“Right—Budapest!” said Mary. She was still so tired! How long had she slept? She looked at the clock on the mantel. The hands told her that it was 3:15—in the morning, presumably. Yes, of course in the morning, because it was still dark. She rubbed her eyes again. She had slept most of the day and half the night, but evidently it had not been enough. And she felt positively grimy. If only she could have changed into a nightgown! But no, she had simply lain down and fallen sleep in her clothes. Wait, hadn’t Greta said something about a bath?
“There is food in the salle à manger,” said Greta. “You should eat before you leave. Hermann says you will be traveling for three days, arriving on the third. Frau Schmidt has packed a hamper with sandwiches, but you will have to purchase your dinners at inns along the way, and I do not think you will get a good meal again before you reach Budapest.”
“Three days!” said Mary. The train would have gotten them there so much faster. But then she remembered the men in the alley. . . . Did she want to meet them again in the corridor of the Orient Express? She shuddered.
When Greta had left, Mary bathed quickly—oh, how she wished she had time to soak in the luxurious bathtub! With the unerring instinct of a good maid, Greta had put out Mary’s traveling suit. She dressed, folded the clothes she had slept in, and braided her hair, then pinned it up in a neat bun. She looked at herself in the mirror above the sink. Well, she still looked tired—but at least she was presentable.
When she entered the dining room, Diana and Justine were already there, finishing what looked like a substantial breakfast—potatoes, sausages, eggs, and a cucumber salad. Lucinda was sitting in front of an empty plate, eyes cast down. She was wearing one of Irene’s dresses—Mary could tell it was Irene’s from the richness of the fabric and the embroidery around the collar. Her hair had been pinned up, but strands still fell in ringlets around her face. She looked like the poor orphan in a novel by Mr. Dickens—pale and otherworldly.
When Mary saw the food set out in chafing dishes, she realized that she was ravenously hungry. She took a little of everything.
“I wish Beatrice were here to put something on that bruise,” she said to Diana.
“What bruise?” asked Diana, shoving scrambled eggs into her mouth.
“You haven’t washed your face, have you?” said Mary. “If you had, you might have noticed that half your face looks like Justine painted it.”
“Actually, it looks more like the work of Monsieur Monet,” said Justine, smiling. “He paints in those greens, blues, and purples, and there is something impressionistic about it. . . .”
Justine had made a joke! Had she ever made a joke before? Mary rather thought not.
JUSTINE: I make jokes! I make jokes more often than you realize.
DIANA: Yes, but you have to read all of Kant or Legel to understand them! That’s why we never laugh. We don’t even know you’re joking. It’s not a joke if no one gets it.
JUSTINE: Do you mean Hegel? Friedrich Hegel?
DIANA: Legel, Negel, Tegel. Who cares?
“I want to look at it!” said Diana. She sprang up and, because there was no mirror in the dining room, regarded herself in the silver lid of a chafing dish. “Awesome! It doesn’t hurt at all. I guess one of those bastards landed a punch, damn him.”
“I’ll give you some cold cream to put on it,” said Irene, entering the room. “Your luggage is packed and by the door. Hannah was able to retrieve the items you left at the inn near Krankenhaus. Those are packed as well. Mary, Greta brushed down the clothes you left in the bathroom and added them to your trunk.”
“Thank you,” said Mary. Greta seemed to think of everything.
“There’s also a hamper of food, although it won’t last you the entire trip. You’ll be leaving in half an hour—I want you far away from Vienna by dawn. Tomorrow night, and the night after that, you will spend at inns along the way. Some time on the third day, if all goes well and the roads are as good as Herr Ferenc says they are”—she pronounced it Feretz—“you should arrive in Budapest. Miklós Ferenc is the coachman—Hermann doesn’t know him personally, but a friend of his, who works in the stables at the Belvedere, recommended him, and Georg says he seems knowledgeable enough. He’s a Hungarian, and knows all the roads, the places to stop and hire fresh horses. . . . While you were asleep, I telegraphed Miss Murray and told her when to expect you. I also telegraphed Mrs. Poole so she wouldn’t worry.”
