“Excellent,” said the Count. “Then I shall order—what are you drinking? Coffee, Miss Frankenstein? And for you, Miss Jekyll? Well, more coffee, then, to be brought into your drawing room.”
“It really is a study, not a drawing room,” Mina said after he had gone, presumably to order more coffee for them. “The Count is old-fashioned in some ways. Sometimes I have to keep him from treating me like an aristocratic lady, circa 1600! Seriously, he’s going to turn me into a socialist. Come on, it’s on the other side of the courtyard.”
Mary followed her out of the dining room and into the hallway. On one side, it had windows that looked down into the courtyard where Carmilla had parked her motorcar the night before. On the other side were doors that presumably opened into rooms like the one they had just come out of. The house seemed to be arranged around that courtyard. She walked down the hall, not quite knowing what to think. Mina looked just like the Miss Murray she had known in London, who had taught her the multiplication tables and the major capitals of Europe. Yet here she was in Budapest, in an old, run-down palace, with this aristocratic man who clearly had some sort of understanding with her. Mary felt a sudden longing for England and Mrs. Poole.
Sunlight streamed in through the tall windows. She walked with Mina while Justine hung back a bit, looking at the paintings.
“Most houses in Budapest are built like this,” Mina continued. “There’s usually a courtyard in the center where the carriages turn around, with the carriage house and stables in back. This hallway goes all the way around on the inside, so if you get lost, just follow the hall—eventually it will get you wherever you want to go. Of course, there’s almost always a servant to direct you. Honestly, I can’t get used to having so many. Three footmen, plus one in training! I asked Vlad why he has so many footmen, and he said they were needed to stand decoratively behind the chairs at dinner, and also to get drunk on his wine! I think he was teasing, but he always says everything with such a straight face that I can’t be sure.”
“It’s quite a change from the days when we would sit in the parlor and mend stockings together!” said Mary. She smiled, in part because she was afraid what she had said would sound judgmental. It was no business of hers who Mina chose to associate with. And if she was a little discomfited, well, she must try not to show it.
“Oh goodness, you don’t think I’ve given up mending stockings, do you?” Mina looked shocked. “This is all well and good”—she gestured around, as though indicating the palace as a whole, with its marble staircase, its paintings of sour-faced ancestors, its footmen—“but I’m almost broke. Van Helsing never paid me for chaperoning Lucinda, and I spent my last krone getting out of Vienna as quickly as possible once he discovered who I was really working for. I have a small income from that particular employer—but it’s scarcely enough to keep me in stockings and papier poudré. I’m fortunate the Count is letting me stay here, but none of this is mine. Look.” She stopped, bent down, and lifted the hem of her dress so Mary could see the underside. It was obvious that the dress had been turned—taken apart and then reconstructed, with the former outside now on the inside. That side was considerably more faded than the side now showing. No wonder the dress looked so smart and respectable!
“But I thought you and the Count . . .” Mary did not quite know how to say it. Had she somehow misinterpreted their easy familiarity? Perhaps such things had a different meaning in Europe.
“Oh, that, yes.” Mina smiled, as though amused that Mary was being so reticent. “It is what you think—there is an understanding between us. Which is why I won’t take any money from him. It’s, shall we say, a matter of honor.”
Ah, there was the old Miss Murray after all! That, at least, was reassuring.
“Justine?” Mina called back. “How are you finding the pictures?”
“Very interesting, thank you,” said Justine.
Mina laughed. “My dear, I’m sure you have many skills, but lying isn’t one of them. They are dreadful, aren’t they? A regular procession of Draculas, who were unpleasant people, for the most part. Well, most aristocrats were unpleasant back then—killing each other, raiding each other’s territories, marrying off their daughters for land or gold.”
“I do like the landscapes,” said Justine defensively, joining them once again. “Some of them remind me of Switzerland. Although of course I would prefer them without the hunting scenes. I do not understand the slaughter of animals for sport.”
