No Job for a Lady

by Carol McCleary

  “Go to the hotel,” I tell the cabbie, motioning with my hands to keep moving when my command isn’t understood.

  Sitting back in my seat, I realize I don’t know any more now than I did before I saw the street performers. But it’s clear that somebody was playing a game on the train—a deadly one, at that. And I don’t know the rules or even the other players.

  One thing I can see through the haze created by the manipulations is that there was something almost theatrical about the attack on Howard, the prospector. Staged—like the show behind me. But now that I’m positive the attacker wore a mask, I know the hands behind the murder are very human.

  Now, if I could just be as sure about what I saw outside the train.

  As I lean back in the carriage, trying to clear my mind for my luncheon with the incredible Lily Langtry, my imagination starts running wild again, this time adding a couple more characters to the scenario.

  If I’m right, her lover, Gebhard, was at the museum. There is nothing wrong with that. He might be interested in the museum—a donor. Still, too much of a coincidence for me, and I don’t like happenstances—like my being there researching were-jaguars and things that go bump in the night when Gebhard conveniently showed up. No, I don’t like it.

  Like coincidences, unanswered questions are something I hate.

  With luck, I will find out what he was doing there when I have lunch with his famous lover.

  42

  Pickles! I’m late. This is not the right way to make first impressions, especially with someone as singularly unapproachable as the Jersey Lily.

  My carriage barely comes to a stop at the front entrance of my hotel as I’m paying my driver and dashing out. I rush by a group of people who are standing around, as if they are waiting for someone in front of the hotel entrance. As I hurry across the lobby, a woman is coming down the stairs—or I should say that she is moving with such elegance that she seems to be floating down.

  Lily Langtry—the Jersey Lily.

  She catches my eye and I throw up my hands and silently mouth, Sorry I’m late, and get a dazzling smile in return as I rush to meet her at the bottom of the stairs.

  Her preference is for black dresses, and this one is simple. The material is satin, with pearls sewn around the neckline which is vee-cut, not showy, just enough to entice any man. It’s formfitting but not tight, just snug enough to show her curves. Since it is sleeveless, she has a soft white cotton shawl draped on her shoulders. From about her knees down, the dress flares a little but stops about two inches above her ankles.

  She’s wearing a thin gold bracelet around her left ankle. It gives her a very attractive, if not sensual, look. I’ve never seen a bracelet worn that way before.

  Her hair is gently piled on top, with little curly pieces slipping down on her soft white porcelain face, which makes her large oval eyes stand out.

  No wonder men fawn over her.

  “With your bubbling enthusiasm, you must be Nellie Bly, the young reporter I’ve heard so much about.”

  “Guilty as charged.” Also guilty of beaming at the compliment—at least I hope it was a compliment.

  “Shall we go? I have a carriage waiting for us. I hope you don’t mind, but instead of being cooped up in the dining room, I thought it would be much more delightful to have a picnic lunch while we see the Floating Gardens.”

  I’m so excited at meeting a real celebrity that she could have told me we were having lunch at the dog pound and I would have been thrilled.

  As we exit the hotel, I realize now why the people outside are standing around—they’re waiting for her. Obviously, word leaked out that she would make an appearance at this time.

  They swarm around Lily, and I’m very impressed with how she handles them: She’s polite and friendly, making each one feel she’s noted his or her presence, even if it’s just by the briefest flash of a smile or wave of a hand.

  One Mexican man, clearly quite wealthy, from his clothes, gives her a bouquet of white lilies and begs her to marry him. “I own a silver mine,” he tells her. “I will pave the way to the church with silver dollars for you to walk upon so your feet never touch the ground!”

  Lily throws him a kiss. “Oh, darling, if only I wasn’t already spoken for.”

  And we are off.

  It is not el presidente’s carriage that has enough gold and silver trim to supply a mint, but one that is only slightly less extravagant, also with seats that are so soft and cushiony, I feel like I’m floating on a cloud. We have not only a driver but also a footman, who stands at the back of the carriage.

