“And, and... they brought me a new mannequin. Irene, it was you!”
“I?”
I nodded.
“I. Then... Monsieur Worth has decided upon me as a mannequin de ville! I am to set the standard. This is wonderful news!”
“No! No, it is not. I sat there, not believing my eyes. You—reduced to bisque and paint and kid leather. You a puppet of other people’s purposes. Then I thought of the Rothschilds and the Golem, a creature animated by no desire of its own, made to walk, made to sleep eternally as it suits someone else—no wonder it is restless, and mute, and angry!”
“Nell, darling Nell. That is legend. We face far more lethal dangers, in others, in ourselves. Only you know why I must return to Bohemia. Or guess it. You must not take all this so seriously.”
She shook my hand, my icy fingers clasped in her warm ones. “I know you feel the contradictions, as Godfrey cannot. Dearest Godfrey, he believes I don’t know how much this enterprise troubles him. It goes against his very core, yet he will do it, because I must, even if I will not—cannot—tell him precisely why. Forget the latest foolishness at Maison Worth. Godfrey will take fine care of you in Bohemia, and you must take care of him.”
“I? Take care of Godfrey?”
“Of course, you darling ninny!” She shook my hands. “I rely upon you. Godfrey is a babe in Toyland there, and you have seen the lie of the land at least. You must advise and protect him, as I must the inopportune Allegra. Surely you and I could handle this better ourselves. Did we not together defeat the King’s every stratagem on our last encounter in Bohemia—and beyond? Are we not up to another skirmish? I think so.”
“You do?
“Certainly.” She loosed my hands to clap hers together with resolution. “Well. We must do our best, as you say.”
“If you are Monsieur Worth’s new mannequin de ville, as you say, will it not harm your standing to desert Paris?”
“Nonsense! Even so, I do not truly care. Besides, absence makes the heart grow fonder in other than romantic matters. But you must promise me, Nell, to keep a weather eye out in Prague, so that Godfrey does not go astray. I bank on you.”
“I will watch him as if my life depended upon it!” I swore.
“Excellent!” Irene sat back on her heels with a satisfied expression that much reminded me of Lucifer’s.
Godfrey returned from Paris that evening so altered that we both almost did not recognize him, and indeed forgot any unpleasantness at Maison Worth, be it death or dismissal.
Irene was in the music room trilling her scales at Casanova, who showed much interest and repeated the exercise in a crude falsetto that nevertheless managed to be irritatingly on key. I, naturally, am tone deaf.
I was occupied with my sewing. When a shadow crossed the threshold, I expected Godfrey, so I did not eye him with much attention. Yet even my distracted glance detected a change. I turned immediately to Irene, expecting her to act as my weather vane and point to the source of the new wind in his sails.
She, too, glanced carelessly over her shoulder, smiling and Eeee-eeee-eeee-EEEE-eeee-eeee-ing without interruption. Then she stopped, her mouth still impressively open and her motionless hands hovering above the chords.
Godfrey always cut a quite respectable figure in my view, but now it was as if I saw him through a freshly washed window. Everything about him was sharp, new, and shiny in some subtle way.
Irene’s hands descended into a discordant chord that made Casanova squawk in disgust.
“Godfrey! What have you done to yourself?” she demanded.
“Nothing that I am aware of, except work excessively hard these past two weeks,” he said innocently.
Irene glanced at me for rare support. “Is he not more splendid than usual, Nell?”
Before I could answer, a frightful racket exploded in the passage. Lucifer hurtled into the music room like a furry croquet ball that yowled. Something thumped the hall slate with the dead weight of a corpse. A French curse drifted into our civilized scene, to be quickly emulated by the vile parrot.
Another dreadful thump brought Irene and myself to our feet.
“Nothing to worry about.” Godfrey returned to the threshold to call out a merci and dismiss our man-of-all-work, André. Godfrey glanced back to us with a sunny smile. “Merely some necessities for the journey to Prague.”
“Ah.” Irene beamed as she rustled over to the doorway. “Trunks, I deduce, and a good many, from the sound. What have you brought me?”
