European Travel for the Monstrous Gentlewoman

by Theodora Goss

  “Now what?” asked Clarence, who had sat, arms crossed, through the entire procedure. She could feel disapproval emanating from him in waves.

  “I don’t know,” said Catherine. “I suppose she could be carrying it around on her?”

  “Oh, you want to search me now?” Zora was standing in the doorway. “You just go right ahead. Come on, I’ll strip to my skivvies for you.”

  “I really don’t think that’s necessary,” said Clarence, frowning.

  “All right,” said Catherine. “Clarence, go away. I don’t need you for this part.”

  Clarence looked incredulous. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Go on,” said Zora. “You’re just as bad as her, Mr. Fake Zulu Prince, and I’m certainly not going to strip down in front of you. Get out, and shut the door behind you.”

  When Clarence had gone, with a final disapproving shake of his head, Zora untied the sash around her waist and unbuttoned her long robe, in a pink-and-orange paisley pattern that shimmered with gold thread, to reveal a perfectly ordinary shift and drawers. She was not wearing a corset—otherwise, she looked just like any other Englishwoman under her clothes. Finally, she unbuttoned and stepped out of her boots.

  “I expected better of you,” she said bitterly, standing in the middle of the cabin in her undergarments, on stockinged feet. “I wanted us to share a cabin because we were the brown girls in this troupe—I thought we could be friends. It was lonely being the new girl when everyone else had known each other for ages. But you’re as bad as the Londoners who told me to go back to India, that my kind weren’t wanted here. Are you satisfied now that I didn’t take whatever you’re missing?”

  Catherine lifted the robe, shook it, looked—no pockets. Nothing in the boots. Well, if Zora had the telegram, it was certainly not on her person. “You could have had it on you before and hidden it somewhere while I was searching the suitcase,” she said doubtfully. Could she have made a mistake? Perhaps Zora had wanted to share a cabin with her not because she was an agent of the Alchemical Society, but for companionship, as she claimed. It was sometimes difficult for Catherine to understand how these humans, born rather than made, liked to band together. No, needed to band together. Of course, she had friends as well—Justine was a friend, and so was Beatrice. But she was still essentially solitary. She probably always would be. Turning a puma into a woman did not take the puma out of her, not deep inside where it counted.

  “I’m sorry,” she said reluctantly, although she still felt that her suspicions had been reasonable. But she had not meant to hurt Zora, and she had learned that humans expect a show of regret and contrition when one is wrong.

  “No, you’re not,” said Zora, buttoning her robe again and stepping into her boots. Then she banged out of the cabin with her boots still unbuttoned, muttering something about getting lunch before the service ended. When Catherine went into the dining room herself, after tidying the cabin, she saw Zora sitting with Sasha, Doris Jellicoe, and Colonel Sharp. The snake charmer glared at Catherine, then turned back to her companions, speaking to them in low, angry tones. She was telling them what had happened, wasn’t she? Catherine wondered if they would be angry with her as well. She asked the steward for some mint tea, which was all Beatrice seemed to be ingesting on this journey. Well, at least it smelled better than her usual goop. Catherine herself was not hungry—that morning, she had been so tired of train food that instead of joining the others in the dining car, she had gone hunting. Luckily, the baggage car had been an excellent place to find big, juicy rats. They had been delicious, and she was still quite full.

  DIANA: That’s disgusting.

  CATHERINE: And it’s not disgusting when Alpha and Omega leave decapitated mice on our beds?

  DIANA: They’re cats, not Cat Women. Anyway, you said they think they’re giving us gifts.

  MRS. POOLE: Very kind of them, I’m sure. (Let it be noted that Mrs. Poole’s tone was entirely sarcastic.)

  When she entered Beatrice’s cabin, holding the teacup carefully so as not to spill, the Poisonous Girl was sitting with her feet up on the seat, staring out the window.

  “Drink up,” said Catherine. “We’ll be in Vienna soon. Are you all right? You look—pensive. Even more so than usual.”

  “I should not have kept Clarence so long,” said Beatrice. “You saw, when he left—my poison had begun to affect him. Catherine, I do not want it to be the story of Giovanni again. I killed a man I loved once—I do not want to repeat my sin, my crime.”