“You really are the best of us,” said Mary in a low voice, giving Justine’s hand a quick squeeze. Amid so much that was strange, she was glad of a familiar face, a familiar system of values. Justine could always be relied upon.
“Ah, here we are,” said Mina. “My study.” The Count was leaning on the wall next to the door, reading a letter. Standing beside him was a maid in a uniform with a stiff white cap, holding a tray with a coffeepot and cups. “You could have gone in without me,” said Mina, opening the door.
“I told you this was your room, beloved—I would not enter it without your permission,” he replied, a little stiffly Mary thought.
Mina took the tray from the maid, said “Köszönöm, Kati,” and went in. The Count stood by the door and waited until they had all filed in, then entered and closed the door behind him.
Mina’s study was not large, but there was room in it for a desk covered with neat stacks of paper and two armchairs in front of the fireplace. There were bookshelves along every wall, filled with books of every description—some of them serious scientific tomes, some travel guides, some novels—as well as stacks of journals and magazines. Sunlight came through one large window, brighter than English sunlight but less harsh than the sunlight of Vienna.
CATHERINE: Of all the rooms we saw in our travels, the only one I envied was Mina’s study.
“Please sit down, all of you.” Mina put the coffee tray on a low table between the armchairs.
Mary sat in one of the armchairs and poured herself another cup of coffee. Usually she would not have two, but this morning, she needed it. Justine stood hesitating, but Mina pulled out the desk chair and sat on that, so she sat in the other armchair and looked around her, at the book titles. The Count remained standing and leaned back against the desk.
“What about Carmilla and Laura?” asked Mary. “Should they not be here as well?”
“They are testing a hypothesis of mine,” said the Count. “I will explain later. First, I think we need to hear from Mina. Kedvesem, will you begin? Unless you wish me to. . . .”
“No, I’d better start,” said Mina. Suddenly, she looked very serious. “I’m going to tell you a story, and I’m afraid you’re not going to like it, either of you.”
What in the world could she mean? Mary looked at Justine, in the other armchair. She had her hands clasped on her lap and was listening intently. Well, Mary would follow her example. She leaned back against the cushion, took another sip of coffee—really, coffee seemed the appropriate beverage for continental adventures, tea was simply not strong enough—and prepared to listen.
“You must understand, first, that my father was a university professor,” said Mina. “He was an early supporter of Darwin’s theory of evolution and natural selection, although he held, with Wallace, that consciousness in man was given by God—natural selection alone, he maintained, could not have created such a complex phenomenon. He was also a believer in spiritualism, which sometimes put him in conflict with his scientific colleagues. My mother died when I was young, bearing her second child, who did not survive. I think he believed in the spirit world from the hope that he could someday contact her, that her consciousness, at least, had survived in some form. After her death, he left the University of London, where he had been teaching, and moved to one of the new women’s colleges springing up in the countryside—Blackwood Women’s College, it was called, after Eugenia Blackwood, a wool-merchant’s widow and ardent suffragist who had founded it in the 1870s. My mother had been a firm propon
ent of education for women, a New Woman before her time, and he wanted to honor her memory. I grew up in the heady excitement of women allowed to experience higher education. He would hire students to be my nurses and tutors, and himself undertook to teach me the natural sciences. When the time came, I matriculated—my time at Blackwood was, I can say without hesitation, the happiest of my life. Living and learning with other women in those old brick buildings, strolling across the lawn discussing literature, philosophy, art. . . . We were young, and so very hopeful that a new era was coming for our sisters, whether they were fine ladies doing the London season or factory girls in Manchester. Time has proven us partly right.”
For a moment, Mina was silent. She had a smile on her lips and a look in her eyes, as though she were very far away, on the green lawns of her college once more. Mary could not help envying her. No one had ever considered educating her in that way.
