No Job for a Lady

by Carol McCleary

  It’s hot and humid and starting to get sticky. That and the fact that I had another restless night with dreams of half-human creatures with jaguar features attacking me has left me in a less than my usual even temperament.

  My nocturnal struggles even woke poor Roger, which is a miracle in itself. He banged his head when I let out a yelp for help. Fortunately, the sound had not traveled any farther than the bottom berth, or Don Antonio would have had me make my way to the railhead by shank’s mare.

  Our last dinner had been slightly awkward. Don Antonio, always the diplomat, had not shown any sign that Roger and I had been invited only because Gertrude had requested it, but I’m reasonably certain that was the case.

  Everyone made polite dinner talk and never broached the subject about the prospector or Roger and I sharing a compartment—which was fine with me. Mostly, Gertrude chatted about how she is going to learn how to speak Arabic and challenge male domination in the world of travel and exploration, especially in Egypt and the Holy Land, where she has friends in the British Diplomatic Service.

  The two men made insipid listening responses, leaving me to wonder what they really thought of women with lofty ambitions. I hope she will be able to make her dreams come true, as well as my own.

  I was relieved when Gertrude offered to play a game of chess after dessert. I really didn’t want to be alone, but I also didn’t want to talk, making the concentration required by chess perfect. And she tutored me in Spanish, which helped fill in the empty holes in our conversations.

  I suspect she was too polite to bring up my sleeping arrangements with Roger, and I was in no mood to share. It was hard enough not to confide in her about what I had seen outside. If I started talking about it, I would end up telling her about the man-beast and lose whatever credibility I had left with her—if I had any left. I was sure she was miffed at me for not confiding in her about my “relationship” with Roger and, worse, was questioning my morals.

  Of course, no one questions the morality of Lily Langtry, who has had a host of lovers. The rules of morality for women don’t extend to making love to kings and millionaires.

  Before we parted, I was surprised when Gertrude gave me a genuine hug and took the name of my hotel, with a promise between us to get together. I had assumed she had written me off as a tainted woman.

  I hate promises like that because they rarely get fulfilled, especially when traveling. Besides, I’m not sure how long I will be in the city, because I don’t know where stories will take me or how much free time, if any, I will have.

  I have to shake off all the strange things that I’ve encountered and get to work. Nothing is going to stop me from achieving that goal. Not even jaguars or people who look like jaguars.

  And I have the issue of my mother—I mustn’t keep her waiting too long. She promised to stay put until I sent for her, but, knowing her, after a few days she will be antsy and try to make her way to me. However, with so many weird things happening, I waiver between wanting the comfort of her company and praying that she stays put—I wouldn’t want her to encounter the dangers I have. I would never forgive myself if anything happened to her.

  Roger breaks into my brown study. “It’s hopeless. We’re going to be stuck here awhile.”

  Dozens of public coaches and a few private ones are lined up at the entrance to the station; all the public ones are being swamped.

  “Well, be prepared to do battle.”

  “What does that mean?” he asks.

  “We will have to wait for more to arrive, but I have learned from experienced travelers to the city that one must be prepared not only to get a coach but to make sure one is treated fairly.”

  “And how do we get treated fairly?”

  “When a public coach procures a permit, they are graded and marked. A first-class coach carries a white flag, a second-class a blue flag, and a third-class a red flag. The prices are, respectively, per hour: one dollar, seventy-five cents, and fifty cents.”

  “I would imagine that the cleanliness and comfort are directly related to the price paid.”

  “Yes. And while the rules are meant to protect travelers, this doesn’t always work, because the drivers are very cunning.”

  “You don’t say.” Roger gives me a grin. “Sounds like every livery driver I’ve encountered in every large city I’ve been in.”

  Ignoring his sarcasm, I continue. “I was told they’ll remove the flag and charge double prices, even though they can be punished for it. And as you’ve guessed, one does not want to take a third-class rig, because they are unreliable and filthy. Anyway, you’re right: It will be a while before we can try and elbow our way aboard.”