  I’m in Cinderella’s coach and loving it. It’s amazing how riding in such an exquisite coach can make one feel like royalty. I can’t wait to tell Mother.

  “I apologize for the crowd,” she says. “Unfortunately, a lack of privacy is the price of my modest fame. That is one reason why I wanted to go to the Floating Gardens rather than sit in the hotel dining room, being stared at like a fish in a bowl. No one will know me there. Oh my goodness, I forgot to ask you if you’ve already been there.… I just assumed you hadn’t.”

  “No, I haven’t. This is perfect, because it’s one of the sights I want to see.”

  “Wonderful.”

  The actress looks fondly down at the lilies now lying by her side and smiles softy at them. “That was sweet of that man to give these to me.”

  She gently touches them and then looks at me. “I wonder where he got them. They’re Jersey lilies, the symbol of Jersey and the source of my nickname. Sir John Everett Millais did a portrait of me and named it A Jersey Lily, and it just took hold. Did you know that the island of Jersey is just off the coast of Normandy, France?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, but continues. “It’s the largest of the Channel Islands and a British Crown Dependency, which we are very proud of. I had happy times there with my brothers.”

  “How many brothers do you have?” I ask.

  “Six, all older, except one, and he’s my favorite. Do you have any brothers?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I, too, have six, and my favorite is also the younger one. I think my brothers taught me more about how to survive in this world than my sisters.”

  “Very true, and I assume you mean in this man-orientated world.” Her laugh is delicate. “Being the only girl, I became very tomboyish. My poor teacher couldn’t handle me, so they let me study with my brothers. It’s amazing how much more they teach boys than girls.”

  It sounds much like my own upbringing. “How did you become an actress?”

  “Oh”—again she laughs—“by mistake through my friends Oscar Wilde and Sarah Bernhardt. They talked me into it. And I’ve had a nice run. I’ve been on the stage mostly in Europe, of course, but I’ve been on tour in your country also and, I’m happy to say, very well received.”

  “My librarian, Mrs. Percy, had the pleasure of seeing you in As You Like It. She is going to be thrilled when she hears I’ve met you, as will my mother and everyone in my town.”

  “Where are you from? And please tell me how you became a newspaper reporter. I’ve never met a female reporter. I’m very impressed.”

  I can’t help but blush. As Roger rudely pointed out, I’m known only to the city limits of an inconsequential town, but here I am, receiving a compliment from a woman who is rich and world-famous, beautiful and talented, and who has kings and rich playboys as lovers. She has the world at her feet.

  Thrilled that she is interested in me, but afraid I might bore her, I quickly tell her about my hometown, how my father died suddenly, about my mother’s remarriage to an awful man, all of which left her in horrible financial straits and forced me to give up my schooling to work in a factory—which, strangely enough, led me to my job as a news reporter, despite my brothers’ feelings that reporting is a man’s job, not a woman’s.

  “I’m not surprised your brothers were against it,” she says. “Even though my brothers love me dearly, they would be furious if I ever tried to enter t
heir or any part of the male work world. You are a brave woman, Nellie.”

  I don’t know what to say, which is so not like me. Instead, I just smile and blush, again. However, what I am thinking is that I’m not fortunate enough to have her beauty and talent, so I have no choice but to use my brain—it’s all I have.

  She seems to be reading my thoughts, for she says, “For some reason, men have thought me beautiful, and I decided to use it to my best advantage. It started when I first came to London. As they say, I was ‘brought out by my friends.’ They took me to the theater, where, unbeknownst to me, a painter, Frank Miles, saw me and was smitten by me. So much so, he set out to discover who I was.

  “Miles went to all his clubs and visited his artist friends, declaring he had seen a beauty, and he described me to everybody he knew, until one of his friends met me. He reported back to Mr. Miles, who came and begged me to sit for a portrait.