“That’s safe, right?” asked Mary. “They can’t intercept a telegram, can they?”
“Anything can be intercepted,” said Irene. “The telegraph, the mail . . . but I’ve taken every precaution. The first time I telegraphed Mrs. Poole, I sent it through the American Embassy—it was delivered by one of our attachés in London. I did the same thing again this time. That’s the safest route, I think. By the way, I talked to Sigmund—he says to tell you Godspeed, and that he hopes to see you again someday. The both of you. He said you were interesting—the word he used was unique—from a psychological perspective.”
“Is there time for seconds?” asked Diana. “I’m still hungry.”
“If you eat quickly,” said Irene. “Lucinda, are you sure you won’t have anything?”
Lucinda looked up at her with haunted eyes and shook her head.
Irene went over to her and put one hand on Lucinda’s shoulder. “I promise your mother will be buried in holy ground, with all the rites of her faith. Would you like to see her one more time, to say goodbye?”
Lucinda nodded.
“Come on, then. The coach will be here soon.” Irene held out her hand. Lucinda took it and followed her docilely out of the room.
“Well, she’s going to be a whole lot of fun on this trip,” said Diana.
“Don’t you have any compassion?” asked Mary. “She just lost her mother.”
“You think I don’t know that?” said Diana. “I lost my mum too, remember? So did you. So did Justine.”
“That is all the more reason for us to show her sympathy and kindness,” said Justine. She looked reproving—gentle, but reproving. Mary was not sure she had ever seen Justine look reproving before.
Diana glared at her, but did not respond. Instead, she shoved the rest of the potatoes she had taken into her mouth, then chewed with her mouth deliberately open, as though daring them to criticize her. Mary sighed. Three days in a coach traveling across the Austro-Hungarian countryside! It was going to be a long trip—and not just because of Lucinda Van Helsing.
In a few minutes, Greta appeared at the door. “The coach is here,” she said.
“Thank you,” said Mary. “And thank you for everything, Greta. I hope we’ll see you again soon.”
Greta grinned at them. “I hope so too. You would all make very good thieves and spies.”
“I think that is the nicest compliment you could have paid us,” said Justine, giving one of her rare smiles. “Auf Wiedersehen, Greta.”
Their trunk was waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs. There was also a hamper, with blankets and pillows piled on it. Mary checked to make sure they had everything else: Justine’s carriage bag, her waist bag. She patted it and felt the shape of her revolver. Who would have thought that Miss Mary Jekyll of 11 Park Terrace would find the feel of a revolver reassuring? And yet she did. She opened her waist bag and saw that her bullet pouch was back in it as well. It was once again full—the bullets she and Irene had fired in the alley, and then in the carriage, had been replaced. How very thoughtful of Hannah and Irene. Among their luggage was a leather traveling bag for Lucinda.
“Ready?” said Irene.
Mary nodded.
Irene opened the door. It was still dark, but the light of two street lamps shone into the courtyard. There, waiting for them, was a coach and pair of large, shaggy coach horses. Up on the box sat a coachman, holding the reins. Another man who was sitting beside him sprang down when they approached. He bowed and said “Guten Abend, meine Damen,” then lifted their trunk into the
rear boot. The hamper and Lucinda’s bag went into the coach, under the seats, and he piled the blankets and pillows on top. Irene spoke to him in German, handing over what seemed like a significant amount of money. He put it in a wallet, then opened the door of the coach and bowed again, saying, “Bitte.”
“Go on, get in,” said Mary to the others.
“Me first!” said Diana. Of course, she always had to be first!
