European Travel for the Monstrous Gentlewoman

by Theodora Goss

  He looked around the coal cellar again. Why didn’t he see them? Catherine was baffled. Was he simply pretending not to see them? But no, he looked both so sincere and so completely broken that she might have felt sorry for him if he wasn’t such a lying, manipulative coward.

  MARY: You’re being harsh, Cat.

  CATHERINE: He deserved it. He left Archibald there, chained to the wall! I seriously doubt Seward would have remembered to send anyone. He could have died in that coal cellar.

  ALICE: If you could have seen poor Archibald there, Mary . . . Truly, it was a pitiable sight.

  Almost apologetically, Prendick turned. As he walked through the doorway, the Orangutan Man rose again and, with all his strength, threw the remaining half of the apple at Prendick’s departing back. She could hear it hit with a dull thump. Catherine heard his footsteps hurrying down the hall and up the stairs—he was almost running. And then once again she heard the distant thud of the front door.

  “You can open your eyes now,” she said to Alice.

  Alice opened her eyes and looked around. “He didn’t see us. Thank goodness he didn’t see us. I supposed he never thought to look in this dark corner.”

  “On the contrary. He looked right at us, twice. Just out of curiosity, what were you saying to yourself?”

  “Well,” said Alice, “at first I tried to recite the Lord’s Prayer, but I couldn’t remember anything past hallowed be thy name, so I just kept repeating we’re not here, we’re not here, there’s nothing here. It was all I could think of. I’m so sorry, miss. I’m not brave, like you and the others. What is it, miss? You’re looking at me so strangely.”

  We’re not here, there’s nothing here . . . Was it possible? But there was no time to explore that possibility now. “Come on, we need to get the Orangutan Man out of here before they decide to bring him an orange or something!” The mystery of Alice would have to wait until later.

  She approached the Orangutan Man again, only to be met with the same screeching as before.

  “Let me try,” said Alice. “I’m a monkey, like him, or so Beatrice says—we’re all monkeys, according to Mr. Darwin. Except you of course, but Mr. Darwin doesn’t know about you, does he?”

  Catherine nodded. She didn’t know if it would work, but Alice might as well try.

  Slowly, Alice approached the Orangutan Man. “Hush, hush,” she said. “I won’t hurt you.” She held out her hand.

  Suddenly, the Orangutan Man took it in his awkward digits. He held up his other hand. “Five man,” he said, in a croaking voice that sounded as though he had not used it in days. “I am five man.”

  “Me too,” said Alice, also holding up her other hand. “I am also a five man—or woman. Will you let my friend unlock that?” She pointed to his ankle. “I know she doesn’t smell very good, but you can trust her.”

  “I am a five man,” Catherine echoed, holding up her hands. How quickly it came back to her, the vernacular of the island! “Look, I was made.” She pulled up one sleeve so he could see the scars—or she hoped he could, in the dim light. “I was made, like you. But now we are all men here, together. Men do not eat each other. You were taught this?”

  “Yes, I was taught, by Master with the whip,” said the Orangutan Man, nodding emphatically. He extended his ankle.

  Did he mean Prendick? Catherine rather doubted it. The Master with the whip was more likely to have been Adam. Even on the island, Prendick had been a reluctant, ineffectual overlord.

  It was the work of a moment to pick the large, clumsy lock. Once Catherine had removed the shackle, the Orangutan Man stood unsteadily, then fell—then stood again.

  “Can you walk?” asked Catherine.

  “Hold my hand,” said Alice. “I’ll help you.” And that is how they walked out of the house on Potter’s Lane, with the Orangutan Man holding Alice’s hand and wearing the jacket she had taken off to cover his too-human nakedness.

  Thank goodness it was starting to get dark! Hopefully it would make them less noticeable. They would have to walk all the way home. They could scarcely take a half-naked Beast Man on a London omnibus. As they made their way through the streets of Soho, Catherine wondered what in the world they were going to do with him.

  CATHERINE: Honestly, I was afraid Mrs. Poole was going to have a fit when we brought him home!