  “I consented, and when the portrait was finished, he sold it to Prince Leopold. From that time on, I was invited everywhere and made a great deal of by many members of the royal family and nobility. After sitting for Frank Miles, I sat for portraits by Millais and Burne-Jones, and now Frith is putting my face in one of his great pictures.

  “Men,” she says, laughing, “they’re so predictable. They will do just about anything for beauty, especially if other men have shown interest. My dear friend Oscar believes beauty is the most important thing in life. For some reason, possessing it makes them feel superior to other men.”

  She laughs again and claps her hands. “I can’t believe how I am rambling on. Do you do this to everyone you meet? Make them confess, like they are in church?”

  “Only people with fascinating lives.”

  “Well, I can’t say how fascinating my life has been, but I personally am pleased with the knowledge that one of my ancestors is the infamous Sir Richard le Breton.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “One of the four knights who murdered Saint Thomas Becket. He delivered the final blow that chopped off his head. They believed their friend Lord William died of a broken heart after Becket refused to permit him to marry.”

  “Oh…”

  She gives that delightful spontaneous laugh again. “Don’t fret about it. Becket was more political than saintly. The Pope made him a saint to annoy the king.”

  As the carriage makes its way to the famous Floating Gardens, we spot the oddest sight: a slaughter shop. The stone building looks like a fortress. Around the entrance are hundreds of tired-looking mules on which men are hanging meat. Only one wagon is being loaded, but as I learned during my walk on the street two days ago, after rubbing the bony sides of the pack animals, the meat is just as palatable as when hauled in carts.

  The carts are built like a chicken coop and elevated on two large wheels. On each side of the coop and lying in a large heap on the bottom is the meat. Astride the pile sits a half-clad fellow, and in front, on the outside, sits the “bloody” driver.

  Trudging along in a string of about forty are men with baskets filled with the gory refuse, from which the blood runs in little rivers, until they look as if they have actually bathed in gore.

  Having gotten a dose of it on the street, I am not as shocked and disgusted as Lily.

  “Oh my … what a dreadful sight.” Lily looks aghast. “Almost spoils one’s appetite for lunch.”

  43

  When the carriage reaches its waterfront destination, we alight and are instantly surrounded with boatmen, neatly clad in suits consisting of a white linen blouse and pants.

  Each clamors for us to try his boat, shouting in Spanish and English. The crowd is so dense that it is impossible to move. As there is no regular price, we have to make a bargain, so we select a strong brown fellow, who, although he presses close up to us, has not uttered a word, while the rest have been dwelling on the merits of their boats.

  We go with him to the edge of the canal to look at his little flat vessel covered with a tin roof. White linen keeps out the sun at the sides, and a pink calico cloth edged with red and green fringe covers very flat seats.

  The bottom is scrubbed very white and the Mexican tricolors float from the pole at the end.

  “Let’s take this one,” Lily says. “Don’t worry about those hard seats.”

  She signals the footman, who rode at the back of the carriage, and he comes running with large, soft, comfy cushions.

  I ask the boatman his price. “Six norteamericano dollars,” he replies.

  She is willing to pay without question, but I say, “No, no, it’s too much.”

  After much debating and deliberating, he sets his price at one dollar, which I accept and insist upon paying, since Lily has provided the land transportation and picnic lunch.

  The Floating Gardens, La Viga, is the prettiest sight I have yet seen in Mexico. Sunday is market day, and the waters are crowded with boats containing goods being taken into the city and manufactured items being sent out.

  Some boats are packed full of fresh vegetables; others contain gay-colored birds, which the boatman says the indios trap in the mountains and bring to market here. Many boats are packed with exquisite flowers from stem to stern, all but where the boatman stands with a long pool to push the vessel through the water.

  In many boats, work is being done en route: While a man pilots his boat over the glassy waters, the ever-busy woman aboard weaves wreaths, making bouquets from the stock before her.