“Mary,” said Irene, drawing her aside. “Try to see if you can get Lucinda to eat, or even drink something. I asked her why she wasn’t eating earlier, and she said something about ‘the bitter fruit of the forbidden tree’—I have no idea what she meant. But she needs to eat—they must have starved her in that place! There’s something else worrying me. As I told you, the coachman is named Miklós Ferenc. The younger man is his son Dénes. He doesn’t speak much German, and I suspect his father doesn’t speak German at all. They speak only Hungarian—a completely impossible language! You’ll have to do your best to communicate with them. I wish I could send you in my carriage, with Hermann driving you—but his wife is about to have their first child. I don’t think she would appreciate my sending her husband off to Budapest just now. And Georg, while a perfectly adequate footman, is not trained to drive a coach, or even a barouche! You’d probably die in an accident if he were driving. Take care of yourself, Mary. And the others, of course. It’s been a real pleasure getting to know you.”
“You too,” said Mary. Irene shook her hand—ah, there was that hearty English handshake! But then she put her hands on Mary’s shoulders and kissed her on both cheeks. Well, Mary didn’t mind. Irene was the most interesting woman she had ever met. They were not in competition, but if they had been, she would happily have lost to Irene Norton.
“Thank you—for everything,” she said. Then Dénes Ferenc helped her up into the coach and closed the door behind her. The seats were cushioned and covered in some sort of dark velvet. Thank goodness—this was not going to be as excruciating as she had feared. At least they would not be bouncing around on wooden seats for two days. Diana was already curled up on the seat across from her, with her head on Justine’s lap as though it were a pillow. Her eyes were closed. Justine just looked at Mary and shrugged. Ah well, if Justine didn’t mind—at least Mary wouldn’t have to do pillow duty! She covered Diana with a blanket and sat down next to Lucinda, who was looking out the other window, away from them. She wished there were something she could do—some way she could show Lucinda how very sorry she felt or offer consolation. Why was she so bad at these things?
Then she heard the sound of the whip, and the coach started moving. She looked out the window—there stood Irene and Greta, still visible in the light of the street lamps. She waved, and they waved back. Mary settled into her seat—not as comfortable as a train, but it would do—and drew a blanket over herself. She stared out the window at the streetlights of Vienna as the coach rumbled over the cobblestones. She was still so tired! She would close her eyes, just for a moment. . . .
When Mary opened her eyes, sunlight was streaming into the coach. Oh Lord, she had fallen asleep again, hadn’t she? Across from her, Justine and Diana were both asleep—Justine leaning against the cushioned back of the seat, wrapped in a blanket, and Diana sprawled over the seat, with her head in Justine’s lap, her mouth open. Good—after their adventures in Vienna, they all needed to rest.
But Lucinda was awake, sitting very straight and staring out the window on the other side.
“How are you feeling, Miss Van Helsing . . . Lucinda?” asked Mary. After all they had been through, surely they were on a first-name basis.
Lucinda turned around. She looked pale and hollow-eyed, but composed. “I am doing well, danke,” she said. “We are heading into the jaws of doom, where the demons will drink our blood.”
“Oh,” said Mary. “Well, I’m very glad to hear that you’re feeling better.” The girl was mad, simply mad. What in the world were they going to do with her?
Lucinda just nodded, then turned back to the window. Mary looked out on her side. They were clopping at a brisk pace through very pretty countryside: The road wound through broad meadows alternating with fields of yellow flowers, obviously some sort of crop although she did not know what. Sometimes she could see farmhouses in the distance. The road was lined with tall trees. Poplars, at a guess? Poplars were tall and straight, right? The road was unpaved, but the coach seemed to be well-sprung, and she did not feel particularly jostled—or not any more than she would have been on the average London street. They must be quite far from Vienna by now. Judging from the position of the sun, it was late morning.
The motion of the coach was hypnotic. There was little else to do than stare out the window, unless she wanted to strike up a conversation with Lucinda. Once, indeed, she turned to the girl and said, “Are you quite comfortable? I could get out another blanket if you would like.”
Lucinda replied, “I am covered in the blood of the lamb,” as matter-of-factly as she might have said “No, thank you, I am warm enough.” After that, Mary did not try again.
Around noon, Diana suddenly woke, sitting up and hitting Justine on the nose as she stretched. “I’m hungry,” she said.
Justine opened her eyes and put her hands to her nose at the same time. “What . . . ,” she mumbled, still half asleep.