  MRS. POOLE: As though I ever have fits! And Archibald was such a good footman, even better than Joseph. Once, he climbed all the way up to the roof to replace the chimney pots. And he never once broke anything, which is more than I can say for Joseph, or even Enid! Who, by the way, are having their first child. If it’s a girl, they’re going to name her after me! Little Honoria. Isn’t that nice, now? We’ll have to go visit, Mary.

  MARY: What do you think I should get them? A teething ring is traditional, I think.

  MRS. POOLE: Ah, I still remember when you were teething. You never cried, not even then. The best baby, you were! At the time, I thought I’d just gotten lucky. Of course, now we know why. . . .

  MARY: Cat, you’re not going to include that in the book, are you? I mean, it’s irrelevant what I was like as a baby. Also, embarrassing.

  CATHERINE: We’ll see.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Joining the Circus

  The first thing Mrs. Poole did with him, when they finally reached 11 Park Terrace, was put the Orangutan Man into a bath. “He smells something awful,” she said. “And he needs to wear proper clothes. I think there’s an old pair of Dr. Jekyll’s pajamas around somewhere. They’ll be far too big for him, but he can at least wear the shirt.”

  About an hour later, they were all seated together in the parlor: Catherine in her nightgown, cross-legged on the sofa; Mrs. Poole in one armchair and Beatrice in the other; Alice sitting on the floor, combing the Orangutan Man, who was properly attired in Dr. Jekyll’s pajama top. Now that he had been bathed, he did not look much like a man—more like a boy with silky orange hair and large, soulful eyes. He reminded Catherine of Sasha, the Dog Boy. The two kittens, Alpha and Omega, were circling around as though trying to decide what to make of him.

  “Mrs. Poole,” said Catherine, “is there any more pig? I mean ham?” She looked at the remains of the supper Mrs. Poole had brought up—a platter of cold meats with pease pudding and a blancmange. Only Alice had eaten the pudding. Pumas, Catherine had reminded everyone, did not eat such things as peas, although she rather liked the blancmange, which was mostly milk. Beatrice was still sipping one of her usual concoctions. The Orangutan Man had refused everything he had been offered, until Beatrice had looked orangutans up in the Encyclopaedia Britannica kept in Dr. Jekyll’s study.

  “Orangutans eat fruit,” she had reported. “It says here that ‘jackfruit or durian, the tough spiny hide of which is torn open with their strong fingers, forms the chief food of orangutans, which also consume the luscious mangustin and other fruits.’ ”

  “What in heaven’s name are durians or those other thing you said?” asked Mrs. Poole. “I don’t know as I have fresh fruit—it’s rough on the digestion, unless well cooked. But wait, I do have some pears I was going to make into a compote. I’ll see if he likes those. Anyway, a compote is wasted on the likes of you! All I make, all day long, is meat or weeds. If I didn’t have myself and Alice to cook for, I’d forget how to do it altogether!”

  “It also says ‘they construct platforms of boughs in the trees, which are sleeping places, and apparently occupied several nights in succession.’ Did you know they come from Borneo and Sumatra? Orangutan means ‘man of the woods.’ ”

  “Well, I hope he’ll do no such thing here, but sleep in a bed, like a decent Englishman,” said Mrs. Poole.

  The Orangutan Man liked the pears very much. He also liked Beatrice a little too much, saying “Pretty, pretty,” as she walked by and reaching out to feel the hem of her gown. “You must not touch me,” she said, kneeling down to where he was sitting on the carpet. “I am poisonous, do you understand?” Evidently,
he did not, for he reached out again to touch her, with a look of wonder on his face.

  “Great, even the monkey man is in love with you,” said Catherine. “What now?”

  “An orangutan is an ape, not a monkey,” said Beatrice. Then she turned to the Orangutan Man and said, “Forgive me.” She reached out to touch his hand and placed her palm on his—quickly, he drew his back and cradled it, as though he had been stung. “Do you understand now?” she said.

  “Yes,” said the Orangutan Man. “Yes, you are hurting me. Pretty hurting.” He still looked at her with admiration, but did not attempt to touch her again.

  “We need to give him a name,” said Mrs. Poole. “We can’t keep calling him the Orangutan Man. It’s too long.”

  “What about Silky?” said Alice. “Because he has such silky hair.”