“Nothing,” he said. “They are for me.”
“For... you?”
“I cannot go to Prague as emissary for the Rothschild banking concerns attired like a court clerk.”
“I see.” Irene looked him up and down, then caught his lapel in her fingers and gave her impeccable diagnosis. “A morning-coat of finest twilled cashmere in charcoal gray. Silk lined and—oh, my dear, stayed in the seams so the tight cut at the waist will not buckle. A satin brocade waistcoat with, think of it, Nell, mother-of-pearl buttons!” She ran her forefinger along the buttons in question as if presenting evidence before the Bench. “Black and gray fine- striped worsted trousers and pointy-toed boots. My, you are quite the dandy; one might even say, the Masher.”
“Godfrey is not a Masher!” I said hotly in his defense. These young men about town were not dandies in the Oscar Wilde manner, but known accosters of young ladies. “He looks,” I said haughtily, “like a diplomat.”
Irene was not to be gainsaid. “Like a most fashionable diplomat and more attractive than any of that calling that I have ever seen.”
Godfrey remained unruffled by her prowling around his person, examining and petting his every article of clothing.
“Really, Irene,” I added, “I cannot see much different at all in Godfrey’s clothing. I have myself noted in my diaries than men’s garments are for the most part like as peas in pods, and most undistinguished. Though, Godfrey, of course, has always appeared distinguished to me.”
“Nell,” Irene said, sighing, “you have the discrimination for fine points of men’s clothing that Messalina the mongoose has for parasols. Take my word upon it: our man Godfrey has made a most astounding change in the cut, style, and, I would say, the cost of his clothing.”
Godfrey laughed. “Cost I grant you, but it was underwritten.”
“By whom?” Irene demanded.
“By Baron de Rothschild.”
“And by whom is your splendid new clothing created? By Baron de Rothschild’s tailor?”
Godfrey shrugged, which did nothing to disarrange the fine fit of his morning-coat. “I confess it.”
“Really, Irene,” I added, “if you will bask in the good favor of the Worths and Tiffanys of the world, I see no reason why Godfrey should not have the use of a Baron’s tailor.”
“Exactly, Nell!” he said, vanishing into the hall and leaving a fascinating sentence behind him. “I have also brought a token for you.”
“For Nell?” Irene asked the empty threshold.
Godfrey filled it again, handsomely, brandishing a middling box wrapped in shiny paper.
“For Nell,” he said firmly, moving to present it to me.
I retreated to my chair, where my sewing scissors abided, to open it. Godfrey came to stand before me, anxious as St. Nick on Christmas Eve.
“Truly, I require no presents,” I muttered, cutting the lovely gilt ribbons and savaging the pretty crimson paper.
“Nonsense,” said Irene. “You do not get them often enough.”
I opened the box and unfolded the interior tissue. Sterling silver winked at me, as solid and shiny as only the real thing is.
“A... ring of keys,” I began, reminded of our find in Godfrey’s father’s chest several months before.
“No!” Irene crowded near to see. “A... chatelaine.”
“A chatelaine? It must have cost half of Hyde Park,” I said in dismay.
Godfrey had gone down on one pin-striped gray knee to better po
int out the article’s advantages.
“A very unique chatelaine, Nell. Every item is designed for your especial use. See, here is a tiny scissors, so you may always cut knots, be they of crochet string or puzzling conundrums we encounter in our adventures. This is a tiny automatic pencil. The lead descends with a twist of the wrist. And here is a true key—to Irene’s traveling vanity chest and the Tiffany corsage. I deemed it wise to have a second key and you are the best keeper of that.”
“And this—?”
“A magnifying glass, for unraveling threads or ciphers.”
“And this is... a thimble case! Oh, it is too clever for words. And a needle case. Smelling salts. A tiny perfume flask. Oh, most handy for surviving ill-scented foreign climes, Godfrey, foreign climes always have the oddest smells! And this... little knife? Surely this tiny thing is not meant to serve a role similar to Irene’s pistol?”
“It’s a penknife, Nell, for sharpening your pencils so you can take accurate notes, a great quantity of them that will require much pencil-sharpening.”