“I’ll see what’s in the hamper,” said Mary. There were sandwiches on buttered bread, some with cheese, some with ham, some with salami. There was a glass jar of cucumber salad, and another of what looked like pickled plums, beside a small basket that held hard-boiled eggs. In a brown paper wrapper, she found some of the rolls they had eaten yesterday, with either walnut or poppy-seed filling, as well as some jam tarts. She was particularly happy to find a vacuum flask of coffee. In one corner of the hamper, wrapped in a tablecloth, were four bottles of water, and beneath them she found four napkins. Thank goodness for Frau Schmidt. Without the Frau Schmidts and Mrs. Pooles, the world would probably stop spinning on its axis.
MRS. POOLE: And don’t you forget it!
“Here,” said Mary, giving one of the cheese sandwiches to Justine and one of the salami to Diana. She took a ham sandwich herself. “Which would you like?” she asked Lucinda, ready to reach once again into the hamper. Lucinda shook her head and shrank back into her corner of the coach. “All right, well, what about one of these jam things? They probably have some sort of German name. I think it’s raspberry jam. Come on, I know you’re hungry.” Indeed, Lucinda was looking at the jam tart longingly. She reached out her hand, then snatched it back again.
“If she doesn’t want it, I’ll take it,” said Diana.
“But she does want it,” said Mary. “You do, don’t you? Come on, I know you do.”
So quickly that it startled her, Lucinda snatched the tart out of her hand and bit into it. She ate as though famished, in small, rapid bites, almost furtively, with her eyes closed. Once the entire tart had been eaten, she licked her fingers, then looked at Mary and said, in an almost normal voice, “Our cook in Amsterdam would make such petites choses for parties—when there were parties, before Papa became the Devil incarnate.” Then she put her hands on her stomach, leaned over, and threw up on the floor of the coach, right next to Justine’s feet.
For a moment, Mary just stared, not knowing what to do. Justine was quicker—before Mary could respond, she had moved next to Lucinda, squeezing in between her and the wall. She held the girl in her arms and offered her a handkerchief to wipe her mouth, then wiped it herself because Lucinda was so distraught that all she could do was sit, hunched over, with tears flowing down her face.
“All right,” said Mary. “Clearly, that was a bad idea.” With the tablecloth that had been in the hamper, she cleaned up the vomit, while Diana sat on the seat opposite with her feet on the cushion, offering helpful comments such as “That is so gross. Why did you tell her to eat? Don’t you remember what happened with the coffee?”
“Of course I rem
ember the coffee!” Mary snapped. The coach stank of vomit. She pulled down the window on her side as far as it would go, which was not far, then tossed out the tablecloth. It was not in her nature to litter, but they must get rid of the stench as much as possible, and anyway in a month the cloth would have disintegrated in the rain and mud. She used two of the napkins to wipe the floor, then tossed those out as well. For goodness’ sake, why couldn’t Diana help, for once? But no, she just sat there, complaining.
“All right, that’s the best I can do,” she said finally. Justine was still holding Lucinda, who was leaning against her, blond ringlets hanging over her tear-streaked face.
“What now?” she asked Justine. “She has to eat something, or she’ll get sick. Maybe she already is sick, and that’s why she’s throwing everything up. Justine, does she have a temperature?”
Gently, Justine put her hand on Lucinda’s forehead. “No, she’s cold—cold and damp. I wish we had Beatrice here. She would know what to do.”
BEATRICE: Alas, even my medical knowledge would have been useless in such a circumstance. I have no cure for Lucinda’s disease.
“Maybe she needs blood,” said Diana.
“What?” said Mary, and “What do you mean?” said Justine, at the same time.
“When I was in the hospital, that Krankenplace, and we were trying to get her mother to come with us, she told me to give her blood, so I gave her some.”
“Gave her some?” said Mary. “How?”
“Cut open my arm, of course. See?” Diana rolled up her sleeve. There, on her wrist, was a fresh scar, still red. “And then she drank it, right from my wrist.”
European Travel for the Monstrous Gentlewoman Page 31