“During my final year at college,” Mina continued, “my father became ill with a lung complaint. I told him I could leave school for a year to nurse him, but he would not allow it—he told me that I must never take my opportunities for granted or stop working toward my goals. Not long before graduation, he died. He was never able to see my diploma.” Quickly, almost surreptitiously, Mina wiped her eyes. The Count put one hand on her shoulder, as though to comfort her.
“So I left Blackwood Women’s College, alone in the world and unsure what to do with myself. Our only source of income was my father’s salary, and our meager savings had been spent on his medical bills. I would need to work, which for a woman of my class and educational status meant either governessing or teaching in a school for girls. Where would I go? I applied at an employment agency and, while waiting to hear back, cleaned out the house I had shared with my father for so many years, cataloging our possessions for sale. If I sold most of our things, it would give me a sum I could put in the bank for emergencies. Our lease was up at the end of the month. Mentally, I prepared to move on with my life.
“One day, I heard the front door bell. Minutes later, the daily woman, a Mrs. Higgins, came up to the attic, where I was going through old trunks, and said, ‘Miss Murray, there’s a gentleman here to see you. Says he knew your father in London.’
“I went down to the parlor. There, standing next to the fireplace, was an older man with white whiskers, in an old-fashioned frock coat.
“ ‘Miss Murray,’ he said. ‘Please accept my condolences. I was deeply grieved to hear of Professor Murray’s passing.’
“ ‘Did you know my father?’ I asked. ‘Mr. . . .’
“ ‘Dr. Faraday. Simeon Faraday, at your service. Yes, we were both members of the Royal Society. At one time, he was very active on a subcommittee I chair—the Subcommittee on Bibliographic Citation Format. I don’t suppose he’s ever mentioned it to you?’
“I had known, of course, that my father was a member of the Royal Society, although he had not attended a meeting or been active for many years. And a Subcommittee on Bibliographic Citation Format sounded exactly like the sort of body he would join—he was always a stickler for correct, exacting scholarship.
“I asked Dr. Faraday to please sit down, and told Mrs. Higgins to bring us tea. After some pleasantries and reminiscences of my father, he leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees, and said, ‘Miss Murray, I did not come here solely to express my condolences. I also came to offer you an employment opportunity. Forgive me for interrupting your time of grief with business, but would you be willing to hear what I have to offer?’
“ ‘Dr. Faraday,’ I said. ‘I am a woman alone in the world, eager to prove myself useful and make an independent living. If you know of a place for someone with my qualifications, I would be grateful for any information, and perhaps a recommendation.’
“ ‘It is, indeed, because of your qualifications that I am here,’ he said. ‘When my fellow members of the Subcommittee on Bibliographic Citation Format were searching for a suitable candidate for the position we have in mind, I immediately said, what about Murray’s daughter? The subcommittee voted unanimously that we should put our proposition before you.’
“Mrs. Higgins had brought in tea, and I poured out, wondering what sort of employment opportunity a subcommittee of the Royal Society could possibly have for me.
“For a moment, he looked at me seriously, from under a particularly bushy set of white eyebrows. Then he said, ‘Miss Murray, have you ever heard of the Société des Alchimistes?’ ”
Mary leaned forward. What had Mina just said? Had she heard it correctly?
“Then you knew of the Alchemical Society before you became Mary’s governess,” said Justine.
“Yes,” said Mina simply. “I knew.”
“I don’t understand,” said Mary. “Do you mean that you knew about the Alchemical Society all along? All the time you were my governess? And did you know that my father . . .”
“Yes,” said Mina again. “I knew. In order to explain, I need to tell you what Professor Faraday told me that spring morning, and what I learned later in my work with the subcommittee. You see, almost from the founding of the Royal Society in the seventeenth century, a group of the fellows felt the need to combat and contest what they felt to be false or unethical science—to expose fraud, to investigate and stop abuse. Only in this way could the legitimacy of genuine, beneficial science be maintained. The fellows knew that such unorthodox activities brought science into disrepute. So a committee was formed for such purposes—to debunk taxidermed monstrosities and ineffective nostrums. However, debunking fakes was not the most important task of the committee—more important was combating the use of science for nefarious ends. In this, the committee’s most constant adversary was the Société des Alchimistes.”