“Oh, it is lovely. Thank you, Godfrey. But what is this fine silver chain?”
“So,” Irene explained, “you may wear it around your waist or your neck if you do not happen to be wearing a convenient belt. It is a clever conglomeration,” she added a bit wistfully.
Irene never saw anything rare and beautiful but she yearned for it, as a child does for a bright bauble, with an innocent greed that makes a virtue out of vice.
Godfrey smiled at her. “If you are good in Bohemia, I shall find you a chatelaine of your own on our return.”
“I am always ‘good,’” she said indignantly, “and do not require bribes.”
“But you’ve been known to accept them,” he pointed out, lifting the key to her vanity case from my chatelaine.
“Only from strangers,” she murmured.
He laughed and rose, assisting Irene to her feet, so they stood at last entangled, almost embracing.
She spoke in the same, soft teasing voice she had used earlier. “I will have to investigate the rest of your booty, to ensure that you have not smuggled any other exotic articles into our simple home.”
“Investigate what you will. You will only find that clothes do not make the man,” he promised.
“Ah, but sometimes they make the man too interesting for his own good.”
I found the issue of Godfrey’s new clothing rather tiresomely trivial. No one worried how my wardrobe should impress the Bohemian court or the connivers we were en route to Bohemia to confound.
There are certain advantages to being sane and sensible, I concluded, as I listened to Irene and Godfrey wend their slow, murmuring way upstairs arm in arm. I doubted that they’d be down for dinner for some time, but then Sophie was most slack about putting out her aunt’s contortions with the menu, and besides, the French can actually eat an unbelievable number of foods stark, raving cold.
I sighed and sacrificed the notion of a decent dinner for yet another night. Yet before I took up my crochet hook and string, I fastened the gleaming silver chain around my waist, with its jingling accouterments of cryptic silver objects. I tested the tiny silver folding knife. Quite satisfactorily sharp.
Chapter Thirteen
BOHEMIA BOUND
Our train steamed out of the Gare du Nord station. Our first-class compartment housed an unlikely pair of adventurers, I wearing my somewhat lethal chatelaine beneath my traveling cape, Godfrey carrying his handsome new malacca cane with the clouded-amber head of a dragon.
Beside me sat the rich and oiled contours of Irene’s vanity case from Baron Rothschild. Godfrey insisted that the diamonds travel with us rather than with Irene and Allegra. Irene had rolled her eyes at this decree, but said nothing. I suspected that she trusted more to her revolver than to the security of any male escort, even if the escort were her own husband. I also suspect that she respected Godfrey’s common sense. Though neither spoke it, I did not look the sort of woman who would be concealing diamonds in her luggage; indeed, I did not look the sort of woman to be carrying a vanity case, though even a country mouse such as I might be allowed my plain toilet water and my discreet face powder.
Beyond the compartment window, Irene waved a kid-gloved farewell, her smiling features blurring behind frothy furbelows of steam and managing to look mysterious.
Beyond her loomed André’s dour face: long, sober, and indubitably French. At least Irene would travel home safe in male company, until beginning her own long journey eastward to Bohemia.
“How this reminds me of our recent trip to England,” I told my seat partner, who kept his nose pasted to the window for a last glimpse of his wife even as she seemed to glide away into the steam with our train’s motion. However stylish Godfrey’s new clothes, I felt with him the soft-slipper comfort I might have shared with the brother I had never had. Godfrey and I had worked together too long in the crowded Temple quarters for any exterior alteration to disturb our easy affinity.
“I trust that this mission will end less dramatically,” he said, referring to Quentin Stanhope’s final London contest with Colonel Sebastian Moran, of which I had been the only witness.
I bit my lip, reminded of that awful night’s headlong hansom race. It had ended on a bridge where two men fought to the death despite my presence, despite my pleas. We three had reason to believe that at least one man had survived that joint plunge into the swift, icy Thames. I hoped that the survivor was the one who wore my heart as a keepsake.
“And we will not have to cross water,” Godfrey added to reassure me. “At least no more than a river.”