  “And how do you know this?”

  “Because there were rumblings among the passengers that a lesser number of coaches will be available because they have been requisitioned by the military to convey troops.”

  Roger puts his luggage down and sits on it. “Perfect. Well, we might as well try to make ourselves comfortable, since we are resolved in having to wait until the carriages return after dropping off loads. And considering it’s an hour over and back, we, my dear Nellie, will be here for a couple of hours.” With that, he pulls his hat down over his eyes.

  “How can you be so nonchalant?”

  “I have come to accept in life that there are times when I can do nothing to alter the undesirable, so why get my feathers ruffled? It won’t speed up the carriages. You might want to try it. It might make you a bit less … tense?”

  “Oh, so now you are a philosopher and critic! I am not tense. But as you sit back and ponder the meaning of life, keep in mind that you’re a student of ancient history—you don’t have to worry about competition and deadlines, because everyone you deal with is dead.”

  I turn and pace back and forth. Me—tense? The nerve of him. What has he done? If I waited for things to happen, I’d be nowhere. But now that I’ve let him know I won’t take his guff, I have to admit that he’s right in this instance: Nothing can be done but wait, even if I’m antsy and it will drive me nuts.

  To bide my time, I lapse into my favorite pastime when I’m forced to wait—watching people.

  They are like little worker ants—all scurrying around in a crazy but orderly manner. Some are gathering up their luggage, others waving good-bye to fellow passengers or saying hello to those who have come to pick them up, while some, like us, appear to know it’s hopeless to try to get immediate transportation.

  My attention is drawn to the freight car at the rear of the train. The German gentleman who tried to whip the donkey is standing by a mule train that appears ready to take on a load. I didn’t realize he had stayed aboard.

  What really piques my interest is that Thompson, the farm salesman, and Maddox, the cowboy boss, have gathered together with him and are talking like they know one another, unlike strangers who have bumped into one another in a train yard. It’s their body language. “Old home week,” my mother would say. Sundance is also engaged in their conversation.

  Hmm … now all I need is to have Don Antonio join them.

  Interesting—I’d love to be a fly on one of their hats and find out what they have in common.

  “There’s a seat on that one!”

  28

  I spin around, to find Roger, bag in hand, running for a stagecoach.

  Before I can react, he has thrown his bag up to the man riding shotgun, who, in turns, tosses it atop the already-large pile of bags and trunks on top of the coach.

  Roger climbs aboard, slipping through the open door and onto a seat as I grab my carpetbag and make a mad dash for the rig.

  Roger slams the door behind him and leans out the window, holding up his hands up in a gesture of helplessness. “Sorry—last seat.”

  I am too much of a lady to repeat here what I say under my breath, but the word describes Roger’s ancestry in a vulgar fashion.

  From Roger’s raised eyebrows as he leans out the window to look back at me, I know he g
ot my meaning loud and clear.

  With bag in hand, I am ready to explode like Mount Vesuvius as I breathe in the dust created by the coach’s wheels. First, he took the bottom berth. Now he takes the last seat on a coach, stranding me for hours. If I ever get my hands on him …

  Once again, he has demonstrated that he is not a gentleman and definitely shown his dislike of, even contempt for women. I understand and am forced to accept that men have many privileges not accorded to women, but one of the counterbalances of that right is that a man has the duty to stand so a woman can have the last seat on a bloody coach!

  “Nellie!” Its Gertrude, leaning out of a carriage window and waving at me as it approaches.

  This is not any ordinary conveyance, but an elegant carriage emblazoned with brightly polished silver trim, a coat of arms on the door, crimson velvet cushions that the driver sits on, and drawn by two handsome black Thoroughbreds.

  As the carriage comes to a halt, Don Antonio steps down, tips his hat to me, and gives me a short bow. “Señorita, por favor, please permit us the pleasure of your company for the short journey into the city.”