“And this committee—,” said Justine.
“Was initially named the Committee on Scientific Fraud and Abuse. But in the early nineteenth century, after the Frankenstein scandal—for the Société des Alchimistes could not hush up entirely the rumor that one of its members had created a monster—it was thought best to keep the work of the committee secret. Science was growing more respectable, but also more powerful, and the Royal Society did not want it known that such atrocities could be committed in the name of discovery and knowledge. Better to deal with them quietly, to keep the public unaware. So it was renamed the Subcommittee on Bibliographic Citation Format, although its mission remained the same.”
“Why in the world—,” said Mary.
“Was it named that? Because if you heard there was a meeting of the Subcommittee on Bibliographic Citation Format, would you ask to attend? Well, you might, Mary, with your precise mind! But I assure you that most people would not. That day, Professor Faraday told me the subcommittee needed a young woman, an educated young woman, to perform a particular task. He explained it to me, and asked if I would be willing.”
“What was that task?” asked Justine. Mary glanced at her, startled. Had she ever heard that tone in Justine’s voice? She sounded . . . angry. Could Justine be angry?
“You must understand,” said Mina, “that the subcommittee’s purpose is to safeguard the reputation of genuine scientific effort. It does not often interfere. What it does is observe and, if necessary, rectify the situation as unobtrusively as possible. When it heard a rumor about a giantess roaming the coast of Cornwall, it sent one of its agents to investigate. William Pengelly found this giantess living peacefully in an abandoned manor house, subsisting on fruits and vegetables.”
“My friend Guillaume!” said Justine. “Are you saying that he was—”
“Yes,” said Mina. “He was working for the subcommittee. I have seen his report—it’s twenty typed pages, with a final recommendation.”
“What did he recommend?” asked Mary. This conversation was sending shivers up her back—she felt prickles along her arms. Someone walking over your grave, is what Cook would have said, remembering old Yorkshire superstitions.
“Pengelly recommended that
Justine be left alone, and that the subcommittee protect her in any way it could. Which it did.” Mina turned to Justine. “Why do you think no one disturbed you in all that time? You were protected in ways you did not know. From curious poachers, from heirs who wanted to break the entail on the property . . .”
Justine shook her head. “I do not know what to say. All that time . . . and Guillaume, whom I thought was my friend.”
“He was,” said Mina. “It was because of his report that you remained undisturbed for almost a century.”
“And what would the subcommittee have done if Mr. Pengelly had made a different recommendation?” asked Mary.
“It would have rectified the situation,” said Mina, mildly. “Mary, I can see that you’re about to protest. I assure you that the subcommittee only acts when it absolutely must. It did nothing to harm Justine.”
“But it could have?” said Mary.
Mina looked at her steadily, seriously. “Yes.”
“And what about this task you mentioned?” asked Justine. “Was it—”
“What Dr. Faraday asked me to do,” Mina continued, “was apply for a post as governess in the house of the late Dr. Henry Jekyll. I was to watch and see if the notorious Mr. Hyde returned. I was told of Jekyll’s experiments, of how the respectable chemist was also Hyde. If I saw even a shadow of him, I was to inform the subcommittee at once.”
“You spied on me!” said Mary. She stared at Mina incredulously.
“Yes, I did,” replied Mina. “And I can’t apologize to you, as my apology would not be sincere. I was fulfilling my responsibilities to the subcommittee, and carrying out the task for which I was hired—work that my father would have approved. I’m sorry, Mary, for shocking you with this revelation. I know it’s difficult for you to learn that I deceived you, but unfortunately that is the case.”
European Travel for the Monstrous Gentlewoman Page 50