“Oh, you are thinking of the Channel. I refuse to call it ‘the English Channel’. Nothing English could be so stomach-churning.”
“I am told that this will be a staid but tedious journey.”
“To say the least I have made it twice, coming and going.” I smiled. “But on this occasion I have gallant company and no worries of imminent pursuit”
“Even if you did harbor such concerns, worry not” He twisted the cane’s amber head to reveal a flash of polished steel.
“Your walking stick is a... sword?”
“Of sorts.”
“Pardon me, but what do you know of swords, Godfrey?”
“More than I knew a fortnight ago.”
I considered that declaration as the train chugged ponderously through the suburbs of Paris under skies as gray as Godfrey’s candid yet twinkling eyes.
“You have availed yourself of more than Baron Rothschild’s tailor!” I guessed suddenly.
“How astute you are, Nell, when you wish to be. In a word, oui.”
“Oh, stop using that vile language! Between us, at least, we need not resort to slippery syllables that tie the tongue in knots my chatelaine scissors could not slice. I assure you, we shall hear a vastly more complex and incomprehensible set of syllables when we reach Bohemia.”
The dashing cane-top spun between Godfrey’s black-leather-gloved hands until the dragon’s ruddy head seemed to breathe smoke. “I welcome seeing that quaint little kingdom at last, Nell. After all, it has played a major role in Irene’s life. I first feared going to Bohemia because of the ghosts that haunt it—and her—but now I am eager to meet them. Do you find that strange?”
“No, Godfrey. You are quite right. A man must know his wife’s past as well as her pastimes, and in Bohemia is buried Irene’s operatic career as well as whatever foolish hopes of queenship she cherished. He did worship her, you know, that self-indulgent, aggravating, spoiled bully-boy of a King.”
“I know.” Godfrey gave his lethal cane a savage twist. “And he saw her perform leading roles in opera, as I never have. She must have made a splendid diva, and would have made an even more splendid queen in real life.”
“She is far happier now,” I confided. “Irene never relished for long being subject to anyone’s whims, be he a conductor or a crown prince and his court, though she may not admit that.”
�
��You think so, Nell? I have fancied these last weeks that Irene felt peculiarly compelled to return to Bohemia; that she would have found a way to accomplish this object no matter the turn of events, even without the convenient excuse of the Rothschild commission. I don’t know why, though I can speculate until I sicken myself with conjecture.”
"You fear the King of Bohemia more than Sherlock Holmes!” I said with sudden realization.
Godfrey smiled ruefully. “Sherlock Holmes is an eccentric, an original. He would have to be to become the world’s first consulting detective. Yet he cannot be too unlike me in his upbringing, or his bourgeois roots. And however brilliant, however his mind catches Irene’s imagination, his personal aspect is not especially impressive, from your description, Nell, which I take as Gospel. But the King... even you prattle in awe of his great height, his golden crown and hair, his damned imposing Germanic royal presence! I picture him as the hero of a Wagnerian opera, insufferable, but winning the maiden fair.” He looked down at the wooden floor of our compartment, which the elegant brass ferrule of his cane pierced like a stickpin. “I fear I am a David confronting a Goliath.”
“Then you cannot understand the depth of Irene’s disappointment, Godfrey, when the King revealed his true colors. I myself have never seen her so... shocked into utter paralysis. Only anger roused her from that frightening state. Anger saw us both safely out of Bohemia.”
"The other side of anger is passion.”
“I would not know,” I said slowly.
“Passion is often a two-faced emotion that does not endure,” he mused, “although it is most pleasing at the time. Yet there is nothing worse than unsatisfied passion, whether it call itself love, or loathing.”
“I would not know,” I repeated, although I felt a dim stir of resentment at having to confess this fact.
Godfrey glanced out the window again, distracted by his thoughts of Bohemia. I eyed his composed but troubled profile, for a moment reflecting that an English barrister confronting Bohemia’s ancient, aristocratic, and autocratic ruling class with a cane-sword was indeed a David dueling a broadsword-armed Goliath with a stickpin.
Another Scandal in Bohemia (A Novel of Suspense featuring Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes) Page 14