  “What about Lucky?” said Catherine. “Because he’s lucky he survived the warehouse fire—I think he’s the only one.”

  “Why don’t you ask him?” said Beatrice. “I’m certain he can speak for himself.” She turned to the Orangutan Man. “What is your name?”

  He put his hand on his chest and said, “I am Archibald.” Then he made a clumsy bow. Catherine had an impulse to laugh and ask if she could call him Archie, but he looked so dignified that she was sure he would be offended.

  Solemnly, Beatrice curtsied back. “Archibald, I’m very pleased to meet you. Was that the name you were given when you were with Lord Avebury?”

  Archibald nodded and looked happier than Catherine had ever seen him, although that was not saying much, considering the conditions she had found him in. They had probably not been much better at Lord Averbury’s, where he would likely have been locked in a cage, but she was not surprised that he would have gone back there, or remembered his former self with longing. In her dreams, she too was sometimes still the puma she had once been.

  DIANA: How many times are you going to mention that you were a puma?

  CATHERINE: Why, does it bother you, monkey girl?

  DIANA: You can’t insult me by calling me a monkey. Alice said she was a monkey girl too, and so is Mary. Even Mrs. Poole is a monkey, according to Mr. Darwin! Anyway, our readers are going to get tired of you always talking about yourself.

  MRS. POOLE: I am most certainly not a monkey! What a wicked, heathenish idea.

  CATHERINE: We are not getting into an argument about evolutionary theory here, thank you very much!

  After Mrs. Poole brought up their supper, which they ate informally in the parlor, Catherine explained the events of the day, with interpolations from Alice and exclamations from Mrs. Poole. Only Beatrice did not comment. Then they sat in companionable silence, Catherine picking at a final slice of ham Mrs. Poole had found for her. She slipped a bit of the ham to Omega, who was scrawnier than his sister, and drank the tea Mrs. Poole had poured out. There was nothing like a pot of tea, Mrs. Poole said, after a long day of breaking into houses and spying on people.

  “Catherine,” said Beatrice. She was still nursing her own mug of green goop. “I think you know what I’m going to say.”

  “I think I know what you’re going to say too,” said Catherine. “I have a plan.” Would it work? She was not sure.

  Mrs. Poole stared at them both in turn. “What in the world are you two on about?” She shook her head. “Here’s what I don’t understand. First, who is this Raymond character, and why is he important? And then—”

  “Dr. Raymond used to be the chairman of the Alchemical Society in England,” said Catherine. “I suppose all the countries have their own chapters? I don’t know, of course—I’m just guessing from what Seward said. What I don’t understand is, who’s Hennessey, and why was he writing to Raymond?”

  “Don’t you remember?” said Beatrice. “He was the assistant director of the asylum, until he resigned. Mary told us that.”

  “How am I supposed to remember something Mary told us three months ago?” It was exasperating. Catherine felt as though she had been given the pieces of a puzzle and asked to put it together, but some of the pieces were missing, some might belong to another puzzle. . . . “So this Hennessey gets the wind up about something, some experiments Seward and Van Helsing are conducting on Van Helsing’s daughter, meaning Lucinda. And he writes to Raymond, who contacts Seward. I know, it’s like one of those memory games, where you have to recite it all back correctly at the end! The important thing is, whatever they’re doing to Lucinda, they think it will give them power—they’ll be immortal, invincible.”

  “I’ve never heard such nonsense,” said Mrs. Poole. She poured herself another cup of tea.

  “It’s not nonsense,” said Beatrice. “Look at me, Mrs. Poole. Look at Catherine or Justine. If we are possible, I’m certain they can create something that will give them the power they crave. Catherine, you mentioned some sort of serum? Perhaps they have discovered a substance that will prolong human life and enhance the healing process. That has been a dream of the Société des Alchimistes, or a certain faction of it, since Victor Frankenstein introduced the idea of biological transmutation. And knowledge is so easily perverted into a means of obtaining power. My father was not a good man. His virtues were not positive ones, except perhaps for his love of me, and you see how that has affected my life—I am a monster, harming and killing those I love. But he was not a bad one either. He did not crave power over others. He believed that his research would eventually help humanity as a whole evolve to a higher level. These men—they are a new generation. They wish to keep any scientific advancements they make to themselves. It is no wonder that the current president has forbidden their experiments.”