  Such roses! As I inhale their perfume, I recall kind friends at home and wish they were here with me. There are daisies, honeysuckle, bachelor’s buttons, in a variety unknown in the States. And the poppies! Surely no other spot on earth brings forth such a variety of shade, color, and size. They are even finer than the peonies in the States.

  As these boatfuls of flowers pass us, the indios look at us with pleasant smiles and we answer with cheerful salutes.

  We see that people along the banks have decorated their simple straw huts with long plants, which contain yellow and red flowers. Our boatman tells us that they plait them at the top in a diamond shape, and not only put them on their homes but use them to decorate the pulque shops and stretch them across streets as a communal decoration.

  The most disagreeable sight is the butcher at work. Scattered along the shoreline are large copper kettles filled with boiling water. I gag as a man holds a little brown pig down with his knee and cuts its throat, while another holds a small bowl in which he catches the blood.

  When I turn my head, in that split second, I have a flash of my body lying on a white stone while an Aztec priest with a jaguar face hovers over me, holding a long, curved knife; the priest is covered in blood, lots of blood.

  “That is a ghastly sight.” Lily rubs goose bumps on her arms. “Wish we didn’t have to see that.”

  Unfortunately, farther up, we see the first work completed. On sticks, put in the ground around a large charcoal fire, are the different pieces of pork roasting.

  “Look.” She points to very large drooping willows along the bank that are crowded with men, women, and children.

  The men are nursing the babies and smoking the pipe of peace, while the women are washing their clothes. They are not dressed in the height of fashion by our standards, but what would be the extreme full dress of their own class.

  “Isn’t it wonderful,” Lily says. “The women seem so happy and cheerful and contented, as though they are queens. They are even dressed in what must be their Sunday clothes, and all they are doing is laundry.”

  I suspect that the women on the bank washing clothes by hand are probably thinking how wonderful it would be to be cruising by in a well-shaded boat.

  Lily looks back at them for a moment, as if there is something about their simple existence that she has missed in her own life.

  “Ready for lunch?” she asks. Before I answer, she grabs the picnic basket that was taken from the trunk of the carriage and put on the boat by her footman.

  I am rather e
xpecting potato salad, beef sandwiches, and pickles, which is what we would have taken to a picnic back home, but then Lily lifts up the white linen cloths that are protecting the food, French food—small pieces of pastries and breads with vegetables on top and different-colored cheese spreads; pastry puffs and baguettes; fruit salad; cucumber cups; chicken tarragon sandwiches. Then she lifts the last cloth.

  “Surprise!” She laughs with delight and claps her hands as she reveals bean and cheese wrapped in tortillas. “When the dining room manager came to my suite to discuss the picnic menu, I told him you would be my guest, and he told me about your preference for simple peon food. I hope you don’t mind having champagne. I know it’s not quite the drink of the common people of this country, but I think champagne goes with everything. Don’t you?”

  “Yes.” I am thrilled. Mexican food and champagne on ice—what could be more perfect?

  As she pours me a drink, which I now know not to gulp, but to sip slowly, I ask if the boatman can share our lunch.

  “Of course!” Lily insists that he stop and join us and that he also have a glass of champagne and her gourmet French food.

  The boatman tells us he has never tasted such food. His hearty thanks, good appetite, and humble, beholding words between mouthfuls do me a world of good.

  White we eat and watch some virile caballeros and the flirtatious señoritas frolicking along the shoreline, the reporter in me makes me ask Lily a blunt question.

  “I hope you don’t mind my asking this, but why did you invite me to lunch? Please don’t get me wrong; I’ve very glad you did, but I’m puzzled. I suspect you have more requests for interviews than you can accept.”

  “You are a smart girl.” Lily looks at me in a way that makes me believe she really means it. “So, I am going to tell you the truth. It was Frederic who put me up to inviting you to lunch, but I must tell you I’m glad he did, because I’m very pleased to have gotten to know you. Not only are you delightful but you remind me of myself when I was your age—determined and wanting the world. Do you mind my asking your age?”