  Catherine sat down next to her. “Are you saying you love Clarence?”

  “What? No . . . I did not say that. How could I love him? I have known him only a fortnight. I am referring to the general situation—that once before, I killed a man.”

  “Well, first of all, you didn’t,” said Catherine. “What happened to Giovanni was not your fault. Second, you were alone when that happened, and now you’re not. I’m here, and I won’t let anything happen—to either of you.”

  CATHERINE: Readers who are not familiar with the tale of Beatrice and Giovanni can find it in the first of these adventures of the Athena Club, in an attractive green cloth binding that will appear to advantage in a lady’s or gentleman’s library. Two shillings, as I mentioned before.

  BEATRICE: You would use the story of my grief to sell copies of your book?

  CATHERINE: Our book. I may be writing it, but you are all as responsible for its contents as I am. What is the point if we don’t reach readers? And honestly, Bea, you’re not the only one whose sorrows are being recorded here. I mean . . . Bea?

  MARY: She’s gone back to the conservatory. I think you offended her—seriously offended her. The way you offended Zora.

  CATHERINE: Why do you humans have to be so emotional?

  “And what of Zora?” Beatrice asked. “Did you find the telegram among her effects?”

  “I think only dead people have effects,” said Catherine. “And no, but I still think it’s her. It has to be her, doesn’t it? I mean, who else could it be—Colonel and Mrs. Sharp? The Jellicoes? I’ve known them for years.” And yet, Zora had been so natural in her denial, and in her anger at Catherine. She felt, not ashamed exactly, but uncomfortable at having made the accusation, and particularly of having searched Zora herself. Surely her actions had been justified, considering the circumstances? She wished she felt more confident about that. Human morality was complicated—it was so much easier being a puma! Suddenly, she stood up again. “You know what? I’m going to find Clarence. I think he’s mad at me.”

  “Surely not!” said Beatrice. “He’s just a gentle soul.”

  “We are talking about the same Clarence, aren’t we? He may be gentle with you, but I’ve seen him get angry before. You should have seen him when some drunk London clerks who had paid to see the sideshow started teasing Edith Jellicoe, making lewd suggestions. He kicked them out, and I’m not speaking metaphorically. When he’s upset about something, he becomes a sort of righteous brick wall. And you don’t want a righteous brick wall coming at you, or staring at your accusingly, which is what he’s more likely to do. Drink up your tea, and then start packing. We’ll be in Vienna soon.”

  Clarence was in the cabin he shared with Sasha, reading a book whose front cover was stamped Essais de Michel de Montaigne. Luckily, he was alone—Sasha must still be in the dining car.

  “Hello,” said Catherine, standing in the doorway. “I’ve come to apologize.”

  He looked up. “Because that’s what we humans do, right?”

  “You know me so well. Pumas don’t apologize for anything—they just pounce. At least I didn’t pounce on her, Clarence!”

  “I’m not sure that would have been much worse.” He shook his head. “You’re kind of a mess, Whiskers. Not quite a cat, not quite a woman. You know, I’m not the one you should be apologizing to.”

  “What do you expect, considering my parentage and upbringing? Moreau’s island wasn’t a finishing school. If I find out it def
initely wasn’t her, I’ll apologize very nicely, I promise—not that I think Zora will listen. We’re slowing down, aren’t we?”

  Clarence looked out the window, and she followed his gaze. They were indeed slowing down. Now the train was running between shops and apartment houses. This was Vienna, and in a few minutes they would be pulling into the Westbahnhof. Tonight would be their first show. Tomorrow, she and Beatrice would try to find Irene Norton.

  “Do you want me to help you with your luggage?” asked Clarence.

  “Only if you’re not still mad at me,” said Catherine.

  “Well, I am,” he said. “Honestly, I think you should apologize to Zora now, whether she listens to you or not—but that’s between you and her. Come on, let’s go get your trunk. And then I’m going to help Beatrice so she doesn’t mess up that fancy dress she wants to wear tonight. Though I don’t see the point of a ‘Parisian gown,’ as she calls it. She would look just as stunning in something that cost a dollar in the Sears catalog!”