  “Do you know who the president is?” asked Catherine. “They kept saying she in the most peculiar way. Could the president be a woman?”

  Beatrice shook her head. “That I do not know. My father did not discuss the politics of the Société in front of me, except when he was cursing its conservatism—and even then he said little about its inner workings. He told me I would know all when I became a member. The Société has had women members—in that way, it has been perhaps more progressive than other scientific societies. My father hoped I would be one of them. I suppose it could have a woman president—at least, theoretically.”

  “Well, it seems as though we don’t know much!” said Mrs. Poole, sounding both worried and frustrated. “Except that Mary and the girls will be in more danger than we expected. They’re supposed to be at that meeting in Budapest—I take it that’s the meeting Miss Murray sent her telegram about. They’re planning to take Lucinda Van Helsing there, and from what you tell me, there’s going to be some sort of confrontation if Seward and the rest don’t get their way.”

  “Bloodbath,” said Alice, helpfully. “That’s the word he used.”

  “Thank you,” said Catherine. “I was hoping to avoid mentioning that to Mrs. Poole, actually.”

  MRS. POOLE: How you could keep that from me, I just don’t know!

  CATHERINE: I would have told you, if Alice hadn’t blurted it out—but without using that word. I was trying to keep you from going into a panic about Mary.

  MRS. POOLE: I did not go into a panic!

  ALICE: You kind of did, actually, Mrs. Poole.

  “We have to telegraph at once!” said Mrs. Poole, rising from the armchair and almost spilling tea down her apron. “Oh, my dear Mary, what sort of danger have you gone into? These wicked, wicked men! If your father were here I would give him such a talking-to about his wretched society! There must be a telegraph office open, even at this time of night. Mr. Holmes would know! I must go talk to Mr. Holmes.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” said Catherine. “The bloodbath—I mean, conference of the society—isn’t scheduled until September twentieth at the earliest. Do sit down, Mrs. Poole. Yes, of course we have to do something, but we don’t actually know where Mary is, do we? We know she arrived in Vienna, but she may already have left, if Lucinda Van Helsing is no longer there. Seward gave no indicat
ion of where they’re keeping her—just that she’s transforming, whatever that means. And Mrs. Norton said not to reply to her telegram unless absolutely necessary. I think Beatrice was about to suggest what I was—Beatrice, what were you going to say?”

  Beatrice took a final sip of her noxious decoction. “Mrs. Poole, Catherine and I need to go to Budapest. Now that Catherine has discovered Dr. Seward’s plan, there’s no longer any reason for her to stay in London, and if Mary, Justine, and Diana are in danger, I belong with them as well. There are drawbacks to both of our . . . conditions, shall we say. But we are both powerful. We can both fight. I think we showed in the warehouse that the five of us are stronger together than apart.”

  “What about your plants?” asked Catherine.

  “I suppose I’ll have to cultivate new ones, assuming I return—as I intend to!” said Beatrice. “It will be sad to lose them, but this is more important.”

  “And what about me?” asked Alice. She looked half afraid of being asked to go, and half afraid of being left behind.

  “Yes, what about you?” said Catherine. “You’re not poisonous, and you don’t have sharp teeth—also, I don’t think Mrs. Poole would want you to go on such a dangerous adventure.”

  “Certainly not!” said Mrs. Poole. “You girls going is one thing—I worry about you, I worry terribly, but you’ve shown that you can take care of yourselves. Alice is only thirteen, and she doesn’t have your, well, whatever you have. You know. As for sending a telegram—”

  “Our monstrous qualities?” said Catherine. “No, don’t protest—I know what you mean, Mrs. Poole. Although . . . something happened in the coal cellar. Alice, do what you were doing then, when Prendick didn’t see us.”

  Alice looked puzzled. “You mean praying?”

  “I mean closing your eyes and saying we weren’t there. Do that again.”

  “Right now?” asked Alice.

  “Yes. I want to see what happens.”

  Reluctantly, Alice closed her eyes. Catherine could see her lips moving.