?”
Cecily pouted and crossed her arms. “You’re all conspiring against me,” she declared. “First Alix puts peacock feathers in her hat. Then Rose wears a necktie. What next?”
Rosalind shot a quick glance at Alix. The girl did indeed have peacock feathers in her hat, and her entire ensemble was similarly a luxuriant mixture of blue and green. Even her hatpins were shaped like little peacock feathers.
“I think you look lovely, Alix,” she said, and she meant it. “Besides, I thought you liked peacock feathers, Cecily.”
“I do,” Cecily said. “I was going to wear my peacock feather hat today. I was forced to change everything when she called on me for breakfast.”
“Yes,” Rosalind said dully. “It would be foolish to think that two people on the same train could wear feathers at the same time.”
Cecily turned to Alix and raised her hands. “You see? Rose understands. Alix said I was being silly.”
Rosalind exchanged a look with Alix, who was trying very hard to avoid laughing. Cecily seemed not to notice, distracted as she was with the great pleasure of being indignant.
“Did you have a pleasant night, Alix?” Rosalind asked, for fear she might laugh, too, if she didn’t engage in conversation.
“Oh, yes, very pleasant,” Alix said. “I listened to the gramophone for a little while and I dropped off to sleep almost immediately. And you?”
“I read a book and I enjoyed it so much that I stole it from the library,” Rosalind answered.
Cecily clapped her hands. “How utterly wicked of you. It almost makes up for the necktie. Almost.”
“Oh, hush,” Rosalind told her, but her tone was soft. “Now then, what is on the itinerary for today?”
Alix began thumbing through her brochure. “Goodness, I was not aware they had included an itinerary,” she said, sounding a little embarrassed.
“She doesn’t mean it literally, silly,” Cecily said with a playful swat at her friend. She looked at Rosalind. “Well, I have just ordered some tea and sandwiches—”
“Brandenburg,” Alix interrupted, her face buried in the brochure.
“Pardon?” Cecily asked, annoyed.
“Today we stop at Brandenburg for lunch,” Alix explained, reading. “And we are there for the afternoon . . . and for dinner . . . Oh! And then we have a ball.” She smiled and shoved the brochure back into her handbag. “This will be a fun day, I think.”
“A ball?” Cecily’s eyes glittered. “I do so enjoy a good ball.” She blinked a few times. “I wonder where they’ll put the dance floor. I don’t think there will be room for everyone.”
“I believe the ball will be off the train, when we stop at Brandenburg,” Rosalind explained, as patiently as she could.
“Now that makes no sense at all,” Cecily said. Her gaze wandered back to the window. “Brandenburg’s in Germany—even I know that. And we’ve already left Germany.”
“No, Brandenburg Station,” Rosalind corrected. “We stop at three stations in the Atlantic along the way. Brandenburg’s the first, then Neptune, and finally Columbia.” She paused and frowned. “I already told you all of this, Cecily. Honestly, you don’t pay attention to anything, do you?”
“Very rarely,” Cecily said, sounding rather proud about it.
“Especially when it comes to matters of railway transportation,” Alix said.
Rosalind smirked. “They obviously can’t keep us cooped up in a train for seven days without giving us some time to get out and stretch our legs, now can they?”
“I suppose not,” Cecily replied. “Well, in that case, when we arrive we simply must go for a walk. Oh, and we must decide what we’re all going to wear to the ball. And Rosalind, you must allow me to help you with this decision. I am quite afraid of what you’ll wear if I don’t.”
•••
Over tea and sandwiches, Rosalind found herself drifting further and further away from the conversation. Talk of fashion turned to snide, hushed observations on the ladies sitting about the parlor, their poor choices of dresses and jewels. Before long, Alix and Cecily were whispering to each other about a duchess she’d never heard of and the ghastly thing she had decided to wear to some ball or other in London, or Paris, or Vienna.
She’d expected as much from Cecily, but she’d rather hoped Alix would be different, given the love of books and curiosity about machinery she’d hinted at yesterday. But as the train neared Brandenburg Station, it became increasingly clear that Alix was exactly like so many of the aristocrats and debutantes Rosalind had met that spring in London. She had felt out of place there, too, of course, but at least Cecily and Charles had taken great efforts to include her in whatever they were doing. And being an exotic America
n heiress had at least kept her in the social orbit of Cecily’s class. But now, in more private company, she suddenly felt forgotten.
That was the trouble with being “exotic”; in the end, you would never truly belong. In Old Money’s eyes, it was bad enough having a self-made father—having a respectable mother did only so much to ameliorate that—and Rosalind simply couldn’t bring herself to put on the necessary charade to convince her aristocratic companions that she was “one of them.” She didn’t belong. Mother certainly didn’t drive motorcars or ask to attend rallies with Aunt Mildred. Apparently proper girls weren’t at all interested in getting the vote. Cecily and Alix were living proof.
As she stared absently at the fish swimming about outside the window, Rosalind suddenly noticed a peculiar shape lurking in the distance. It was dimly lit and barely visible, but it was definitely there. She squinted, struggling to make sense of it. Was it a whale? It was long, almost cylindrical, sharp at the front, and possessed of several peculiar protrusions. Most astonishingly, it kept pace with them. Surely no animal could do that.
She leaned forward a little.
“Rose?” Cecily said.
Rosalind almost jumped, having been ignored for so long. “Hmm, yes?” She turned away from the window with a smile. Best not to let them think that she had been sulking or anything.
“What are you looking at?” Cecily asked.
“Oh, there was something . . .” Rosalind glanced back out the window. But the shape, whatever it had been, was gone. “A whale, I think. Maybe.”
“A whale?” Alix said. “That is very exciting. I am surprised you can see anything at all out there. But you should be talking with us, not gawking at things outside, yes? We are much more fun.”
“Yes, much,” Cecily agreed, though with a pointed stare.
“Well, that’s true,” Rosalind said, trying very hard to mean it.
In a stroke of luck, the train began to slow at that very moment. It was barely noticeable at first, but Cecily and Alix could sense it, too. The two girls’ faces darted to the window. Evidently the engineer was doing his best to avoid unsettling the passengers with an abrupt stop.
The Transatlantic Conspiracy Page 7