  “But she would feel different on the inside,” said Catherine.

  Muttering that he would never understand women and clothes, Clarence followed her down the corridor and into her cabin, to fetch the trunk that had caused so much trouble that day.

  BEATRICE: That is very kind of him to say, but also a little patronizing, is it not?

  CATHERINE: Clarence is one of the good ones, but he’s not a saint. Don’t expect him to be. I once had to listen to him explain the Peloponnesian War while I was trying to mend my cat costume. That was before Justine came and started doing all the sewing. You know how I feel about sewing! Do you have any idea how boring the Peloponnesian War is?

  MRS. POOLE: That’s men for you. I find the best course of action, when they start explaining, is to just nod your head, and maybe tilt it to the side a little. At the end you say, “My, how fascinating. Whoever would have thought?” And then they’re convinced you’re a very clever woman.

  BEATRICE: But surely it should not be like that! Surely one should be able to have a rational discussion with a member of the opposite sex without resorting to such subterfuges. Clarence and I have wonderful conversations, and when I disagree with him, he truly listens. Even Giovanni did not listen to me in that way.

  CATHERINE: I told you, he’s one of the good ones. Just don’t let him get started on the Peloponnesian War!

  CHAPTER XV

  Evening in Vienna

  From the Westbahnhof, the traveling troupe of the Circus of Marvels and Delights went directly to the theater. Lorenzo had arranged for their sets to be transported in a wagon, but the equipment had to be assembled and tested by the performers themselves. Atlas and Clarence did most of the heavy lifting. Catherine tested the ropes she would climb, the pieces of wood on which she would balance, catlike. Then she helped the Kaminski brothers, who were using some of the same apparatus. Beatrice was kept busy helping Zora with her snakes, who needed to be milked of their poison. It was so useful to have someone who was already poisonous! No snake bite could hurt Beatrice. When Catherine walked up to them and told them it was time for tea, Zora ignored her. Well, fine, if that was the way she wanted it! At least if Zora was an agent of the society, she was on notice that Catherine was not to be messed with.

  Promptly at 5:00 p.m., Lorenzo stepped out in front of the curtain and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, meine Damen und Herren, welcome to an evening with monsters!” And the show began.

  Catherine always had a great deal to do backstage—she was particularly good at putting up and taking down sets without making a sound. But finally, just before her own act, she found a few minutes to look out at the audience. The Queen of Lilliput was describing how she had come to England in a balloon drawn by a pair of tame albatrosses (always used for air travel in her kingdom). In a moment, she would begin to recite poetry by a famous Lilliputian poetess—Catherine had found it great fun to write Lilliputian poetry, although truth be told, she had stolen a number of stanzas from William Blake. This theater was smaller than the one in Paris, but it had electric lights! She thought they were a little too bright. However, the audience was large and appreciative, clapping loudly whenever Henrietta took an elegant, diminutive bow.

  “Who is that woman in the front row?”

  Catherine was startled to find Beatrice beside her, also looking out at the crowd.

  “Which woman?”

  “The one in the wine-colored evening gown with the garnet parure, who looks rather like a member of the royal family traveling incognito.”

  She examined the front row again. “Oh, that one. Why? Does she look suspicious in some way? Are you suggesting. . . .”

  “Of course not! You have grown almost . . . what is the word? Paranoid, Catherine. You think everyone is a member of the Société des Alchimistes. No, I was simply admiring her, although now I think of it, she does seem familiar somehow. Perhaps she is a famous society figure, or an actress? The embroidery on her gown is magnificent.”

  Catherine stared at her. “You can see the details of her dress from here? Seriously? And what the hell is a parure?”

  Beatrice drew back. “Yes, I can, and you should be able to as well—your eyes are sharper than mine. You simply do not notice such things because you do not think they are important. But the arts—even such minor arts as that of embroidery—contribute to the beauty and significance of life. If we did not have a sense of beauty, of taste and elegance and refinement, we would be little better than animals.”

  “Or plants!” said Catherine. “What have you got against animals—”

  “Cat! You’re up!” Atlas had tapped her on the shoulder. He was already in costume—a sort of Grecian tunic that left his arms and most of his legs bare, with leather sandals.