  “Muchos gracias!” I’m so delighted I could hug him. He’s a real gentleman.

  Getrude laughs. “My tutoring didn’t help much last night, it’s muchas gracias, Nellie.”

  “In whatever language, a million thanks,” I tell them, grinning as I climb aboard with Don Antonio’s gentlemanly assist.

  I let out an “Ooh” as I sink into the seat.

  “Is anything wrong, señorita?” Don Antonio asks.

  “No, not at all. These seats, the leather is so plush and soft … it’s like sitting on a cloud. I’m sure the queen of England doesn’t put her behind on softer material.”

  Gertrude laughs. “Oh, I’m sure she does.”

  “Well, I’m just so pleased for being rescued, I could be riding in a cart and loving it. But this carriage is amazing. The wheels make little, if any, noise on the ground and the clippety-clop of the hooves of those fine steeds sound like the soft tap of a ballet dancer’s slippers to my ear. It’s all so beautiful.”

  I don’t add that Don Antonio’s carriage lives up to the reputation of the capital city’s priding itself on having the finest private rigs in the world. Teak-trimmed, with what looks like enough silver to mint a dollar for everyone in Pittsburgh, is how I will describe it in an article.

  “Thank you,” Don Antonio says, “but take a look over there.” He points to another carriage, which is even grander than his.

  “Wow!” is all I can say, for that carriage is ostentatiously laden with so much gold and silver trim, bandidos would salivate over it. However, the two people boarding it really grab my attention.

  “That is Lily Langtry and her playboy lover?”

  “Yes. She is muy bonita, very beautiful.”

  “Ah, like most of the rest of the men on the planet, I see my uncle is drawn by her beauty.” Gertrude gives him a smile of tolerance.

  “I confess you are correct. She radiates that divine magnetism called charisma, which inspires people to pay to see her onstage.”

  “Yes, but don’t you think that her exquisite dress helps?” Gertrude doesn’t wait for his answer. “Look at her black satin dress. It’s so beautiful, it would make an ugly duckling shine. It’s embroidered in both silver and gold and bestrewn with jewels, definitely from Paris. All for a short carriage ride into the city. No doubt she will change the moment she arrives at her hotel. However, did you know, Nellie, that just about every dress she wears is black?”

  “No. I wonder why. Is she in mourning?”

  Gertrude laughs. “No. Black is considered very elegant and slimming. And with just the right touch of jewelry, it’s exquisite. Oh my … look at her hat. It’s what fashion designers are calling a ‘home rule’ bonnet. It’s the newest rage. They have no strings and no crown. Hers is the newest look, no crown at all, only an opening bordered with a wreath of roses so her hair can show. She’s always right in fashion.”

  “We have a proverb about fashion,” Don Antonio says. “If the fool did not go to market, the damaged goods would never get sold.”

  I point at a man behind Lily Langtry. He hasn’t gotten in the carriage yet and is talking to the driver. “So that’s Frederic Gebhard, the wealthy New York socialite and man-about-town whom Roger told us about. He’s quite dapper, but not an especially handsome brute.”

  Dressed in a top hat and double-breasted frock coat, his clothing shouts New York or London. Behind the magnificent rig they are boarding is another one, which is being loaded with a mountain of trunks.

  “They don’t travel light.”

  “It’s Lily Langtry,” Gertrude says. “What would you expect? My friends at Oxford will be surprised when I tell them I saw the immortal Jersey Lily in Mexico, of all places. You know she had to leave London after a scandal erupted when her husband threatened to name the Prince of Wales as her lover in a suit for divorce.”

  Now, that is interesting information to put in an article.

  “They’ve come to Mexico because of their mutual interest in horse racing,” the consul says, revealing he knows more about their presence than he admitted earlier. “Gebhard owns Eole, the long-distance runner that has won most of the mile-and-a-half to three-mile races.”