  Catherine pulled her cat hood over her head, gathered up her tail, and bounded on stage.

  BEATRICE: I think we should thank Mrs. Poole for how very hard she worked on that costume. It really was spectacular—I could not tell where the real Catherine ended and La Femme Panthère began.

  CATHERINE: It was an amazing costume, Mrs. Poole. So much lighter and cooler than the one I used to wear in the sideshow. I couldn’t have done all the stunts in the old one. You are a genius, you know!

  MRS. POOLE: Hrumph. Try to remember that when you girls have been on another of your escapades, and there are bloodstains on your shirtsleeves for me to get out! Or gunshot residue! Or when your trousers are torn from climbing all over the buildings of this city and need to be mended!

  BEATRICE: Mrs. Poole, you are always a genius, and we do not tell you enough. I would kiss you, but alas . . .

  MRS. POOLE: That’s quite all right, miss.

  By 7:00 p.m. it was over, and all Catherine wanted was her dinner. First they would need to transport their luggage, which had been stacked in the women’s dressing room, to the boardinghouse. Then they would finally get a meal. Performing always left her feeling both tired and hungry.

  But when she opened the trunk to get her ordinary clothes so she could change out of her cat costume, she sprang back in surprise. “Bea!” she called. “Bea, come here!”

  Beatrice was sitting before one of the mirrors, taking off her stage cosmetics with cold cream. She turned. “What is it, Cat?” She still had cream all over her face.

  Catherine just waved her over. In front of the other mirror, Miss Petunia was adjusting her hat, and in one corner, Edith and Doris Jellicoe were trying to figure out the exchange rate from francs to krone. She did not want to say anything in front of them.

  Beatrice, who had wiped the cream off her face and was now standing beside the trunk, asked, “Well, what is the matter?” Catherine lifted the lid and showed her what she had found on top of the clothes she had thrown in several hours before: the telegram from Irene Norton.

  Beatrice stared at it doubtfully. “Is it possible that the telegram could have been here all along? That you simply missed it when you searched on the train?”

  “No, it’
s not possible,” said Catherine. She spoke as quietly as she could—the Jellicoes were on the other side of the room, but she did not want Miss Petunia to hear. “I changed just as the Kaminskis were setting up. That’s when I put this dress in here, and the telegram’s on top of it. Seriously, Bea! It’s obvious someone took it, and now someone has put it back. Which means it’s definitely one of the troupe—we’re the only ones backstage. The question is, which one?”

  “It must be a woman,” said Beatrice. “A man would not come into this dressing room. Do you still suspect Zora?”

  Catherine held the telegram up to her nose, then held it out to Beatrice. “Smell that.”

  Beatrice took it from her and sniffed it. “I do not smell anything. What am I supposed to smell?”

  Catherine looked at her with a sort of pitying incredulity. “I don’t know how all of you can go around with such a rotten sense of smell. It must be like being blind. What I don’t smell is Zora’s perfume. What I do smell is cigarettes. Whoever handled this had been smoking recently. And not just any kind of cigarettes—I’m starting to sound like Holmes, aren’t I? These are strong ones, rolled by hand. Only one person in the troupe smokes these—he gets the tobacco by mail order from Russia.”

  “Sasha!” said Beatrice. “But how could he come in here without being noticed? And what could he possibly have to do with the Société des Alchimistes?”

  “He could come in here when all of us were either performing or watching the show,” said Catherine. “I’m sure there are times when the dressing room is empty. But if we confront him, it will be easy enough for him to deny he’s involved—after all, he’s already returned the telegram, and I’m probably the only one who can smell his cigarettes on it. Perhaps we should simply watch him, try to see if he makes contact with a member of the S.A. What about that woman in the front row, wearing the par—whatever you called it?”

  “Excuse me. Are you Catherine?”

  She turned around so suddenly that her shin hit a corner of the trunk. Oh, that was painful! She doubled over and held her shin in her hands—not a very dignified posture. Standing a few feet away from her was the woman in the wine-colored dress, now with a black wool cloak draped over one arm.