  “Are they keeping their identities secret so as not to drive up the prices of horseflesh?” I ask.

  “No doubt that is one reason. In addition, it is likely a fear that bandidos might take special interest in them, perhaps even attempt a kidnapping. Her visit to the city is meant to be kept secret, but it will cause much attention anyway. The carriage that puts to shame my own poor rig is loaned to them by el presidente himself.”

  That doesn’t surprise me. I’m sure they will also be wined and dined by the country’s president. Being one of the most beautiful and famous women in the world does come with some privileges.

  “This is going make such a great dispatch,” I say, unable to contain my excitement. “Even the fact about them riding in President Díaz’s coach. My editor will be so pleased. Lily Langtry and Frederic Gebhard in Mexico City. Never in a million years would I have expected this. How exciting.”

  “Señorita, I must ask you to hold off conveying the news of their presence in the city until they have returned back over the border.”

  “But—”

  He holds up his hand to stop my objection. “It’s both for their safety and the fact that they are here to make purchases of very fine horseflesh and are keeping their true identities under the rose for the moment. It would not be fair to take advantage of my knowledge about their activities.”

  “Because the request is from you, mum’s the word until I know they have returned to the States.”

  I will keep my promise, of course, but I am still a red-blooded reporter, and what I didn’t reveal is that I will try, naturally, to get as much information as I can about the newsworthy actress and rich playboy while they are here so that I can really relay, after they leave the country, some stories that will make Mr. Madden realize I know how to get top-of-the-line stories.

  We come across a stagecoach that’s had a wheel come off, leaving the coach body precariously leaning. Half a dozen frustrated passengers are standing next to it, including Roger.

  As we sweep by on our heavenly cloud of a carriage, Roger catches sight of me and gawks.

  I give him a small, sweet smile in return but am careful not to utter his name nor give him a wave, for fear they will stop and let him aboard.

  Don Antonio notices my look. “Spot someone you know?”

  “No, no one of importance.”

  MEXICO CITY GRAND CARRIAGE

  (Six Months in Mexico)

  29

  El presidente’s grandiose carriage is pulling away from the curb when we arrive at the Hotel Iturbide.

  “They’re staying at my hotel!” I grin at my companions. “Maybe I’ll have the room across the hall from them.”


  Don Antonio chuckles. “Not likely, señorita. They have taken the entire top floor for just the two of them. The rooms they don’t occupy will be kept empty to ensure their privacy.”

  “Considering the number of trunks I saw, they probably need rooms just for their wardrobes.” I give a quiet laugh. “Unlike mine, which can fit on three hangers.”

  “Nellie, you are going to have to tell me or, better yet, show me how you do that. I could never be without my hats and dresses. It’s something I must learn.” Gertrude gives a sigh. “Clothing is a weakness of mine. One day, I am going to have to get that habit under control, especially if I plan to go to Egypt. No more fancy hats and dinner dresses. They will have to be practical and durable, and you are the perfect person to help me, Nellie!”

  Before I can say anything, Gertrude continues her diatribe about her fascination with Lily Langtry’s clothes. “Can you imagine what her gowns must look like? They must be gorgeous! All of my evening dresses would look like wilted flowers in comparison. Uncle, I must go shopping!”

  This time, Don Antonio gives a big laugh and shakes his head. “Didn’t you just say you were going to control yourself? Your mother warned me. We shall see.” He nods his head at the hotel entrance. “Nellie, did you know that the hotel was once the palace of Agustín de Iturbide, who set himself up as emperor of Mexico after the revolution that threw off the yoke of Spain. Before the revolution, we were a Spanish colony called New Spain.”

  “He also faced a firing squad, like Maximilian, the Austrian archduke whom the French set on the throne years later,” Gertrude adds.

  Don Antonio gives a deep sigh. “I’m afraid my countrymen are not gentle toward royal despots.”

  “Wow. I’ll try to remember that if I’m offered the throne.”